<blockquote><p><strong>MY CITY'S STILL BREATHING--BUT BARELY, IT'S TRUE<br /></strong>Private for Jynx's Diomfrar. Mia 9th, 81385.<br /><br /><strong>THE SIDEWALKS ARE WATCHING ME THINK ABOUT YOU</strong><br />The room was dark.<br /><br />Atti shifted his weight from his left foot to his right in a clothed echo of tilted, lavacious hips and scrabbling fingers; withdrew a slim, laquered case from an inner pocket of his windbreaker, and with deft, cigarette-slim fingers, produced a cheroot (he made them himself--picked out his own tobacco, cured and seasoned it with cloves and ambrosia), lit it and took a puff, swirling the smoke in his mouth. The stalwart half-breed turned his gaze momentarily upwards, eyes tracing the ruined molding of the ceiling. He'd bought the building for a pittance: the lower two stories he used as living space (the kitchen still functioned) and the upper two, windows boarded over from prying eyes, functioned as a tattoo parlour and clinic. You had to keep quiet about that sort of thing, these days--bones weren't to be mended with magicka anymore, but with splints and salves. His customers, though, knew where to find him.<br /><br />He had stopped measuring time in days and weeks and months and years ever since she'd disappeared. Even <em>miles</em> was an inadequate measure of the distances he'd traveled; he wasn't counting the wide plains of broken stone, or the stretches of unmoving sand--places where he had walked for days in a straight line, waking every morning to a sight the same as he had fallen asleep to. He hadn't been able to find her. He'd spent three quarters looking for Pyemme, and he'd found nothing.<br /><br />She was gone.<br /><br /> He had always been a creature of shadows, at home in dreams irrational and insubstantial, lost in the light of day like water trickling through fingers. Attrius thrived on the negative spaces: dead, airless hunks of stone and tranquil seas of dust silver as ash, still as sleep; the way fire swallowed oxygen and refused to spit it out. In the darkness, putting out the stump of his cheroot against a shallow basin of glass, he was almost invisible. His breathing was quiet and even--so quiet that, at the rap of knuckles against the door, he tightened up and flinched at a momentary stab of something between fear and panic. Things rattled; the door rasped on two inches of chain, and Atti peered out with one eye at the unexpected guest.<strong> "This is... a pleasant surprise. Have we met? If you've got any weapons on you, hand 'em over through the slot,"</strong> he said in the gravelly, bourbon-and-cigarettes voice that was so characteristic of him, poking one clawed finger through the mail-chute, <strong>"or 'else you 'int comin' in."</strong></p></blockquote>
<p>Diomfrar had never been to Bhim, and was in fact afraid of traveling so far from the comfortable, well-known streets of his home city in Swaraj, but Ayanna, sweet thill that she was, had, and had agreed to accompany him, to find a doctor. Almost all of them had gone underground, he'd heard, because using magicka to heal was no longer legal, and that meant that they'd almost all moved to Bhim. She'd come with him, leading him through the dark, cruel streets that he couldn't help but be glad he couldn't see. Diom had never been to Bhim, even before he lost his sight to his many illnesses; he was glad the scenery would never burn itself into his retinas. Being lead through the streets was enough; <em>feeling</em> the eyes on him, hearing the whispers and the snarls, was <em>more</em> than enough. It wasn't long before he was left in an alley, in front of a door, and Ayanna went to take care of some of her own business in the dark city. Diom stood for a long time in front of that door, his ears catching the barest signs of breathing from inside, and feeling a current of emotions wafting just on the other side of the thin barrier before him.</p> <p> </p> <p>He wondered if, when he finally found the courage to knock, he would discover something worse than a weak immune system. He was <em>always</em> sick; he knew he had one of those. But the pressure and pain in his head almost constantly? The loss of his sight at <em>twenty-five?</em> He knew some 'dragons were born blind, and old 'dragons lost their sight when they were older, but to be blinded for life in his prime...wasn't that just a little <em>strange?</em> Diom wasn't sure. He didn't want to think too much about it; he never had. It was, partly, the reason he'd never seen a doctor. He didn't want to think about his constant illnesses, his constant pain, his eyes; he didn't want to think about <em>himself</em>. He wasn't a selfish arden; as long as he could still work he could deal with whatever the world threw at him. He didn't even know why he was here.</p> <p> </p> <p>But he did. It had been Ayanna that tore apart his little cocoon of safety, and as much as he hated her for it, he still loved her for showing him the truth. Even if he worked with a mask around his face, there were some diseases that were transmitted by touch, and just by touching the toys he made, he could be getting the children he so adored as sick as he was. He didn't want that; he'd never wanted that. Those nioti were the only reason he was here now. Even thinking about it gave him the courage and the determination to knock on the door, glad when his hand met the actual <em>door</em> and not a wall. He was fairly sure he didn't need a swollen hand on top of everything.</p> <p> </p> <p>The door opened, and a not-quite friendly voice greeted him, gravelly and low. Diom searched his pockets for anything that might be considered a weapon without saying anything, his ears flicking uncertainly atop his head. He found a couple small scalpels he used to cut threads, and a pair of tweezers, and though he doubted he could do much damage with them, he grouped at the door blindly for the slot the arden talked about, finally dropping the small tools through before he managed to get his voice. <strong>"I don't believe we've met, no. My name is Diomfrar."</strong> His tone was respectful, though it shook a little with his fear. He was in a completely new environment, with a person he'd never met, who hadn't exactly greeted him in the friendly manner he usually got in Swaraj--which was to be expected, because he wasn't <em>in</em> Swaraj.</p> <p> </p> <p>Could things get any worse?</p>
<blockquote><p><strong>I'M BACK WITH SCARS TO SHOW<br /></strong>sdfghjfghj Jynx this is terrible I'm sorry ;_______;</p><p><span><span><strong>BACK TO THE STREETS I KNOW</strong><br />There was a time where he would have feigned acumen and laid down some sort of specious verbal shuffle in an effort to be friendly--it was who he was in the dark, cigarettes and mumbled sleep and a hundred other things nameable and not. </span></span>But this was now and that was then, and they were in Bhim, and he had to keep on guard. Right now, the only thing that Attrius felt was a surging sense of relief: touched by the rectangle of light that poured from the open door, he realized now that the arden was no sort of threat. He gathered the scalpels and tweezers (these were <em>nice</em> ones--not quite medical-grade, but some darned nice tweezers) in one loosely-curled hand and dropped them in a lacquered box he kept on an adjacent shelf<span><span>. He deflated, his tense posture slackening until he was almost slouching against the doorframe, his voice softening considerably.</span></span> The well-manicured facade of the courtly gentleman shaken loose of dust and slipped on without so much as a seam, he unlatched the two chains and single bolt that held the door shut. <strong>"I'm sorry, really--please come in. There's nasty types 'round here, and you gotta be careful." <br /><br /></strong>The lean trickster searched the arden's face like a criminal psychologist, browsing case files and forensic reports to find, hidden somewhere in the scraps, some sort of meaning under beneath the MO. There was nothing. <span><span>Atti could read other 'dragons; see their secret names in the squint of an eye, the set of a jaw, the hunch of a shoulder, a rap of a knuckle on a table. For most, it was like a gambler's tell, a little characteristic that could give away their whole hand. But the aquabat was downright impenetrable--with his eyes hidden under cloth, the half-breed could glean<em> nothing</em>. <strong>"Here--sit, sit,"</strong> he crooned, placing one broad, scarred palm over his guest's shoulder in an attempt to gently steer him towards an overstuffed armchair. <strong>"Can I get you a drink or any... thing?"</strong> In the angled light, he finally saw it, and swallowed a ratcheting inhale of air--it wasn't as gruesome as his own scars and brands, but the mass of bone startled him, all the same. <br /><br /><strong>"You're Ayanna's friend, then--the toymaker?" </strong>He swallowed hard, and moved to the left, towards the poorly-stacked piles of books that covered at least two square yards of floor. He'd never seen anything like this, and by Fronna, they'd never taught him about anything like this in school. <strong>"I'm Attrius. And... you're probably the most intriguing customer I've ever had."</strong><br /></span></span></p></blockquote>
<p>Diom heard the softest clink of his tools being fetched away, put somewhere for safe keeping, and dearly hoped they would be returned to him. Ayanna had given them to him, on his last hatchday, and while his old ones had worked just as well--wooden things, carved himself while he still had his eyes--he liked the feeling of cool metal beneath his fingers while he worked. It made him feel...professional. Not just an old coot 'round the block who'd give you a toy if you asked, but a real <em>toymaker</em>. His ears twitched as other sounds, somewhat familiar but unidentifiable to him, echoed through the air, and a blast of warmth from a door opening hit his face. He chanced a smile, his hands reaching out blindly for the door frame as he was invited in. <strong>"It's quite alright, really. I'm just not used to such caution. My city is a fairly friendly one...hardly lock the door."</strong> He added a chuckle to the end, wondering what that would get him in Bhim--he'd heard rumors, true, but rumors were just that; words spread by fearful people, jealous people, <em>awed</em> people. With the way he'd been greeted, Diom was betting on the first.</p> <p> </p> <p>A heavy hand landed on his shoulder, and Diom allowed himself to be lead, feeling strange emotions coming from the arden but none that would make him fearful or even very cautious. The toymaker was an open and trusting arden, and all the healer had done so far was exercise caution toward a stranger--there was nothing Diom could fault him for thus far. He was allowed to feel all the strange things he wanted. Diom landed heavily in an armchair, soft and comfortable if a bit too stuffed for his liking--too used to the hard workbench, he was. Diom noticed a slight falter in the other arden's voice as he asked after a drink, and more strange feelings floated on the air, but Diom didn't want to assume anything, and answered as casually as he could--though what he really wanted to do was ask what he'd seen, when they hadn't even begun the examinations. <strong>"No I'm fine, thank you. I had a drink before I stopped by."</strong> He turned his head slightly toward the voice, his brow furrowing as the healer continued.</p> <p> </p> <p><strong>"Yes, I'm Diom. Nice to meet you, Attrius...What do you mean by interesting? I haven't even told you my symptoms yet."</strong> He tried not to fidget, but the sentence had scared him. He was anxious and worried about something even <em>worse</em> than a weak immune system wrong with him, now more than ever. The pressure, the headaches...was there actually something wrong? Diom tried not to think about it. Perhaps Attrius meant the fact that he was an Aquabat, and had never seen one before.</p> <p> </p> <p>Somehow, Diom doubted it.</p>
<blockquote><p>Diomfrar was out of his element. Attrius, though unable to read much more from his body language, was able to glean this much. The residents of Bhim were not anything close to him: they were foragers and gatherers, can redeemers, the kids who begged for extra bhijin, crouching legless in the gutter with paper cups. And whores sunning on the roof in clement weather and men with warrants outstanding for reckless endangerment and depraved indifference. But the old squat pile of limestone and brick held all his worldly belongings, a million words spun into tepid air, and there was no way Attrius could leave it. <em>"No, I'm fine, thank you. I had a drink before I stopped by."</em> Atti nodded--then, remembering that the aquabat couldn't process the non-verbal cue, he said: <strong>"A'ight. Just tell me if you do want any water or summat. Can you tell me about your symptoms?"</strong> Noncommittal, but not at all rude--for Diom had, after all, achieved what most didn't dare breach with the pale-eyed half-breed: a familiarity that collapsed his walls of formality and implacability. Breaking the ice was, after all, the hardest part. But they'd done it, however clumsily. And all that was left was the back and forth exchange of speech<span style="color:#000000;">. </span></p><p><em>"What do you mean by interesting?"</em> he asked, and Atti's breath caught in his throat.<br /><br />Limp, lifeless Pinocchio slumped in absence of Gapetto's hand upon his strings. Seconds came and seconds went, but he had lost all respect for time somewhere between the dormouse and the rabbit hole. <strong>"You--"</strong> He paused, clearing his throat; his voice had trembled, come out a third too high. <strong>"Will you--put your hand at the base of your skull, will you?"</strong> He didn't know what was wrong with him, but it held the promise of things he somehow seemed to know, collectively, at the edge of memory. Maybe, if he could just find the right book...</p><p> </p></blockquote>
<p>They soon got onto familiar territory--or not so familiar, as Diom had never been to a real healer, but at least expected. <em>Tell me your symptoms.</em> He reached up to untie the bandage around his eyes, also letting the scarf fall from his maw so that he could be fully examined. <strong>"Of course. I...lost my eyesight, at least most of it, about eight years ago. I've been constantly sick with something--either a cold, or an infection, or a disease--since I was twelve. I've...stopped going out among crowds. I never know whether or not it's fatal or not. It feels dangerous to me."</strong> The last thing he wanted was to infect some young niotie and have them die because of him; he just wouldn't be able to take it. He was grateful that he'd taken the time to get used to the light before he came, so that the healer could look at his eyes; he'd seen them in the mirror once, himself, and knew that whatever it was wasn't normal loss of eyesight. It was like the cells had died.</p> <p>There was a long silence after his question, only serving to make him more nervous, before Attrius' voice came out, high pitched and shaky for a moment before it steadied. His hand...at the base of his skull? He lifted his left hand obediently, and came in contact with his skull, his fingers exploring the area to find anything wrong with it. There seemed to be...a rather large lump. He traced it across the back of his head, swallowing before he lowered his hand, knowing his fingers were trembling and unable to do anything to stop it. Diomfrar tried anyway, catching his hand with the opposite one, and held it firmly to stop the shaking, knowing there were questions to be asked--but desperately wanting to leave them unvoiced. He swallowed several times, suddenly wishing he'd taken Attrius up on his offer of a drink, and closed his eyes, choking the question out.</p> <p><strong>"What was--what <em>is</em> that?"</strong> He had to remind himself that it hadn't gone away just because he'd taken his fingers off of it. Diom couldn't just pretend it didn't exist, not like he had for most of his life--pretending he <em>wasn't</em> sick, that he wasn't different from everyone else. He had to face it now; he <em>was</em> different.</p> <p>There was a lump on the back of his head that stated as much.</p>
<blockquote><p>He didn't know what to say.<br /><br />It was a rebus of heartbreak, misfortune a dog could parse. He carried an exhausting compulsion to oblige any detected social need: others often depended upon him to mortar crevices in the social façade--to fill vacant seats, give air to suffocating silences, fudge unease. (He was like fudge. Or maybe he was like chewing gum.) But if beneath charm lies exhaustion, beneath exhaustion lies a certain rage. It would be misleading to say he was screaming inside, for, if he were, he'd soon enough find a way to scream aloud. Rather, the politeness infested a layer between Diom and himself, the name of the wrongness (that swelling at the base of his skull? he'd never even heard of anything like it) going not only unexpressed but unknown--only intuited. <strong>"I... Diomfrar, I <em>don't know.</em>"</strong><br /><br />That bump... he got chills. He was being nudged, pushed, about to be reminded of--what? Anything more than the vast abysms of all his ignorances? Attrius was at a loss for words. Diomfrar had a kind of beauty in his lean, wiry body and his almost feral, ax-blade skull, with its gracefully-tapered lines and delicate features. He moved behind him, taking the scarf in one hand to carefully fold and set it aside. <strong>"Was it a gradual loss of sight?"</strong> he asked, the scarred pads of his thumb and forefinger brushing lightly over the aquabat's nape; then, with a pair of blunt-tipped calipers, he measured out the height and diameter of the growth, squint-eyed and set-jawed. <strong>"Your parents--did they get sick easily, or have headaches often? Was there any sort of significant change in your life when you were twelve or so?" </strong>Now he put aside the calipers and pulled a pair of what seemed to be telescoping goggles over his eyes; Atti moved a few dials, muttering to himself underneath his breath--there! He could see much better now. He gently stretched the skin over the lump with his fingers, looking closely for mottling or anything unusual--he found nothing. <strong>"Does that hurt at all?"</strong></p></blockquote>
