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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Nov 15, 2023 9:19:22 GMT -5
She would be happy to accompany him to visit other glades. Del wanted there to be a next time. He ought not to have been surprised at that fact - the logical part of him was aware that they had a stronger bond than a paper thin something that could be torn apart by a single bad day. Well - not exactly a bad day, but a bad day at the end of a series of bad days. It felt like the two of them had yet to find a break in the storm since hell had broken loose in Shade’s Valley. Cyran did not fashion himself a superstitious person, but it was hard not to look at the past few months and wonder if some sort of malady hadn’t been unleashed upon them when the earth split.
It wasn’t about worrying if their bond was strong enough to be tested by the trials life had to offer. It was that they’d surely been stretched thin enough by now to know that no matter how much the bond bruised it would not break. It was that even in moments where they were meant to be exploring a new first love, they could not find solace.
Perhaps it was that Cyran was quite exhausted by the notion that they must be exposed to trials to prove that Del loved - cared for him. Cared for him. Was simply enjoying one another’s company in the quiet joy of an art gallery not enough?
Ah, but there was no use stirring up old, ill-used anger about it. Lamenting over a hole in the boat would not unsink the ship. All they could do was roll up their sleeves and make the best of the situation they were in. Though Cyran had a feeling he was mucking this conversation up as well… it was not considered polite form to mention one’s past lovers - Rowan did not count as a lover save in the eyes of society and the legal oaths they’d taken - Cyran wanted to be honest nonetheless. The look on Del’s face said she remembered the elven noblewoman quite well, and wished she did not.
The context was important; Cyran had never cared about sowing the seeds of a relationship before. He’d gone through the motions, but never felt the love that was meant to accompany it. Propriety was a bit of an antiquated concept when they were already so atypical - assassin and warrior, hunter and hunted - Cyran might not have been a lord anymore but damn it all if he wouldn’t treat Del like the lady she was to the best of his ability.
The turn in conversation felt rather topical, given his own train of thought.
Cyran felt lightheaded himself at Del’s compliment, or maybe that was both of them. He supposed it didn’t matter when they were so in tandem that their emotions felt in perfect harmony, a blend of nerves and hope and adoration, and now she was grabbing his hand and resting it against her cheek. He could feel the warmth of her skin, concern knitting his brows as she pressed through whatever query she had that made her so nervous. Ran a thumb along her cheekbone.
He let out a gentle laugh when she finally circled back around to the topic at hand, the sound a low rumble in the back of his throat that held more fondness than amusement.
“My understanding only extends as far as the Moon Elf customs utilized in the courts.” He explained, thoughtful. The knowledge of marriage and courting customs was like a dusty tome in the back of his mind - not well used but recently dislodged. “It’s meant to be a nod to our roots in historical bladesmanship, though you’d be hard pressed to find a noble these days who’d ever wielded a blade more deadly than a letter opener.”
It was the sentiment that counted, he supposed.
“They, ah.” Even though they’d already started going through the motions, it still felt… rather intimate to speak on. Around them, soft wind swayed in colorful trees, their autumn leaves dancing in the air, all made from chalky artificial paints, and none rivaling the natural gold and amber that existed in the warmth of her gaze. He felt a bit tongue-tied himself.
Cyran swallowed and forged on.
“They put a strong emphasis on proving one’s worth and one’s dowry to demonstrate that they’re a worthy partner towards one another. Through little gifts and whatnot. Early in the courting process you’re supposed to traverse into the Lantern Light Woods to gather a moon-touched bouquet for the other, which is a bit difficult for me to do, but…” He gestured towards her flower crown. “I did my best with what I have. There’s some nonsense about a comb that comes into play, and a point where couples braid one another’s hair for events that’s meant to by a symbol of trust…”
That particular tradition had not been one Cyran and Rowan bothered with; its execution was incredibly private and neither of them trusted one another. So Cyran simply braided his own hair before his own events, and Rowan never bothered wearing her hair up at all. Admittedly, Cyran was unfamiliar with the tight coil of Del’s curls, but after their trip to Frostgale he’d procured a book detailing hair care for her particular type in the event they did partake in that particular tradition.
Erm. There was no expectation, of course.
“Of course, if it pleases you, we’re free to skip most of the early stage rituals, given we’ve already exchanged a dagger. Ah - I didn’t get you one in return, but I did, well, pledge my blades in your service so for the purposes of engagement it does still count, and I never leave home without Wraithsbane by my side. Engagement blades are usually kept locked away in secret but I’ve been too pleased to not wear it, admittedly.” He was rambling now, picking up speed. “And next comes the wedding customs, which are traditionally done in two parts - the first ceremony in private under the new moon, and the second in public under the full… but I’m probably getting ahead of myself. We’re only on a first date right now and I don’t imagine you’d want to make a big show of moon elf customs when, um, it’s time to wed.”
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 2, 2023 22:28:59 GMT -5
At first, Del nods as Cyran humours her with discussing the ins and outs of Moon Elf courtship rituals, practically buzzing with delight to hear them. The bladesmanship made perfect sense for the culture. Now she was excited, thinking about all the wonderful things she could try and make Cyran in such an important vein.
But... oh. How interesting, he was gesturing to the flower crown on her head. And speaking of a comb as part of a braiding ritual. And mentioning how they didn't have to go through these steps considering the dagger he already wore on his hip.
It was not the first time Cyran had stunned her into silence. Nor would it be the last; the man had a way with rendering her absolutely speechless, filled to bursting with a girlish flock of butterflies that made her feel two hundred years younger. But this time was a little different than the others, in that Del seems to be a few steps behind the curve on this one, for a moment. He was talking about their courtship as though it was already well underway, that it had begun some time ago, when she-- when they--
She opens her mouth. Nothing but a squeak comes out.
Del clears her throat hurriedly and tries... tries her best to try and comprehend the implication what had just been said, doing her utmost to keep her panic inward. She had... courted. Cyran. Gave him. A gift. Of incredible significance, even beyond what she had originally thought of for the gift.
Now the skin beneath Cyran's hand, where he so tenderly swept his thumb across her cheekbone, was practically glowing with heat-- in fact, the scar across the bridge of her nose had gone a step further and lit up. She. Had. Given. The. Man. She. Admired. An. Engagement. Gift. Without. Knowing. And. It. WAS. NOT. TO. HER. STANDARD. FOR. THAT.
What was her standard for an engagement knife? She wasn't sure but Del was now second guessing everything. Was the edge just so? Should she have made the hilt in a different material? Should she have added some filigree?
"UM," she squeaks again. "THAt-- yes, itsoundswonderful yes, I would love... all these things. Yes. Of course. I am... I apologise for, ah, going forward with them. Um. Out of order. If I had, ah, known, um, hoW To Go abOut tHE PRoCeSs... proPerly-- That is to say, if I caused offense, then-- wait." her stomach bottoms out as her eyes widen, realizing another key componet of this fiasco she had created, a bewildered and ecstatic epiphany that was the truth of the matter. "Y-you said yes?"
She had given him an engagement present without realizing that was what it was. But he had not questioned it once. In fact, he had accepted her proposal wholeheartedly.
That decided it, then; she has to fix this. Do it properly. Del reaches out for Cyrans hip, looking for the knife she had given him. Tears of emotion prick the corners of her eyes, but she shoves that back for now because SHE HAS TO FIX THIS. She didn't say ANY of the things she would have said (what sort of things would she have said? She had no idea, but she hadn't gotten to PLAN THEM yet!!), or do any of the things she wanted to (aside from give him the knife) and she had ENTIRELY messed this thing up. "I was insufficent, i need to do it again, give me the knife pleaseeee"
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 5, 2023 18:04:16 GMT -5
Everything was going fine as Cyran explained to Del in varied detail the customs he remembered from his first wedding, his fiancé listening with rapt attention… until the moment he felt a sudden flare of panic through their bond, and stopped in his tracks. Was something wrong with what he’d said?
In retrospect, now was probably the moment that Cyran ought to have noticed the glaring contradiction in front of him - unfortunate that an assassin whose primary job was to dig up information from dark places where it did not want to be found, but Cyran possessed the unfortunate quality of being woefully dense when it came to matters involving him. Centuries of being regarded as little more than a pawn tended to have consequences when one regarded themselves. Or perhaps Cyran was merely a hopeful romantic who’d read one too many novels and learned to read too much into signs. Instead of putting the pieces together amidst Del’s sudden panic during his talk of marriage, Cyran’s brows furrowed, hand stilled where he’d still been holding her face.
His gaze, centered on that sudden flare of gold. So lovely - more vibrant than their surroundings - even in its anxiety, the assassin trying to comb his brain for anything that might have caused it.
“What’s the matter? Did you leave the stove fire on? If so, Oriole or Andromeda have probably found it by now, no need to worry about that…”
Only when Del started speaking, her voice cracked and hoarse like she’d not had a drink of water for days, did Cyran realize that it might be at all related to the conversation at hand, and dread gripped his heart. Had talk of marriage given her cold feet? Foolish, Cyran, he’d known that it was still far too soon to be talking about such things, what with their arrangement as fledgeling as it was, and now he’d given Del the impression that everything was so final, that they had to skip all the early relationship fluff and nonsense.
The assassin waved his hands frantically, as if to dispel what he’d said prior. “Oh, no, no, if the prospect of moving fast is too much, then by all means, don’t force yourself for my account. I was just, um, trying to think about your comfort levels. We can move as fast or slow as you’d like…”
Hell, if this was her first proper relationship for as long as her memory spanned, then it was entirely likely that she’d just wanted to take things nice and slow, hence why she was inquiring about the steps in the first place, so she could learn more about how to go about being in a relationship, and how to propose…
Like with the dagger.
She’d made.
For him.
Cyran stared at Del.
Del stared at Cyran.
Del lunged for the dagger then, as if to pluck it from his belt - on instinct, Cyran leaned away, bringing up his boot and planting it in her torso - not a proper kick, but enough that he could nudge her away from his belt, from taking Wraithsbane, his longer legs providing better span than her arms could reach. His face felt so flushed he thought he might catch on fire. Cyran buried it in his hands, gasping for air like a fish who’d accidentally flopped onto shore, still just barely balancing on one leg while keeping Del out of reach of his dagger.
“Don’t look at me! I’m such an idiot, I’m so sorry Del, please can we just pretend this never happened I promise I’m not this dim you must think I’m some creepy presumptuous wretch I made a mistake don’t hate me I’m a fool and I should have thought it through because of course you don’t know about moon elf customs, but I just wanted to believe so badly that you’d - WAIT DON’T LISTEN TO ME JUST PRETEND I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING!” He gasped, blotchy face still buried in his hands, as if that might prevent him from ever looking at her again. It was over, he needed to move away, change names, plummet to the center of the earth, anything to avoid having to face her and the horrible, awful misunderstanding he’d created.
“Just please don’t take Wraithsbane, it’s precious to me…”
He pleaded, still half expecting Del to take back her knife, thus rescinding her marriage proposal entirely, because he truly was a hopeful idiot who read too much into things and it should have dawned on him when they never spoke on the matter again, when it never came up in conversation even when she presented him the gift. Here Del was, truly just concerned for his safety and he’d messed it all up…
“Wait.”
Only then did some of the words she’d said sink into his dense fucking skull, prompting Cyran to look up at her from between his fingers, single silver eye brimming with tears, the culmination of all the fear and anxiety that he’d truly fucked up one of the few relationships he cared about. And with it, finally a chord of truth quelling his panic for an entirely new one.
“You need to do it again?”
If his realization that Del had not meant Wraithsbane to be a proposal sent his mind into overdrive, then the revelation that she would want it to mean one anyways forced Cyran’s brain to stop working entirely. His mind promptly fizzled out, and then he stopped thinking at all.
And then he redoubled his efforts to keep her from it.
“No! It was perfect, and it was a moment I’ll never forget! No do-overs!”
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 6, 2023 3:17:01 GMT -5
Del sputters as Cyran's foot suddenly finds her torso, a completely unexpected response as he keeps her at bay. A reflex that was absurd in the best possible way, not least of which that it was very effective. More dismaying is his dismay, apologising and beside himself with embarrassment as he hid his face. Mortified that he thought she would propose to him?? That he thought she was trying to take away the very thing she had given him as a token of her esteem and affection?
Wonderful. Now she had fucked it up even worse, she really had to fix this now. Oh, but he was cute when he was trying to hide from her, wasn't he.
"Cyran, no, it's my fault!" Del protested, grunting as she took another wild swipe towards his belt, flabbergasted that he could keep her at bay like this. Her words overlap with his until they're both incoherently trying to explain themselves over one another. "Please, I'm so sorry, I'll give it back, I just need to do it properly this time, do it better, maybe give you a whole new knife that's prettier or sharper or shinier for getting engaged, I haven't properly done my research, gods, I'm such an ignorant fool, justgiveitsoIcanfixthis pleaaase, I'm so sorry--"
Then, after a moment, when Cyran finally meets her gaze again, he looks at her, understanding her words. The weight of it all started to hit her, too. She had proposed to Cyran.
"YES!" she throws her hands up in the air, emitting a short, breathless little laugh. Of course she needed to do it again! Cyran deserved nothing less than her absolute best, and she feared what he had sheathed at his waist was not good enough.
--Then Cyran proceeded to continue actively keep her away from Wraithsbane.
"NO!"
She resumed struggling with him over the knife, doing her best to try and get around his long legs and his remarkable speed. "CYRAN! This-- get this LEG," grunting, she tries to shove his leg off her, but it only gives him extra distance and room to do it again, playing a very effective game of keep-away in which Cyran kept dancing out of reach of her grasping hands. "IT WAS CLEARLY NOT PERFECT I just made you cry! Now give it!" Del attempts to feint left and go right, but he saw it coming, adjusting his position so she could not get to his waist.
She lunges, trying to seize one of his limbs to yank him closer, but the Specter was wily and clever, manuvering frustratingly out of her grip. Somewhere in the back of her mind, this was enjoyable, playful even. It was fun to act like this with Cyran, like a couple teasing one another in good humour. Or at least, it would have been funny if the two of them were also not very serious regarding their positions vis a vis the knife. "There should--! Get bACK here! There should be things like flowers and poems and more gifts! A better edge! More etching!! BECAUSE I LOVE YOU AND I WANT IT TO BE PERFECT!"
The words are out of her mouth before any kind of filter can catch them, stopping her cold. Del raises her hand, fingertips lightly pressed against her lips, as if surprised by how they felt upon leaving her throat.
Oh.
It surges through her then; the truth of the words. Del could not ever remember being in love over the course of her life, or even anything sort of close to the depth of the thing swelling in her chest as she processes the words that left her, resonating with a brilliant certainty across their connection. The adoration and joy and squirming nervous energy that had permeated through her for all these months. The delight and safety she experienced from being in his presence. The gentle care he showed her, the hope he embodied that she wished to foster, who he was, who he wanted to be, his dreams, his worries, his joys, his flaws, his perfections. All of him. Every piece of Cyran seemed to fill her with a light that now had a conduit for escaping, these words that had fallen from her lips.
She had never uttered such a phrase before in her life... And here, those words were the truest she had ever spoken.
Cyran stared at Del.
Del stared at Cyran.
The sudden silence around them felt deafening. She took a couple of practice breaths before she found her voice again, and lifted her gaze to Cyran. Handsome, incredible, sweet and thoughtful and gentle and brave and kind and wonderful Cyran. Upset that she had not truly proposed, but elated she had wanted to.
Oh, she certainly did want to.
As the slow smile of realization blooms across her face, so too do the gold-leaf blossoms in her hair, a vibrant display that encompasses almost all of her visible curls, poking around the crown Cyran had given her and creating a meadow of epiphany. "Oh. Oh wow." She breathes, "I... I love you."
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 11, 2023 18:18:12 GMT -5
Del scrabbled for his dagger, careful not to apply any force that might break his limbs but enough that she could get some kind of purchase while Cyran kept her away from it. He couldn’t hear what she was saying over his own babbling, the two both frantically trying to correct whatever mistake they thought they’d made. It was only when Cyran’s stupid, foolish brain finally heard what she was trying to say that it finally sunk in she wasn’t utterly disgusted with his… over-eagerness. That she was demanding it back because, against all odds, she wanted to ask again. That thought alone was enough to crack his composure, his lower lip wobbling and his throat aching with all he did not know how to say.
Then Del threw her hands in the air as if the point she were trying to make was the most obvious one in the world, and that stupid, foolish, sentimental part of Cyran took over once more, and he straightened, grabbing Wraithsbane from his belt and holding it as far away from Del as possible. With a grunt, Del threw him off, but that only served Cyran just fine, allowing him to put distance between them. He clutched the knife like a dragon protecting his hoard. Del lunged - a feint, one that Cyran ignored by spinning on his heel and using her own momentum against her. A bitter laugh escaped his lips beyond his control at the mention of the word perfect. Leaping backwards, he continued to evade, unwilling to relinquish her gift.
“My entire life before I left that wretched place was perfect and proper, nothing more than a spectacle for other people with no soul behind it. I don’t care if it was perfect.” He protested And despite her worries, the trappings of a forgemaster’s perfectionism, Cyran was a bladesman. The assassin who made knives dance in the dark of the night. Wraithsbane could not have been built with Cyran’s own ease and comfort better in mind. No unnecessary pomp and circumstance. Nothing flashy. A wonderful blade, designed to keep the ghosts that haunted him at bay.
No money in the world would replace the way it filled his heart with joy.
She made to grab at his elbow then, but Cyran hadn’t spent his entire life learning to dodge things that wanted to hit him for nothing - even then, Del was the perfect combination of precision and power, and she would have managed to grapple him, if he had not turned his arm to shadow, his form briefly flickering out of existence just long enough to evade her ploy.[1]
All the while, Del was still speaking over Cyran, frantic, trying to make her argument -
Cyran’s eyes widened as he stumbled to a halt.
He stared at her. Impossible not to, when it seemed as if his world had just suddenly narrowed in on her, the words she’d shouted in the middle of their spat. He could not bring himself to speak, worried that if he broke this silence, burst the bubble, then she would take it back, admit it had been an accident. Nor could he bring himself to look away. As Del burst into gold, blossoming like springtime, he knew that whatever she said next, he’d accept it - her wrath, her judgement, her scorn.
But… she said it again.
On purpose, this time.
“I… love you too.” He was breathless; each word slow and careful, as if not to startle anything. When Del said nothing, he continued.
“The day you asked - I thought you asked - me to marry you was one of the happiest of my life.” His voice was quiet, unsure of where to find its place. But he’d not expressed this back then, and perhaps that was the crux of the issue they were facing now. He feared that if he voiced the depth of his affections it would bring them into reality, a palpable wedge between a blossoming relationship. He was not too shy in this moment.
He closed his eyes, remembering the cautious hope that had bloomed in his heart that day. It was the evening Cyran had put a name to the sensation - love - and it was the evening that she’d gifted him a dagger made painstakingly by her own two hands, all for the sake of his own protection. Forging with cold iron, he’d learned, was no easy process. It had mattered to him because Del had put so much effort and concern and… and love, into what she’d made for him. It was not an empty shell of a promise, wrapped in gold filigree and elaborate wreaths.
“A little bit before that, I’d started wearing your ring on my finger, you know.” Cyran laughed, as if to say, ridiculous me. “I wanted to know what it. Truly felt like. For myself - not a ruse or a cover. And I found that I enjoyed that weight for the first time. Then you gave me this lovely blade, because you wanted to keep me safe. How could I not want to spend the rest of my life with someone so wonderful? How could I not give you my own in response?”
Yes, as accidental as Del’s proposal had been, it would not have been complete if Cyran had not given her a dagger in response. And he had, wholeheartedly, that very same night. He’d taken Spell Slicer and Cold Steel and pledging them in service of her protection. Her question, the call - his, the echo. The answer. And they were one and the same.
“So, please…” He gripped the hilt of Wraithsbane so hard his knuckles turned white, neither taking a step forward, but not moving away from her, either. With a trembling hand, he extended it out for her to take.
Gifting her a knife.
“If you want to try again, I won’t stop you. Just know you already have my heart. My hand is no different. You don’t need to give me perfection when I already have it right in front of me.”
He smiled; a shy, wobbly thing.
“I couldn’t ask for anything else, except for your hand in turn.” 1. Phase Walk
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 10, 2024 20:52:29 GMT -5
The pause between them from her words to Cyran's next ones are agony. It's only a few seconds, if that, but for a heart as wide open as hers, it felt like an eternity. Now, all the anxiety and uncertainty made sense; this was how Cyran had felt, when he was unsure Del would return his feelings, worried about her reaction. This ragged, raw exposure of vulnerabilities losing yet another crucial layer as they laid their souls bare.
But then, he does say them back. His words echo hers, staggered and breathless.
She feels as though all the air has gone out of the world around them, her heartbeat stumbling in her ears. There's an urgent need for assurance, affirmation, that surges through her, demanding she ask; Are you sure? Are you sure? Are you sure?
He didn't care that it was perfect. He only cared that it had come from her, it was genuine, and that she truly cared for him. And that was what she had intended, at the end of the day. She was just so damnably clumsy, using action instead of words to try and show her affection, giving gifts and initiating acts of service. A love shown in every little thing she did, from the blade to fixing up the railing in the orphanage, to teaching Andromeda how to tie snares, to ensuring dinner was on the make by the time he got home from his work elsewhere. Each event an unspoken 'I love you'. How different would it have been if she could identify those words at the outset? Told him that the dagger he held was a token of her esteem and gratitude and the hopeless, soul-consuming adoration that she reserved for him?
And he had done the same, offering her his blades, swearing his oaths to her, and she had accepted fully-- even without knowing the full extent of those words, she had felt their weight, had known that they were beginning a new and powerful phase to their relationship. It had been a fulfilling moment for her, too, and that sensation was amplified to a dull roar, feeling the electric peal of aftershocks of his words as they resonated across their connection.
Now, he did so again. With all the reassurance that he was sure, that she had his heart, and that he thought she was... perfect.
Oh, what a thing to be good enough.
It takes her a few seconds to find the words. They had never been her forte, hence her more physical expressions of appreciation... but for Cyran, she could find the right ones. Her voice is low and thick with emotion by the time she gets to using it, staring at him in absolute awe. "If I, ah, was ever in love before you, I cannot remember it." Del confides with quiet, sheepish tones. "I started wearing my ring after, when the... the cult things happened." She bites her lip, and in a moment of bravery, takes a small step closer. She folds her hands over wraithsbane, and cups his hands in hers. "But before that, I would wear it when I was out or alone. I had, ah. Grown rather attached to the idea of being your wife, I suppose." she reaches up to tousle her hair nervously, but the words kept coming drawn out by the truth and sincerity of this flowing energy between then.
"When you gave me your blades, it was the happiest of my life, too. And that is not a moment I would change for anything. If you tell me..." she blinks rapidly, suddenly, feeling the sting of tears at the corners of her eyes. Ah, gods, all she had to do was keep it together just a bit, but no, she was smiling like a fool and getting misty like the characters in the novels Cyran loved so much. "That it was... good. A good proposal, just as it was. And I don't have to, ah. Fix it. Or do anything to make it better. Then-- then who would I be to take it from you now, when it made you so happy?"
Gifting it back to him.
She sniffs, exhaling a wobbly laugh. "That's all I wanted. To get the chance to make you happy. Though, ah, I suppose there was... one thing I regret not doing at the time."
She feels her cheeks burn as she clears her throat. Okay. Here goes. "Can I... um. May I please kiss you?" she whispers. It's all she can manage to get out as she looks up at him, expression tentative and soft, but unable to stop herself from smiling. All she ever wanted was right here, with her. What was a walkable painting compared to this man?
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 16, 2024 10:19:10 GMT -5
In all of his centuries Cyran had experienced a myriad of emotions; sensations that had shaped his being and experiences that made him who he was today -
It was an entirely new thing to be wanted.
Much like Del, if he’d known love in the past, he could never have put a name to it. First, because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Then, because he wasn’t sure he could. He had his daughter, and that presence in his life was more than enough to fill him with light and laughter and purpose. Becoming a father, it had been as natural as breathing; after all the worries and doubts, it had been a comfort, to learn he knew how to love as a parent did a child. Perhaps that expression of affection was comfortable. Much easier to give all of your being to another with no expectation of reciprocation than to expose your soft heart to someone with all the power in the world to break it.
Imagine his surprise when he found someone who took to those crystalline, murky shards of his heart; or, perhaps, a heart that had never learned to fully form properly, and inserted herself into it so perfectly that made him realize there had never been anything to fear.
Oh, what a thing to be cherished.
His hand trembled, Wraithsbane aloft in the air, awaiting a response he already knew in his heart. He no longer feared the uncertainty of rejection. It was the deep, ancient understanding that she didn’t just own his heart, but that he had hers, too. How did she just… trust that he would handle it properly, after everything she’d learned about him? The mistakes he’d made with his family, the nature of his profession. She’d seen his history, looked into his very soul - held a part of it in hers - and Del was still able to utter the words I love you, with such conviction and honesty, like she was certain her heart, too, would not end up with a dagger in it.
And Del spoke, and Cyran found he couldn’t breathe.
She, too, had taken to wearing her ring on her finger. She, too, had dreamed. Then, Del stepped up to him, and grabbed the hands holding Wraithsbane - not the dagger itself, but him, and his breath hitched in his throat. Above all else, she’d chosen him. Not his loyalty or his vows, or what he could do for her. Just Cyran.
“What a pair we make, huh?” He whispered. His throat felt tight; each word an impossibility in the face of such gentle, overwhelming affection. “Spell Slicer and Cold Steel are yours. I am yours… if you do truly want - well - this. I wouldn’t want to rush anything you’re not ready for. We can really take it slow…”
But they’d never quite been the traditional couple, had they? Meeting, binding their souls together, accidental as it was, it had turned the page into something new. Two battered, bruised, individuals. Both believing themselves too steeped in the dark to find the light of love. Believing it didn’t matter if they did.
It had taken Cyran a long time that all the light in the world didn’t matter when you found someone whose colors made such perfect harmony with yours.
And as gentle as a summer breeze, Del gave his dagger back to him. A question, in full, plain truth. Not the overactive imagination of a man who wanted or wished too much.
But something they wanted together.
“… I do.” The answer came as natural as breathing.
Yes, yes, YES I’ll marry you!
Fireworks popped in his chest, an explosion and cavalcade of colors and sights and sounds, all around him; and all he was focused on was the woman painted in brush strokes of warm brown, green, and brilliant gold in front of him. He cradled Wraithsbane to his chest, desperately holding his composure together as tears threatened to fall, but Del was crying too, and perhaps, just this once, it was okay to allow his emotions to flow, knowing that they were both one and the same in this very moment.
“Regret?” He tilted his head to the side, concerned, fingers curling around the hilt of Wraithsbane protectively - just in case she decided to wrestle him for the dagger one last time. But her question… it now left him feeling breathless for an entirely different reason.
Oh.
“-YES!” Cyran blurted, before catching himself and slapping a hand over his mouth, tips of his ears turning flush at the realization he’d been too overeager. Clearing his throat, he continued, “There’s nothing I’d want more.”
He secured Wraithsbane to his belt, taking a cautious step forward. Her smile, more vibrant than any painting; and she was real and his to cherish, and he was hers, hers, hers. He’d never belonged to someone like this. He’d never wanted to until Del. Cyran brought a hand to her cheek, running his thumb along her skin, gentle, unsure.
He used to read stories to Marlow about princes and princesses saving their lost loves in towers, fighting ferocious dragons, and sealing the deal with True Love’s Kiss. Cyran was not often a hopeful man, but if he had to guess, he’d reckon it felt an awful lot like this.
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 21, 2024 18:17:50 GMT -5
They did make quite a pair, truly. Del finds herself giggling a little sheepishly again, amused at her own expense for... gods, it had taken a while to come to such a conclusion. An embarrassing length of time, really, but the facts of the situation had not changed. She was head over heels for Cyran, and wanted to be his wife. The overflow of sensation from him to her is breathtaking, the overwhelming joy at having their path forward together cemented in beautiful bursts and blooms that would have left her reeling if not for the fact that the mirrored her own. Gods, she felt dizzy, these compounding emotions blending into one another.
"I do," she whispers back, assuring him with a bright smile. "I do want this."
Him. More than she had ever wanted anything, truly.
Del barks a surprised laugh at his enthusiasm at her request, before lifting a hand to try and smother her mirth, so as not to alert the artist. Well. Permission. What now?
The surge of anxiety after asking-- this was too planned, surely, shouldn't kisses be more spontaneous?-- quells, as Cyran steps closer, and takes her cheek in his hand. Del swallows and then exhales a blissful sigh, leaning into Cyran's gentle caress, her own hand covering his. Her amber gaze meeting silver as if for the first time, a veil removed and exposing each other to the full force of their adoration. She could bask simply in this for the rest of her days and feel completely at peace.
She doesn't lean in straight away; there are more spun sugar moments to commit to memory. The smooth palor of his flushed, paint-flecked skin, his starlight hair drifting slightly in the breeze, crystal tears glittering at the corners of his eyes. He was a masterpeice moreso than the one they stood in, and now she could be finally, openly, enraptured by him. Held captive by the mere thought of her belonging to him, to someone who so willingly wished to be hers. She was his, his his, a thousand times until the very concept had lost meaning. Her face turns slightly to kiss his palm, drawn closer until they are standing flush. Her arm slides along his, threading fingers through his lovely locks to cup him gently along his jaw as she gazes upon him in awe, marvelling at the profound sense of this love they had built between them.
It felt so right.
Time seemed to grow still for that moment, the rest of the world falling away. Save for Cyran, she couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t see anything. Just him in slow motion as her eyes lower to an impossible certainty, her nose sliding against his, colors fading into a cool, wet, heat, soft, warmth, oh, gods—
Her lips find his with a magnetism too painful to control. Gold leaf petals fall from her curls like rain as she pulls him closer. It was static and adrenaline, the scent of black pine and lemon blossom, a deliberate pause like a held breath after a shock of cold. She melts, forgetting about everything else in the pleasant haze of expressing her adoration for him.
Del could not remember ever being a teenager, but wrapping her beloved in her arms so, like they were the only two in all the universe, made her feel like one certainy. She also could not remember her first kiss, if she had ever had one at all. If she had, she would like to think of this as the first. Anything else would pale in comparison to kissing her fiancee for the first time.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Feb 3, 2024 10:32:50 GMT -5
After losing his eye, Cyran had to learn to compromise. Adapt to the grim shadowsight that had taken root in lieu of what had once been. He’d drawn upon the shadows, inscribing his vows in ink across his face. At the time, it had felt… a necessary choice. One Cyran wasn’t quite sure he’d been in his right mind to make, under the influence of dark magic, recovering from the tomb he’d traversed. It felt natural.
Tho. The elven principle of truth.
A lonely thing, to be cognizant of every little lie, as innocent or harmful as they were. Whether it was extracting information out of a victim for a client, or knowing when the children were keeping little secrets from him. It was like a gentle nudge in the back of his mind, the awareness that something wasn’t quite right.
”I do. I do want this.”
-- And oh, what a wonder it was to hear those words, ringing clear with the truth, not a hint or ounce of hesitation in sight.
Del had never lied to him. Not about herself, or him, or… how she felt about him. For the first time in his life, Cyran knew what it was to be unconditionally loved by someone who didn’t owe him anything. Even after what felt like a lifetime of trust, dalliances, meaningful words and mutual care forged in the fires of every incident that had plagued them since their first encounter. Ghosts of their mutual pasts and dim lights of the future, He’d been content to know he loved her. That was enough.
It was a miracle to learn she loved him unconditionally, too.
It was a miracle she wanted to… kiss him.
Her voice honey as she asked for permission, lips warm as she kissed his palm. Cyran blinked away tears. For once in his life he did not bother to conceal the emotion. This moment - simple as it was - felt rather profound, for the both of them. He could not help but feel overwhelmed that she’d lowered her walls enough to indulge in it with him… and that he could lean into her and do the same.
Del took a step forward.
Cyran did, too.
Their feet were practically touching, crunching artificial grass underfoot. He could feel her warmth where they were pressed torso to torso, her fingers thread through the silver of his hear, running along his jaw. His hands caressed her face, strong cheekbones framed by long lashes and brilliant golden eyes and parted lips. At this proximity he could practically feel her heard hammering in her chest, his against hers, in tandem.
And then it happened. Like two worlds colliding, the force of overwhelming affection he could feel coming from the bond. He cradled the back of her neck, fingers tangled in her curls, supporting her, clinging to her, like the gods themselves couldn’t break the two apart this moment. He felt if they tried he’d kill them again with his own two bare hands. He couldn’t breathe - the breath from his lungs stolen as he stole breath from her lungs. Never before had he known what romance felt like. In theory, on paper, but it was so much more different than he could have ever dreamed.
How ironic it was, that this artist had brought them to a world of wonder and painted joy, that he’d found the best treasure in something real and solid. If that didn’t prove that everything Lithrun had been speaking about since they arrived wasn’t real, he didn’t know what did. He didn’t particularly care, in the present moment.
He wasn’t sure how long they remained locked in an embrace; one of Cyran’s hands curled around her back and the other, her waist, keeping them pressed together. It was a slow, gentle embrace, and their parting even more reluctant. The assassin blinked, adoration melting the cold silver of his eyes. He offered her a smile, feeling somewhat drunk on her love.
And then the wind blew one of her golden petals into his face, tickling his nose, and Cyran couldn’t stop his sneeze in time.
Cyran wrinkled his nose, face flushed in sheepish embarrassment, and still buzzing from what had just happened.
“Wow.” He murmured, unable to bring himself to say anything else, even as inelegant as he felt. “Just… wow.”
You did not just say that after kissing your fiancé.
But he had, because Cyran was a fool, plain and simple; and though he’d learned long ago how to guard his heart against insults and hatred and threats, every gentle word and touch threatened to collapse the ice entirely; and with Del, everything felt as if he were experiencing it for the first time.
A gust of wind hit him, and their surroundings came back into focus. A rather rude interruption, if you asked him. Cyran blinked, watching Del’s golden petals scattering to the wind, melding into the colors of their surroundings.
“Hm. Maybe we should… try to find a way out of here proper. So we can talk some more about this. Or kiss again.” He would not be opposed to the latter.
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Feb 27, 2024 23:56:33 GMT -5
Del loses herself for that time; it is a good thing his hands cradle her head and back, for her legs tremble and she feels weak in the knees. Her arms twine around his head and neck, drawing him closer, skimming over skin that she cannot get enough of touching. It was an exquisite feeling, this intimate silence that was deafening, her whole body buzzing with where his hands made contact to pull her to stand chest to chest with him, listening to their heartbeats echo eachother. The rush of adrenaline was ecstatic; all at once, it felt like climbing, falling, pure sugar and adrenaline. Though Del herself was not often one to easily yield, here, she made an exception. No one else had ever held her like she was such a precious thing. No one knew her heart the way Cyran did, no one was so tender and gentle with it, brushing the dross off her scarred spirt like she was his to care for and protect.
It felt like triumph.
It felt like surrender.
It isn't a distinct choice; merely one she makes in that moment, or is, perhaps, made for her. Parting from that moment, that shared breath... Del wished for nothing more than to dive back in. To say Del was reluctant to pull away was an understatement. However, it also meant that she could look upon Cyran, the pleasant haze of adoration that fogs her mind.
Kiss swollen lips. Colour high on his cheekbones. A glassy-eyed look of wonder across his mismatched gaze. Gods helo her, but she was hopelessly, deeply in love with him.
This perfect, incredible man. Was her fiancee.
"Wow." she agrees, giggling softly at Cyran's little sneeze. Reaching up to brush the petal off his cheek, she lingers in his embrace, gazing up at him, her hand skimming his collarbone. The expression on his face was one of pure bliss, one that resonated within her as well. Still riding that high, she sieves her fingers through the locks of Cyran's hair again, trailing the silken strands along her rough fingertips. The other hand presses between his shoulder blades, holding him close but not too tight. She loses herself in his eyes for a time, her lips tingling from the remnants of that sweet kiss.
"Fiancee." she murmurs, her voice low.
But, alas, there is yet business to attend. She had nearly forgotten about the Master of this painting, and that they were trapped. They had to get out of here first, but they were not at a disadvantage.
In fact, Cyran's proposal of yet more kisses on the horizon fills her with a determination. They were together, and the artist must have thought they were enjoying the breathtaking painting. How little they understood that they man in front of her was the true masterpiece here.
"Uhm. Yes. Talking and-- and kissing, yes." Her voice exits her in a squeak, her face still dark with her blush. The dreamy smile does not leave her face as she threads her fingers through his. Her smile widening, she pulls Cyran back towards the last place they spotted Lithrun.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Mar 9, 2024 14:39:12 GMT -5
Even with the strangeness of the situation there was no denying that Cyran felt as if he were floating on a cloud. Given the magic of the realm they’d been forced into, it was entirely possible that Cyran was. Even that was not enough to break the dreamlike state that the assassin had fallen into. They were in enemy territory. He ought to be more alert, more attune to his surroundings; yet his brain was drawing up a blank as to why he should be alarmed.
Because it was all too easy to surrender his safety to the woman plucking a petal off his cheek, holding him steady.
Cyran remembered the day nearly two decades ago; the day Marlow was born. Becoming a father was something he’d wanted almost his entire life, for nearly as long as he could recall the concept of parenthood and why his own upbringing was so markedly different from how storybooks said it ought to be. And yet, when he’d finally held his baby girl in his hands, he’d only been filled with a sort of cold fear that he’d never know what it meant to love someone so wholly and completely. But when the time came, it was so terribly easy, he thought, to surrender yourself to the sensation. Love.
And then he had to ruin it by being so terribly inelegant.
But then Del replied, and warmth filled him, knowing this was a moment meant to be. Perhaps he wasn’t the best with words when it was time to say them; perhaps he was still unsure how much was too much and how much was too little (as evidenced by the aforementioned assumptions that he had been engaged for the better part of the last few months). He had strived his entire life to be perfect in whatever endeavor he undertook. The perfect son, the perfect father, the perfect assassin, the perfect caregiver, the perfect partner. There were many hats he’d donned in his expansive centuries.
As Del held him close, though, murmuring under her breath, Cyran was struck with the sensation that she was letting him know it was okay, then, not to be perfect. Because they were both still learning together.
As it turned out, fumbling through life wasn’t so daunting when you weren’t doing so alone.
“Yes. More of that. Soon.” He agreed, though in this almost dreamlike state he wasn’t sure he could manage much in the way of eloquent conversation.
The light feeling of safety and security ebbed as he remembered where they were and why they were here. It was difficult to feel wholly safe or capable of talking about marriage when one was in the midst of a prison of human design. He squeezed Del’s hand once as they set off; he was not… nervous, per se, not when they could easily take Lithrun hostage in the event he did not release them. But there were too many unknown variables. They still had no clue how much control the painter held over this domain, or if there even was a way out.
He steeled himself as they spotted the man up at the top of the hill. He was still overlooking his domain proudly - though his face lit up when he saw them.
“I was wondering what was holding you two up! See enough of the scenery? Spectacular, isn’t it? The perfect place to spend the rest of our lives.”
“About that…” Cyran rubbed his thumb over the back of Del’s hand, clearing his throat. There was no harm in simply… trying the truth. He just had to be gentle about it. “The two of us, we - we’ve decided to marry. Our friends, and family, they’re all back in Charon, and it wouldn’t be a wedding without them. We appreciate the opportunity to see your world, but it’s not quite time for us to leave ours yet. We’d like to go back.”
The smile fell from his face.
“That’s disappointing. Here I thought I’d found people who might truly understand me. But you’re just like all the rest. You don’t deserve this sacred place. No one does! You all cling to that dying husk of a world like it’s worth something, but there’s nothing left to be redeemed! Why doesn’t anyone see that?”
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Apr 10, 2024 14:06:07 GMT -5
Finding their way back to the artist, it took all of Del's restraint to not simply run towards him, eager to leave the painting and go home. Home-- with her new fiance. They had so many people to tell, so many to celebrate with. She was doubtful that Lithrun would be reasonable, but perhaps they could sway him. Cyran was much kinder than she was, and had such a unique way with words. If anyone could get the artist to see reason, it was him.
But, some people are stubborn.
Seeing the artist start to unravel, Del frowns. He was clearly... destabilized by something. Del squeezes Cyran's hand back in soft reply. Not going anywhere; forever at his side.
Del was... not so gentle.
"This peice of art that you made is beautiful beyond words, but it's an escape. Nothing more." She reaches up to brush her free hand over the leaves that dangled from the branches above them, showing how her palm came away green. "The trees here aren't real; they cannot clean the air. They cannot bear fruit. It's stagnant and sterile, which is as you designed it to be. Nothing bad can happen here, but also nothing good."
Her expression softens, but only slightly. Her feet were set shoulder width apart, an unmoving pillar. She would not budge. "We understand your vision, probably better than anyone. The world that's out there is hard, and dirty, and cruel, and at times, a nightmare. But it also precious," She insists. "You will never again see a sunrise over the harbour when the smoke clears out. You won't feel soft summer rainfall, or ashland petals between your fingers. You won't see the smiles of any of the people who observe your painting, or feel wonderstruck by it. You won't see the people out there rebuild what they've lost with the earthquakes. That resilience, that community, those precious little loves that float between people, no matter how fleeting, is the best part of our world. We don't want to be apart from it."
Silence hangs for a moment as she gives Master Lithrun a long look, gauging him. How he acted, his words, his motivations. Perhaps it was unwise to challenge a disturbed man's vision so boldly, but she could tell he was not seeing the big picture here. "Whatever it was you lost out in the real world... you won't find it again trapped in here. I can promise you that. You've made a lovely visual eulogy here for what once was; don't make it your tomb as well."
They were going home.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Apr 15, 2024 10:22:03 GMT -5
It was in the assassin’s nature to regard most situations with polite detachment; to remain mild and neutral, and maintain as small a presence as possible. Better to prevent the risk of angering someone when he could merely remain silent and turn the other cheek. And where words failed…
It was fortunate, then, that Del was not so silent.
Each word levied at the artist was full of conviction and… love - love for life and all that came with it, the ugly bumps and the small beauties and all. The determination born from danger. Cyran had long since given up on witnessing the good of people as a whole; he much preferred to keep his distance.
Del never stopped seeing or believing. The kindness of Darkveil’s citizens after a volcano’s earthquake, coming together to rebuild a small orphanage because they merely wanted to help. Dancing under a storm to feel the chill of the rain and the warmth of another person in your arms. Passionate screams in harmony as humans fought for their place in this world against cruel and uncaring gods, because life was worth fighting for. Drunkenly stumbling across the deck of a ship, leaning on one another for support. Finding kindred souls across a crowded street because you’d always, inexplicably, be able to reach out to one another. Stargazing. Fighting monsters. Dying for others. Living for others. Watching the smile on her face while she held a child in her lap and crooned sweet lullabies after a tragedy and knowing, in the deepest parts of your soul, that you would rebuild.
You would always rebuild.
Cyran closed his eyes and ran a thumb along the ring on his finger with an odd spark of warmth in his chest that reminded him of returning home after a long day.
It was difficult to gauge whether the words had any effect on Master Lithrun. You could scream words until you were blue in the face and there was always a possibility that the person you were trying to reach had closed themselves off. Cyran’s hand drifted towards Wraithsbane - ready to take the painter hostage in the event this went south.
But there was no need; as Del finished, Lithrun fell to his knees, body unable to support his own weight, as if with words alone Del had crumbled the walls he’d built around himself to create a fortress. ”I… but this… this is all I have left.”
His voice was an impossibly broken thing; something so hollow it felt out of place even in his own world.
The worst part was that Cyran understood exactly what he felt.
He took his hand off of Wraithsbane’s hilt and exhaled softly. Force would not be necessary here. He knelt down until he was at the same level as the young man, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“I used to think that giving up and hiding was my only option, too.” He admitted, tone heavy with all the regrets that haunted his waking memory. “I had nothing left, either. My life -“ his songbird - “All that was precious to me had been ripped away, and there was simply no point. Yet there was this small part of me, one that felt so utterly selfish; it kept urging me, just keep going, keep moving forward.”
He turned and glanced at Del, and found smiling easier as he did.
“Against my better instinct, I listened. And it felt so utterly foolish when there was no point, but - but the point was myself. Because even after my life had been taken from me I didn’t want to stop experiencing it. The good and the bad. It hurts, but if you do yourself the injustice of shying from it, then you’re as good as dead anyways.”
”This is all easy for you to say.” Lithrun scoffed - some of the attention had returned to his eyes, though he still didn’t seem especially convinced. “You two found each other. You’ve got lives outside. Pleasure that makes all the pain manageable. Not everyone has the luxury of possessing that happiness.”
“Then find it.” Cyran insisted; a firm edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Find it for yourself. Hell, you spent years traveling the world trying to find the answer for yourself. Look me in the eyes and tell me, during all that time, you didn’t see the world and feel joy at what you experienced.”
Lithrun fell silent for a long time. When he spoke, he was resigned. “I… there were moments, when I was out there, there were these sparks. I thought if I just captured each part that made me feel that way and combined it all in one place, I’d find that answer. The place that would make me feel complete.”
“The truth is that there is no complete answer.” Cyran shook his head. “Please don’t waste your life looking for it in this canvas. There is just the world, and all that exists in it for you to see and experience as it is. Your time there is not yet finished.”
Finally, Lithrun nodded. It was an empty noise - as if his entire foundation had been ripped out from under him. But it would be okay, because he would rebuild.
”Alright.” He said. ”Alright. Let us return to the exhibit.”
He turned to the side, and as he stared at the horizon, a picture took shape in front of them. It was hazy and blurry at first, difficult for Cyran to discern - but in a few seconds he could make out the warm tones of the exhibit on the other side, the concerned faces of spectators formed within the paint.
”For the record, I don’t think I’ll ever agree with either of you.” Lithrun spoke once more. “But you did me the kindness of seeing the world through my eyes - I suppose I’ll have to try and see it through yours.”
Cyran stood and stepped away from the painter, taking Del’s hand in his once more with a small, relieved grin. His body was alight with jitters - he’d hoped that might work, though he’d not known for certain.
“Thank you.”
He turned back to Del - and after a quick moment of hesitation, planted a small, chaste kiss on her cheek. Because he wanted to. Because he didn’t want to deprive himself of life’s joys, either.
“Let’s go home.”
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