Kvasir Sigurros no longer remembers the last time he celebrated Hearth Day.

It must have been back in the days when his eyes both still shined green, in the days when he roamed the White Sand Sea as though it was an extension of home and not a death sentence, in the days when the stitches that held him together were still wound tight and untouched by divine teeth, back when he had someone to hold and be held by, when he still had people who called him family without a moment of hesitation. The years all blur together into a mass of gold, but he remembers patchwork pieces: the sharp herbal echo of arak on his tongue as Mehr spun him around in a tipsy whirl of a dance, Sariya's faint smile as she'd watch them collapse in the sand together, oasis water and flower petals and cords of color.

They're just mere fragments, now, jagged shards of glass that do not fit together the way they should, gaps set in place between that he has no idea how to fill, but scattered as they are, the bittersweetness they carry floods freely over him all the same. Somewhere in those mismatched pieces, there is finality-- there is a last celebration, a last dance, and he aches with the fact that he no longer knows which one it was.

The years that came after are a little clearer, though. Kvasir remembers traveling during Hearth Day celebrations, remembers seeing decorations all in gentle pastels, gifts of all kinds advertised at markets, meant to appeal to any loved ones in your life. He remembers the ache of that, too.

It is strange now to stand beneath pale pink lanterns and patterned ribbons and all other sorts of things and feel something other than remorse for all he'd lost, something other than envy for the joy other could have that he could not. It is strange to stand in the heart of a celebration of closeness and be a part of it instead of standing on the outskirts, but oh, it is not a bad kind of strange.

Eclipse City is alive on this evening, stars gleaming brilliantly overhead in a tapestry of nebulae and night and moondust, with shining lights and shining people and joy thrumming in the air, and yet, Kvasir Sigurros has eyes for one shining thing alone out in these streets.

It has been a while since Kvasir has gotten to savor Morrigan Moonweaver's company outside of work-- usually what brings them together nowadays are Consortium missions or chance or other such things. It... feels like it's been ages since he's been able to sit down and simply enjoy a day out with his beloved enchanter the way he once could, back when they were still new to each other and could merely have fun, back before Kasra reared his head and Morrigan made their promise and Kvasir fell so hopelessly in love with them and all they are and all they've said they'll do. But now they're here, several days' worth of travel away from the Desert Rose, away from the Consortium, away from gods and monsters, and it will be as wonderful as those early, carefree days were.

It is a dream, really, to spend Hearth Day with Morrigan. He can't help but wonder if it brings them the same joy.

"So, my dear diviner," Kvasir says, idly twirling a strand of hair that had come loose from his braid around his finger, carefully dodging eye contact as they settle on the side of the square to plan. "Is there anywhere in particular you were wanting to go tonight?"

It was safe to say that Hearth’s Day was Morrigan Moonweaver’s favorite holiday - but perhaps not for the reason people would normally assume. Or, for those who knew of their true nature, for exactly the reasons one might assume. A creature of vanity to the core, bred from a youth of being nothing but detestably average, they adored the attention that came with being a public figure, the chocolates and flowers and offerings that fell in their wake come every year when the holiday was upon them. Love letters from admiring fans once made up a substantial portion of their mail. The wizard was loved in Zeinav, and, oh, they drank it up as if adoration were their lifeblood and idolization the fuel that became the ichor making up the false god they’d built themselves to be.

I wonder what that person would think if they saw me now, they thought idly, tail swishing behind them as they pranced next to Kvasir Sigurros through swaths of pink ribbon and flowers in an entirely unfamiliar city, far away from Zeinav City. That Morrigan had left the fame behind in favor of spending the day with a friend instead. Admittedly, Kvasir was not just any friend - somehow, when Morrigan wasn’t looking, he’d wormed his way into becoming Morrigan’s closest companion, someone that Morrigan had trusted, protected, sacrificed for. To be honest, Morrigan couldn’t even begin to imagine how the person they were a year ago would react if they saw Morrigan now - dressed down for once in a cloak adorned in silver stars, and their hair pinned up with less clasps than usual - giving up a chance to endear themselves to the masses and live the part of the legend for a day… and be happy about it.

A lot had happened in the past few months. So much had changed. Morrigan had changed, somehow. They weren’t sure what it meant for them, or what this transformation held, but just as they could not begrudge the butterfly its time spent in the chrysalis, Morrigan could only watch and wait as their heart began to wrap itself in silk, hesitant to watch what might emerge.

It was an uncomfortable feeling.

They weren’t quite sure what had come over them that made them so introspective today. Maybe it was that strange encounter they’d had with that weird roadside apothecary on the journey here, one Morrigan had stopped at while looking for a gift to bring to Kvasir because they obviously couldn’t show up to this outing emptyhanded on a day about love! The witch had all manner of magical items, but there was one power she had that intrigued Morrigan the most… the ability to bind someone’s heart to a ring. It sounded like a tacky crock of horseshit straight out of Ginma’s behind. Exactly the kind of thing Morrigan would do to make a quick buck and pawn off some jewelry at the same time. But… they couldn’t help but be curious. They’d been meaning to pick up new jewelry for Kvasir, and this seemed the perfect gift, and a way to humor a fellow patron of their art - the scam.

But then, when she’d brought them into a back room and performed some kind of ‘spell’, she’d been oddly disappointed when she examined the band.

Oh… is this it?

What’s that supposed to mean?

Oh, nothing. It is simply… pretty, but ultimately useless. Whoever you’re giving this away to had better love you an awful lot if they’re going to keep it, she’d said before handing Morrigan a plain silver band decorated with nothing but crescent moon bands and a small pearl in the center, curling their fingers over the still-cooling metal as if she couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. Keep it, on the house.

There was pity in her voice when she said that.

Honestly, as confused as Morrigan had been, they’d only left there feeling even more reassured that it was just some sort of weird scam or mind game. After all, what ring that was meant to resemble their own soul would ever be so plain and disappointing? They sure as hell wouldn’t keep it, and it was too embarrassing to give to Kvasir. The medic deserved nothing but the finest pieces of jewelry, one that Morrigan was determined to find here in Eclipse City for him. And so the ring sat heavy in their pocket, nestled in a velvet bag, where it would never see the light of day, never reached Kvasir’s hands. Yes, they would simply find something worthy of Kvasir while they were out today.

They clasped their hands behind their back, the picture of innocence as Kvasir asked where they wanted to go. He looked lovely today, they thought - brighter than he had in a long time, as if some of the frigid ice that had clung to him since, well, that nasty encounter in the World’s Crown had finally begun to melt away at the prospect of showing Morrigan his home.

And gods, Morrigan was excited.

They may not have been able to compare to Mehr, his holy greatness from the white sand sea - whom Morrigan was certain Kvasir would much rather be spending their time with on a day like today - but they were giddy at the prospect of seeing everything from Kvasir’s eyes today.

“I want to see your favorite places.” They said after a moment’s thought.

It would make good material for their collection of stories, after all.

There is something different about Morrigan Moonweaver today-- it is hard to say what, hard to look through a garden of stars and pick out the ones that sparkle a little less or more, but there is something different about them all the same, something that goes deeper than the way they wear their hair or the dark fabric and starry patterns of their clothes. Kvasir knows them well, knows the way they usually smile and the way light usually settles in those glacial-blue eyes, knows their exuberance and brilliance and contagious luminosity, and on this evening they are a distant star, still burning beautifully, yet... softer, pensive, pulsing gently with something Kvasir cannot decipher.

He knows, logically, that he is likely thinking too much into things, agonizing over every tiny detail because of the nature of the day and the nature of this place, this entire outing heavy with a meaning neither of them dare to speak. His nerves are frayed and worn, on edge with the ambiguity of all that lies between them, and now he can't help but trace over the minutiae in search of answers he isn't going to get. It's irrational, truly and wholly irrational, to agonize over it this way, but...

...but it is... difficult not to.

Kvasir swallows down the urge to sigh. It isn't the time to sit and sift through things that could be greater signs and yet could also be nothing-- Morrigan has given their answer, and now Kvasir needs to pull himself together, stop worrying, and be a good guide, show them through the streets he used to visit when he was young, show them bits and pieces of the things he loved before.

"My favorite places," he hums quietly, thoughtfully, already sifting through possible places they could go. In truth, Kvasir had never loved the city the way he loved the woods-- he does have those hazy memories of clinging to his father's hand and scurrying along beside him as they walked, memories of tripping over his own tail onto star-sparkling cobblestones, memories of flattening his ears against his skull in the hopes that it would stave away the song of the city, chatter and footsteps, vendors advertising, doors swinging open and shut, seagull cry and boat-screech and all those other messy pieces of an inevitably messy lattice.

And yet... there's a fondness for that fenced off little garden sequestered behind an old apothecary he used to visit all the time, a lingering joy for the tea shop his father used to take him to before they'd travel back home, nostalgia for that quiet corner beneath the Moonlit Docks that no one seemed to care for, where seashells sometimes washed up and he could sit and watch the ocean and write stories in his head about all the things that laid beneath its azure waves. There's that multicultural bakery that he isn't sure is around anymore, where sometimes if they had enough money they'd stop and buy a few things: a slice of carrot cake for his father, chocolate-covered oranges for himself, and-- ...

Something for... someone.

He isn't sure who.

"...well, where do I start?" Kvasir manages, shoving his confusion aside for a moment so he can force a little laugh. He knows Morrigan will see right through it, knows there's no point to it to begin with, but he refuses to let his hazy mind ruin what is mean to be a lovely night. Kasra will have no power tonight, and if Kvasir has to drown him out in faux giggles and aggressive assertion, so be it. "Oh, there's this community garden I loved when I was little-- it's beautiful when the sun starts setting. We could start there..."

He trails off, briefly, the words escaping him as he continues watching Morrigan's face, continues watching the way they look at him, as if they're hanging on to his every word, as if he is the brilliant storyteller and they're his steadfast audience. It's enough to warrant a sheepish chuckle-- a real one, this time-- and...

And perhaps a little bit of bravery.

"...Come with me," he says with a smile, extending his hand just a little shyly, as if they're still strangers and not friends who have dodged death's swing together. "I'll lead you there."

Kvasir's heart soars as soon as Morrigan takes his hand, their fingers locking into place beside his as if they belong there, as if they have always belonged there. He gives their hand a gentle squeeze, sweeping his thumb in a circle over the back of their hand, before slowly starting to lead them in the direction of that garden, their pace unhurried and easy despite how rapidly Kvasir's heart sings in his chest, a hummingbird fluttering against a cage of bone.

For this moment, for this night, everything feels... right, righter than it has felt in ages.

He won't let anything unravel it.

-ꕤꕥꕤ-

"Hey, dad-- isn't that...?"

Morrigan almost regretted the question, as all of a sudden, Kvasir’s gaze grew unfocused, with that sort of vaguely, frustrated look he got sometimes when he couldn’t quite recall something but thought he should be able to. Morrigan was getting more versed in spotting when those moments happened. Oh, he tried to hide it, smooth away his frustration at the godly influence that had scarred his life and ruined his ability to recall simple facts. The look on his face, momentarily defeated before he replied, only hardened Morrigan’s resolve to take in every sight and sensation of this garden, note them all down so Kvasir would be able to reread them and recall them with clarity whenever he forgot again.

Morrigan’s grip tightened on the strap of their bag.

Yes, where Kasra was determined to take the memories out of Kvasir’s head until there was nothing left but thoughts of hourglasses and buried tombs under the white sand sea, Morrigan was even more determined to shove them back into Kvasir’s head and ensured they stuck. Kvasir Sigurros might have convinced himself that the will of a god was unbreakable, but Morrigan was inclined to disagree. Resolve was paper-thin when you were simply used to getting everything you wanted. Morrigan didn’t care what kind of fall from grace Kasra had suffered. He’d never known what it was like to claw one’s way up from hell.

He claimed to know pain, but it was impossible for a deity to comprehend loss. And more importantly, the dead should stay dead, where they belonged.

Oh, but today was not about him. Hearth’s day was meant to be about love, a sentiment that Kasra did not deserve. He was gone, irrelevant. He did not matter. What was more important was this garden, and the chance to create new memories out of a place that Kasra had tried to bury. With a flourish and gusto in an attempt to reclaim their usual flippant, larger than life energy, Morrigan spread their arms out, tail flicking behind them as they cried, “Then to the garden we go! I want to see all the finest that Eclipse City has to offer!”

And then Kvasir stepped closer, grabbing Morrigan’s hand in his own.

Morrigan was nowhere near as flustered by the action as Kvasir himself seemed to be - a leap of courage for him was merely simple contact for the charlatan. They showed their affections easily, clinging to whoever they could, and that was especially egregious for Kvasir, who was often the unwilling recipient of Morrigan’s touchy-feely inclinations. But as Kvasir held steadfast to their hand, an anchor in this sea of couples, a thought occurred to them, that this had been the first time Kvasir had initiated contact with them since the World’s Crown.

Huh. That was a funny feeling in their chest.

Morrigan’s tail flitted behind them at an even more rapid pace, tucked behind them where neither they nor Kvasir could properly see it as the two walked. They gripped Kvasir’s hand tightly, allowing the skin-to-skin contact to keep his hand warm and ward off the chill in the air, winter’s last grip on the weather before giving away to spring. Baby-pink petals from trees and strung bouquets fluttered through the air, magical lights suspended in the sky to guide their path. Morrigan followed Kvasir’s lead, having no idea where they were going, and simply content to follow the scenery.

They could see where Kvasir had gained his love of Flora from. Eclipse City was so different from Zeinav, where the sun was an ever-present lord, and not much life grew from the sands save the most hardened plants. Here, life seemed easy… almost overabundant, growing from every crack in the ground and free space along the walls. Not unlike the life and magic that seemed to flow so easily from Kvasir himself. Morrigan watched it all with wide eyes, light sparkling as the lights reflected off their face, dancing like fireflies. It was the Lantern Light Wood again in all its beauty, magnified to another level, and they drank it all up, next to the very person that these forests had brought to Morrigan.

They turned to Kvasir with a look of almost child-like wonder on their face, mind already churning as to how they might alchemically synthesize such lights and plants to bring back home to the Desert Rose. Perhaps that piece of home might bring Kvasir something to smile about… and Nyr, as well. Morrigan still wasn’t sure where Kvasir had picked that kid up from, but from the way he looked at everything with wide, uncertain eyes, Morrigan was pretty sure he’d never seen anything like this before. That was kind of sad if they thought about it - that wherever Nyr had crawled from, he hadn't seen anything of the world, but was intimately familiar with its cruelty.

Morrigan understood what that kind of sheltered upbringing was like.

They supposed he could use a piece of that wonder in his life, too.

Idly, still lost in thought on how to bring Eclipse City's plants to the apothecary, Morrigan asked, “Does it always look this beautiful, or have they gussied it up for Hearth’s Day?”

Ever since that first meeting they had beneath the pale pink glow of the flowers of the Lantern Light Wood, Kvasir has traveled countless different places with Morrigan Moonweaver by his side. They've wandered the streets of Zeinav City together innumerable times, scaled Mount Drakolt, traversed through forests and valley and brittle mountain with none but the other for company, to the point where it all almost starts to blur together. And yet, out of all of those journeys together, Kvasir doesn't think they've ever had one like this-- one so aimless and leisurely and affectionate, one where he can do something like hold onto Morrigan's hand and walk by their side as though this is some other life and other world where he could love them a little more freely.

Morrigan's hand is warm, strangely so considering the lingering breath of winter still clinging to the air; their palm sits naturally against Kvasir's, the softness of their skin lingering, their pulse gentle as it thrums through their fingers, quiet proof that they are alive and content at his side, alive and content and holding his hand and walking beside him on a day meant for love. It is a strange thing to fixate on, perhaps, but considering Kvasir usually favors wearing gloves when he's out and about, this moment of skin against skin seizes his attention.

It's almost enough to distract him from navigating them toward the garden, even. Almost.

"Oh, they've definitely decorated the place more than usual," he says, taking a moment to glance around and take note of all of the flowers adorning everything, all the Lantern Light strings and ribbons and gentle sweeps of pastels, delicate and pretty where they all settle over the city and its fixtures. "It's always pretty, but... prettier than usual, for the holiday. It is lovely, isn't it?"

A fond sigh escapes Kvasir as he continues leading Morrigan down one of the quieter streets, down past a bookstore with a sleepy cat perched in the window, past a cafe he doesn't remember ever seeing before, past a few other shops with all manner of things, some of them familiar and some of them not. The entire time, he maintains that unhurried pace, happy just to let Morrigan drink in the sights Eclipse City has to offer, all the bundles of flowers and lights strung up everywhere for Hearth Day, the trellises of roses clinging to the sides of buildings, the architecture, the murals hidden in the alleys, the glitter hidden like stardust in the cobblestones of this street.

Seeing the way they look at everything, excitement and wonder settling so sweetly on their pretty face, sends a surge of joy through Kvasir's heart, sets his tail swaying back and forth as they both walk. It's lovely to see them smile at all, but to see them smile like this, as if every little thing they gaze upon is a marvel of its own... well, it's truly wonderful.

It doesn't take overly long from then to find that community garden, fenced off and kept behind that same apothecary Kvasir remembers. The gates are a stark black iron, woven in spiraling, ornate designs, forming filigree curling around metal flowers, left open to welcome in any curious passersby. He gently tugs at Morrigan's hand, leading them through the gateway, over the painted cobblestone pathway, all a star-speckled purple, an artist's mirror to the unrivaled view of the Moonglade night skies.

The path winds through the garden in a short loop, past all manner of plants; the ghost of winter still makes its mark, with few fruits or vegetables daring to poke through from tree or vine, but flowers bloom in defiance of the cold, a beautiful sea of cerulean and lilac and soft baby pink, as gentle as the colors adorning the city. A brilliant marble fountain sits at the heart of the garden, water flowing readily over its carved tiers, the sound of it soothing.

"Well, here we are," Kvasir says with a smile, a wistful sigh spilling from his lips as he looks around. "It's not quite as vibrant as it usually is during rest of the year, but... I still can't help but love it. I was always fascinated by this place when I was little-- by the idea of a garden that all sorts of people came together to maintain... I just loved the idea of all of these people working to keep something alive because they loved it, I guess."

A soft chuckle follows the words, and then silence as he takes a few steps toward that fountain, his hand still holding onto Morrigan's, however loosely, in case they wish to wander.

"...You know, I'd... almost forgotten this place," he admits quietly. "It's nice to--"

"Kvasir?"

He freezes.

That voice--

"Kvasir Samannaz Sigurros!"

He can't help it; he swivels around, looking back to the gateway to the garden, and once more, he freezes on the spot.

Two people stand in the entryway to the community garden. One is a young woman a fair few years older than Kvasir himself, with eyes that shine like turquoise and hair like a midnight sky, falling in careful waves down just past her shoulders, dressed all in rich purples and blues and whites, in clinking jewelry and furs. The other is an older man, clearly middle-aged, with greying hair and soft blue eyes and concern settling into the lines of his face. Worry of two wildly different kinds flashes in their eyes, and-- and the all-too-familiar traits of fox's ears and tails merge easily with the rest of their features.

Oh.

Oh.

Kvasir opens his lips to speak but not a single word comes out, no syllables springing to life on his tongue, no sound even coming to life in his throat. His voice fails him. Oxygen fails him.

"Oh, you-- Kvasir, what the hell?!" the woman cries as she marches over, indignation painted all over her face, though it does little to hide the worry tucked beneath it. "Four years! Four!!! Years!!! No letters, no visits, no wedding invitations, zero, zilch, nada--"

"Sindri--"

"Dad told me allllll about you running off to Zeinav to go marry some desert warrior, but then you go and disappear on us without a word!" The woman huffs, her hands planted firmly on her hips, blue flame burning in her gaze, only kindling brighter as her attention flits between Kvasir and Morrigan, a swirl of confusion added to the inferno. "Oh-- who's this? Oh! Dammit! I've got so many questions for you--!"

"Sindri!"

The woman jolts, whirling around to face the older man as he walks up to join them, her endless stream of angry babbling intercepted in her throat. She stares blankly for a moment before folding her arms and huffing once more, grumbling something indiscernible beneath her breath as she steps to the side, and then Kvasir Sigurros looks his father in the eye for the first time in nine years.

"...Kvasir," Austri Sigurros repeats, his voice softer, haunted, almost, like he can't believe what he's seeing. He swallows. "I... Hey."

"...Hey," Kvasir finally manages back, his own voice hoarse, desperate to keep himself from trembling. "...It's, um. It's been a while, Dad. I-- ...Hey."

Austri stares at him for a moment, those blue eyes dark with something Kvasir cannot parse as he looks him over, his brow furrowing as his gaze lingers against white strands working through black, against the flower shrouding one eye from view, against the person who is most certainly not Mehr Mirzadeh standing at Kvasir's side, and he falters for a moment that lasts for an eternity and yet--

"...It's good to see you, son," he says with a feeble smile before looking to Morrigan. "I don't believe the two of us have met. I'm Kvasir's father. Who might you be?"

“It is.” Morrigan found themselves agreeing. “The desert will always be my first love, but… I can see why you miss this place so.” Why Kvasir tucked little bits and pieces of Eclipse City away into every available space of the Apothecary.

When they reached the garden, Morrigan’s excitement only doubled - lattice gateways served as a flower-adorned portal to another world, a private corner of the city covered by cobblestone pathways and ivy-colored walls. Flower arrangements in all the colors under the sun, carefully cultivated with expert florist’s hands. An artform in of itself, painted with petals and multicolored produce. Morrigan did not let go of Kvasir’s hand, gently running their fingers through the brush as the two passed under the gate, until they came upon a ripe-looking pomegranate nestled in the leafage.

They wondered if Kvasir had ever spent his youth here, covered up to his elbows in dirt while he tended to the greenery with the very same care he showed while maintaining the gardens in the Apothecary. Truth be told, they didn’t see the appeal of a community garden - they weren’t too keen on sharing. Taking care of a space with morons with no eye for the finer things in life felt more like a nightmare than a dream… but given how loved this space clearly was, they wanted to try to understand for Kvasir’s sake.

“Considering the abyssal state of the public gardens in Zeinav, this is the most lively place I’ve ever seen.” They admitted with a playful smirk. The only kind of gardens they had were made of rock and cactus. This was an entirely different level. The smile slowly slid off their face when Kvasir mentioned, slowly, hesitantly, that even his recollection of this spot had begun to wane. They opened their mouth, ready to promise that they would commit this place to memory for the both of them, describe it in vivid detail in an attempt to paint a picture of this time and place - what was the point of being a storyteller if they couldn’t even accomplish this much?- when they heard the woefully familiar name spoken in an entirely unfamiliar voice, and.

Oh.

It was difficult not to make the connection instantly, not when both older man and younger woman bore the very same vulpine ears that looked so striking on Morrigan’s companion. The same midnight-black hair, beginning to go gray at the temples in the older man, and a plethora of colors and fabrics on the younger lady in the same elaborately-elegant manner Kvasir dressed. There was no doubt about it - Kvasir’s family was here in the flesh, not just the ghosts of a fondly spoken memory or a barely-remembered story.

They were real, and here, and looked besides themselves with worry…

And Kvasir had a sister.

A sister he clearly wasn’t even aware of himself even as she screamed at him, years of fear and uncertainty pouring out in her accusations, oblivious to the blank look in his eyes, void of any spark of recognition but bearing every ounce of the heartbreak and guilt, and for once, Morrigan felt at an utter loss for words. They felt like an outsider looking in, even as the spirited young woman’s- Sindri’s- attention turned to them, no doubt wondering about why Mehr was not here in their place.

… How long had it been since Kvasir spoke to his family?

Vaguely, they were aware that Kvasir was not in contact with them. How could he, when he’d made it his mission to isolate himself from everyone around him for their own perceived safety? It had taken a hell of a lot of convincing for him to understand that Morrigan wasn’t going anywhere. Friends were one thing. But family was meant to be this big, sacred concept, one that Morrigan didn’t quite understand, so they’d cast away. But it was clear from the way that Kvasir spoke about his father, few and far between those instances were, he clearly cared deeply about the man. Idolized him.

It felt wrong.

There was an undercurrent of tension in the air as Kvasir greeted his father, the light that had glimmered in his eyes suddenly dimmed in an attempt to make himself appear smaller, desperately attempting to keep the uncertain wobble out of his voice. With all the weariness in the world, Kvasir’s father heaved a sigh, turning to Morrigan before introducing himself with a small smile, eyes still lingering on Kvasir, still not entirely convinced what he was seeing was real.

And.

Hmm.

Truly, how was Morrigan meant to respond? How did one handle the nervous attentions of a worried father and a manic sister? Kaivalya had been an only child - couldn’t risk trying again when the first came out so utterly broken - and their experience with Payekha Hridyanshu had been brief. The man had never made much of an attempt to get to know Kaivalya, not when bonding meant getting close to someone who was likely to be killed by raiders or simply die in their sleep. But he didn’t matter. He was unnecessary.

Family was unnecessary.

Every instinct in Morrigan’s body was screaming at them to grab Kvasir and run, to pull him away from this horrible situation that was clearly causing him so much distress. Who needed family, when they reacted like this? Smothering, worried, overbearing?

… Kvasir needed his family.

He was not Morrigan. For all he tried to push them away, he needed people, needed this man who called himself Kvasir’s father.

Morrigan forced their shoulders to relax, the tension coiled in their muscles where they still clutched Kvasir’s hand in an iron grip slowly uncoiling, a snake deciding against striking. They patted Kvasir’s hand briefly before pulling away, taking a step closer to his father and sister. Their tail flicked behind them thoughtfully, taking in Mr. Sigurros’s appearance, still endlessly tired, and Sindri’s, anger still simmering under the surface.

The situation re quired tact.

Too bad Morrigan had none.

But they would at least give it an honest attempt.

They held their hand out for Mr. Sigurros to shake, speaking without their usual fanfare or theatrics. The result was quite odd, but it was obvious that they were trying. “I’m Morrigan Moonweaver. Kvasir has told me a lot about you… but it pales in comparison to meeting the real person. I’m glad to finally be able to put a face to the name.”

Reality is not something Kvasir has the most stable of relationships with.

He does not know how much time has slipped through his fingers, ground into sand and cast to the wind by the uncaring hands of the Archivist King, but he knows it is a significant amount, days and months and years alike carved out with haphazard cuts, no concern for consistency or meaning as long as something falls apart. He does not remember simple things: he knows he had a mother, once, but he cannot recall her name or face, merely that she existed and that he thinks he loved her. He knows he grew up in a little cottage in the woods, but he does not know the forest, does not know the address or the village it was nearest to. He knows he has a middle name, but up until this moment, he had not been able to remember it.

Those vestiges of knowledge cling to his mind like seafoam, skeletons of things he should know but cannot. Beneath those tumultuous waves there is more, too, more that he has lost and does not know he has, more gaps that the God of Remains has torn open in his mind, shadows of things buried beneath the perfect blue of the waves. It is rare that any of those things ever get to resurface once they sink too deep.

He has a sister. He has an older sister, one who feels wildly and brilliantly and makes no secret about it, and as Kvasir searches those turquoise eyes for something familiar, he can feel himself wading through the sea, feel the ocean itself pulling at him, taunting him, as though daring him to try and reclaim what it has taken.

Morrigan's hand is locked around his own in an iron grip, the press of their fingers against his skin grounding, his one and only anchor to land, the one thing keeping his head above the surface of those suffocating waves. Kvasir has to fight off the urge to shrink away, to press himself against Morrigan's side, to bury his face in their shoulder and hide away as if it'll make the reality of what lies before him fade away-- as comforting as it would feel, he... he knows better than to do such a thing, knows better than to try and cover his eye when something as vast and significant as this falls before him.

So he squeezes Morrigan's hand, albeit gently, letting his fingertips linger against their skin for but a moment before his companion withdraws. All he can do is watch himself watch them approach his father and sister with none of their usual bravado, their mannerisms quiet, understated-- there is no glitter or grandiosity, no stream of titles, nothing, just a name and a statement and an offer of a handshake.

Kvasir watches his father glance over them for one more brief second before taking their hand in his and giving it a firm, polite shake, something steadier settling in his countenance as the seconds trickle by. The tired, but serene smile on his face reveals nothing-- Kvasir couldn't read what he's thinking if he tried.

"Morrigan Moonweaver," Austri repeats, nodding to himself. "It's good to meet you. I... I'm glad to hear you've heard anything of me. I sure hope it's all good things."

He manages a weak chuckle, though it comes across as forced, a desperate effort to ease the tension brewing in the air, the mass of questions both unasked and unanswered. As polite as his attempt is, the woman-- Sindri, her name is Sindri, and she is Kvasir's sister-- hardly seems impressed, her eyes narrowing just slightly as she glances between her father and her brother and the stranger standing before them, the equations not quite clicking in her head.

"Morrigan Moonweaver?" she-- Sindri, Sindri-- murmurs to herself, glancing at the cobblestones beneath her feet for all of a second before her gaze snaps right back up to the wizard. "A name is nice and all, but who exactly are you? You don't exactly look like a desert warrior to me--"

"Sindri--"

"You're not him, right? There's no way."

"Sindri, please."

There's a crack in Austri's voice as he glances toward his daughter, a quiet plea for her to choose her words a little more carefully, and as soon as she catches sight of it, she lets out another annoyed huff.

"...I was just asking," she grumbles, almost looking like she's considering kicking a stray pebble around like an angry child before her gaze lifts once more, though this time, it settles on Kvasir. "...You! You've been so quiet! C'mon, what are you doing back in the Moonglade? Why did you go silent on us for so long? By Solaria's sparkly abs, at least explain something!"

The look in her eyes is one of worry more than it is anything else, concern lurking in the cadence of her voice, and yet Kvasir cannot help but feel frozen for a moment longer beneath the gaze of a sister he does not recognize, beneath words spoken with such familiarity from a woman who feels like a stranger. He falters for a moment before stepping forward, standing by Morrigan's side once more, offering them the same beacon of stability they so often offer to him, his voice trembling just so as he speaks.

"...Morrigan Moonweaver is my dearest... friend," he says shakily, though the tremor in his voice irons out just a bit at the chance to talk about Morrigan, the chance to try and shed kind light upon them. "My favorite wizard, diviner, and storyteller in all of Charon. We've known each other for some time now. The two of us are... actually celebrating Hearth Day together, heh."

The silence that follows feels a bit too long, disbelief painting its way across Sindri's face in the midst of it before her shoulders tense and her spine straightens and she opens her mouth to speak again:

"You seduced a wizard, too?!"

"Sindri."

"What?! I'm right!"

"You haven't seen your brother in over a decade--" then, quieter, hushed. "He's been missing for years--"

"Yea, missing and getting bitches."

This... does not feel real. Not a word of this feels like a real conversation Kvasir Sigurros is witnessing, not a part of this feels like a real situation he is a part of, and yet it is and he is and all he can do is reach for Morrigan's free hand once more and watch in stunned silence as Sindri swivels once again to study Morrigan's face, tilting her head curiously, tail swishing back and forth as she drinks in the details.

"...sooo... Morrigan Moonweaver," she hums with interest. "What are you doing out on a Hearth Day date with my brother?"

“All good things, I assure you. Kvasir speaks very fondly of home.”

There was silence following Morrigan’s introduction and Kvasir’s father’s acceptance of their handshake. And perhaps, his hesitant acceptance of them, born from his desire to act as if everything about this was normal. This Sindri Sigurros had no such reservations, immediately sizing Morrigan up, every bit what Morrigan thought an overprotective sister ought to be like. There was still hurt in her eyes, glancing back at Kvasir who still looked utterly confused, and growing distraught as he began to put the pieces together. Realized what he’d once had that had been ripped from his fractured mind.

In that moment Morrigan wanted nothing more than to run their fingers through his hair and assure him that everything would be okay.

But Sindri Sigurros was still observing them with a critical eye, and it was all Morrigan could do not to straighten their posture and make sure their hair looked presentable. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, still trying to figure out where Morrigan fit into everything, comparing them to Mehr, and Morrigan began to feel even hopelessly more like an outsider in this reunion, Sindri’s demand for answers and her father’s pleas for her to calm.

“Ah.” They muttered, tone suddenly sour for the briefest moment - covered up with another award-winning smile. They would play nice here. For Kvasir’s sake. They dipped low into a bow for Sindri, and it was a testament to how much Morrigan held Kvasir in fond regard that it was not accompanied with its usual glitter. “My apologies, Lady Sindri. I am not Mehr… though I hail from the same country. I…”

They glanced back at Kvasir for help, who seemed to have finally gathered the courage to speak once more. His voice was trembling, nervous as a fluttering hummingbird, but gaining strength the more he spoke. They could not help but smile and fiddle with a stray strand of their hair when he mentioned their Hearth’s Day plans, unbidden. Both father and daughter fell silent at his explanation, unbelieving that after ten years of silence, his homecoming was hailed by something as mundane as a Hearth’s Day celebration.

And then-

“Excuse you, how do you know it was not I who did the seducing?” Morrigan gasped in disbelief before they could catch themselves. What did she know? Morrigan had endless charisma, capable of charming the hearts of even the most impenetrable fortresses… who wouldn’t look at them and assume that they were capable of sweeping Kvasir off his feet? Was it because they dressed down for this occasion? They knew the cloak had been a mistake, they should have gone with the sheer slip and the gown, that would have knocked Sindri Sigurros off her high horse. “I’ll have you know that I am fully capable of getting as many bitches as I want - wait, that’s not the point. We’re not even together!”

Why in the world did people keep assuming that? First Astrid Stormstone, now this…

The inquisitive look that suddenly overtook her face was achingly similar to Kvasir’s own.

… And what the hell was Morrigan supposed to say to convince her that they were not together? “We are…” Morrigan hummed, tapping at their chin in the few seconds of silence while their brain scrambled for some kind of explanation that did not sound like an excuse. Nor did they want to explain that said invitation to celebrate a holiday for lovers was born from his own heartache. “Kvasir is a treasured companion of mine and partner in the Golden Consortium… he invited me here to show me his hometown. We have both been so busy and work has been somewhat of a drag lately. We thought we would take the holiday to unwind and catch up. You know, as friends.”

They reached out, extending a handshake to Sindri Sigurros as well. “I must say, Eclipse City is lovely this time of year. I see why Kvasir… misses it so much.” They delicately skirted around the glaring elephant in the room, the one that was clearly on Sindri and Mr. Sigurros’s mind… why Kvasir had left them without a word to begin with, and perhaps why he had not reached out to them upon his return.

“But enough about me. I’d love to hear more about the two of you… Kvasir has told me stories, but it’s always best to hear from the horse’s mouth, hmm?” They clapped their hands together, a bit of their usual zest leaking into the motions, coming from the desperate attempt to hold everything together for Kvasir. “We had no plans for dinner, but I would absolutely love for you two to join us, if you’d wish."

In all the time that Kvasir has known them, from that first moment beneath the glow of the Lantern Light Wood to the shared dinner from a few nights ago, the moments where Morrigan Moonweaver's stellar brilliance has dimmed have been few and far between-- they are almost always shining, always burning in a burst of glittering starfire, spectacular and radiant in their charisma and memorability, armed with bravado in the face of any god or monster and wearing a smile like it's another part of their wardrobe, no matter what situation falls into their lap. The only times Kvasir can remember seeing that shining aura slip away were in the whirl of snowfall, in the wake of prying his own ribs open to place his heart into their hands-- only then had that brilliant flame settled, incandescence gentling with the graveness of the moment.

And yet, here they are again, their usual light laughter and fistfuls of stardust and streams of stories cast aside, all in favor of presenting a different image to Kvasir's father, to the sister he did not remember that he had. Morrigan's voice is softer, now, their whole demeanor carefully packaged up into something more withdrawn-- it is strange to see them this way, to see the understated way they shake his father's hand, the humble way they bow to his sister, but there's such a grace and a softness to it that Kvasir can feel his heart flutter traitorously in his chest, the brush of butterfly wings against bone.

He still does not know where it was when he fell in love with Morrigan Moonweaver, but he has fallen in love a hundred times since-- in the hushed moments of their promise to remember him, in every moment they have ever spoken kindly of him, in a shower of glitter and flame and the wake of disaster, wise words of fear and fire still kindling in his heart.

He is falling in love with them for the hundred-and-first time, now, seeing the way they present themself to his family, as though they're trying to make a good impression, trying to maintain peace.

"Oh, so you're still from the desert, then," Sindri says, intercepting Kvasir's bubble of thoughts, her brow furrowed as she looks Morrigan up and down, clearly trying to sort out the equations that led the two of them together. A too-sharp tooth pokes out from below her upper lip, digging gently into the plushness of her lower, her mouth warping briefly into a tightly-drawn pout for a moment. "Then what happened with, uh...?"

She trails off on her own this time, catching the way Kvasir winces at the name that dies on her tongue, catching the way he takes a step closer to Morrigan, as though he can find shelter from what he has lost in the comfort of their shadow, in the ghost of warmth from their skin. Her gaze flits over to her father, as if calling upon him for aid, as if he will somehow know the right thing to say in this situation, as if he has some kind of knowledge she does not, but before either of them can say anything at all, before Kvasir can consider saying anything at all, a little spark of Morrigan's usual spirit bursts to life, disbelief poured into their tone as they ask Sindri how come she assumes Kvasir was the seducer, and--

And... a broad smile splits across her face, just a little impish at the edges, and Kvasir once again wonders if any of this is real.

"Oh?" she laughs, eyes glinting. "You can't just toss out a line about being perfectly capable of seducing my brother and then insist you aren't even together!"

Even so, despite her words, she falls silent once more at Morrigan's explanation, a little light of skepticism settling comfortably in her face at the notion that the two of them are mere friends and nothing more, but interestingly, she refrains from making any comments about it. Instead, her father is the one to speak, old eyes alight with a sense of what could very well be pride, oddly enough.

"The Golden Consortium?" Austri echoes, the corners of his lips drawn up in a small smile, his ears perking just slightly. "So you wound up getting in...? After all this time? Oh, Kvasir, that's wonderful..."

"Ah, um, yea," Kvasir manages, color surging to his cheeks once again as the weight of his father's pride settles on his shoulders, foreign and unfamiliar. "I... We... We do missions for the Consortium together rather frequently. Morrigan Moonweaver is the person I trust most-- there's no one else I'd rather be partners with."

He pretends not to see the way Sindri raises an eyebrow at that particular line.

"Well, that's nice," she says, her attention returning to Morrigan as they extend their hand to her. She's quick to take their hand right back, shaking it a little too eagerly, only letting go after a moment too long has passed. "Can't say I get the appeal of running around and doing fancy chemists' work, but to each their own."

She pauses in place as soon as Morrigan lays forth the offer for her and Austri to join them and Kvasir for dinner, her easy smile faltering as she glances back at her father, a look of surprise etched across her face. She mouths something indiscernible to him, ears twitching slightly before she glances back at the two of them.

"...As long as we wouldn't be interrupting your very platonic date," she says with a shrug.

"Yes, only then," Austri is quick to add, his expression still so difficult to read, though there's a sadness to it that makes Kvasir's skin crawl with an ancient guilt he can't place. "If we aren't intruding, then... we'd be happy to."

Kvasir spares a look over to Morrigan, his gaze inquisitive, a thousand questions all culminating into one unspoken one: is this really okay? They'd planned this trip for so long, and he knew Morrigan had been looking forward to the time with just the two of them, after all, but-- but there's a sincerity in their eyes, in their voice, and they had laid forth the offer to begin with, and Morrigan is rarely the type to do anything they don't want to do, so--

"...we'd be happy to have you, Dad... Sindri," Kvasir says, his voice still ever-so-slightly weak. "We could go to-- there's a--Um... what kind of restaurants are around here, again...?"

"...all kinds," Austri says, and he is kind enough not to question why his son has to ask. "The two of you should pick a place, really. We're the ones intruding upon your outing."

"...right," Kvasir murmurs. Of course-- it's Eclipse City, there's bound to be all sorts of things around here. "Then... Morrigan Moonweaver, do you have a preference?"

It was woefully obvious that this Sindri Sigurros didn’t expect much of Morrigan - no, that was not quite accurate. It was more apt to say that Sindri was not sure what to make of them, a bright-colored walking circus tent where she expected some big, strong desert warrior. Morrigan could only imagine what Kvasir had told her in these letters of his she had mentioned, what kind of rose-tinted stories he had shared before he thought it was best to nip communication in the bud for everyone else’s safety. It was a stupid thing, of course, to expect that Kvasir would have told them about Morrigan. They knew what he’d been through, The god that lurked under Kvasir’s skin like some kind of voyeur, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Yes, an utterly irrational sentiment. They found themselves straightening to their full height under Sindri’s skeptical gaze. They might not have been tall, but they’d been trained by Madam Medb herself, the queen of liars and the two-faced harpy of the Dreamscape Bazaar. They knew how to make their presence felt, an oppressive weight that could settle over everyone in the room until they choked on it.

Do you think me a replacement for Mehr?

I am nothing like that spineless desert-worm whose teeth are good for nothing more than show.

I am better.

They held their tongue between sharp teeth until the taste of iron blossomed in their mouth. Play nice. Play nice. Play. Nice. They could not explain why the mention of Mehr suddenly sent a surge of Ginma’s fire through their veins, but by god, it burned in a way they hadn’t expected. The sting abated, somewhat, when Sindri seemed to at least find their own indignant anger at the lack of perceived sexiness on her part, though it still simmered. “It’s not about whether we are romantically entangled or not - and we most certainly are not. It is about proving a point… the point that I am perfectly capable of sweeping Kvasir - someone - off their feet!”

They went on to explain their relationship with Kvasir, though they did not miss the way Sindri appeared skeptical at the idea, and it took all their willpower not to blurt out that Kvasir was still hopelessly in love with the man she assumed he would be here with, either. Kvasir’s father, on the other hand, seemed much more interested in Kvasir’s status as a chemist at the Golden Consortium. Morrigan bristled, expecting his admonishment, or his declaration that such a guild was far too dangerous for a medic.

Instead…

That’s wonderful.

That was it? The gears in Morrigan’s head were turning, trying to piece together a puzzle to create a picture that should already have been formed ages ago. They didn’t understand why Mr. Sigurros was so… happy with this. Was it not a father’s job to hold their children back with overbearing protectiveness until their children were smothered by it. They did not understand it, and Morrigan didn’t like not understanding. They were so wrapped up in this conundrum, brows furrowed as they stared down at their hands wrapped around the leather strap of their satchel, that Morrigan nearly missed Kvasir’s declaration of trust.

Misaligned, that ugly voice in the back of their mind that sounded an awful lot like Madam Medb crooned. Or was it Kasra? Impossible to tell. He will be ever-so disappointed when he learns that there really is no wizard.

“Shut up.” They muttered under their breath.

The conversation had fallen silent. Sindri Sigurros had said something. Forcing themselves back into the present moment, trying to recall exactly what it was Sindri had said. Something about the Consortium? Oh, yes, that was right. Something about the Consortium. “Yes, it is not my… favorite thing to be bound to the will of chemists who wish to play at politics, but there are definitely a lot of perks that come with such a membership.” Getting to steal as many potions and components as they wanted, for one - that shit didn’t come cheap, and it wasn’t exactly like the Consortium was funding these exploits!- and the primary reason they’d joined, because a pretty medic had looked at them with such hopeful eyes and Morrigan could not resist.

“You know, ancient knowledge and stuff.”

Gods, the excuse felt lame even as it left their lips. At least their agony was short-lived, a small miracle, as Sindri Sigurros and her father shared a look, surprised at the sudden invitation, and unsure of their place in this not-a-date. Even Kvasir seemed shocked by Morrigan’s sudden invitation, and Morrigan was suddenly… less sure that this was the right step to take. Truth be told, they couldn’t give less of a shit about getting to know Kvasir’s parents themselves. This happy family reunion made their skin crawl in a way they could not describe. They did not belong here, in this moment.

But this much, they knew.

Kvasir Sigurros would not allow himself to reach out to them. And Kvasir’s family could not take the step forward to grab him and hold him close, perhaps too afraid of losing him once more. Yes, easier to lessen the pain of loss by not forming attachments at all. That much, Kaivalya was intimately familiar with.

Which only left Morrigan left to steer this ship.

That, and… there was one other reason Morrigan needed to speak with Mr. Sigurros. Obviously, Kasra had taken much more from Kvasir than Morrigan had originally thought. An entire sister had been stolen from Kvasir’s mind. Kasra might have been determined to erase his mind bit by bit, but Morrigan was fueled with a determination to steal it back and return it to its rightful owner. No matter what it took. Even if they had to tear down every temple in the White Sand Sea brick by brick. Even if they had to fill scrolls a mile long with every small detail on Kvasir Sigurros then they would write a fucking forest’s worth of stories on paper.

And that meant they needed Kvasir’s father.

“Of course I am certain!” Lying, they found, came easier when it was for the sake of someone you cares about. “It’s no intrusion at all. Any family of Kvasir’s is family of mine.“ They did not miss the hesitance in Kvasir’s voice, trailing off when his mind drew a blank once more. That was worrying. Gently, they nudged him with the side of their tail - a final gentle, grounding touch - before jumping in to smoothly cover up the mistake. “So many eateries that it is easy to get bogged down by choice, hmm? You’ll have to forgive us. The trip here was so long that we neglected to eat. Anywhere sounds good to us right now.”

They came to stand between Sindri and Mr. Sigurros, nudging the two of them forward as they scanned the crowd for a spot. They glanced back at Kvasir, gesturing for him to follow. “No preference. How about we pick somewhere with a view of the outdoors? My treat, of course. In addition to being a powerful mage and chemist, I’m quite the successful business mogul. And I hope you don’t mind me kidnapping your lovely father and sister for tour guides.” That last part was spoken with a wink shot back at Kvasir, a look on their face that said, it’s okay. I know.

“Kvasir is a wonderful tour guide, of course. But it has been so long since he’s been here, I’d love a more up-to-date account of the city. Comings and goings… any hot gossip… embarrassing stories from Kvasir’s childhood… I want to hear it all.” And they would have plenty of time while they looked for a suitable place to eat. “Come, let’s go! The night is young!”

They could do this.

For once, Morrigan Moonweaver would pretend to be… normal.

For Kvasir’s sake, as all things were.

He has always known that the Archivist King stole a great deal from him.

It is impossible to not know, really; there are ravines tearing through the landscape of his mind, painting deep and jagged gaps in the places where coherency should remain, cleaving solid memories into tiny glass fragments that are too sparse and sharp to gather up in bare hands. Kvasir knows he has had his mother's name torn from his mind, her face, anything and everything he might once have known of her cut from his memories, leaving only a featureless shadow lingering there instead-- he knows he has lost the names of friends, the names of places he once loved, the details of things he took for granted before Kasra made his mark.

But he has always known when he has forgotten-- he has always been able to tell when something does not add up the way it should, has always been aware of the faceless silhouettes lurking at the corners of his consciousness, vestiges of people he once knew. It's been the one triumph he has over the God of What Once Was-- it is an inevitability that when you tear something to pieces without rhyme or reason that the split seams and gaping holes remain in sight. He may not be able to change the way his hold on reality falters, but he has always known when it was slipping.

And yet, nothing has been so cleanly carved from Kvasir's memories as Sindri Sigurros-- as the woman he once knew as his sister.

His memories of home, sparse as they are, have always revolved around his father, around patients passing through, around the shadow of a mother he never got to know; he has never once suspected that he was anything other than an only child, never been able to see the inconsistencies in those early memories, never known that an entire person he once adored was carved so precisely from his mind. Even now, as he sifts back through the ghosts of the things he still holds, even as he searches for signs of solid proof, he cannot remember her face-- he cannot remember if she has always been so sharp and talkative and skeptical, cannot remember if her hair was always this length, cannot remember the kind of sister she was or if he loved her.

He cannot remember, and yet he stares anyway, searching for a sister in the face of a stranger.

To her credit, if Sindri notices the way he stares at her, notices the furrow in his brow and the blankness in his eye, she says nothing of it-- she seems far more focused on Morrigan, on assessing this stranger accompanying her brother, on pulling together the pieces of an image she's not been privy to.

"Ancient knowledge and stuff," she echoes, a little flicker of what might be interest shining in her eyes, her tail flicking back and forth. "Gotta say, even if guild work doesn't sound like my style, I do like the thought of getting a hold of some ancient knowledge! That has to be exciting-- you two better spill what you can!"

Her gleeful, perhaps too-excited laughter dwindles as the topic falls to the far less earth shattering topic of finding a place to go for dinner; instead, she falls quiet, still glancing between Kvasir and Morrigan with sharp, curious eyes, a thousand unspoken questions spiraling in turquoise-- Kvasir pretends not to notice, opts to focus on the grounding touch of Morrigan's tail brushing against his side, opts to focus on them and the day they'd planned for so long. They are, as always, his beacon in the relentless fog, his anchor in the deep, their kind and understanding eyes swirling with gentle, unspoken reassurances as they steer the ship forward, sparing him the grisly explanations he knows must still come.

Kvasir feels gratitude and a love so deep he hardly knows what to do with it surge up in his heart, and he knows he may spend the rest of his life trying to find a way to properly thank Morrigan Moonweaver for all they do for him.

If that means keeping them in his life forever, then that isn't a bad thing.

"I don't mind at all," he says softly, though anxiety wells up within him at the thought of navigating a conversation with people he cannot trust his memories of. "Most of my visits to the Moonglade have remained quite firmly in the woods, after all-- I'm sure they're a bit more well-versed in the ways the city has changed."

"Well, Dad may be better about it than me," Sindri is quick to say. "I've been pretty busy with travel, myself! You're not the only one who's been wandering the world."

A broad smile splits her face at that, triumph lighting up her face like sunlight, all while a look of puzzlement shadows Austri's older features, a silent question of why the decision falls in his hands lurking in his eyes, but he is too polite to voice it. Instead he hums quietly, thoughtfully, turning over options in his mind before he nods to himself.

"Ah, there's a nice place by the docks I'm sure we can all agree on," he begins. "It shouldn't be too long of a walk, either-- it's one of those multicultural places. There should be something for everyone."

"That works," Kvasir says quickly, already moving to linger by Morrigan's side. "Then... yes, let's go."

As promised, it isn't too long of a venture-- Austri weaves through the streets with expertise, as readily and easily as though he'd live in the city all his life, leading them along in relative silence while Sindri chatters away about landmarks and changes in the city. Kvasir admittedly barely processes a word of it-- his movements are mechanical, practiced, each step heavy with turmoil-spun thoughts, the same repetitive motions continuous until they reach the eatery in question and are all led to a table by the window, one with a view of the glittering, star-speckled sea.

"So," Sindri starts as soon as they're in their seats, her eyes flashing with interest as her gaze settles on Morrigan, an impish smile pulling at her lips. "You want embarrassing stories about my brother?"

"Wait, n--"

"Shh! Where do you want me to begin?"

There was a mischievous glint in Morrigan’s eye as Sindri Sigurros requested stories. “Well, if you want a tale, I could always regale you with the time that Kvasir and I infiltrated an illegal potion-making ring as sexy sirens to confiscate their bombs.” They shot a playful glance at Kvasir, who still detested whenever they retold this story to others with a burning passion. Honestly, that was probably the only reason they kept telling it at this point - to savor the scandalized reaction that overtook Kvasir’s face as he realized exactly what Morrigan was about to say. They leaned in closer to Sindri, as if sharing a secret. “Make sure to ask him about the bra potions.” They added with a wink.

That scandalized mood, unfortunately, faded into the obscurity of Kvasir’s own muddled memories, a reminder for the both of them what he’d lost. Sindri seemed to notice something was wrong, how could she not? She apparently possessed Kvasir’s keen eye for detail. But more than that, there was one thing she still held over Kvasir - she knew her brother enough to know when something was wrong. It would only be a matter of time before she figured out what he was hiding. Morrigan could not act the fool forever.

But they could damn well try.

“The woods outside of the city were where we met.” Morrigan smoothly helped steer the subject away from that horrible, tense moment. Yes, meetings and occupations. That was safe. “You fancy yourself a vagabond too, Miss Sindri Sigurros? It seems that some of Kvasir’s most admirable traits are shared with his family members - his medical prowess, from his father, and his sense of adventure, from his sister.” Yes, flattery was another good way to keep the peace.

Kvasir’s father, on the other hand, was still puzzling over the fact that picking dinner had fallen into him, expression indecipherable. Morrigan watched him carefully - if Mr. Sigurros had managed to parse anything, there was no realization that lit up his eyes. He slowly offered a meal choice, one that Morrigan and Kvasir latched onto immediately. “Yes, multicultural sounds wonderful! Fun for the entire family.” Morrigan nudged Kvasir in the side. “I wonder if they have any of that fesenjan dish you so love. I rather enjoyed it when you made it for us before we departed from Zeinav.”

Kvasir barely seemed to register the words, lost in his own mind as they wandered. For a moment, Morrigan thought of snow-capped mountains and feverish thoughts uttered in the moments before collapse - they stiffened, waiting for the inevitable moment before Kasra made his reappearance, but Kvasir did not seem to be on the brink this time. Merely, floating along through existence. Well, if that was the case, then they would continue to act as his tether. They kept their tail carefully tucked around his belt loop, preventing him from wandering off while in a dazed state. All the while, they chatted with Sindri about stuff in the city - that garden was dedicated to a local philanthropist! - and, - angry rioters tore down a statue of Lunala that was there recently when they heard the news. And in turn, Morrigan regaled her with stories of Zeinav and some of its sights.

Everything felt normal.

Maybe passerby would gaze upon the group and think everything was normal. Maybe they would see Morrigan and Kvasir and think this was a happy, joyful outing between a young couple and their family members. Picture perfect. And maybe for a moment, it could be.

They managed to get a table overlooking the ocean. A rare sight for someone that had grown up inland of Zeinav. Even in the city they rarely traveled out to the coast. They watched the dark waves cresting against the side of the bay, so distracted they nearly missed Sindri’s playful challenge, only the kind a big sister could utter. And oh, this was one that Morrigan would latch onto with aplomb.

“Start in his youth.” Morrigan requested, a devilish grin on their lips as they nudged Kvasir. “I want to hear about what he was like as a precocious young kit. Was he a mama’s boy? A papa’s boy? Did he toddle around and follow you into the clinician’s office?” They could practically envision a young Kvasir tripping over his tail and following around his father to diagnose people with boo-boos.

It's funny, really, how easily Morrigan manages to drag him back from the cusp of a downward spiral.

Ever since he laid eyes upon his father's face for the first time in Solaria knows how many years, since he laid eyes upon a sister he did not know he had and yet so clearly should have, since something that was meant to be a nice traipse through familiar territory with the person he loves most became this, it was inevitable that he'd fall back into that sense of detachment that always inevitably sets in, feel the solidity of stone and earth crumble to dust and ashes beneath his feet. It always sends him falling into the arms of fog, his senses dulling as all he's lost weighs on him, his mind a locked tomb--

And yet, somehow, Morrigan always manages to bring him back, guiding him out of the mist with gentle, tangible hands and luminous words. Somehow, they're the one who knows the way out, the one who can guide him back to the present, to the land of the living, never once doubting their path forward.

Even if it means bringing up stories best left forgotten.

The silent, shell-shocked expression on Kvasir's face quickly shifts into a look of mock dread as Morrigan offers to tell the tale of the Consortium assignment they'd been given in Sol City, their eyes glinting like a glacier in the morning, an impish quirk to their lips. Kvasir can tell from that look alone exactly the specific thing from that particular venture they're thinking of, and all he can do is pray that they spare him his dignity and don't mention the--

"Bra potions?"

Damn it.

Sindri's eyes are wide, her lips curling into an amused smile as Kvasir dodges making eye contact with her, and he can see out of the corner of his lone seeing eye that her mouth opens, likely ready to launch into a barrage of teasing, but just as quickly as she starts to speak, she stops, suddenly, a sense of what could almost be called awkwardness flowing into the corners of her face. She hesitates for all of a moment, as if she's searching for the right thing to say, before she takes a short breath and starts to speak.

"You'll have to tell me that story," she says, her gaze fixed firmly on Kvasir. "We've got a lot to catch up on."

Hah. She doesn't know the half of it.

"We certainly do, Sindri," he murmurs, forcing a somber smile. "We certainly do."

It's easy, then, to feel himself slipping, to feel that instinctive urge to retreat and run from the ghosts of stolen memories given form. And yet, it is easier to let the conversation shift, to let Morrigan take the lead, to let them speak of their first meeting and lay praises and flattery at the feet of his sister as naturally as they breathe, especially as Sindri lights up at the words, her own tail swishing back and forth in clear delight.

As Morrigan turns to him, musing over the possible dishes the eatery they're venturing to might have, a genuine smile pulls at the corner of Kvasir's lips, his gaze warming as Morrigan mentions loving the fesenjan he'd made for them and Nyr-- it's hard not to, really, when they're so enthusiastic about something as simple as his cooking. Kvasir makes a mental note to try and cook for them more often; he knows they adore their rich spices, after all, a taste they both share.

"Well, one can only hope," he chuckles softly. "Really, though, I'm sure there will be all sorts of options..."

Once again, as they set off, Kvasir is all too content to fall back into the comfort of silence, to let Sindri and Morrigan chatter away about all the fixtures and changes and minutiae of Eclipse City, a perfect mirror to his own father-- the man is just as quiet, his expression serene, placid as he listens to his daughter talk, though it's impossible to miss the way his gaze flickers over to Kvasir every so often, something illegible swirling in his eyes.

The look does not leave even when they settle.

Kvasir pretends he does not notice.

It is, however, impossible to ignore how eagerly Morrigan jumps at the chance to hear stories from his childhood, their eyes sparkling like the infinite amount of glitter constantly concealed on their person. They act as if they're waiting to hear some legendary heroic tale instead of snippets of a once-mundane child's life, and that, too, is unfathomable-- why in Charon would they be so damn excited to hear such dull and orthodox things...?

He does settle easily at Morrigan's question over the kind of child he was-- really, that's an easy answer. Some of Kvasir's more prominent memories all involve following his father around his office, watching patients come in and out, "helping" make medicine by handing over the necessary herbs when asked, always excruciatingly careful not to let them fall from his shaky hands.

He'd always been his father's son, above all, and yet--

"Oh, I can answer that one," Austri says, finally breaking his own silence. A wistfulness roots in the aged corners of his eyes, a tiny, reminiscent smile on his face. "Keeping Kvasir away from his mother for too long was nigh-impossible when she was still alive-- I used to joke that I might as well not have existed."

Austri laughs, and it is genuine and soft and full of yearning for the past, and Kvasir becomes all the more aware of one of those gaping holes in his memory, the shadow left behind by a woman he thought he never knew.

"...I... was?" he manages, voice strained, a broken, squeaky thing.

"You were," Austri echoes easily, nodding along. "You adored her, and Shahra adored you. I... I still remember how confused you were after she..."

It is easy to see the chokehold the old scars of loss still have on him-- it is prominent in the way his lips twitch as he tries to force himself to uphold that smile, in the way his deep voice nearly cracks over the words, in the way the warmth in his gaze is snuffed out, a candle left cold. He speaks of Kvasir's mother-- Shahra, Shahra-- as though she'd only just passed, as if grief has only newly cut into him and kept its cruel fingers embedded in his flesh, his remembrance so clear it may as well have been fresh.

Once again, Kvasir falls silent, shock sewn into place on his face.

"Has Kvasir never told you about Mom?" Sindri asks, her inquisitive gaze fixed on Morrigan. "Huh... well, she was a great woman! Super strong and smart and capable... You probably would've liked her, wizard-guy. She probably would've liked you, too."

There was an undercurrent of tension in the air. A brewing storm. Even despite Morrigan’s nonchalance, their insistence to talk about bra potions and sweet nothings to keep the conversation light, Sindri and Austri Sigurros could not hide their glances. Concern that something was truly and utterly wrong with Kvasir. It was slight. In the way he didn’t react quite in the manner he expected. In the way he still couldn’t bring himself to look at Sindri in the eyes.

It was a good thing Morrigan was incapable of reading the room. No, perhaps that was not the right term - it would be more accurate to say that Morrigan was quite adept at blundering through conversations without a single care for the tension straining at the edges of this not-quite-heartfelt reunion. “Oh, it was glorious. Months ago, the Consortium sent us on a daring mission to take care of a ring of female-only illegal potion-makers that were designing bombs. In the absence of places to store our potions while in disguise, I had the opportunity to convince Kvasir to hide our emergency potions in his bra. Never in my life have I seen someone’s face resemble a tomato so closely!”

They turned back to Kvasir, seeing the indecision in his face. All of a sudden they were reminded of a hotel room, a locked door, a terrified young man who kept his eyes and ears shut to the outside world for fear of the harm that he would cause them. Do not hide, they wanted to say. You do not need these memories to see that they clearly care about you. No time or distance or meddling deities will change that. Kvasir had love and a family here - Austri Sigurros was not Payekha Hridyanshu. Morrigan did not have to look far to see that he and his sister so deeply cared about him, a bond that would not be broken so easily.

It is okay, this time, not to run.

“Well, as long as they have Zeinavian spices. You know that I do so adore my spices.” They replied, a weight to their tone, as if they weren’t really talking about food at all in that moment.

And so everything was going well, up until the moment Austri began speaking about Kvasir’s mother. A woman obscured by the sands of time, and one Morrigan knew nothing about.

In hindsight, the revelation that Kvasir Sigurros was a mother’s boy should not have been as shocking as it was. It made sense for Kasra to take the things that Kvasir treasured the most. Easier to pry you from your life when you had less beloved attachments to cling to. When you could not remember the love that was bestowed upon you, it was easy to believe that you never had any in the first place. This happy family… Kvasir had been ripped from it by the hands of some sociopathic god clinging to a pathetic existence that no longer belonged to him. Morrigan’s hatred for the god grew a little larger.

… they suspected that Kvasir might have even forgotten his father, too, if it were not for how deeply ingrained his medical knowledge was in his mind.

The anguish and grief lacing Kvasir’s voice in that small, murmured question made something weird in Morrigan’s chest ache for reasons they could not explain.

(Oh, but they could. That hearing Kvasir sound so distraught was like taking a lance to the chest.)

Shahra. Morrigan committed that name to memory. Kvasir fell silent while Austri continued speaking, weaving a tale of a young boy who adored his mother more than the sun itself and a mother who cherished her son in turn. Morrigan could not picture what such a thing felt like.

They hesitated as Sindri turned her attention to them. Should they lie and claim that Kvasir had mentioned Shahra before? To ease her mind? But for some reason, it didn’t feel right. Honesty was a foreign thing to a creature like Morrigan. They drummed their fingers against the table, taking a sip of their drink. “… He has not told me much.” Morrigan admitted after a moment’s thought. “I suspect he was too young for the memories to be concrete. But if there’s one thing I know, from vague impressions and glimpses, is that Kvasir loves his family more than anything.”

They fixed Austri Sigurros with a grave look.

“And when I’m around him, it is hard not to feel that love. And that he misses you all - and her - like it is a physical absence in his heart.” They reached over and touched his hand. A casual gesture, a grounding one. “And it is hard not to feel like I know you all so well already.”

They turned to Sindri with a smile.

“I am sure I would have. She sounds like a wonderful woman.” They hesitated. It did not seem polite to ask - and yet, the curiosity burned.

“… What happened to her?”

Kvasir doesn't exactly consider himself a quiet person.

He certainly can be, of course-- there's a kind of comfort that comes with letting other people carry a conversation forth, a kind of comfort in listening instead of contributing to the flow of chatter, and there's been more than one occasion when he's done just that, happy to simply sit and let other people talk while he focuses on something else. But more often than not, he's right there to chat along, providing words of acknowledgement and stories and whatever quips the talk of the moment may demand; it's not like he particularly likes hearing himself speak, but it's nice to add to the chatter where he can. That is comforting, too-- acknowledgement, the feeling of contributing, the reminder that he's really still here.

And yet, ever since his father and sister came walking so unexpectedly into his evening, all of the words have been stolen from him-- most of the few that manage to spring to life wind up dying on his tongue, slain by discomfort and revelations and all the things that come with seeing people you haven't seen or spoken to in years. It's no different now, either, as he watches grief take root on his father's face, as he watches his sister speak so excitedly of a woman who's always been a blank space in his mind.

It's a lucky thing they don't seem to notice. He's not sure what he'd do if they did.

No, instead, Austri is especially focused on Morrigan, those blue eyes briefly wide with surprise as he listens to them speak before warmth takes root there instead, a tiny, sad smile pulling at the corners of his lips. It's hard to tell what's going through his head, what he thinks of the fellblood before him, but... despite how hard it is to say, Kvasir can at least understand that whatever he thinks of Morrigan, it's not bad.

"I've never doubted that for a second," he says softly, quietly, a wistful quality to his tone. "I'm happy to hear he still speaks so fondly of us, all the same."

In that moment, all Kvasir can do is stare down, his focus demanded by the floor, by his lap, by anything other than the weight of his father's gaze. He can feel it all the same.

"Yeah," Sindri echoes, her voice a bit strained. "It's... good to hear. Really good to hear."

The air over the table feels heavy, all of a sudden, and heavier still as Morrigan asks the question Kvasir cannot bring himself to ask: what in Charon happened to Shahra Sigurros? He might have known, once, but any knowledge he could have had has long-since slipped from his memories. He does lift his gaze, then, just to glance at his father-- sorrow settles in his expression, nostalgia etched across every inch of his face, rooting in lines of age and the corners of his lips, the memory of whatever became of her still horribly fresh.

"To tell you the truth, Morrigan," he begins, his voice quiet. "We still don't really know."

There's another moment of silence as Sindri's expression changes, something serious in her eyes as she reaches across the table, setting a jewelry-adorned hand across their father's, a silent offer of comfort. Austri's eyes twinkle, then, as he glances over at her, unspoken appreciation chasing some of that sorrow away-- the wound still lingers, but it's eased, his gaze lifting back to Morrigan once again. All Kvasir can do is blink, curiosity and worry alike taking root in his heart as his ears twitch, perked up so he can hear this story he's been unable to grasp for so long.

"Ah, Shahrazad lived... quite the adventurous life," he drums his fingers against the table as he speaks, as if searching for the right words. "Say, have you ever heard of the Pariyan, Morrigan? They were attendants-- warriors, retainers, you could say-- to kings of the old ages, seldom-seen guardians of the desert in the modern day. As far as I know, Shahra was... the last of them."

"And the best," Sindri chimes in helpfully. "She was strong, and smart, and she was such a great fighter-- I remember this one time, when I was super little, she dragged the corpse of a displacer beast all the way back home just for Dad-- oh, and she could carry so many things, she'd bring home shipments all on her own-- and she told the best stories, and--!"

She pauses mid-sentence, blinking as if in quiet surprise, before she clears her throat.

"Ah, sorry," she chuckles quietly, almost seeming embarrassed as she glances back to Austri. "Carry on?"

Even so, despite the interruption, their father still smiles. "No need to be sorry, Sindri. But, ah... most of what she did was rather rigorous, even long after she left Zeinav for good. She was always quite healthy despite it, but... there came a day when she fell terribly ill, practically out of nowhere, and... not even I could identify it. Never in my life have I... seen someone's health decline so quickly. I did all I could, but she... she was gone faster than I could figure out what took her."

That sadness rushes back in full force, and this time, Kvasir lets himself reach across the table to set his hand atop his father's-- it's a strange thing, just one plank in a plan to bridge a gap, but surprise and then quiet joy flash in his father's eyes all the same for it.

"...I am... still investigating it," Austri admits. "But not a day goes by where I don't miss her or wish she was still here. I don't think a day where I won't will ever come."

"...oh," Kvasir finally whispers, his voice strained as his other hand settles back against Morrigan's, silently seeking comfort in their touch. "I... I barely remember..."

"You were so young," Austri is quick to say, quick to reassure, laying forgiveness on the table before the apology can spring past Kvasir's lips. "It's no wonder you struggle with the memory after all these years. But, ah... I apologize, Morrigan, for the... somber tone of conversation. I'm sure you don'[t want to listen to an old man reminisce." He chuckles, then, but it's feeble-- one of those habits Kvasir recognizes well, can see in himself sometimes. "Did you... want to ask anything else?"