In the Clouds
Late Afternoon on the 14th of Vortas, 2719
Ezre heard her confusion, vaguely aware of the jarring difference between spoken words and the words he'd just been hearing purely in his head. She was not a Clairvoyant sorcerer and the after-effects of overtaxing oneself could be rather frightening or disturbing if one wasn't so used to the sight of blood as the ninth form mortuary sciences student had become. He could only glance at her as he slipped from the door with some helpless look, but then he was gone, staggering down the hall like just some student in the Stacks on St Grumbles, struggling to contain what little he'd eaten all day in the whirlwind of preparations to leave.
He was still dripping—face wet, barely managing to spit out a mouthful of almost too metallic to be palatable water he'd rinsed with while the tap ran—when he swiftly exited the cramped lavatory, dark eyes narrowing in barely-contained offense when the older woman chided him. The Hoxian hardly had it in him to answer the other galdor, still not sure how he was standing considering how dizzy he was and disconnected he felt from his own body, thoughts still coalescing from their monic journey across the Anaxi landscape toward Vienda far faster than their beast of an airship chugged and bumped along.
His eyes widened for a moment, however, as Lilanee spoke up on his behalf, just as her arms reached to support him. Her aura flared brightly, a flash of bold color and strong, protective emotion, and Ezre winced, closing his eyes for a few fluttering heartbeats as she spoke of the obvious distinction made in who could use which small restroom while her hands wandered in concern over his body. Glancing at the Hessean, the dark-haired student made an impatient noise, tongue against the back of his teeth briefly. There was a hint of defiance that crept into his words, a sharp edge that wavered with his nausea,
"Would it have been better for me to empty my stomach on the floor here in the hall? Why does it matter for which socially-defined gender one room was made for when neither apply to me? I am not male just because I dress as Anaxi expect a male to dress or answer to the naming conventions Anaxi have designated for my anatomy. I am not female, either. I gave up those identities. It was my sacrifice—I mean—I just needed somewhere—I did not want to throw up all over the airship. Dru, I did not fall. I reached too far magically, but I succeeded, none the less." His free hand shook as he brought the towel back to his face, wiping water that was still dribbling down his delicate features, and his other hand gripped the redheaded young woman's uniform coat very tightly, needing her to counterbalance his movements.
There was a bit of triumph in his tone. He had done what he set out to do, after all, and his brain had not entirely melted out of his ears even if it had felt like it would.
The pair made it back to the cabin and he melted into the seat, pausing to undo the buttons of his itchy, uncomfortable, bloodied green coat and slip it off. He finished wiping his face, his ears, his neck, and did not answer any of her scrying questions right away, staring at the smears on the small towel as if they held some sense of direction. He'd pushed so far! He shouldn't have, but also—
"It was only a few minutes. Maybe less. I am not sure. Thoughts move so fast, vre'ia—why?"
The Guide leaned his head back, eyelids heavy, very aware of the shift in the Hessean's body language as she stood before him, arms crossed over her chest, concern draining away into something more frustrated. A frown. He couldn't help it; he closed his eyes for just a heartbeat or two while she spoke of her own culture's spiritual viewpoints—or lack thereof—and the room spun with him in the outer edges of it, spinning while his heart still raced. He exhaled slowly, fingers reaching up to the buttons of the no less scratchy, slightly thinner, terribly uncomfortable pale green shirt of the Brunnhold standard uniform, loosening the collar, freeing himself from the fabric all the way down to the inked lines on his chest.
She was still talking.
"Lilanee, I—" His eyes fluttered open, "Silly? Dru—Now is not the time to discuss the gods and—wait—"
"Do you—" —really think I think so little of you?
He couldn't get a word in, for Lilanee kept going. Instead, Ezre's jaw clenched and he sat up, immediately regretting the motion as his small, inked world spun again on its axis. He listened, expression unreadable until his eyebrows drew together in frustration. His stomach churned and he gurgled, reaching to dry heave into the bloodied towel, wishing he had water to rinse the disgusting sour that lingered at the back of his throat.
The Hessean's words kept coming, washing over him like an unrelenting tide, until finally—finally—she slowed. He heard them all, he did, for the Hoxian was a far better, far more attentive listener, than even his quiet self appeared to be. He sifted through all she'd said, though it was difficult to follow along with her emotional side trails about her mother, about a word she didn't know, about him scrying without waking her as if she was still worried he didn't include her on purpose like when he'd returned home to Hox in Roalis.
He didn't miss her last sentence, a flush of color already staining his cheeks from her all but shouting at him, but those last words—
Ezre sighed.
Carefully, cautiously, the Guide met her pale, bright gaze. He set the towel over one knee and sat up, just a little, to reach with a tired, heavy-feeling hand toward her sleeve. Slowly he convinced her to uncross her arms if she'd let him, taking her hand to place it over the left side of his chest, palm against tattooed skin,
"Vre." He answered her most important question first, the vr-sound almost like a soft exhale, closer to an hr- in Estuan only with his teeth against his lower lip, "Do you think me so shallow, Lilanee, that I would view you as silly? Do you think so little of me that I would walk away from supporting you? Dru, listen. Vre. Vre is Deftung for heart—"
Ezre pressed her hand firmly so she couldn't deny the sensation of his still-rapid, still ridiculously off-kilter thrum of life, breathing the onomatopoeic syllables for the sound as if in emphasis:
"—vre-dun-vre-dun-vre-dun. Do you feel it?"
Releasing her hand, allowing her to leave it where she wished or pull it away, inked fingers brushed along the side of the redheaded young woman's face, tucking stray curls away behind her ear to gently trail a thumb over her cheek,
"Vre'ia," he offered, the vr-sound taking on a much more recognizable v-emphasis when paired with the diminutive 'ia, "literally means little heart. Or a piece of. It is a term of—affection—er—endearment that I do not use lightly. With you."
Leaning back again, Ezre did his best not to slump over entirely, not to curl up and take over the whole seat, bringing his hands up to cover his face for several slow breaths. He spoke against scarred palms, between his fingers, not hiding so much as protecting himself from all the stimulus that still threatened to overwhelm him after stretching himself so thin with that Clairvoyant connection,
"I reached out to Tom Cooke. I did not find the conversation with Everus Alinet forthcoming enough with her assistance on finding religious support in Vienda for this funerary endeavor. The Incumbent has better references. Also, how do I know I will be welcomed into your home? What if I need somewhere to stay? I was—I needed to—I did not want to wake you. You seemed sad. Upset. Rest seemed good for you. I also wanted to practice. I wanted to really see what I was capable of, to test my boundaries—"
Hands slid away, downward over a haggard face, coming to rest on his knees, curling fingers into the thick, green fabric with only a hint of disdain flickering into his expression at how uncomfortable they really were,
"—so that when we are in Vienda in your father's house, with your father's things, I can try to search for him. For you. I know now it is possible, but I will need a second caster. Someone to interpret while I attempt to be the conduit for connection. It will be much further than the distance from Brunnhold to the capitol, but I believe myself capable. Clairvoyant overstepping tends to affect the sinuses, blood flow, equilibrium, and a sense of connectivity to one's body. It will pass, even if it is perhaps intimidating in appearances. I am sorry to have worried you."
He looked away then, eyes stinging with all the emotion he'd admitted to, all the emotions he'd felt along that brilliantly blazing conversation with the raen flooding back into his mind with overwhelming force. Ezre breathed a ragged, deep breath, "I am nervous. About meeting your mother. About being who—what—I am as Hexxos, as cxîl. My umah said it is good that one Guide has left Kzecka after so many centuries hiding in the shadow cast by Vroh Guar, but that does not make the duties I feel called to any easier. If your father is not dead, I want to prove this truth also. I do not feel adequate, but I want to be present for you and your needs."
The dark-haired Hoxian frowned, remembering all the self-doubt he kept hidden, all the self-doubt he'd let Tom see in their shared mental space because he was too inexperienced to maintain his own inner composure, letting the worry sink in and gnaw away at what little rhakor he had at this moment anyway, "I am afraid that even though you have seen all of me, you do not yet see me for who I am."