Episode I: Fateful Meeting! Fatherless No More? [Hearth Day]
Jun 16, 2024 9:28:52 GMT -5
Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jun 16, 2024 9:28:52 GMT -5
It was times like these that Cyran was weak enough to wonder if Marlow ever thought of him – of home – with such fondness in her heart.
In a place like this it was difficult not to. Ever since being welcomed into these walls, the Bamboo Forest’s chill had been all but banished from his bones. Not only because of the protection from the cold winds, but because of the care and warmth infused into every single piece of well-worn furnishing, in the floral arrangements and the wall hangings and Miss Setsuna’s workshop and the smell of good food and tea and incense – permanence. Home was where where you could rest your heart and know, more intimately than you knew your own reflection that it would be safe, and Seiya and Setsuna made it look effortless.
No, not effortless, Cyran corrected himself.
One did not live so far away from all humanity had sunken its gnarled fingers into without reason. Either to protect them… or protect yourself. Love took work, and it demanded sacrifice, and that was what made it so special. If blood was all that was required for love to happen then perhaps Cyran’s own father might have…
Perhaps his own family wouldn’t have…
Ah, the point being, there was no love without hurt or hardship. It was measured in what you were given and what you made out of it, simply because you wanted the other person to be happy. It was making hard choices, and knowing at the end of every day that you would wake up and do it again – and you were happy to do so, because it mattered. They mattered.
How beautiful it was.
Cyran closed his eyes, wondering what it might be like to have a place just like this. To drink tea in the serene quiet and wait on bated breath for your heart to walk through the door and breathe life into home again. What kind of decorations Marlow might like, whether she’d want a workbench for her studies. Whether someone like Del might come by to fix his furniture if need be, and stay for dinner and perhaps a bit more.
But Cyran of all people knew how pointless it was to dream.
He opened his eyes once more as Seiya spoke; that fond tone, the appreciation, and Cyran wondered how anyone in the world could ever see anything but the overflowing love and kindness and joy for this life that he held.
More than that, he wondered how Seiya could say something like that and earnestly wish that Cyran would come darken his doorstep again.
Of course, he knew it was the truth, and that was what made the words steal breath from his lungs like Seiya had punched him all the same.
“… I would like that. I would love to visit again. If that is something you two would truly want.” His words were careful. They’d made him feel so welcome in just a short span of time. Was this how normal homes were built; a port in the storm, a place you knew you were wanted and welcome without backstabbing and politics and cold indifference and etiquette? That was what he’d worked so hard to build at Shade’s Valley… something he’d not expected to find here today. His hand rested on the table, and he curled his fingers into a fist. “Of course, you know you are always welcome in Shade’s Valley… my home is yours. It is in the heart of Darkveil and there is little to spare in the way of bedding and clothing and food, but… it is yours all the same.”
And somehow, he knew the same was true the other way around.
That he could visit whenever he was in the country and know that either Seiya or Setsuna would be here, and he would not be turned away.
What a terrifying concept.
The wistful mood evaporated as Cyran reprimanded Seiya with no real fire behind it, and Seiya protested, largely out of principle. As someone who’d spent the better part of his centuries honing the fine art of taking up as little presence as possible, Cyran understood the desire to refuse what might be seen as a waste. A lifetime he’d spent refusing to occupy the world while calling it pragmatic and self-reliant. Old habits died hard. It was why he never wanted any of his children – not that Seiya was his child, though he’d gotten so carried away in his thoughts that he did not second guess the protective instinct – to end up like him.
His gaze softened. “It is never a waste to put in effort for the people that you love. I’m sure it would ease your mother’s worries if she at least knew you had the option of wearing one, even if you don’t normally. In case you ever do need it.”
He paused as Seiya waved away his worries, suddenly sheepish. He rested his hands in his lap, staring down at the fine grain of the wood table like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “I cannot help it; I care about you.” It was often how his care manifested. Given the compartmentalization on the job he figured it had to manifest somewhere. Cyran of all people knew how easy it was to lose a life. “Though I do appreciate you indulging this old man’s worries.”
At that moment, Setsuna returned with tea and snacks and a curious smile. Cyran flushed to the tips of his ears and nodded.
“Yes, a sweater.” He’d sent one with the enchanted cloak he’d picked up in Frostgale. The sweater itself had no magical properties, as he had a sneaking suspicion that he’d get more use from a cloak than a shirt. Given that Seiya had expressed discomfort at wearing full shirts, Cyran had made the right choice. Suddenly, a perilous thought occurred to him and his neck snapped upward in a wide-eyed look at Setsuna. “I mean no offense by the gesture, of course – I had no idea you were a seamstress until today, I just thought as winter passed he might need one in his adventures… especially considering how much he travels.”
It should not have surprised him that Setsuna wasn’t slighted by the action; rather, relieved that someone cared so much about Seiya as to look after him. A mother’s love that shone as bright as the stars.
“Children are children.” He agreed, only visible eye crinkling as he smiled. “I understand. When Marlow was eight, she went through a stint where she was convinced she had no need for shoes.” It felt… good to talk about her. Maybe. He wasn’t sure if the twisting poison in his gut was going to kill him or cleanse him of the aches. “She’d seen in her books that older elvenkin walked barefoot in nature and wanted to try it for herself. In the end, I let her do what she wished so long as she was indoors, and nature itself eventually taught her it was necessary to wear shoes outside for her own safety.”
It was a difficult lesson to let your children go through at times; to go through the experience themselves and learn on their own.
He turned to Seiya, unable to resist a little more poking fun. “Some people never do grow out of it.” All in good, clean, fun. He appreciated that Seiya stuck to his principles and what made him most comfortable. It didn’t mean he could not poke fun at the fact that the young man preferred to walk around so bare-chested.
Secretly, Cyran was content that Seiya was so proud of his scars that he’d learned from such a young age not to shy away from them.
“But I am very glad that you do what makes you most comfortable.” He said after a moment’s thought. “So long as you make sure to keep the extra layers as an option when you do need it, then your loved ones will be less inclined to have a heart attack at the prospect of you galavanting around Frostgale without protection.”
He was so wrapped up the conversation that he’d momentarily forgotten that Setsuna had set out snacks for them. “Oh!” He eyed the spread, delicately curling his fingers around the warm cup of tea which Setsuna had brought for him, inclining his head in thanks. “No, this – this is wonderful, thank you. I don’t need much to eat.” Which would leave more for Seiya, who doubtlessly had a heartier appetite.
He’d thought it might feel awkward, a stranger in someone’s home, partaking at a meal in their table; yet as they divvied out drinks and dorayaki, Cyran only felt a sense of peace and contentedness. He’d only had these confections once before, on a trip some years ago when he felt indulgent. That treat was nothing compared to something homemade… something warm and made with care.
How embarrassing it was, then, that the first bite of something filled with love and purpose and intention made his only visible eye blur with silent tears, leaving salt-stained tracks down his cheeks.
There was no room in this world for men like him to have happy endings – or the happy things that came along the line. It was precisely why he’d spent the better part of a decade isolating himself from all that hurt and all that was wonderful in the world. All he could ask for was survival… there was no point subjecting others to knowing and being so close to someone who brought death wherever he went. Yet this year…
Gods, how kind it had been. His outing with Del, a welcome surprise – something he could not wish to blossom into more, even though he wore her ring around his own neck – and the warmth of family, it was all so gentle. It was all so much. It was not meant to be reserved for men like him.
Life had made space for him all the same.
“It is perfect.”
He was not just talking about the food.
Quite sheepish at having been observed losing his grip on his feelings (it had been so long since he’d felt safe enough to do so), Cyran wiped the emotion from his face and took a long sip of his tea, before turning to Setsuna.
“I must ask… I am so curious. Please tell me you have stories about Seiya from his youth to share.”
In a place like this it was difficult not to. Ever since being welcomed into these walls, the Bamboo Forest’s chill had been all but banished from his bones. Not only because of the protection from the cold winds, but because of the care and warmth infused into every single piece of well-worn furnishing, in the floral arrangements and the wall hangings and Miss Setsuna’s workshop and the smell of good food and tea and incense – permanence. Home was where where you could rest your heart and know, more intimately than you knew your own reflection that it would be safe, and Seiya and Setsuna made it look effortless.
No, not effortless, Cyran corrected himself.
One did not live so far away from all humanity had sunken its gnarled fingers into without reason. Either to protect them… or protect yourself. Love took work, and it demanded sacrifice, and that was what made it so special. If blood was all that was required for love to happen then perhaps Cyran’s own father might have…
Perhaps his own family wouldn’t have…
Ah, the point being, there was no love without hurt or hardship. It was measured in what you were given and what you made out of it, simply because you wanted the other person to be happy. It was making hard choices, and knowing at the end of every day that you would wake up and do it again – and you were happy to do so, because it mattered. They mattered.
How beautiful it was.
Cyran closed his eyes, wondering what it might be like to have a place just like this. To drink tea in the serene quiet and wait on bated breath for your heart to walk through the door and breathe life into home again. What kind of decorations Marlow might like, whether she’d want a workbench for her studies. Whether someone like Del might come by to fix his furniture if need be, and stay for dinner and perhaps a bit more.
But Cyran of all people knew how pointless it was to dream.
He opened his eyes once more as Seiya spoke; that fond tone, the appreciation, and Cyran wondered how anyone in the world could ever see anything but the overflowing love and kindness and joy for this life that he held.
More than that, he wondered how Seiya could say something like that and earnestly wish that Cyran would come darken his doorstep again.
Of course, he knew it was the truth, and that was what made the words steal breath from his lungs like Seiya had punched him all the same.
“… I would like that. I would love to visit again. If that is something you two would truly want.” His words were careful. They’d made him feel so welcome in just a short span of time. Was this how normal homes were built; a port in the storm, a place you knew you were wanted and welcome without backstabbing and politics and cold indifference and etiquette? That was what he’d worked so hard to build at Shade’s Valley… something he’d not expected to find here today. His hand rested on the table, and he curled his fingers into a fist. “Of course, you know you are always welcome in Shade’s Valley… my home is yours. It is in the heart of Darkveil and there is little to spare in the way of bedding and clothing and food, but… it is yours all the same.”
And somehow, he knew the same was true the other way around.
That he could visit whenever he was in the country and know that either Seiya or Setsuna would be here, and he would not be turned away.
What a terrifying concept.
The wistful mood evaporated as Cyran reprimanded Seiya with no real fire behind it, and Seiya protested, largely out of principle. As someone who’d spent the better part of his centuries honing the fine art of taking up as little presence as possible, Cyran understood the desire to refuse what might be seen as a waste. A lifetime he’d spent refusing to occupy the world while calling it pragmatic and self-reliant. Old habits died hard. It was why he never wanted any of his children – not that Seiya was his child, though he’d gotten so carried away in his thoughts that he did not second guess the protective instinct – to end up like him.
His gaze softened. “It is never a waste to put in effort for the people that you love. I’m sure it would ease your mother’s worries if she at least knew you had the option of wearing one, even if you don’t normally. In case you ever do need it.”
He paused as Seiya waved away his worries, suddenly sheepish. He rested his hands in his lap, staring down at the fine grain of the wood table like it was the most interesting thing in the world. “I cannot help it; I care about you.” It was often how his care manifested. Given the compartmentalization on the job he figured it had to manifest somewhere. Cyran of all people knew how easy it was to lose a life. “Though I do appreciate you indulging this old man’s worries.”
At that moment, Setsuna returned with tea and snacks and a curious smile. Cyran flushed to the tips of his ears and nodded.
“Yes, a sweater.” He’d sent one with the enchanted cloak he’d picked up in Frostgale. The sweater itself had no magical properties, as he had a sneaking suspicion that he’d get more use from a cloak than a shirt. Given that Seiya had expressed discomfort at wearing full shirts, Cyran had made the right choice. Suddenly, a perilous thought occurred to him and his neck snapped upward in a wide-eyed look at Setsuna. “I mean no offense by the gesture, of course – I had no idea you were a seamstress until today, I just thought as winter passed he might need one in his adventures… especially considering how much he travels.”
It should not have surprised him that Setsuna wasn’t slighted by the action; rather, relieved that someone cared so much about Seiya as to look after him. A mother’s love that shone as bright as the stars.
“Children are children.” He agreed, only visible eye crinkling as he smiled. “I understand. When Marlow was eight, she went through a stint where she was convinced she had no need for shoes.” It felt… good to talk about her. Maybe. He wasn’t sure if the twisting poison in his gut was going to kill him or cleanse him of the aches. “She’d seen in her books that older elvenkin walked barefoot in nature and wanted to try it for herself. In the end, I let her do what she wished so long as she was indoors, and nature itself eventually taught her it was necessary to wear shoes outside for her own safety.”
It was a difficult lesson to let your children go through at times; to go through the experience themselves and learn on their own.
He turned to Seiya, unable to resist a little more poking fun. “Some people never do grow out of it.” All in good, clean, fun. He appreciated that Seiya stuck to his principles and what made him most comfortable. It didn’t mean he could not poke fun at the fact that the young man preferred to walk around so bare-chested.
Secretly, Cyran was content that Seiya was so proud of his scars that he’d learned from such a young age not to shy away from them.
“But I am very glad that you do what makes you most comfortable.” He said after a moment’s thought. “So long as you make sure to keep the extra layers as an option when you do need it, then your loved ones will be less inclined to have a heart attack at the prospect of you galavanting around Frostgale without protection.”
He was so wrapped up the conversation that he’d momentarily forgotten that Setsuna had set out snacks for them. “Oh!” He eyed the spread, delicately curling his fingers around the warm cup of tea which Setsuna had brought for him, inclining his head in thanks. “No, this – this is wonderful, thank you. I don’t need much to eat.” Which would leave more for Seiya, who doubtlessly had a heartier appetite.
He’d thought it might feel awkward, a stranger in someone’s home, partaking at a meal in their table; yet as they divvied out drinks and dorayaki, Cyran only felt a sense of peace and contentedness. He’d only had these confections once before, on a trip some years ago when he felt indulgent. That treat was nothing compared to something homemade… something warm and made with care.
How embarrassing it was, then, that the first bite of something filled with love and purpose and intention made his only visible eye blur with silent tears, leaving salt-stained tracks down his cheeks.
There was no room in this world for men like him to have happy endings – or the happy things that came along the line. It was precisely why he’d spent the better part of a decade isolating himself from all that hurt and all that was wonderful in the world. All he could ask for was survival… there was no point subjecting others to knowing and being so close to someone who brought death wherever he went. Yet this year…
Gods, how kind it had been. His outing with Del, a welcome surprise – something he could not wish to blossom into more, even though he wore her ring around his own neck – and the warmth of family, it was all so gentle. It was all so much. It was not meant to be reserved for men like him.
Life had made space for him all the same.
“It is perfect.”
He was not just talking about the food.
Quite sheepish at having been observed losing his grip on his feelings (it had been so long since he’d felt safe enough to do so), Cyran wiped the emotion from his face and took a long sip of his tea, before turning to Setsuna.
“I must ask… I am so curious. Please tell me you have stories about Seiya from his youth to share.”
protect him at all cost. (can’t use discord anymore so making use of this here)
