Snow fell heavily in thick, fat flakes over all of campus, whispering against the window and sighing through the darkness outside. Phosphor lights that lined the sidewalks shone like starflies, illuminating the red stones that Brunnhold was famous for with a ruddy glow. Dressed simply in dark brown trousers that were far looser in fit than was Anaxi fashion and a simple pale shirt that wrapped and tied at his left side instead of buttoned, the young Hoxian had forgotten to roll up his sleeves.
Ezre sat cross-legged in the center of his hardwood floor, a small white porcelain bowl in front of him, the interior glazed black and filled with just a small bit of water. A circle of chalk, delineated by bones at each of the cardinal directions, defined his personal prodigium, and in the Hoxian's tattooed hand was a small knife. The fire in his humble stove crackled and snapped in the silence he'd intentionally created with his preparatory meditation, eyes closed and breathing slowed.
Two floors directly below him, supposedly poised over their textbook expectantly, one of his tutoring students, Oliver, had offered to be his witness for his experiment. Little did he know the younger boy had fallen asleep half an hour ago while Ezre was setting up his plot and centering himself with the mona. Dark eyes fluttered open and he lifted one hand over the bowl, fingers extended upward, beginning to speak Monite, his including clause naming Oliver as the recipient of his connection. The mona in his field shifted and seemed to fill the circle with its existence, suddenly tangible and warm like someone's breath against the back of his neck. His other hand rose with the knife, bringing the blade across his palm without letting the searing, sharp pain interrupt his casting even though his face scrunched in a wince.
Setting the knife to one side of the bowl, he held his bleeding hand over the water, watching the steady dribble spread and swirl in the liquid in reaction to his spellwork. The surface remained in motion as if the ripples were natural, and yet something felt wrong. It felt like he was speaking into the snow—muffled and without a returned echo from his witness. Like he was talking to himself, which wasn't entirely strange but in this situation was very out of context.
Perhaps Oliver's spellwork was faulty.
Reaching for the knife again, the line on his palm having already congealed and slowed, dribble of blood no longer dripping into the bowl. Another slice of his palm, deeper this time, and he hissed, watching the red flow freely again, tracing down the tendons of his wrist, some staining his sleeve and the rest landing in the water below his hand, droplets curling and dancing beneath the surface.
He began to cast again, gathering the mona to him with a renewed sense of focus by honing in on the sharp pain in his hand, words clear and inclusion clause reaching out in hopes to feel his connection with his pupil.
Again, the silence. This time, a more oppressive sensation of objection filled him while he spoke the last phrase of his spell, the mona clearly aware of what they must have perceived as a useless endeavor. Oliver had either forgotten their plan entirely or fallen asleep. Unreliable Anaxi. Ending his Monite with almost an apologetic turn of phrase, Ezre sighed and fell quiet, looking down into the bowl and for a moment staring at his own reflection—dark eyes and dark waters meeting. In the eddies of red, just for the briefest of heartbeats while the mona settled around him, he received his confirmation—a glimpse of one brown-haired teenager sprawled on his desk. It felt like waking from a dream, the kind of vision one saw but didn't really see, and faded just as quickly.
The Hoxian scowled, delicate lips turning downward, but there was a solemn gratitude in his heart for the mona's patience as well as their generosity in sharing with him the truth instead of disciplining him for his attempts. With a slow exhale of breath, he turned his palm and attempted to rub over the cuts with his other thumb, applying a pressure as if to assess how much he'd hurt himself. Perhaps he'd been overzealous with the second, aware that aquamancy was accurate and safe without the need to attempt what he did, though he hoped the use of his own living fluid would have perhaps increased the opportunity for detailed connection.
Tonight, he would have to leave that unanswered.
Tugging his sleeve, he pressed the hem against his palm and curled his fingers tightly. Wiping the small knife on the fabric of the same arm, tattooed fingers reached for the bowl and he stood, walking toward his door and carefully, quietly opening it to pad barefoot out in to the chilled dormitory hall. It was a late house, but in the upperclassman dorms, one never knew who would be awake. Treading toward the shared bathroom door, they were reaching for the handle only to have the door swing open unexpectedly, causing Ezre to shrink back in surprise, spilling their bowl of blood and water all over the front of their shirt.
Cecyl, his neighbor, emerged from the bath, towel around his neck instead of where it should have been, flushed from the heat of washing, stupid grin on his face as if he hardly expected another soul to be awake. Green eyes widened at the Hoxian when he met the shorter student's dark gaze.
There was an awkward silence, two young men both caught unawares and unguarded. It was the other student who sputtered almost too loudly instead of the still-composed Ezre,
"Oh, clocking hell. I'm sorry—I—uh—woah—it's a little late for painting, Ez." The older young man seemed to make the assumption that the stains that were spreading into the pale cotton of Ezre's shirt was something other than blood, thank the Circle. To be more cautious, he tucked his injured hand behind his back before answering quietly,
"Creativity rarely happens when we wish it." Keeping his eyes on Cecyl's face in the obviously unnecessary conversation, he bobbed his head and moved to slip past his fellow student into the bathroom instead, "I have finished now, however."
"You'll have to show me your painting sometime."
"ZjaiYes."
Closing the door to the shared bathroom behind him, Ezre took in the damages with displeasure. This wouldn't do. Rinsing the bowl thoroughly, he decided it was simply something he'd have to take care of himself. There was no need to raise alarm among those who did laundry, passives entirely unnecessary for this simple task, though he would need to find his way to the laundries. He'd been there before, comfortable with the odd looks often given to the young galdor who knew how to rinse his own clothes. It wasn't as though he had anything better to do, given it was winter break and he wasn't yet tired. Perhaps he should knock on Oliver's door on the way down—no. His opinion on the younger student's irresponsibilities would not have mattered.
Stubborn Anaxi could benefit from being more self sufficient, he'd decided, but they had no interest in changing.
Returning to his dorm and removing his shirt to change into another, he paused to check on his hand and wrap it in a bandage from his desk, aware that any washing he was about to do would sting the two parallel lines he'd gauged into his own palm for the sake of furthering his studies. Folding up his stained shirt and putting on a few extra layers, Ezre glanced out his window at the thick blanket of white with the hint of a nostalgic sort of smile. He could pretend for the short walk from the upperclassman dormitories to the laundries near the Passive Ward pretend he was home in the frozen north.
Outside was far below freezing, but the Hoxian was no stranger to frigid temperatures. He cut a small, lone figure this late in the night, leaving deep impressions in the several inches of snow as he trudged through it, humming an old, familiar worship tune while flakes melted in his dark hair and kissed his cheeks.
It wasn't as though the rooms for washing clothes were forbidden to faculty, staff, or students. It was simply that very few felt compelled to do the work themselves.
Ezre was one of those few.
Watching the last of his breath dissolve like some spirit into the dark, he checked the doors—they were open, of course, passive shifts rotating all thirty hours of the Vitan day—and wordlessly stepped inside. Quietly requesting Bash's favor to find the laundries empty and between scheduled work times, the Hoxian was relieved to be greeted by relative silence, the foyer almost steamy hot from the kind of industrial-level busy Brunnhold's population kept the wash stations.
Bloodied shirt folded neatly against his narrow chest, Ezre made his way through the hall with purpose, as if he belonged there all along.