Before they left the workshop, Kaelrik asked the biqaj why he’d taken on the female form. He thought to not answer, at least not yet. The reason why… the honest answer… it felt much too long and burdensome to bother the other man with. So he landed on a simple response, “It is my sister’s form.”
It wasn’t exactly an answer, but it was enough to suffice as if he might’ve actually tried to answer the man’s question instead of completely ignore it. He led their way out of the workshop, to the streets of Miletos, and apologized to start the rest of their conversation. He considered that the stories about Lotharro were true then, the masculine race was indeed the type to keep a promise even when it proved inconvenient or against their preferences.
He nodded in reference to contacting the brother in question. “I will, soon then. I haven’t meant to make him wait. It’s only I’ve been quite busy.” He briefly gestured toward his own body and whether Kaelrik understood what that meant or not, he didn’t explain.
They made it to the outdoor café and though it wasn’t ready for diners yet, they were seated anyway. Zarik smiled at the view and then listened to the serving girl, then Kaelrik’s preference for food. He paused, hesitated, then told the girl, “Actually, no salad for me either. I would like… well… if you have a petite mutton cut?” – she nodded – “and steamed mushrooms? And perhaps a venison steak, red not brown, please? A-and some greens with a small bowl of fresh fruit? Is that… do you have all that?”
The server girl nodded, and smiled, then went away. In a few trills, the boy returned with a couple tall clay cups and a pitcher of water. He stared at Zarik with wide eyes, then seemed to realize he’d been caught in his blatant staring and ran back inside the inn. At one of the windows, the older child peeked past the frame to watch the lord and his company.
Zarik’s gaze lingered on the boy and he wondered how old the… his sister, he assumed – how old they both were. They seemed well-cared for, fed, perhaps even happy. He brought his attention back over to Kaelrik and softly laughed when the Defier accurately commented that he didn’t blend in well, even when he had a body different than his own. “No, I suppose I don’t.”
He asked about Kaelrik’s new profession, honest employment rather than slave labor and one chosen by the Lotharro’s own initiative. Zarik leaned forward slightly and rested an elbow on the table’s surface. With his cheek settled against his palm, he smiled yet again at the knowledge that Kaelrik’s father had done a similar profession. It seemed whether because of the warm, breezy island air or the form of his sister or something else, smiles and gentle looks in his blue eyes came easily to the blond biqaj. His eyes hadn’t even changed color from the various shades of blue and gray, yet.
Zarik watched as the Defier raised his right arm. He took a sip of his water, then patiently listened about how the other mage viewed fire. Following the other’s cast gaze, he also looked over the cityscape. Zarik closed his eyes, however, and he breathed in deeply of the fresh air. He could feel the breeze against his face, enjoyed it for a few trills, and thought about what Kaelrik had said.
“I don’t think of fire as destructive,” he mentioned in a quiet voice. “Not in that way, that is. I would not be alive if it weren’t for the warmth of fire.”
Zarik almost continued. He almost told the other mage about the Cylus nights in which a fire had been the only thing that kept him breathing while huddled in the corner of a barn, waiting for his father to return with food or medicine, sometimes for many breaks. A faintly visible shiver ran through him though. He leaned back in his chair, crossed his arms to hug himself in a casual posture. Zarik stared up at the sky. “I rather like the elements, myself. Even soil, I suppose… I think you’re correct. What would cities be without the nature that forms them. It’s a little like ether in that way.”
The Transmuter explained, “As mages, we take ether and we shape it, form it, utilize it, but so does those who don’t share in sparks… but they do so with the natural elements as best they can. They use fire, or water, to shape and form earth, they use air to navigate the sails of their ship. Perhaps even, ether could be considered an element in the same way.”
Or perhaps he’d been spending too much time with his new mentor, Lucretia. Zarik chewed on his lower lip, lowered his gaze to the table, then picked up the cup and took a short drink of water. The conversation of Miletos came next. He nodded, though, when the subject pivoted back to the other man’s brother.
He simply nodded. For there was nothing to say. If Kaelrik wished to leave, then that was his choice. Zarik had no special advantage to convince the Lothar to stay, even though… he realized as he sat across from the other man, that he’d started to enjoy talking with him. It was different, but nice. A lot had changed and settled in the time since last they’d spoke or shared a bottle of drugged wine together in Marcovera.
Zarik laughed in a melodious fashion at being called Lady in such a teasing tone. It wasn't as if he minded. Alistair frequently called him wife, before then his father referenced him in the same feminine slurs as he would with Zarik's mother, and in his childhood, he'd been called girl more than once during random encounters. Beside he was to be a mother, so Lady wasn't that far off. He rolled his eyes, then glanced to see if they were still alone. They were. He leaned in toward the table and held up a hand to whisper behind it. “I am expected to rule these people, all of them, but I don’t know… anything about this place or their beliefs or… I am still learning, though. I have heard that some in this city believe that Alistair is… some sort of incarnate of their god or…”
He shook his head and brought his hand aside to play with a long lock of blond hair. Zarik twirled it around his index finger. He smiled again toward Kaelrik and said, “But that is neither here nor there. My focus belongs elsewhere now. I have… Become, so…”
Should he tell Kaelrik? He wasn’t sure. Yet Zarik wanted to tell somebody about his plans. The happy ones that he felt were good things, that was. He had so few people he could even entertain the thought of calling friend, and while Alistair had many in Tyros he could speak with already, Zarik knew none of them. He’d been sequestered in his studies, busy with caring for Asher and Bjorn, and otherwise helping with the move from Ashvane to the new estate. Not to mention the tenuous situation with Kleine… did Kaelrik know about that? Zarik supposed not. Would he care? He felt as if it was obvious the former slave would care about the other Lothar former slave from Ashvane.
Zarik’s withheld thoughts showed plainly on his face: his smile faded. The irises of his eyes dulled to gray. He glanced aside, then decided that while it was sensitive… instead of sharing the happy news, he shared the dreadful information that could have remained hidden. “Perhaps you don’t… wouldn’t care to hear this, considering that you seek to distance yourself, but Kleine is not well. He, uh, he has fallen into a sleep that he can’t wake from. After my initiation, he overstepped terribly and…”
The biqaj paused.
He leaned away from the table again, for the inn door had opened. The serving girl hurried over and set their respective plates down. Zarik thanked her, then waited until she was gone again before looking at Kaelrik. He sighed. “I thought you might want to know since… you lived with Kleine for however long during your time at the estate. It’s a most unfortunate thing. Damien says he might not… persist and will have to be reborn. Is that what it’s called? Reborn?”
Zarik inhaled the various scents from the plates. He picked up his fork, gathered a small stack of mushrooms, then took a bite regardless of the dismal turn in topic of conversation. Gods, did he ever just want to start chewing at the steak, but he restrained himself and slowly ate the vegetables first.
