Closed Tread Softly

[Fia Eaven]

Evening, 10th of Winter, 512 AV It was right where the heart would be. A dark splotch corrupted the fabric, patching the shapeless beige shirt in noxious gray. After a third washing the mark still stared at Fia. She had rung the shirt in front of the fire, foolishly hoping it was the damp that made the stain so pronounced. She was now bent over it, her elbows on the kitchen table and her fists balled under her chin. Her Aunt had used something for cooking on stains before, Fia just couldn't recall what. Salt? Vinegar? Bread crumbs? Fia sighed loudly since no one was home to hear her make the frustrated sound. Her helpfulness had turned round and nipped her again. At least the bed linens were clean and done up proper. Next time she'd be more wary of Laszlo's bedside table and the ink pots gathered there. Perhaps she was lucky this was the only thing the spilt ink touched. She'd replace it and make rags of the ruined shirt. A good knife was already on the table beside her, eager for the task. Only things left was confessing to Laszlo. He was still out. Their rooftop fellowship was short-lived. Both recognized the unwieldiness of evenings together. Fia trying too hard to be chipper and Laszlo attempting to fade into the furniture. Progress had reached a precipice and been roughly pushed when Laszlo made the fatal mistake of thinking he could reach past Fia to grab something from a cupboard. She'd dropped the jug she was holding and spent a portion of the evening looking for shards on the kitchen floor. Laszlo had been politely dissuaded from helping. The next evening, he was noticeably absent. Laundry had been her attempt at a peace offering, but now she had rendered him another offense. There had to be something divine about his patience. Anyone else would have shuffled her out the door by the third day. She only hoped this would not be the final speck he could not see past. The sudden loneliness would undo her faster than either knew.

[Laszlo]

The Solar Wind Apartments came into view beyond a haze of rain. Sakana had been happy to stay indoors while Laszlo ran messages to the Twilight Tower and the Dusk Tower. Maddeningly, there was no bridge between the Shinyama and Sartu Peaks, meaning he had to cross the Zintia twice and each bridge twice—not including his trip to and from the alchemy lab on the southern Sharai Peak. No wonder Sakana needed a courier. Still, he didn't need to be so smug about it. The Ethaefal was four centuries old. He might have accrued some sense of transcendence and maturity by now. Exhausted in more than one way, Laszlo's detour back to his flat was only a temporary one. The sun had recently set, robbing him of his preferred shape. It meant that if he stayed home like this, during the hours Fia was active, she would be uncomfortably forcing herself to tolerate the creature from her memories. It was unpleasant for both of them. Fortunately, Laszlo was become adept at finding things to do to fill his spare time. There were books from the Bharani Library that needed returning, and that was another lengthy trip to the Tenten Peak. He would see all four of Lhavit's corners in one day. How nice. Still, with this rain, he'd have to find a bag or something to protect them from the elements. Fia might have something he could use. She was taking care of the laundry today. The door to his apartment broke open, filling the apartment with the sound of the downpour. Futilely trying to shake himself off, Laszlo hurried inside and shut the door as quickly as he could. A quick glance across the room gave him Fia's location on the far side, hunched over something. "Gods," he said with a small laugh, flexing his chilled fingers to restore bloodflow, "it's another bleeding Valterrian outside. Hello, Fia." Without drawing back his hood, for Fia's sake, Laszlo crossed the room and made for the hall. Belying the divine creature he was, he did make a sad mess behind him, dripping and leaving wet boot prints. It was laughably vain that he wore that long woolen cloak to obscure his appearance, draping his tall, narrow frame in darkened charcoal. Hooded, he looked as foreboding as ever. Still, suppose some would prefer shadowy specters to Symenestra. Fia would be among them. His hurried pace told of a specific purpose in mind. "I'm only in for a moment. Need to pick up… some…" Laszlo felt his heart seize and lurch against his sternum. He'd gotten a glimpse of what Fia was doing. He stopped in the hall, battling with hopeful disbelief. She couldn't be holding what he thought she was. These two halves of his life couldn't possibly have collided this way, not without him knowing. He wasn't prepared. Slowly, Laszlo turned himself toward Fia. He lifted one hand and pushed back his hood, revealing his long, but happily dry hair. It was only shades lighter than his cloak, and no more colorful. As usual, his eyes stood out like gems in an otherwise colorless portrait. "What is that?" he asked carefully, fearing the answer she'd give. It would be worded so politely, too. She'd smile, like she cherished it. "What you're washing. Where did you get it from?"

[Fia Eaven]

Laszlo swept in with the rain behind him, tall, dim and in a hurry to return to the tempest. In their division of space, Fia thought guiltily, she had the better bargain. His presence made her stiffen for more than the common cause. Her fists clenched a little tighter and her throat felt wrapped in layers of snug twine. Before he noticed her project himself, she tried to make sounds that were the beginning of an explanation. She only got as far as a soft, "Hello, Laszlo." No matter what form he filled, there was always a small song in his name when she spoke it. It had been meant for a bird after all. Affirming her apprehension, Laszlo had stopped in the hall, overwhelmingly drawn by her latest mistake. "What is that?" There was a polite restraint in the phrasing of his question. It was a tone she had learnt to dread. "My flower, what are you trying? Little flower, have you got something in your hand? Was that a plea for a kiss, dear flower? Did you actually want that cooked, flower?" Fia lifted the shirt in her hands and let the feel of the fabric bring her to the table once again. "From your room," she admitted with a wince. "I'm dreadful sorry, Laszlo. I went to put the clean linens on and when I whipped the blanket out I knocked a bit of ink on the floor. The floor was spared, but this caught the mess. I'm so sorry. I'm on the third wash of it." Trying to shine light on the ease of repair, Fia continued, "I'll get you a new one. Nicer even. Even this won't go to waste." One hand plucked up the knife on the table in demonstration, "I'll make rags of it for cleaning."

[Laszlo]

It was what he thought. That wasn't one of her old shirts, or something she picked up at the plaza today; it was the one from his room, near the table next to his bed. I'll get you a new one. Nicer even. Laszlo's heart shuddered again, sending another rush of feeling he wasn't expecting. He couldn't hide the affront that creased his forehead. It wasn't Fia's fault. She honestly had the best intentions, and really, Laszlo shouldn't have left that ink vial on his table. But this was a piece of himself he was not ready to show her, and certainly not in this way. "Wait, Fia don't—" For a moment, his concern over a stained memento overrode the need for delicacy between a false Symenestra and a fugitive of the Harvest. Laszlo rushed forward, moved by a sudden stab of panic, and swiftly closed the gap between them. Only once had he ever been more afraid at the sight of a knife. He reached forward quickly with a clawed hand, still trying to be careful to not seem like he was attacking her, but he couldn't quite mask his sense of urgency.

[Fia Eaven]

Fia's attention had dipped to the shirt in her fingers and the strange parallel apprehension tingling in her stomach. It constricted with a wrongly dense feeling. Her mind and heart had found a vaguely familiar shape and had rushed to draw in remembered details that weren't truly there. Perhaps if she was ready this time, they agreed, she would be able to avoid the pain that typically followed the Symenestra's softly polite questions. Laszlo's worried grab for the token came before Fia had unbraided the past from the present or looked up from the bunched material. Instinct snapped at the human to withdraw and surprise shaped an airy bleat. Mercifully, she hadn't let the knife reach a defensive pose. Fia hastily rid herself of the knife and felt silvery fear be smothered by hot shame. Words did not come, only a rolling tide of guilt.

[Laszlo]

Fia flinched back away like a frightened animal, startling Laszlo as well. He immediately withdrew from her, bewildered and afflicted with a powerful rush of reflexive guilt. There was a pause as he gaped at her in shocked disbelief—it was like she was accusing him. Certainly her fear of Widows was justified, but what had Laszlo ever done to make her feel unsafe around him? Didn't she know he careful he had been around her? Quickly growing frustrated with the situation, he let go of a loud, lengthy sigh. A flourish of his arm brushed his wet cloak back over his shoulder, allowing him to hold his forehead in one slender hand. "Gods, Fia. I wish you wouldn't do that." Clawed fingertips pressed at his temples briefly until his hand fell back to his side. His frustration broke and he snapped forward, robbing the shirt out of her hands anyway with a second swipe. The cloth folded and felt warm in his hands as he angrily stepped away from the human. Fia's own body warmth and attention had made the shirt feel like it was recently worn. Another insult onto injury. Laszlo went off into the hall, holding the garment between both hands. How insane did he look now, sentimentally brushing his long nails against the black stain on an old shirt? Now that he held it, however, it seemed much too small for him to wear. Fatigued and rather shapeless, but he was too tall for it. If Fia had not recently washed his bed linens, he would have sank onto his bed to wallow in gratifying misery, but he was still drenched in rain. Instead, Laszlo lingered in the doorway of his bedroom, leaning against the doorframe and facing away from the sitting room. This was his fault for leaving it out. He wanted to apologize, but he was too indignant to spare her the blame. She shrank from him like he'd done such horrible things. "This can't be replaced. Please, don't bother."

[Fia Eaven]

I'm sorry seemed a phrase more commonly in her mouth than his name. It would feel like serving the same soup cold the next day should she try and present it again. For the first time regarding Fia, the Ethaefal's infinite patience found a border. The garment was snatched from Fia and a thorn of frustration left in its place. It drove deeper into her palm the longer she held the words. Laszlo's shape was only an echo of something his soul had said lifetimes ago, and whatever it had uttered, Syna saw fit to redeem it and usher him into her own. Every time Fia flinched or looked away, she taught him to be ashamed of what the goddess had called blessed. Why had she not ransomed a less frightful thing though? Something that didn't creep along thoughts or shine its eyes through fog. Flower, flower, flower are you beginning to wilt? Let me near and I won't bruise the petal. The present was running out of sight the longer she let the past whisper in her ear. Fia followed Laszlo to the hallway but didn't press beyond it. "It didna look quite like one of yours." It had been too nondescript to appoint to a particular figure. No man cherished a garment for sentiment unless it was a lover's or a child's, and this was too long for a child. "You miss her dreadful much." The idea surprised no one more than Fia. Laszlo who found love quaint and showed no inclination for passion in any shape. Yes, he altered with feelings, but when he was with her, they were glints of something miles away. The previous occupants had all left, he said, and he remained rooted in the same place, unchanging. Who was his Tynan? Who had left only a pile of rough clothes under a bulky coat?

[Laszlo]

It was silly, wasn't it? Holding onto these things, recalling the combinations Abalia used to wear. That long skirt always went with that flowered blouse. She only ever wore her gray sweater on cloudy days. Laszlo even remembered buying some of those things. Part of the reason Laszlo still had any of them his lack of understanding for posthumous affairs, but mainly it was the memories that kept him from getting rid of Abalia's possessions. It was evidence that a person had lived at all. That was something Laszlo feared about immortality. Abalia's death was particularly devastating, considering he had brought it upon her, but she was also the first person he had ever lost. And there would be many more, if his daftness didn't kill him first. Time would transform everyone he knew from living, breathing people into only foggy memories and conversational anecdotes. In a hundred years, who would remember Abalia ever lived? She left herself scattered around Laszlo's room. As long as he still had her things, she still existed in fragments. Abalia was more than memory. Fia's voice in the hall made him stir. His turned his head only slightly to acknowledge she was there. The Denvali had put it together. She passed herself off as a simple woman, but she was sharp enough to catch the unwary off guard. "You miss her dreadful much." Laszlo gently squeezed the shirt. "She was…" She was beautiful. She was brave, honest, and patient. She was more than he deserved. Laszlo stared at the stain. Right over her heart. Would Abalia have been upset about it? No, likely she'd laugh and wear it out in public, just to embarrass him. And prove a point. She always enjoyed doing both. I don't care what people think of me, Laz. You shouldn't either. "She was twenty years old, Fia." Clenching the shirt in one hand, Laszlo folded his arms and let his head rest in the other. How much was he supposed to explain to Fia? It didn't feel like the proper time to tell her all there was to know about Abalia of Alvadas. He was still seething at the image of Fia cringing away from him. There could be no neatly sorting out this type of situation. Really, Laszlo just wished Fia would leave him alone. But if he said as much, there went all the progress she had made trying to be comfortable around his night half. He was stuck trying to coddle her. "Turned on the first day of this year," he went on. For once, he couldn't manage to be neutral or polite. The pain coursing in his chest came out in his voice, and he wouldn't lift his head. "I brought her here to Lhavit, because I… we knew she wouldn't see twenty-one. I found a doctor to care for her. We all lived here. I spent days at the library trying to find some magic shred of knowledge that could save her. I did… I did everything, and still… I ended up watching her die. It was all my fault." He closed his eyes. "She grew up in Alvadas. The outside world's certainty frightened her. Lhavit's lights would make her nervous. She'd wake me up in the middle of the night. She was so afraid of dying, Fia." When his eyes reopened, they were steeled. "But not once was she ever afraid of me." Laszlo's apartment used to be a safe haven for his evening shape. Duvalyon barely noticed it, and Abalia even preferred it. Even the end, despite the way she died, she still felt safer around Symenestra than she did other humans. Now he avoided coming home because he feared it would upset the other tenant. Yet he still didn't want her to leave. It was still better than being alone. A mirthless laugh shook itself out of him. "I still have all her things. Look at me, clinging to this." Laszlo angrily pitched the shirt back into his room. This was Lhex righting the world, teaching the Ethaefal cruel lessons. Laszlo had killed Abalia, who loved him for what he was. So now here was a girl properly terrified of him. "I deserve this. I'm a petching monster, Fia."

[Fia Eaven]

Was. Fia's hand covered her mouth in visceral dismay. The woman had not left. She had died, and so young. Younger than even Fia who still felt new to the world. This was a house of tragedy. Its inhabitants fumbling for something to distract or alleviate the long ache. They played at being whole when they were mouldering into rough fragments. Laszlo's story grew, explaining why he lived alone in a house made for more. Lhavit had been approached with desperation and hope. The feelings likely fell against each other and twined arms. Fia listened longer, her hand finally leaving her mouth to make a fist over her stomach. Pity dim and dense flowed from her heart into her heavy limbs. She imagined a year of longing and fear and the poor girl who awoke to futile terror when the light came through her window. "But not once was she ever afraid of me." Coldly spoken in a voice both unfamiliar and intimately known. Fia's bowed head raised and there was no protest on her face. It was a cruelty well aimed and deserved. Had the words been an arrow, she might have left it in her side. Laszlo laughed then, without kindness or glow, a bitterer transformation than anything sunset brought. The once precious object was thrown with vitriol and he pronounced his life's verdict. "Don't say that, Laszlo." Fia's quiet voice held a sad yearning for him to believe despite what her frailty had taught him. "'Tisn't true. You do all you can, and more besides."

[Laszlo]

The discarded shirt hit the corner of Laszlo's bed, where he watched it until it slowly rolled off and fell lightly down to the floor. Fia's gentle words came down the hall, bringing the Ethaefal back into the moment. He stepped away from the doorframe and turned to her. She was such a timid thing, standing there. One would never suspect her of being able to cause harm, but she had made Laszlo afraid of his own home. "'Tisn't?" He scoffed, then shook his head. "Is that why you stand at a safe distance from me? Shyke, Fia, what do you know of 'what I do'? I tread on glass around you. I step lightly and that still isn't enough." It really did feel like punishment. Symenestra killed the mothers of their children, making Laszlo no different from the monsters Fia feared. And just as he couldn't save Abalia, he couldn't change the way Fia looked at him. Worse was the knowledge that Laszlo truly was Symenestra once. Vethis was the eldest and died with two children. In another life, Laszlo had done what Mikendril had attempted to do to Fia. But did that mean anything? How much of a soul carried on after death? Fia could very well have done the same or worse in a former life, but she wasn't haunted by its echoes. If Laszlo ever spoke Vethis' name to Fia, that would be all she would ever see anymore. Another sigh came from the false Symenestra as he rubbed at his forehead. "I am sorry for what Mikendril did to you. I truly am." His hand fell. "But I wish you wouldn't look at me like I was capable of that. Syna chose this shape, not me. And that's all it is, Fia, a shape. I'm the same man in the daytime." The words didn't feel entirely true. This "shape" was still fully functional. It killed Abalia. Her death wasn't his fault? It could have been prevented. To delude himself from that was the same as saying that the Harvest was the Symenestra's only option for survival. No wonder Duvalyon forgave him. "It's bad enough mothers shield their children from me. I come home and there's you, cowering. It makes me feel vile."