Tragedy

by **Laszlo** on September 4th, 2012, 10:23 am

Fall 78th, 512

A gentle roll of thunder filled the silence in the room, prompting Laszlo to take his eyes off the woman curled in his chair and glance out of the window. The rain continued, sliding down the glass panes in sheets, steady and solemn. Beneath a heavy gray sky, the skyglass city was deprived of open sunlight and became drearily devoid of color. Still, the rain seemed appropriate, considering the circumstances. It was heartening, in a way.

Evening was approaching, and Laszlo's sitting room was growing quickly darker. A warm yellow fire crackled in the hearth, sending long shadows flickering against the far wall. The Ethaefal shivered, perturbed by a persistent chill in the room, the promise of an impending Kalean Winter. Growing ill with his own idleness, Laszlo crossed the room and picked up a thin birch log from his dwindling supply of firewood, and knelt as he carefully added it to the fireplace.

As the papery bark lighted with embers and curled, Laszlo retreated and sank down onto the sofa. He leaned forward on his knees, aching for something to say to his guest, that poor ginger-haired girl wracked with grief, but the words wouldn't come. What could he say? No matter what consolation he offered, it wouldn't change the cold truth. He knew that better than most.

Too much heartbreak had happened in this apartment. His own was difficult enough to bear, but someone else's? There was hardly room. Laszlo barely even knew the woman. Still, she was his guest. He would provide for her the best he could, within reason. He could stand to shelve his own self-pity, at least for one night.

Eventually, as the silence pervaded, Laszlo found himself crossing eyes with an iron kettle resting on the far counter. He rose to his feet, emboldened by a new mission to fill the moment with substance.

"I'm going to start some tea," he announced quietly, moving through the room again. His tall shadow accompanied him to the pantry, which was mostly empty but for the odd jar, a metal tin, and a few stray items left behind by Abalia. After retrieving the tin and fetching two cups from a cabinet, he picked up the kettle by its rattling handle. "You can stay as long you like."

It was a strange way for the day to end. Laszlo wasn't even expecting company—he didn't rightly have any friends in Lhavit. Not anymore. This had all just sort of… happened.

Story of his life.

---

Earlier.

That morning began innocently enough. Three days home from Kalinor—nice to have home to return to—and Laszlo still hadn't told Sakana he was back yet. He didn't have the energy, nor the heart, to simply pick up and resume his life where he left off. The flat he'd once shared with Duvalyon and Abalia, and briefly his daughter who possessed some very healthy lungs, had become so quiet. There was no one cooking or off in another room reading, and there no were mouths crying to be fed. No one else was expected to come home by sunset.

It was just him now.

Odd, the things one gets accustomed to without realizing. Abalia had been his shadow since last Winter, and later Duvalyon became a vigilant presence never too far out of reach. The other parts of his day were filled with strangers, usually Sakana, or mountain guides and mercenaries while traveling through Kalea, or the odd acquaintance met as he walked through Lhavit. For nearly a year, Laszlo had known so precious little privacy. Now it was stifling.

The first two days back in Lhavit, Laszlo had found little reason to leave his bed. He'd been content to watch the light through the window slowly cross the room as he wallowed in conceited sorrow and self-loathing. This morning, Laszlo had decided he was tired of his bedroom and that he would see the sun today, get dressed, visit the temple, perhaps run a few errands. He needed to stop by the Cosmos Center and exchange sums of miza for more kina. And he needed a bath.

By early afternoon, Laszlo found himself organizing his apartment. Many of Abalia's things were still lying around. Her clothing and belongings were all left behind, much of it still remembering her scent. Laszlo had no idea what he was going to do with all of it, but he folded her clothing and gathered all of her possessions into a little spot in his bedroom. Perhaps he'd donate it.

He visited Duvalyon's former room as well. Although this was now his apartment, he still felt like an imposition in the second bedroom, as if the medic would be displeased that Laszlo had entered without permission. He had left very little behind, efficient creature he was, but he had left the furniture arranged oddly to suit his Symenestran comforts. Laszlo would have to disassemble it at some point. Did Duvalyon actually manage this on his own? He must have been stronger than he looked.

Laszlo would deal with it later. The day was still new, so he invented a few more errands to run out in the sunlight. Purposeful procrastination. Once he rearranged Duvalyon's furniture again, there would be that much less evidence that he was ever there. It could wait.

The sky was filling with fat, heavy clouds by the time Laszlo stepped into the smithy, a sheathed katana held unceremoniously in one hand. The weapon was little more than an antique, sharpened and ready, but never used. It would be a waste if Laszlo allowed the thing to rust away in a forgotten corner. It was an excuse to go somewhere new in Lhavit. He could at least ask for some advice on how to properly maintain it.

Still standing in the light of the doorway, Laszlo spotted a head of red hair, turned away from behind the far counter. A woman blacksmith? Interesting. "Pardon me. Do you work here?"

by **Fia Eaven** on October 5th, 2012, 6:45 am

In the forge, there was music: the hammer and hiss between the grunts and billow's breaths. The tones were ground against each other and pealed in iron. Fia loved the songs of activity. It was part of why she was loathe to leave the Inn for something permanent.
Her lodgings had the warm sounds of the living, even in early morning when the cold was beginning to splinter. There were shuffling of shoes, shaking of coats, voices passing between one another looking for intent and fulfillment. The doors would creak and thud as the Inn expelled visitors into foggy streets. And in the rambling evenings colorful earnestness floated to her open hands. People ate and gathered beyond her door, exhaling airs of satisfaction and fragments of joy. Even as she could only suck on heels of bread sitting on her bed, she imagined herself a cloistered hostess to such cluttered happiness.
And yet, she did not venture out to take their hands. Zeal had overcome sense. She had thrown her bones onto the metal altar where swords were beaten and shoes bent, hoping to prove herself necessary. It left her too weary for company. Every evening ended with her body embedded in blankets and her head full of fictions.
Da would have told her she was becoming cold iron. A woman without rest and fellowship became a brittle thing. Tonight, she said to the Da her mind conjured. Tonight, I will do more than listen.

It was in the midst of her vow that Laszlo asked her position.
"As long as they'll let me," Fia answered as she turned about. Sudden recognition of an Ethaefal made her flinch, as if she had just thrown a window open to sunlight.
"Oh!"
She grinned at herself but did not blush. Shame for delight was a foreign idea to her. In the Lhavitian custom, she gave a small bow with her rough palms pressed together.
When the human spoke clearly, her voice was uncultured and more womanly than her looks suggested.
"What can I do for you, Sir?"

by **Laszlo** on October 5th, 2012, 7:59 am

Even after spending over half a year in Lhavit, Laszlo was still resistant to adopt the local customs and fashions of the remote mountain city. It might have been residual Ethaefal stubbornness, some unconscious refusal to embrace the mortal world as his home, keeping him ever the tourist. The human's courteous bow was met with a polite, if awkward nod.

"Laszlo," he told her, in favor of 'sir'.

The Ethaefal stepped inside just before a light rain began to fall outside. He glanced over his shoulder quietly, pausing to make note of the weather before he politely closed the door. The gray light of day and the patter of raindrops were soundly shut out, and it took a moment for Laszlo's eyesight to adjust to the dim light coming in through clouded windows, the glow of the forges, and long, warm shadows of the smithy. If it weren't for the stinging taste of ash in the air and the smell of charcoal, he might have compared the dark space to Kalinor. It was only there that Laszlo was ever routinely blind in the dark.

"I have a sword," he stated plainly, as if eager to prove that he had good reason for being in a smithy. The katana rattled softly as he held it upright and examined the hilt and scabbard like he was seeing it for the first time. It had been raining when he'd received it from Elhaym. "It was a gift. I don't really know how to use it." Not that she was interested in that. He was rambling.

Approaching the counter, he laid the item in front of the fire-haired blacksmith. She was a tiny thing to know how to wield a hammer, with a light build that reminded Laszlo of Abalia's. Here in a building filled with worked metal and black, burnt tools caked in soot, Laszlo thought of an orchid breaking through volcanic rock just so it could stand there and bloom in defiance.

"It's been off in a corner, and it'll rust if I don't take care of it." Laszlo withdrew his hands and dutifully pocketed them. "Whatever that entails. I was hoping you could show me some things. I can pay you for services rendered."

by **Fia Eaven** on October 5th, 2012, 9:07 pm

"Laszlo." She repeated his name over her palms still pressed together, politely receiving it like a token.
When the Ethaefal admitted ignorance regarding the slim sword, Fia nodded.
"They seem a hard thing to learn." Her sincerity was absolute, natural as water and earth. "Shinya spend lifetimes with them."
The human gently took the katana, balancing it between her calloused hands before drawing it gingerly from the sheath.
"Tut tut," her tongue clicked instinctively as she looked at the state of the metal, but she smiled quickly to banish any sense of a scold. "'Tis nothing a bit o' whetstone and oil won't mend."
A thin beautiful note divided the air when she returned the weapon to its case. Her hand paused a bit on the grip.
"The handle needs to be rebound. Won't take too long, but you'll have to leave it here."
Fia rested the weapon on a stand between them. It seemed to float and the eye easily slipped along the slight curve it made from hilt to tip.
"I like the shape they make. Gentle-like." She wiped her hands on her apron, feeling her simplicity compared to the smiths that folded the alloys required to make the katana. It was more than honest labor, it was art.
"A moment, S—Laszlo," she was struggling with the name and covered the mistake in smiles.
Fia returned with a rag over her arm and a long box between her now gloved hands. Twining respect and familiarity, she quickly arranged the tools on the counter: a bottle of oil, a vial of powder, a small wedge and a rectangular stone.
"I'm sure you've seen one of these afore. The forge's is of a fine quality. Mind you'll want to clean after you sharpen, get all the little bits off the blade."
She withdrew the sword with sparse gestures, letting it speak its own poetry.
"Trick is getting the angle good. I use this little bit," she held up the triangular wedge and placed it on the edge of the whetstone.
"Rest the blade on it, like so and then you'll have a good tilt on it." She checked Laszlo's face to see if he was still interested. Just looking at him seemed to please her, but it was a child's admiration, not a woman's, akin to the delight in seeing a new bright bird on the sill.
"Now you'll just keep this angle and slide it with a mite of pressure from base to tip." The motion was demonstrated with a surprising silkiness. She repeated the sweep slowly until he gave signs of satisfaction. Forgetting about her audience, she sharpened the blade in earnest on either side.
"I wear gloves because even your skin can dirty up the blade," she laughed a span, "Well maybe not your skin, but I'm being careful-like."
The rag over her shoulder was whipped forward and pinched around the blade.
"Now a bit of this magic powder. T'isn't really magic," she explained as she dusted the flat part of the blade, "So no need to feel vexed. Me Da and I just called it that. Seemed a wonder when you're seven. Cleans the blade a mite when you rub it." She demonstrated. "Then—" She bustled like a woman in a kitchen, balancing implements and sticking things in her apron pockets.
"-- A few drops of oil on either side and rub it in with a bit of vigor," she did so with a pursed mouth, "And now," she smiled contentedly, "A much prettier tool."
After her performance, she housed the blade and balanced it on the stand.
"Couple silvers and we'll call it fair. Even get a boy to bring it round if you give where you live. I'm sure you don't want to be about in the rain."

~~~

Thump. Thump. The beat broke the pebble patter of the afternoon rain.
"Sir! Your sword!" A young boy's voice cawing through the cracks of the door. Thump. Thump.

Though around the right height, it wasn't a young boy stamping feet on Laszlo's porch. It was the woman in soaked wool. The cowl wilted around her face and her hair was blood colored with damp.
"Couldn't get a boy to go. Wiser than I!" she laughed easily at her folly, "It's me errand day. So here."
The katana was bundled in new fabric, and clutched against her chest like achild. She had kept it dryer than the rest of her.

by **Laszlo** on October 6th, 2012, 5:18 am

Laszlo had been reluctant to leave his sword in the hands of strangers. It was one of the only things he owned that was precious to him. Despite the shortness of the Ethaefal's life, the weapon held a story. He hadn't seen or spoken to Elhaym in months, but it remained as a symbol of armistice, when they agreed to shelve their bitter contempt for one another. The katana had been named Tragedy for the death of the Acolyte's ancestor, but recently the sword gained a higher meaning.

The irony of a sword symbolizing peace also had some small value. One of those little things he found amusing to know.

However, the blacksmith had been polite and genuine while instructing Laszlo on caring for the blade. Even if he was completely unable to follow a word she had said, the gesture itself was enough to earn his preliminary trust, and he agreed to let her have it delivered the following day. He paid her for her work, thanked her, and then civilly departed.

When he answered his door the following day, it was still raining. The same woman from before stood at his doorstep, looking half drowned. Her snaking, red hair stood out vividly from the damp gray of a sun-starved Lhavit. Laszlo involuntarily thought of Dor.

He immediately stepped forward to shelter her with one arm, barely seeming to notice the parcel she was carrying. Laszlo insistently, but not forcefully, ushered her into the doorway. "Come in, please," he laughed. Though friendly, it was a mirthless sound. "Don't stand out there on my account. You'll catch a chill."

Before closing the door, Laszlo glanced back over his shoulder, up at the sky. The dark clouds were colored with an ominous green tint. He narrowed his eyes. Storms still made him very uncomfortable.

"Can't have that on my conscience," he continued, stepping back inside and shutting the door behind him.

The flat was much warmer, and thankfully drier, than the rainy autumn streets of Lhavit. A well-fed fire danced in the hearth, illuminating the shadows missed by the diminished sunlight coming in through the window. This was unfortunate for Laszlo, as his apartment was still in a deplorable state of disarray since he'd returned from Kalinor. He hadn't yet unpacked his belongings, and many articles of clothing were strewn over furniture or bundled in a corner. There were still odd dishes and jars left unwashed and scattered about main room, either from Duvalyon or Laszlo's daughter. It was impossible to tell which had been used by whom.

He had intended to clean these messes eventually. Possibly slowly. Laszlo was still not quite ready to accept how starkly things had changed for him this Fall. Pleasant memories were comforted by the evidence of the recent past.

"Sorry about the mess. I don't often receive company." Laszlo approached the smith and gently took the wrapped katana from her arms, then brought it over to a nearby countertop, nudging other items aside. He left it wrapped, for the time being.

He crossed the room again and approached his bedroom door, promptly pulling it shut. If the mess in the sitting room looked bad…

Looking reassured, Laszlo began to return to his katana at a slower, relaxed pace. "You didn't have to come all the way out here in this weather just to bring back my katana. I'd have understood if you waited for it to stop raining."

by **Fia Eaven** on October 6th, 2012, 8:02 am

Fia smiled at Laszlo's inadequate arm trying to keep the rain from her. There was a beat of hesitation at his invitation, proving she wasn't as trusting as her manners implied.
Once beyond the threshold she unclasped her sopping cloak and kicked one foot against the other to shake off any mud. Clear eyes roved the room, curious to see how an Ethaefal lived. Same as any bachelor it seemed... maybe a mite worse.
Fia shuffled her way through the messy house to lay her cloak in front of the fire.
"I had to come near here anyway. Going towards the library, looking to find a learned sort to help me with something."
She sat beside the hearth and wiped her wet hands on the lap of her dress before shaking them over the fire. Her forearms were speckled with pink and white scars where the sparks of the forge burnt through her clothes
"Have you lived here long?" she asked with a note of hope that he hadn't. Maybe the mess had some origin apart from sheer slovenly tendencies. Fia suddenly smiled and bowed her head at the childish dismay she had over the Ethaefal's normalcy. The human released her expectation and took hold of gratitude with both hands. She had been invited into a warm, dry space by a miraculous creature. It was silly to be disappointed that all he owned didn't emanate heavenly vapors.

"I don't even have a home yet. You're a ways ahead of me. I tried to sleep at the forge. Me Da used to let me sleep near the anvil if I liked. But they don't allow that here," a smile to reveal a dose of humor at the thought, "So I'm at an Inn. I like it," she admitted, "The comings and goings. Makes me feel like I always have company."

by **Laszlo** on October 6th, 2012, 4:26 pm

Beginning to unwrap the sword, Laszlo glanced upward briefly at the woman as she mentioned her reasons for going out of her way. He thought he wasn't going to believe her until she gave what sounded like a genuine motive. Absorbing it with a wordless nod, he busied himself with the weapon.

The hilt of the katana was revealed, which had been supposedly rebound. He turned it in is hand to examine it, as if he knew what he was looking at and possessed a keen eye for quality. The weapon tapped softly inside its scabbard.

"I came in late Spring. After the storm." The question was answered dutifully, with only the barest hesitation. Laszlo was so distracted by all that that meant to him, his reason for coming to Lhavit and all of the trouble he and Abalia had been through, that it took him a moment to realize the smith's purpose for asking. Laszlo looked around his apartment with sheepish grimace. "About two months ago I had to leave the city on short notice. I only returned the day before yesterday." Hm. Was that right? "I'm still shaking the mountains out of my boots and sleeves. I suppose I've been waiting for the exhaustion to pass before I start tidying here."

Laszlo removed the rest of the wrapping from the katana and held it up. He might have removed the weapon from its sheath to examine the length of the blade—just to admire it—but he remembered that he had a strange woman sitting by his hearth, who he'd all but forced into his home. Drawing weapons may not be the best idea, if he wanted her to feel at ease.

Instead, he pulled the scabbard away for just a few inches, revealing the mirror-like blade underneath. Laszlo turned it curiously, watching it reflect the blue and yellow lights from the window and the fireplaces, then soundly returned the scabbard and set it back down.

"Would that be the Shooting Star?" Laszlo began to fold the cloth she had used to wrap the katana, still damp from the rain. It might have done better hung near the hearth, but it didn't belong to him, and he assumed the smith would be leaving momentarily. "It's a lovely place to stay. Always fragrant from the restaurant downstairs, I imagine."

The Ethaefal crossed the room again and set the folded cloth on the edge of his sofa, then stepped away and sat himself in the round chair in front of the hearth. "I once lived out of an inn. I grew tired of living in a space that belonged to someone else. I'm glad you enjoy it." He leaned forward on his knees and tented his fingers. It was a habit he'd acquired from possessing clawed hands. "We're both travelers, then." He seemed about to say more, but something distracted him again. Laszlo had caught sight of the scars peppering the blacksmith's forearms and was candidly fascinated. "Hm." He made a noise that sounded like he was impressed or amused. "Like stars."

Laszlo leaned back in his chair. "What do you need help with at the library? I spent a lot of time there over the Summer."

by **Fia Eaven** on October 6th, 2012, 6:14 pm

"Yes," she breathed a glow into the words, "Like stars. You more than I."
A conversation had stretched and Fia watched questions lower from its boughs. Where had he gone? Did he live alone? What was he looking for in the library? She let them stay where they were and ripen. Interest could be cruel without discretion. Her serene expression had a graciousness seen in more refined women, warming her silence.

Laszlo's offer made her eyes sadder than her mouth. Its answer embarrassed her, but she tried to not let Laszlo see the hummingbird flush she felt along her throat.
"I need someone who can read and write," she said honestly. "Words dance tiny reels when I look at them," she made the motion with her fingers pushing a bit of ash around, "Not very polite of them."
A thought was hammered and cooled until she felt it presentable. She wiped her black fingertips on her apron and pulled a bound piece of paper from her dress's pocke. She held it in both hands with care. It had been folded and rubbed to softness. Though she had no idea what it bore, the idea someone had even written her appeared precious. It was a familiar voice in a rising din.
"I know I've been an imposition," a word she had probably taught herself in later years, "But I can help you clean a bit, if'n you can read this for me. And if it bears an answer, write a jot or two."

by **Laszlo** on October 6th, 2012, 8:58 pm

A brow lifted when she artfully told the Ethaefal she couldn't read. Considering her dialect it shouldn't have come as much of a surprise, but she looked intelligent enough to be educated. Something in her eyes, somehow. A warm light about her gave off world weary wisdom. Even the way she handled metaphors created lovely imagery. Duvalyon, if he cared for humans, would have been offended.

"You're no imposition. I could do that for you." Laszlo looked around the room thoughtfully. The medic had probably left some wadj and ink stashed around here someplace. Would he have taken the quill? "I didn't have any other plans today. Cleaning up my flat would hardly be an even trade, though. I'd have to find you more silvers."

It would have been maddening to hold onto a letter without being able to read it. It could have been about anything; information was weightless and yet it could be so powerful. It could have been nothing, or everything, but simply not knowing would be torturous. Whatever the letter contained, it was important enough to write about. How long had she been holding onto it?

"Do you know where it came from, or who sent it to you?" Laszlo rose out of his chair and leaned down near the blacksmith to take the letter as it was offered. A small, silent flash of lightning flickered in the window, drawing Laszlo's eyes upward again as he began to unwrap the twine from the paper. He cleared his throat to hide his unease.

He glanced at the top of the letter to acclimate himself to the script.

"It's addressed to Fia." Laszlo smirked and looked down at her. "I take it that's you." He brushed off a twinge of civil guilt for not asking her name earlier. "It's from… Madge." He looked up again to search for a sign of recognition.

After pausing for a quick moment to compose himself, he began to read it out loud. "Fia. I can't think of a way to put this, so I will do it simply. You might know, but Denval is no more." He stopped, furrowing his brow. Was that to be taken literally? Confused, he could only continue. "The djed storm wounded her then let loose a power she couldn't take. It's all gone. Most the people made it to boats before the final reckoning…

"That can't be right. I used to buy imports from Denval." Laszlo hastily skimmed over the rest of the letter, beginning to deeply regret agreeing to help her. Read a letter. It was such a simple request. This was too much for the Ethaefal, let alone the poor human from Denval. This wasn't his place. "This is a very personal letter. I can't possibly… I shouldn't be the one to read this to you. Do you have any friends in Lhavit? Someone who knows you better."

Still, he held onto the letter, fearing she'd leave with it if he gave it back. If Fia had any friends, she wouldn't have been going to the library. Laszlo's experience with the Bharani Seekers was usually cordial and pleasant, but they were as much strangers to her as he was. Perhaps more so.

Laszlo didn't want to shoulder the burden of telling Fia what the rest of the letter contained, but he had his doubts that a stranger at random would have had as much compassion for her loss. In fact, Laszlo had already decided to read the rest, but not before she told him to continue.

by **Fia Eaven** on October 7th, 2012, 8:27 am

Laszlo began to read and Fia closed her eyes, wondering at the spell of meaningless lines becoming song and song thought. If this was not creation, she did not fathom the word.
The Ethaefal's voice was steady as it unraveled the net of her childhood. It was a reverent vessel for gray summons.
Denval could not be gone. It was a shore beyond seeing but ever present. The city had outlived the fury of gods and the sundering of the world. They had scratched life from its rock and her ancestors had believed themselves the last of men. History made it an immovable bulk, both her history and the dust of eras.
Fia imagined pieces of her home crumbling in moist clumps and breaking into sand. The tree she thought impossibly tall, the bedroom where she could see the moon, the children's roads through the gardens. Every memory slipping into white.
"It cannot be," she murmured between her lightly crooked fingers.

Disbelief made a pale veil over her features. She wore it still when Laszlo confessed his inadequacy as a messenger in light of the letter's contents.
"I'm sorry, Sir," she couldn't keep his name tethered, "I hope I did not offend."
She began to smooth her hair from her brow, remembering herself. Her cloak was loped over her arm and she laughed with little spirit at the unwieldy air she had brought into this man's life.
"I'm accustomed to hearing my life from others, even strangers. Me poor cousin had to read and write letters to me fiancé." Wisdom rested on her without her knowledge as she said, ""When I learned I couldn't hide me, I learned much didn't need hiding."
A quiet smile as she twisted a ring on her middle finger.
"Here I am pushing myself into your day. The librarians could do with a little news. They might even find it interesting."
A scarred hand was extended for the letter. What was one more coal in her palm? For a moment her fingers curled into themselves.
"If'n it's on my account, I don't mind, but if'n it's on yours…" Her face was all forgiveness, and her palm was bare.