the vaulquelin's house
some odd hour too soon on the 19th of Vortas, 2719
A heavy heart bears
not a nimble tongue.
William Shakespeare
Love's Labor Lost, Act V, Scene 2
Ezre hadn't realized the rich, full effects of the powerful chan concoction he'd so willingly allowed to take him on a distant journey that he hadn't even had a map for until he'd reached the end of it. It was not a good end, either, at least not the end he'd at all expected. Some of the travel had blurred once he woke again, disoriented and unsure of how long he'd even slept after washing until the water was clear instead of blue and dizzily crawling into someone else's bed. Some of the path had been rough, he remembered—sharp rocks and steep cliffs tumbled over—but the mist had obscured some of his memory and rest had smoothed over some of the edges.
When the Hoxian awakened in the dark, clueless to the hour, hardly able to remember whose house he was in, the well-known ache of magical exhaustion competed for dominance over his entire body with the rather new and strange combination of symptoms that could only be a chan hangover. At least the sun wasn't glaring through the curtains, he thought warily, thanking the gods in silent gratitude while curled beneath blanketed layers whose scents and textures were unfamiliar. He attempted to trace his steps backward, to travel back over the landscape which landed him here, but the effort made his head swim.
The too-fancy bathroom in the Kuleda's home, he remembered. Blue, nicium-laced water, incense, and the flicker of candlelight. Minds that weren't his own, that mirror, and the forceful strength of the unusual effects of the grau. Jonathan Emmett's voice mingled in his memory with the voices of his friends, and while he could remember the forcefulness of their fear and objection, the details were drowned out by Alethia's louder, grating tones. He remembered the warmth of the liquid he'd floated in, but he also remembered—quite suddenly, with a gasp—the sensation of that same warm liquid in his nose, in his throat, in his lungs—
His stomach growled a rude interruption, jarring him from the rush of anger and confusion that flooded his mind like another mouthful of bathwater, reminding the dark-haired teenager that it'd been at least a day and a half, if not two, since he'd eaten.
Ezre frowned, alone at some predawn hour in the Vauquelin home, and slowly attempted to set his body in motion. Slipping from the warm layers with reluctance, he fumbled for some sense of direction, ignoring the dizziness that sitting up immediately set into motion and noting that his things had been delivered. Using that as a sharp reminder that too much time had passed since he'd fallen asleep, he clumsily groped for clothes in the blue light that filtered from the glow of Vienda's city views outside. It was a half-hearted effort, hanging cotton and linen off his tattooed, narrow frame in a way that at least pretended the Hoxian had any sense of Anaxi modesty (he didn't), aching fingers reaching up to twist the bedhead mess of once-wet, now-tangled hair of his into something not presentable but out of his face.
Brief actions left him wobbly, and the young Guide was grateful for the chaise at the foot of the bed. He sat, looking down at his stained nails, grateful to breathe in and out, words filtering through his thoughts while his ears rang.
So much had been said between the three of them—which words were chan-induced hallucinations and which words were real?
Ezre shuffled back to his feet, barefoot and mostly quiet as he made his way to the door without stubbing a toe or bashing a hip in the foreign room full of shadows he didn't recognize and furniture he'd not put into place. He winced at the creak of the hall, finally catching a glimpse of a clockface and almost scowling at the hour—still a whole house before autumn's dawn. Hesitating there in the threshold, he wondered which door belonged to the room Lilanee was sleeping in. He thought he might have recognized the door the study, but that did him no good now. He shouldn't wake her. She wouldn't want to see his face this early, if at all. The chan hadn't washed away all his ability to recollect what happened, what had been said, but it certainly made most of it feel like a bad dream.
His stomach rumbled again and he crept down the stairs like a ghost himself, pale, lightweight under-layers of his clothing flowing beneath an open, untied dark wool coat. Hastily tied, wide pants whispered on cold wood and he trailed fingers along the bannister, needing balance.
He'd only been in the Vauquelin home once before this, and he'd not had to navigate it alone in the dark. The Hexxos Guide couldn't help but count the stairs again, slow and steady, drifting down and meandering the ground floor in search of the kitchen—a dark little hungry specter of life in the house of a raen.
Not even the staff was awake yet, and if Ezre paused for several long, unnecessary moments to let his dark eyes linger on the sharp black lines of Naulas' antlers on the hearth, well, he couldn't help it. He'd not forgotten his gratitude, drowned as it'd all almost been. Eventually, with minimal damage to his shins, without making too much noise, he stumbled his delirious, starved self into the kitchen. Anaxi architecture wasn't entirely foreign any more, not after three years, but it was still strange and a stranger's home was disorienting enough, but he knew his way around a pantry when he saw one.
There wasn't anything prepared at this hour for breakfast and he certainly didn't want to make a mess that his shaking, weak body would have to clean, but he rummaged anyway. It wasn't as though he didn't know his way around a kitchen—unlike his Anaxi counterparts, Hoxian galdori had no need for servants. Not that he was sure anyone was around—he couldn't feel them even if a member of the Vauquelin staff had been awake, quite aware that humans and passives were this kingdom's labor of choice instead of their own two perfectly capable hands.
There was a kettle on the smoldering stove easily brought back to life and while he poked around as quietly as possible, he'd discovered some tea of questionable origin and quality. Not letting the kettle whistle, he steeped the mystery leaves (really, how bad could it be compared to the chan he'd so willingly experimented with, only to spit up again hours later?) until they were lukewarm in a quaint porcelain cup he wasn't even sure had been used or clean, unconcerned at this house, unconcerned in his current state of exhausted need. He even found some leftover bread, tucking a couple of last night or the night before's rolls into the crook of an arm, nibbling on the last slivers of some kind of cheese with a deep mahogany rind. Autumn's Brayde County apples graced a bowl and tattooed fingers snatched one, the dark-haired teenager denying himself the time to explore every cupboard. Later, he told himself, making sure the kitchen looked as if he'd never been there before he left it, laden with snacks and delicately balancing a weakly steaming cup of hardly fragrant tea.
Careful with his bounty, Ezre attempted not to be too loud climbing the stairs, drifting back toward the room that'd been given so generously—
Oh, which was his room again?
Apple in his teeth, round little rolls against his chest, teacup balanced delicately just so, the bleary Hoxian was still very disoriented. He stood in the hall and let his dark eyes study all of the doors, using the study as his point of reference.
He made the right choice, gliding on bare feet into the guest room he'd slept in. The Hoxian made his way to the chaise, tugging a blanket free from the end of the bed and curling up with it and his borrowed bounty, staring at the shadows in the room while he satiated base physical needs and sifted through what he could remember, a heat stinging the edges of his eyes and shame quickly threatening to steal his appetite.
He'd wept already, falling asleep, but this time, the weight of his shame was much more tangible, the ache of disappointment and confusion far more sharply felt now that he was clear-headed, sober, and far too aware of his entire self. Thankfully, regardless of how he'd judged the humble tea, the brown liquid in his cup didn't begrudge his quiet sobs.
When the Hoxian awakened in the dark, clueless to the hour, hardly able to remember whose house he was in, the well-known ache of magical exhaustion competed for dominance over his entire body with the rather new and strange combination of symptoms that could only be a chan hangover. At least the sun wasn't glaring through the curtains, he thought warily, thanking the gods in silent gratitude while curled beneath blanketed layers whose scents and textures were unfamiliar. He attempted to trace his steps backward, to travel back over the landscape which landed him here, but the effort made his head swim.
The too-fancy bathroom in the Kuleda's home, he remembered. Blue, nicium-laced water, incense, and the flicker of candlelight. Minds that weren't his own, that mirror, and the forceful strength of the unusual effects of the grau. Jonathan Emmett's voice mingled in his memory with the voices of his friends, and while he could remember the forcefulness of their fear and objection, the details were drowned out by Alethia's louder, grating tones. He remembered the warmth of the liquid he'd floated in, but he also remembered—quite suddenly, with a gasp—the sensation of that same warm liquid in his nose, in his throat, in his lungs—
His stomach growled a rude interruption, jarring him from the rush of anger and confusion that flooded his mind like another mouthful of bathwater, reminding the dark-haired teenager that it'd been at least a day and a half, if not two, since he'd eaten.
Ezre frowned, alone at some predawn hour in the Vauquelin home, and slowly attempted to set his body in motion. Slipping from the warm layers with reluctance, he fumbled for some sense of direction, ignoring the dizziness that sitting up immediately set into motion and noting that his things had been delivered. Using that as a sharp reminder that too much time had passed since he'd fallen asleep, he clumsily groped for clothes in the blue light that filtered from the glow of Vienda's city views outside. It was a half-hearted effort, hanging cotton and linen off his tattooed, narrow frame in a way that at least pretended the Hoxian had any sense of Anaxi modesty (he didn't), aching fingers reaching up to twist the bedhead mess of once-wet, now-tangled hair of his into something not presentable but out of his face.
Brief actions left him wobbly, and the young Guide was grateful for the chaise at the foot of the bed. He sat, looking down at his stained nails, grateful to breathe in and out, words filtering through his thoughts while his ears rang.
So much had been said between the three of them—which words were chan-induced hallucinations and which words were real?
Ezre shuffled back to his feet, barefoot and mostly quiet as he made his way to the door without stubbing a toe or bashing a hip in the foreign room full of shadows he didn't recognize and furniture he'd not put into place. He winced at the creak of the hall, finally catching a glimpse of a clockface and almost scowling at the hour—still a whole house before autumn's dawn. Hesitating there in the threshold, he wondered which door belonged to the room Lilanee was sleeping in. He thought he might have recognized the door the study, but that did him no good now. He shouldn't wake her. She wouldn't want to see his face this early, if at all. The chan hadn't washed away all his ability to recollect what happened, what had been said, but it certainly made most of it feel like a bad dream.
His stomach rumbled again and he crept down the stairs like a ghost himself, pale, lightweight under-layers of his clothing flowing beneath an open, untied dark wool coat. Hastily tied, wide pants whispered on cold wood and he trailed fingers along the bannister, needing balance.
He'd only been in the Vauquelin home once before this, and he'd not had to navigate it alone in the dark. The Hexxos Guide couldn't help but count the stairs again, slow and steady, drifting down and meandering the ground floor in search of the kitchen—a dark little hungry specter of life in the house of a raen.
Not even the staff was awake yet, and if Ezre paused for several long, unnecessary moments to let his dark eyes linger on the sharp black lines of Naulas' antlers on the hearth, well, he couldn't help it. He'd not forgotten his gratitude, drowned as it'd all almost been. Eventually, with minimal damage to his shins, without making too much noise, he stumbled his delirious, starved self into the kitchen. Anaxi architecture wasn't entirely foreign any more, not after three years, but it was still strange and a stranger's home was disorienting enough, but he knew his way around a pantry when he saw one.
There wasn't anything prepared at this hour for breakfast and he certainly didn't want to make a mess that his shaking, weak body would have to clean, but he rummaged anyway. It wasn't as though he didn't know his way around a kitchen—unlike his Anaxi counterparts, Hoxian galdori had no need for servants. Not that he was sure anyone was around—he couldn't feel them even if a member of the Vauquelin staff had been awake, quite aware that humans and passives were this kingdom's labor of choice instead of their own two perfectly capable hands.
There was a kettle on the smoldering stove easily brought back to life and while he poked around as quietly as possible, he'd discovered some tea of questionable origin and quality. Not letting the kettle whistle, he steeped the mystery leaves (really, how bad could it be compared to the chan he'd so willingly experimented with, only to spit up again hours later?) until they were lukewarm in a quaint porcelain cup he wasn't even sure had been used or clean, unconcerned at this house, unconcerned in his current state of exhausted need. He even found some leftover bread, tucking a couple of last night or the night before's rolls into the crook of an arm, nibbling on the last slivers of some kind of cheese with a deep mahogany rind. Autumn's Brayde County apples graced a bowl and tattooed fingers snatched one, the dark-haired teenager denying himself the time to explore every cupboard. Later, he told himself, making sure the kitchen looked as if he'd never been there before he left it, laden with snacks and delicately balancing a weakly steaming cup of hardly fragrant tea.
Careful with his bounty, Ezre attempted not to be too loud climbing the stairs, drifting back toward the room that'd been given so generously—
Oh, which was his room again?
Apple in his teeth, round little rolls against his chest, teacup balanced delicately just so, the bleary Hoxian was still very disoriented. He stood in the hall and let his dark eyes study all of the doors, using the study as his point of reference.
He made the right choice, gliding on bare feet into the guest room he'd slept in. The Hoxian made his way to the chaise, tugging a blanket free from the end of the bed and curling up with it and his borrowed bounty, staring at the shadows in the room while he satiated base physical needs and sifted through what he could remember, a heat stinging the edges of his eyes and shame quickly threatening to steal his appetite.
He'd wept already, falling asleep, but this time, the weight of his shame was much more tangible, the ache of disappointment and confusion far more sharply felt now that he was clear-headed, sober, and far too aware of his entire self. Thankfully, regardless of how he'd judged the humble tea, the brown liquid in his cup didn't begrudge his quiet sobs.
