[Closed] Distance is Relative

[Tom Cooke]

The Kuleda Household • Uptown

Evening on the 17th of Vortas, 2719

A
nhau. Anhau, not by Fennecky – Florne – stone gates…

He was struggling more and more to hold onto the words; he couldn’t think, much less speak. The air was all full of gargling and splashing, Ezre slipping his grip, fingers fumbling and digging hard enough to bruise. He felt Lilanee move in beside him, and another pair of arms plunged into the water, and together they pulled Ezre from the tub.

He only half-heard Alethia’s shriek. Ezre was hurling a mess of nicum and Circle knew what else onto the tile. “Fuck,” snarled Tom, trying to ease him out of the tub gentle-like as he could; but the Hexx was sliding out onto the floor in his own time, sprawling and gagging.

He breathed in a lungful of the sharp-sweet acid smell and swallowed down the tingling in his own jaw, the whirl of his own stomach. Ezre was coughing and hacking.

Then he was grinning to his blue-stained gums.

Tom had let go of him. Lil’d gone to get a towel; he couldn’t seem to do ought but kneel, all the muscles of his back and arms screaming, his hands frozen trembling in the air. He stared down at the Hexx’s tattooed face, his own blank. Then his lips twitched and peeled back from his teeth. “Fuck you,” he breathed, “fuck you.”

His head was whirling. He’d thought he’d lost his grip on them, but the words were still streaming and trickling through. They weren’t far from his lips. He had to remind himself to breathe. Lying on his back, Ezre gave another convulsion.

“Help me roll him over,” he breathed, “for godssakes...” His voice was quiet underneath the pounding of his ears; he’d the sense he’d only whispered.

Alethia was saying something, distant, and Lilanee had turned away to shout back. He found Ezre’s shoulders with shaking hands, but the Hexx was already shifting himself to retch more blue-tinged mess on the floor.

One of his knees was half-braced on the tile, and he was crouched beside Ezre, rubbing his inked back with a hand. His eyes flicked round, at the slurry, smeared chalk on the floor and the water streaming in the cracks between the tiles. Lilanee and her mum were still flinging bile at each other.

Leave!

The quiet was strange, after so much noise. The words were louder in his head; as was the thrum of his heart. He jerked to look at Lilanee when she crouched beside them, drawing in sharp breaths through his nose.

He blinked, shook his head. “I’m –” He broke off. No, he wanted to say; do I flooding look all right? He shut his eyes as the other question came.

The strain rippled through his field, through all their mingling and merging mona, a red shift less like anger and more like the frantic coppery tang of blood in your mouth. If he still felt the ache of her missing, of the feeling named opaji, he was mired in shock and remembrance; he was fighting to keep his breath.

“Lilanee, for godssakes, we all saw him,” he breathed through his teeth. “I’m – epaemo. He’s in no condition to answer questions. We need to bring him someplace safe, someplace – godsdamn, but we can’t call a doctor. Can you help me get him to his feet? Can you help me get him to my carriage? Wait –”

He cursed again, then cast about. His bag lay open nearby, propped up against the end of the tub where he’d left it. He hesitated only a moment before leaving Ezre’s side to fumble through it, pulling out his case with his chalks and charcoal.

He’d no paper and the charcoal was slippery in his hand. Still, inside one forearm, against the pale, sparse-freckled skin, he began writing in a shaky script.

FLORNE – go north – cross river –
stone gates – NOT from fennecky
ANHAU

He near dropped the charcoal. Snapping his case shut and shoving it back into the bag, he began to scramble to his feet, pushing himself up on the edge of the tub. “We need to get him out,” he breathed.

[Ezre Vks]

cold tile. vienda, again.

the 17th of Vortas, 2719 | late evening

By Naulas, what noise! Everything was so loud. Everything was suddenly very cold. He was sure he could still hear thoughts, the lights in the room leaving trails, but Alethia's voice could shatter the dark stone bones of Bash himself, of this Ezre was convinced. It wasn't his choice, expelling liquid from the inside his body cavity where it didn't belong, but he wanted to breathe, all be it brokenly. Even Lilanee was so loud, shouting at him—the resemblance was uncanny now, and maybe that realization would have stung had the Hoxian at all been capable of weaving two or three thoughts together into a firm cord to grasp.

Tom cursed at him and he giggled when he rolled over again, wincing at all the noise going on around him. Two stained, trembling fingers attempted to shush the raen, and when he missed the other man's lips, he simply let his clammy, unsteady hand pat the not-galdor's face, "Never in your life—did you imagine—me neither—"

He trailed off, hushed by all the shouting. As it was, there was simply so much overwhelm when reality cracked open his consciousness, when being wholly present again crushed his tired body, and that rattled about through his skull like too much bathwater for him to at all feel or act coherently. The only thing he finally got a grip on, there on the tile—shivering, gurgling—was joy.

Excitement. Accomplishment. Triumph.

But that—even that candle was snuffed out as quickly as it was lit and Ezre hissed, grinding out consonants in bloodied, blue-stained Deftung that dribbled over his chin like lava instead of bile. The slippery, lithe thing shifted and writhed beneath Tom's hand, attempting to steady his palms on the wet tile. He made it to his hands and knees, shoving away the towel, face twisting with the effort. His voice was quiet, hardly above a wheeze, really, but his joy ignited into a rush of vehemence while women fought,

"Ungrateful heathens—"

The Circle had everything to do with it, Ezre would have sobbed in gratitude, but he just panted instead, having done far too much, too soon, to finish his entire angry thought. He couldn't focus his dark eyes on the present, here in the too-fancy Kuleda bathroom in Vienda, and it still felt as though some part of him was being dragged through the mist, all those miles and miles away. The rest of his words, lost in the swift flow of his mind, were just a groan, and the dark-haired Guide used the side of the tub to lean against, attempting to slump a little without falling over, only to be assaulted by more noise.

Everything was a flare of anger and he was too sensitive, too receptive, still in this moment for it all.

Lilanee leaned closer, then, and he was unable to separate their fields, let alone her presence, here still so close to both the redhead and the raen. She wasn't reaching to comfort him. She wasn't grinning as he'd been. She didn't want to share in his triumph. He blinked, scrunching up his face in confusion and hurt, expression wiped from his face as blood and chan had been with the towel.

Did he see him? Of course he did—Who didn't? He was alive, her father—did she not—

Opaji. The word stuck against the back of his teeth and he just made some noise, unsure if he was aching from the overextension of his magical self or if his whole body stung from the rebuke and disbelief. It took him several seconds to process, to form words that made sense in the short journey from his waterlogged synapses to his mouth,

"You are welcome."

Ezre drew out the Estuan in emphasis of how deeply the Clairvoyant crash back here to Vienda had hurt him, blood still pooling on the delicate curve of his upper lip while tears stung his dark, dilated eyes. Tom was talking, but he didn't entirely bother hearing the words. He might as well have been dunked back into the tub, drowning all over again, far too tangled in feelings and thoughts from their journey and still too high for any of this sort of unexpected reception now that he was back here on the ground where they'd wanted him, safe and sound.

No one else was happy. Why weren't they happy?

"I will be alright. I cannot—I do not want to—I am not wanted here, even after all I have given."

No one wanted to rejoice with him!

"You have a father whose face we have seen, whose voice we have heard. Your mother has a husband she does not even have to pretend to bury. There is a living, breathing body to be found and restored. I have done my duty and you all seem to still want a funeral. What did I do wrong?"

It was as if Jonathan Emmett was dead.

"I will leave, but not yet. I can—I should—ugh—fetch my things for me. Pack my things. I will leave. I need—Clothes. Towels. I will—I will clean my own mess first. All of it."

The Hoxian choked out a few sentences, frowning deeply, disoriented and unsure as to exactly how steadily he could stand. He fought the urge to sob, crushed by the weight of his own excitement. Tom was angry. Lilanee didn't seem content. Alethia found no comfort. Had he succeeded at all? He didn't understand.

Ungrateful.

Heathens.

"Do not stand there and gawk at me. Do not act like suddenly I need pity—I have—I have accomplished—tch, never mind. Did you not see—why are you all so angry? I live. I had you to help me. Both of you. Such trust I placed—it was not returned in kind." Ezre gurgled, dry heaved, and made his way to his feet all in the same terrifying span of a handful of heartbeats. Using the edge of the tub, he stood, weak, sinuses screaming, head swimming, and so, so tired. He stared down into the tub, stained blue like he was, watching the last of the nicium-laced liquid swirl down the drain. He leaned heavily, white-knuckled, body trembling, unable to hide anything without the strength to bother with his rhakor.

"I will not leave this room looking as poorly as I have been treated since my arrival." Distraught, he thought to reach for the tap again and run clean water, digging the scarred palm of his hand over his wet cheek before tattooed fingers wiped under his nose. In Hox, admitting one was wrong was a sign of shame, and while the Hexxos Guide had lived in Anaxas long enough to understand some of the cultural difference, there was still some difficulty in saying words he didn't know he actually meant out loud,

"I am sorry for the mess. I am sorry—I just wanted—"

[Lilanee Kuleda]

17th Vortas, 2719
KULEDA BATHROOM| LATE EVENING

"Ungrateful heathens—"

The Deftung was clear as day to the Hessean. She’d spent seasons with Ezre, listening to the snippets of their home language, talking about so many various things. Words had fallen into conversation with ease, enough for Lilanee to understand certain things.

Heathens. She definitely knew that one.

Thank Ophur her mother did not. After snapping at her to leave, after standing by the raven haired student in defiance of her loathing of their race…

Heathen.

"You are welcome."

Periwinkle blue eyes blinked, and a swelling feeling pooled in her chest, toweling tawny skin with a small frown. She could still hear those strange screams in the mist, hungry and hissing in the fog. Goosebumps raised on her freckled skin and she shook her head.

“Ezre I’m not ungrateful, it’s—”

“Lilanee, for godssakes, we all saw him,”

Tom’s voice was sharp, another guilty stone weighing down on her chest. She’d not even said thank you, and she’d been so focused on finding her father that she’d let Ezre risk their life. And Tom had been dragged into this. The teenager opened her mouth, closed it, took another breath and nodded.

We all saw him.

They’d all seen Jonathan Emmett.

“Uh—y—yes of course. Of course. I’ve got a…I have the towel.” She stammered uselessly, trying to bring it around the shoulders of the shivering blue tinted Hoxian.

“You had us worried Ezre. Tom and I, in…in there.” The russet bruentte emphasized the word, rubbing blue into the fluffy fabric and moving with the raen to try and help the confused Hexxos off the floor. She had to stay logical, and focused, and not at all take anything to heart. Things had happened, crazy insane amazing things that the auburn creature needed to process. Things she desperately wanted to say, to discuss, to take a moment.

But it was clear that right now was not the time.

“Let us get you somewhere safe, get you some tea. Proper tea, not chan. Away from—what no you don’t need to clean up. We are better to leave, so you can rest. Here, take—”

Such trust I placed—it was not returned in kind."

Lilanee bit her tongue, letting the insulted Hoxian’s words wash over her, refusing to take offence. Refusing to admit the hurt that burned in her chest. It wasn’t meant, not really. They were just disorientated. They would be able to talk properly when xi wasn’t a blue stained mess on the bathroom floor. Her eyes flicked to Tom, the words carved onto his skin with charcoal.

FLORNE – go north – cross river –
stone gates – NOT from fennecky
ANHAU

Anhau? Had that been what Jonathan was saying? No…that wasn’t…

"I will not leave this room looking as poorly as I have been treated since my arrival."

A shuddering inhale, fingers shaking with the pent up emotions that were swirling in her field, Lilanee moved to stop the cxil from moving to the tap. She grabbed for the discarded clothing, tucking it under her arm and guiding them away gently.

“N-no. No we’re leaving. It will be better if we go—to Tom’s?” It wasn’t a statement, but a question, the nineteen year old trying her very best to be the adult she nearly was. There was so much going on, words and hurtful things and flaring fields and angry voices.

And her father was alive.

Somewhere in Western Anaxas.

Somewhere north of Florne.

"I am sorry for the mess. I am sorry—I just wanted—”

The older passive appeared at the doorway, silent and prompt with mop and bucket. He nodded to the trio, if judging them it didn’t show. Lilanee grabbed another towel and pulled it over the first, aware of the freezing outside temperatures and the need to keep the tattooed Hexxos warm whilst they made their way out to the not-galdor’s carriage. If Ezre would be guided, the russet brunette would work with Tom to get them out and down the staircase.

“You don’t need to say—” Lilanee felt the tears stinging her eyes, the words sticking in her throat. Hoxian’s didn’t apologize by nature. It would be dishonorable to brush it off. But it wasn’t needed.

What was the right etiquette? She couldn’t think. This was the days prior all over again, and the young woman had no idea how to navigate.

She just wanted to clocking think.

“I’ll send for our things. I’m coming with you.” The russet haired Hessean said to the raen, her dress smattered with blue blotches from the floor and the Hexxos and the bath. As they passed through the sitting room, Alethia stood by the fire watching them pass, her field ramscott with threatening fluxes of red shift. Her lips were pressed tightly shut and not a word escaped her as they passed. Her back was the last thing they would see as they left the home.

[Tom Cooke]

The Kuleda Household • Uptown

Evening on the 17th of Vortas, 2719

T
here was a smear of wet on one cheek where Ezre had touched it, and his fingertips were covered in charcoal. He nearly slipped as he got to his feet, scrabbling at the porcelain rim. He’d thought he’d pushed down the pounding of his heart, but the blood seemed to surge in his ears; he could hear every third word, every third phrase, of Ezre’s.

What did I do wrong?

The candles were burning so low as to be close to nothing, dripping wax on the tile, and the circle was a mess. He nodded absently as Lilanee went to get the towel; a feeling of shame was draining into him – he’d barely felt the weight of his snap ‘til it’d left his lips – he looked at her only a moment, still crouched by Ezre, wrapping a towel round his slippery blue-streaked shoulders.

“Thank you,” he managed, ragged. He shoved the case roughly back into his bag; he must’ve dropped the charcoal on the tile, but he couldn’t strain his eyes to find it in the gloaming.

Worried. To say the fucking least. He buckled his bag, slung it round his shoulder, ignoring the dizzy ache in his head. He was still biting back a well of hot, messy tears. Ezre was wasted-rambling about cleaning up the floor, of all clocking things, and Lil was guiding him gentle-like away from the tub full of water and laoso nicum, stumbling over her words.

He couldn’t sort through what he felt, but he was there, then, looping the other of Ezre’s arms round his shoulders and nodding. “Here,” he murmured. He couldn’t manage a smile for the lass, but he nodded again. “To Tom’s. We’ll get tea for the both of you, and all of us cleaned up.” His breath still clawed in his chest, and his cheeks were flushed. There was a guilty, if not apologetic, waver to his voice.

His field was only just settling from etheric, mingling and bleeding into the others’. They’d strained so hard, it was a wonder they hadn’t backlashed; what he’d done had been near enough to brailing to test all their Evers.

If the scrap with the mop was looking at them funny, he didn’t give a damn; the only thing as gave him pause was the stairs, and he cursed under his breath and shifted the weight of the Hexx on his aching, shaking shoulders and hip and knees. As they started down, step by step, one of Tom’s hands white-knuckled on the banister, he heard Lilanee say, You don’t need to say…

Sorry? He looked over at the Hexx, taking a deep breath to bite down more snarling. The air was still sour with the tang of vomit. Ezre’s hair was a tangle of black over his face.

“He’s just – he’s plastered,” he muttered through another lump in his throat, closer and closer to the bottom of the stairs, “he doesn’t know what he’s saying, Lil.” He’d meant for it to come out reassuring; if anything, he thought it sounded worse. He thought of Ezre’s inked hands, bone-white, trembling and reaching for the tap.

He couldn’t think how they must’ve looked, passing through the sitting room. He had eyes only for the carpet, only for his feet that shook to share Ezre’s weight with Lilanee. There was blue stuck to his waistcoat, blue on his hands, blue drenching the hems of his trousers. Limned by the hearth, he saw Lilanee’s ma in the corner of his eye; he felt the distant heat of redshift; he didn’t spare her a glance. The only thing he looked at before they left the Kuleda house was the statue of Jonathan Emmett, and even it he could not bear to look at for long.

“Here,” he’d muttered by the door; drying off Ezre a little more, he’d wrapped Anatole’s coat round the lad’s shoulders, struggled to get his arms through the sleeves. With a faint, strained smile for Lilanee, he wrapped the towels back round the Hexx, one for his neck and ears like a scarf.

It wasn’t far to the coach. Once they got Ezre settled in a corner, protesting or rambling or otherwise, he called to the coachman and the wheels rattled into motion. The weight off his back set all his muscles to twitching; he sank against the cushions as if he’d been rendered boneless.

“I should’ve thought to ask for a basket. He’ll probably hurl his guts up again. Probably for the best, if he’s – if it was...” His heart no longer ached so much in his chest. He’ll live, he kept thinking, he’ll live, he’ll live – his pulse said so, over and over. He won’t die like that, not like you. He won’t die like that.

His brow furrowed, he looked at Lilanee, face half in shadow, lit only by passing streetlamps flickering through the curtains.

“Thank you,” he repeated. “You did – you did fair good.” The smile twitched at his lips; he was unable to hold it. “If you wait with him in the coach when we get there, I’ll run in and have Douglas and the lads help us get him to the parlor, and I’ll ask Mrs. Wheelwright to fetch tea prompt-like. Don’t – don’t worry. If anything happens, we’ll call a doctor.”

That lump again. “Are you all right, lass?” He swallowed, then – instinctively; he wasn’t golly enough, he supposed, not by half – reached for her hand.

[Ezre Vks]

cold tile. vienda, again.

the 17th of Vortas, 2719 | late evening

Without the capacity for an emotional filter, Ezre was an addled, chan-wasted mess. He was still intoxicated and strung out by magical travel, stretched thin and weird, wildly unsure as to whether what he was perceiving was entirely the truth and whether or not anyone meant anything they said despite how they'd just been sharing consciousnesses. Maybe he'd felt too close and now felt too far away, maybe that vaccuum left in the curling of spellwork and the dragging of his mind back into the confines of his body had simply tipped him over an edge he didn't know he had. Magical exhaustion was a horrible beast and yet the ninth form divinipotent forgot how bad it was every single time.

"—you are!" He growled accusingly into the towel, feeling so very unappreciated in this moment, feeling so very miserable as voices spoke around him, through him, but not really to him. Everyone was ungrateful! Tom was quiet, attempting to be calm, but Lilanee's face still wasn't happy and it was soul-crushing. Did she forget he did this for her?

He sure as Bash's blood was hot didn't risk that life she was worried about for her godsbedamned mother. Maybe their relation was a lie. Maybe he'd made a mistake—

Towels were shoved in his direction, enveloping him in fluffy warmth and wrapping his dripping, bleeding self that refused to stop shivering. Focused, lucid for a heartbeat or two, all the temple-raised Hoxian could see was his own mess. Dark eyes took in the floor, his senses assaulted by the acrid contents of his own stomach, nose still burning from too much nicium-laced water. Their spell circle was smudged and broken. The expensive tile was smeared with red and blue.

Leaving—

Her hands were tugging him from the tap and he was too weak to protest physically, melting at the slightest touch and unable to resist being half-dragged, half-led away. Maybe it was just her hands, though, even if memories of the night before were as far from his mind as he was out of it,

"Dru, it is my responsibility. Please—oh—" He wheezed, planting his heels in the threshold, staring at the passive waiting patiently just a step inside the door. The absence of the older man's field poured into his personal space, and the young Guide couldn't not feel it. He inhaled sharply, gagging, shaking his head and looking at Tom instead, hoping he'd listen since Lilanee seemed to refuse, "He cannot—it is sacred—passives are not supposed to—you cannot be serious—"

Irreverent Anaxi! He despised this Kingdom. Right now? Had he always? He wasn't sure. It was a horrible place, but from the sounds of things, honestly, Hesse was worse.

Irreligious Hesseans! He didn't say those words but they bubbled in his chest, causing him to whine when the raen stepped closer. He slumped into the arms and smeared blood over the shoulder that moved to support the unstable Hoxian, flopping into a manageable position and patting the older not-galdor's lapel with a chagrined, aching gentleness despite the anger and confusion that traveled with electric tingles through chan-laced veins. He winced when he heard the tangled words of them both: promising him tea, promising him somewhere better to rest.

No one was excited! What did he risk his life for, again? Had they forgotten? He huffed, looking back, muttering his wounded apologies, emotions swinging so painfully low from the rush of victory he'd literally just felt. He was quite shattered by the time he realized he'd been dragged to the stairs.

Oh! The stairs were so long. So far. Upon looking down them to squint at the first floor below, the hallway spun and Ezre groaned, that hot, crawling feeling of nausea clawing not just at his stomach but also at his waterlogged lungs. He threw up again, somewhere halfway down—more blue, mostly empty, somehow barely present enough to turn himself away from Tom, to stop in such a way that didn't send them both spilling down the stairs in a tangle of limbs, gripping the raen's coat with trembling inked fingers desperately tight.

"I meant every word, vre'ia." Ezre gurgled, scowling before he wiped his face with the tattooed back of his hand. Betrayed and broken by the ones he thought would most understand, by the ones he'd believed would be ecstatic and happy, there was an unmistakably apologetic look melting into his blue-dyed lips.

He'd been willing—

"I knew. I thought I was very clear. I am so sorry—" The dark-haired mess of a nineteen-year-old murmured, unaware that should he remember any of this with clarity, he'd probably not even know how to deal with the shame of his own plain-faced emotions. He had no control over the honesty in his expressions, delicate features a feral animal all their own, tone of voice brutal and unfiltered by the well-honed calm he was otherwise known for. He dragged his words over stomach acid, over the metallic tang still draining from his sinuses into his throat, and they were flavored by the bitterness of nicium.

The bottom of the stairs required a moment and the wiry creature shot out an arm to grip for the wall and let another wave of nausea pass.

The sitting room—here—here he drew a line.

He balked like a frightened kenser, Alethia's field a fiery hot brand, an open maw of a volcano, ready to swallow him whole. He dragged his heels again, staggering and resisting despite the enduring persistence of both Tom and Lilanee. He glared at her back, stumbling and frowning, muttering a few very pointed phrases in Deftung with slurred meanings, much of it revolving around the disgrace it was to attempt to mourn the living, the dishonor of her unbelief, and perhaps something about allowing passives to do galdori work, but it was difficult to understand, especially when Ezre hiccuped and dribbled a sticky mess of spittle and blue, a little trail of red, right there near one of the chairs.

He groaned and blinked and was suddenly on the way out the door, the chill of Vortas cutting through his lack of proper clothing, through moist makeshift layers, and digging beneath tawny, inked skin that would have otherwise been used to the cold. The Hoxian's expression twisted in discomfort, eyes wide and wild by the time he'd been led through the garden and toward the not-Incumbent's carriage.

This time, at the sight of his way out, the young Guide didn't balk like he had hesitated drifting somewhere across Anaxas, didn't protest like he had when leaving sacred work to the mundane in the bathroom upstairs. This time, he just sighed and clumsily clambered in. He was beyond exhausted and the outdoors stole what breath he'd managed to catch, draining him further. Shaking, he was instead crying—whimpering, sobbing, mumbling—as he curled up onto one of the seats, taking the whole side over unless someone else—anyone else—offered to sit with him, gurgling and burying his face into the towel that had been draped over his neck.

Briefly panicking when the whole thing started into motion with a yelp, Ezre closed his eyes, gripped the cushions, and attempted to find his composure somewhere.

He might have lost it forever in the mist. Or drowned it with his own two inked hands in the bath.

[Lilanee Kuleda]

17th Vortas, 2719
KULEDA BATHROOM| LATE EVENING

“He’s just – he’s plastered,” he muttered through another lump in his throat, closer and closer to the bottom of the stairs, “he doesn’t know what he’s saying, Lil.”

The russet haired Hessean nodded as they walked, trying hard to blink back the blurring that the tears stinging her eyes wanted to bring on. Ezre paused, to upheave more blue and bile there on the stairs. Lilanee was very certain that the cream colored runner would most definitely need to be replaced after this. A few more steps, and the Hoxian growled in reply.

"I meant every word, vre'ia."

Her lower lip trembled, and her heart felt like it broke in her chest, but the young woman bit the inside of her cheeks firmly and continued to help guide the raven haired Hexxos down to the floor. Ezre’s arm shot out, either in a feeble attempt to stop them there, or for support—before promptly leaving a steaming mess on the floor beside one of the chairs. Alethia glared, tight lipped and livid, her dark gaze pinpointing her daughter. Lilanee couldn’t bring herself to linger, they needed to leave, regardless of the cxil’s need to pause. They could pause in the clocking carriage.

They’d made it to the door, and the older not-galdor moved to clean up the Hoxian a little more before throwing his own coat around the youngers shoulders. Over Ezre’s shoulder, Tom smiled at her, and the teenager did try to respond in kind. It was hard though, and she couldn’t stop the wetness that was brimming behind thick lashes. Ahh, just a bit further. Keep it together, for Ezre, she silently repeated over and over as they finally made it to the carriage.

The Hoxian poured into the vehicle like some sort of beaten animal, claiming one side of the seating arrangement with a mess of tearful sounds and incoherent words. The Hessean sat beside Tom for a moment, pressing her hands into the folds of her skirt, squeezing her knees tightly and exhaling slowly. She looked at Ezre, and shook her head.

“We should have just taken the umbrella stand.” The girl exhaled, startled by the Hexxos’ shock when the carriage moved. Shifting, she moved to perch on the edge of his claimed chair, blue eyes brimming with concern and haggard with exhaustion and something like shock.

”Thank you.”

The words caught her offguard, and Lilanee turned to look at Tom with surprise. Her glasses were still somewhere on the floor, back in the bathroom, probably under that clocking bathtub. It didn’t matter right now though. There were no texts to be read, and close proximity to the others she was able to see somewhat alright.

“I—I didn’t do anything. You were the one who—” Nodding at the raen’s instructions, reaching gently towards the cxil’s shoulder.

“Tea is good.” The russet brunette said quietly, her brow slightly furrowed as she tried to gather her thoughts. Ezre needed help, but she didn’t know how to help. Did she hug them, with Tom there? Would that just upset them even more?

Ungrateful heathen. You are!

Her fingers curled against her palm, lowering to rub firmly at her chest, shoulders drawn and eyes turning away to the floor. They were so different, Hoxian and Hessean. Anaxi and Hoxian. Hessean and Anaxi. Lilanee hadn’t ever felt as though she fit in Anaxas, too loud and too talkative and too logical. But at least the insults that the other students in Brunnhold threw at her were shallow annoyances at best. Gnats on a summer evening. At least, in some way, you could fit into Anaxas even if it wasn’t perfectly.

Ezre’s insults though—

“Are you all right, lass?”

A hand, cool and soft with the skin of a man aged beyond his normal time, rested on hers. Lilanee looked at it as the vehicle bounced along the cobbled Viendan street. She lifted her periwinkle gaze to the window, taking a breath to speak, and holding it. Closing her eyes, making a sound in the back of her throat, Lilanee curled her fingers around his own and exhaled sharply. She inhaled again and nodded.

“My father is alive. He’s hurt, and he’s…he’s trapped? Stuck? I don’t understand but he is alive, and I am…” The ninth form laughed briefly, a short sharp sound, before shaking her head.

“…I want to be happy but that was really clocking frightening. I thought we’d…I thought…” Offering the ghost of a smile to the raen, the young woman took another deep breath and lay a soft hand on the Hoxian’s arm, glancing at the cxil and extending her field like a weighted blanket. It was hard to mute the colorshifts that belayed her hurt and bubbling excitement, but she tried.

“Ezre?” Lilanee said softly, afraid of the Hexxos’ mental state, unsure exactly how to navigate this unknown and unstable person. She traced a strand of muted blue hair behind an ear, touching on the curiously emphasized tattoos that encircled their neck.

It was worth it, that is what she needed to tell herself.

Would Jonathan have deemed his life worth it?

She didn't care. It didn't matter what he deemed. Ezre Vks may have saved his life, and it was worth it.

[Tom Cooke]

The Kuleda Household • Uptown

Evening on the 17th of Vortas, 2719

L
ilanee’s fingers curled round his. Reflexively, he squeezed.

Deep breaths. In, out; in, out. He counted the seconds, remembering, and smoothed his field indectal as it mingled with Lilanee’s. He let it wash back and forth with each inhale and exhale. Ezre jibbered and wept, inked hand white-knuckled on the cushion. He’d seen the look cross Lilanee’s face when the Hexx had called her ungrateful; he had to put it out of his mind, all of it, to keep his breath steady. He shut his eyes and listened, instead, as she spoke.

“He is alive,” he said, opening his eyes. The streets were rattling by outside, noise spilling now and then out of warm, lamplit Uptown bars, other passing coaches. It wasn’t far to Bellington, he thought. “We’re all alive,” he said, “and we’re going to stay that way. Nothing else to worry about, right now.”

He made the mistake of looking, this time, as Lilanee reached to tuck a strand of wet hair behind the Hexx’s ear. He glanced sharply away and down. The sight of Ezre’s blue lips trembling was imprinted in his mind. The inside of the coach smelled sickly-sweet with vomit. He caught himself holding his breath, then forced himself to breathe evenly again.

Ezre?

He squeezed his eyes shut again. His mind found familiar grooves – if the lovers spoke, he could not listen – he narrowed to the familiar ward’s monite. His lips moved, but no sound came out.

It was only when the carriage stopped that he slipped his hand from Lilanee’s. He didn’t pause for a second; he was swinging the door open with unaccustomed energy.

With Rosmilda out on his business, at least, there’d be no passives for Ezre to worry about. He frowned at the waterlogged Hoxian halfway out of the carriage, narrow-eyed, lips twisting; shaking off the feeling, he headed inside. He was surprised to find that he moved with a bounce in his step, for all his hip ached and his knees chafed him. It didn’t, for once, seem to matter fair much.

In not so long a time, Douglas was out, a frown set deep into his bearded face. He was burly enough a natt that Ezre wouldn’t’ve been too hard for him to handle on his own, but Morris came out behind him anyway, helping them lug the jellied Hexx from the coach and up to the steps.

He spilled out the doors behind them, a soft checkered throw draped over one arm. As he caught up with Lilanee, he offered it to her silently.

The glass doors to the atrium were mirror-dark by the time they got Ezre settled in the parlor. The light from the hearth threw strange shadows on the wall above the mantle, where the sleek black statue of Naulas raised its horns.

There was no lugging him upstairs to the study, and the servants as bustled in and out gave them frightful looks. When he’d come in the first time, Margaret’d half-shrieked, stifling it with one of her hands; now, as she carried in the tray, her eyes were wide and did not seem wont to linger on any of them. They were shaking faintly, metal rattling on metal.

“Thank you, Mrs. Wheelwright,” he said, raising a hand as she began to pour the tea, “but I’ll – handle – don’t worry,” he finished, grimacing, running a hand over his brow and through his hair. It left a smear of blue in the red and grey. “We’re keepin’ eyes on him, hey? We’ll ring if anythin’ happens.”

“Y-Yes, sir.” Margaret bowed once, flicked a glance from Ezre to Lilanee, then hurried out.

If Ezre permitted, they’d situated him on one of the sofas, where he could sit or sprawl as he liked. There was already nicum staining the soft velvet, and he rather thought Diana would have his head for it, when she got back from Bastia.

A wastebin was just by him, at least, though through the door to the foyer came muffled whispers and disgusted noises, and the sounds of cleaning. He’d thought that carpet was ugly, anyway.

It was easier to busy himself about the tea, at first – at first. It was easier not to look at Ezre; he hadn’t looked at Ezre since the coach, though he saw the Hexx in the corner of his eye. He took up the teapot, smiling tightly – almost exaggeratedly – at Lilanee, and beginning to pour their tea. The first cup he managed with grace; the second, less so; by the time he wound round to the third, his hand was shaking so badly that the spout clattered against the rim of the cup and spilled tea all over the tray.

“Fuck,” he spluttered. “Fuck.” He set the pot down, squeezing his eyes shut against a welling of tears.

He took a deep breath, then opened them. His hands were still shaking. “I need help,” he admitted quietly, thick-voiced. He started to reach for the pot again, then stopped, leaning on the end table.

[Ezre Vks]

there and back again

the 17th of Vortas, 2719 | late evening

Ezre felt like a match struck, burned, and spent. A flash in the dark. Bright with that sharp scent of sulfur. Dancing flames, even for just a moment, and then—now—twisted and black and done. So done. Curled up on the carriage seat, the motion of everything was so wrong, and the position he'd laid down in did nothing to relieve the sensation of too much pressure in his sinuses.

The Hoxian, logically, somewhere in the back of his writhing, unfocused mind, knew so much of his disorientation was a combined disastrous after-effect of both the distance traveled in their Clairvoyant casting and the rather intense brew of chan that had totally burned through his veins. He'd reached far, traveled high, and the way back had been too quick, too fast. He knew these things, shaking and nauseous while wrapped in towels and someone else's housecoat, but it was difficult to swim through the miasma of mixed emotions, through the fog of all that had happened, and navigate the wild waters of all the emotions he couldn't stop himself from feeling at once.

Dark eyes didn't open, but he heard Lilanee and Tom above the slowly calming thrum of his own pulse and the gratingly too-loud sound of wheels on cobblestone. He felt the weight of the Hessean's familiar field, wishing he wasn't so sensitive to the bright shifts of color he was confident scintillated against the back of his eyelids even if they were just mental constructs of monic influence.

One shaking hand, fingernails deep blue, snaked free from its white-knuckled grip on a towel to fumble for the light touch that trailed near his cheek, closer to his neck. Without looking, he eventually found her hand before it was pulled away,

"I did not say anything would be safe. I did not say I was not afraid." He murmured, wincing at the turn of the carriage and the sound of his own voice because it felt weird no longer just inside his mind, free from his tattooed lips instead. There was a shift in the sensation of Tom's field, just there mingled in the small space, but the raen didn't choose to add to the statement made,

"I do not understand why you are still frightened now that it is over. Concerned, zjai. But scared? I am alive, and, Tom, do you concur on the conclusion that Jonathan Emmett is, too? Did you see as I saw? There was a reason I did not cast alone—perhaps I made decisions I would make differently next time, but I trusted in you both to assist in the endeavor. I did not intend to ask too much. Of anyone. But I did." Ezre fell quiet, untangling his fingers from Lilanee's to rub the palm over his face as if shoving away more nausea, as if attempting to assuage the pain in his sinuses.

Eventually—thankfully?—their ride came to an end but the young Guide knew that meant he had to sit up, he had to move again, and while his head might have felt somewhat less filled with mist, his body felt as though it had melted into the padded seat now stained with nicium and a few drops of blood still dribbling from one ear. Sitting up felt like the most thing he'd done all day, even with other hands to help him, and while he was sure he knew how to use his muscles, his brain refused to entirely make the necessary connections did as it wanted and mostly slumped into the support of others like a jellyfish in a current.

The Hoxian felt Tom's servants stare at him, but he didn't look at them. He knew enough of the raen's house by now and concentrated on not being such a useless burden, gagging and hiccuping, but too empty to actually have anything left to throw up. He was grateful that the only steps he was dragged up had been the ones at the entrance to the Vauquelin home, for he remembered the not-Incumbent's elbow against his palm and the measured climb up to the man's study last time and there was no way—

If his gaze lingered in appreciative defiance on that stag above the mantle, in some silent, chan-induced victorious glare, it was brief with solemn respect. Naulas was a patient god. The most patient of the Circle, honestly. If the Hexxos Guide and He Who Was The Guide of the Dead shared a moment—shared an understanding—it was in the silence of an empty grave and in the span of a single breath before Ezre looked away, smiling again for just the flutter of a heartbeat.

Ah, another sofa.

Something else soft and absorbent.

Good.

When would he stop being blue? He probably should have researched whether or not nicium stains were permanent. Too late now.

This time, the dark-haired mess attempted to sit up, melting forward to first rub his whole self clumsily with whatever towel or robe was closest, wiping blood and bile, wiping dried blue flecks away. He wrapped his hair in it with very slow, very measured movements, tucking one corner of the towel in against one shaved side of his scalp to keep everything out of his face before leaning over and grinding his own elbows into his knees, finally burying his face in his tattooed hands because just that movement had made him dizzy all over again.

Ezre was already tired of shaking, of trembling, but he couldn't stop—cold and tired and coming down of a wild high he noted he wouldn't try again on an empty stomach (because of course, he'd have to try that again for educational reasons). He'd over-extended himself magically, sure, but he'd perhaps taken in a dosage of chan out of comfortable recommended limits for his level of experience or tolerance or body weight.

Not looking while Lilanee and Tom busied themselves with tea, with caring for him in some kind of awkward, needful silence punctuated only by the specter-soft whispers of the staff, he finally looked up at the clattering of porcelain and the older galdor's Harbor-tinted curses hissed with a sharp edge of distress.

Everyone looked tired.

Everyone still looked sad.

He grasped for rhakor and found it just as slippery as his near-drowned self had been in the bath. Ezre sighed—dramatically, overly-expressive.

He used the arm of the couch to sit up, leaving little blue crescents in the upholstery from how tight his fingers curled into the stuffing. He stayed upright, swaying, dropping a towel from his shoulders, maybe two, tense there as if he considered standing up as if he considered just how much of his ability to serve tea was muscle memory, was pure Hoxian genetics, versus how ravaged he was instead of recovered,

"Sit then, Tom." He breathed, just as self-deprecating as he was chiding. In and out went the air in his now-grateful lungs while the tang of congealing blood and bathwater tainting everything he tasted, everything he smelled. Chan and adrenaline were draining with that chilled trickle from his veins, leaving emptiness behind, leaving clarity, leaving reality pooling back in its wake.

Like lava cooling as it dribbled over the side of some rocky volcano's mouth, the unsteady Hexxos Guide found his balance on his feet. It was as comical as it was serious, frustration written on his unveiled, tattooed face; hurt creased in that fold between two delicate eyebrows; and some youthful need to be excited and proud and celebratory coiling tightly in every teenaged muscle of his temple-disciplined body. He was either going to pass out or explode, honestly, if he sat still or sat silent any longer,

"Everyone just sit."

He was aware that everyone had tears in their eyes or down their cheeks. He was aware that everyone was shaken or shaking. He was aware that everyone was a blue-dyed, red-smeared, slightly unsavory acrid mess.

The Hoxian set his focus on the tea, still a child of Kzecka, utterly unconcerned for his state of (un)dress or what was left of his state of (no)mind. There was a ritual to service, and a Carrier of the Dead found solace in so many rituals. Hands moved with purpose, momentarily steady with the intensity of his concentration as he set about removing Tom's hands if he needed to or gently displacing Lilanee's hands if she'd pressed herself into the raen's place at his request for help. His frown had creased its way into his whole face, so fully expressive and unfiltered, so deeply etched with his own form of unspoken concern,

"You understood everything, lover." Deftung drifted over the steam, and while Ezre had found enough of his Hoxian composure to deny anyone another shameful apology, there was a hint of what the Hessean had come to know as repentance in his whispered tone, "Some things are better left in the vaults of our thoughts and I forgot my place in the balance of all things."

In zkratas.

He'd been frightened, too. He'd almost drowned. He was concerned for the father of the redheaded young woman he'd professed far too many feelings for, too. He was not, however, sorry for his anger, not in the way that was probably expected of him, in the minds of Anaxi to the heart of a Hoxian,

"You really need to admit, though—"

Ezre murmured softly, filling empty cups with every spare ounce of concentration he possessed. He would have served the tea he poured, but he set the pot down with a clatter and chose to ooze his way back to the couch instead. The movement had brought him back to himself, and while he still didn't like how exhausted he felt, he couldn't help himself otherwise, speaking as if what he said next was the most sensical thing to say all evening,

"—that was pretty amazing."

[Lilanee Kuleda]

17th Vortas, 2719
KULEDA BATHROOM| LATE EVENING

A​​ sign of hope! The Hexxos reached awkwardly for her hand, tangling fingers against her own, giving the russet haired Hessean a small iota of relief. The chan, the over reaching, it may be passing now. Maybe.
​​
​​And yet, when they spoke, it was clear that the concerns of the not-galdor and the more-than-friend were still not understood by the raven haired youth. The autumn girl looked at Tom, something stirring in her chest that wasn’t sad or excited.
​​
​​ “Ezre we—” Her words halted as their vehicle came to a stop, not entirely sure she knew what she had planned to say anyway. As they exited the carriage, Lilanee held back a little, letting Tom’s men manage the process of moving Ezre from the interior of the vehicle to the warmth of the raen’s home. She stood still a moment, exhaling a curl of steam in the chill Vortas air, looking up at the home without really seeing it. Her mind was elsewhere, in Western Anaxas, reliving the night over again.
​​
​​I do not understand why you are still frightened now that it is over.
​​
​​The intimately recognizable brush of Tom’s field brought the teenager back to the present, and she offered him a grateful smile as she took the throw and draped it over her own shoulders. As they entered the abode behind the two men and the disorientated Hoxian, Lilanee couldn’t help but look with genuine curiosity at the statue over the mantle. Naulas, the God of Death, cast eerily in the firelight.
​​
​​How very ironic, should that be an item from the previous Incumbent.
​​
​​Another staff member of the house, a lovely looking woman with fearfulness in her eyes and a tremor in her hands, offered them tea with a tinkling rattle. It didn’t seem she wanted to be here, and by the sounds from their traversement through the house, none of the others were particularly fond of their blue-stained arrival. Tom took over, and the woman—Miss Wheelwright—left. Standing still, the checked throw around her shoulders, Lilanee allowed her gaze to drift to the fire whilst her mind wandered again.
​​
​​Fuck!
​​
​​The sharp curses caught her by surprise, causing the girl to jolt and look sharply at the table where the raen was trying to serve tea, banging the spout against the cup so hard Lilanee was sure it would break. It didn’t though, and she inhaled deeply.
​​
​​ “Please, take a se—” She’d barely taken a step when the woobly Hexxos rose carefully to his feet in towely jacketed glory. Glancing down at the saffron garment she had snatched from the bathroom, Lilanee lay it on the arm of Ezre’s chosen sofa. She didn’t argue with them on the management of tea, knowing the Hoxian well enough to know they would not welcome her interference, though she now hovered between the fire and the Hexxos with brow drawn and eyes flitting between the man and the student.
​​
​​"Everyone just sit."
​​
​​The Hessean did as she was bade, sitting heavily on the couch and holding the blanket tightly around herself. There was a tightness in her chest, it had been there since the bathroom but she only now recognized it, pressing against her heart and squeezing her lungs. Her throat felt tight, constricted with emotions that had threatened since the cracking of the mirror and the end of the spell.
​​
​​Heathen.
​​
​​Lilanee closed her eyes against the stinging, sucking her lower lip between her teeth and biting gently. She curled her fingers firmly into the checkered fabric, distracting herself from repeating the words again in her mind, trying to find herself in the midst of everything. Her father was clocking well alive, somewhere in Anaxas. He had a fire, and a tent. He was…safe?
​​
​​Maybe?
​​
​​The Deftung was almost unwelcome to her ears, drifting in a whisper across the small parlour. The russet brunette opened her eyes, glancing at Ezre with a frown and lashes damp with unshed tears. Her brow drew closer, and she exhaled a clunky sentence.
​​
​​“Truth good. Know honest words.” The words were incredibly foreign on her tongue, pronunciation infantile and disjointed, but they were close enough to the right words. As Ezre moved to sit, the Hessean stood again, moving to the tea and talking a cup. She handed one to Tom, offering him a small nod. Moving she gave another to the seated Hoxian. Finally she took her own, sipping it as the weary Clairvoyant spoke again. Carefully she placed it down and turned the handle slightly to align it to the patterns on the saucer.
​​
​​ “I knew he was alive. I knew in my heart that bitter woman was wrong. I would know if he had died, but he hasn’t he is alive. And I am…I don’t…I…” Inhaling deeply, she spun on her heel and smacked a fist into her open palm.
​​
​​ “I must head to Bastia at once, and then north towards Western Anaxas. I believe I can convince Brunnhold to support my endevour, with the right discussion, or the right ear. I am sure there was a professor in the History wing that Father was close to. If I can get him to listen, I am positive he will assist. I just need to explain. It will be cold, so best to bring winter tents. And plenty of food. And he was injured. I could probably heal that, but maybe a more experienced healer is a better idea. And I have to wonder where he could possibly be with that shroud of darkness. He at least had enough mobility to set up his neck. Could that have been before he hurt himself? I will need travelling gear. A guide perhaps?” Stepping closer to Ezre, Lilanee trembled with pent up energy.
​​
​​ “What happened in there Ezre? I thought we were just going to be watching out for you in the bathtub. I didn’t expect to be dragged into….somewhere. That fog was so, it was so…alive! And those things in the mist, what were they? Why where they? And why the clocking hell would anyone travel into clocking Western Anaxas on their clocking own?!” She was pacing now, gesturing with her words, suddenly finding the courage she had lacked in the aftermath of the Hexxos’ cruel Deftung.
​​
​​ “Amazing yes. But…you didn't promise it wouldn't be dangerous but Ezre there was something wrong and you almost clocking drowned and honestly if it wasn't for Alethia we might all still be trapped there.” The name felt like ash on her tongue, but it was true. Part of the Hessean held some defiance, as though this heathen had helped everyone safely home.
​​
​​Maybe the Hessean did.
​​
​​ It was clocking frightening Ezre, because we had to stand there and nearly watch you die. Do not make our fears seem invalid because you weren't the one pulling what felt like a corpse from the water.” Her tears had fallen unexpectedly, and with a hitching breath, Lilanee thumbed them from her cheeks and sniffed.
​​
​​ “A corpse that I never want to see.” She muttered angrily, field flaring with yellow fearful swathes.

[Tom Cooke]

The Vauquelin Parlor • Uptown

Evening on the 17th of Vortas, 2719

H
e couldn’t seem to uncurl his fingers from the handle of the teapot. The brush of Ezre’s field, still whispering with etheric echoes, made him wince; his grip only tightened. At the sight of inked fingers, he looked up once in confusion, then back down, his teeth grit tight. Ezre was prying his fingers away, gentle-like but firm.

A few steps away, in the middle of the floor, lay a towel in a rumpled heap.

He hovered behind the Hexx, speechless. He was bending to the tea service, the light from the hearth flickering over his thin bare shoulders. His back, Tom noticed again – he couldn’t not – was a criss-cross of ink over the movements of his muscles. His hair fell about his shoulders in a slick tangle.

Lilanee had sat back down. The couch Ezre’d sprawled on was smeared with stains; there was a set of dark blue fingerprints on the arm.

His lip twisted. Don’t you dare, he wanted to say, don’t you fucking dare tell me to sit. He stood still as Ezre said something in Deftung; without the ley channel between them, he couldn’t even begin to figure it. To his surprise, Lilanee replied, the syllables strange and harsh in her voice. Only then did Tom bow his head and move for one of the other chairs. His legs felt jellied, and he sagged into it with a deep exhale.

Ezre’s face was full of deep shadows as he worked at the tea. Tom watched, silent and absorbed. His hand was steady as he lifted up the pot each time, letting the tea stream glistening out of the spout and into each delicate cup. Only when he set it back down was there noise – a clatter – and instead of pouring it, he stumbled back to the couch.

Tom was still transfixed. He didn’t move when Lilanee got up to take the remaining cups, though he wanted to. She looked small with the throw round her shoulders, with a few coppery curls fraying from her braids. When she handed him his tea, he smiled tightly; the warm porcelain and the waft of steam was comforting, but he kept looking at Ezre on the couch, his brow knit.

Amazing. He felt another spark of anger. The teacup was rattling against the saucer, and he forced his hands still. When Lilanee spoke again, he looked at her with wide eyes. He looked at the fist in her open palm. He started to say something; his mouth clamped shut.

He listened, slack-faced, both his eyebrows high on his forehead.

“First –” He swallowed dryly. “First of all,” he said after she’d finished, “what the – what in hell? You’re going to make this journey alone? Just the two of you?”

His eyes darted between them – the half-Hessean still wrapped up, standing near the couch, sniffing, her tears glittering; the Hexx a tangle of limbs, still draining nicium into the soft upholstery of Diana’s sofa.

He waved a hand sharply. “It wasn’t amazing, Ezre-xi,” he snapped. Everything pent up was bubbling over. “Do you know,” he breathed, “do you know how many kov I’ve pulled dead from the water? You know how many I’ve put in it?”

Slowly, he heaved himself up out of his chair.

One of his fists was balled, braced against the arm. “D’you know what flooding happens, Ezre-xi, when you’ve got too much of that shit in you, and there’s no one around to pull you out? Or roll you off your back?” He bit off the words before he knew what he was saying; there was a faintly startled expression on his face, and he looked down and away, sitting back in his seat.

Too close. He didn’t look at either of them, propping his head on the arm of the chair, sliding his fingers through his tangled hair. “Boemo,” he muttered. “It was worth it.” Hazily, he could see a few lines of block print on one of his arms. “But – so the Circle help me, nobody’s got to admit anything. You scared the shit out of both of us.”

The mention of Alethia brought those dark eyes again into his mind – Incumbent – the splash and gurgle of the Hexx in the tub. He squeezed his eyes shut. There was still a dry crust of blood at his nose, and a little at his left ear. He forced himself to breathe, still feeling the yellow tang of fear in Lilanee’s field.