His portraits? Del gazes at Cyran for the few moments she's permitted to with a look that slowly crumbles. About to ask him if he is sure, she never gets the chance, as everything suddenly, abruptly, stops.

The hair on her neck stands up, and the floor rips apart, the building finally giving way totally and no longer able to hold on. Del swivels out of the way of the roof of the building over as it starts to press into Shade's Valley, but the momentum has started and will not stop now. She holds the little child tighter, whispering to her "Don't let go, don't look, just hold tight, okay?" as she tears after Cyran, down the lurching hallway as it starts to tilt, slanting while the building begins to crumble.

They're almost there; at the force of the listing building, they nearly have to run on the wall to keep up with the growing angle of the slant. The crack in the foundation of Shade's Valley has only grown, a wound that has started to hemhorrage heat and fire and destruction now filling the space. She can feel it from here, can see the heat starting to curl smoke along the wood of the rails and the floors. The orphanage would fall before it went up in flames, but even without the other building slowly crushing it, it would not have lasted long anyway.

The wood of the stairs twists and warps, lurching away from the wall as it starts to plunge into the gap of lava now starting to fill the foyer, just as Cyran clears the stairs themselves. Knowing she can't make it, Del halts her forward momentum by slamming her fist into the wall beside her, raking a thick line through the stone and wood until she's brought to a halt. Dammit.

"KEEP GOING," Del shout over the din to Cyran, before whispering again to the little child, "Don't let go. I've got you." and she begins to climb back up, up the wall[1], and down a hallway that was rapidly becoming a slide.

Cyrans office is the room at the end of the hallway; she sprints towards it, digging her fingers into the wall, the stone as she pulls herself along the sloping floor. The sounds of the collapse around her are getting louder, more encompassing, to the point where she can feel the grating stone reverberate in her chest. It's deafeningly loud, and in the few seconds it takes to get to Cyran's office, the only thing on her mind is getting out and surviving.

Until she sees them.

The pictures.

As the building shook, the items on his desk had gone sprawling. Now that Shade's Valley was nearly leaning over on its side, Del can see, resting un the little crook between the floor and the wall, the stack of portraits that had been on his desk.

As someone who had so few, she knew how important, how precious memories were. If she could have saved her own, in her own fall, or when her mentor's cottage burned, she would have. Whole lifetimes lost to fire and flood.

No. Not Cyran.

It's a snap decision she can scarcely afford, but she does anyway. While one leg kicks out the reinforced frame of the window (one of her bright ideas that had worked splendidly, apparently) she leans over to snatch up the portraits from the ground, stuffing them into her shirt.

The building gives one last shuddering groan, just as she is through the frame, ripping it free of the wall and plunging to the street below, her precious cargo held close to her chest.

She rolls to her feet, tucking the child's head close to her chest so she does not get a single bump from hitting the ground, and is already at a full sprint as the building finally starts to collapse towards the one next to it, continuing the domino effect. As a cloud of rubble and dust erupts, the building's cascade finally hitting it's zenith, Del and the child emerge, covered in soot, in flecks of stone. Del's arms and hands are scraped and bloody, but the child in her grip is unharmed. Safe.

Del stops where Cyran, Eleanor, Rhi'as and the other children are. The city is in terrible shape, and things are only getting worse. Staying in the city is too much. But for a moment, she is just happy to see everyone in one piece, relieved. "Is that everyone? Are any of you hurt?"

---

[1] Surface Scaling
[2] Iron Grip -- Brawler Prestige
[3] Cat's Grace

Later, Cyran would be able to sit down and think about the irony that for all his preparation for any conceivable disaster, his readiness to turn this building into a fortress in the event of calamity, he did not prepare for the one eventuality that had befallen them today.

The fucking volcano.

Could have, should have would have - he could kick himself all he wanted for his lack of foresight, but even the most careful planning could not prevent the house from falling apart as it was now. All he could do was give everything he had to save the lives in it.

But he wasn’t sure how much longer he could last.

Sweat coated his face - somewhere along the line he’d rid himself of his jacket but even that could not save him from the marks born from the heat of the lava and the flames and the toll that exerting himself had taken on him. His chest heaved as he ran down the stairs with an urgency, gripping the child in his hands perhaps a touch too tight for fear his arms might give out under him if he slackened his grip. He cleared the stairs, making it to the foyer below, and -

A great SNAP as the stairs finally gave up behind him, wood twisting and falling into the chasm below. The child in his arms shrieked at the same time the wood hit the lava, the weight and the force of gravity triggering a backsplash and a rippling wave of molten lava right for the two of them, still perched at the bottom of the steps. He whirled around, protecting the child from the brunt of the heat - and incurring some burns on his back. He winced, biting his tongue to prevent from crying out in pain.

Cyran glanced up at the second floor.

Del was still up there.

She’d put a fist through the wall, suspending herself between the second floor and the first, somehow having protected herself from the fall. The sight was rather awe-inspiring - how did she manage that? - but no, now was not the time to get distracted, not when she was calling out to him to keep moving,

“Not without you!” Cyran yelled back, but Del was already moving - not stopping, but… looking for another way out. Would she be able to find one? The walls were closing in on them, quite literally. Every bone in Cyran’s body ached to follow after her, that they couldn’t separate here, but she was already gone, and there was only one room between him and freedom. With a child in his hands, he couldn’t risk their safety.

“Okay.” He breathed. “Okay. I’ll see you on the other side, then.”

A promise Del couldn’t hear but one he meant all the same.

most of the foyer was coated in the molten substance. Chairs, bookshelves, even the fireplace were beginning to catch on fire, slowly dissolving. If that’s what lava did to furniture, Cyran didn’t stand a chance. He scanned the area, assessing his options - he just needed to get to the door…

The light at the end of the tunnel.

“Headmaster Cyran?” The child in his hands whimpered. “Are we going to be okay?”

“Oh…” Cyran stroked her hair, whispering in her ear as he tried to keep the tremors out of his voice. She needed him to be strong, so he would. There was no other option. “Oh, we’re going to be just fine.” Think, Cyran, think! “This is just… a game! Remember that make-believe game we played, where we had to stay off the floor? This is just like that. Close your eyes and pretend, okay?”

Cyran took a couple steps back, eyeing the wall. It was shaky and unstable, but their best option. “Just… pretend.” He whispered once more before taking a running start, sprinting across the foyer as fast as he could, straight for the door.^[1] He took a running leap, diving for freedom - with one hand he tucked the child’s head into his shoulder and cradled her neck, protecting her from the brunt of the blow as he hit the ground and rolled to a stop.

They’d made it to freedom.

“Master Cyran!” Hands were on him immediately, pulling him to his feet - Oriole. Cyran straightened, giving his apprentice a small, grateful nod.

“I’m fine.” But what about everyone else? Cyran took stock of the small crowd that had gathered a safe enough distance from the crumbling building. Oriole, Andromeda, and a handful of children, all covered in ash and soot, tear-tracks staining their dirty cheeks, and wearing singed pajamas - most not even wearing shoes - but safe and alive. He spotted young Samantha near the edge of the crowd, grasping onto Umbra like a lifeline.

They were all okay…

But no Del.

Cyran turned around, searching everywhere for the telltale signs of golden eyes and dark curls, but she was nowhere to be found. Cyran immediately handed the young girl off to Oriole. “I’m going back.”

“Master Cyran, it isn’t safe-“

“I don’t give a damn if it isn’t safe!” In his fear, Cyran couldn’t control his tongue - not that he cared about his language in the moment. “Del is still in there, and -“ He couldn’t breathe, so choked up with worry and ash - “And it’s my fault!”

Andromeda and Oriole’s eyes widened. They’d never seen their normally-calm master so beside himself that rational thought eluded him. Andromeda stepped forward, shaking her head. “Master Specter… Cyran. She’ll be fine. Miss Delaela is a capable woman. She’ll get out just fine. Don’t let sentimentality cloud your judgement.”

Cyran exhaled, a sound that resembled more a pained wheeze than a release of breath.

“I don’t- I can’t…”

Thankfully, he didn’t have to.

Del’s voice, a moment later, rang like a bell through the street. Cyran turned, spotting her there - her arms were coated in scratches and blood, and her entire body was covered in rubble - but unmistakably alive. Cyran thought he could have cried.

He took a step forward, eyes wide, like he hadn’t even heard her question. It didn’t matter. Another step forward, like he was staring at a ghost rather than a person, too afraid to touch her out of fear she might be a visage rather than a woman of flesh and bone.

Then he pulled her into a hug.

“You scared me.” He mumbled before pulling away. The contact was brief - he would have held her longer, but they weren’t quite out of the flames yet.

He pulled away, a smile on his face that betrayed the worry lines that punched his face. I’m that moment he looked every bit the three centuries he carried.

“We’re all fine.” Give or take a few scrapes and bumps, and one broken leg. But Oriole looked like he’d gone back and grabbed the horse - they would be able to allow the injured child to ride it. But to where? Looking around them, nowhere in the city was safe. In the back of his mind, he thought of the Rookery - but no, even the bar was likely swept up in this pandemonium, and bringing a bunch of children there wouldn’t help. No, they needed to get somewhere out of the city.

… They needed to leave Darkveil.

---

1. Boots of Spider Climb

She isn't sure what that expression is on his face as he approaches, but she can feel the something tremulous at the back of her mind, that seems to broach their connection. Del sets the young one down, to let her run over to her friends.

He doesn't say anything-- it puts a squirm of nervousness in her gut to see Cyran so shellshocked. Del starts to stumble for an apology when his arms envelop her, pulling her towards him.

She had... scared him? Oh. The building.

And just like the building, part of her comes crashing down around her ears.

Tears prick at her eyes, as she holds back a sob. She wants to apologise for scaring him, but she can't get the words out. Before he can pull away, Del steals another second, hugging Cyran back fiercely, not quite ready to leave his embrace until she can get that in at least. Not without you.

But she does let him go; they don't have time, they have to get people moving and going. It's a relief to see everyone safe, together, and they can't rest now. They are not out of the thick of things yet.

Old motions and habits start to awaken. It's been months since Del had to draw on her survival skills and those honed instincts, but they were always there, just below the surface. She takes a breath.

"We don't have long and we need to leave the city as quickly as we can," she says, echoing Cyran's thoughts, "I can start to clear us a path. From here, which is the fastest way out of the city?"

"The Deadwoods are that direction." Cyran looks hesitant to offer such a location as a place of safety - he doubts Del has been here long enough to hear of its reputation. But most importantly, it will provide them a place to stay for the night. "We're close to the city's border here. It normally would only take us half an hour to leave." Under normal circumstances, though it's obvious that today is a far cry from the norm. But Cyran trusts Del when she says she can clear a path - as she promised to follow him into hell, he will drag her back out of it, no matter what it takes.

She gives him a small smile, and the group a resolute nod. The map slowly forms in her head as she follows where Cyran points; that would work.  "Alright. This way."

Del starts off ahead of the group. The ground beneath them is still roiling and cracking, but it is far, far safter to be out here than in any building. There is debris and uplifted peices of road strewn all over the streets, blocking paths.[1] Del sets to work, pushing as much of the the rubble aside as she can so they can take the horse through, and keeping anything taller than the group clear so it will not fall on anyone if another quake should strike.

It's getting hotter by the minute though. Fissures in the ground keep opening, though most are easy enough to skirt.

A few minutes in, Del stops abruptly at a street corner, crouching down to a storm drain, looking in the gutter. The bars are warped, but this section of ground has not yet been upheaved, lucky for her. She wrenches the rest of the grate out of the ground, and after a moment of digging in the storm drain, reveals... a bag. A full and loaded back-pack.

She pulls out the objects stashed in her shirt, puts them safely inside the already burgeoning pack, and throws it over her shoulder. Del winces slightly at the sting to her arms, but turns to give the group a slight smile. "I should have one more of these a few blocks from here, near the outskirts." she explains. As for the other drops she had around the city, if anyone had need of them and could find them, they were welcome to it.

A muffled cry for help reaches her ears. The pile of rubble ahead, a collapsed shop of some kind, sits unmoving, smouldering as smoke pours from between the gaps. She looks at it, and feels a sense of urgency, a compulsion to help race up her spine. They don't have time. They really don't.

She looks at Cyran and starts to offer him the pack. "If you want to keep going, I can catch up." she offers quietly; Del would not expect them to stay to free these trapped people, but Del cannot simply leave. She has to help.

---

[1] Bull's strength

The Deadwoods.

Cyran hesitated to bring them all to such a place.

But where else could they go? Cyran could not bring these children to the Rookery, not when the entire city looked like it was on the verge of collapse. The woods were rarely occupied, a hideout for criminals on the run. They were not criminals, nor did Cyran wish to encounter the shady figures that sought refuge in the ghost of a forest outside of town. But he trusted his skill with a blade more than he trusted the city not to collapse. He would simply have to stand vigil while the children, and Del, tried to get some sleep. Cyran could do that. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t gotten any sleep in almost two days and he was running on the last dregs of magic in his reserve. He had to find the energy somewhere. If he could not save their home, the least he could do was watch over those children.

Is this where your resolve ends? A voice in the back of his mind whispered. One that sounded an awful lot like Rowan. I thought the Specter was this great, untouchable figure. I see now how easily your strength wanes.

He was too exhausted to combat her taunts.

He merely nodded as Del spoke, taking off in the direction he pointed towards, as if the fatigue didn’t even bother her. She was a juggernaut, pushing aside rubble and blazing a trail for them while Cyran took care of looters and any attackers. The city was in pandemonium, and in a haven for criminals, not everyone was bound to be friendly. Not when they were an easy target, vulnerable children with a horse that was ripe for the taking.

Cyran didn’t let them get close.

No matter how fatigued he was, his remaining blade could not afford to take the chance to rest.

Along the path, Del came to a halt - Cyran felt the vestiges of relief through their bond while she rifled through a pack taken from the gutter. An emergency reserve? Cyran kept his own, but those had been left in the hideout under Shade’s Valley, which was likely flooded with lava and entirely useless, now. For every contingency he’d thought of, it had not occurred to him to keep some around the city in the event of evacuation. Cyran beamed with pride as he helped her saddle the pack to Bespoke Horse (a name concocted by the children, not his own choice).

“Smart.” Perhaps it was his weariness that lowered his inhibitions, or the lingering traces of relief that she hadn’t been harmed in the explosion, but he could not resist resting a hand on her cheek, only for a moment - reaffirmation, happiness, perhaps. “Let the horse carry it. No need to weigh yourself down when you’ve already had to bear so much today.”

A burden she’d never asked for.

Cyran inhaled, a sharp intake of breath. “For what it’s worth, I am… sorry that you have been dragged into this mess. But I am glad you are here.”

That second of sentimentality couldn’t last. They set out for the edge of the city at a hurried pace, up until Del heard the first cry of pain. Brave, heroic Del.

Helping people was in her nature. Her generosity and her tendency to give herself to others was what Cyran admired about her - a fierceness about her that burned brighter than Ginma’s own forge. If she could help people, she was going to. God, he wished he had her drive to save people. But he was no hero - he was a contract killer that played at being a good person. And he needed to help the kids…

He merely nodded, glancing ahead of him. They were close to the edge of town now - freedom in sight.

“I know you need to go.” Helping people was in her very core, after all. “I’ll get the kids out of the city first and join you if I can. At least take Eleanor with you… please.”

Andromeda nodded, raising one of her daggers. She knew the way out of the city and knew where Cyran would be taking the kids.

He squeezed her shoulder briefly, in parting. “I’ll see you in a bit, my Fighter.” Whispered under his breath, in quiet elvish.

And that was a promise.

She marvels quietly as they move, at the ease and efficiency with which Cyran protects them, his precious family, from people who feel that to survive they must take from others; belongings, lives, it does not seem to matter to them. Such is the way of a city of criminals, she supposes. But, they broke the first and most crucial rule of combat, as far as Del was concerned.

Never underestimate your opponent.

Cyran is quick, graceful, does not bandy about. He cuts down the raiding survivers with careful, well placed strikes that leave nothing to chance. Though it's odd he isn't using one of his other daggers, the one he typically kept at his side. She ponders that for a moment, but of course, they cannot stop now. They must keep moving.

As she helps fasten the pack to Bespoke Horse (a perfect name that never failed to make her chuckle), Del could feel Cyran's pride touch her spine, a little shiver forming there. He did not question it, did not ask why the pack was there-- was simply pleased that it was thought of. As he calls her smart, she turns to look at him, only to find his palm pressed to her cheek. Her own exhaustion is deep; it's so easy to fall into the familiar patterns they had established as Elen and Illias, the natural affection they had relied on that had always felt... natural. Not able, not willing to suppress those little impulses, especially not now when she was so relieved he was alright, Del leans into Cyran's palm, a slow breath draining some of her tension. Even now, his thoughtfulness and care was a balm. If Cyran was here, she could do anything.

"I'm not," she says softly, her voice hardly rising in her throat. How could she regret this? Being here in this time of need for him, for the city? "I wouldn't wish be anywhere else."

But the sounds of the trapped and the helpless tug on her soul. She looks to the rubble, feeling torn. She knows she has to help, but she does not wish to leave the group. It was selfish, she knew, to indulge in rescues that would take resources from those they had already helped... and yet, Cyran did not question, did not protest. The way he understood and accepted was almost too much. There was so much still to do, the children to keep safe, but he knew she had to help.

If he could relinquish that trust to let her do what she needed to, she could trust him to stay safe and get everyone where they needed to go.

Hearing that Eleanor would help, she offers a faint smile; relieved, but guilty still, a little, for taking away so much from this family. "Thank you." Truly, she didn't know what she would do without him. Del looks into his eyes, the one silver, the other a black void, as he touches her shoulder to whisper soft words in elvish, words that make something that aches terribly in her chest swell.

My Fighter.

Before he can pull away, Del lifts a hand, putting it to the back of his head. She has to stand on tip toe to do it, but she cannot resist the action, of leaning up to lightly touch her soot-stained, sweat covered forehead to his. Just a second. It is alright. They will all be okay. She was so fiercely proud of how he carried himself and got everyone to safety. He would do this. Cyran would not be stopped.

"Lead them well, my Rogue," She murmurs back in elvish, her tone low and just for him. "I will not be far behind."

Her own promise, solemn and soft as the ash that drifted around them.

She lets him go, a faint smile on her lips. Looking to Eleanor, Del does not waste any time, nodding to her as she moves to the pile of rubble to begin moving the big pieces off, shifting them carefully so the people below will be able to get out when they are ready.

"Shouldn't take long, they're not that far down, I think," She grunts, heaving a piece of wall off to the side before going back at it. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather stay with the group?" she asks Eleanor, looking up from where she knelt against the toppled shop at the stern young woman. Her brow suddenly comes together as she looked up at her-- her expression was not different at all, but something was. "Are you alright?"

A forehead touch - light, brief, in parting - but it is all Cyran needs to know that they are on the same page. He laments the loss of warmth the minute they draw away, her constant presence replaced by the searing heat of the lava bursting from the ground behind them. He does not want to separate - not again. But he knows that this isn’t something Del merely wants to do. It’s something she has to.

She will be fine, he reminded himself. She was a warrior, and she would not be alone. She had Andromeda by her side, ready to help in the event of any emergency. Andromeda nodded at him, solemn, as Cyran cast the duo one last glance before urging the children onwards.

“Come along, not much further now…” He soothed them as best he could. The kids were fearful, that much was obvious. Darkveil was not the most welcoming of places, but its atmosphere was a constant. There was an order to things around here, reinforced by the mysterious Ashen Fathers, and if you knew how to lay low, then not much bothered you. This destruction, the chaos… it was not normal.

All children, none older than fifteen, all so young… and all forced to witness the destruction of their lives not once, but twice. That was not something any child should have to endure. Cyran’s heart ached for them, so desperately wished he could take this pain away from them, erase the memories of this horrid event.

But perhaps you could… a small voice in his mind whispered.

It would be so terribly easy to take away that pain…

No. Cyran pulled his hand away as if it had been burned, cradling it to his chest. It would be easy to cause these memories to fade from obscurity in the kids’ minds, yes, but that was wrong. Good or bad, those experiences belonged to the children, shaped them. Once they were gone, there would be no reclaiming them. No matter how much Cyran wished to ease their suffering, he could not meddle with their minds. Not like this.

“… Master Cyran? Is everything okay?” People must have seen the troubled expression on Cyran’s face as they made haste through the streets.

Cyran pressed a hand to his temple, where a headache was beginning to develop. Yes, he was merely tired from all of the toll he’d wrought on his body today. Even his eye, normally tucked away behind a patch, was still on display for all to see. It helped him navigate through the smog, but even this secret, too, was out. He felt like he was unraveling, a thread rapidly approaching the end of the spool.

“I’m fine.” He muttered after a moment, not easing Oriole’s concerns at all. “Let’s just keep pressing onwards, okay?”

The kids, in all of their bravery - so large for ones that were so small in a world they did not understand - held their complaints and fears until they were outside the trembling city proper, making their way to the borders of the Deadwoods. In a little chain, they held hands while Cyran led them through the dead, gnarled trees. Out here, so far away from the volcano, the tremors had begun to die down. Would it last? There was no way to know if they were safe, but they had to stop somewhere. The kids needed rest, and they needed food.

It was only when he felt a tug on his pant leg, looked down and saw Samantha holding onto Blackberry Cheesecake, lower lip trembling, that he stopped. She was one of those kids who hadn’t managed to grab shoes before leaving - her feet were covered in scratches from walking through the brambles and the broken streets, ash getting into the cuts. “Headmaster Cyran? I’m hungry.”

Cyran bent down to scoop her up. There would be no removing these scars, but at the very least he could prevent them from earning more. He tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, giving her the kindest smile he could manage. “Of course you are, poppet. Why don’t we stop for now and get you all some food? Miss Del packed everyone some snacks!”

That, at the very least, lifted everyone’s spirits.

It took a bit for everyone to get settled down, the kids no longer able to continue walking. Cyran moved and passed around food to everyone while Oriole tried to figure out how to work the tents. They were merely rations, a little bit for everyone to keep going, but in that moment, it was a meal fit for kings.

Once Cyran finished passing out to the children, then to Oriole, he finally sat down on the edge of a broken log to search for something to eat himself. Del’s pack was well-stocked, with anything that a woman on the run might need to escape a city. But as he shuffled through the pack, his fingers brushed against something odd tucked in a corner. Wood?

Curious, his hand wrapped around the object, wondering what it could be. A weapon? A piece of the tent? But when he pulled it out, his heart stopped in his chest.

A stack of frames, all housing familiar portraits. The glass was a little cracked upon being jostled around, but they were whole. Vi’ira, Iryla, Cirice, Seiya, Zarius and Caedes…

Marlow.

His portraits. A silly thing to be sentimental about, really, but something in Cyran broke seeing them here in Del’s pack rather than catching fire in his office. When had she gotten them? How had she gotten them-?

When they separated.

Oh, Delaela…

Cyran wiped at his eyes, hands shaking as he held the pictures to his chest, curling up on the log. He could not break here. He could not break, not in front of the children. How could he not feel this way? For centuries, he had been the one to take care of himself, and yet… this small act of kindness from Del made him feel impossibly young again.

She made him feel important.

---

Andromeda stuck close behind Del, helping where she could. The assassin was considerably more toned than Oriole, strength honed after years of desperate training. She could not hope to match up to the woman forging a patch to the people that needed saving, but she was no slouch, either. As they moved, Andromeda clicked her tongue, commanding the small, white-scaled drake on her shoulder to take to the air and start moving. Calliope started letting out puffs of ice at the fires, helping put out the flames where she could while Andromeda supported Del.

The question came as a surprise.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Andromeda snapped - leaning back on her old attitude in the face of being seen. Really, she didn’t understand this woman. Master Cyran clearly held great affection for her, but those muscles and those scars… she was no more a simple smith than Master Specter was a mild-mannered orphanage owner.

She moved to help Delaela support one of the pieces of wall, throwing it to the side.

She thought Del would be a passing fancy of the Specter’s. Someone that he took interest in because she was kind and seemed to appeal to the sensitive side of him, but now that Del was apparently here to stay - hell, she’d all but moved into the guest room - Andromeda would have to get used to her. But who was she, really? She brought secrets with her, and Cyran might trust her, but Andromeda wasn’t quite ready to let her close yet.

“… Master Cyran seems taken with you.” She warned, ice creeping into her tone. “I haven’t seen him this at ease in a long time.”

I hope you are worth it, went unsaid.

With her piece said, Andromeda went back to silently aiding Del, that same thoughtful expression on her face. The day had been a strange one, and not just because of the earthquake.

Del gives Eleanor a careful nod at her snappy response, as they get back to work moving the building off the people. She focuses on this, zeroing in on the aid of the people who couldn't help themselves. Eleanor is a huge help; normally rescue efforts, as in Lilicors, was something Del tended to do on her own, mostly out of necessity. Most were not willing to help. Which was understandable, given how survival worked, but if Del could help, why wouldn't she? She could not forgive herself if someone died that could have been saved. She couldn't save everyone, but, dammit, she could try.

They're almost through when Eleanor spoke up again. Del pauses, not looking at her, simply stopped where she is, kneeling in the rubble. A draft of too-hot wind kicks up a small swirl of soot and dust, shifting around them with the quietude of the disaster surrounding them. Taken with her? Well... yes, she supposed so, they were close, they had a deep connection neither of them fully understood. That he was apparently very at ease set her at ease. But though the words were complimentary, this was anything but. It was a very quiet threat, one that Del knew Eleanor well enough to know that she meant everything she implied.

Normally, Del would not appreciate being talked to so, by anyone. This, however, she understood, and took to heart with humility. The ring that rested against her collarbone was sacred. Whatever she and Cyran had... it was precious beyond words. She would do nothing to jeoparidize it, or his peace.

"He is... a good man," Del replies after a moment, swallowing carefully. An amazing one. The best. "I hope I can make things easier on him."

'I'll try to be,' went unsaid.

She goes back to work.

Between her and Eleanor, they're through the worst of the rubble quickly, and with a big enough heave, they can remove the beams that trap the four people within, giving them enough space to squeeze out. They're banged up, scratched, coughing from the smoke, but free. And grateful. The little fellblood infant in the arms of her mother sleeps peacefully, held tight against her chest as the family and the shopkeep thank her and Eleanor with whispers that cannot properly convey how happy they are. Del refuses any offer of money, but directs them to where it is safe, and watches the family go. Something in her heals, just a bit.

Once they're out of sight, she turns to Eleanor. "Good work. Come on," Del starts in the direction they had been heading, towards the Hauntwood. Eager and intent to catch up.

It takes some extra time. More people need help, though none that are in as dire straits as the family she and Eleanor rescued. Redirecting, reuniting, providing splints or aid to walk. One, his injuries after touching lava to dire to be saved, she knows there is nothing she can do for. Del kneels and holds his hand until he draws a final breath, a couple of minutes at most. She does not flinch or turn from anyone as they walk. It does slow their progress, but regardless, they soon come to the site of the second drop.

"It was here," She mutters, shifting aside rubble for the abandoned cellar she had hidden her pack in. This area had been harder hit; lava was leaking up from the cobbles now, swelling like blood in a cut. She finds it quickly-- and freezes, brow slightly pressed.

Even here, she can feel it. Him. Cyran. There's a surge of emotion in the back of her mind that does not belong to her, a revulsion and exhaustion that sets her teeth on edge. Del feels a different compulsion, just as strong as the one to help, as she looks to Andromeda, slinging the second pack over her shoulder. "Alright, we're done, we can--"

"Stop right there." A voice says. A man with a heavy cross bow steps out from behind a wall, his eyes wild and his teeth bared. Del slowly turns towards him. The man keeps it steady, holding it in such a way he could unleash it at either her or Eleanor in a moment, if he was so inclined. He holds out a hand for the pack. "Hand it over. Toss it right there. Your weapons and coin, too."

Del doesn't even speak. The single moment she was bewildered by this would-be brigand's appearance had come and gone, evaporated like water over lava. The pack was for the kids. There were people out here hurting and dying and crying for help, they had just lost everything, their home, their peace-- the shop.

Oh, gods, she had forgotten about the Forge. That was surely gone too.

All that which had been lost. Homes, livelihoods, people. And he was keeping her from where she needed to be, trying to take what little was left? Del is beyond livid.

She will not be stopped from getting back to them. Not by earthquakes, not by lava, and certainly not by one man.

Only one man could stop her from doing anything at all, and he was not presently here.

Her amber gaze turns flinty as she starts to walk towards him. He snarls, twitching the weapon to aim at her. It fires with a twang, just as Del's hand flashes up to catch it, and then dropping the bolt casually to the ground as she continues her advance.[1]

The man looks alarmed and a little flustered now, but clearly knows what he's doing. He curses under his breath, quickly loads again and fires, this time aimed for her head. Again, she catches the bolt[2], just in front of her nose, and looks him dead in the eye as she snaps the bolt between her fingers.[3]

The man walks back a step; she's close now, but not so close he can't get off another shot. He fires, this time nearly point blank range at her head.

She shifts, little more than a twitch, but the bolt goes hissing past her ear, clipping just the tip of it as she side steps the bolt, shifting her hair as it flies past. The man gapes, and Del takes the crossbow from him and flings it to the ground, the springs shattering on impact.

Del steps into his space as he throws a punch, slipping her arms around and through his and wrenching to the side, turning with the momentum. There's a terrible pop and he shrieks, his arm fully dislocated from his shoulder. She lets him drop and then kicks back, twisting her hips so her heel plants into his... chest. A last second change of direction from where it could have gone; his face.

He hits the wall, caving through the already dilapidated structure. Del comes close to look down at him, her expression unchanging. He holds his chest of broken ribs, wheezing painfully.

"You're an idiot." She says in a low voice, neutral, flat. There was no good reason why she shouldn't end him where he lay. "You should have run."

He bares his teeth at her. A dagger flashes out of his hip and he whips it at her-- only for Del to again catch it, throw it back with a twist of her fingers, and for his own weapon to land dead centre in his throat.

She looks down as he chokes with a tinge of sorrow, before she eventually approaches, removes the knife from his throat, and lets him die a little more easily.

She couldn't save everyone.

The whole thing only takes about thirty seconds, though it feels longer, somehow, for Del. When she steps back towards Eleanor, she gives her a quiet nod, looking very much her three-hundred years in that moment. "Let's go."

She wastes no time; that feeling had gone, but she still does not want to be away for longer than they need to be. Thankfully, it doesn't take long for them to follow the path to where Cyran had taken the kids. Eleanor leads well, and the forest appeared to at least be more traversible than the city. Comparitively, at least.

They just start to crest the rise, only apart for a little under an hour, when Eleanor and Del return.

---

[1] Bare hands: Deflection Enchantment
[2] Deflecting Palm - Brawler Prestige
[3] Bull's Strength
[4] Float like a Butterfly (Hit prevention)

Andromeda wasn’t the kind of woman who wore her heart on her sleeve. She kept her shit close to her chest, didn’t let others in. That was the way she’d been safe before meeting Cyran - how she kept herself alive. But despite the fact that she kept her emotions locked away from even herself, she could admit that there was part of her that was… grateful for everything that Master Cyran did for her.

(He was supposed to kill her. He’d taken her in and given her a new purpose instead.)

Even if she wouldn’t admit it to herself she didn’t want to see that ridiculously soft man’s heart crushed by a woman who hid too much behind kind, tired eyes and scarred, capable hands that moved too much. Even now, which wasn’t entirely the most appropriate time to be talking about such things, Andromeda had to issue that warning - an apprentice who, against all odds, would be the one to watch out for her teacher when he couldn’t watch out for himself. And Del, even in the middle of this disaster, stopped, and uttered words that Andromeda hadn’t expected.

A promise.

Andromeda didn’t speak much, but she paused, met Del’s gaze - solemn amber that blazed with something… deeper than Andromeda could comprehend. A bond between the two warriors that felt much older than their acquaintanceship. Or, perhaps not older, but deeper.

There was nothing Andromeda could do but nod her assent - her acceptance - and continued to help Del with their rescue efforts.

With their combined work, they managed to create a big enough space for the civilians trapped inside - a happy, innocent family - to crawl out. Andromeda’s muscles burned from the effort, and her lungs burned from the ash and smoke, but she knew that whatever she was feeling, Master Cyran and Miss Del were feeling it hundreds of times worse. They had been the ones to take on the brunt of the rescue efforts in Shade’s Valley, after all. She could suck up the fucking pain and keep moving. Calling Calliope to her shoulder, Andromeda pursed her lips when Del praised her.

“… Thanks.” She managed.

The two made a beeline for the Deadwoods, stopping to help others whenever they heard the call. There were too many, far more than two people could handle. Too much for them to bear. There were those in the streets whose burns from the lava prevented them from escaping, some so bad that Del and Andromeda were forced to watch as they died in the streets.

… Andromeda was an assassin.

She did not feel pain when she watched someone die.

She didn’t.

Del acted like someone who had seen death countless times before. Another indication she wasn’t the plain carpenter she said she was. Either way, Andromeda still put a hand on her shoulder once the man’s final breath left his lungs, letting her know she wasn’t in this moment alone.

“You did what you could.” She said, voice terse. “Gave him a better passing than most here are gonna get. This city’s going to shit.” She looked around the streets, a sigh passing her lips. “But don’t leave yourself here when you still have people waiting for you out there. Sometimes you gotta take care of yourself first.”

Paltry words - it could barely be called a comfort. But they had to keep moving. Del’s other drop was somewhere nearby, and they needed the supplies for those damn kids. Andromeda kept her hand close to her blades, watching her surroundings while Del rummaged through the remains of a cellar - evidently not close enough.

Stupid!

She hadn’t seen the prick with the crossbow approaching until it was too late. The man had his finger resting on the trigger, ready to let a bolt fly at a moment’s notice. It would kill her far faster than she could grab one of her knives.

… She’d failed them.

Andromeda hesitated, taking a step backwards. She turned to face Del, indecision evident in her face - but Del didn’t look afraid. She looked utterly pissed.

(And somewhere in the Deadwoods, Cyran felt a rippling wave of grief that was his but not-his, Del’s loss and anger mingling with his own, and he desperately wished that he’d stayed behind.)

Andromeda watched, open-mouthed, as Del stalked forward. Plucked the arrow from midair like it was nothing. Delivered blow after blow into the mugger’s body before smashing his damn face in. And then, she stopped his last-ditch effort, killing him with his final, pathetic attempt at survival. He was a mortal who challenged a titan, and Andromeda had been the only witness to her power.

… Okay, maybe she understood why Master Specter respected Delaela Asiliari now.

There was a weary look on her face as they set off again. The look of a woman who wanted so desperately to believe that she could help everyone, altruism hardwired into her very core.

“You can’t save everyone.” She had no idea how close she’d echoed Del’s internal thoughts. “… But some people aren’t worth your time and effort.”

Then, quieter,

“Thank you for saving me.”

She’d been too slow. She would have died if Del hadn’t reacted fast enough.

Andromeda felt hollow the entire way back to the Deadwoods. Her motions were silent as she led Del through the forest to the place where Master Specter was, the path to the agreed-upon meeting point in event of emergencies. It looked like Oriole had just managed to set up the tent by the time they arrived, giving the kids a place to sleep away from the ash. The tremors had begun to die down, and everything, for a moment, was silent.

All save the quiet sniffling of the children who were too terrified to fall asleep, and the man who immediately pulled himself off of the log to greet the two of them.

“You’re okay.” He breathed. “I felt… well, there was something -“ He paused. How did he explain the wave of emotions that had been rolling over him the entire time they were rescuing others in the city? “Did something happen? Are you both unharmed? I have a little spare healing potion…”

He frantically pulled out the two chains around his neck - one, the simple cord where Del’s Hearth’s Day ring sat, glinting underneath the moonlight shining through the canopy of dead branches, and the other, a silver necklace that had been a gift from Cirice months ago. Neither Del nor Andromeda looked grievously injured, but that didn’t explain the surge of anger he’d felt earlier-

Questions could wait.

They were all together once more, and safe, for the present moment, and that was all Cyran could ever ask for.

Eleanor's comments, until that moment, are met with quiet, sincere smiles and gentle pats to the hands that touch her shoulders, ensuring that she understood the young woman's words and took them to heart. They were wise words, and genuinely heartening to hear and important to remember; they were not disregarded. Especially not from someone who was as stern and stoic as Eleanor has appeared to be thus far.

But the last one, after the crossbow weilding man who had so stupidly met his own end, though, those were different. That some weren't worth the time and effort. There, Del does pause; Eleanor was right of course, but she can hear, on some level, the introspection within those words, the heaviness of the soul they came from. A soul that was wiser than her years out of necessity, not experience.

She knew Eleanor well enough to know that her dignity and pride was an important part of her, and the last thing she wanted to do was to add salt to the wound with something like pity or half-assed platitudes. So instead, Del turns to give Eleanor a smile, one that is tired but no less warm. "Sometimes... ensuring people stay safe and alive is the same thing as making sure someone else doesn't get back up again. You are welcome. And very worth the time and effort, just as you are." her gaze lingers for a little longer before she starts to take them up into the woods.

As they take the rest of the trek up in silence-- it's not that far, fortunately, though Del's bones ache and her arms are sore and her head pounds. The near constant exertion is catching up to her, she can feel. Then, the moment she lays eyes on Cyran, she feels a wash of blessedly cool relief move over and through her.

She watches him pull out the chains around his neck for the little healing potion, the ring she had given him secured there on one of the two fastened chains. It puts a little ache in her heart, especially as she lifts her gaze back to his eyes. One silver, one black. How much did he bear, waiting for them to return? Keeping parts of himself hidden for the peace, the well-being of others? How much did he fret and worry for their safety?

Oh, Cyran.

Del reaches up to touch the side of his face, cradling his cheek in her palm for a moment. Her thumb sweeps across his cheekbone, lightly touching the rune inscribed beneath his eye, barely skimming over it. She does not know what all that means, what it is-- but she accepts it. Embraces it. Him.

"There was something, but it's alright now." For now, anyway. There's a dam within her threatening to burst to flood the valley of her eyes and mind that she's sure he could feel, but she holds it back. On the surface, she stays calm and serene. The kids needed tending first. "We are unharmed. And, we have more supplies," she pulls the pack off her shoulder, wincing slightly-- ah. Forgot about that. She lifts her eyes to Cyran, knowing he caught that, and gives him a sheepish smile. "We can look at that later. We need more shelter first."

Still in work mode. She would be good ina moment, but for now, things needed to be dealt with. Del quickly helps Rhi'as set up the tent this time, stokes the low burning fire and prepares further rations to split among the group. This volume should last them into breakast, but her packs weren't meant to support their number, usually just two or three individuals for a week if it was necessary. They'd have to hunt by midday.

But for now; there's also a special addition in this pack-- green tea. And Del smiles as she realizes what she can make.

The rations are paltry at best, but this is comfort food. Cyran and Rhi'as have already made the bulk of it, this is just added extra. She spoons the rice mash into a bowl, sprinkles it with the dried flakes of meat and whatever spices they had been packed in, and delicately pours a little green tea on top. The result is a fragrant, salty, warm meal, bowls of which she presses into the hands of Eleanor and Rhi'as. She brings Cyran a bowl as well, to match her own, and sits next to him on the log. Before they can take a bite, though, a quiet voice pipes up, sniffling and weepy. "I don't want to sleep here."

Del puts her bowl aside for a moment and looks down at the tear stained face. Poor loves.

"I know, little one. But the dawn won't come if you stay up all night. Oh," she blinks, remembering. "I have a little song about that. Do you want to hear?"

Sleepy sniffles are accompanied by nods, and Del closes her eyes, feeling a little exposed... she did not perform or in front of others as a general rule; easier to avoid notice. For the children, though, Del could make an exception.

She'd heard it in the villages in the Crescent Isles when she and her mentor went out to provide their services to others. Though that had been many years ago, it was ingrained in her memory still.

Hopefully, it could give these children peace, too, even after losing so much.

Her voice, lilting but low, carries over the camp, punctuated by the crackles of flame from the campfire, broken up only slightly by the roughness of Del's own voice. She reaches out to stroke the hair of the little one sitting near them, brushing the ash from their hair.

"Little bird, find your nest,
Time to lay your head and rest.
The rays of morning break anew,
When you sleep the whole night through.

"Leaves are changing, green to gold,
Day to night, a story told,
Storms and rains make flowers bloom.
Close your eyes under the moon.

"Nightingale, sings her best
When the land's been shadow blessed,
Listen to her lullaby,
Drift you off and say goodnight.

"In the morning, come the dawn,
When you wake with sleepy yawn,
Songbirds stretch their wings and fly,
A chorus lifting to the sky.

"Little bird, find your nest,
Time to lay your head and rest.
The rays of morning break anew,
When you sleep the whole night through."

The song fades into light humming, to encourage the nodding heads and heavy lids to fully drift into sleep.

Cyran was interrupted from his worrying by a warm hand against his cheek, a finger against the tune emblazoned on his cheek. He sighed, forced himself to relax. “My apologies.” He tried for a smile, and failed. “I suppose given everything that has happened today... I am a bit high-strung.” An understatement, but his suspicions were only confirmed - something had happened during their rescue mission, and they’d come out on top. Unharmed, yes, but untouched? Cyran didn’t buy that for a second. Nor did he buy that she was entirely okay when she set off to help out around camp, her muscles tearing from the aches and pains forcing her to wince in pain. Cyran pursed his lips as she brushed it off, setting forth to keep working.

Like if she stopped now, she would not be able to get back up.

Cyran went about cleaning up the kids’ cuts and bruises on their feet with some of the medical kits in the packs while Del and Oriole set up the second tent. He was not especially adept at cleaning wounds or taking care of them - much more proficient in causing them - but at the very least he could make sure to wrap their feet in bandages and that their cuts wouldn’t get infected. The real trouble was the child with the broken leg... Cyran wanted to reserve his last bit of healing potion for an emergency, but this was a dire situation. He gave her the last bit of his Northern Essence potion, kissing her on the forehead.^[1] “This is going to sting for a minute, but you’ll feel all better afterwards, okay?”

She kept a brave face as the bones in her leg stitched themselves back together.

Afterwards came dinner - a proper meal this time, or as close as they could get on the road. Cyran recognized the smells of the Crescent Isles - salty broth and dried meat. It was scant, but filling and warmed Cyran’s stomach as he sipped at it. Despite the toll he’d taken on his body, he didn’t have much of an appetite, he’d found. But in this moment, this felt better than a feast for kings.

They didn’t get to enjoy much, though, before one of the children came and tugged on Cyran’s pant leg, whimpering. Cyran’s already worn heart cracked a little further. Before he could say anything, Del spoke up, offering words of comfort while Cyran stroked the young boy’s hair.

Not just comfort.

A lullaby.

Cyran scooped the young boy up, rubbing encouraging circles in his back. His hands were cold, but experienced, spoke of someone who had practice in comforting distraught children. “Come along,” He whispered, “Why don’t we all listen to Miss Del? You can’t wander off to dreamland if you’re not sent off properly.”

“But what if Dreamland only has bad dreams?”

“I won’t let that happen.” He said firmly. This much, he could do. Cyran turned to Del, the other children gathering around her at the promise of something familiar. Quiet sobs broke the tense silence, dozens of eyes staring up at Del expectantly. Even Cyran, still rocking the small child who refused to sleep, watched her with wide, wondrous eyes as she began to sing. It was not a lullaby Cyran was familiar with. All his were old elven tunes, plucked from storybooks, ones he used to sing to Marlow when she had a bad night. None so horrible as this evening… and no song so lovely as the one Del wove for the children.

Cyran closed his eyes, picturing the nightingale fluttering through the air… under the shadows of the moon, crooning songs to sleepy children. He’d always had a soft spot for birds, though the lullaby, lingering softly in the air, struck him to the core. As if a Nightingale herself had come down from the sky to sing to the children.

By the time she hit the last note, her soothing voice had worked. Most of the children were lulled into sleep… including the young boy in Cyran’s arms who was too fearful to rest. Cyran rested his chin on the boy’s head as they rounded up the kids and made sure they were all comfortable in tents. “Sleep well,” He whispered, “And may the nightingale escort you to happier places in your dreams.”

The kids, at last, were settled into bedrolls and blankets from packs, curled up against one another for comfort. Only when they were tucked in the tents did Cyran sit back on the log near the fire, all the fight draining from his body. Delicious smells still wafted from the bowl Del handed him, one he took another halfhearted sip from, still not able to stomach food at the moment. He settled for pulling out his daggers, ready to settle into silent vigil while Del and the apprentices got some rest…

Or, one dagger at the least.

When Cyran tried to pull Spell Slicer from its sheath, he finally got a better glimpse at the damage, where the blade had snapped plain in half from his earlier impact with the rubble. He sighed, running his fingers across the runes inscribed in the blade. One of the Specter’s favorite weapons, rendered as battered as he felt in that moment. He doubted it could be fixed, but it could be replaced… a broken weapon ought to be discarded. But as he stared down at the cracked pieces of metal, cool to the touch, it felt like losing one half of him. His blades were an extension of himself, after all. What was he to do that his left hand had been broken so thoroughly?

The space on the log next to him creaked as someone settled on it. Del. Cyran glanced up at her, forcing a smile on his face as he tried to sweep away the pieces before she could worry too much. “It’s not so bad.” He tried to convince himself. “Better one of my weapons than my own life.”

A thought occurred to him, as he put his weapon away.

He was not the only one that had lost their livelihood today.

“Oh, Del, your forge…” He breathed out. He’d thought with everything horrible that happened today, he’d be too tired and overwhelmed to feel even more grief, and yet, as Ironwood Ore and Timber came to mind, he remembered that he was not the only one suffering - and his heart bled a little more. “I’m truly sorry. It can - once the city has cleared up, we can rebuild it. We can do…” He didn’t know what, but that didn’t matter. “We can do something.”

---

1. Essence of the North

Listening to Cyran tuck the children in with whispers of the nightingale, Del feels the slighest twinge within her. It feels like an echo of some kind, long forgotten and barely a sound now. Still, she smiles, and helps to lay the children to bed. She did not catch Cyran's gaze as she sang, her eyes closing while her lullaby trailed the air. But she could feel the appreciation, for that, for the light food she had made a meal of. Of all the things she had done today, that one felt the most important.

She sits in her tent for a while, watching the others drift off to sleep, and trying to get some rest. Eleanor had been quiet for a long time, as had Rhi'as, and the kids, now that they have been lulled, seem content to curl up together. Despite knowing, feeling, that she needs rest, she can't yet bring herself to do so. There's a disquiet in her mind she can't let go of.

Blinking, Del looks down at her palm, realizing it had been clutched around the ring hanging around her neck. Seeking... comfort, perhaps? She's not really sure.

Perhaps one last sweep of the perimeter would put her mind at ease. She slips out from the tent, taking the blanket with her, as she does a quiet lap around the camp's perimeter, before finally being drawn to what she had truly been searching for.

Del takes a light seat beside Cyran, trying not to disturb him too much-- though her expression turns alarmed as he moves what look to be shards of sharp metal away, She reaches out to stop Cyran's hands from putting away the broken shards of dagger, brow slightly furrowed as tears start to roll down her cheeks. The scent of petrichor drifts from her hair; a scent of relief and catharsis. Exhaustion consumes her, but she feels she needs to be here, at his side. Not because she felt she had to, but because she wanted to. An active, conscious choice to seek him out rather than withdraw, as she had learned to do over so many years.

Though she'd never trusted anyone the way she did him, so perhaps this was a learning curve.

Her breath hitched at his earnest offer, touched beyond words-- there was something they could do, certainly. Rebuilding would take a while, but it was, in theory, possible. She wanted so badly to say that it was alright, that things were material and could be fixed or replaced, but none of this was alright. None of it was fair, or good, or just. For the second time in her life, the structures around her, no matter how much she had tried to shore them up, had failed her, and failed those around her. It was gone, again.

And yet, she had not lost everything, this time, had she?

"I almost lost you today." She whispers, staring at her hands as they hold his, her grip loose and delicate. Del fights to keep her voice steady, but it cracks, at the end. There's the briefest spark of gold across the bridge of her nose, scattering off the falling tears for the instant the spark was visible. "If I have to lose my forge a hundred times to keep you and your family safe, then I would do so without hesitation. I'm sorry about the Valley, Cyran. You worke so hard. I'm sorry for the kids. I'm sorry for you, as well-- you had a, a flash of something earlier. Disgust and anger, I think. I wanted to be there. I'm sorry I wasn't with you." And, then, a little softer, her voice drained as she admits, "I am sorry for myself."

It had been so long since she had stood to lose so much. She was grateful, humbled that she hadn't lost anyone important. It still hurt to lose, though. She would have to begin again. At least this time... perhaps she didn't have to be alone.

"Can I see it, please?" Her voice stays soft as she shifts one of her hands to hold it out for the dagger. She feels... odd, in a way that is hard to explain. Like she felt very, very strongly that she could help.

A broken weapon ought to be discarded.

There's another faint glimmer of gold across the bridge of her nose.

Some things couldn't be fixed. Some people couldn't be saved.

Another, like a pulse.

But broken things still had value. Were worth the time and effort.

Let me see if it can be fixed."

Oh.

Del was crying.

Of everything that Cyran expected to see, the silent tears running down her cheeks at his words was not one of them. It was the quiet rainfall after the turbulent storm, with all the scents of it, too - after all she’d done today, defied the might of the gods, for her to weep so openly, it was… a heartbreaking sight.

He could not bring himself to tell her not to waste her tears for someone like him - not when he was seconds away from crumbling himself. It was a terrible, awful thing to watch your livelihood go up in ash and smoke. And yet, all Cyran could muster up was a cold sort of numbness, the rationality that he’d watched the Valley get destroyed, but the emotions would not come. And watching Del weep over that loss - it was a reminder that not everything important had been lost to the lava. Del was here, and she cared, so much that her grief was an overwhelming feeling. She cared so much that she would rummage through a burning building so Cyran could have something precious, even though he would have been okay without it.

… No one had truly cared about him like that before.

He’d lost a home, but at the same time, he’d gained another.

Del started speaking, and Cyran caught another flash of gold. Lightning dancing in the rain. It almost reminded him of what he’d seen in the dream aboard the Judeia - like Del was so passionate that her emotions could not be contained in her body.

“You have nothing to apologize for…” Cyran tried his best to be strong while she could not be. He failed, rather miserably. “Hey.” He put a hand on hers, grabbing her attention. “I’m here. I assure you, I will not be killed so easily. The Valley, the Forge - we built them once before. And as long as we’re still here, then those things can be reassembled. How could I not be grateful for everything that we’ve managed to save? The children, Rhi’as and Eleanor, and you managed to grab my portraits…” He swallowed. His throat felt so thick he might choke on his words. “And if they can’t be rebuilt… then change is not such a bad thing, so long as we and the kids are still here to experience it. Besides, I am no stranger to losing a home.”

He gave her a sad, small smile.

“Something tells me you aren’t, either. But you still found it in yourself to make a new home here.” With me. “And you can do it again. We both can.”

He blinked when she brought up his sudden blip of emotions earlier. Was Del talking about when he’d been upset with himself over his thoughts? “I’m fine, I promise.” He assured her. “We’re all fine. Nothing happened. The trip here was thankfully uneventful…” He ran a hand through his hair, feeling the tug and strain in his body. “I just. Um. Got frustrated with myself, but it passed. It was nothing like what I felt earlier from you, though.”

There was an unspoken question in his voice.

“You and Eleanor ran into something…”

The curiosity burned, as did the worry. But Del seemed focused on the dagger, still poorly concealed near his thigh. “Oh…”

Part of him wanted to deny her request, if only because he knew it could not be fixed - how could it? Out here Del had none of her smithing tools, nothing that would be able to unbreak that which had already been broken. But she was so firm in her conviction, molten gold dancing across her face, so sure that she could do something to help that Cyran couldn’t help but believe that maybe she could, too.

He just had to trust Del.

Cautiously, he handed her the broken pieces - the fine blade, snapped clean nearly at the hilt, and then the hilt itself, wrapped in comfortable black leather.

“Its name is Spell Slicer. Imbued with an enchantment meant to stun magic users.” He paused, a sheepish smile on his face. “… You’ve seen it in action.”

As he turns his hands over in hers, holding them instead of being held, Del does lift her tear filled eyes to him. Slowly, she starts to smile feeling more hopeful at his words-- before her brows knit together for a moment of shared sorrow. He had lost his home before, too?

He had said, back when they met, that Moonglade was where he was from, but it was not a place he oft wished to return to. Del nods faintly at his suggestion that it was not the first home that she had lost either. And that he, too, had felt a pulse of something.

She thought she knew which moment that was.

But she would begin again. And again and again and again, as many times as she needed to, for her to find whatever it was she was looking for.

"I'm not alone this time," she says quietly, her sorrow relenting a little under the warmth of his words. "I'm grateful that I still have you and this home."

A home. Together.

It feels as though there's a pool of sparkling light in the pit of her stomach. Del moves her hands so she can undo the folds that conceal the dagger, looking at the damage.

It was well and truly broken. It could be repaired with a forge, reheated under intense flame to re-mend the shattered portions of good, enchanted steel. The fires might undo the enchantments though. A look of sadness crosses her face. For Cyran, for the weapon, for everything.

"Memories are... important." Del murmurs it slowly, a little stubbornly, as she looks down at the blade. "They keep us in check. Remind us of what's important. I'm glad I was able to preserve some for you." she runs a careful thumb over the broken edge of the ruined blade as she starts to reassemble the pieces back together, hands working automatically. "My mentors home was burned, forty or fifty years or so ago. He sent me into the nearby town for supplies, and I came back to a building on fire a couple of days later. The moment I left was the last time I saw him. I don't remember anything from before my fall other than that place. Everything was lost in the fire."

She exhales a quiet shudder of a breath. Not sure entirely why she was revealing all of this, but it felt... important. Cyran deserved to know. "He died alone. So, I've made sure that those I can't save or help, at least have someone near to hold their hand when they pass. Eleanor and I did much of that on our way out, but when we picked up the last pack we were... waylaid."

There's a small flash of anger on her face before she describes it. Deft hands still lining up the broken pieces of the weapon. "A man with a crossbow who wanted it, all our coin, our weapons. I was... angry. So many people were losing things, had nothing left, barely even the clothes on their backs, and he wanted to take, to stop me from getting these supplies back to the kids, keep Eleanor safe, get back to you?" Del bites her lip and shakes her head, angry at that mans stupidity. "I couldn't. I gave him chances to run. He... did not take them."

He had died, and for what? Uselessly, senselessly. Even still, her action not something she regretted. Something she would do again, if she had to. But even he didn't die alone.

She finishes arranging the broken dagger together, looking over the pieces. It was fixable, but who knew how long it would be before she could get back to a proper forge. Her eyes lift to Cyran.

Memories really were so very precious.

Meeting a like-soul from the shadows themselves. Hearth's Day and catching stars at the top of the world. Fighting alongside him,  movements effortlessly in sync. Meeting his cherished family, Zarius, Cirice, Gerhart. The Judeia when he wandered her dreams.

This dagger had a lot of memory, she knew. It kept him safe. She had indeed seen it in action. It was important.

He was important.

Del drops her gaze back to the dagger as something swells in her chest. Heat, like no other. Forge-fire. She looks confused for a moment, but doesn't resist, feeling this internal energy pulse and flow, closing her eyes. Seeing the cracks of the weapon in her mind. "I think..."

The radiating feeling flows from the centre of her chest to her hands. It starts as a slow glow, under her shirt, and seems to travel. Along her body, the scars start to glow, one by one, a shimmer of gold that illuminate the faded cracks that were long since repaired by hands that had taken mercy on her broken soul. The crack across her face spiders up over her brow, showing the hidden shatter-lines that had long since faded across her brow.

She isn't sure what's happening, but whatever this is, she can direct it, shape it. Instinctively, the way any smith understood metal, she knows she needs heat and pressure. She folds her glowing hands over the metal, pressing into it. Pressing the gold forge-light into the cracks.

The light flares, once, and then suddenly goes out. Del breathes, and pulls her shaking hands away, as if they were burned. Her palms are blackened, only with soot, not burned. But of more interest was what her hands left behind.

Spell Slicer. Fitted together and whole once more. Pristine, as if the break had never happened.[1]

Del sits back-- and then her world tilts, feeling faint, suddenly. She holds out a hand to catch herself on the log, breathing hard for a moment, terribly drained. "I... what did I just...?"

---

[1] Ginma's Forge Stone

With the expert, practiced movements of a blacksmith - movements Cyran only managed to get glimpses of whenever he visited her at Ironwood Ore and Timber - Del began moving to reassemble the broken pieces of Spell Slicer the way they ought to be. The forge was in her blood… a fact that Cyran would soon learn was far more literal than he could have ever imagined. But not yet. Now, he was listening to Del’s story - the story of her mentor’s passing, the fire that razed her home.

(There was a nagging feeling he couldn’t quite shake, curiosity why he might have sent Del away the very same day his house was set ablaze.)

(There was no such thing as coincidence.)

He shoved the suspicion away to re-examine at a later date. Now was not the time for a mystery, not based on a stray thought and his own pessimistic nature. Del was confiding in him.

She was right. Memories were precious. That was why, knowing how few she had to share given the state of her memory loss, the fact that Del thought he was worthy enough to share so much of her own, was precious in of itself.

And yet she knows so little about you. Look at her, baring her heart and soul to you and you can’t even deign to do the same.

Cyran swallowed the ugly thought.

The story shifted and morphed, back to the present day. What she and Andromeda had seen earlier. A dying man, and a common thief who tried to hold them up… no wonder Andromeda had been so quiet ever since they returned from the city. He assumed it was because she was regretting her decision to stay - it wasn’t as if he didn’t know about her distaste for her situation, a young woman who had signed up to be a killer and found herself living a mundane life. She probably thought Cyran had tricked her. But despite her insistence she didn’t feel things, that she was a cold blooded killer, he was sure seeing something like that was startling.

It had worn on Del, too, evidently.

Cyran didn’t feel any sorrow for the thief at all.

It was him or Del, and he would pick Del in a heartbeat.

“… Even in the midst of all this chaos, I still find myself in amazement of your ability to remain kind and firm in your convictions.” The urge to grab her hand, to have that physical reminder of her presence, was strong - but as she was still fiddling with Spell Slicer, all he could do was watch. Briefly, he wondered why he would feel the desire to maintain such close proximity with her in the first place. He was hardly a touchy-feely man, where such gestures were reserved for his kids. He didn’t need contact, nor did he rightfully deserve it. And yet…

Perhaps some small part of him thought he could ask for comfort because he knew Del would give it.

“I’m sorry about your mentor.” He offered, after a moment’s silence. Del had nearly finished with the smaller, trickier pieces of the dagger. “I can’t imagine what that kind of pain feels like.” Literally, he could not. He’d never had a mentor. He could only go off of the faint sense of loss he received from their bond, healed by the bandage of time and distance but still slightly scarred. “That kind of death… so violent. But I am glad, nonetheless, that you had him while you did. That he took care of you and offered you a home after your fall. You may not have anything that remained of him physically, but you’ve told me about him now. He existed. His presence is remembered, and he is as much mine to hold onto as yours.”

Memories really were precious, weren’t they?

Cyran wanted to say more, but before he could, he felt… something - a twinge, or a warmth maybe. The impression of the fire and smoke from the forge, and then a feeling of warmth, unlike no other, as Del raised her hands above his dagger and -

She began to glow.

It was not unlike watching a star.

“What…?” Cyran whispered as all of her scars lit up once more, reminiscent of that passion he’d seen in her dream, though he was certain he was not dreaming now. He was sitting here on a log, watching as Del’s scars began to fill with that same brilliant color all the way from her scarred hands to the hairline gashes in her brow.

There was a tradition, in the Crescent Isles, that Cyran had once heard of while on a trip there. The act of breaking a ceramic pot only to bring it together once more with bits of gold to seal the pieces back together. To create something not quite the same, but new, and even more beautiful. Staring at Del in that moment, at the marks on her skin that bore witness to all the pain she’d endured over the years, remade in delicate gold - Cyran couldn’t help but think about that practice.

“Beautiful.”

She ran her thumb along the broken pieces of the blade as she pieced it together in silent concentration, moving like she’d done this countless times before. Light flared, until Spell Slicer had been put together, complete once more. Gold filled the cracks where it had once been broken apart, the damage replaced with something… even more breathtaking.

Kintsugi.

Cyran grabbed the dagger in wonder, running his fingers along the gold when all of a sudden Del seemed to snap out of her trance, struck with vertigo as she stared at her work, confused.

“Whatever it was, it was wonderful.” Cyran cradled his dagger for a moment, this reminder of the miracle Del had created to fix this for him. “… Thank you-“

And then Del put pressure on her injured arm and slipped off the log.

“Look out!”

Quick as a whip Cyran darted out to wrap his hands around his torso to prevent her from slipping off entirely. How exhausted she must have been, to do everything she’d done today - holding up the Valley with her own two hands, protecting the children and Andromeda, becoming the living forge. How was she even still awake? Still holding onto her so she didn’t slip, a frown tugged at Cyran’s lips.

“You need sleep.”

It was not uttered like a request.

There was a blanket, laid down on the ground next to them. One that Del had brought out with her after they’d all got settled in. Cyran moved to maneuver her off of the log and onto her blanket, making sure to set her gently on her back. To his surprise, she made no protest, even as he laid her down and sat cross-legged next to her.

“It’s okay to stop moving… I know you have been as brilliant as a shooting star today, but if you don’t stop you’ll burn yourself up. Sleep, Del. I shall take watch.”

He hesitated.

She had given him back so much today… Del deserved to know what she’d saved.

“… Those portraits.” Cyran swallowed. “Silly things, really. I had them commissioned when I moved in here, because I wanted something to look at when I got overwhelmed. It was the first time I hadn’t been alone in a long time, and I wanted to savor that feeling. Zarius, Caedes, my friends. And my family - Vi’ira, Iryla, Cirice, Seiya… my daughter.” One he’d had done of her long ago, when he could still remember Marlow’s face.

He would not be able to forget it now.

“I know you’re thinking you may not be able to save everyone and everything, but what you have done for me today… it is priceless. I don’t know if I can ever repay you.”

The world spun violently, Del planting her hand into the log to try and bear the sudden light-headedness, the vertigo of pushing herself too far. Cyran cradles his dagger and she smiles-- she had no idea how she did it, but his happiness filled her soul with a radience she didn't have a name for. "Of-- of course, I'd--"

Her arm gives and she slips. It was a familiar feeling, falling, the lurch of tumbling. No strength to keep herself upright anymore. But this time, instead of hitting the cliff the water the rocks the ground... strong arms secure her, holding her weight before her body could fully rotate sideways, off the log. Del blinks into Cyran's eyes, looking at the silvery flecks in his iris, and the little frown creasing his brow. She isn't sure what she's doing for a moment, simply fully surrendering her weight to him.

You who would bear the world on your shoulders if you could; who among the world would bear your weight?

A weird thought. She's not sure where it comes from but it makes her breath hitch a little. Oh.

...Oh, he wanted her to sleep.

Old instincts want Del to protest; she cannot sleep now, not when there is so much to plan, so much to be done. But... she has no will to fight this. No desire to resist him. Del lets Cyran slowly lower her to the blanket she had brought with her, so he wouldn't catch a chill.

Del heaves a little sigh as her back finds the ground, Cyran lowering her onto it gingerly, always so mindful and thoughtful. She gives him a faint smile. "Thank you."

Mostly, she lets him lay her down because... because she wanted to.

How rare was it to feel as though she didn't have to jump in and do sixty different things herself? Del had been prepared to stay up for watch herself. She didn't feel that urge at the moment, that deep, driving anxiety to keep everything together and plan for contingencies. There was someone else here she trusted to have her back, and give her a chance to breathe, and process.

And yet...

"I don't want to sleep now, not while you haven't rested either," she eventually mutters, a token effort to be stubborn. Del doesn't try to get up, at least, but she's determined at the moment to stay awake.

She falls silent for a moment, as he calls her a shooting star, saying that its okay to rest. There's a quiet little ache in her chest that twists at that-- no one had ever said to her that sort of thing was allowed. "You worked just as hard as I did." Del reminds him quietly, looking up at him from where she lay on the ground. As he starts to talk, though, she falls silent, lulled by the timbre of his voice.

The names he lists, some are familiar. Stories Cyran had told her, one or two she had met. Del knew Cyran adopted a fair few of the younger ones, as was his wont, giving selflessly so that they might have a stable harbour to call home when the storms came. But the last one... his daughter. That one makes her blink, a little surprised. He spoke that one differently than the others. Not one of the names he had previously mentioned. Someone else.

"Ah," Del manages a slight, wavering little smile as his words sink deep into her being. His gratitude was... earnest and profound. It makes her tear up, just a bit. "Finally found something you can't try to pay me for." she whispers a little joke, finding an unlikely burst of humour in her exhausted mind. Del lets the chuckle trail off before she reaches up to touch the side of his face. It's hard to lift her arm that high, her hand shakes, but this she presses herself to do, for this delicate, barely-there caress to the rune by his ink-black eye. Still curious, quietly questioning. She had heard and seen much these past months, things she had chosen to let go of, or not question. Perhaps she should have been more proactive in that way. Asked more about these things she had caught on to, so that he didn't feel as though he had to hold back, had to hide them. "You don't owe me a thing. You deserve precious and priceless things, Cyran. You are precious and priceless." She adds, without thinking much of it. Not a lot of filter when she was this level of tired. But it was no less true.

Those words echo from months ago;

"--It isn’t much, but please accept this ring as a token of my gratitude, and a promise to enjoy many more outings together. I still have many more constellations to show you, after all. Assuming they are still there to enjoy.”

"If they aren't, then I will make you something better."

"I'm glad I could do that for you."

Del blinks those thoughts away, her mind hazy from fatigue. If he truly admired her convictions (he did, she knew he did), then, unfortunately, Del was full of them. She forces herself to keep her arm up, "...I didn't know you had a daughter." she murmurs, barely audible over the crackle of the low fire. Del can feel the old ache of sorrow in the back of her mind, a feeling that was deep and throbbed like an old wound that never quite healed. "I'd like to hear about her, if that's... something you'd like to talk about with me. And, this." She manages one last shaky brush with the pad of her thumb across the rune before her arm falls into his lap. Del grimaces at herself, mad at her own weakness for a moment before letting it go. It was not a bad thing to let oneself be weak.