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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Oct 14, 2023 19:32:53 GMT -5
A shroud of dead, ash bleached-wood was not the best of hiding places, but it was the closest and most familiar. The escapees of Darkveil had come to the forests to make camp, a sanctuary of healing and to gather one's bearings. From here, the absence of Mount Drakolt was immediately obvious, a gaping wound in a blood-red sky as the sun-- the sun-- set, visibly, for the first time in gods knew how long. The refugee camp was full of quiet conversation and tense exhaustion. The survivors of Mount Drakolt's explosion were not deeply concerned with who came and went around this place; there were so many from the city who were fleeing, had fled while those brave enough to remain and fight had saved the land once more. Their only concern for the moment was safety, making it through another night. Perhaps that would change come the dawn, but for now, there was a weariness that had settled over the camp, the fatigue known to people who again and again and again had their lives upheaved by forces beyond their ken. Not too far away, in the copse of a nearby hill, a different camp was made. Close enough to benefit from the general protection of the survivors, but far enough away that... well. That those who took advantage of the terrain would be left unaccosted. A strategtic position of utmost caution, easily defendable, with a maximum and a way to block the entrance, should it be required. It had been some hours since the battle, or so she thought; time was getting away from her now, her only priority her fiance's wellbeing. Cyran was still unconcious-- Del checked on his condition often, making sure he was warm, pacing the small space restlessly before returning to his side on the bed she had made of his ragged cloak on a ledge of mossy dirt elevated off the ground. A small fire of coals burned near the entrance, enough to heat what little food and water she was able to take from the camp of survivors, from those who had been generous enough to provide supplies to others. Even with the bandages and cleaning the dirt from the worst of his wounds, it was not the first time since she picked him up from the battlefield to run with him that she cursed herself for not being more of a healer. Cursed herself for not pressing harder on those strange feelings she had felt through their connection, that deep self-loathing that had concerned her. And what could she have done? Stop and have a heart-to-heart while they were in the middle of staving off the apocalypse? Del leans over to adjust the bowls of watery stew by where the coals smoulder at the door, before returning her gaze to where Cyran lay, a pang twisting her chest. His skin was all the more pale from the loss of blood, his hair messy and matted (she had tried to comb it out, but gods, it would need a wash), scarred, burnt, hurt. Reaching out, she smooths his hair off his brow, gently as she can. Alive. If there any gods left to thank, it would be for that. And they had won the day, hadn't they? They and all the others, dear friends and new faces alike, staving off an end that would have been certain.
That victory rang a little hollow, though, when she watched the tremulous way Cyran's chest rose and fell in his sleep. From macro to micro in a matter of seconds, the whole of her world could be summed up in this room. "It's going to be okay..."
Huffing softly to herself to banish the memory, Del frowns at her hands, holding back tears. There wasn't time for giving in to processing the whole of that experience right now, not when she was still living in that terrifying moment. But she had no way of knowing how much longer she would have to wait for her Cyran to wake up. If he wakes up. A hideous little voice whispers in her mind. Del huffs again, frowning deeper this time. It was... jarring, that was all. Having all these tools and skills and not being able to help her beloved in a meaningful way while he lay there, injured and unconscious. Her knuckles itched. She wanted to pace again-- her movement the one thing she had any control over at this point.
Instead, she leans against the dirt wall behind her. Del moves her hands to the pouch at her side, her belt of carpenters tools, to produce a knife and a small piece of wood. She starts to whittle quietly, something to do apart from mindlessly pace or stare at the sleeping face of her beloved fiance with a look of deep consternation. Even so, at Cyran's side Del remains, every so often reaching up to adjust the blanket or touch his brow to test his temperture. Remains beside his bed of dirt and moss and cloak, on one knee to be at the same eye level so she could monitor him closely with but a turn of her head. Alive, she had to keep telling herself, between slices of her whittling knife. At least, this time, she hadn't yet lost everything.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Oct 14, 2023 22:12:45 GMT -5
This was hardly the first time Cyran, formerly of house Fenastra, had lain prone in his deathbed, in what perhaps marked the last moments that his lungs would ever draw breath, his chest would ever pump blood through his battered body. And why shouldn’t it all just come to a gentle, crawling stop? He’d been the very one to put it so succinctly to Del, on a night almost like this, sans the massive, smoking crater where once Mount Drakolt stood - I’m just the shade of a man who ought to have died years ago.
Because, as stated before, this was hardly the first time Cyran had lain on his deathbed.
No; that had been a decade ago, another country, another life, another person.
Back then, he’d been quite the timid person. Soft-spoken, embittered feelings hidden behind layers of satin and silver and had not yet been sharpened and honed like a blade. He’d no grasp, back then, on exactly where his life was going, aside from the fact that he had a daughter to raise, a life to foster. But Cyran himself, those days, had wandered the halls of his manor with centuries of life behind him and none of them spent in any worthwhile capacity. A ghost. And Rowan had sought to make him one.
Oh, it wasn’t her fault, he supposed. Well, in a roundabout way, it was - she’d been the one to make a pact with elder beings she’d had no business messing with in her pursuit of power. She’d invited that evil into her soul, their house, and then, unwittingly, into him once she’d lost herself in the madness of it all. She, or whatever being that had inhabited her in her last waking moments, had attempted to claw her way to freedom, only to claw through Cyran’s back instead as he tried to flee. The wrong place, the wrong time. He’d just been unlucky. If her body had been strong enough to withstand the power flowing through her veins, she might have finished the job. Instead, she succumbed to the shadows, and Cyran was left alone to struggle in the battle of life or death.
He remembered little about what that unconsciousness was like, at the time. He supposed that was his own mind’s way of protecting him from whatever he dreamed, conjured by his feverish mind while he tried to sweat out the rot that had taken hold of him. A week later his eyes snapped open, and Rowan’s magic had already done its work. Cyran’s life, his entire being, irrevocably changed.
He was not the type of person to lament his life; even in his weakest moments he did not allow himself to wonder if it might’ve been better he did not wake up from that bed at all. If he followed that thread, Cyran had a suspicion he would not like where it ended up. It was as if with his awakening from that event, some sort of light had been turned off. Some kind of formulae, rewired. After he’d nearly died Cyran was determined to survive, and even that mindless goal, spurned on by dark wanderings through a path to assassinhood that seemed so inevitable yet so preventable, he’d never quite given up that thin, waning desire. To live. Even if the reason why he continued to do so was not always clear.
And as time crawled forward, the cycle continuing to etch itself into the fabric of the world, Cyran found it. Those new somethings to add on top of the old. A home, a family, a marriage of all things, one he’d actually - gods be damned - been allowed to accept of his own free will, simply because he’d found a woman he loved. A light that had eaten away at the cloying, dark shadows wrapped so tightly around his heart. Oh, what a sensation it was, to be able to breathe without feeling like one might choke on the air, or move without feeling like there was a leaden weight on one’s shoulders. To have purpose and meaning -
And oh, what life’s greatest irony it was to have that purpose ripped from him a second time.
Not that it was anyone’s fault but his, mind. Cyran was the one who still had yet to quite learn that the best thing he could probably ever do for people was to leave them alone.
It was a star’s duty to cast gentle light and guidance upon all who gazed upon it. And when that star dimmed, twisted beyond all recognition until all it had left was its giving nature and nothing good to give, what then? What then?
But at this point he doubted he would ever learn, and when his love was such a malignant thing, it was no wonder that the people around him always wound up gone or dead.
And now, here Cyran was. Standing on the precipice of ruin after the ruin - his own, personal hell.
He’d somehow imagined it with more smoke and brimstone.
Instead, while Cyran’s unwaking body rested fitfully under his fiancée’s watchful eyes, the assassin found himself someplace else entirely. Some place dark.
And empty.
He blinked, eyes adjusting to the nothingness around him. The shadows were eager to help, as readily as they did in the material world, though there was a… wild quality to them in this flat expanse. Wind whipped around him, but there was no roar, no sound to accompany it. There was only him, and the planes that stretched to an infinity in either direction. Perhaps that endlessness might have been daunting, if he had not been locked in a cycle of endless eons in the moments before he lost consciousness. Cyran merely sighed, running a hand through his hair while he tried to figure out what he was seeing.
There had been the battle against Vulcadreus - and the one with Zarius and Caedes before that - and Cyran had been a godsdamned mess, emotions all over the place, before startling crystal clarity had gripped him. And in front of Del, he’d taken her wedding gift, her promise to keep him safe, and -
- Well, then, he’d awoken in her arms, the battle won. She’d understood what he’d hoped she would, that his locket would be the key to his awakening. And it had staved off his visit to death’s door, for a time. But it hadn’t healed all his wounds, and so Cyran was certain he’d slipped back into unconsciousness not long after. And now, he stood here. In this empty space.
“Desolate, is it not?”
Cyran was no longer surprised to hear her voice, crawling like spiders up the back of his neck. He turned to spare Rowan Pavyre a passing glance, lips pursed together. The ghost in red. The woman who haunted him even as he built a new life for himself.
It figured, that at the end of everything, she would be the one next to him. That was what he deserved, most likely. Hand in loveless hand.
Cyran opened his mouth. There were many things he could have asked in that moment; questions he’d have been too scared to ask when he was younger. But he was so tired of chasing dust now, and so tired of playing these games. So instead, he said the first thing that came to mind.
“Is this the afterlife?”
Rowan shrugged. “For people like you and I, it is. Though perhaps it would be more accurate to call this the space between the living and the dead. The waking and the dreaming. The eternal dusk. Where others may go to the afterlife, this is the fate that awaits you. Perpetuity in the forever shadows.”
“The fate that awaits you, too, then?” Cyran replied, pointed.
Rowan did not answer. Instead, she turned to him, her hair no longer floating around her as it did when she manifested in the waking world. “You know what this means, don’t you? Your presence here? I mean, you have to know. You were the one plunging that dagger into your chest all happy-go-lucky.”
Cyran closed his eyes. Nodded.
“I’d hoped…” No, not hoped, “I’d not planned on slipping into something I could never wake up from. It was a calculated risk. But a risk all the same.”
“A stupid one.”
Cyran sighed.
“But you always were a bit of a fool, so there’s nothing new there. The only difference is now you have the power to back it up.” Rowan examined her nails as she mused aloud. Cyran wasn’t sure if she was truly speaking to him, or merely trying to parse through something in her mind. “Like I said before, I’d always wondered why the shadows love you so, when they cast me in this place without much thought.”
“The cultists answered that question for you,” Cyran mumbled, staving off the irritation manifesting as a headache behind his temples - then surprise at the fact he was still able to feel the traces of pain at all. Not dead yet, then. But close. There was still a chance for him to awaken. “The fallen star nonsense.”
He wasn’t sure how much he’d believed it, but there was a deeper part of him - older than his years - that feared it was the truth.
Rowan waved a dismissive hand. “That’s part of it, sure. But there’s another reason they adore your company. It is much easier for them to cling to something constantly striving to claw their way back to the light. It’s much more fun to drag someone like that down, then something who entered this place of their own free will.”
Cyran knew little of the whims of the power that he drew from; nor was he certain he wanted to know their machinations. To him, the shadow was not good or evil as Rowan so prescribed it. It was merely a balance. The calm silence before the empty night, the counterbalance to the harsh light of the sun. And right now, it had seemingly swallowed him whole. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not keep looping in circles. I didn’t ask for this… connection, to this place. I didn’t ask to take what you believe is rightfully yours. I’m sorry if that has caused you strife in the past, but I refuse to allow myself to wallow like this anymore. I’m done. And I just want to go back to my fiancée.”
“You really want to wake back up, after everything that’s happened? Everything you’ve done?” Rowan hissed, red eyes narrowed. “Isn’t that why you stabbed yourself in the first place? So you didn’t have to live with the guilt?”
“I stabbed myself to ensure that Vulcadreus couldn’t take to the skies and wreak havoc.” Cyran replied, equally as cold. The shadows around him stirred. “I did it with the knowledge that I was bringing an end to things. And that I would be able to… I don’t know. Start making better choices in the future.” He couldn’t erase what he’d done, he knew.
But that was the crux of it all, wasn’t it? To keep moving on, and carry the memory of your past to keep shaping the future. Cyran had lived so long as a shadow, a Specter, that it had never occurred to him that he could be anything more than that.
Rowan let out a haughty laugh at that declaration. “As if you could be anything more than what you already are. A coward and a sellsword. You kill and give into the darkness because it’s easy and convenient for you. Why should now be anything different?”
“Maybe because I’m tired of always just doing what’s easy. I’ve been running for a long time. It’s time for me to start learning to live with everything I’ve done… in hopes I can move forward one day.”
He wasn’t sure it was possible. But Cyran wanted to try. For Del, Marlow, his kids. Zarius. Caedes. He wasn’t going to give up just yet. He would not yet surrender himself to this infinite black that awaited him at the end.
“And that includes leaving the past in the past. Goodbye, Rowan.” Cyran nodded at her once, before turning on his heel and walking away. Exactly where he was going, he wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he could not stay here. If he did, then he wouldn’t wake up again…
And so Cyran walked. His own memories cycling around him, the good and the bad, his youth, his time spent with his daughter, all that led up to the battle with Vulcadreus. A long thread of murders and sorrow and joy and even love… and Cyran followed that final thread, love, because even when he could not trust himself, he could trust in the woman that had so vehemently and passionately become part of his life, like she’s always belonged there. Through the shadowy valley he trudged, following those memories. Their Hearth Day outing. Time spent aboard the ship, brushing her curls away from her temples while she was sick and thinking, ‘I’d do anything for this woman’. Tearfully accepting her gifted blade, a symbol all on its own, and a promise. Dancing under the lightning. Finding her in the bowel of hell, alive and beautiful. Sleeping in the rain-stained remnants of her shop. Lounging on the beach.
Pressing their foreheads together as the world crumbled around them, before doing whatever they could to hold the pieces together.
And there Del was, a blurry image - Cyran had seen her happiness, her fury, her disdain, her care, but never had he seen her so unmoored, wearing her worry so plainly in the furrow of her brow. Haggard while her hands worked, desperate to accomplish something - anything. Soot and ash and battleblood still staining her face, like she hadn’t even cared about cleaning herself up after the battle. Was this a mirage, a hallucination? Something conjured up in his mind as a last sliver of hope to hold onto while he slipped away? But, no - there he was, next to her, and what a strange experience it was to see one’s own body from above. He looked, for lack of a better term, like shit. And he’d caused Del so much worry.
Cyran took a deep breath. He’d already made the vow with himself, that it was time to stop running, stop deflecting. And that included with Del, if she still wanted him. She’d not left his side yet, and that alone made his heart ache with a yearning almost as ancient as the days when he may have once shined bright. His Del. His Fighter.
He could never stay here, not when it meant leaving her alone.
Tugging on that single heartstring, Cyran jolted back into his body. Gasping, sputtering, coughing, and wracked with all of the pain his body had been storing just for him, Cyran came back to himself. Battered, bruised, throat coated in ash and unspoken apologies - but awake.
Alive.
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Oct 15, 2023 14:39:33 GMT -5
The sound of Cyran taking a true, raspy breath is a heavenly choir to Del's ears. She jolts into action immediately, her heart leaping into her throat as she turns and sees, no, she has not fallen asleep and imagined him stirring; he was coughing and wincing and trying to speak.
"Cyran!" The tools and whatever she was carving is quickly tossed aside, shifting to fully kneel beside his bed. At first, she hesitates, her immediate instinct to pull him into a hug tampered by how wracked with pain he seemed. Giving her head a shake, Del puts a calming hand to his cheek to still him, keep him from reopening any of his wounds. "Shhh, shh, love. Easy, now. Drink first," she kneels for the cup of water, lifting it carefully to his lips to take a few sips to clear out the dryness in his mouth. "Slow. I've got you."
Another resonance with words they had spoken in the battle, prompting a small reactive surge of panic that she quickly breathes away. Process later. One thing at a time.
"I..." she starts, and then stops, pressing her lips into a thin, agonized line as words fail her. The things she'd thought to say, to tell him in the hours after the battle had abruptly turned to sand in her mind, inert and pointless in the face of him being awake. She swallows hard, blinking back tears again as she gives him a watery smile. Instinctually, she goes into a debrief, whispering to him gently. "We're in the Deadwood, near a refugee camp. We are alone, but I took tabs on the others, and they aren't far. Everyone who was at the battle is alive. You've been out for a few hours, and--." she cuts herself off again, this time from a hitch in her voice that makes her chin tremble. And I wasn't sure if you'd wake up, she does not say. She does not need to.
"We need to get you to a proper physician, and away from here." she murmurs, the thoughts behond her amber eyes already doing cartwheels to find the best possible way to accomplish this. "I don't know of any personally, but I didn't want to risk a long journey like that in your condition. Not when you..." again, she trails off, this time a little sniff slipping past her iron will. She exhales a shaky sigh, her thumb brushing away a little dried blood from his cheekbone, her cracking voice barely above a whisper. "I'm so happy you're awake."
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Oct 17, 2023 7:25:36 GMT -5
In logical terms, Cyran knew weaving the soul link between himself and Vulcadreus would be no pleasant walk in the park. An entrance goes two ways, which the dragon god had used to flood his mind with a maddening flood of images, memories of the cycle, and Cyran had used it to stab the bastard’s heart through armored plates his knives would not otherwise be able to pierce. You know. Tit for tat. But Cyran supposed his folly came in assuming that the spell might end when he fell into a comatose state.
The pain wracking his body as he gasped awake was quick to prove him wrong.
His body felt one big knot of bruises and scrapes, arcane scars and lightning strikes and fire. All the injuries that too had been wrought against Vulcadreus in his final moments levied against Cyran, and he wore them all like a heavy crown in that moment. Not that Cyran was thinking about that. The sudden jolt from nothingness to painburningblindingpain left him too disoriented for words, his gaze unfocused, lips parted in a silent plea.
A hand on his cheek brought him to some semblance of reality.
There was only one person he would recognize, in his heart of hearts, with a caress as calming as this.
Cyran angled his head, chasing the syllables of her hushed reassurances. She was still here, she’d bandaged his wounds, set up camp, brought him here and held his cheek so gently and gave him water to soothe his aching throat where silent screams still resided -
Oh, the delirium-riddled part of his brain rationed. The only kind of love he knew rearing its ugly head. Conditional. You’ve brought me here to cast me away, too. That’s how these things work, isn’t it?
The gentle stab of panic, quickly suppressed under layers of steel and forgemetal, resonated through the bond. Cyran’s brows furrowed, forcing himself to center as best he could. No. That could not be the case. That was paranoia speaking, past experiences dictating his present. But that single, horrifying and beautiful promise from his Dreamscape drifted to mind, floating back to him while he lay between consciousness and rest - trust in Del.
And he did.
Blindly, with hands that were still trembling from the ache, he groped around the air until he found purchase on her arm - gripping tight to her wrist, unable to do much else. Just wanting to feel her warmth, wishing he were strong enough to wipe away her tears… tears he’d caused, while she spoke. Tough as nails, she always was. Not holding herself together in the absence of a storm that might tear her asunder, but able to weather it head-on, and keep her foundations together. And today she weathered a storm of Cyran’s own design, still bearing those burdens with a grace she shouldn’t have to wear.
Facts. Deadwood. Refugee camp. No deaths during the battle against Vulcadreus.
Cyran nodded, flopping his head back against his makeshift bed and pillow - winced as he jostled a sore spot.
Pushed the pain aside. This, too, was the universe’s way of telling him he’d made a universally stupid move, no matter how much he thought it was the right decision.
“Good.” He wheezed, licking his lips as if he could banish this parched and dry feeling. The fresh, raw wound in her voice was a different matter. Even though it hurt, everything screaming at him to stay still, he grabbed her wrist, squeezing it gently.
“Del.” He whispered. “M’Sorry.”
He wished he could say more. Wished he could convey he’d done what he did knowing he would wake up on the other side of it all, though all the good intentions in the world did not erase that he’d caused her so much worry, forced her to nearly watch her home crumble in front of her a second time.
“M’Sorry.” He repeated.
Del cleared her throat and moved on, speaking of next steps. Work always so easy to slip into when there was work left to be done. Cyran closed his eyes, considering. His head hurt, and it was difficult to think, but he had to keep himself awake. He didn’t want to slip back into sleep.
“I do.” He croaked, after some thought. “Kvasir. C’leena.” Both of whom Cyran knew he could trust, and neither whose doorstep he wanted to darken with his problems. With the devils on his heels. But they should both be close - Kvasir, in the desert, and C’leena, most likely in the Cradle. And with neither of them being healers, and it being entirely likely Cyran could not trust many in Darkveil, their options were limited.
A frown tugged on Cyran’s lips, before Del spoke again, her hand still rubbing comforting circles on his blood-stained cheeks.
Cyran let out a sigh that was in part wistful and in part pained.
“You… stayed with me.” He marveled. Relief-love-safe harmonized through the bond, like the finely-plucked strings of a harp. “I don’t -“ He paused, interrupted by a series of dry sounding coughs. “Deserve you. Thank you.”
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Oct 23, 2023 16:56:28 GMT -5
She pauses as Cyran grabs at her wrist, holding fast with all the wiry strength he can muster. There's an urgency in his eyes, on his face, as she debriefs him on their situation. Hushing him gently, she leans towards his grip, giving him more of her arm to touch-- anchoring, was how she saw it. She could feel the tumult of his emotional state, like being tossed through rapids. He did not seem sure about anyone's intent or frame of mind. Still in survival mode. It was hard to bear how much pain he was in; emotionally and physically.
As he whispers to her, an apology, furitive an honest, she freezes again. Her teeth find her lower lip, a thousand things running through her mind. He didn't need to apologise; it had worked, and she had known what he was doing and trusted that it would work. But also, yes, he did, because he had terrified her, shaken her to her core at the very notion that she could lose him, that he would die with her knife in his chest--
But even then she could not bring herself to tell him off. Could not muster the desire to be angry, no matter how justified it might be. In the end, it didn't matter. He was here, she had trusted him, and he had proven himself to be a man of his word. She of all people understood what must be done in such moments, and his action Del knew with certainty had saved countless lives. In a purely logical sense, it was worth that risk.
Emotionally, though. That was another story.
No. The last thing Del wanted to do was rub salt in this wound. She could feel his sorrowful ache, his regret-- and his abject reassurance in her mere presence. A relief cemented by the fact that she was here at all, staring at her in awe and gratitude. Which felt strange, as it was never a question in her mind as to whether she would remain by his side. It was a given. He had truly been worried about the impact this would have on her. He cared, so deeply. She knew he would not choose to hurt her, in any way, if he could help it.
Del knew her fiance well enough to know something else was happening here. Something had driven him to extremes through the fight, had made horrible self-directed feelings cross their connection. He was suffering. How could she abide that?
"I am the one that doesn't deserve you." Del murmurs, stubborn. She leans her head down on the ledge next to him, her thumb continuing gentle strokes along his cheekbone. A sniff, as she swallows around the thickness in her throat. "Maybe no one really deserves anything, Cyran, but I am here and I am not going anywhere. And I am not letting go of you. There is no version of this world where I would want to be without you."
Tears spring to her eyes and run free from their corners as she realizes how true that was, and how close they had been to exactly that. Why it hurt so much to see him like this. Her love for him might not be fragile, but, oh, she certainly felt all her dross in this moment.
"You are... everything to me." Her voice cracks again, something she doesn't try to correct. Reflecting the feelings back at him-- relief-love-safe --she carefully tilts her head forward to touch her forehaed against his. "I don't know what happened out there to make you feel such... terrible things about yourself, and I don't know if I can help, but I will try." Taking a shuddering breath to steady herself, Del looks into his mismatched gaze searchingly, those eyes she loved so well and dearly, remembering vividly the intense self-loathing that she had felt hours before. She burns through that lingering memory in her own mind with a fierce and intense adoration, a love without condition. "I want to try, to help any way I can. There is nothing that will change how much I love you. Never. And if you need to hear that a hundred, a thousand times, then that is what I will do."
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Oct 26, 2023 10:07:26 GMT -5
All the good sentiments and kind words in the world likely could not express Cyran’s guilt at the fear, loss, frustration, fatigue simmering underneath the surface at his apology. Del was keeping her face neutral, he knew. And there was relief he could feel, above all. But for all the past few days had left him rubbed raw, he was not so lost in an endless loop of self pity that he could not recognize the hurts churning in her chest, hurts which she was so very kind not to voice, so considerate of his feelings.
Oh.
He’d hurt her.
Cyran had not intended to - but those were nothing more than pretty words, weren’t they? A killer could croon the sweetest excuses but that didn’t change the knife they held behind their back. He could promise to Del that he’d had every intention not to hurt her but that did not change that he’d stared her straight in the eyes, taken the knife that she’d created to protect him from harm, and seemingly use it to take his own life to drag Vulcadreus down with him.
Of course she would be upset, his mind whispered. You only know love through sacrifice. What are you to do when someone doesn’t want that?
You just had to learn how to live for that person instead.
There was a part of Cyran that wished she would take her upset out on him instead rather than pretending that everything was fine. More than believing he deserved it, Cyran didn’t want to watch her bottle these things up. He’d tried, tried to act like nothing was wrong and set it aside to face the battle at hand. But in the heat of the moment, he’d realized things were affecting him more than he’d thought. And then they exploded in the most unpleasant way.
Determined, he shook his head, pushing past the dismissal and the relief that had temporarily erased the worry. He’d made her think he died, that he’d wanted to die and leave her alone. He knew better than anyone that people left - which was why it was so important that he stay. Yet he’d let his own emotions take control all the same.
With more strength than he’d mustered since waking - physical pain and clarity of mind spurning him on - he grabbed her hand and brought it to his chest so she could feel his heartbeat. That he was here and alive, and so she could know the sincerity of every word as he forced himself to speak as if talking around glass. He shouldn’t have been tearing at his throat, but he needed to.
“No. I - I hurt you. I made you think you were.” He swallowed. “Alone again. I’m sorry. We are equals. Partners. I acted. Selfishly. Only my feelings in mind. Not again.”
He squeezed her wrist.
“Never again.”
And oh, she was crying. He could not see it, with her head rested next to his own, but he could feel it. As soft as the thumb running against his cheek while she made her vows. In his pain-addled mind, which lacked much of a filter at the moment, Cyran thought they sounded an awful lot like wedding vows.
“Nor I you.” He rasped. “Not going anywhere.”
She had no idea how much her words were a balm on his bruised heart. He’d been raised on the principle that love was transactional. Conditional based entirely on your merits and accomplishments. It had not occurred to him that he might have still clung to those beliefs - not until Del shattered it with such a resolute promise.
“You are my home.” He replied. “I will always. Return to you.”
And then came the question. The confusion, the promise to help even without understanding what had happened. She had not flinched away yet. She was not going anywhere. He was safe.
“Del, I…”
Cyran leaned into her touch, closed eyes brimming with unshed tears as they pressed their foreheads together. He could feel her warmth, like a fire lit in the center of a long, cold, night. She pulled away and he opened his eyes, meeting her searching gaze.
“I did something horrible.”
His voice was barely a whisper but it felt like a scream.
It was not just that he’d done something horrible - but that he’d done so without hesitation. Cyran had always thought himself capable of restraint when it came to it, that he exercised temperance and caution in abundance. And yet. He’d done something horrible, rather than thinking things through like he should have. And it had ruined someone’s life. It was a dangerous instinct. Cyran was dangerous.
He opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to tell Del. But he couldn’t. Not yet. He couldn’t manage it. Speaking it into truth would make it real.
So instead, he made the promise he’d sworn in the very instant he’d plunged a dagger in his chest.
“So I quit. I’m… retiring the Specter. I can’t be that thing anymore. I just want, want to be better… for you and for this.” He gestured between them, muscles aching as he did. “Without that shadow. I can’t be allowed to do something horrible like that again.”
With each word he gained strength, conviction; but now that he’d gotten it off of his chest, he just felt so tired.
“You have helped… more than you could ever know.” He breathed. “I just want to be by your side right now.” More discussion would come, and should come, he knew - the world had not just changed in the aftermath of the dragon God’s resurrection and death, but their own lives as well. But that could wait, even just a second. Just a second, spent in her arms. He would never forget but he could, at the very least, remember in the shelter of the woman he loved.
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Oct 31, 2023 4:09:50 GMT -5
Exhaling a shuddering breath, Del leans a little closer, pressing her nose gently into the crown of his hair, her shoulders quietly trembling with a restrained, silent weeping that was out of caution than it was the desire to hide her emotion from Cyran. He spoke soft words of reassurance, apology, comfort.
Del brushes a kiss across his forehead, gentle as she can. He did not need to apologise to her-- she understood. She knew where the potion was. If anything, she felt a little selfish for feeling scared and not wanting her partner to be hurt, but that was the pragmatist in her talking. The reality was that logic and emotion had different agendas. The worst part was that neither were wrong. "I know you, my heart, as you know me." Del assures in soft tones. "You have no need to apolgise; you kept your word and we are together, safe. That is all that matters to me. However, I accept your apologies because your words matter. I know you mean them. And I forgive you."
Closing her eyes, Del exhales another slow breath, this one much less shakey than the last. "You did not act selfishly, love." she whispers into his hair, attempting to comfort him. "You saved countless lives with what you did. I understand why you chose to do it, and Cyran, I am so, so proud of you. You give and you give, and you give-- you are selfless. All I want," her hand resumes those soothing strokes to his cheekbone, "is for you to allow yourself to be a little selfish. You help so many, myself included. You deserve all the wonderful things you so easily provide for others. You have just as much a right to life and happiness as everyone you saved. You have more than earned it."
Del knew it was she who was selfish for feeling even a little bit frightened or concerned by the gambit Cyran undertook; in the scope of the big picture, what was one man in the midst of hundreds? Thousands?
To her? Everything.
And that was precisely why she allowed this little indulgence, this selfish desire to keep her fiancee alive and here for as long as he would have her. Perhaps not all self-serving things need be bad. She loved this man. He had shown her that she was allowed to do so.
Then, her blood runs cold. Something in his tone, the horror with which he spoke, fills her with a sense of dread. Whatever it is he has done that is so terrible... Del believes him. She nods carefully, stoically, her fingers curling gently into the locks of his hair, brushing them out of his face.
He was stepping away from the Specter, from the life of wetwork and contracts? The only life he'd known for the better part of a decade? Whatever his reason for that, his grief was palpable. She has no way of knowing what it is he has done, and in the moment, it is not important. The distress, the sorrow, is clear in his voice; it sends a pang through her, a urge to bring him as close and possible so she could absorb some of his hurt, somehow. Lessen his suffering. A terrifying thought, for Cyran to retire from the only life he'd known for the past decade... whatever had happened, she knew it was bad.
But that discussion was going to wait until later. It was not as important as this quiet space between them, with only the wind outside the narrow cavern and the hoarse drag of Cyran's breath through his throat. Alive. Here. With her. Safe.
And all he wanted was her embrace. That she had helped him. Del cracks a watery smile, chuffing softly as she cradles his cheek in her hand.
"And I yours," she whispers. The only thing she wanted was to be in his arms right then. Her body ached with a soreness that was second only to falling off a cliff some forty-fifty years ago, but she could forget the pain when she felt his breath tickle across her cheeks. She was much, much too exhausted to engage in probem-solving mode at the moment anyway. "You have me, always. We will figure all of this out, together. For now, you resting and healing is most important." Del opens her eyes, remembering the bowls that sat next to the low burning coals. "You should eat a little. Your body needs energy to heal. Are you hungry?"
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Nov 5, 2023 22:36:48 GMT -5
Cyran’s apology was scattered and hoarse; just as his thoughts, moments of clarity still few and far in between, the ghosts of visions imparted on him in a dream lingering in the corners of his eyes every time he closed them and the pain still threatened to wrap its icy hand around him and plunge him back into that dark dusk residing in between life and death. But he knew more than anything that it was important he say what was on his mind. That Del knew what was on his mind. It was unfortunate he was not entirely cognizant, nor was he able to say all he wanted to say, wanted her to know.
His throat felt raw as he finished everything. Cyran swallowed while Del pressed a warm kiss on his forehead. Her voice was ever so gentle when she assured him that he did not need to say sorry; as soft as downy feathers and solid as the earth beneath him. Her word laying the bedrock foundation of new oaths, new promises. Cyran closed his eyes, exhaling through his nose. A single action wrought by Cyran’s own hands had nearly undone everything. Del could insist otherwise, but there was no need to call a spade anything other than a spade.
But what use was he if he merely wallowed in his misery? Cried over past mistakes until he choked on his tears? Cyran had survived thus far with the weight of all past regrets thus far, and nothing had changed. He merely had to learn how to hold more on his shoulders - to grin and bear it, and to roll up his sleeves and continue laying the new brick and mortar of a different kind of devotion.
“I want to.” He insisted, voice as firm as he could manage, heedless of whether it ripped his throat and tongue apart.
Del might not have needed his apology, his promise - but just as how she held his heart and a fragment of his soul, she held his sincere respect, his regard, his regrets.
His desire to do better.
While Del spoke, Cyran mustered up the strength to pull himself into a semi-sitting position; muscles screaming and aching in protest to any kind of movement. He could not mask his wince in time. He’d never used that particular spell for such a grim application; it was a bit of a last resort - not so different from the cultists who so worshiped that very god if you thought about it - and he’d never been in a situation as dire as that. As an assassin the goal was to commit to the kill as swiftly and efficiently as possible without harm to his person, the Soul Link being counterintuitive to that goal.
But when needs must. It certainly had during the recent battle, or so he’d convinced himself. Maybe there was another way, maybe if he’d taken the time to stop and think things through, he would have come up with another solution. Maybe, maybe, maybe. He’d just spin himself in circles playing this game, and goddess, Cyran was just tired of the self-blame game. He’d done it, and he was certainly still feeling it, enough that his body was still feeling every inch of the pain accompanied with connecting to a god in its moment of death, enough that even Del’s promises were muffled as if through cotton.
He wheezed out a humorless laugh. It tore at his throat like glass.
“Selfish shouldn’t be something I act as in the middle of a battle when people are depending on me.” He relented, neither confirming nor denying her words. He was… relieved to hear her say as such, especially when he thought the same of her. Del poured every ounce of herself so fiercely in service of others, with almost a ferocity and desperation of someone who was making up for something. More than anything he wanted her to act for herself, to find the life she wanted.
To do that, he knew as deeply as he knew his own name, knew Marlow’s name, that he needed to let the Specter go in order to make that happen.
As he spoke the words into existence, Del said nothing. Cyran supposed he didn’t expect her to. It was a lot to drop on her, and such a sudden change. She had… an inkling that Cyran had never quite been happy with his profession, merely treating it as a necessity for survival. He was good at what he did. He mourned that fact. He’d so wistfully dreamed of a peaceful life. His heart at odds with his hands. He often made the comparison to a sharpened knife from a useless hunk of metal - he’d forced himself to become a killer, but it wasn’t something he would have done on a whim if he didn’t already have a talent for it. It was more accurate to say that he was poison that had merely been purified.
So why hadn’t he stopped? Because he was resigned to his toxicity? There was no way for poison to just stop being poison… unless you found those immune to it.
Cyran didn’t know what he would do in the grand scheme of things. He had the orphanage but it did not make money - rather, his contracts funded his business. Like roses blooming from the ashes of a plague. It would not make money to sustain themselves. But Cyran could… he could find something. He would make do. Maybe he could take some more contracts for the Winged Expeditionary Force.
He could make it work. He would.
All later problems. Right now he was far too injured to stand much less start learning to cope with the mistake he’d made and move forward. But he would not be doing so alone. Del had obliged him this one selfishness, a moment in the eye of the storm. His murder lay behind him and the repercussions of those actions lay ahead. Del had promised it was okay for him to do so. He did not have to shatter to atone for the things he’d done, as if his hurts would make up for the ones he’d inflicted. His soul was not on a weighted scale to be judged.
“Thank you, my love.” And he finally forced himself to relax. For a moment his daggers didn’t feel so heavy.
His stomach gave a violent lurch at the mention of food. “I’m not hungry.” Truth be told he almost felt kind of sick at the prospect of food, but Del brought up a good point. Cyran was likely so sick already from the gnawing nausea, a toll of healing took on him. Cyran was no use to anyone bedridden. He cracked an eye open, inclining his head in a nod, as slight as he could as to not trigger a headache.
“... But I could eat.”
He propped himself up on his elbows, enough that he could eat without much struggle. He cast a sideways glance at Del, trying not to appear as pathetic as he was certain he looked - sweatsoaked, hair matted to his forehead, clammy - his ebony eye a dark beacon in the shadow. “How… how long was I out?”
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Nov 25, 2023 13:27:11 GMT -5
A tumultuous exchange happens within. Her own processing of the situation tangling with being too tired to register it right now, wanting nothing more than to exist in this moment with her beloved fiancee who spoke apologies and promises to not leave her side again. That he would put aside The Specter as a result of the terrible thing he warned her that he had done, which was a significant, solemn declaration she knew came from this pain resonating from Cyran's soul.
So much had happened so quickly. The part of her that wanted to fix, to solve and refine and hone and rebuild was warring actively with her own, more recent need to just... be comforted. To give comfort to the man who made her beside herself with joy that he was alright, and beside herself with grief that he was in so much pain. Perhaps what he had done was 'selfish' when looked at through the lens of their time together, but there was more to the world than their sweet microcosm of love and acceptance.
"And you didn't." Del's brows arch slightly as she looks at Cyran, as if he had spoken to her point. "People did depend on you to do what you did, even if they were not aware of it. Your actions saved people, Cyran." But she knew the reason behind his insistence, the anger directed at himself for scaring her. Again, Del relents, smoothing the dark strands of hair from his clammy forehead, trying to commit to memory every strand that passed beneath the calloused pads of her fingers. Each minute part of him was so terribly precious. There is a firm resolve in his tone, despite his exhaustion, that touches her ears and makes the corners of her eyes sting, and gives Cyran a watery smile. "I know you want to, Salen Qarsice'tho." She whispers. "And I want to accept your words of apology and love because I know you mean them. So I shall."
Her hand lingers there a moment longer, watching him relax a little. "We will figure it out. Together. I promise."
Hearing his reluctant acceptance of food, Del gives him a small smile. "Okay." She slips backwards on her haunches to retrieve the bowls, setting her own to the side and lifting the one for Cyran. Seeing him sitting up to try and eat it himself, Del immediately frowns, delicately laying her fingers on his chest to push him back down to a semi-reclined posture; up enough that he could lean back on the wall, but still lying down. "No moving." she gives him a look that brooks no argument, and settles next to him to feed him herself. The way he had for her aboard the Judeia when she was ill from the terrible hangover.
Funny how some things came full circle.
At the question, Del pauses, trying to recall how much time had passed. It had been from moment to moment from the second the battle started. How many hours had it been? "....Six to eight hours, I think." she says quietly, glancing out the entrance to the door as if the darkness outside could help her tell the time. Perhaps if she could see the moon, but honestly, she did not care. "I lost track after... all of that. It was a while, though."
Long enough to worry her that he would not wake up.
Once he had finished the soup, Del lifted her own to her lips and took a few sips from the bowl, draining it quickly before setting both aside. A tendril of cold had entered the copse, despite the heat from the small fire, and Del found herself frowning again. It was getting colder and he was susceptible to the cold, especially in this condition. He should really be in one position, not moving at all, recovering. However, options were limited...
A little tense bubble of agony pops in her own chest, washing her with a quiet need to be close. With more of the boxes on her list checked off, there was less and less buffer from the very things she herself was staving off in order to see things through. He was okay. He was here and alright and with her, and now they just had to survive this.
It was not ideal, but... perhaps she could be a little selfish, too.
"Here, love. Move with me, a moment."
Gingerly, carefully, she moves her arms around Cyran to help shift him forward a little, before taking the space behind him so he could lean back on her chest or lay his head on her lap. She folds her arms around him, securing him with tender insistence, wanting to hug tighter but refusing the instinct so as not to injure him further. Sheltering him with her warmth and as much love as she could muster. There were so many things she wanted to say, assurances and promises and acknowledging that she had almost lost him today and was scared... but none of those words could find their way to manifesting on her tongue. Instead, a quiet tremor rippled through her body, as she tilted her face to kiss the crown of Cyran's head, sighing heavily into his hair. "I love you."
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 1, 2023 9:28:36 GMT -5
Cyran was beginning to learn all the funny little quirks of what it meant to wed a carpenter. He’d known ever since he met Del she was a woman who poured her love into the world where she went in an effort to leave it better than it had been when she arrived. Not even for praise or money, but because there was something wholly satisfying about making something with your hands and your time and your passion and watching it flourish, even if it meant taking out a part of yourself in the creation.
Cyran felt the broiling indecision; could not let her take out the raw parts of herself to build what was broken this time. She’d fixed his daggers, his home, his heart. It was not up to mend his mistakes, too. Those were Cyran’s to piece together, with the clunky and awkward movements of someone who’d crushed a flower and was trying to straighten the soft, crumpled petals.
All that to say there were no magic words or actions that could fix Cyran, aside from time. And it broke Cyran’s heart to know that no matter how exhausted she was herself she would push herself to try. Cyran brought a hand to her cheek, rubbing circles along the skin, tracing the fine cheekbone. The strong needed to be comforted, too. Sometimes it was the brittle that needed to hold themselves together in their stead. This much, he could do.
He nodded, a small, almost humorless smile on his face - not because it was funny, but because he understood what she was saying.
“Vulcadreus is dead. I am not. Nor are you.”
There had been losses, and ached more than he could express in a semi-lucid state.
He could not stand to live in the loss of it meant forgetting to celebrate that their collective effort’s - everyone’s - had carried the day. They would continue to limp on, side by side. That was worth its weight in gold.
Maybe it would hit him later - the emotional hurts, that was. But after admitting what he had to Del, that in itself felt a leaden weight off his chest. He was retiring, no longer set to be an assassin. And that was okay, and they could still make things work. They had so much more than that. They had the orphanage, and they had the forge, and -
Hm. Well, now, how would this work?
For the first time since waking, Cyran realized it probably was not the smartest thing to stay in Darkveil. You know, blood grudges and all that nonsense.
That was the problem with your only friends being criminals. When you burned bridges, no matter how accidentally, they retaliated with hellfire. His heart sank with the realization. Criminals died around here all the time, and there might be some retaliation, but he would not have to lay low forever - just until the turmoil died down. He wished he could even think of it as an extended vacation… but he could not lie to himself about the grim reality of the situation he’d put them in.
Cyran closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose.
My always.
Well. Not all was lost, that much still remained true.
“I appreciate you. More than I can say.” He had a feeling she knew, the deep wells of gratitude that had been etched in him, with every kind word and gesture and touch of devotion, with every name she called him and every flower she whittled him and every smile she granted him. It was so very impossible for him to think it was real. Sometimes, it still felt as if Cyran were floating in a dream… one he still feared he was waking up from as his consciousness drifted back to sharp pain and the realization that they could not live in a bubble forever.
They’d figure it out. They had to.
“Together.”
Cyran tried to pull himself upwards, a struggle - one that immediately turned into a losing battle the moment Del put a warm hand to his chest and maneuvered him against the wall. Cyran could not hope to match her strength even when he was at full health, and even though her touch was gentle, it was firm, one that left no room for him to protest as she grabbed his bowl and went through the motions of feeding him. Cyran wanted to protest - he was not a child - but there was a part of him, or perhaps the Del part of him, that remembered a night on the Judeia, the very words he’d told her when she was not feeling well. It is never a handful to take care of someone you care about. It is a privilege.
So he let her feed him, the food quelling the nausea and replenishing some of his energy, at the very least. He was troubled by the fact he’d been out for eight hours, just about… though given the extent of his injuries, and the dream he’d had, it felt more like he’d slipped into a coma than slept. He, too, was glad he’d woken up.
He tried not to think once he’d finished eating. Sustenance, at least, had helped bring back some semblance of normalcy. So he had a moment, at least, to watch Del while she ate. The lines etched into her face, the silver in her curls against the stark gold of her eyes. She was tired, but oh, so beautiful.
“Hard to believe you just battled a big fuckoff dragon god hours ago.” He wheezed, a rasp of laughter on his lips. Too tired to even bother censoring himself. “Not when you look like you… just came out of a painting.”
Apparently, too tired to bother with reservations and propriety, too.
He was interrupted from his thoughts by a sudden draft wafting through their campsite. Night must have been setting in. Cyran would have shivered if he could bother with the action. To be honest, a little bit of chill was the least of his worries at the present moment, but ever-practical Del knew that it wouldn’t be ideal for a recovering patient to let hypothermia set in. There was little risk of it here… or there would have been if the volcano was still functional. Who knew what Darkveil’s weather might look like in its absence? Such musings did not necessarily matter in the here and now - what did matter was that Del had begun to maneuver Cyran to hold him in her arms, and shield him from the chill with her natural body warmth.
Oh, Cyran always found solace in that touch.
He closed his eyes, feeling safe enough to do so. Because Del’s arms were safe, the fierceness of her embrace like she was trying to convince herself he was real, and the reservation like she was afraid to crush his bones further. There, too, was so much he wanted to say. But he did not need to, not in the silence of the moment, filled only with the crackling fire and the ambient noise of insects in the Deadwood. She was scared; he knew because he was too. So with as much strength as he could muster, he wrapped his arms around her torso.
“I love you too.” He replied with equal devotion.
He hated to admit it, but the conversation, the food, the heaviness of the emotions exchanged - his body and his mind were both beginning to grow weary once more. It seemed he’d expended his font of energy. Stubbornly, he remained awake - he didn’t want to miss any second of this peace.
Cyran shifted himself so his head rested in the crook of her neck and her shoulder, humming in thought. He wanted to stay awake. Wanted to enjoy his time with her. Wanted to put the sadness aside for just a moment. So he shifted to a lighter topic, one no less heavy, but still welcome. “Have you ever given much thought to what our wedding might be like?”
They’d not had much time to plan, or really even discuss it. There had never been a right time. Cyran was beginning to suspect there never would be a right or perfect time for it. But he was… curious. To know what Del might want. In a perfect world. So at least he could try to give it to her.
That was something to look forward to, in the midst of this storm.
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 28, 2023 6:19:08 GMT -5
Every touch, no matter how minute, Del found herself shamelessly leaning in to, the cool caress of his skin a balm in every conceivable way, soothing her and reminding her that she was wanted, was appreciated, and was very much needed. It helped her feel less helpless, less like she was not doing enough to be the good partner she wanted to be. For as wonderful as her life had become in the months since meeting him, she knew, with certainty, that this man in her arms was all she needed. Her forge, a bed, four walls-- everything else was superfulous. Wonderful, cherished, but secondary to the home that Cyran was for her.
He was right. They were here. They were alive. And they would weather the storm, together.
As she sets aside their bowls, the flirtatious compliment (and accompanying curse! Cyran almost never swore.) catches her off guard. She stutters a surprised, wet little laugh and makes the bowls clatter as she drops them. Blushing profusely, she looks back at her fiance as Cyran earns himself a shy little smile and a darkening of her cheeks. He was always so sincere with his compliments that it never failed to stagger her, but his awe and coy words had her flustered in spite of herself and the circumstances. Covered in dirt and sweat and bruises and ash, and he still found beauty to admire? In her?
Gods, how fortunate was she to have this man still with her.
She touches his forehead with the back of her hand, smiling a little playfully, as much as she can muster. "Such bold words, my love. Are you sure you don't have a fever?" Emitting a quiet chuckle, Del draws Cyran closer, adoring this wonderful man. "If I am a painting, then you are a masterful sculpture come to life." She murmurs back, laying another kiss upon his crown in hopeless fondness.
Feeling him relax fully against her, Del finally feels the tight coil of anxiety in the centre of her chest unwind, little by little. With his arms curling around her in turn, tears of relief and adoration prickle the corners of her eyes as Cyran returns her affections with wholehearted admittance. They were both here, and neither was going anywhere. A painting made of dirt and ash and a roughed up statue of a perfect man, precisely where they both belonged, in a private gallery of their love.
Carefully, she traces the tips of her fingers up and down Cyran's spine as he starts to relax more fully, feeling his lashes against her skin where they flutter shut. There was still so much to do and think on and talk about, but all she wanted in this moment was this, and nothing else. Everything else could wait, for as long as possible. They would deal with the world later.
His question, despite how exhausted he is, draws her out of her own reverie. The wedding? She huffs another quiet laugh, resuming her methodical tracing of his vertebrae. He should be resting, but she cannot force herself to entertain the thought of hushing him, especially not now. Besides that, she could sense Cyran needed this. Something wholesome and solely theirs to think on.
"All the time, though I scarcely know where to begin," she admits, a sheepish note to her voice. "Sometimes when I think on it, it's a large affair with all the children and our friends and family, and we're dancing together in one of those big ballroom type places. Other times, it's just you and I, something small and intimate because goodness those big weddings seem like they would be a lot," Del laughs softly before it fades and she takes a slow breath of the scent in Cyran's hair. "But one thing I always think about, is standing across from you, our hands joined, and looking into your eyes as I tell you how important you are, that you are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and that you, my Cyran, are the love of my life and I want to be with you for all my days, that I choose to support you and our life together no matter the circumstances. And I know that part? I could do anywhere." she smiles into his hair. The whole wedding thing seemed so... vulnerable. Sacred. That was something she trusted very few people with, but wanted more than anything to have Cyran be able to see, without having to wear any facade to accomodate other people.
"What about you? What thought have you given our wedding? Are there matrimonial rituals we should conduct as part of it? Special flowers we need to get?" she asks, moving her hand over his hair now to gently comb her fingers through his locks. "Matching rings to exchange? Circlets?"
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 6, 2024 20:21:33 GMT -5
He only halfheartedly sipped at the stew while Del fed him; unsure how much he could stomach, but his rational brain knowing he needed some energy. It was quick work after Cyran swallowed his pride and reminded himself that she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t care about him. Once she finished she checked his temperature, her touch constant and warm. His eyes fluttered shut, the gentle familiarity of her touch assuring enough that he could almost allow himself to slip back under…
But he refused the call.
“Mm… maybe I do, maybe I don’t.” He wheezed, feeling the remains of food in his throat. It was a difficult task to muster much humor, but Del made it look easy - as effortless as everything she did. “And I love you. They’re not… mutually exclusive.”
His cheeks reddened of their own volition at the returned flattery. He was hardly anything to look at right now, he was sure… covered in blood and gunk and every single injury that had been levied against an entire god. He’d nearly died - perhaps he truly had, and had only woken up again - and he bore every single raised scar and bruise across his body as a sign of his own foolishness. If Cyran was a statue, he was a broken one. Whose defining features had been weathered by time and rain, nonfunctional before its fragile joints began to break apart.
And if he was broken, he supposed Del had already begun to roll up her sleeves and undertake the dirty work of gluing him back together.
“... One hardly worth staring at.” He conceded. “But. Still here.”
Still here, to spend this moment in her arms before the world came crashing down upon them like a tsunami’s wave. There were going to be repercussions, he knew. He’d slain an affluent member of Darkveil’s underbelly, whose network of spies, allies, and information ran far deeper than Cyran had ever understood. He’d received but a glimpse when seeking out Zarius through the noise; enough to impart the understanding that destroying Zarius’s empty vessel, fighting the ancient dragon god, was not the end of things.
It was merely the beginning.
And Del, poor Del who was innocent of any crime save being associated with him, would be made a target. Caedes was not the only threat he had to worry about. There was Eameia, Anselm - oh gods, Zarius’s family would see him to the gallows - one of whom knew Del’s entire past, and knew exactly why the crown might want her. He’d given Eameia his word he would keep Zarius, all of them, safe; Eameia, in turn, vowed to keep Del safe from those who hunted her. A broken promise for a broken promise. It would be so easy for her to tip someone off who knew of her bounty…
He couldn’t let that happen.
They couldn’t stay here. It didn’t have to be forever… he hoped. He was certain. Cyran would never leave the darlings behind so long as he drew breath. But there would have to be a departing, until they could figure out what to do. Perhaps until Cyran could find a way to erase Del’s bounty from history… he wasn’t sure how to go about that (except he did, all it would take was a single deal with the devil to open doors he thought had been closed to him forever). Perhaps then they could settle down.
Perhaps then they could find warmth beyond just survival in one another’s company.
It hurt to smile - it ached, but Cyran couldn’t help the reaction as Del shyly admitted how much thought she’d given to their union. Of daydreams and what-ifs, the end result of all being the same. That they would be bound together, by more than just themselves.
And then she continued…
Cyran’s lips parted, no sound coming out, and he tasted tears on his tongue. His heart felt tight… the opposite of ache but a presence nonetheless, as if she’d reached into his chest and cradled his heart with a gentleness few had shown him before. How could he not want to spend the rest of his life with that?
It took a long time for him to find the willpower to think again after she’d addressed him, and even longer to speak. But he managed.
“... I’ve done. The big wedding, the public ceremony.” A show for the people of Eclipse City, where only the bride and groom had been miserable. “I vowed that day I would never put myself in the same situation if that was how a wedding was meant to feel.” He coughed before leaning into her while she ran her fingers through his hair. “And it’s only fitting that if… anyone could change my mind, could show me a brighter future, it would be you.”
He’d given ample thought to their wedding, too.
“I’d want… the kids there, I think.” He murmured. One child in particular, but that was a far-off dream that he doubted he would ever be able to realize. “Perhaps… somewhere high up. Rent a tower.” So they could dance among the stars once more. So they could fly. “We already have rings and flowers, but…” Here, he turned sheepish, pursing his lips as if he thought the idea too sappy. But they were speaking their mind, and Cyran had already proven himself far too tired to care about propriety. “There’s a new tradition I’ve heard about. We have rings already… but I’ve given thought to tattooing a band on my finger.” He twisted Del’s ring while he spoke. “Rings for our bond, knives for our engagement, and ink for our commitment. It would feel permanent, I think.”
It would feel right.
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Feb 3, 2024 15:56:26 GMT -5
"Not mutually exclusive, no," Del concedes, chuffing gently. To hear such a firm affirmation of his love for her, to have confirmed that, at least, had not changed... it meant more than she could possibly relay. Her eyes close, indulging in this small moment of peace amidst the tumult. Regardless of how the world had been vaulted into chaos, Cyran and his love remained. "And I you, my Rogue."
A moment later, one of her closed eyes cracks open to look down at the crown of Cyran's head when he voices his own opinion about what sort of statue he might be. Whatever had happened in the moments leading up to the giant being emerging from the ground had clearly left their mark. Cyran did not feel like himself... he may not for some time. But she knew he was still Cyran, despite all of that. He could not see her gaze from here, but the expression was all in her voice-- "The only one worth looking at, in my eyes." she murmurs, voice low and husky with exhaustion, but insistent. For Moonlight was always beautiful, no matter the form it took, or how it waxed and waned. She lets her lid fall shut once more over her eye and takes a slow breath in, wincing at the state of her bruised ribs. "Yes. Still here."
Thank any god that was listening for that.
She lets that silence after her words, her thoughts on their impending nuptials lapse between them... feeling him go still, exhausted and reeling from all that had happened and the whiplash of her words. Del says nothing to disrupt his thoughts, only holding this precious man as close as she could, her own eyes closing again as she did nothing but listen to the raspy sounds of his breathing and the quickening of his heart against her ribs. She could feel spots of wet blooming on her shirt, overwhelmed tears that she gently moves to dab from his eyes with the corner of her sleeve. When Cyran again finds his voice, resuming his words, she listens attentively... his wedding from before was clearly more of a performance than an actual rite of love and partnership. It would make sense, to her, if he never wanted to even marry again.
Oh, but he did. And he whispered how the thought of her made him want this. Could envision something that was worthy of him because she was at his side... and what greater gift was there than that?
A smile starts on her face again, thinking of the children they would invite to be there... so many of Cyran's little loves, perhaps their close friends. Should she ask Eameia to be her maid of honour? Astrid would also insist on being present, she figured. A tower did indeed sound lovely, and her vision matches his for a moment; the pair of them twirling at the top of the world, dancing on clouds above it all, the stars wheeling overhead.
When he mentions a new tradition, Del pauses, eyes opening slightly to look down at him. A... tattoo? Her eyes shift to the ring-- her ring-- around his finger, as he shifts it around his knuckle with his thumb. Her eyes widen at the thought, a feeling of tingling blooming in her chest.
Rings and steel and ink.
"Permanent," Del echoes, her words breath soft, a little hoarse. Something that could never be stolen, removed, or lost. Something that would never be damaged by her work or if she had to use her hands to destroy instead of create. It could not be unwritten, but it would be on the surface of her, affixed, as were the many, many scars of her past. One that she had put there, not caused by anyone else.
Proof that no matter what the circumstance, they were together. Forever and Always.
Sniffing, she turns her face again into his crown, to press her lips to the top of his head. "I love that idea, my Moonlight. It would be perfect."
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Feb 9, 2024 16:00:17 GMT -5
Permanent.
A word that had such a loaded meaning to it; easy to throw around by people with long lives such as theirs. It was not one Cyran was afraid of. In his line of work it was the immutable understanding that change could happen on a dime, where the flick of a knife or the summoning of a god could bring everything to a screeching halt. Nothing was ever truly permanent, not even the gods. And yet. Love sustained itself. It was love for one another that made people erect statues and temples for others, that drove people to find rest at their partner’s side at the end of a long life, leaving behind tombstones that served as testaments to their bond. It was love and devotion that served to the memory of ghastly deities, ensuring they would never be forgotten.
And it was love that drove people to forge their bond in metal, to be worn on their fingers from their Union until their death. Love that made them burn ink into their skin and form vows that would never be broken so long as they were both alive to uphold them.
Permanent.
Nothing was permanent, perhaps not even love. But there was still a small optimistic part of Cyran that hoped it was still real, and that he’d found it.
And as Del offered him one more kiss, and the assurance that it would be perfect, Cyran was certain he had.
He pressed his lips together in a thin smile. A small one, but present nonetheless.
“I’m glad the idea appeals to you.” He murmured. His throat still hurt, but with each moment he was awake, he felt… better wasn’t an apt term to describe it, but alive. Cognizant of his hurts, and that they would fade, given time. He did not mind the aches and pains. “I’ve given much thought to what a celebration might look like. How we might symbolize our promise. I know we are far from a typical couple - but I want it to have meaning.”
Permanent - and a choice made of their own volition. Not the will of anyone else.
The smile faded at the thought of the ceremony. He’d given much thought to who might attend, too.
“I do have some… unfortunate news.” Cyran started, unsure how else to broach the subject. How the hell was one even supposed to come out and say such a thing? “Not related to the wedding. Kind of. Sort of a tie-in to the situation we’ve found ourselves in here. I…”
He wrung out his hands, the action a placeholder for speaking his mind.
“I’ve never had many friends in my life. Few that could be called peers at the very least. I think that there’s one person who might be considered my first - Zarius. When I first came to Darkveil, he was kind to me. He helped me get settled out. It wasn’t without its own ulterior motives, I’m sure, but there were… unique circumstances.”
Iryla.
He closed his eyes and remembered their first meeting. The young girl’s distrust, Cyran’s offer of stability or support he couldn’t promise.
“Iryla had picked my pocket and Zarius found the both of us in the midst of a crowd. I offered Iryla dinner, if she needed it - with money I obviously didn’t have. I brought them back to my hotel room, but Zarius brought her new clothes.” That was the kind deed that had stuck out in his mind. A glimpse of real kindness under machinations Cyran didn’t fully understand.
“There’s a reason I try to keep out of politics - why I’ve never wanted to work for another person, let myself be under their thumb. But Zarius… he’s rough around the edges, but he’s good to the people he employs, and he’s good to the people of his city. I’ve always respected that about him, as a friend. I’d hoped to call him my best man at the wedding.”
Gods, he - he hoped the buildup might make things easier, but as he opened his mouth, the words failed him, like a frog caught in the back of his throat.
“But he’s dead.”
And speaking the words into existence made him so utterly exhausted all of a sudden, the willpower sapping out of his bones and leaving him unable to support himself. He practically sagged into Del, eyes remained shut, terrified to see the expression on her face. He could already imagine it. Shock, confusion, and eventually… realization.
“I killed him.”
In the breadth of a second, a choice he could never take back. An action that was decidedly permanent - one that had been born from love, grief at the thought he’d lost a friend, but murder nonetheless.
“The mission we were on. It went wrong - something possessed him, and I was just trying to help, to figure out what it was that had taken over him, and… Del, as I grasped his memories, I felt his soul slip away.” He hiccuped, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. “One second, he was there, and then he was just gone. But that thing was still moving in his husk of a body. So I killed him. What remained of him. I was so certain I was doing the right thing.”
He let out a sardonic laugh, one devoid of any humor.
“Some true monster I must be, to raise a knife against a friend without any hesitation.”
Then, quieter,
“I cannot justify what I did. But it’s important for me to give you an account of the real, honest truth of what I saw, and felt. I was so convinced… regardless, you need to know. Know what I am, so you can know exactly if you still want to marry me, Del. I love you. And I want to be better.”
That was all he could promise.
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Post by Delaela Fenastra-Asiliari on Mar 9, 2024 11:05:19 GMT -5
It hurts to watch his faint smile flicker, fading like abandoned hope. Del could see Cyran was still hanging on to whatever positivity, whatever certainty still existed in his world-- precious, wonderful things to look forward to. But, he was also still daunted by this black pit gnawing at him, haunted. She listens with careful attentiveness as he explains how he met Zarius and Iryla, how much he valued the fellblood. Wanted him to be the best man at the wedding, which Del thought would be wonderful, so why was he so forlorn.
And then, the truth. Zarius was dead, by Cyran's hand.
Ice water hits her veins, stunning her as her fiance fully collapses into her, pools of tears saturating her shirt.
"oh," is all she can say for a moment, choking up. Just when she thought she had cried all the tears she possibly could, more found their way into the wells of her eyes. Her hair, still smelling of ozone, feels chilled and damp, a seeping uncomfortable cold that wisps off her in mist reminiscent of the Marsh Flats. She wraps her arms more securely around Cyran, holding him as tight as she could without injuring him further. What a catastrophic loss that was. Zarius had been a friend, a person they had fought alongside. He had been good to Cyran and his apprentices, looked after the orphanage and patronized her shop. The family that he had treasured so much. Eameia, Snow, Eirynor, Fish, Andromeda and Oriole, everyone at the Rookery, everyone beyond it, would be impacted. Cyran was already bearing all their hurt on top of his own. She can feel his grief as intensely as she feels her own, now, and now that she understands his emotions, the behaviours, all she can do is be his rock so long as he is adrift.
She remains silent as Cyran explains through tears what had happened; the misson that had gone awry, the thing that had possessed Zarius, that Cyran had felt (gods, how horrible) the soul of his friend leave his body. The terrible choice he'd had to make.
And now... this.
"I'm so sorry, my love," she whispers, her own voice cracking around silent sobs. Sparks of fear flicker in her chest; a friend lay dead, and Cyran felt wholly responsible. There was no proof of the possession, of course, but Del knew her fiance wasn't lying-- however, not everyone had the same privilege she did. It also did not change the fact, the impact, of what had happened. Already he was fully taking the blame for this, as if he'd had a choice, as if he murdered his friend in cold blood. And Del knew, without a doubt, so many would see it the same way.
How was she going to keep him safe?
His words sit with her for a little while, and the mist in her hair warms. Not anger or sadness, but determination; a man who was convinced she might not want to marry him after all this. After everything.
That would not stand.
"Cyran, look at me," Del pulls her head back a little so she can do the same. Her eyes blaze with intensity, filtered through her tears as she gingerly turns his face towards her. "You are no monster. You did... a hard thing." her voice cracks again, but she forces it steady, clearing her throat. "The hard thing is not always the cleanest, but it is the kindest. You did not allow whatever was possessing Zarius to sully him further, did not allow it to harm his friends and family. You were a true friend in that moment. I would have done the same as you, if I had been there. Does that make me a monster?" her brows arch as she gazes down at him. So battered and bruised. So torn up, inside and out.
A new wave of grief pulses over her, this time for Cyran.
Her own voice lowers and her expression softens. "My love is not so fragile, Salen Qarsice'tho. I told you I would follow you into hell, and I meant it. You are not a monster. You did right by your friend, and I am proud that you were strong enough to help him in his moment of need by doing him one final kindness. What you did was not monstrous; it was mercy. And I am sorry--" her voice does crack this time, fresh tears spilling over her face, "that you had to do it at all. It wasn't fair that it fell to you to do this, but you did. You were in an unenviable position, and I am s-so sorry, m-my love." Her voice wavers further, into a sob. Del lowers her head to rest against Cyran's forehead, and simply cries.
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