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18 November 2005 00:02![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cog_nomenThe overmage's office was cluttered. All manner of alchemic devices crowded it's shelves and the sole occupant desk. There was a shelf at the far corner of the room that indicated it's owner's medical bent, stocked with linen bandages and clean metal instruments. On either side of the desk was a chair. Crammed into a niche between shelves, there was an examining table.
Haley carefully led Diejuste through the maze of clutter on the floor, helping him up onto the table, where he sat patiently. He was anxious, and she couldn't blame him for his nerves. Overmage Marissa represented the most advanced healing available. She was not infallible and her time was not easy to come by. Her ward's visit was mostly a service to his father, a member of the first council of Overmages.
Told to enter the office and wait, they did so. Haley found her eyes wondering from one object to the next, each labeled with instruction and a code that she suspected indicated the clearance required to use it, and how often it could be used. Everything was fascinating and she had a hard time keeping still and her hands to herself.
"What are you thinking?" Diejuste's voice interrupted her train of thought, and she realized she had strayed several steps from the side of the table.
"I'm just looking around." She answered, somewhat embarrassed as she returned to his side. "There are so many fascinating devices here."
"She's in charge of all the alchemic medical devices." Diejuste explained, his sightless eyes fixed on her. He was fairly good at focusing on people once he located them by the sound of their voice. She was used to his appearance and the way his attention seemed just a second behind her when she moved. The way that his eyes only pointed in her direction, but did not focus on her face.
His father had warned her, when she first came to work for Diejuste, not to speak to him about the way he looked. He had lost his sight in a fire, she was told, and his eyes did appear to be damaged as such. It was the pattern of scarring around his eyes that seemed to indicate the burn was not an accident as his father claimed. There was a straight line of scarring over the bridge of his nose, a band across his eyes that had almost ruined his eyelids completely. It stopped just after the corner of each eye.
The rest of his face was unmarred. If Haley knew one thing about fire, it was that it did not burn in straight lines. It was sneaky and unpredictable like magic. Still, she did not say anything to him as the damage was long since done. For a long time she believed it could not be undone, and then word of Overmage Marissa's feats had come to them all the way in Sanctuary. It was often the last place to receive news, so close to the wild as it was.
"There are so many." Diejuste's father had alchemic lighting and running water, but no other luxuries to compare with these. Nonstandard alchemic devices were rare as one got away from Tura.
"You were surprised by the carriages, too." Diejuste smiled and it took away all of the awkwardness of his features. "THe capital has always been full of wonders. It just makes me miss our home in Sanctuary."
Diejuste's home - where she also resided to facilitate her care for him - was a mansion compared to the surrounding homes. It had spacious rooms full of books and comfortable furniture, thick carpets covering the pressed wood flooring. She had always felt somewhat nervous in it's decadence, but she found herself longing for it, too.
"Yes," She affirmed. She was formulating something reassuring to say when the overmage at last whisked into the office. Startled, Haley at least had the presence of mind to incline her head and touch two fingers to her brow in respect.
Overmage marrissa seemed not to notice her amongst the clutter, she was ladened with yet another artifact, struggling through the mess. It wasn't until she had settled it on her desk, and Diejuste slid from the table to salute her that she noticed her guests.
"Oh my," Her voice was high, sweet. It matched her sleightly rounded physique, middle ages adding bulk to her curves until she was a more traditional image of beauty. If her fingers were thick, they were graceful and deft anyways. She recovered several tools from a bag on the shelf of medical supplies. "I'm sorry that I'm late."
Noting that both were still looking demurely at the floor, she waved a thick hand to dismiss the salute. "Raise your eyes citizens. I'm afraid I have very little time to waste on formalities. There are ever so many things to do, and overmages Lumos and Luna await my presence."
Stepping closer, she first glanced Diejuste over cursorily, noting that he had fixed on her voice. The damage seemed to puzzle her. "You're overmage Bestan's son?" She asked, closing the distance to get a better look at the scarring.
Haley tensed, wondering if the overmage would mention the unusual scars. Diejuste nodded.
"I'm going to have a look to see if they respond to certain stimulus, Diejuste." She warned, gently taking hold of his chin. "You look a lot like your father." She added, warmly.
Haley thought he looked more like the paintings she'd seen of his mother. His features were softer than his father's, more handsome and less harsh. The overmage was waving a thin object in front of his face to see if his eyes tracked any movement. Unsurprisingly, his eyes did not follow the motion.
Next, the alchemist reflected light onto his eyes - they did not dilate. Clucking to herself, her fingers explored the scar tissue surrounding, and then she sat back, sighing. Haley took in her considerate expression but did not read any optimism in it.
"I was lead to believe the damage was accidental." The mage's tone was neutral, as if she were simply trying to garner information about it rather than question.
"It was. A fire in my father's estate when I was very young." Diejuste believed the answer he gave - he had never been given cause to believe otherwise. "My mother died in the blaze, but I was fortunate to lose only my vision."
Marissa hesitated, looking askance back at Haley. The only answer she could safely give was a shrug. Turning back to her patient, the overmage finally gave her diagnosis.
"The damage is too old for me to heal, Diejuste." She said, gently. "Your body has long since healed everything over, and my powers can only guide the body's natural healing process. I'm afraid the only solution to your problem would like with long forbidden alchemy."
It could have been Haley's imagination, but the overmage seemed to glance in her direction as she spoke. Nervous, Haley's hands folded together.
"Are you certain?" Diejuste handled the news well, merely regaining his feet from the table. His tone was quiet, but not desperate or hopeless. Haley thought again that he was truly brave.
"The best I could do would be to remove some of the scarring, I'm afraid." She reached out, touched his shoulder reassuringly. "You have come so far already without sight, Diejuste. It seems to me you have someone who is more than willing to see for you. You must think more of what you have gained in life than what you have lost from it."
With that, she stood and gathered the device she had carried in from her desk. She nodded to each of them once, and blustered out again. "Remind your father to visit us more, and send him my well-wishes." She said by way of parting.
Haley gently touched Diejuste's arm, and he seized her hand. She gripped his fingers reassuringly. He had run out of options but she knew that he would be strong enough to put the past in it's place and move forward. She only hoped he would not mourn the loss of sight for too long. He had so many other strengths - intelligence, grace, acute hearing and a winsome personality - that such a minor flaw should not be his downfall.
"Back home again." She kept her tone bright, leading him from the office.
---
On awakening he discovered that his arm no longer felt as if it were going to fall off at any second. In trade, his head felt trampled by at least a heard of crazed horses, perhaps followed by some smaller irate farm animals. His head was pillowed in softness, a gentle rise and fall revealing that his pillow was breathing. Involuntarily, he groaned, and then regretted it - his throat hurt, as well. When he could, he opened his eyes to assess his injuries. Though still certainly broken, the bite wounds in his arm had been cleaned, sutured, and re-bandaged. The angry tracks of infection had receded.
Shatura tried very hard to convince himself that he hadn't been tortured, regardless of how he felt. It made very little sense for them to torture someone who was unconscious, and even less for them to then repair his arm afterwards. It was probably the fever and dehydration that made him feel the way he did.
"Be still," A soft voice startled him with it's proximity, before his thoughts turned sluggishly back toward his pillow. Roan.
"Be still." The wolv repeated, his tone soft. Shatura wasn't certain he wanted to further assess how close he was to the wolv, nor the somewhat embarrassing way his dark fingers seemed to have tangled into the thick mane of fur over Roan's chest. He was warm, soft, and reassuring. For now, the Rojian let himself be content with that. A canteen was pressed into the fingers of his good hand, and he took it.
He had to remind himself to drink slowly when the first drops touched his throat - clean and good. His mouth was so dry that it tasted like honey. It would be so good just to drink it all, but he forced himself to stop. His body was still in an uncertain condition - too much of anything would probably make him sick.
More sick.
"Slowly." The wolv reminded. Shatura had already stopped drinking, was lowering the canteen from his lips. He did not relinquish hold of it.
"Yes." He found himself croaking, somewhat irritably. He knew better, even when he felt ill. He'd lived in the desert some of his life, though it had been a long time. Careful not to think about how he was laying, he adjusted himself a bit, though it brought his face mostly into the light-tipped dark mane of the Thusswolv he was reclining on. The dark comforted his eyes, even though there was only moonlight to hurt them.
"How does your arm feel?" He felt, more than heard Roan's quiet question. The others must be sleeping, and Shatura almost envied them. He felt suddenly and completely awake, but miserable enough to want to sleep through it.
"It feels." Which was a definite improvement. "Though I can barely notice it." He kept his tone quiet, to spare his head as much as the other's sleep.
"You're dehydrated." The wolv answered a question that Shatura had no need to ask.
"Yes." He answered again, simply. He lifted the canteen to his mouth again, having another small sip that soothed his throat. Wedging the canteen between his slung arm and his stomach, he inserted the index finger of his good hand into the opening. When it was wet, he traced a line over his forehead, and then short ones under both his eyes. The evaporation felt wonderful to his fevered skin, though his temperature must have dropped some - he was no longer unconscious or hallucinating.
"Who carried me?" Letting his eyes close, he still hadn't missed that the terrain had changed considerably - they must have traveled some distance since he could last remember.
"I did." Roan answered, simply. It was, when he thought about it, the only logical choice. Conlan was aging and burdened with supplies. Thenotay was not constructed to carry passengers, though he did bear the rest of their food. He could hear the alchemist's breathing - snoring really - nearby. Logic told him the chimera would also be nearby. Probably sleeping - if it did sleep - right next to Conlan.
"Thank you." He was deeply grateful - he did not feel as if he'd been dragged, and being left behind in his condition would have likely killed him.
"I couldn't kill him." Roan sounded as if he needed to talk.
"You swore that you wouldn't." Shatura tasted fur as he spoke and disregarded it - it did not taste dirty or fowl, just fuzzy. "And I'm glad that you take your oaths seriously, as you also swore you wouldn't kill me."
Somewhat reassured, the wolv retreated into his own thoughts for several moments. Shatura began to count up to a hundred, willing his muscles to relax and his breaths to even out. He felt almost at ease when Roan spoke again.
"May I ask you now why you hunt alchemists?"
He should have expected the question, but now he had no excuse to not answer. It was a long answer, though, and his head hurt when he tried to think of a suitable way to phrase it. Instead, he just told the truth.
"The money is good." He said, lowly. Before the wolv could protest, he continued. "And revenge."
"I never knew my parents," There was little excuse for that, they had gone away when he was young to trade. It was custom for Rojian children to be raised on the road, but his parents had judged him too young for the journey to Tura that year. "They were traders - it's a common profession where I'm from." He chuckled, Rojan had not really flourished until they'd opened a sea route to the capital on the far side of the leypoint wastes. Most of his people had turned from scraping out their existence from the harsh land to specialized craftsman, providing unique wares to the foreign lands.
"They left me in the care of my Friend-parents and oldest brother. Two of my siblings went with them to the capital - none returned." The uprising had caught them unaware, the machines desperate and lethal in their want to survive and proliferate. "My brother got the news and went after them, and that left me. I was three."
Roan rumbled apologetically, a sound that gently shook Shatura's frame. The motion was almost comforting.
"There was nothing to find of my family's fortune - I do not even know what it might have once been." The Rojian continued, trying hard not to think as he spoke - he remembered his older brother a little. A dark boy with a white smile and hair that was shorter than he'd ever let his own be. It was his brother who had commented on the attractiveness of the young Shatura's curls. He'd kept them since, though he did not remember enough of his brother to truly love him. "And so when I was old enough, I found work for myself."
"It can't pay very well anymore." The wolv sighed, and his hand slid down to cover Shatura's comfortingly. The furred fingers were something that the witch-hunter would have normally protested. It was too intimate a gesture for friends, and considered akin to dating by his culture. He knew little of Thusswolv culture, and long separated from his own, he let it slide. Everything about Roan suggested they were a physically affectionate race. The Rojian hurt too much to push away the comforting fur over a minor issue.
"No," He breathed, his tone muffled by fur. "The pay's been less and less good. The revenge even worse."
"So why do you still do it?" Roan's voice began to seem far away.
Drowsily Shatura lifted the canteen to his mouth one last time, then forced his tired fingers to replace the stopper. The water was cool and refreshing, but a desperate need for more did not accompany it. He set the container aside, and tangled his free hand into the wolv's warm mane, his fingers cold. He was tired at last, and ready to sleep, but his mind told him that his pillow would expect an answer. Quietly, he gave one.
"I don't know anything else to do."
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Date: 28 Jan 2012 13:21 (UTC)Занятный блог
Date: 16 Feb 2012 05:19 (UTC)