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9. Selkirk Rex
[Jordan College
Professor Kheminevitch, perhaps in contrast to his esoteric theological studies and unavoidably muscovite origins, is distinctly not eccentric. He does not ramble at pigeons or turn up late to class wearing things backward, and the preserved specimens from his travels that decorate his office are all labeled in neat latin copperplate. He's enthusiastic and engaging as a lecturer but more organized than most professors by an order of magnitude. He has a reputation for being terribly difficult but unfailingly encouraging. His church attendance is impeccable, and he has no accent from his mother's homeland at all. His wasp daemon perches on his shoulder, yellow stripes and orange antenna sharp and clear against academic black, conscientiously visible to avoid the disconcerting impression that sometimes result from easily hidden insect daemons.
He walks the fine tightrope of fearless and thoughtful inquiry into the nature of God, and death, and beyond without ever offending the doctrinal custodians of the Magisterium. When they scrutinize him, he draws church representatives into discussions of Augustine and Melancthon with fierce and incisive faith; he makes it look easy. He is still, always, a bit of an outsider.
St. Josef's Hospice
In the Great Wen of back-allies, poorhouses, and thieves' dens marbled through the city, there are not nearly enough chymists to care for throngs of people living day in and day out through a miasma of ill health. Lev is not a scholar of medicine, but he can practice it enough to comfort the dying, and if he is a little more attentive, at that precarious moment when a man's daemon dissipates in gold sparks and his last breath shudders out - well. It does not detract from their comfort.
A nameless chapel
He attends services at Jordan rigorously, but sometimes - sometimes he needs a dark, quiet place, with stuffy air and lack of noble architecture, somewhere that feels rough when he kneels, where he can mutter a heretical muscovite prayer for the dead, the language guttural and jumbled, half-forgotten in his throat, Thecla buzzing softly in his hair.
His room
His quarters at the top of a high spire. It's a climb, but he likes the sharp, clear wind; it reminds him of other lands. It's not so late in the year that he feels the need to close the windows. Alone, he curls up with a book and a quill, his cat at his feet, and Thecla flies out, tiny and barely noticeable, to observe the city in ways he cannot. It's been nearly twenty years since he crossed through the dead land. She has long since forgiven him, and he no longer expects it to hurt when the whine of her wings grows too faint to hear.]
Professor Kheminevitch, perhaps in contrast to his esoteric theological studies and unavoidably muscovite origins, is distinctly not eccentric. He does not ramble at pigeons or turn up late to class wearing things backward, and the preserved specimens from his travels that decorate his office are all labeled in neat latin copperplate. He's enthusiastic and engaging as a lecturer but more organized than most professors by an order of magnitude. He has a reputation for being terribly difficult but unfailingly encouraging. His church attendance is impeccable, and he has no accent from his mother's homeland at all. His wasp daemon perches on his shoulder, yellow stripes and orange antenna sharp and clear against academic black, conscientiously visible to avoid the disconcerting impression that sometimes result from easily hidden insect daemons.
He walks the fine tightrope of fearless and thoughtful inquiry into the nature of God, and death, and beyond without ever offending the doctrinal custodians of the Magisterium. When they scrutinize him, he draws church representatives into discussions of Augustine and Melancthon with fierce and incisive faith; he makes it look easy. He is still, always, a bit of an outsider.
St. Josef's Hospice
In the Great Wen of back-allies, poorhouses, and thieves' dens marbled through the city, there are not nearly enough chymists to care for throngs of people living day in and day out through a miasma of ill health. Lev is not a scholar of medicine, but he can practice it enough to comfort the dying, and if he is a little more attentive, at that precarious moment when a man's daemon dissipates in gold sparks and his last breath shudders out - well. It does not detract from their comfort.
A nameless chapel
He attends services at Jordan rigorously, but sometimes - sometimes he needs a dark, quiet place, with stuffy air and lack of noble architecture, somewhere that feels rough when he kneels, where he can mutter a heretical muscovite prayer for the dead, the language guttural and jumbled, half-forgotten in his throat, Thecla buzzing softly in his hair.
His room
His quarters at the top of a high spire. It's a climb, but he likes the sharp, clear wind; it reminds him of other lands. It's not so late in the year that he feels the need to close the windows. Alone, he curls up with a book and a quill, his cat at his feet, and Thecla flies out, tiny and barely noticeable, to observe the city in ways he cannot. It's been nearly twenty years since he crossed through the dead land. She has long since forgiven him, and he no longer expects it to hurt when the whine of her wings grows too faint to hear.]
His Room
She became visible, standing only a few feet away. "Some things never change, do they?" Her voice was soft, to minimize startling him. She reached up and drew back the hood that shrouded her face. "Hello, Lev."
no subject
"Very few, in my experience."
He rises, offers her something like a bow, but not deep. He manages somehow to braid warm sincerity with brittle politesse, and pulls out a chair for her.
"Sylvanas. Welcome to Jordan. Please, make yourself at home."
no subject
She approaches, but doesn't take the offered seat. At least, not yet. "How have you been?" She imagined well, considering the surroundings, but she wanted to hear him tell her. It was small talk perhaps, but all conversations began with the simple things, didn't they?
no subject
"I've built a life I find rewarding," he says, turning his back to her and walking to a cabinet, leaving her standing pointlessly beside the chair. He unlocks it with a neat click, pulls out a bottle of Tokay, and turns back toward her again, smiling just a little as he gestures slightly with it, offer and inquiry.
"Wine? I'd have laid aside a better vintage if I'd known I was ever going to see you again."
no subject
She nodded to his question. This was rapidly becoming an encounter that would require wine, at the very least. "Would you have? Seems a bit more generous than I deserve."
no subject
If he had known he'd see her again, if he'd had any way to know, if she had told him. Then yes.
"Or are the natures of men so easy to forget?" He says it with an easy smile, as though it is a fine joke, which perhaps it is. He was drawn to her when he was alone in the world, in some small part because the odds against a witch dying before he did were astronomical. And then he lost her anyway. The coldest, bitterest part of him wonders if she knows how many years it has been, if she even considered.
The part of him with eyes knows that she knows perfectly well. He pours them each a glass.
no subject
"Some men are forgettable. Others resonate in memory, even in their smallest action." I remember everything about you.
no subject
"Why now, Sylvanas?" He drops the smile, and his eyes are dark but not so cold. He does not ask, will not ask, why she vanished. But given that she did - he does not understand why she is here.
no subject
Finally, she sits in the chair he'd offered her. Her posture straight, almost stiff, as if she were waiting for a blow. And perhaps she was. She certainly thought she deserved one, even if were only delivered verbally.
no subject
"You chose this time, Sylvanas. You've come this far to speak to me - lie, if you don't want to answer."
no subject
"I found I had more reasons to come than to stay away. Would you like me to list them for you?" She wasn't being sarcastic, which was out of character for the woman he'd known. Such a phrase should have been thick with it, but she was softly, genuinely asking.
no subject
He has not allowed himself to pine, has not allowed himself to be wrecked by the loss or consumed by the faceless mystery, because a man who loves a witch must be reconciled to certain things, to the immortality of her existence unimaginably far beyond him, to which he is irrelevant. He must be reconciled to it if he is to have any dignity.
But he has always want to know. Not just about her, about everything. And better stark admissions on both sides than this dancing on pins. He is not the one who can afford to waste time.
"Yes, I think I would like that," he tells her, solemn enough to shroud but not soften the rawness of his assent.
no subject
"Our time together was destined to be finite, but my leaving cut it far shorter than I'd wanted for us. For seventeen years, I've mourned us, the woman I was, how happy you made me. What we had was killed, not just by my leaving. But you are not dead yet, my love, and I couldn't bare to stay away any more. I wanted to see you again. Hear your voice, even if it meant hearing you tell me you feel nothing for me anymore. I needed to see you thriving. And, if you wanted it, offer you the opportunity to even the scales between us."
It hurt to say such things, to make such confessions. She had run in pain that he had no hand in, but stayed away from fear of his hate for her. And to say these things to him brought her dangerously close to the whys of her leaving. She'd skirted against it, in her talk of death, almost let it slip, but that was not his burden to bear. She would not put it upon him.
no subject
My love.
(He is a theologian; he has always been excellent at deceiving at himself.)
He drains his glass of wine, then pours another, and laughs. It sounds precisely as pained as it is. He expects to feel triumph, at any moment, vindication, satisfaction. Joy. She missed him. She mourned him. It had always meant as much as he wished it did. But in the moment it just makes the loss feel new, or tender like old scars before a blizzard.
"And how should I even the scales, Sylvanas? By tossing you out the window and refusing to hear you? By putting candlewax in my ears? I am not stupid enough to discard someone so dear for...a farce of fairness."
This is not a jab at her, or he doesn't mean it as one. He still doesn't know her reasons. But it comes out harsh by contrast all the same.
no subject
She considers drinking her own wine, but just leaves it sit. It felt wrong to take the edge off the pain, particularly with his refusal to lash out at her, as if staying sober to endure the pain of this reunion was at least some form of self-punishment she could do instead.
"I don't know what I can offer you then, other than knowing that being away from you has been one of the most painful things I've ever endured. And I wish I had been stronger for you. That somethings...had been different. I'll carry those regrets with me for the rest of my days."
no subject
"You will have too many days, Sylvanas, to fill them primarily with regrets." And he will have too few. He does not wish to allow it, not for either of them.
"Tell me of your life, now." She can offer him that. And if it will soothe her at all, he can offer in turn - "I have missed you as well."
Jordan College
Red, of course, ignored him - other than to give his ear a little flick when she knew he wasn't looking. She has a legitimate reason for talking to the well traveled professor, in any case, beyond the mere adventure of meeting someone knew.
That reason is Ophion. The large snake was brought home on an expedition, studied briefly and effectively dumped in her care. Though Red loved the large reptile, she had always wanted to find out more. Maybe someone who had traveled so much could tell her about the snake's origins.
"Professor Kheminevitch?"