Cut Off the Blood Flow

[Laszlo]

Spring 84th, 511 Twentieth bell. And here were the Solar Wind Apartments, right where Laszlo had left them. Towering ahead, just a bit off from the plaza, he recognized their decorated skyglass pillars. Starlight and a high moon illuminated them brilliantly, even brighter and more colorful at night than they had been during the day (though it was difficult to judge, given his eyesight changed drastically between his two form). Like the people of Lhavit, all the skyglass structures seemed more alive in the evenings. Though Laszlo had not stayed in Alvadas overly long, and it had been a long while since he'd left, he still often half-expected something to be out of place whenever he turned his back. The reliable consistency of this place seemed almost suspicious, and the Ethaefal wondered why it was so difficult to let his guard down. Quickly, he made his way through Surya Plaza, lowering his head to conceal himself under his hooded cloak. The crowds were denser now than they had been that afternoon, when Laszlo had passed through earlier with his package for the Twilight Tower. This was Zintila's city, after all, and her people thrived under the stars. The streets were lined with lanterns, both metal and paper, the latter painted with an array of blinding colors. Laszlo wished he could enjoy it, but it made his sensitive eyes ache. Despite his efforts to remain inconspicuous, his charcoal gray cloak made him stand out as much as it concealed his race. Lhavitians appeared to prefer monochromatic, but nevertheless vibrant dress, with a different color for every peak. Those more familiar with the Symenestra could also recognize Laszlo's graceful gait, naturally light on his feet even if he was occasionally clumsy. He convinced himself that momentum was his ally, and he could avoid conflict if he didn't stop to pause. It unnerved Laszlo that he could feel so unsafe at night, despite his reception in the daylight. He could only hope that this was temporary, and that eventually his reputation would spread. If the locals knew that Laszlo was, in fact, an Ethaefal, he might earn their begrudging tolerance, instead of wary glances and bladed glares. Exiting the plaza without much incident, Laszlo reentered the more comfortable shadows of the Solar Wind complex, considerably less populated. Winding bridges and silk canopies blotted the sky above him, still luminous and glaring, but at least this place was more familiar two him. Some of his closer neighbors were familiar with Laszlo, too, so there was less to worry about from them. Still, it was a relief to find his own door. Unlatching it open with one arm, he began unfastening the silver chain clasp of his cloak with the other. His thin frame was freed and revealed before the door shut behind him, and he let out a sigh in relief. It was much too hot now to still be wearing that awful thing, but Laszlo had yet to think of a better alternative. Laszlo's spotted the willowy, dark shape of Duvalyon across the sitting room in the side of his vision, and he mumbled a tired greeting. The Ethaefal tossed his cloak onto an empty chair, then started toward his bedroom door as he unbuttoned his cuffs. "I thought when I agreed to work for a Synaborn Ethaefal, I'd be doing more work during the day. Should have known he'd have me running errands only because he doesn't like doing them at night." He paused in front of his room, noting that someone had fully shut and latched the door. Usually Abalia left it slightly ajar when Laszlo wasn't home. She might have been taking a nap. "Is Abalia—" Laszlo finally turned to regard Duvalyon, realizing for the first time that the Symenestra looked to be moderately injured. A look of concern thoroughly killed any of the fatigue in Laszlo's face, while he took a few cautious steps closer. "Gods, what happened to you? Are you alright?"

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"I tripped." Duvalyon slipped past Laszlo's shoulders towards his room, having fetched what he needed from the common area. Every mote of his being expressed a glaring desire to be left alone. The medic's room was compulsively ordered, furniture pressed into corners. Even the hearth was immaculate, the scant ash bullied into a tight pile. The low bed had been stripped and its frame now served as a shelf. One would suspect Duvalyon didn't sleep in the room, if they didn’t look at the desk longer. A cloth covered its surface, but the edge of a pallet was exposed between the legs. The Symenestra had recreated his curtained nook from Kalinor with the materials at hand. On the desk's surface were the tools of the medic's trade and a basin of water. Duvalyon deposited his recent acquisition among them. And then shuddered to a stop, his palm half slamming on the desk as he leaned into it. What was nothing to a human seemed an ungainly stagger from the Widow. Wan blue light slipped in from the high window, scratching across his tilted silhouette and illuminating disheveled wraps. A Symenos swear hissed out with his wince and his fingers curled on the table, scratching against the wood and distorting the cloth. His other hand fumbled for the chair and pulled it toward him. For once, the human invention was useful as he exhaled and sat. Neither breathing nor sitting was accomplished without a band of pain spreading across his chest, but this posture was preferred to his tottering stance. Proving his stubbornness for prompt and proper treatment knew no boundaries, Duvalyon didn't even close his eyes to flinch. He wet a cloth and began to rub the crusted blood off his face until it ran fresh. His lip was split, and a livid, seeping cut made a crescent from the end of his brow to the corner of his eyes. Abrasions stippled the edges of his face, almost tracing the bone, while various bruises still contemplated their color and size.

[Laszlo]

"Tripped?" Laszlo echoed incredulously, turning his head and body to continue facing Duvalyon as he passed. "Duvalyon—" The Symenestra was clearly in no mood to talk, and gave off an irate, almost dangerous air that made Laszlo's skin tighten. Caution made him hesitate, but it was rapidly overcome by a flood of worry and disbelief. Laszlo gave one last glance to his bedroom door before deciding to risk Duvalyon's wrath by following him. The Ethaefal hung in the doorway leaning against his arm, refusing to leave but allowing the medic his personal space. It was unreal to see Duvalyon so marred; Laszlo had always been assured that the man could take care of himself. He had seemed invincible, somehow. As cloudy red stains began to appear on the damp cloth, Laszlo wasn't sure whether to feel frightened or hotly vengeful. "That isn't funny." Laszlo took a step inside the room, pausing to observe Duvalyon's living space, surprised that it appeared much neater and more organized than his home back in Kalinor. His violet eyes lingered on the desk for several moments before slanting toward the medic again. Laszlo could feel his own pulse throbbing in his neck. "Did someone do this to you? Where did it happen?" A moment's pause. Elhaym's face flashed in his thoughts. "Was it the Shinya?" If Elhaym had anything to do with this, Laszlo would find her. Their tentative acquaintanceship was composed of fractured glass, riding on the human's loathing of Symenestra and Laszlo's wariness of mental instability. So far he'd been careful to keep it from shattering entirely, in need of allies and hoping for a positive relationship with the local peacekeepers. If she had done this to Duvalyon, then it would be over. He would let it break and then burn the pieces. "Tell me."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"I think it's petching hilarious," the Symenestra answered. His rolling accent was a little thicker than usual across his Common. "Course it wasn't Shinya," he eventually scoffed, "They'd at least spare the face. They have to look at me tomorrow." Duvalyon dodged Laszlo's attempts to have a serious conversation by adding additional hurdles of sarcasm. "Come come, Laszlo, we're young men," a fact Duvalyon was usually keen to keep obscured, but now it served his purposes. "A few brawls are expected. This isn't my first." Unable to turn his whole body, he twisted his head a fraction to smirk at the Ethaefal. "Get rid of that curdled look. We know what I do to extra mothers." He returned to his ministrations, pressing the cloth to his eye with one hand while the other began to carefully create one of his painful antiseptic concoctions. Their fumes were known to burn eyes, nonetheless what they felt like on open cuts. The Widow was either very adamant about cleanliness or unable to restrain his cruel streak. "Are you still there?" Course he was, stubborn Ethaefal's horns were likely more from a shared heritage with goats than divine favor. "By the blood," a mild oath of frustration, "Go brood over Abalia or something."

[Laszlo]

A few brawls are expected. Duvalyon said it as if this had been part of his plan all along. That was the image he wanted to put out, wasn't it? Of course, the Symenestra was perfectly in control. Even Laszlo wanted to believe that he looked better off than his attackers, who might have been lying in pain in a crumpled heap somewhere, but that wasn't the truth. Duvalyon was thrashed. He wasn't in a fight, he'd been beaten. The Ethaefal shuddered angrily and sighed, resting his forehead in his palm as he leaned back against the door frame. This was Laszlo's fault. The only reason this had happened, the only reason Duvalyon was in Lhavit as all was to help Abalia. Although it had been Duvalyon's idea, and he wasn't responsible for the profound hatred of the Symenestra, the fact remained that Duvalyon didn't have to be here. If anyone had to suffer this treatment in Lhavit, it should have been Laszlo, who seemed to bring pain and misfortune for everyone he'd met. Even death, occasionally. It annoyed him that Duvalyon was deflecting Laszlo's questions with dry humor. Though it was hardly out of the ordinary, it was frustrating that 'sarcasm' appeared to be the medic's only reaction to everything. Wasn't he upset? Frustrated? Somehow Laszlo appeared to be angrier than he was. "How can you…" he paused, lifting his head as he put another drop of effort into absorbing Duvalyon's comment about Abalia. It stung when he was already angry, but there was no point in taking it out on the man who'd already suffered a beating tonight. "How can you be so calm about this?" He dropped his arms, shaking his head at the ground before looking up. "You know the Shinya will see you tomorrow and do nothing about this. Everyone boasts about Lhavit's 'fairness' and 'honor', but I have to hurry home at night and try not to make eye contact, and their own Shinya medic gets, gets…" Laszlo waved a hand in Duvalyon's direction, "this. Gods divine, you're here on the behalf of an Ethaefal." He wanted to say that this wasn't fair, but fairness had been a joke in Alvadas. And as Abalia observed, the world outside Ionu's domain could be even crueler. "You're just going to take this and move on, aren't you?" Gods, couldn't he at least be angry? Was the man even capable of the barest crumbs of emotion? "What if this happens again? You don't even have to petching be here and…" Laszlo lost momentum and let go of another sigh. "The least you could do is blame me." Someone needed to blame him. It was torture for Laszlo to know that the two people he cared most about were suffering and dying because were involved with him.

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

"The people of Lhavit are fair to the point of idiocy, Laszlo," Duvalyon remarked with crisp honesty. He paused a moment to mutter something at the fresh compress in his hand. It might have been a mildly surprised acknowledgment that the antiseptic mixture did, in fact, sting a great deal. "Regardless, I was outside, the city proper," in retrospect, not a particularly wise outing, "They may not have even been from here." There was some consolation for both in the idea it took more than one person to thoroughly trounce the medic. The root of the Ethaefal's pain winnowed deeper into Duvalyon's thoughts. Laszlo assumed the Symenestra remained solely out of friendship, and all that transpired was anchored in loyalty towards him. It troubled the medic. "She's your fault," he acknowledged easily, "But not this." Duvalyon had almost begun to think he was benign as people wished him to be. There was obligation to the Ethaefal, of course, some god-breathed compulsion or quirk of character. But the Symenestra was not in Lhavit purely out of the goodness in his heart. He wanted that child to live. He wanted it for his people. And he would go to great lengths to ensure it breathed Kalinor's air. With an understanding of his own instincts and flaws, Duvalyon had cunningly crafted the proper persona. It wasn't a thick mask, those rarely withstood seasons, but it obfuscated what frightened others. Problem was, when he caught his reflection lately, he marked it as true. His own deceptions were beginning to persuade him: he was harmless, he was a good friend, he was infallible. Pantomimes of feeling had leapt from the stage and joined the living audience of natural impulses. Those loathsome moments of pity for Abalia or profoundly fraternal concern for Laszlo were trespassing into his core identity. He deserved this beating. There was nothing unfair about it. If given the chance, he'd utterly destroy those men's families for the sake of his own. Laszlo's indignation was the real injustice. "I'm here for several reasons, some of them selfish. Accept that and stop making tear puddles," he half snarled, angered more by his guilt than Laszlo's complaint. "It's petching annoying."

[Laszlo]

"Oh, then who were they? Wild mountain people?" Of course they were Lhavitians. Despite their moral codes and their beautiful city, the people of Lhavit were still humans. If anything could be said for their race, it would be that they were capable of great variety and adaptability. Even in a fair and just society, those who harbored darker intentions could still exist. They just learned when to hide their claws, and when to use them. Victor had been a master at that. Remaining stubbornly immobile, Laszlo watched Duvalyon treat himself, more to educate himself on the process than to vigilantly supervise. Although guilt weighed in the pit of his chest, it was a minor lining on the edge of his deep concern for the man he thought of as his friend. Compared to the Ethaefal, Duvalyon had experienced turbulent and harsh resistance from the day he'd arrived in Lhavit. Although he had been abroad before and must have anticipated this treatment, he had admitted to never visiting Lhavit before. It was hard to say whether he'd truly expected this. Laszlo flinched when Duvalyon accused him of blubbering, but again absorbed the barb with just a grimace. He wouldn't retaliate. That never turned out well for him in the past. "Selfish." Raised his eyebrows and tilted his head in mock deliberation. Worried that Abalia might be awake and eavesdropping, Laszlo switched to Symenos. Though he retained a noticeable Syliran accent, the language was spoken more neatly and properly in his night form. Or, perhaps, it simply sounded less foreign when delivered by a Symenestran tongue. "You could have kept her in Kalinor, if you wanted. It would have been easier. You would have had help, if I disagreed. She could be chained up at the Purging now." Laszlo glanced in the direction of his and Abalia's, his amethyst eyes narrowed, but sparkling with genuine affection. As it had happened a thousand times before, he became conscious again of the fact that her life could be ending by the end of next season. "She is my fault, but she's been a saint through this. She cares about her child, I'd wager even more than either of us do. I didn't force her to go to Kalinor, and she didn't have to trust me." A gesture went in Duvalyon's direction. "You could have betrayed my trust and stayed where it was safe. What are you going to do when it's born? Transport a newborn back across the mountains? You threw yourself into this, and I don't entirely understand why. Don't think that I'm stupid enough to assume that you just love me that much. "This is about principle, for you, isn't it? You don't have to be here, but you are." Laszlo looked down. He couldn't be a father, couldn't even conceive of the notion that years from now he could be caring for a young child. Having Duvalyon around helped him remember that Abalia wasn't the only one who put great thought into their offspring's wellbeing. "You could leave, and I'd understand. You could always come back. We're not going anywhere."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon said nothing. He pressed a slightly damp cloth against the cut over his eye, waiting for pressure to mollify it. One hand lowered to the desk and he stared at it for a time. Perhaps his observations were not so different from the first that ever occurred to Laszlo when faced with the terror of his shape. "Yes. Principles." He had grown quiet, but it wasn't the silence he would sometimes use to wither the air. It vibrated with thought. "You have to have some or you cease to be." Or you became too malleable a man. Unsure of what phrase to string, or which mask lay closest to the skin. He still had principles, he assured himself. There was still an unmarred face beneath the paper. Its struggle was with its expression, not its features. He honored the blood: his race, his family and whatever the god thrust his way. The process was blurring, not the principle. "And I'll do whatever it takes," his jaw clenched with either pain or conviction, "Even carrying the child back myself." Duvalyon's fatigue was reaching his marrow, spreading from his sternum to the tops of his hands. His breathing grew shallow without vigilance. The lack of air compounded the lightness in his battered head. When he tried to inhale deeper, molten ache brindled his chest, confirming his suspicion that at least one rib was fractured. Ah well, good thing breathing was optional. "I'm not leaving," he was staggering through the phrase, but tightened his body to hide the evidence of wounds, "I would miss all of Lhavit's charms." Oddly, the thought had never occurred to him to abandon the Ethaefal and human. Perhaps it was his ego, naturally assuming his presence was necessary. Or his inability to deny someone of the blood with a need so openly splayed. Though this was adequate to keep him in the city, more pinned him in place. Concerns he had no right to bear circled his head on a gyre in the last bells of evening. He had released her to the winds, he could not leash her again. His curse was to both long and know the futility of it. His gray finger lightly dabbed the cut over his eye, finding it had ceased to trickle. Now came the hard parts, addressing what was under his armor. "Do you have anything to drink?" The question fell from nowhere. "And I don’t mean water." Gods, what he wouldn't give for access to the Pavilion's supplies. His personal kit was a meager thing made for emergency work or minor injuries. It was rooted entirely in necessities, free of the luxuries of painkillers and poultices.

[Laszlo]

Silent and guilt ridden, the Ethaefal lingered just inside Duvalyon's room, listening to the slow formation of his reasoning. There was something different about the way he spoke now, aside from the way speech seemed to cause him physical pain. There was no real change in the deliverance of his silken, lightly accented words; it was the pauses before each carefully constructed sentence. Laszlo was motionless, his deeply solemn amethyst eyes fixed on Duvalyon. Whether it was the distance from Kalinor or the sharp ache of his injuries, it was clear that some of his outer layer had been stripped away. It would regenerate, surely enough, but for now, Laszlo knew this was a rare moment. For the first time, Laszlo was glimpsing the actual machinery of Duvalyon Hellebore. From the moment he'd met him, the medic had always seemed so effortlessly precise and perfectly calculated. Every word spoken was deliberate and well-placed, every action deeply thought through and without the barest hint of regret. Though he was difficult to reach and a challenge to know, and certainly not without his character flaws, every part of his being breathed pure, Symenestran grace. It had seemed like the man couldn't falter. No mistake could be made without his anticipating its happening, and even then he'd have some auxiliary strategy to somehow use an unexpected turn of events to his advantage. It had been this grace and poise that had given Laszlo so much confidence in trusting Duvalyon. No man was truly infallible though, and even the naïve Ethaefal had understood that Duvalyon's elegance and unerring control was merely a well-executed, projected image. Laszlo had no less faith in knowing that the young Symenestra was as mortal as anyone else. It actually came as a comfort knowing that it was something Laszlo could eventually learn to emulate and maybe even improve upon. A role model, in a sense. In this moment, Duvalyon's mortality was as plain as it had ever been. He was bleeding and broken, but his suffering was not only physical. This, all of this, was difficult for him. Until now, Duvalyon had made it look like everything was so simple and easy to him, from leaving behind his family in Kalinor for what could be months or seasons, and traversing effortlessly across the Unforgiving, to learning the customs of a new city and withstanding the barbs of human superstition and hatred. But it wasn't easy, none of it. Laszlo remembered, now, that Duvalyon was barely beyond his teenage years. Even he had limits, and right now he was very close to reaching them. 'I'm not leaving. I would miss all of Lhavit's charms.' And yet, there still was no sign of surrender in him. He'd follow through with the goals he'd made for himself, for the sake of his pride as well as the unborn child. Laszlo grimaced, finally looking down. Abalia had that same kind of strength and perseverance in her. It seemed like something he himself couldn't seem to muster. Duvalyon asked for something to drink. Laszlo lifted his head again, wondering if it was the first time that he'd asked the Ethaefal for anything. It was so astounding that for a moment, Laszlo fumbled with his thoughts for the answer. Did he have anything? There was just the waterskin now. He no longer had quick access to ale or lager. "Uh… yes, actually. I have something." Laszlo turned on his heel and exited into the main room, allowing Duvalyon some privacy for a few precious minutes. He would hear Laszlo's door creaking open, followed by minute sounds of shuffling and clinking metal. A muffled conversation drifted through the wall as well, a masculine voice briefly intermingling with a feminine one. Little could be made out for certain, except the sound of Laszlo's vague apology. His offense was unclear, but it seemed likely that Laszlo had woken her. The Ethaefal finally returned, entering Duvalyon's room again and venturing further into the Symenestra's very personalized little domain. He set a metal flask next to the medic's tools, its jostled contents whispering quietly inside. It seemed an oddly ugly thing for Laszlo to own. He didn't seem like the type of person who'd always be carrying liquor on him. The object had actually been packed with his clothing and other tokens. "Degtine's all I have. We used to stock it at the tavern. Victor got it special order from a place called Denval, if you've heard of it. We resold it at an exorbitant price. It's… good, if you pace yourself." As far as he could recall, the liquor was distilled from potatoes of all things, and infused with herbs and, he thought, honey? The drink had a vicious bite, but a pleasant garden aftertaste that was mildly sweet. Laszlo had never drank much of it himself, as he often had a hard enough time staying sober as he drank ale on an empty stomach. A shot or two of degtine would destroy his competence as a barkeep. "Sort of a souvenir left over from Alvadas, but it's worthless, really. I'd much rather forget I was there." Laszlo returned to the doorway, feeling more relieved that he could help than he ought to. Gods, he was almost thrilled. "I'll fetch a glass."

[Duvalyon Hellebore]

Duvalyon was concluding the slow process of removing the last of his outer armor as Laszlo entered with his prize. The individual pieces of chitin had been neatly arranged on the frame of the bed, a ruddy insect at rest. The Symenestra glanced at the plain flask Laszlo placed on the desk. Degtine? It sounded like piss and bilge water. Hopefully the name was deceitful. Even Symenestra had standards regarding taste. Before Laszlo slipped out, Duvalyon made a casual gesture for two glasses. If he was going to be dulling his wits, he wanted his company at the same disadvantage. When Laszlo returned, he poured for them both with a quick familiarity, a flourish keeping the last drop from spilling. Seeing Laszlo do anything dexterously with claws was a mild surprise. It reminded Duvalyon that his once wide-eyed visitor had accumulated an entire history that the Symenestra knew very little about. Some would argue Duavlyon didn't care to know anything that wasn't crucial to immediate concerns. There was a leanness in how he addressed people, precise as a surgical cut and just as purposeful. Duvalyon took two steps to the desk and picked the glass up between his claws. He wryly mumbled something in Symenos and made a half sincere gesture towards Laszlo with the glass. This was more taking medicine than enjoying himself. Plus, Duvalyon mused, he wasn't allowed to enjoy himself. The Symenestra made surprisingly short work of the exorbitantly priced alcohol. "Thank you." Probably the first time he had uttered the words without the drawl of irony. Duvalyon was on the brink of politely dismissing the Ethaefal, but read an impatience in the balance of his stance. Laszlo was rarely circumspect around the Symenestra, but the Ethaefal's mortal seeming was even more transparent due to Duvalyon's innate understanding of its physiognomy. "You can sit," he offered, "I can tell you might catch fire if quiet for longer."