#myalazarin

[yetanotherfanficblog]

Correspondence

Summary: Myala Everstar, Queen of the Aurin, is concerned for her doctor, Victor Lazarin.

Rating/Warnings: PG (Mention of Character Death)

Characters/Pairings: Victor Lazarin, Queen Myala Everstar, Myalazarin

***

My Lady,

I shall be headed to Grimvault, to corral what may be the final cure for our cursed condition. If am successful, I shall report to you that my people’s avarice of primal life shall no longer be source of acrimony between our peoples. In the meantime, please know that I leave you in most capable hands. My lieutenants shall continue your treatments with the greatest of care. I have made sure of it.

I have the honor to be your obedient servant,

Victor Lazarin

---

As Myala raised a hand and traced over the words on the paper once again, a strange and wondrous lance of heat coursed through her body. He had sent her this letter weeks ago, and yet every time she read it, she felt as if he stood by her side. The words, in Lazarin’s own style, said so much with so little.

She had forgiven him for Celestion long ago, and yet she knew it still weighed heavily on his mind. The Godwood tree, crying out for relief. She knew that he dreamed of it, sometimes, for he had confessed it once, when he was giving her one of his checkups. He told her, over and over again, that he wished he could go back, find a way to undo the wrong, or at least, find a gentler and more humane way to tap the tree. He was, she had discovered, an impulsive man, but a gentle one, and when he believe he had done wrong, he would never consider any penance adequate to make up for his misstep. So his lifelong quest, the thing that had consumed him for nearly a century, he did not frame in terms of his own triumph, but as mending a tear between their peoples, to make penance.

He worried about her. Even as he pursued his passion, his mission, to cure his people of the horrid fate placed on them, he still worried that he was leaving her behind. She knew, in the back of her mind, that she was being stubborn. That all she had to do was cut her ties to Arboria, and suddenly she would be so much less of a burden on him. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t bring herself to do it, and he never complained about it. He treated her with nothing but respect and concern, and felt guilty if he had to leave her, as if he was letting her down, as if he was shirking from an important duty, even if he was leaving for something as essential as healing his entire race.

Even the method - black ink on yellowed, ivory parchment - spoke to his consideration and refinement. He remember that they both came from humble roots - both content to stay on their home planet, keeping to old ways, caring for their people, seeking a better way. Both cleaving to a level of technology far below what most of the galaxy saw fit to use.

She placed the letter back on a side table, and looked at the small chest placed on it. Inside, every letter he had sent her, not only the business correspondence, the polite words between dignitaries and the advice of doctor to patient, but the secret ones, too - the love letters he had sent unsigned. It saddened her and thrilled her. He had the soul of a poet, but he shared it with no-one… except her. She was the one so honored. And thus the lanced up again.

She had waited for so long for him to come forth, not wishing to scare him away by confronting him. Until he was ready, she would wait. He had so many burdens, she didn’t wish to add to them. But sometimes, in the middle of the night, she still imagined those arms around her, that deep, rumbling voice whispering the words on the paper into her ear…

She drifted off to sleep with those thoughts in her mind.

***

The next morning, in her throne room, she found herself poring over the more modern reports that made up much of her job - battle reports from fronts in Galeras and Malgrave, petitions from various Aurin settlements for more hunters or watchers, or others such things. She tried to give each report the respect and consideration in reserved. Her duty as Queen demanded no less.

Still, when she saw the report from Grimvault, where Victor said he was going, her heart skipped a beat, she sat up a bit straighter, and began to scan the words with special consideration.

They’d found a glade, full of creatures resistant to the strain.

An Eldan lab, perfect for their experiments.

But…

“Oh no,” her mouth formed the words, but she could barely find the breath to make them real. Lucy. Dear sweet, Lucy. Lucy, so fiercely devoted to her father’s work. Lucy, who loved her animals as if they were her own children - even if some of the experiments she performed made Myala squirm. Sometimes, when she came to Lazarin’s labs for her checkups, she would sit with Lucy until Victor could see her, and they spoke, of tea, and animals, and home.

And now, the poor girl was gone. Killed by her own father after being subsumed by the Strain.

And Victor…

She tapped a button on the Datachron. Where was Victor?

Her inquiry was answered by a young FCON traffic controller, “Yer Majesty, Doctor Lazarin will be returnin’ on the next transport inta Thayd. He’s set up transport straight to his lab. Says he ain’t to be disturbed.”

“Thank you, young lady,” Myala murmured. She took a deep breath, and pressed her button to dial Lazarin.

No answer.

Again.

No answer.

“My Queen!”

As she went to try again, one of her guard came up to her with another petition, and she found herself once against swept up in the matters of statecraft.

***

Victor did not show up the weekly round table of Exile leadership. Avra Darkos, as was her wont, strode quickly toward the exit when the meeting was over, but Myala scampered after her.

“Lady Darkos!” She called. At first, it appeared the Mordesh would ignore her, but finally, as she reached the exit of the Secret Ops HQ, she turned and stared down at the Queen, face unreadable behind her opaque faceplate.

“I noticed,” Myala began, careful to choose her words to remain as neutral as possible, so as not to set off one of Avra’s more mercurial moods, “That Doctor Lazarin was absent from today’s meeting. I was hoping to talk to him about my ah… medical treatment, and I’m having a hard time reaching him on his datachron…”

“He is occupied, Queen Myala.” She said, shortly, “With the one thing he is useful for. With any luck, we won’t have to see him again until he finally has a cure for our cursed condition.”

“He’s-” Myala, for a minute, sputtered, taken aback even after so many years by Avra’s complete lack of tact, “He’s useful for more than that, Lady Darkos. He’s done so much for everyone, shouldn’t we have more respect for him-”

But Avra was gone.

---

Myala took a deep breath. She had sent her guards away and ventured into the lair of the Alchemist’s Guild. The other Alchemists, quite used to her presence, when she came for her treatments, had either ignored her or given her respectful nods before returning to their business, and so she came with little trouble to her expected place. A small, unassuming door, grey metal, unmarked that she knew lead into Victor Lazarin’s personal lab.

She knocked.

No Answer.

She knocked again.

No Answer. She let out a frustrated breath. A full week since Victor had returned, and she had heard nothing from him. She knew he would need time, but she feared to think of what he would do. Losing a child… Myala didn’t know that exact experience, but she knew what it was to lose subjects, people dear to her. And she hoped, at least, it meant she could sympathize with how much he had lost. And, if all else failed, she knew how much… how much she missed him. How much she wanted to comfort him.

She steeled herself, raised her hand, and made to knock again - Only to hear the sound of a lock unclicking. She reached up and turned the handle, and entered the lab. As she peered in, her eyes blinked rapidly, trying to adjust to the light. Lazarin often kept his lab low light, but she didn’t see even a lamp lit. Finally, she spotted him, hunched over a lab table, surrounded by vials of multicolored fluids. She walked up behind him, and murmured, hesitantly at first, “Doctor Lazarin?”

He turned in his chair, his body still somewhat slumped and hunched over. She couldn’t make out his face as well as she would have liked, between the darkness and his ever-present mask, but as she squinted, she fancied she could make out those two bright eyes, heavy lidded, and small trails of vitalus, dried, but outlined quite evidently on his cheeks.

“Queen Myala,” Lazarin said quietly, hoarsely, “I… apologize that I have not resumed your treatments. I asked my assistants to continue for a short time while I… catalogue these results. We… did not craft a cure as I had hoped, but there is still desirable data to be derived, if I...only focus, for a time…”

“That’s not why I came, Doctor Lazarin,” She said.

“What is it then? Have my assistants been unkind? Has the treatment worsened? I can-”

As Lazarin spoke on, Myala closed the distance between them, and with two swift steps, hopped into his lap and flung her arms around his chest, burying her face in his neck as much as she able to with the bulky hazmat suit separating them.

“Victor,” she said, “I am so sorry about Lucy. She was such a sweet girl.”

“I… I am sorry, Queen Myala,” Victor said, “I should have the strength to disperse my debts, to the Exiles, and to you. But… I have lost the last person who cared about me-”

“She wasn’t the last, Victor,” Myala said. Her fierceness surprised even herself. Still, she couldn’t stop herself. Victor needed her. That silly, brave, magnificent man was going to work himself to death unless she stopped him.

“I know she cared, Victor,” She said, “And I’m sure she’s still caring for you from the Lifestream,” She continued, citing the old Mordesh belief she knew Victor still secretly clung to, that she secretly believed might be the Weave, visiting them in another form, “But she’s not the only one.”

Lazarin did not respond, but slowly, his body relaxed into Myala’s, and he bought up his arms to return her hug, lightly.

“When you didn’t respond to me, I was worried,” She said, “I know… I know you have your work. I don’t mind if you need to stop treating me. I’d miss our appointments, but… You have so much on your shoulders, Victor. I just want to ease your load. Just a little. I’m here. And… if you want me to leave, I will. But… I’m here for you.”

“Here for me?” Victor murmured, “Queen Myala, you have a kingdom to run. I am only a fallen, failed alchemist. You need not concern yourself with this nattering nitwit.”

“You are more than that, Victor,” she said, “You have stood by me, you have worked with me, you have indulged my concerns and worked around my wants. Without you, I might be dead. You are my doctor, and my friend. You are always so gentle to me. And you are always so passionate. Even when we disagree, I can… respect that passion. And your drive to help your people. It is the same as mine. I draw strength from that. When I doubt if I made the right decision, coming from Arboria, I remember that you’re working too, and it helps it… Victor, you are very dear to me and I wish you wouldn’t doubt it…”

Victor looked down at her, his eyes flashing through the hood. Then, he nodded slowly.

“Myala,” he said, “I… believe I need to lie down for a bit. Would you… like to join me? Only to lie down. These battered bones need… a bit of rest.”

Myala nodded, and Lazarin rose from his chair, arms still around her, and walked into an adjoining room, a small, cozy, woodpaneled office, where a small cot lay against one wall and a holofire roared against another. Slowly, he sunk down into the cot, until he was spread out upon it, with Myala laying on top of him. She laid her head against his chest, listening to the sound of his heartbeat, and for sometime, they lay in silence, arms around each other, remembering each others’ presence after a long way aways.

After some time, Myala spoke again, “I keep all your letters, you know,” She said.

“All of them, Myala?”

“Yes. I read them often. I… I was reading the first one you sent me on Nexus earlier today, you know.”

“The first one? As I recall, that was a rather standard requisition request to use some of your shuttles to see the surface of Nexus-”

“No. The real first one, Victor. The love poem.”

“The real…?”

“I was never afraid of you.”

“Myala, I did not sign it. I made sure no-one saw when I delivered it. How did you know?”

“I knew it was you, Victor. I’d recognize that voice anywhere, even written on paper. You have the soul of a poet, you know.”

“I… I apologize, my dear. I… found myself apprehensive. After all, I’d advocated methods of mining primal life you found… murderous at best. I knew you might not accept my missive if I signed it, as I so longed.”

“I… don’t agree with every thing you do, Victor. But I understand. You are so passionate about saving your people. How could I be angry at that?”

“Myala…”

Myala sat rose from his chest, her eyes looking to meet his.

“Victor,” She spoke to him hesitantly at first, then stronger, “Could you take off your helmet? I’d like to rest on your shoulder, and… it’s a little uncomfortable, that helmet being there.”

He nodded, and reached up with one hand to undo a latch. Myala helped with another, and one, two, it sat beside them on the floor. She scooted up, and rested her head more fully in the crook of his neck. He began to hum softly, a low, pleased rumble, and she purred in return, and their symphony closed the night.