Closed Of Light and Night and the Half-Light

[Fia Eaven]

Day 86, Fall 512 I'll sell my rod, I'll sell my reel I'll sell my only spinning wheel To buy my love a sword of steel Walk, Walk , Walk my Love, Walk steadfast, and walk quietly, Walk to the door, and escape with me. She hummed her song along the bridges, wound it round the hills and dropped it on her feet when she bowed over stairs. Lyrics caught on the small thorns of sunlight on glass, and trailed in gutter water. The song was reckless with its sweetness, not unlike the singer. Strokes of violet were fading under her eyes, and her voice rasped in parts. She was not whole, missing irreplaceable pieces. The only healing for her ailment was to grow new roots with new loves and hope they could keep keep the hobbled tree standing. But this would do until Tanroa swelled the river. It was the first time Fia had daylight hours free from the bellows and forge since the day of the letter. Even still, sunset was inching closer than she hoped. Her nights had been her own, but her courage was not so sturdy in these dry days. She could not stand with a disparate fears leashed to each hand. Memories had begun to sharpen and regrets accumulated with precision. Fia had begun to discern more of what she was missing. Her grief was negative space with rippling edges. The shape of the hole would define what was lost soon enough. Fia stopped amidst the Solar Winds apartments, suddenly unsure which door she sought. She found it with wandering, waiting for an instinctive flutter of emotions to remind her of their birthplace. She prayed to Priskil and thumped Laszlo's door soundly. In the quiet that followed she tried to hold still and breathe. A kerchief covered her hair and her hems were cut high enough to show stockings. Two hands clasped the handle of a wooden bucket filled with rags and topped with a hunk of lye soap. The bucket swung in her clenched hands, creaking as it tapped her shins.

[Laszlo]

A knocking split Laszlo's focus, pulling him violently out of a sea of written words and back into the cold Kalean Fall. He gasped, blinking rapidly as he lifted his head. Something bright and yellow moved in front of him. It should have been the fire in his hearth, but his vision was blurry and stung his eyes. Laszlo lifted his hand out of the open book in his lap and rubbed slowly at his forehead. A moment ago he'd been reading, or he thought he'd been reading. He'd been able to procure a collection of poems and fables from the Bharani Library regarding Zintila and some of the other gods associated with the celestial and the earth. These myths were enlightening, and they held grains of truth about the history of the Gods of Mizahar, a fascinating topic for any Lhavitian—especially an Ethaefal. Evidently his consciousness had, at some point, slipped away from him. He couldn't remember dozing off, but the room was not lit as well as he recalled it had been only moments ago. Or bells ago. Gods. After rubbing the blur from his eyes, he looked down at the pages again, trying to recall where he left off. There was something he was forgetting. Something urgent… Oh, right. "Just a moment," Laszlo called to the door. He shut his book and pushed himself out of his chair—the latter being a much more difficult task than he had initially anticipated. Muttering bitterly, embarrassed at himself over his own incompetence, he at least managed to straighten his collar, mostly, by the time he got to the door and reached for the latch. There was a cleaning maid standing on his doorstep. Laszlo wasn't sure what about this surprised him more: that it was the tragic blacksmith from a short while back, or that she was dressed as if he had been expecting her services. "Fia?" His golden eyes lingered on the pail in her hands. "This is a surprise. What are you doing here?" Laszlo furrowed his brow and shook his head in apology. "Sorry. I meant, what can I do for you?"

[Fia Eaven]

"Hello, Laszlo." His name seemed the end of an old song when Fia said it. Her face was kind with recognition. How long had it been since someone was pleased to see him? "I know I'm late, but I'm here to make good." The bucket was raised a fraction to show sincerity of intent. Suspecting polite resistance, she quickly beat him to the impasse. "'Tis happening, Laszlo. You might as well step aside or I'll start with your horns." It was spoken with a smile and surprising certainty. Wherever she had come from must have required certain amount of honest hardiness. Fia managed to float past the Ethaefal, using his daze to her advantage. Her eyes broadly swept over the room. "Lud. Looks frozen." The space was largely the same. She recognized a chipped cup on the mantle and wondered if it was the one from days before. "Suppose time passes differently for you." Her eyes wandered with purpose, like a navigator encompassing the stars. Top to bottom was always best; have to clear the clutter first. A stack of books made her pragmatic eye pause. They were from the library with actual bindings and covers illuminated in rich pigment. Like an exploring child, Fia touched one. She didn't open it , simply glanced her fingers over the cover and wondered at the great mystery it protected. Enough of that, her hand went back to the bucket. She had a small purpose here. Fia set the bucket aside for a bit and began to gather all the spare and strange objects flung about the room and collect them on the pantry table. The scant dishes would need soaking then washing and everything else would need to be skinned of its dusty pelt. No stranger to work, Fia filled her bucket with suds and water. The speed with which she moved showed a familiarity with housework, and a general lack of squeamishness. "What're you reading about?" she finally said between motions.

[Laszlo]

There she was. Making good, she said. Deprived of a rebuttal, all Laszlo could think to do was move out of her way, defensively reaching for one of his horns. He shut the door behind her to keep the cold air out, but still lingered in the spot as he turned to watch her assess his house. She was too pleasant a person to be cross with, but she kept bringing herself into Laszlo's private corner of the world in ways he was never prepared for. She had good intentions, at least. And her timing was good. Laszlo became wretched when left to his own devices. It made him wonder how differently this could have turned out if Fia visited while Duvalyon was still living here. At least she would have gotten along with Abalia. Please, come in. Stay a while, he mused derisively, but in good humor, as she made her observations. Time moved differently? "I suppose it does." It really didn't, but it was a good excuse as any. "Oh." Laszlo finally moved from his spot, organizing his stack of literature borrowed from the library. She was actually serious about tidying his place. He wasn't sure whether to stop her for her own good, or help her. What was the proper response to this brand of invasion? "Just some old folklore about gods and the divine. Poetry, stories, ballads. It's a bit rubbish, but there's some history there." Leaving the books near his chair, he began to pick up several discarded articles of clothing scattered around the floor before Fia would have a chance to get to them. "It's something of a new hobby," he continued, almost mumbling. After another moment of thought, Laszlo straightened with an armful of linen and wool. "Goodness, you are a woman of your word, aren't you?" He left briefly, disappearing into his room to unload his goods. A moment later he returned, indicating that nothing had been put away with any thought or care. "If I can't stop you, could I at least help you?" The last time anyone had cleaned up in this place, Laszlo had been asked very sternly to stay out of the way to avoid being a hindrance. A little more softly, he added, "How are you doing?"

[Fia Eaven]

Laszlo's offer to help was kindly brushed away, "No, but I might need some help reaching cobwebs." His next gentle question opened a fragile gate. Fia stopped what she was doing and spoke plain. It deserved her full attention if she intended to be honest. "Not grand, I'm afraid," Her laughter was taut and trebled, "But it wouldn't be fair to me to ask much. Me—sorry my – I've been getting some ribbing," she smiled, "…Da taught me to smith. When I work it's both blessing and curse." She looked down at the object she was wiping free of dust, "Thanks for asking." Fia wondered if she should inquire the same, or if the Ethaefal preferred his privacy. While he wasn't secretive, he seemed slow to unburden much of himself. Their first tragic night struck her as more of an exception than a rule. It was for both of them. Fia was honest, but she was not prone to telling her life story in a single verse. Time was needed. She could bustle into his house, but it wasn't right to rifle through his thoughts. There was a reason she was back though, more than keeping her word and showing her gratitude. Lonely and frightened: he had used the words to cover both their heads. She would never remind him of the moment. Her glimpse of it had been monstrous unfair, but she had seen it nonetheless. Fia would simply begin again and let all things come in their proper season. Resuming her pace she added, "And excellent work with your laundry, I see." Oh ho, this one had a sense of humor after all, but nothing about her merry phrasing moved toward offense. In the worst interpretation of her tone and eyes, he was silly. "I'll be back for that eventually. Don't look affrighted, I had all uncles and me--my Da. They didn't do a lick of the washing. Won't phase me." She continued cleaning, replacing conversation with humming and the slosh of water being thrown out and gathered again. It was when she began taking a rag to every surface not the floor that she spoke again. "Your stories," strange the way she attributed them to him merely by his knowing them, "They don't sound like rubbish. They sound beautiful, like a less terrible magic or a kind of dreaming." After a bit longer she found herself looking at him and tripping over her self-directed laughter. "I'm sorry. I'm just going to ask and prove myself the rudest housekeeper in Mizahar." She used her chin to point as her hands were occupied. "What are they made of?" By the gods, she was asking about his horns, like a ten-year-old. Fia seemed to have sidestepped the stage where people learned it was embarrassing to reveal ignorance and admiration. To keep the upper hand, one had to maintain some indifference.

[Laszlo]

Brushed off again, this time quite possibly the most gracious soul in the world. Forced to manage the guilt of watching a near stranger clean up his home, Laszlo sank onto the sofa, leaned on his knees, and clasped his fingers. If it lent her a measure of comfort to busy herself this way, he could let her. He gave her a small smile and a quiet, understanding nod as she spoke about the loss of her father—grandfather, that was. Laszlo knew what it was to be constantly reminded of things that had fallen far out of his reach. One had to wonder what happened to Fia's father, as well as her mother. The letter wrote to her only briefly mentioned him, and in no flattering way. He couldn't help but think of Seven, Victor, and Duvalyon and their fathers—all difficult or absent. It must have been a difficult role to play properly. Even Laszlo's own daughter probably wouldn't remember him whenever he would next be able to hold her. Laszlo looked down at the floor, tapping one thumb against the other as he sucked on his teeth. He absorbed Fia's criticism lightly, wearing a sheepish smile without looking up. It was odd, he thought, that he had never invited her in and yet he had no intention of telling her to leave. It was as if she had brought her own welcome. She was rather an imposition, if one looked at this properly, but perhaps a half-year living with a shrewd, crotchety medic had softened Laszlo toward the opposite end of the spectrum. "You really don't have to," he insisted again, even if it was futile. Laszlo's bedroom still felt sacred, but he was mostly protective because Abalia's things were still inside and it might call for difficult questions. He liked that Fia knew him for all that was sitting here on the sofa. And as the man who comforted her when she learned of her losses. It may have been inevitable, but if Fia ever learned the rest, it would have soured the way she looked at him. His eyes drifted toward the books, wondering what Fia knew of poetry and folktales if she couldn't read. Laszlo was easily exhausted by woven words. It was a form of art, he understood, but he preferred the art of being straightforward. "What?" She was asking him a direct question now. "My horns?" Honestly. "Well I… I'm not sure, actually. Skyglass? I've never even wondered." Laszlo straightened, sitting up straight and feeling at one of his horns thoughtfully. "Could be made of marzipan for all I know." His face broke in a sudden smile, almost laughing. "I think they're sturdier than the rest of me. I once fell and took a nasty hit to one of them. Not a single scratch, though it gave me a concussion." If Fia asked him what a concussion was, he'd have no specific answer to give. It was one of the medic's terms. He just remembered feeling disoriented. There was another question that had to be asked, and thus far had been neatly avoided. Fact was, Fia was someone's fiancée, and she was standing in a strange man's home, cleaning up his kitchen. It didn't sit well with Laszlo to ignore the situation. "Fia, you told me you had a fiancé, but you're in the city alone, aren't you? Was he in Denval when…?" She hadn't mentioned him as much as her grandfather, which was troubling. It really didn't add up. She was living and working in a city, far from her home and newly arrived—alone. "What brought you to Lhavit, exactly?"

[Fia Eaven]

"I had one yes, Tynan," she said slowly. A song filled her eyes that Laszlo had yet to hear. She had shown the Ethaefal kindness and gratitude, but this was a womanly depth directed far beyond his horned head. The mere memory of this man mustered love's quiet footfalls. "Went to sea, didn't come back. I went looking for him, for me. Not sure which." Laszlo was glimpsing too many of her stories. They had to be tempered with the steady iron of her life, lest he think everything she touched was frosted with loss. Fia had lived a good, plain life, and wanted that known. "A common story and an old one," she let it slip off her shoulders. "I came to Lhavit to become a better smith, to see the skyglass and take the knowledge home. I'd like it better here if there was a sea. I've always liked the shore." Fia was grateful to return to something mundane as labor. She was honest as sunlight, but felt like she was casting too much of herself about this man's life. They had been thrown into a strange communion and she knew nothing of his history. It surprised her how little this bothered her. What mattered was known: he was good when it was difficult to be so. "Where are you from, Laszlo?" she colored quickly remembering the implications, then amended, "What city do you think of as home? You haven't always been in Lhavit." She settling into a listener's rhythm: busy hands and patient ears.

[Laszlo]

Had one. Laszlo's eyes fell to the floor, no longer curious. He felt bad for asking at all, considering everything else she was presently going through. She moved on quickly, giving a concise answer rather than a long, sad story saturated with self-pity. It was more restraint than Laszlo would have managed. There was a sort of selfish comfort in knowing someone else who was going through something about as horrible as he was. A sort of kinship, which Fia couldn't possibly know was reciprocated. Or perhaps she did, thinking of the Ethaefal's fall. She was a sweet enough woman to think that all of her loss couldn't compare to his. Laszlo didn't ask any more. He just sat in heavy silence on his sofa, fidgeting with his hands and watching the fire. There was no proper response he could give. Before she amended her question, he looked up at her with an almost incredulous crook in one eyebrow. It softened a moment later, replaced by subtle, amused smile. "No. There's nowhere, really. I traveled to a few places. Began in Syliras." Laszlo paused, licking his lips and lowering his eyes again. Fia's feelings on Symenestra had not been forgotten. How to put this delicately. "You've seen me at night. I have somewhat… tenuous, but irrevocable ties to Kalinor through my evening form. I've been there several times, but there's no sunlight. It's not home." He cleared his throat and straightened. "But Lhavit is a comfortable distance from the place, and it's beautiful here. I came here from Alvadas. Owned a tavern there." A bragging point he seldom remembered to use anymore. "Well, co-owned." It was a long answer, but Laszlo could sense that Fia was not eager to go on about herself. She'd already revealed all of her tragedy within two days of knowing him, and quite by accident. Laszlo had retained the luxury of staying reserved and well protected. She deserved a bit of quid pro quo to even the score. "I only fell three years ago. Almost three years. I haven't really had time to settle anywhere yet, but I've grown fond of Kalea." She was still cleaning, and Laszlo assumed he was still not allowed to help. He felt like he had a mother. "The sea is not too far from here. And not very difficult to get to. You could always go and visit if you ever miss it. I bet that mountain guide on the trail gets lonely."

[Fia Eaven]

Kalinor's grim name yanked Fia's shoulders into a protective pose. She tried to hide it by hunching over her task. As Laszlo unwound his connection to the race, her eyes read the grain in the table she was cleaning. Disappointment and confusion forcibly fed her coals and bits of hoarfrost in turn as she staggered to align her good hopes with this unsettling truth. The table's surface became the sudden target of ferocious effort. Laszlo was trying to hasten to other aspects of his life while Fia was still on the hooks of Kalinor. She dangled there until her mind lurched onward, seeking its well-being. I bet that mountain guide on the trail gets lonely "Oh I bet he does," Fia's laughter finally proved she was not dead to the world, "Perhaps he'd like to hear me life tale. I'd cure him of company and make him a proper, solitary mountain man again." She was wringing a rag out the window, her laughter still turning her mouth pleasant shapes. The violet fatigue under her eyes seemed lighter when she let a little mirth do its mending. "Three?" she looked over her shoulder, "Already travelled and owned a tavern. You make me look terrible slow for me age." Three years: it was a pitifully small amount of time to adjust. He was not an old Ethaefal of legend, but a young creature just given a new world to make familiar. She wondered what it was like to name yourself or remember clearly the first time you saw your face. Her damp rag was doused in the bucket again breaking her own half reflection. She twisted it between her hands dropping water to the street below. "Were the other owners Ethaefal too? Must have been terrible popular. Don't think I could bear that much attention if I was a hermit scholar either." Her last line was an artful wedding of a tease with an invitation to dismiss or elaborate on this small point of personal pride. Fia was letting her curiosity drag her like an unbroken horse. Whatever it took to move her thoughts far quickly. A woman had to know her limitations, and she could only graciously wear one weight at a time. Laszlo's connection to Kalinor would wait its turn.

[Laszlo]

"A what?" Laszlo laughed in spite of himself, his golden eyes trailing toward his borrowed literature. He wasn't overly fond of these autobiographical conversations, but Fia was good at staying in good humor. She had to be, he supposed. "I like that. It's terribly flattering and undeserved, but you can think of me that way if it pleases you." What made her think he was a hermit? It wasn't entirely off the mark, but it probably said something for the state of his flat. Batting back strands of auburn hair, Laszlo rose from the sofa and meandered toward the hearth. "No, it was just a little hole-in-the-wall bar. I worked with a human and…" A halfblooded Symenestra. "Some young mixed breed. We pooled our resources rather on a whim. My version of a youthful mistake, one could argue." He leaned forward and picked up a narrow log from his dwindling stack of firewood. He would need to buy more soon. Its bulk landed in a pool of ashes and fragile embers. "We were all from different places. It was a feeble attempt to throw down roots. Not the best idea in a city that constantly changes itself." Taking the iron poker, Laszlo prodded at the fire and broke the remnants of charred, spent wood. "Ionu is a difficult being. Never trust a trickster god." It felt so far away now, his little, narrow tavern always tucked between two ever-shifting buildings. The ceiling mosaic would shift with the time of day, their colors crawling beneath a film of dust and age. Taverns, despite their warm reputation as a refuge for travelers and heroes, actually attracted a great many drunks and liars. The Sun and Stars especially brought in its fair share of pathetic low-lives and terrifying thugs. Laszlo, in all his gratifying self-loathing, had even started to wonder if he belonged there because of his more unsavory half. An exhausted, annoyed-looking Symenestra always seemed suited to that shadowy place. Did it even survive the Storm? "I don't miss it." He set the poker aside, then turned to send a modest smile at Fia. "But there was always ale around." Laszlo drifted back toward his chair, lifting the leather cover of one of the books. "I'm better off without it." He should think about writing to Seven. At least to check whether he was still alive. But he worried that would attract Victor's attention. "I'll probably be in Lhavit for a good while. What about you? Are you going to be staying here long, or will you move to Sylira?" That was where most of her family had migrated to, wasn't it? The only cities Laszlo knew from that letter were Zeltiva and Ravok. Both were far away and across the Suvan sea.