#;file. a hobbyist | zelkov

[beholdenning]

in the blackest night // zelkov + denning

starter for @elusivia

Noone had noticed the injury after their joint hunt. Denning, too, did not notice it immediately, too distracted by his fellows’ compliments to verify the fact he is not hale; He does not feel pain that would tip any other living being off to the damage his upper arm has sustained, gouged by a bear’s claws in its final throes, the damage proper concealed by his shoulder-cape, so not even the other knights had noticed. The stockier of their number help carry the bear’s carcass back to the monastery as the sun goes down, leaving Denning’s own hands mostly idle; His bow feels oddly heavy in his grasp, but the feeling leaves as Denning fastens it to his back.

It is only later he grasps the gravity of it, while changing out of his clothing to hand it in to wash and mend; Morphs do not know pain, but the gradual sap of strength from his limbs does not go unnoticed. Quintessence dribbles out with irregular globs of black ichor from a deep gash the creature had left behind, drenching his sleeve in thick pitch. Golden eyes stare blankly at the injury, their thoughts blurry in something equivalent to lightheaded, before slowly, mechanically, rolling the sleeve up, attempting to stem the flow. Clumsy hands open a kit with gauze, before realising that their injured arm refuses to articulate, their remaining one likewise sluggish.

“Ah...” This is not good. They would not be able to recover that quintessence easily. Their consciousness has eroded, ever so slightly, at the edges. Still, they manage, with teeth and their good arm, to tie the gauze around the leakage, the material fine enough for now to hold the thickness of their ichor at bay. Perhaps... Perhaps they should see where that bear has been stored, to see of any of its essence lingers. Perhaps they should pay the village a visit, voicebox chattering like a ravenous corvid...

Dennings feet had already carried him out the door, wandering towards the kitchens to try his luck with the bear. The hour is unholy, with little activity besides patrols and cramming students in the corridors. Few would think to look twice at a sniper in most of his uniform heading in the general direction of the infirmary... Though, once he passes the open doorway with footsteps far heavier than usual, it becomes clear that he has no intentions to visit.

In the moonlight, the candle-flicker of the monastery; The gauze has slipped, slightly. A pool of thick black has gathered under his nail, at the tip of his pointer finger, the end of a line down a pale arm. A wet drip echoes into the empty night. Denning stops and shifts to readjust the clumsy tourniquet.

[beholdenning]

Zelkov had a soft spot for Denning. He couldn’t quite describe it, or even why, far beyond the kind of care given to a creation like a doll or piece of art, yet not quite that of a romantic sort. A sort of fondness, affection, for someone who every so often, Zelkov found the simplest sorts of interactions to be profound. If it was in his hands, held against his chest in a warm embrace, that they understood life, he was happy to be there to witness it.

Ah, but he could not be jealous. They deserved many others to be with them too. Dance partners, friends, coworkers, a whole array of life.

So, Zelkov carefully measured their hips and torso, explaining as he did so. “Are you *excited*? I’ll have this *ready* by the time of the ball. Taking down accurate *measurements* ensures I have little to no future *corrections* to make.” He hadn’t asked if Denning needed an outfit, simply going ahead and making them one. He didn’t want them to miss out on anything because they didn’t know what they needed. Zelkov could already imagine the flattering cut of suit he’d make for them.

“I thought a darker *palette* would suit you, so I brought a little selection of *colors* for you to choose from.” Zelkov noted down his measurements and then held out a small arrangement of materials, dark and rich colors of every main hue available.

“Which is your *favorite*?” Had Denning ever been asked their opinions before? Zelkov made an effort to soften his tone, hoping to make them feel reassured. “There is no incorrect answer.”

The ball approaches.

Denning observes its approach with perfect neutrality. It does not lurk, nor does it loom; There is far too much talk of it among the denizens of the monastery for it to creep up unexpectedly, nor is the morph particularly perturbed by it. Fervor sweeps through lines of conversation and gossip as the knight goes about their day-to-day, occasionally even assigned to tasks to help prepare for it. Between all of this, the bustle and the overheard words and the texts they have all but devoured in their hours in the library, They believe they have a decent idea of the entire affair — Though the exact form and function continues to elude and confound them. The only aspect between the food, dance, and people that had even remotely stirred them was when they heard tell of the musicians that would be in attendance.

Even that minuscule flicker of interest apparently was enough interest for their colleagues to leap upon the unintended opening, insisting they attend for 'their own sake', citing irrelevant things such as 'hermithood' and 'isolation' as reason for them to 'get out more'. There is a palpable energy in the insistence. Even a minor inclination is more than enough, it seems.

It is certainly enough for Zelkov, based on how quickly he had leapt upon the chance to dress them 'appropriately'. This energy — Is it 'excitement', is this 'excitement' what pushes so many to gossip and chatter? Their own interest nowhere near approaches excitement. The ball remains a confusing unknown to them that they feel no compulsion to investigate, internal or external.

... No, that is untrue. There is external compulsion aplenty, from fellows-in-arms, from meddlesome clergy. They had ever been driven by external compulsions, by orders and the vision of another, from the moment they had come into being from the ashes of another.

(Speak for me. Kill for me. Die for me.)

... There is external compulsion from Zelkov, too, who measures them with the same care their master must have before they were more than a diagram, perhaps, to fit them according to his vision — But this time, they are alive, cognisant, lifting their arms when told, staying perfectly still otherwise, pliant and obedient; A model mannequin, all of their limbs his to manipulate. Bright gold follows him as he goes about his work. It is methodical, precise. Gold eyes not their own shines with a glimmer they cannot place. They cannot help but wonder: Had Lord Nergal let the same light into his eye, looking upon them? Is excitement what is meant to be felt, here? What does Zelkov intend for them?

Color cascades into their vision as if in reply to the latter: Blue, red, black, purple and spectrums beyond and between. They have given freely to him, yet he still gives them a choice.

There is no incorrect answer.Then there is no correct answer, either. Still, Denning finds themself reaching for one out of habit — Because they do not know how else to live, because there had always been a correct answer of some kind, because there had always been expectations of them, expectations they yet eternally strive to fulfill. It was hardly a gift, then; Just the natural course of things, what they owed in return for their creation, their existence, their voice and limbs and name. But now — Now it is a gift. Denning owes noone aught, owes none but their master — and yet owing and giving is all they know.

So they will give. But what, what are they supposed to do with someone who will not take and will just give again in turn?

ask me to speak. ask me to kill. ask me to die, and i will.

but i do not know how to do this.

Still, they try. Swaddled in purple and green for most of their life, in white and red for but a number of months, they pause for a long moment, before their hands gravitate towards first towards the familiar — Then towards a rich mixture of black, red, white. A pause, a deliberation. The purple reflects the man who made them their garb, the green draws their eye inexplicably. But once again, they stray towards chiaroscuro, highlighted with vermillion. It is only right they continue to display their allegiance, is it not?

Golden eyes flicker up for confirmation, even despite Zelkov's reassurance. Fingertips gingerly trail over the proffered palette of choice. They tap the sample twice, still watching his response, still uncertain; But, ah, they are certain of one thing.

"... make it easy to move in."

[beholdenning]

At the risk of sounding *conceited*, Denning looked good. Zelkov observed them, pleased with his handiwork, the outfit as stylish and flattering as he'd hoped it would be. He approached them with a slight bow in greeting, offering his hand, both for a handshake for their necklaces to bloom, and to ask for a dance.

"May I have this *dance*?" he asked. Zelkov took the lead postion, watching Denning for their reaction to their hands held together, and Zelkov's palm on their back. The surge of both protectiveness and fondness that sparked from holding Denning's hand made Zelkov's chest light, a slight smile appearing on his face.

As parties went, this one was exquisite, as what he guessed Denning's first dance should be.

"I believe your *attire* is comfortable to move in, yes? I must say... I am *proud* to have gotten to design it for you."

Familiar quintessence enters their periphery; The range of this particular sense may be short, but for a presence so known to them, cognition and recognition comes more easily. Denning's head turns along with their eyes, then with the rest of their body, and they easily allow Zelkov's presence to settle before theirs, take the proffered hand and watch as two flowers bloom — Vibrant red on one, cool blue upon the other. The blue looks rather in-place upon the backdrop of purple and black.

Zelkov, they mouth in way of greeting, the name almost familiar in shape enough to put voice to. The music is strange, but it catches in parts of their mind and sticks. The morph's head tilts, as if that would let them digest it bettter. Dissect the rhythm and melody that they might accept the invitation properly. They did not expect to partake of the dancing, when they came here. Their deities tell them to dance. Zelkov asks them to dance.

They do not know how to dance at all.

Still, Denning nods and lets Zelkov move them, move with them. He is smiling — At them, they realise, even though they don't know the first thing of what lies before them, even though it surely shows. There is a shine they recognise in his gaze, like a creator looking upon creation. His hand stays, remains warm upon their back, a warmth less felt and more known. It rests upon the back of the skirts he made.

In the midst of all these confusing unknowns, the cautious follow of their step, the new and curious music of the crickets, the strange situation and their own ignorance, they know quite for certain... The one thing they had asked for had been well fulfilled.

Another nod. Their hands are occupied, but there is a light in their eyes that is less piercing and more shifting, diffuse. It is perfectly, perfectly easy to move the way they ought to, to move without thought or sound.

Pride, he says. He made this for them, and he sees that it is good. Gold flits downwards, shuttered by dark lashes, to observe the movement of fabric, of feet. They see that it is good. Music begins to make sense between the movements, following a count of three, an imperfect yet complete number to ever spiral on. They dance passably, and Zelkov does not pull away. The clothes are just the way they'd asked them to be. People laugh and dance and sing and twirl, creating a constant soundscape to sink into like a human would a bed after a long, long day.

Hmm, yes. This is perfect.

[beholdenning]

Weight along the span of their back, light but noticeable — A spark, too, from the wider area of contact, the man's quintessence humming under his skin, warm brown a barrier and conduit both. That is already enough to have Denning tilt their head to gaze at him, showing that they are listening. The loss of their strength has indeed ceased, residual fatigue still heavy in their limbs, but prevented from growing heavier still. A smaller tilt of the head in an incomplete nod, before the nurse gets up to retreive medical supplies.

They do not feel hurt nor harm, but know that humans do; They know to take advantage of flinches, recoils, freezes, pain responses one and all, and know it catches others off guard when they show none. There is no effort made to mimic any such response; After all, they cannot even fathom what it is like, to experience sensation so acutely.

But even the morph knows that the effort of minimising pain is of some significance to those that experience it. They are not even human, and still the nurse extends this to them, in word, in deed. There is — A weight in it, not like a blow to the head, nor a bow in their grasp, nor a hand laid across their shoulder. Denning watches the stitching intently, note the precision in his handiwork. By all means, it should be no less simple than pulling two pieces of leather together, but he truly does treat their unfeeling skin like something more delicate, something that bruises and bleeds.

And it is done, the rupture sealed. The biscuit remains untouched, but the juicebox drained. They do not care for any more imitation of consumption, and so shake their head as he asks them about food, nor do they need to retire...

... But they can scarce go hunting in this state. At least some passive recuperation would be in order, even if none of it will be spent in slumber. They flex their fingers on their compromised arm, finding it to still be sluggish, then lifts the other to simply point at an open cot and tilt their head.

'Any cot', yet still asking permission. Golden eyes stare, waiting, unblinking.

beholdenning​:

in the blackest night // zelkov + denning

If nothing else, they have learned that they are expected to eat the food that they are given, and though their dexterity in their uninjured arm leaves much to be desired in their current state, they attempt to fulfil that expectation. Though they don’t immediately know what to make of the juice box, they parse the lazy slosh of liquid inside and pull and ear of the box up and out — It opens with a quiet rip. The edge is placed to their lips for a slow drag. They are a model patient otherwise; Unmoving, unflinching, not complaining when their sleeve is torn free.

The man, the nurse moves with purpose and precision, though not as exacting as when their kin did replairs; He prods along, clearly feeling out how to proceed as opposed to knowing, bone-deep. The biscuit remains untouched, for now, the morph primarily occupied with the juice box. Even in the dim light, they can make out an image of an apple drawn on the side. Golden eyes peer down at it, then at the man, dimly curious. They do not need the uniform mended, and so they shake their head in response. A moment of silence lapses.

one of your kind. So quickly had this human parsed their inhuman nature and taken it in remarkable stride, confessing even his ignorance to their existence prior. Many fear morphs, especially across Elibe, but here, they have had a number of people encounter them without fear. This man was the oddest of all, faced with their very ichor, the thickness of their hide, and yet he is trying to repair them with a care only Lord Nergal had shown them before… Albeit without the familiarity, of a creator, of a god. He fears, true, but does not fear them.

What, then, does he fear? What a quandry.

Another nod, agreeing to stay. Though they remain weak and ravenous for quintessence to hurry their mending along, they are in no state to do so until the breakage is no longer actively leaking. His immediate presence means little to them— Not now, but after. This man is choosing to fix them instead of leave or break them. That alone…

Their throat rumbles. Their tongue presses to the roof of their mouth, sounding out the one phrase that they still have practiced… But they are sapped, drained. They simply let their head droop slightly, visibly letting down their guard, further down that in had already been in the midst of their weakness. A pale hand cups their juicebox protectively. Gratitude remains uncertain and unvoiced, but in this moment, they are even more docile than a tamed dove.

Zelkov did not mean to pressure them by watching them take the juice and food, but he was relieved that they had the strength to have some of the juice. Satisfied that they weren’t in immediate danger of keeling over, he examined there wound again.

His patient made a soft sound and then their head drooped, almost wilting. Zelkov laid a hand on their back, automatically wanting to reassure them.

“It *appears* you are not in danger of losing more of your… blood.. despite the *span* of the cut.” Good news. If they had been human, Zelkov had no doubt they would be in too much pain to sit remotely still. He got the impression that they were dazed, either due to their condition or something about how their body seemed just… less active in its blood and nerves than others would be. It was difficult to describe. He had cleaned the wound, and judging by how oddly their body was dealing with it, he didn’t expect any magical fast healing. The treatment for them and anyone else with such a gash would be the same.

He stood, grabbing the kit he kept nearby for this, settling back down next to them. “I apologize if this *hurts* you. I need to close the *wound* so your body may heal. Please sit still. I am very *careful.*”

True to his word, Zelkov was diligent and precise with his stitching. He didn’t know if his medical expertise had fed into his sewing skill or vice versa, but he was able to successfully and neatly complete his work and tie off the stitching with a surgeon’s knot afterwards, fetching clean bandages for them.

After wrapping their arm, Zelkov sat back a little, eying them with concern. They had agreed to rest, he believed, but he couldn’t help but feel that they might need something else. They were so foreign to him in regards to their flesh and its inkiness. Could he be missing something? “What else can I do? There is more *food* if you need it, and the infirmary is *empty* so you can have any cot you’d like.”

[beholdenning]

in the blackest night // zelkov + denning

elusivia​:

Zelkov hadn’t noticed how his newest patient hadn’t spoken at all. His instincts had taken over, guiding them in, attributing some of the silence to shock and the lateness of the hour. Now, he realized, as they vocalized but couldn’t quite make verbal words, that they perhaps couldn’t speak.

Attentive, intensely so, he watched their motions. A mortal and pestle… and a shake of the head. “Ah. You are *not* poisoned.”

Then how were they bleeding like that?

It mattered little, really. They were in a Knight of Seiros uniform. They did not seem to mean him or anyone else harm. They were in his care. Clearly, they understood him and were a person. Zelkov had once cared for an injured little bird, taking the chick in like a sort of father until it was well enough to fly away. His heart was more than big enough to care for this person, whoever they were. His night long enough as well, grateful to not have to sleep just yet.

They made a sign which seemed to be like being stabbed. Yes, the wound did seem deep. Zelkov nodded once, hoping he got that right. Then, a movement referencing their throat? “Breathing? Your breathing *seems* alright- throat hurt… oh, if you’re *injured* and have been walking around, you must be ravenous. Here, sit.” He turned, grabbing whatever food and drink he had closest. He gave them a juice box in their uninjured hand and set a thick biscuit on their lap. “Alright, have as *much* as you like while I take a closer *look* at your wound.”

Unfortunately, the already torn sleeve would have to be torn more to access their upper arm. Zelkov cut the fabric away quickly and brought up a soft, damp cloth, dabbing the wound that seeped inky liquid clean. Somewhat automatically, he said, “I can *mend* your uniform if needed, though they should give you *another* one.”

Pressing his palm and the cloth to the wound, he looked to them again. Communication was going to be a little difficult, but he’d try.

“I have never *met* one of your kind before, but I shall *do* my best to heal you. You are *welcome* to stay the night.” His tone was kind, hoping they felt better than they had before he’d started caring for them. “I *often* stay here overnight due to insomnia. I will not disturb your *rest* if you should like to stay.” He adjusted the cloth, taking another look at the cut, suspecting it might need stitches.

If nothing else, they have learned that they are expected to eat the food that they are given, and though their dexterity in their uninjured arm leaves much to be desired in their current state, they attempt to fulfil that expectation. Though they don’t immediately know what to make of the juice box, they parse the lazy slosh of liquid inside and pull and ear of the box up and out — It opens with a quiet rip. The edge is placed to their lips for a slow drag. They are a model patient otherwise; Unmoving, unflinching, not complaining when their sleeve is torn free.

The man, the nurse moves with purpose and precision, though not as exacting as when their kin did replairs; He prods along, clearly feeling out how to proceed as opposed to knowing, bone-deep. The biscuit remains untouched, for now, the morph primarily occupied with the juice box. Even in the dim light, they can make out an image of an apple drawn on the side. Golden eyes peer down at it, then at the man, dimly curious. They do not need the uniform mended, and so they shake their head in response. A moment of silence lapses.

one of your kind. So quickly had this human parsed their inhuman nature and taken it in remarkable stride, confessing even his ignorance to their existence prior. Many fear morphs, especially across Elibe, but here, they have had a number of people encounter them without fear. This man was the oddest of all, faced with their very ichor, the thickness of their hide, and yet he is trying to repair them with a care only Lord Nergal had shown them before... Albeit without the familiarity, of a creator, of a god. He fears, true, but does not fear them.

What, then, does he fear? What a quandry.

Another nod, agreeing to stay. Though they remain weak and ravenous for quintessence to hurry their mending along, they are in no state to do so until the breakage is no longer actively leaking. His immediate presence means little to them— Not now, but after. This man is choosing to fix them instead of leave or break them. That alone...

Their throat rumbles. Their tongue presses to the roof of their mouth, sounding out the one phrase that they still have practiced... But they are sapped, drained. They simply let their head droop slightly, visibly letting down their guard, further down that in had already been in the midst of their weakness. A pale hand cups their juicebox protectively. Gratitude remains uncertain and unvoiced, but in this moment, they are even more docile than a tamed dove.

[beholdenning]

in the blackest night // zelkov + denning

elusivia​:

Zelkov rarely slept before 3 AM. It was both a blessing and a curse. Extra time for his work or hobbies was welcome into his schedule, passions burning through every spare minute. When work was too bountiful- well, it never was, not when he would dedicate all he had to into his duties.

He didn’t expect anyone to come by on such an otherwise quiet night, but he raised his eyes from his book, catching sight of the figure in the doorway of the infirmary.

Drip.

Blood, it must be. They needed assistance. Whether they knew he was available or not was irrelevant. They were there, and in his care.

“Pardon me, it appears you are *injured.*” Zelkov hoped not to startle his most recent patient, approaching them carefully. He laid a tentative hand on their uninjured shoulder, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the low light of the corridor, everything so dim the bloodstains on their clothes seemed black. “I can clean and *bandage* that for you, it’s no trouble. I am often *awake* at these hours.”

Not taking no for an answer, Zelkov guided them into the slightly better lit infirmary, the main source coming from Zelkov’s reading lamp. He focused his attention on the stains and the wound that seemed to be in the tricep area, looking to gauge how deep it was, what all healing he needed to do…

No, he’d been wrong.

It was not that dimness had made their blood appear black. It was black as ink, and the wound not bleeding as much as Zelkov would have assumed. Possibilities raced through his mind and his eyes latched onto the other’s eyes with concern. Only his training kept him calm, even as he spoke rapidly.

“Have you been poisoned? I have never seen something *quite* like this. If you need an antidote I can help, but I need to *know* what’s going on.” Already, he was reaching for a cloth to at least get it cleaned.

The shadow darts out at them from the infirmary, but Denning hardly even has the presence of body to react. Everything passes a bit like sluggish oil, like growling hunger, so that even the man — For yes, the shadow is a man — And his concerned tone nearly rolls off their ordinarily attentive senses. Had this been an ambush, they would have been easily decommissioned, they cannot help but think.

They recall the last time they had taken such a blow — Ostia, and stone, and steel, the air thick with the pull of life defiant, in life as in death. That had kept them going, kept them sharp, that constant source to draw from. Here, they have nothing. The injury is deep, splitting open the morph's hide; There is little texture to where there normally would be sinew, fat, tissue, the inside eerily hollow.

Where is that bear? (Its essence is long gone, surely, but it is all they can think of.)

Despite vague impulses, vague goals in mind, Denning shows little resistance to the guiding, the moving. The man — The nurse, his touch is methodical in a way that falls into place in their memories. The morph had seldom been subject to anything quite as meticulous, even after being picked up by the Church — The last to give them such care were the morphs (numbered, not named) tasked to maintenance. Before even that, it was Lord Nergal. The Church had mostly seen that Denning was not injured, albeit not in a presentable state, and thought little of making sure they were human. Not that they had reason to.

It did not even occur to them until the other startles that that was likely for the better; Though made to mimic humans, they saw precious little need to reveal nor hide their nature as a construct. There is a quickness even in his strange inflection that speaks towards urgency, towards fear, that is... Odd. What is there to fear? This man could easily subdue them in this state.

"Ah," A rudimentary vocalisation, as their hands flex. They have been spoken to. They should speak in return. Gold meets gold; An empty glow meeting a matte finish. Their left arm responds sluggishly, but it responds, their right can flex the fingers, but would not lift and hardly bend. They will make do.

"no poison," They form the vital half of the gesture for poison, an open palm with the middle finger stretched downwards, motioning like a pestle without a mortar, as they shake their head slowly. They let out a rattling imitation-breath as they scramble for spoken words, before again performing half a gesture — A pointed finger, twisting inwards, 'injured'. A falling hand against their chest, before tracing down their throat. "tired. hungry."