A mural danced across the wall of the apartment's living room: Avuli'Maharielle Guhari'Eba's grandmother, the Queen Fortuita, flying atop the two-headed dragon, The Savaging Brightclaw, before her coronation. That the same Queen had disowned and banished the co-owner of the house for marrying a human was not lost to the Antidotter. Nor was her presence there, considering Vuli and the nephew she'd grown up with barely got along at the best of times. The former observation was perplexing, where the latter, needed no rumination. Simply put, her being there, meant she wasn't at Ethamawe'Dasalo city's western docks, welcoming back the droves of Malady Elves, mostly warriors and hostages, who had survived Engawamri's war, back home after centuries off-continent. Her being there meant she wasn't welcoming him back. The subject of her greatest failure. Akesundria could manage the incomers, At least until she knew why Tembera wanted to talk to her, until she'd stowed enough courage from within her soul to face again the one whom she'd betrayed. Vuli's eyes stayed on the animated painting as the Banished Elf entered the room, and to make matters worse, he wasn't alone. Through her periphery, she could see a woman, and a red-haired girl taller than both of her parents by a quarter feet standing between them. The aura of the first two, near clean for people in a normal environment. Their twenty-six year old daughter's, however...
The darkest greenish purple.
Vuli stood from the white, plush chair the eldest son had offered to her, smoothed out her muted-green healer's robes, and focused on the man she hadn't seen in a quarter-century, and the gray strands forming in his shoulder-length, auburn hair which were definitely not there back then. When an elven decided to bond their soul with one among the mortal races, it carried with it a risk: their lifespan would either be cut by a half, or be shortened even further to the point where they could grow old and die with their bond-mates. The Antidotter didn't know which one was worse. Would rather leave the argument to the Philosophers. Her nephew, dead by the turning of the century. She couldn't imagine letting herself lose all that time. Wanted to ask him how it felt. Could tell he knew she wanted to ask. Leverage for him. They both stayed standing and silent, however, watching and waiting for the other to speak. A dance as old as their civilization itself, taught to them by his mother Nera. In that, at least, they were still similar. She could feel the annoyance of the humans in the room. Leverage for her. One minute. Two minutes. Three.
"How long is this going to take?" Red-hair mumbled.
"Quiet, Cava," her mother answered.
Sweat underneath Vuli's age-mate's brow. Four minutes. The Half-Elven leaned into her mother and started to cough. The Green-Purple aura radiated by her bliss started a dull glow, and a father broke, reaching for his daughter, calling out her name, and losing the dance.
Hand on the white chair's back-rest, Vuli aimed her gaze at the flying Queen on the wall and listened as the loud coughs grew quieter and quieter.
Cava's brother Usola led her out of the room. "I thought she was a healer?" The mother yelled out at her husband, dark-skinned hand pointing toward the Antidotter.
Eyes widening, she finally uncovered what made the motion painting so uncanny. When compared to the rest of his body, one of Brightclaw's heads was definitely bigger in the mural than on the real dragon. "You know what kind of Healer I am, human," Vuli glanced. "Know what I would have to do to heal a single coughing fit. Is this your work, Bera?" She pointed at the mural.
"Uso's," was all he said before turning to his wife, lowering her arm and brushing his hand down the sleeve of her Red blouse until he was holding her hand. A second later, she threw it away from her, backing a step. Vuli got the sense that what was happening had nothing to do with her. Was it the stress of worry over a sick child or had Bera lymphed up in a monumental way? The Antidotter's instinct was telling her to go with the latter. "You should go make sure Cava is alright. I'll handle my cousin."
She breathed in. "Good idea," the mother started walking to the exit, stopping when she reached the door and turning to gaze at the Healer. "I'm sorry. I am. Please, just hear him out."
Once she left, Vuli considered remaining quiet. Seeing who broke the second time round. A rematch for the ages. "Trouble in paradise, Umsheja?" She asked, instead.
He gripped his forearm through the long sleeve of his gray t-shirt, that old fracture making itself known, and stepped toward her. "Nothing we can't handle."
"Did you tell your son the head is a little off," Vuli pointed at the dragon. "Feel like it's something he should know."
He stood next to her, gazing at it, the strong scent of cedar wood which hung around him almost throwing her into a coughing fit. "Didn't have the heart. Sela did, however. But he chose to let it stay that way. Artistic expression."
"Better hope Dula'Nivai doesn't pass through here anytime soon."
"It's been three decades. And she likes her grudges. I'm dead to her."
"Don't think the Old Queen has it in her to write off someone related to her, banishment notwithstanding," She countered.
"Banishment is writing someone off."
"Not if she leaves you a city on the continent, however small. If you were dead to her, you would be just that. Dead."
Glancing at the window on the opposite wall, he scratched at the green horn atop his ear-tip. "You know, I had written you off. Your coming to this city was the news of the entire northern coast. Yet message after message asking for an audience went by unanswered. Why, Vuli?"
