There was the stubbornness he expected. Cyran huffed out a small laugh at Del’s reticence towards getting sleep, not while Cyran was just as exhausted. He could hardly compare what the both of them had done today. It was true his body was running on fumes, the last reserves in a nearly-empty container, but he would have to make it work. He always did.

Covering his mouth with his hand to hide the ghost of tired amusement that tugged at his lips, Cyran replied, “And yet I am not the one who can barely move.” He pointed out, not unkindly - it was merely an observation, a statement of fact. Del had kept running until her body told her it could move no more - hell, whatever kind of magic she’d done - there was nothing left of her to give today. That was the good thing about having someone to trust, Cyran learned. You knew you could be weak around them… and it was an honor to protect them when they could not protect themselves, in turn.

“… A compromise.” He offered. “I will not take watch far from you while you rest. In fact, I can lay down and not fall asleep…” He’d done plenty of nights in the past keeping watch while pretending to rest to catch any possible bandits off guard. One of the few defense mechanisms a lone traveler could muster. “If I lay down with you, will you promise to close your eyes and rest?”

The compromise was as much as he was willing to budge - as much as he wished to sleep, it was not okay for him to rest. Not in the Deadwoods. He shifted closer to Del while he spoke, relaxing as she brought up a shaking, exhausted hand to touch his face, the rune inscribed on his cheek in magical ink. He could feel her curiosity burning. And then she uttered that small joke, a bit of humor meant to lighten his mood, and -

That was the final straw that broke the dam Cyran had delicately been building in his mind to keep the emotions at bay.

He hiccuped, a sound between a laugh and a sob. It was funny. It wasn’t. His shoulders shook, tears sliding down his cheeks, punctuated by peals of startled laughter. Everything that had been building up through the day crumbling at once, all his defenses laid bare in front of Del.

“Is that a challenge? I assure you, I can damn well try to find a way.” He murmured, taken by the absurdity of the situation. He’d lost his livelihood - no money to his name, fortune lost to the wrath of the volcano. Nothing but his possessions on him… two daggers, once-broken. A horse. His cloak. Portraits. And yet, here he was, promising Del that he would find a way to give her back what he didn’t have, and her assuring him that he was priceless with such sincerity.

Which in of itself was laughable.

“I am in no way priceless.” He whispered, still quietly laughing to himself. “I’m just the shade of a man who ought to have died years ago.”

Oh. His daughter. Cyran could talk about her. He thought. For once it didn’t feel as painful. Both because his heart already felt wounded, so the regular aches that accompanied the thought of Marlow wasn’t as agonizing as it usually was. Or perhaps it was because Del had already spoke of her mentor tonight. There was a heavy sort of banker in the air, a bubble of tired calm. He was not safe here, but he was. It was a terrible, wonderful conundrum.

“Marlow.” He admitted after a moment of thought. “My Songbird. She was twelve when I…” Here, he swallowed. Now was not the time to talk of tragedy, so he kept details sparse. “I was separated from her. She is alive, and well. Must be around… oh, Cirice’s age, I suppose? I may not be allowed to have any part in her life, and she may not want me to, but I am just happy that she is safe. And happy.”

He let out a small laugh.

“She was my everything back then. I am centuries old by now, but my life truly began the day she was born. And it ended the day I could no longer be by her side.”

Rowan may have attempted to kill him all those years ago in their home in Eclipse City - and nearly succeeded - but the day he truly died was the day Lormundel Fenastra ripped Marlow from his arms and kicked him to the curb.

“She was a bright child, impossibly so.” Inherited that from Rowan, Cyran supposed. “I could not keep up with her intellect and natural curiosity. I used to take her stargazing. I told her stories…”

He blinked. He was still crying.

“I can’t.” He shook his head, taking a shuddering breath. “I can’t talk her anymore.” The eye. The eye. She’d asked about that, he could focus on that.

“Oh, this?” He’d forgotten that he’d even taken his patch off. “A causality of a mission gone wrong. I’m sure you remember hearing about the tomb in Zeinav - the one that Cirice, Gerhart, and I excavated together. The tomb demanded a sacrifice to gain entry in the form of our eyes. There was this mechanism… it was painless! I assure you.” He quickly waved his hand. “I lost an eye… I should have stopped us before we went in, but I wasn’t thinking. It didn’t feel real. And because of my folly I subjected the kids to that place. Cirice lost an eye too… afterwards, we went to healers. Hers came back just fine. But mine, well…”

Was infected with shadow.

“I can see out of it just fine. Better than fine, even. Whatever caused it to not heal back quite right gave it some magical properties. But it’s… not pleasant to look at, hence the patch.” This, he found, was much easier to speak about. It was not as shameful.

She flusters a little at Cyran's casual observation. No, she could not move so easily. At the moment. Del grumbles a quiet acquiesnce to his point. Couldn't exactly argue with that.

Though his offer does quiet her grumbles, some; that he would lie down next to her, if she would close his eyes. Del gives him a little, dubious squint, unsure if she should be taking this deal... but quickly relents. "That... sounds fair. Yes."

To Cyran's credit, she does relax further when he reclines himself next to her. Del's eyes drift closed-- they do open again, though, to touch his face, to ask him her questions, to joke.

She doesn't expect tears to be on her fingertips.

There's not enough left in her to even lift her head right now, but she does watch as her audacious little jest startles the tears out of him, as well as a laugh. It's bittersweet-- he needed this release, clearly, and she knows he is laughing through the tears, but, oh, seeing him cry makes her heart ache. It brings tears to her own eyes, and a little, choked laugh in reply. "I know you would. We're going to be in an endless battle of giving eachother things and doing them for one another, aren't we?" she chuckles again. Del can't deny how sweet that sounds, though.

Hearing Cyran call himself not precious makes her frown, though. She turns her head and head-butts his shoulder in protest; it's soft and completely ineffectual, but it is the most she can do at the moment without words, especially as Cyran speaks on his daughter. Marlow.

The grief that flows through him as he describes his beloved, estranged daughter... there's so much that it hurts, a swollen to bursting dam of regret and longing and that singular, parental drive to protect and nurture and not being able to watch her grow and become a wonderful woman and how cruel it was he couldn't be there to see her happy-- her heart breaks for him. As he says he died when he was removed from her life, when he chokes out that he can't talk about her anymore, the last of her resolve breaks. She shifts to her side, reaching out across Cyran's shoulders to gently, gingerly, pull him into a hug. Her head finds its spot between the crook of his shoulder and his jaw, and hugs him tight, tears silently rolling down her own face.

They hadn't been this close since the cruise, but that was hardly at the fore of her mind at the moment.

"It's alright. No more," Del promises, whispering. She she holds him as tight as she can-- it's not a lot, not enough by half, but she will not let Cyran face that grief alone. Not anymore. "She sounds incredible. I will hold onto that memory of her, too." That, she can promise; if Cyran was going to hold Maruyama in his mind's eye, the memory of a beloved mentor now gone, then she would hold fast to Marlow. Maybe there was some way to reunite them...

She listens to Cyran talk about his eye, still feeling the grief wash over her from talking about Marlow-- her eyes do snap open as he describes himself and Cirice giving up their eyes as a part of a sacrifice. That it wasn't painful was hardly the point! But moreso... echoes of what he had spoken about when they had visited Gerhart's home and met Cirice. That he felt it was his fault for what had happened, what he and Gerhart and Cirice had endured.

"...Your eye doesn't bother me at all," she says softly. It was part of him; how could she be repulsed by something that was borne of love and sacrifice? Del understood he did not like it, or what it might mean, but she accepts it as part of him. She would not flinch from his truth. "What... sort of magical properties."

“Enhanced vision, unencumbered by smoke and dust. Nothing particularly impressive, but… practical. Useful.”

Del frowns a little more. "That is useful." It was true. She, at least, thought it was impressive.

There is not a lot of strength left in her, but Del has never been one to simply lie back, especially not when someone needed her. Del moves her arm up, hand grazing his chin, as she gently tilts his face to look down at her. Her brow is pressed in concern, earnestly troubled by how much he carried on his shoulders, by the incredible standard Cyran seemed to hold himself to. She tries to tap in to their connection, opening up a little so he could get a sense for how she was feeling; woefully exhausted, sore, unflinchingly determined, and... sincere, terribly sincere, in her care for him. In the high regard she held him in.

"And do you see how precious you are? To me?" She murmurs-- it's all she can muster, but dammit, she will try. "To the kids, to your family? If you are a shade who ought to have died long ago, then so am I. I ought to have drowned in that river, by all accounts. But I am here, and so are you. In spite of what we've been through, we persist. That. Is. Priceless."

She lets her eyes drift closed again-- like she'd promised, though she still resists sleep-- and exhales slowly. "You kept them safe, Cyran. I am positive, knowing those two, that they would have tried to go in on their own. You being there made sure they came back. And I heard how they praised you and celebrated their victory. They are well. You helped them. You help everyone. But who helps you?"

Del does crack open her eyes to look up at him again. Not able to help it. Her hand moves again to gently brush a tear off his cheek. "Even moonlight needs its rest."

Cyran bit back another teary laugh at Del’s observation. “I suppose we will.” An endless cycle of two lonely souls, unable to accept that someone might simply wish to… offer a helping hand. Unable to come to grips with the concept of being the one the yield, the one to accept help.

Oh, but what sweet agony it was.

The compromise it would be, then. Cyran’s bones creaked and shifted as he laid down next to her, staring at the stars. Yeux still fluttered around if there was any danger lurking around he would not be able to sense. Still on guard, not quite relax, but… gods, oh, he’d needed this. If he were less tired he might have had the wherewithal to figure out why Del might relent to such an offer - the thoughts of a ship on the ocean, the darkness of a room where they once laid this close - or why she might wish to return to that.

He felt something soft and solid bump into his shoulder… why? It was kind of her to object to his words, but that didn’t make them any less true. He was nothing like the precious metals and fine materials Del used in the forge. Merely a piece of lumpy, old metal that had yet to be melted down into something better. That was fine with him. He did not need to hold himself in good esteem to know what was required of him in life. Those were thoughts that fizzled away into ash as he turned his attention back to Marlow, and he could no longer keep himself together.

No more, Del promised. But there should have been more, shouldn’t there? This was his punishment to bear for letting her go without so much as a fight, the thorns in his throat that tore it up from the inside every time he spoke about her. Pain, but it was his to bear. But… then Del wrapped him in a sort of hug, like his own shortcomings weren’t his fault. Like he ought to have been comforted for everything he’d shared with her.

I don’t understand.

Don’t you see it was all my own fault?

I was the one that left her. I should have fought harder for her. I should have…

Before he could think, Cyran had maneuvered himself until he’d curled into a ball, burying his head in her shoulder. Distantly, it occurred to him that there was only one other person he’d told about his daughter, and none other that had simply embraced him like this. You did not hug a weapon for fear of getting sliced by its sharp edges. And yet, Del seemed to have no issues taking on another scar if it meant Cyran was held in this moment. Almost as if she was saying, it’s okay. It was not your fault.

And Cyran didn’t deserve it. But… he needed it.

“She is incredible.” A hand snaked up and wrapped around her torso, an unconscious movement. Hands gripped the fabric of her shirt, needing something to hold onto. “And doing well for herself, last I heard. Only in her twenties, and she has accomplished so much.” He’d been so close to seeing her in the Crescent Isles this Winter’s Crown… they could have even crossed paths. They may have been on opposite sides that evening, but Cyran knew he would have given up every single thing he’d stolen that night for a chance just to see her face again.

“You’ve already preserved her memory once.” Cyran reassured her. “I fear the day I wake up and forget what she looked like.”

Del was just as impossibly understanding when Cyran spoke about his eye. His breath hitched when she so boldly asserted that it didn’t bother him at all. It was not the most horrifying of injuries, he knew. Hell, he’d inflicted worse. But it was not the most pleasant thing, to have such a mark of everything inherently wrong with him on display for all the world to see. His confusion grew when she asked about the magical properties of his eye.

It wasn’t much, really.

He’d gotten the rune inscribed not long after the loss of his eye as a way to make up for any loss of functionality.

Suddenly, he was turned around, Del using what little strength she had left to force him to look at her. Cyran opened his mouth to protest, remind her that she needed to lay still, but any argument he might have had withered and died on his lips when she started talking, pouring every ounce of sincerity and meaning into her voice, so much that Cyran could have drowned in the tidal wave washing over him.

“…”

He wanted to argue her point. But the words refused to come.

“I am. Glad you think that of me.” He choked out, averting his eyes. The Specter had stared down countless criminals in the past, unflinching. Unyielding. And yet, Del’s comfort made him draw in on himself, rendered him a mess of a man. He could not gaze into such firm conviction. “Taking risks with my life is part of the job. I could not live with their blood on my hands.” They’d come out alive, but Cyran could still see the mental scars that plagued the both of them. The way they both pushed themselves to be better, never letting themselves rest.

“… Who helps me?”

Cyran tilted his head at the moniker. Moonlight. Such a gentle name, he thought.

“Yes, even moonlight needs rest.” He agreed, closing his eyes as Del wiped away his tears. It did, but he couldn’t. Not… not yet. “But it shall do so only when dawn breaks, and it is time for the gentle rays of the sun to take over. Please, Del, rest for the night. I shall sleep come daytime.”

He did not want to spend another day standing still at this campsite - but they had to take the children into consideration. Kids that were unused to laborious travel like he, Del, and the apprentices were. It would kill them. And they’d gotten out of the city, but they had no direction from there. Cyran needed somewhere to take them. Some way to get them from point A to point B, and hide them away from the world until the quakes died down.

Loathe as he was to admit it, he needed someone with funds.

It was a toss-up about whether Veliky would assist him or not. They were cautious acquaintances at best. And yet, despite all her shortcomings, and the tense nature of their relationship, Cyran knew - he believed to his very core - that there was good in her. A desire to do good for Charon. He would try to get in touch with her, ask for aid. And if she said no, then… well, he had no idea, but he would have to figure it out. But that was for tomorrow.

Despite everything that had been lost to the flames, they’d carried the day. That in itself was all Cyran could ask for.

They were alive. They were breathing. They were still here to keep moving, and he would not squander that opportunity.

His head lowering to her shoulder makes Del's breath hitch, just a bit, as Cyran caves into her embrace. Gripping her tight, as though she was an anchor in the midst of churning waters. How long had he gone without comfort for his grief, enduring it all on his own? Ten years was not long for an elf, but even an hour of living a life without his daughter would have been agony. All this time...

The least she could do, after all he had done for her, was make sure that he never had to endure that alone again.

"I know that of you," Del's voice is whisper soft, but she means it. She can see how he cannot look at her directly, but lets this go. Though, she does smile a little. "An odd number of risks for a hunter, mm?" she huffs a quiet little chuckle, but does not press. "You are motivated by love. I see it in every action you take. Your sense of duty and care and protectiveness and warmth all comes from that place. And that's why I believe-- I know; you will see your girl again."

Del lays her cheek against the top of his head as she finishes brushing away his tear, holding him close, not thinking--at the moment, anyway-- but also unable to deny how good the closeness felt. It was different this time; on the ship, they had awoken entangled every morning, as if they had been drawn to one another in sleep. Now, they were both alert and awake. This was no dream, but a conscious choice... and what Del knew was that she felt more like herself in his presence. Which was an odd thing for someone who could only remember less than a third of their lifespan, but she was also far, far too tired to deny herself this small respite, no matter how much she didn't deserve it. Hadn't earned it.

It was greedy, selfish, maybe, but she couldn't deny that she needed this. And knew he needed it, too.

As if to make that point, the line of Del's lips quivers as Cyran turns her metaphor back on her; the dawn. That was a lofty brilliance to refer to her as. Not merely sunrise, but the breaking of light on the horizon. She, who was little more than dross and scars and fractured memories-- how could she be worthy of that? Still, the word hits a note in her soul that resonates, just a little, and she can feel her own pounding heart (a sound Cyran could hear, she realized, with where his head lay) slow to a more peaceful thrum.

"Hnnn," she grumbles softly... but relents. Dust and ash, she can't remember a time when she was this worn down. And she could not deny his 'please', even at her most lively and most stubborn. It was too sweet, too gentle, moving around her armour like water through cracks. The quiet sigh that leaves her rustles his hair, just a little. "I will take over watch come the morning, then. You win this time, my Rogue." Del chuffs quietly again and breathes deep. He smells of ash and smoke and sweat and the coppery tang of blood-- but there's a note of him there, a crisp like fresh snowfall and juniper that seeps into her mind like a spell.

That probably wasn't allowed either.

But at that point, Del had stopped caring altogether. She had just what she needed, right here. "Goodnight, Cyran." Del manages to murmur before sleep takes her, deep and straight down into the black.

You are motivated by love.

You will see your girl again.

What kind promises Del offered him, with such firm conviction - as if she so firmly believed what she was saying. It was not incorrect, he supposed. For a man that had grown up in such a cold environment, Cyran’s heart was impossibly soft and vulnerable. Easy to give that love to others… even easier to lose it. Why did it all hurt so much? Gods, a small part of him wished that he could simply take away his own memory of today, the sting of the loss and the dull, old aches speaking of these memories.

But, as Del pressed her cheek to the top of his head while he curled into the shoulder, he knew that dealing with these pains wouldn’t be so horrible. He wasn’t alone.

“Oh… thank you.” There were a thousand other words Cyran could have used to articulate his gratitude for Del, his relief that she was okay and had not left him.

(He would not blame her if she had.)

But that well had, inevitably, run dry. Cyran could no longer find it in himself to speak for fear he might choke on them. He simply had no more in him.

Cyran would have to find it. Del took a breath, her heartbeat beginning to slow. Cyran could practically feel her uncoiling, reluctant to relax, but allowing her body the sleep it so desperately needed. Face still pressed against her shoulder, Cyran’s lips curled into a satisfied smile knowing that she was finally allowing her body to sleep.

“Mm. I think you’ll find that I can be quite stubborn myself, when I want to be.” There were no more tears for him to shed. No more time he could allow himself for wallowing in his grief. There was work to be done, and he would dutifully keep the night peaceful to usher in the next morning.

“Goodnight, Del.” He brushed a stray curl of hair from her face as her eyes fluttered shut, finally surrendering to sleep. His heart stammered at the display of trust. They’d inhabited rooms together before, yes, but this felt different. She was allowing herself to be human in front of him, and Cyran would not break that trust.

Nor would he allow her usual nightmares to plague her sleep. Still pressed against her side, Cyran closed his eyes, concentrating on the space of her dreams. That dark river, that prison… drowning, always thrashing, never giving up. As he had on the boat, he made sure to give her good dreams, dreams of spring - of the Crescent Isles in full bloom, of quiet beaches and fireworks off the shores of Shingetsu.

And from his position by her side, Cyran kept a silent vigil over the campsite.

Minutes stretched into hours. The moon rose, until it reached its zenith in the sky, staring down at Cyran while he lay, a hand resting on his dagger. Despite Del slumbering softly next to him, he would not allow himself to relax, even as the moon and the stars shone gently down on him, as constant as ever, save the constellation that had crumpled apart and fallen on Hearth’s Day. Every gust of wind and twitch of animals scampering through the woods made his shoulders tense, each rustle of the grass made him reach for the newly-reformed Spell Slicer in anticipation. And still… hours ticked by at a snail's pace until red hues began to stain the smoky horizon.

And the night passed in peace.

It was a small blessing.

And still, Cyran would not relax. Not until the sun began to rise, and Del began to stir next to him. “Good morning…” Cyran bid her, stifling a yawn behind his hand. His body was sore, eyelids impossibly heavy… and yet, he’d managed to keep watch for the night, as promised. As the sun began to rise, even brighter than it had been the day before hidden behind clouds of ash, the moon began to set as the last of Cyran’s energy began to fade.

He nodded at her, conveying all the sincerity he could. “Watch over them, my fighter.”

And the last of his energy slipped away, finally able to slip into unconsciousness knowing that they were in Del’s capable hands.

Del mumbles something about stubbornness, vaguely echoing Cyran's words, her head listing slightly toward the touch of his hand moving aside her curl, but she's already half asleep and descending faster. Part of her expects the dream once again-- it's always there, the water, the drowning, the endless lonely darkness that leaves her trapped and helpless.

That dream does not come, though. A better dream, a better sleep, lulls her through the night. Dreams of flowers, fireworks, quiet beaches and hanging above it all, a full moon, illuminating her dreams with pale light painting the darkness in vibrant dashes of colour; peace. Distantly, she knows to whom the moon belongs, and she sings to it, sitting with her knees to her chest in the sand as fireworks burst overhead, replacing the stars that had tumbled from the sky.

Those feelings of awe and admiration scatter in little gold petals again from her hair as she sleeps. Even in ruin, in ashes, hope remained undaunted.

Compared to the bliss of her dreams, waking is its own nightmare. As dawn begins to break, Del's body remembers, vividly, the exertions of the day prior and protests loudly, a sound she reacts to with a soft groan of displeasure. But with that aching soreness comes a very fast reminder of their situation, and awareness returns to her quickly. Impossibly well rested, given the circumstances. She pulls her head back from Cyran's hair to look down at him as he greets her, stifling a yawn. He looks so terribly exhausted, teetering on the edge of sleep for the gods knew how long for the long hours of night. Just as she waxed, he waned; Del feels her heart swell to prick little tears at the corners of her eyes. He kept his word. He kept them safe.

What an honour to be able to give the moon respite.

"You did so well," she murmurs, giving him a wavering little smile as she reaches up to unmuss the top of his head that she had made her pillow. The 'my fighter' makes a few extra gold-leaf petals scatter from her hair; Del doubted she would ever get tired of hearing that. "I will. I promise. Sleep well." She doesn't move, still holding him close as he sank, finally, into a well deserved sleep.

She stays like that for a little while. A few minutes, to ensure he is well and truly out, trying to get a sense for what he had gone through the night before. Listening to the distant pops of the campfire (that needed more wood), the sniffles and rustles of nearby fabric (the kids would be waking soon), the wind shifting through the dry branches of the trees. She breathes a little sigh, pulling him close into one last little squeeze, before slipping off the blanket to wrap it carefully around Cyran. Then, sliding her arm carefully under his back, the other under his knees, she lifts him, head still resting on her shoulder, as she rises. Her muscles tremble violently, screaming a loud protest, before she manages to get upright, gritting her teeth in silence. She carefully, quietly, manuveres to one of the tents, sliding under the heavy canvas flap to set the bundled Cyran down in a safe place. Where precious things belonged.

She shakes her head clear of that thought and unravels the sash from her belt. She folds it up, a makeshift pillow in lieu of one of the bedrolls being occupied by the kids, and slides it beneath his head. Shifting as though about to leave, she pauses, looking at Cyran, watching him sleep. Not wanting to leave his side, but knowing she had to.

The memory of yesterday was still fresh; a flash of the roof as it falls in on Cyran and Del winces. Dust and ash, she was so sore and so tired, and Del knew that paled with how Cyran was feeling right now. She wanted to help him, help the children, help everyone, but she was only one person with two hands and a heart that ached. What was she to do?

Exhaling a shuddering breath, she closes her eyes. "Please," she whispers, her voice not louder than a sigh. She doesn't really know who she is talking to-- certainly not the gods. But... perhaps she does know. The closest thing to a father she could ever remember. "If you still watch over me, please watch over him, too. He means so much to so many and the world needs men like him. Keep him safe, please... when I'm not strong enough."

Another tremulous exhale leaves her as she opens her eyes. No change, no word, no omens or indication that anyone had heard. Still, she feels... a little better. With one last gentle shift of one of his long, raven-and-silver locks off his forehead, Del exits as silently as she entered.

It was time for work.

Always an early-bird, she gets started on the routine she knew well from her many years traversing the wilderness... with a few modifications, of course. There are many more people than she is used to travelling with, and most of them quite young, unable to care for themselves. Today would be a learning experience for them. The least she could do was make it fun.

Silently, she gets started by preparing the rest of the rations, grimacing. They would have enough for a midday meal as well, but that would truly be the last of it. They would have to hunt. For now, though, she makes do; the bars of dried fruit can be made into a jam melted over the fire in a tin with some water. It would make the hard-tack more palatable, and indeed, if she used a bit of water to soften the bread, she could add the crumbly, dry cheese and melt that as well for a melted cheese sandwich. The jerky was fine as it was, but for the more delicate palates, she could also soften it the strips of meat in water. A fair start to the breakfast, all told.

By the time anyone else is up, the food is made and ready, and Del is already pulling together a snare beside a replenished fire. She works a branch, carefully splintering the length of it to get to the reedy strands within that she could weave together to make a quick snare.

With the rising of the sun, Cyran might have been asleep - but that did not mean the rest of the world was not. There was still much to be done, children to be taken care of, and a camp to run. All of this was lost on Cyran, who had already succumbed to his rest. As usual, his sleep was dreamless, cold. More akin to meditation than sleep.

In his rest, he was weightless. Listless. Suspended in that blackened void between life and death, merely waiting for the moment his body rested enough to wake once more. And yet, there was something different today. Cyran was not quite alone.

He was comfortable, and warm. Almost like he was nestled next to a furnace.

Still asleep, Cyran curled closer into Del while she brought him into one of the tents, making sure he was safe and comfortable and cared for. Lamented the loss of that familiar warmth when he lost it. And yet, it was not entirely gone. It remained in the fearful words that Del whispered to a memory on his behalf, in the care with which she pushed aside strands of his hair before standing and leaving.

No, Cyran was not alone.

Del was always there with him.

And with time, Del was not the only presence that had been left behind in his soul. Perhaps she herself could not feel what had happened - but laying in slumber, there was a new kind of warmth that lodged its way into Cyran’s core, a foreign presence that he could not place, but a kindly one, accompanied with the ghost of a familiar smile and a figure retreating into the mist. An answer to Delaela’s pleas.

As Del left the tent, a spectral hand placed itself on Cyran’s shoulder.

…

Oriole and Andromeda rose not long after Del, exhausted but still functional. Both apprentices had exerted themselves far less than Cyran and Del had. Andromeda gave Del a terse nod while the elf handmade a snare while Oriole dipped into a low, polite bow.

“Um… good morning, Miss Del. Where is Master Cyran?”

"Good morning, Rhi'as." Del lifts her head with a tired smile at the young man for a moment before returning to her hands. "He is sleeping in the other tent. He kept watch for us all night, so I am taking my turn. How did you sleep?"

“As well as could be, I suppose…” The young man mumbled after a moment of thought. Truth be told, he hadn’t slept very well at all. The young thief had been plagued by nightmares, worries that they would find themselves on the receiving end of a bandit or murderer in the forest, or that another earthquake would find them even out here. He had tossed and turned most of the night until Andromeda smacked him awake and told him that it was time to get up.

Andromeda, on the other hand, was already getting to work. Del had already begun to prepare morning rations for the kids, who were all waking up to the smell of food, hungry for another proper meal. The rations would last them for breakfast, but they needed more. Del looked like she was already ahead of that, but they needed more than one person on the job. With a dagger clutched in one hand, and Calliope perched on her shoulder, Andromeda turned to Del.

“While you feed the kids, I’ll get started on hunting.” She wasn’t good at all this sentimental bullcrap. She couldn’t dry the children’s tears and tell them everything was going to be okay. For all she knew, it wouldn’t be. They were teetering on the edge, waiting for the next big thing to send them over the cliff. Four adults, being the only thing standing between a bunch of defenseless children and certain death? They wouldn’t make it far.

Then again, Master Specter and Miss Del had beaten the odds thus far. Saved lives that Andromeda was ready to give up for her own sake, all because she thought there was no point in trying. If there was anyone who could protect them all, it was those two.

She spent the better part of her morning capturing squirrels and small game - whatever she could in the dead forest. Calliope even managed to snag a few small birds, but not much. It would have to do. They needed to take what they could get.

Meanwhile, back at the campsite, Oriole helped divvy out food to the children, who were all finally starting to realize the gravity of the situation they were in.

“Where will we go now?”

“Where’s Headmaster Cyran?”

“Are we all going to die?”

Oriole pursed his lips. He was not good at speaking… but he would try to channel Master Cyran, and ease their worries as best he could. “Master Cyran and Miss Del have a secret plan… it’s confidential.” He brought a finger to his lips, causing the kids around him to burst out in loud, surprised gasps.

“I knew Miss Del was a super spy!”

“And Headmaster Cyran is very sleepy. He spent the whole night chasing away the monsters and the bad guys to keep you kiddos safe. But even superheroes need their sleep. And…”

He fiddled with his staff, unsure. There were too many uncertainties, the future clouded by ash and smog. Oriole wasn’t sure that even Cyran and Del knew what their next steps were, or where they would go after this forest. He didn’t know if there was anywhere safe they could even go. And yet, when he spoke next, he knew that these words were the truth. He believed in them wholeheartedly.

“We’re all going to be okay. Because Cyran and Del are here, and they will not allow any harm to come to you all. They love you very much.”

And the morning progressed, with Oriole helping Del wherever he could throughout the camp. They were limping along, exhausted, and their energy depleted, but… they were alive. And they would make it through another day. And another. Until surviving was no longer such a monumental task, until they could breathe again without feeling like their lungs would catch on fire from the burden of it all. They just had to take it one moment at a time.

Del returns Eleanor’s terse nod of greeting with a gentle one of her own, and offers Rhi’as a gentle, understanding smile at his weary words. “Make sure you rest again this afternoon to keep your strength up. Just a cat nap, or so to speak. Ah, good morning, loves.” Del’s smile widens as the kids start to wake up, pulling themselves cautiously out of the tents so Oriole could serve them food.

As Eleanor declares her intent to hunt, Del turns to her with another nod. “Thank you. Stay safe.” There was no need to wish her luck or warn caution to the young woman, Del knew. She had this.

As Del finishes one snare and starts on another, she lifts her eyes to the fire and what was left. Food was important, of course, as it would be vital for the energy levels of the young ones, and especially those who were injured, and that could be handled. Shelter was fine at the moment. The tents were in good condition. Firewood was plentiful. Clothes were a problem, but Del could work with the hides of the animals, maybe, for a temporary solution (though there was no time to properly tan a hide).

Above all, though, they would need water. For cooking, for washing ash off of faces and out of hair, for cleaning wounds, for virtually everything. They could survive a few days without food; they would not without water.

Del closes her eyes in thought. There was likely a stream nearby, but it would be clogged with volcanic ash, and Del had no means with which to distill such water. She believed that Darkveil itself was subsisted by an aquifer, so there was likely some ground water in the area they draw from. But they would need to find it, and find some way to ensure the impurities within were taken care of so no one would fall ill.

Her head turns toward the quiet whispers of the children as Rhi’as assured them, offering a comfort Del knew he was uncertain about. That was another thing they needed, Del thinks as she finishes a second snare. Stability. Something to do with the time rather than worry.

Del beckons a couple of the children over, smiling impishly. She bends down with a little smile, brushing hair out of their faces. “I think I have an extra special secret job for you two, if you like. Can you help me?”

When she gets their tiny nods of assent, Del draws a little picture in the soot at their feet, a loose depiction of a flask. “Headmaster Cyran usually carries this with him at his hip. Can you find it and bring it to me, please? Extra quietly though. Don’t wake him. He needs to rest.”

When the kids give her broad smiles and dart off to do just that, a couple more approach, sensing… novelty. Things to do. “Miss Del, can we have a super secret mission too, please?”

Del’s smile softens as she takes them aside to teach them how to braid rope out of the poor quality branches and reeds they were surrounded with. Little tasks and things to keep their hands and minds busy, effort made lighter as she taught them work songs to occupy the silence—sung softly, just for the camp, but enough to improve the atmosphere. At least, as much as Del hoped it would.

As Rhi’as passed her by, she reaches up to touch his shoulder, giving him a soft smile. “I’d like for you to join us in making snares, but I actually have a special task for you as well. I need you to find a dry river bed, or a base of a cliff. Look for a patch of sodden ground, or better yet, a patch of green in that place, and then I want you to dig. Take Eleanor with you when she returns—I don’t want anyone going anywhere alone. When you hit water, collect it in the skins from the packs, and bring it back here. Don’t drink any.” Her expression turns encouraging. “Think you can do that for me?”

The children were delighted at the prospect of a special mission just for them. They watched with wide eyes and rapt attention while Miss Del sketched the flask in the ground. One of the children raised their hand, jumping up and down. “Oh! Oh! I’ve seen that! Headmaster Cyran keeps it on his belt!”

The two giggled and dashed for the tent where headmaster Cyran was sleeping. The assassin’s rest was normally light - surface level. But the exhaustion from the day before had left him too exhausted to mind his surroundings, even when two especially un-stealthy children made their way inside, doing a poor job of stifling their giggles. One of the children spotted the softly-glowing flask where it was attached to his hip, and pointed it out to the other.

“We really are just like spies-!”

“Shh!” The first kid brought a finger to his lips, glancing nervously at Headmaster Cyran. Still lost in his own mind, Cyran did not stir at the noise - the two let out a sigh of relief before tip-toeing over to his side. One of them unhooked the clasp, lifting their prize into the air. They retrieved the flask! They’d completed a super secret mission for Miss Del!

They let out a couple of cheers before remembering that they couldn’t wake Headmaster Cyran and covered their mouths with their hands, staring at each other with wide eyes.

Cyran mumbled something in his sleep, rolling over, getting dirt and ash all over his hair. The two children shared a mischievous look.

A few minutes later, they left the tent, imaginary halos hovering over their heads as they made their way to where Miss Del was teaching the other kids arts and crafts - the picture of innocence. They hadn’t just spent the past few minutes scribbling on Headmaster Cyran’s face, no sir.

“Miss Del, Miss Del! We found it! We completed the mission!”

“We’re super spies, just like you!”

Their mission complete, they joined the other children in doing little chores and menial tasks that Del assigned them to in an attempt to keep little hands and little minds busy, all listening to De as she sang to them. They were all exhausted and afraid, too small to comprehend the large scope of what had just happened to them. Displaced from their home, unable to understand why they had to camp in the forest and not return to the Valley. But with Miss Del singing and acting confident and happy, they at least felt a little safer, too.

A few minutes later, Oriole passed by, stopping when Del grabbed him to give him something to do. Oriole nodded, biting his lip. She wanted him to look for water? He looked around the camp, at these children who weren’t trained in survival. It was only a matter of time before they ran out of the resources Del had packed.

He knew what a precious commodity water was.

And he knew how to find it.

“… The terrain of the Ash Lands is unfamiliar to me, but I can do that, yes.” Oriole nodded, sounding more confident than he had this morning. “I won’t let you down.”

With a meek nod, he scurried away in search of Andromeda.

The assassin returned after a few hours of hunting, only passably successful. She’d managed to collect a menagerie of small animals - mice, squirrels, and one or two small birds - but no big game. But it would all be edible meat. As she stashed her food away, Oriole approached her and the two set off in search of water.

Progress was frustratingly slow. Andromeda, for all her sharpness, fell short when it came to survival techniques. Oriole, who had grown up in the White Sand Seas, at least had an understanding of the techniques Del was describing - though as he failed to explain to Andromeda what they were supposed to do, she only grew more frustrated. It took a couple of hours for them to find a dried up spot that might have once been a riverbed, but they managed to fill the skins with ashy water.

Oriole grimaced at the sight of it. This wasn’t really all that drinkable… but Miss Del seemed to have an idea of how to purify it. Once they were done with their task, Oriole slung the packs over his shoulder, giving Andromeda a small nod before they made their way back to the camp.

And life, as always, continued on.

Del beams as Rhi'as answers in the affirmative. "I know you won't. Stay safe out there; if you yell for me, I'll hear you."

She watches the pair go, juggling the meat, skins and snares she and the children are building. The flask the children had so deftly grabbed for her sits beside her on the bench, kept close. Another precious memory of Cyran's; she had gotten it without permission, but she would see to it that nothing happened to the flask. Or the kids. Or Rhi'as and Eleanor. Or Cyran.

...Him, especially.

When Eleanor and Rhi'as return, Del's head snaps around in the direction of their movement before immediately relaxing when she sees who it is. "Welcome back. Ah, you found some!" she stands up to offer to take the water skins from them both, hefting them easily despite the weight of the water. She uncorks one of the skins and gives it a cursory sniff, grimacing. It smelled fetid, almost antiseptic. She picks up Cyran's flask and pours some of the water into it as she walks back over to the fire. She moves one of the cleaned pots forward with her foot, knees, and then pours the liquid back out.

The water pours into the pot, clean and fresh. She exhales a sigh of relief, and looks up at Eleanor and Rhi'as. "Fine work, you two. You just ensured we could get through the week." And all of it was thanks to Cyran's wonderful little gift from Cirice. She would have to see about getting one of these, potentially. It really couldn't be understated how valuable it was, especially now.

Del hands the task off to the older kids, who take a very scientific approach to the whole thing, pouring the water carefully from each skin into the flask, and then pouring the flask into a pot so the skin could be further washed out, before being refilled. Tedious work, but necessary.

And speaking of necessary.

Del returns to Rhi'as and Andromeda, inclining her head appreciatively, still smiling. Behind them, the kids start up one of the work songs she had taught them. "Well done on your hunt, Eleanor. This will certainly help even things out. Do you know how to skin and dress your kills?"

She shakes her head, frustration evident in her face though she tries to hide it. Truth be told, she’s never really known anything besides killing.

She never thought there would be anything important enough.

But now, in this moment - watching Oriole in his element, Del taking care of these people, even master Cyran displaying skills she’s never seen before, Andromeda is given a horrible reality check about how much she still needs to learn.

So she swallows her pride like a sour lemon.

“… No. Can you show me?”

Del tries not to let her surprise show; she had been about to offer, but she had not expected Eleanor to outright ask. Del does not belabour the point, giving her an understanding smile. "I'd be happy to. Rhi'as, will you organize the children to wash the ash off their faces and hair? We have more than enough water to tidy them up." She gives him a wink and a smile, before walking with Eleanor to where her brace of kills sits, ready to be dressed.

Del takes her time, spending an hour running her through the process; what parts could be eaten and what couldn't be, but how those parts could still be used. The organs that were inedible would make for good bait for situations where fishing with water was required. While Eleanor's skill with a blade is still quite exceptional, a smiling Del watches as the young woman takes to the task with.. a bit of clumsiness. Like she was unused to the whole cutting thing. She scootches closer, and holds her hand out to Eleanor, inviting her to put her knife-holding hand in her palm.

Andromeda flinches away from the contact.

“I’m fine.”

Del holds up her hands peaceably and retreats, minding her own squirrel and quickly adding the new skin to the pile.

She is obviously not fine, but vulnerability is not something she is used to. She has to be good at everything she does. If she can’t be, she is of no use as a student. She tries a few more times on her own, obviously not understanding what she’s doing wrong. Why she cannot simply wield the blade with the same smooth dexterity as her master.

But Del is merely watching her - not the look of someone waiting for her to screw up. And Andromeda suddenly feels very small.

Silently, Andromeda scoots closer to Del and allows the elf to show her with gentle movements.

"The reason you're struggling is that you're weilding it like you're about to throw it, not use it to cut. Here." Del gently folds Eleanor's hands in the proper grip. "Cut with just the tip of the knife itself and let the blade do the work for you. Don't cut with your wrist, cut with your arm. Then you'll get a smooth cut."

Not to move with the flick of a wrist, but to use her entire arm. Pale face scrunched up in concentration, she mimics what Del has shown her.

It’s not perfect, but better than her first attempts.

“It’s easier this way.” Andromeda hums. It is as close to a thank you as she can manage.

"There you go, you're getting the hang of it! Good work." Del gives the young woman a small, encouraging smile, and continues on with the lesson.

In no time, the squirrels have been derobed, the birds plucked, Del shows Eleanor how to skewer the meat to smoke over the fire, leaning along the edge and hovering over the heat rather than in the flames itself to gradually cook. And it would be thoroughly done, of course-- there was no need to burn anything to a crisp, but it was better not to take chances with small game like this.

And speaking of that... as the afternoon slipped from early to mid, and the kids were either quietly playing or down for their naps, Del beckoned Eleanor and Rhi'as over, to show them what she had been working on.

"This is a pheasant snare. It's essentially a spring snare with two notches to fit these two sticks into one another. You plant this in the ground by a trail, near a bush, with the snare looped around the stick, with the rest of the snare length wrapped around a bent, young tree, like this. The idea is that the pheasant hops on the stick, and whoosh; it gets snared around the leg and lifted into the air." She shows them both how to set it up, how to reset it if it went off, and how it would look when sprung.

"There are bound to be some game birds around here. If you can set up a few of these in the brush, either near that water source you found or near some vegetation, you'll find something, I'm sure. If you can't find any good vegetation, use the organs we collected from dressing your catch. Birds like pheasants and grouse won't pass up a meal like that. They're not terribly bright birds, but they are swift and quiet. Perfect for two quiet and swift people like yourselves."

Del leans back on the log, eyes twinkling a little as she looks up at the pair with a mischevious smile. "First one to bring me a good size ground-bird doesn't have to search for firewood tonight. If you bring two, you won't have to do the dishes or cooking either."

The water that Oriole and Andromeda brought back did not look or smell especially potable. But Del didn’t seem phased in the slightest. Oriole assumed she must have had some way to clean or filter it. And as he watched her go through the task of methodically pouring the water into a little metal flask that looked like one Oriole had seen resting against Master Cyran’s hip in the past. The thief waited, patient, while she poured the water into a clean pot… crystal clear. Oriole’s eyes widened - it must have been some enchanted with some cleaning magic.

“That’s handy!” He exclaimed before flushing under Miss Del’s praise. In reality, he didn’t feel like he’d done much. It wasn’t difficult to find water around here, even as dirty as it was. Really, Del had done even more by cleaning it out with the flask. Ever the busy bee, Del handed the task of cleaning the remaining water off to a few of the older, more patient children before moving on to the next thing that needed to be done. This time, Andromeda was the one who was roped into the work. Her shoulders stiffened when Del singled her out by name, asking if she… knew how to skin kills of all things.

To her chagrin, she did not.

No matter how she tried to hide it, Eleanor did not exactly possess the skills of a hardened survivalist from the streets. All she had was her anger, the compulsion to bear her teeth. That made her a good killer. It did not make her naturally good at other things. And the worse she was at something, the more she dug her heels into the ground and resisted. The act of Del teaching Andromeda how to skin and clean her game was a difficult one - Andromeda was stubborn and belligerent, no matter how much Del responded with kindness and patience.

These lessons did not come as naturally to her as Master Cyran’s lessons on killing did.

Still, they struggled through the lessons, Del never once giving up on Andromeda, until the moment the young woman finally allowed herself to stop and listen. It was a mark on her pride, but even she could admit they needed the food. And with time, Del and Andromeda had managed to put together a passable amount of food for a meal, the scent of cooking, skewered meat wafting through the air, rousing hungry children who were fresh-cleaned after Oriole had helped them wash up.

The ash-stained sky was beginning to turn orange once Del beckoned Oriole and Andromeda over for another lesson, receiving responses of wildly various levels of enthusiasm. Oriole nodded along intently while Del described how to go about setting up a snare for bigger game, and Andromeda pretended not to listen - but there was a sharpness in both of their eyes, an eagerness to learn. For all their youth, instability, and stubbornness, there was a sharpness to their movements, glimpses of the thief and assassin in the way they listened and absorbed her words. They were still the Specter’s students, after all.

And then Del opened up the floodgates by bringing up the idea of competition.

Once she finished explaining, a mischievous gleam in the gold of her eyes, Oriole and Andromeda stilled. Turned to look at each other. It was possible that Del had no idea what she’d invited by issuing such a challenge, especially given that she wasn’t fully aware of the true nature of their apprenticeship under Cyran. Generally, Cyran did not pit his students against each other during training, not when they had such different skillsets. That did not mean that the two students lacked any inclinations of competition. And when presented with something as small and inane as this…

Well.

Oriole stared at Andromeda.

Andromeda stared at Oriole.

And then, in unison, the two hastily grabbed pheasant snares and sprinted into the woods.

---

Slow and steady wins the race - or at least, that was Oriole’s opinion as he set up the snare the way Miss Del taught them with gentle, deft fingers. He’d lost Andromeda somewhere along the line, but that didn’t matter. There was no way in hell he was going to be the one to gather firewood tonight, not when he actually stood a chance at winning! A ghost of a shy, devious smirk played at his lips while he set one up in a bush near the dried up river he and Andromeda had gathered water from earlier.

Yes, he was going to be the first to bring back a pheasant and win this challenge!

A distant rustling in the bushes caught his attention. Oriole stilled, head whipping in the direction of the sound. A bird? Already? He couldn’t believe his luck! With silent footsteps, he began to inch backwards, when all of a sudden, he caught the glint of silver from a nearby bush - something sharp whizzed through the air - and with pinpoint precision, a dagger embedded itself into Oriole’s scarf, pinning him to a nearby tree.

“Oh, come on!” Oriole complained as a small, white-scaled drake darted from the same bush, triggering the trap that Oriole had worked so hard on. A few seconds later, Andromeda emerged, a nasty grin on her face as she crossed her arms.

“Sorry, Snoreiole. You snooze, you lose.”

Oriole writhed, moving to grab the dagger and free himself from this hold. She’d thrown it so perfectly that it didn’t pierce any of his skin - only his clothes - but he’d lost his precious lead. He stuck his tongue out at her. “Oh, resorting to name calling now? Come on, that’s not fair!”

“Fair is a place you go to judge pigs.” Andromeda taunted. "Now, if you excuse me, I’m going to catch myself a bird. Have fun gathering firewood!” She turned on her heel and sprinted into the woods at the same moment Oriole managed to dislodge the dagger from his scarf, freeing himself.

He glanced at his trap.

He really should stay back and be the bigger person here. If he kept his head down while Andromeda bathed in the success of her nasty trick, then he still had a good chance at winning. It would be silly of him to abandon the snare to get one back at the knife-wielding assassin! Childish, really!

But maybe the spirit of competition had left him feeling a bit petty. Andromeda had been pretty rude to him - nothing new there, but that didn’t mean he liked it! - and maybe he needed to let off steam. Maybe, in her own way, she did, too.

As Andromeda sprinted through the woods, assured in her victory, something wooden darted out from her side and swept her legs out from under her. Andromeda fell rather ungracefully on her face, unable to catch herself in time. She rolled around, shooting a nasty glower at the giggling thief. The effect was probably far less threatening than she’d intended given the dirt and mud currently staining her cheeks.

“Motherfucker! You tripped me!”

The harsh glare from Andromeda would have halted any lesser man in their tracks, but after everything that Oriole had been through in the past few days, facing her wrath didn’t feel as scary as it once had. Maybe because he saw her as less of an adversary as more of a companion. “You’re the one who started it! Play stupid games, win stupid prizes!”

Andromeda glared so hard that a vein nearly burst in her forehead. “Why, you…”

Oriole's laughter died instantly. “Oh, shit.”

Those were the last words Oriole managed to get out before Andromeda lunged at him, wrestling him to the ground.

---

A few hours later, right at the cusp of sunset, both students shuffled back into camp - Oriole, with scratches and claw marks, and Andromeda, with ugly purple bruises - each holding a couple of birds in their hands, both looking utterly exhausted, still glaring daggers at one another. Neither could even muster up the strength to sprint to Del to be the first to win the bet. Instead, both managed an awkward half-jog, stopping in front of Del.

Whatever had happened in that forest, they’d gone through the war and made it on the other side.

“Here!” They both shouted at the same time, thrusting their catches to Del.

“We both made it at the same time… but I caught more than Oriole!” Andromeda boasted.

“But I caught the first bird!” Oriole countered, bumping her out of the way with her shoulder. “Miss Del, who won?”

It was at this moment, with both students staring at Del expectantly, that Cyran emerged from where he’d been placed in a nearby tent. His body and mind felt sluggish and exhausted, and he had no idea how he’d been moved from the bedroll under the stars, but the smell of food and the sound of his apprentices shouting at one another had finally been enough to rouse him from his rest.

… He looked a far cry from the normally composed, alert Cyran.

For one thing, his hair was a giant rat’s nest, and there was a line of dried drool down the side of his mouth. Even more prominent, though, was the imagery that had been scribbled all over his face in charcoal and ink. A mustache and a fake beard, a couple of games of tic-tac-toe, and even feline whiskers on the side of his face. The assassin seemed blissfully aware of all of this as his eyes immediately landed on Del and his students, attempting to regain his bearings.

The camp seemed… lively.

A far cry from how it had been the night before.

Cyran stopped in front of the campfire, in awe. The children were all bustling around, napping or playing or whittling wood and making crude snares, all buzzing in anticipation of a fresh meal that did not consist of dried foods. Del had done all of this.

It was hard not to see her as a miracle worker.

She’d fixed so much with those hands alone. Not just fixed - she’d brought happiness back to the childrens’ faces.

And something in Cyran, something he couldn’t place, slipped and fell a little further.

Oh. They were staring at him. Cyran cleared his throat, realizing he’d just been standing there rather awkwardly, like a doe caught in the lamp-light from a rampaging wagon. “Good evening.” He bid. His voice was barely a hoarse rumble from sleep. “I did not mean to interrupt. But I am awake now… is there anything else I can help with?”

Del truly had no idea what chaos she had wrought by sending Rhi'as and Eleanor off on their competition, but she thought at least it would be a good way for the pair to let off some steam and take their mind off the situation for a couple of hours. She chuckles as she watches the pair eagerly sprint off, excited to see how quickly they could come back with a bird. They were a quick study; she could understand why Cyran had taken them on as his apprentices. They were sharp and eager, even if it was hidden behind a aloof veneer, or shyness. It filled her with a sense of pride to be able to show them something, and watch them try their hand at it.

A certain warmth settles in her chest; this is something Cyran did every day, teaching, guiding, caring. How had she managed to go so many decades without feeling the satisfaction and pride of mentoring someone else?

As the hours progress, Del goes about tending to the kids; helping them get to sleep for their naps, washing out their hair and wiping their faces, ensuring they had snacks and water. She taught them games, showed them how to braid-- whatever it took to keep their minds and hearts off their situation. Once or twice, she thinks she hears yelling or a yelp from the forest, her ears twitching in the direction of the sound before she settles, sure that no danger was imminent.

Occasionally, she glances over to the tent where she knows Cyran rests, feeling a little wistful. He needed his rest, valuable and precious as it was. She hoped it was pleasant-- she found part of her wanting to check in on him, to join him in that peace, if only for a few minutes, to reassure herself that he was okay, safe, and no longer out of her view. She resists, though; she can't leave the children alone and unwatched, will not allow it for even a second. She can check on him, if need be, when Rhi'as and Eleanor return. She feels weary, still, and incredibly sore, but endures. Cyran had done that all through the night, so she could rest. It was the least she could do.

As sunset approaches, just as she starts to wonder where the pair could have gotten off to, the prodigal apprentices return. Del's warm smile of welcome falters into a look of stunned amusement. They both looked as though they'd been viciously attacked, had fallen, had mud thrown at them... what in the world had happened out there?

"...you have five birds between the two of you." Del marveled, looking between the two of them as they both enthusiastically demand to know who won. She stares at them for another few bewildered seconds, before bursting out laughing, a sound she tries to smother behind her hand so as not to wake Cyran or any of the napping kids. "Dust and ash, you look like you fell down the mountain! Was all that hollering out there you?" She shakes her head, chuckling fondly. "You both got here at the same time, so you tie. Neither of you have to get firewood or handle dinner tonight. Good work. Now go wash up, you're covered in grime and-- oh,"

Her gaze shifts toward movement, landing on Cyran as he approaches the fire. He looked as though he had slept hard, a his hair a tangled mess, sleep-drunk and disheveled like she'd never seen him before. She wondered for a moment if he was still asleep.

She also wondered where in the world he had gotten that fetching new mustache and goatee combination.

Her eyes widen, lifting a hand to her chin as one finger presses into her lips, as though trying to suppress her amusement. Around them, the giggles of the children begin to emerge.

Good gods, he was... so terribly endearing.

"Good evening, Cyran," The smile is genuine and the giggles grow a little louder. "Yes, if you'd like to, ah, join me, Rhi'as and Eleanor have done a wonderful job procuring dinner." Delnlifts her brows and looks toward the impish children, "Does anyone have anything they'd like to say to Headmaster Cyran?"

"You've got a mustache!"

The children erupt into peals of laughter, clearly delighted with themselves and their amazing spy mission. Del's shoulders shake with a silent laugh as she looks up at Cyran, her amber eyes glittering with mirth and sympathy, rising to meet him. "Did you sleep well?"

Oriole and Andromeda waited on bated breath for Miss Del’s verdict, both hoping to be declared the winner, when…

A tie?

Bewildered, the two apprentices shared a look with one another. What did that mean for them? Andromeda straightened, feeling the sudden need to brag about her accomplishments - in part, an attempt to get out of chores, and because a small part of her wanted the praise. “I was the one that demonstrated superior hunting prowess by catching the most game.”

“After you saw me do it first!” Oriole interrupted.

Both looked like they would protest more - at least, that was the plan, until Master Cyran re-emerged from the tent, and it was as if the two apprentices didn’t exist at all. The starstruck look in Del’s face, the impossibly soft, fond gaze in Master Cyran’s…

Oh.

That explained a lot.

Oriole nudged Andromeda in the side, nodding his head between the two elves with a knowing look in his eyes. Andromeda made a face and stuck out her tongue, as if to say - gross. That’s like watching your parents kiss. But even she couldn’t deny that it made sense. That the Specter, the fearsome assassin, was in love with Delaela Asiliari. And Del was in love with him. She wasn’t sure how she hadn’t noticed it before. The way he grew scared when he thought she was hurt, the way he held onto her when he reunited with her as if the world wasn’t burning around them, and they were the only two left in existence. As if he didn’t care if the world kept burning as long as she was safe.

Competition put aside, the two nodded in understanding - and slipped away with their game while Del and Cyran stood there, neither one speaking. They’d leave the lovebirds to… whatever it was they wanted to do, and start preparing dinner on their own.

Cyran noticed their retreat, though he was more confused about the erupting giggles from the children, and the growing smile on Del’s face - the laughter that clung to the edges of her voice. He paused, brows furrowing. What was so amusing?

His unspoken question was answered as one of the children, unable to contain his joy anymore, blurted out what all the other children were thinking. At the outburst, the other children erupted into joyous laughter. Cyran paused, rubbing at his cheek, nodding in understanding when he saw the smudge of black that came away on his fingertips.

“A mustache, you say?” He played along, stroking at his chin as if tugging at a beard. Elves couldn’t exactly grow facial hair, but he mimicked the motions just fine, stepping closer to the kids with slow strides. “How does it look? Does it make me appear… distinguished? Does it suit me?”

“No!” Came the chorus from the kids as the laughter increased watching Cyran stumble around the campsite, imitating a pompous noble.

“What was that?” Cyran gasped, still playing along. “You think it looks perfect? In that case, I’ll keep it.”

“Get rid of it, Master Cyran!”

“Really?” Cyran pretended to stroke the imaginary beard. Despite the fatigue that still clung to him like a blanket, the bleak situation, there was a spark of humor back in his eyes. Humor that the children - that Del - had given back to him. “But I’ve grown so fond of it… perhaps we should ask Miss Del.”

He turned to Del, winking. “What do you think, Del? Should I keep it, or shave it?”

The amusement faded into something like fond joy and appreciation as she asked how he slept. “Even better knowing that you were here to make sure everyone was okay in my stead.” He nodded around the camp. “They look happy. You gave them shelter and joy.” There was no words that could express his gratitude, so he settled for gripping the ring resting on his collarbone, hoping that she understood the flow of emotions through the bond. “Thank you.”

Del's smile grows as Cyran puts his hand to his cheek rubbing off a little bit of whatever the clever children had used to decorate his face. To her surprise though, his expression doesn't become sheepish, but a little impish, playful. She puts a hand to her own cheek as she watches, delighted. Almost... smitten.

Almost, she tells herself, as she watches him stroke his non-existent beard to elicit a reaction from the children, her own helpless laugh bubbling up from the cracks of her smile. Almost.

The children are in uproarious giggles, a sound that is music to her own ears, as Cyran teases them with his new "facial hair", his own little spark of humour peaking through the heaviness that had weighed on them this last day and a half. When he turns to her with a wink, Del feels heat rise to her face, but she plays along, putting on a coy look.

"Why, Master Cyran, it's very dashing. You do so wear it well." She fans herself with a rag before pouring a little water from a skin over it.

"Nooo! Miss Del!!"

She chuckles, her eyes sparkling with mirth as she lifts her gaze back to Cyran, "Why ever not! It's a work of art, we ought to put him in a museum, don't you think? I'm especially fond of the little kitty whiskers." Shoulders still shaking with her own silent laugh, Del lifts the cloth to gently dab at the side of his face, getting the little tic-tac-toe board near his eye.

Her hand stills a little, as his eyes meet hers and he speaks. There's something so deeply genuine and sincere in his eyes that makes her very aware that she is not merely a smith, a carpenter, a fixer of things, but also a person; Del. His hand touches the ring-- she could feel it already, but that gesture alone, mirroring his intent to communicate his gratitude, his quiet joy, the gentle wonder in what she had accomplished and how much it meant to him makes her heart swell, pressing against her rib as if trying to leap from its cage.

(Perhaps not 'almost' after all.)

Suddenly aware that her hand is on his face in that moment, she finds it hard to swallow, but... she doesn't take it away. She resumes dabbing the marks near his eyes, should they trouble him. Her other hand lifts to her own ring, embracing the rush of emotion from him, and communicating her own. A sheepish pride and squirming appreciation for his praise, touched with a softness that yields in appreciation for his words, his presence, a gentle sort of loyalty that indicates it was her pleasure to do so. "You-- ah, you're welcome." She gives him a shy smile, moving the cloth to his forehead. "You asked that I watch over them, and I simply... did as I thought you might. I'm glad you slept well. Art projects on your face notwithstanding," She exhales a quiet, breathy laugh, and bends to pick up his flask and return it to him.

"I had plenty of help, of course; the children helped me 'borrow' this, and Eleanor and Rhi'as have been-- oh, where'd they go?" She turns her head with a little frown, seeing the two had slipped away. "--They're probably getting washed up for dinner, but, they were instrumental. They brought back water and dinner, and I offered to show them a couple of skills I'd picked up over the years. They brought these back with them." She shifts sideways slightly to show him the collection of birds the apprentices had brought back wth them, chuckling. "I told them whoever brought me one first wouldn't have to fetch firewood, and if they brought two, they wouldn't have to cook or clean tonight. They exceeded my request. They also came back with some bruises," She chuckles softly as she moves toward the fire, intent on staying within reach of Cyran now that he was awake. "Well, dinner won't make itself. Now at least you'll get to try that roast pheasant I mentioned to you when we met."

"...Would you care to join me?" She asks, smiling at him as she nods to the game birds that were waiting to be prepared, cooked, and eaten.

The children held their breath in anticipation, waiting to see how Miss Del would respond - only to burst into a chorus of groans when Del assured them that it was, indeed, quite dignified and distinguished before grabbing a cloth - where did she get so much clean water from? - and moving to help Cyran clean himself off. He leaned forward, allowing her to clean off the images that the children had doodled on them. The water was cool against his skin, and he closed his eyes, relaxed, unguarded.

“Kitty whiskers?” He parroted. “I see that a few artistic liberties were created.” He turned to the kids, a smile on his face. Perhaps someone else would have upset at getting doodled on so crudely, but Cyran was just happy to see the children feeling happy and mischievous. He would rather their tears come from laughter, even at his own expense, rather than fear. “I think it makes me look quite pretty. Thank you all for dressing me up for dinner.”

While Del helped clean his face, Cyran expressed his gratitude - and received his own answer, in turn.

There’s no need for thanks.

Perhaps Del was happy to do such a thing, perhaps she felt it was her duty. But just because she didn’t need those thanks didn’t mean she didn’t deserve them, or that Cyran didn’t feel the need to offer them. She had to know that her impact - this, keeping their little world together while the rest crumbled around them - meant more than he could express through words.

He nodded along while Del ran him through everything that had happened while he was asleep, returning his flask to him. Cyran returned it to its clip on his belt, patting it twice. “That explains why they were in the tent long enough to vandalize my face.” He laughed.

The sheer number of birds that Oriole and Andromeda had collected didn’t surprise him in the least. Cyran knew firsthand that his apprentices, for all their quirks, were hungry to learn, and ambitious. They’d both been at the very bottom of the barrel, in their own ways - it was only natural they would want to scrape their way to the top. Cyran saw great potential in them, one that was only reinforced as Del showed him the spoils of their game.

… Even if they had both quarreled with one another to gather these birds.

“They’re both quite good at surprising you when you least expect it.” Cyran nodded towards them, where they had retreated to collect firewood for the camp despite the fact that they had been relieved of duty. “They’re good kids. I’m glad they picked up your teachings well. You have a lot to offer them, things that I can’t quite teach. This, too, I appreciate very much.” Warmth seeped through his very words. Despite the loss they’d both suffered, his heart only felt full of love for what remained behind. That in itself was precious.

He pulled out Spell Slicer, the cracks of gold glinting in the light provided by the sunset, in response to her question. “Always.”

The two went through the act of preparing the birds with an easy, gentle rhythm - neither even needed words to know what the other wanted. Cyran was not as experienced with game as Del, though he was obviously no slouch, and his smoothness and ease with his blades made up for any shortcoming. Soon, the birds had been properly plucked and skin, ready to be placed over the fire. As promised, Del produced a variety of herbs and spices that were rubbed over the pheasant’s skin, giving the campsite a rather pleasant smell as they were placed over the fire.

Once they were finished with food preparation, Cyran wiped his hands on a handkerchief, turning to Del with a somewhat grim expression on his face.

“I’ve been thinking about what our next steps should be. The Deadwoods were a good place to come in a pinch, but we can’t stay here.” He lowered his voice, eyes flitting across their surroundings, as if even speaking about it would summon criminals to their site. “If we had the idea to evacuate here, there’s no telling what other criminals might have had the same thought. And there’s not enough food and drink in these woods to sustain us all.”

He drew in a heavy breath.

“I have… an acquaintance. You may not like her.” Calling upon Veliky for aid was risky - he knew that it was just as likely to blow up in his face as it was to yield successful results. But what other choice did they have? Cyran had nothing, only his blades and his cloak on his back. He did not have a fortune, nor another place to bring the children. They needed somewhere to lie low, somewhere to house the kids.

Veliky might have been rough around the edges, but Cyran knew. Behind the twisted roots of her actions were the seeds of morality, the desire to do good. She cared about people in her own misguided way. At the very least, Cyran knew she had a propensity for charity. Veliky’s feelings about him notwithstanding, she wouldn’t let the kids go without a roof over their head.

“But she has the funds and the means to house us. It would mean relocating to Sol City for the time being, but…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I would make a deal with the devil himself if it meant keeping those kids safe. Whatever it takes.” Every word carried a sort of weary conviction. It was not an option for him to sacrifice whatever he could, make any bargain he could take if it meant securing resources. It was just simply what he was willing to do.

“But I value your opinion. I want to know what you think. I’m not alone - whatever path is set before us, I want it to be one we walk together." There was an unspoken question in his voice, though not even Cyran himself was entirely sure what he was asking. Perhaps for Del's understanding. Her patience. Her acceptance of him.