To dream the Impossible..

[Altias_Bromn]

Wonderous hills of white, calm and inviting. Soft mounds of airy clouds, steam rising gently. The peace that was felt as he looked upon it's incredible beauty was nearly overwhelming. A tenative touch, a fingertip daring to reach for the fluffy white softness.

*pop*

A laugh, genuine and joyous, as the soap bubbles shied away from his filthy finger tips. A toe was placed in the foam, drawing back with a yelp at the temperature of the water. He had told them to make it hot, and they had delivered.

Slowly his body would sink into the mountains of lavendar scented bubbles. A sigh of relief and happiness escaped him as the warm waters closed around him.

It had been a hellish week, and this was one of the most lovely ways he could think to put it behind him. As relaxation began to fold around him, he had a moment to reflect on the events of the past few days.

Before leaving the Rememdium the previous night, Darrin had offered him clothing. A rather regal set of attire, something Altias rather fancied. It was folded neatly on the chair beside his bed, already cleaned and ready to return to its owner. He really would have to do something nice for Darrin, the potion had helped speed his recovery a great deal, and he was grateful for that.

He had lived. Something else to be grateful for. During the height of the bloody flux, he had feared the worst. Not only for himself but for all the residents of Myrken. Quincy was awake, what a thing to awaken to, he was sorry for that, but glad she was back amoung the living. Sawyer seemed no worse for weaar, at least physically. Though unfamiliar with her background, he could see how traumatic this had all been for her.

It seemed no life had been left untouched by this plague, even the blind girl, who he thought perhaps Sawyer fancied, had fallen. Not to the flux, but to something much worse. Visions. Altias knew about visions, and his heart went out to the girl.

Ariane was making great strides toward recovery, which pleased him to no end. It was devestating to see someone as strong as Ari fall vicitim to this disease. It lifted his heart to know she would recover in full. Afterall, they had hunting to do, and soon. Even Heldenbrand has tried his best to assist. Despite the other man's gruff demeanor, he did have Ari's health at heart. A small mental note was made, something about Jason, and cutting out his tongue. He'd have to ask Sawyer.

It was over, or so it seemed. Many lives had been lost to the flux, enough that numbers had not been given yet. Enough that Straka had begun transporting the bodies outside of town for a Pyre. Altias would have to see about having some clergy on hand, of different faiths, to see to the souls of the departed.

Slowly he slid down the side of the tub, allowing the water to close over his head and face. A soft cloth used to scrub the remainder of the blood from his features. As he resurfaced, the rest of his body was cleaned, his hair washed.

A knife was picked up from the side of the tub, a curious look given to it, almost wary. One hand would bunch up the lengths of his hair, at chin level, the blade touched to the edge. A grimace, eyes closing tightly as if afraid, before the blade cut true, though it took three or four chops to free the tail of hair from his head. The long clump of crimson was dropped beside the tub, as he decided to remain in the tub until the water had cooled some more. Afterall, he deserved a little relaxation.

[Carnath-Emory]

The'd returned late, the night before, but not in the disrepair that she'd feared: Darrin and Quincy had retrieved fresh clothes for them all, and seen them safely back to the tavern's welcome lights.

She'd tossed that bloodied horror of a shift into the fireplace, the moment they'd stepped inside.

Her morning had been spent quite similar to Bromn's, and to Quincy's of the night before: a great, copper tub had been procured for her, and water hot enough to scald the skin from her bones, if she dared it so soon. She almost had, that eager to rid herself of the filth of the well-named Flux. Four days of it had left her sticky with dried blood and sweat alike, and so she'd scrubbed, and rinsed, and scrubbed again, expending her entire reserves of fluid soap on the task.

It had been worth every ounce.

The process had left her trembling, as all such exertion does, these days; a cautious meal had done something to soothe her stomach and ease the weakness in her limbs, but she'd known then that recovery would require more than that. Weeks, was the whisper in the back of her mind, one that she did not much care for. Alarming, that, knowing what is yet to come.

Which is a great deal of work. There is a mount still to be purchased. New garments must be somehow bought, if she has the coin for it, but boots remain the next most pressing need -- those, too, had been ruined beyond salvaging. Mingled blood, in great quantity, had seen to that. There is Avel yet waiting their attentions, and the threat at which Aislinn had quietly hinted, and oh, many such things that she cannot possibly manage now, not quite yet.

But this one thing she can do: Take herself up that long flight of stairs once more, quiet in stocking feet, to rap her knuckles upon Bromn's door. It has become a familiar routine, this last week, but never so necessary as now. She must assure herself, at the least, that Myrken's Governor still lives. A quiet knock then, and a hoarse voice announcing her name before he can worry.

[Altias_Bromn]

Altias rose from his position in front of the mirror. The finishing touches had just been added to his new haircut. It rested, gently, just between his chin and his shoulders. The cut had been angled so it was shorter in back and as it swept forward grew longer. It was different, absolutely, but he thought it suited him. As the hair was still relatively long, the center section had been pulled back, secured with a ruby clip. Attached to the clip was a long strand of silver-white hair, obviously not his own.

As the voice behind the door announced his visitor, he smiled softly, making his way slowly toward the door. He, it would seem, was regaining strength faster than Ari. No doubt thanks to Darrin's potion.

"Come in, Ari. Make yourself at home."

He was dressed simply, long expenditures of energy would simply not do. And for Altias Bromn, dressing his best was certainly an endeavor. Soft black silk pants, a long white gauze shirt. White, so clean compared to all the blood they had seen in days past. His feet were bare as he crossed the floor to sit on his bed, leaving the chair at the dressing table open for Ari.

"How are you feeling?"

He would query as she entered. They both looked worlds better, smelled better too. As he had many times the evening before, he avoided her gaze, trying to keep from making her uncomfortable. It was time she had a chance to feel comfortable. He would not make her feel obligated to sit and talk with him. She had done enough remaining with him as he lay bleeding.

"I was thinking about the clothes we lost, I had to burn my suit, my boots, everything. I've a half dozen pairs of boots, and at least a baker's dozen pairs of good broad cloth breeches. I was thinking that until we had a chance to get yoou some new things, you might accept some of what I have. "

A casual glance at her stocking feet, a hint of a smile, as he pictured he running through the forest in her stockings.

[Carnath-Emory]

Oh, stronger he is: she must pause at the threshold a moment to gather herself, the climb up those stairs being particularly taxing. Stamina returns slowly, and strength slower still. But she trails within, eventually, to take the seat offered with unspoken gratitude, for a man who had surely guessed her need of it.

Make yourself at home. Ordinarily the turn of phrase might unsettle her, but a stay in the Rememdium works marvels, and this is one of them: that she is glad to spend a little time here, just a little. There's a certain peace to this room, which becomes more familiar to her with each hour that she spends within it. Much as he does, one might guess, which -- this has not escaped her -- might have been the man's purpose to begin with.

'Might'. She had not forgotten Kanashia.

But there she sits, or more rightly slumps, the deplorable posture being less taxing on her spine. The gray gaze rests on her own suede-clad knees for a while, as he speaks, and it's with care, rather than reluctance, that she replies: "Improved." Care, for a throat worn hoarse with coughing and worse. "Clean," she elaborates, and here's a touch of grin for a man who'll surely share such sentiments. But it fades to match the reluctance in her tone, as she adds, "Three rounds of this corridor exhaust me." A painful confession, for a woman whose sword is her living.

Right now, Avel could slaughter her with a thought.

But she nods when he continues, simple agreement for a problem that had not escaped her, and there's some irony in that. On the one hand, she's his rival for sartorial finery this morning: the shirt is crimson silk, a blaze to match his own hair's and embroidered in gilt about the high collar; the dark suede of her pants is supple and well-fitted. Oh, lavish indulgence -- but on the other hand, nothing but a last resort, for everything else had been soiled or burned, and she'd been left only with Kerrak's notion of 'payment', delivered to her months ago. She hadn't cared to touch it, not until this morning, when there'd been nothing else.

Her head lifts then, to turn a dubious glance towards the man, a skeptical once-over from head to toe. "They'll be too long, and sure to be ruined if there's trouble." And isn't there always? "I'd... welcome the boots," a significant confession, from a woman ordinarily too proud for charity, "but are you sure of the rest?"

And then, then, she realises what had seemed so strange when first she'd seen him. Only then, and with the grey eye staring.

"What... have you done to your hair?"

[Altias_Bromn]

"Aye, clean is good."

There comes a chuckle as he recalls the joy of his own bath this morning. He could *almost* picture Ari frolicking, just for a minute, in a tub full of bubbles. It would do her good, he decided.

"Nonsense. If they are too long we can hem them."

And with that he is rising, moving toward the trunk in which he stores his clothing. Two pairs of black pants, one broadcloth the other silk, are removed and set on the bed. Three shirts, basic colors, as she already had a lovely one in red. A white, a black and a forest green.

"Do you have a preferrence in boot color? Heel height?"

A gesture toward the line of boots which rested beside the trunk. Three pairs of black boots, flat, mid and high heeled. The flat were knee high, but could be folded up at the knee to cover the front of the thigh as well. The other two pair were knee length. A pair of crimson boots, middle heel height, ankle length, obviously purchased with a particular outfit in mind, rested nearest the black boots.

"These would be lovely with that shirt."

Nodding appreciatively at her crimson silk. The two other pairs were grey and brown, respectively. Each flat heeled and just shy of knee length.

He paused, brieflly, hearing her last question, but he did not respond. Instead he continued to look for appropriate clothing to give to her following their terrible ordeal.

"Which ever you wish, I have more...at home."

Again, gesturing to the boots, he was kneeling in front of the trunk again, the collar of his shirt peeking out from beneath his much shorter hair as he bent his neck forward. The tiny silver braid attached to the clip would most likely be very apparent if she looked his way.

"I cut it because I wanted you to know that I understand how hard it was for you. I wanted you to know that it mattered to me that you lost something that was obviously important to you."

He remained crouched in front of the trunk, going through everything to see what else she might be able to use. He knew she would most likely think he was patronizing her, but that was not the case. He honestly understood. There were things that he had learned from his mother. Things no one understood. Traditions, beliefs, rites of passage. Somehow he felt Ari might understand them too.

[Carnath-Emory]

'Hem'?

"No. No, we cannot. These things are to wear, not to keep: I will not butcher them. I -- "

And that, for several long minutes, is the end of speech from the woman. For when he turns back about, it's to become a tailor displaying his wears, a weaver offering fabrics, hues, textures. She is overwhelmed by quantity, by the surreal quality of the strange scene, which is almost enough to make her wonder if the derlirium's come upon her again.

"I -- "

Such a wealth of colours, black silk immediately catching her eye: nostalgia, for a thing owned long ago. Such style, startling to a woman who's never owned so many boots at a single point in her life, and had never really though that anyone else would, either. The height of those heels baffle her, for she lacks the imagination to conceive of their purpose, but she points slowly to something black, modest, knee-lengthed. They won't quite fit, of course, but she's accustomed to that. Boots can always be padded.

But there is the mutely-outstretched arm, and nevermind its slight tremor; any exertion will do that to her these days, as he well knows. Fingers twitch towards black broadcloth next, and the lovely green. Not the crimson boots. Ariane Emory would no more wear crimson boots, than she would skirts above the knees -- and laced petticoats with them! There are simply some things which cross the fine line between stylish and scandalous.

Wide-eyed and staring, she is: he's worked a peculiar alchemy on her this morning, left her mute and astonished. But the moment is tempered with confusion, with fledgeling curiosity as he turns about. Her first thought, on seeing that strand of silvered hair, is of Sawyer: she of the hair both auburn and white, in equal helpings. "What --" she begins, only to be silenced again by the next words he speaks.

"It was... plach na devishnike," she murmurs of a sudden: there, not entirely silenced. "You have no words for such things. It -- our women do not -- " The gray eye squeezes closed a moment with frustration, a hand rising to claw through the butchered crop of her hair, as if to literally dig words from her skull.

"I would no more cut it than... zaveshivat' nevestu, bind. It is to, to plach nevesty v den' svad'by -- I cannot say it, but it is not done unless one is wed, and seldom even then."

The small speech leaves her frowning and wishng for water, but in its absence she can at least inhale deeply for breath and relax herself in that way. What is one to make of it, the harsh work he's performed on himself? It is somehow offensive, that after all their work to keep that scarlet hair free of his face, free of the filth he'd been coughing over himself, he'd cut it away anyhow. And... it is somehow not.

"Thank you," in a tone both small and almost reluctant. "I understand. You should not have."

[Altias_Bromn]

Still his back was turned, slender fingers travelling the lengths of cloth inside the trunk. A silk under shirt in simple cream, three pairs of socks, two woolen and one in a fine cotton weave, for summer. A slender black belt, she'd most likely need that. All of these things he laid carefully on the bed.

"You cut it because of circumstances. I know that you would not have done so if you could have avoided it. I know it was a difficult choice for you."

He wanted to say more. Wanted to somehow comfort her loss. It was similar to his mother's clan. Women wore their hair long, even when they married they would only tie it up when out, just to signify that they were no longer single. At home, it still flowed free and long, a symbol of their womanhood, their beauty. Death was usually the only reason a woman would cut her hair. Death of child, or a husband, or a wife. Death, or dishonor.

The final thought cut through him like a knife. A sharp intake of breath at the sudden memory, his mind reeling back some seven years.

~"I don't ever want to see you again, Altias. You've dishonored this family...in ways I do not even wish to imagine. It is your luck that I will not take this to father, he would have taken more than this."

Two of the guard, *his* guard, held him at sword point, as Garrison stood over him. A length of crimson dangling from his gauntleted hand. Seventeen years he had grown that hair, in less than 30 seconds it was gone.

"Count yourself lucky that I do not speak to father of this. He would have your head, and Nathaniel's as well. Go....and do not come back, and no one will know of your disgrace."

A pause, as he smiled that awful smile. The smile which almost always meant something was about to go horribly wrong.

"Stay away, and Nathaniel will keep his job, and his honor."

Four or five kicks from three heavy pairs of boots would land, before it all went black, and Nathan was safe.~

Rising then, so quickly it made his head swim, he would lean against the window frame, keeping his back to her, fingers gripping the wooden frame tightly to keep from falling to the floor.

"You have no need to thank me. I'm your...friend. Friends do things for each other. And don't tell me I should not have, I wanted to."

The latter said with a soft chuckle, a shake of his head, now much lighter without his trademark tail.

[Carnath-Emory]

Remarkably, the belt is the least of her needs. She'd had one stowed away for reason of its unpleasant embellishments, which, a month ago, would have seen her hang without a single question asked. It's her good fortune, as ever, that Kerrak had rescinded that law. It is somehow too much, this great heap of offerings, but she's shaking her head to a turned back, and she cannot quite summon the words to deny it. Oh, if she'd had only an ounce of Vornheim's tact -- but there is a thought to make her stomach sink further, and she turns it sharply away. It's better not to dwell on such things.

He's speaking then, as he rummages through that trunk, and she can't quite correct his mistake, lacking the words for that, too -- but then, she'd already demonstrated this. Certain concepts simply don't translate into the clumsy common spoken here. Others do, things that she does not care to speak aloud, not to a man that -- as he'd been so careful to explain to her himself -- she scarcely knows.

Three days in a sickroom together does give people a certain familiarity, a particular closeness. But it doesn't work miracles.

So speak he does, lapsing into silence after a time of it, silence and a gasping breath which leaves her frowning. She moves as if to rise, thinks better of it -- and regrets that, when he stands so unsteadily.

"Have care, s -- " That wrong term of address again, but she's up from her seat now, and he may never notice it, the words lost in the hurried padding of her feet. A hand grips hard above his elbow, as if the weak could steady the dizzied; it draws sharply away a moment after, deference to the independence he'd insisted upon days ago. Weeks. Pale lips tighten.

"I thank you... because I 'want to'. Friends can do that, too."

[Altias_Bromn]

A gasp at the contact, sudden, unexpected. He had not heard her coming, lost in a sour memory for a time. When she drew away, he noticed that as well, turning slowly to face her. There is a smile upon his sickly pale face. A face much more pale than it had been only moments ago.

"Aye...friends can do that too."

His hand would try to rest upon her arm, as if he needed that stability, far more emotional than physical. A slow rise of his face, to search for her gaze.

"I am sorry that I am so clumsy, Ari. One so educated as I supposedly am, should be better with such things. Still I find myself choosing the wrong words, and I see the clouds come to your gaze again. I honestly do not try to make you uncomfortable."

Fingers would release from her, had she allowed the contact, careful not to abuse her good nature. The old memory is banished, in favor of a new one. Of friends, like Ari. And Sawyer, and Quincy and Darrin. They had all been so strong, so bold. And none of them, judged him.

"I know what everyone assumes, Ari. I know you probably think that too...but they are wrong."

He is turning then, with that vague statement, to perhaps settle on the bed again. How could they possibly understand the complexity of what affection was to him? How could they understand something outside their narrow ideas of what love was? But then...how could he assume Ari was like them? How would he know if he never asked?

Again his gaze lifted to her, a smile, softening the edge of his previous words. As he looked at her, it was once again clear that perhaps asking her might prove more dangerous than just letting it go. The question tried to form on his lips, but it proved more difficult than he imagined. It remained on the tip of his tongue. How does one friend ask another, "Do you think I love only men?" and not get slapped in the face?

[Carnath-Emory]

Pallour, she'd expected -- of them all. Potion or not, he'd lost blood in quantity over those three days, and even Darrin had been quick to say that his magicking couldn't replace it. But there's more to his chalkiness than that, and perhaps this explains her tolerance for his touch. Perhaps. She'd spent hours slumped against him in the Rememdium, coughing her life up onto his shoulder; hours more sprawled half across his bed there, as he twisted and turned in feverish sleep, to be alert when finally he woke.

He'd held her hand, that first and most terrifying night; she'd been so certain that it would kill her, and he'd made her believe that it might not.

Tolerated then, with more ease than would have been the case a week ago, and her hand clutching that window-frame for sake of her own balance. The pose is strange, almost ridiculously so; the words, however, are not.

"Better than I, " she assures him, without hesitation. "Words do not like me, they do not work for me." So I despise them in myself, and relish them from others more gifted. Pale lips tighten, but her gaze remains even on his own. Perhaps that mightn't startle him, now. "So you must speak, and I will understand what I am able to. You... have not discomforted me." Had, yes, weeks ago. That is hardly relevant now.

But now comes so swift a subject-change as to leave her blinking. She trails after him in deed as well as thought, returning finally to the chair she'd occupied minutes ago, thin fingers plucking absently at the silk of her sleeve as she hunts for his meaning. It's a lovely fabric. She must admit that much, if only to herself. She'd still rather have had coin instea -- oh!

"I," she begins slowly, hesitant for more than just an aching throat. "I... assume nothing. You advised me yourself that this was best, yes? So." There's no actual irritation the frown that follows, little at all but contemplation. "Kanashia. This was... a ruse?"

Which words leave her shaking her head, unwilling to think further on the ramifications of that. Oh, for a clear head and water to moisten her throat! But she is not without some avenues here, not at all without volition, and with a curious narrowing of her eyes: "Why do you wear that? In your hair: I've not seen its like before."

Diversion! And Ariane Emory smiles, inordinately pleased with herself.