Ghosts That We Knew [RoV Aftermath][Private]
Mar 17, 2024 10:52:20 GMT -5
Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Mar 17, 2024 10:52:20 GMT -5
“Oh.”
The hardest thing to say sometimes was the truth; a bitter pill, a knife in the dark. Cyran thought his heart had shattered into pieces in the telling of the truth as it was… and yet, such a soft sound, the gentle porcelain breaking of a heart, his soul felt ready to sink into the deep of the not-quite-dead earth where it should have gone when he plunged his dagger into his heart.
The sound of disappointment not yet fallen to grief.
Yet, he knew - given what he’d done, and the burden of what he now carried, would be the first of many conversations such as this. And none so kind or understanding as Del.
The penance for murder is not death in turn, he reminded himself. It is to live, and remember.
Such was his burden, to share the memory with those who asked. And he had. Since his first stumbling contract in the forests of Moonglade, a line of foreign faces stretched out over the span of years, each one twisted in fear… scorched in his mind so that, no matter how privately, they still lived with someone. And at the very end of the line, now rested Zarius. Ironically, returned to obscurity within a myriad of souls after all Cyran’s attempts to free him from the last one.
“I am the one who is sorry.” He lifted a hand to rest on her cheek, only hesitating in the air for a fraction of a second. Like he still couldn’t believe she was wholly real, but rather, the bliss of a dream-conjured vision sent to tell him what he wanted to hear. Yet, he swallowed his fear and confronted the edge of that hard truth, resting the palm of his hand against her warm skin. Real. “I know you were friends with him too, however tangential… and Eameia-”
His voice finally broke, withering away like the last stalks of a dying plant claimed by winter’s frost.
“I am s-so fucking sorry.” He repeated.
It was unclear exactly who he was talking to.
“The hard choice is not always the right one.” Cyran admitted, remembering the betrayal as Caedes looked upon him and saw the man who’d taken away all that he loved. And yet, perhaps frustratingly, Del was right. If she were in the same position, Cyran would never deign to call her a monster. Yet, he felt if she ever found herself in the same situation, she’d look at the two paths in front of her, find herself dissatisfied in the grim answer, and forge one herself, because that was what she always did.
To Cyran, such roads had been obscured in the dark, where only the reflection in the silver of his knife led the way.
“... I cannot say I did him right. Only that I did what I thought was the right thing. Whether that is what I ought to have done remains to be seen. And for all the truth-discerning magic I possess, I am no soothsayer. I don’t know what will happen from here. But I-”
And her stuttering apology finally sent Cyran over the edge, his words giving away to a quiet sniffle. And another. She rested her forehead upon his, and Cyran could not stop the cold tears that he shed, silent and choked with memory of the ghost that they left behind, and the ghosts that lie ahead. It would not be easy, but he hoped, at least, this one would be right.
He wasn’t sure how long they cradled each other in that position, unfettered grief flowing between them. All they could do was cry, until there were no tears left to shed and all that remained was the sorrow in their bones and the small spark of hope that tomorrow, they would be able to start rebuilding.
The hardest thing to say sometimes was the truth; a bitter pill, a knife in the dark. Cyran thought his heart had shattered into pieces in the telling of the truth as it was… and yet, such a soft sound, the gentle porcelain breaking of a heart, his soul felt ready to sink into the deep of the not-quite-dead earth where it should have gone when he plunged his dagger into his heart.
The sound of disappointment not yet fallen to grief.
Yet, he knew - given what he’d done, and the burden of what he now carried, would be the first of many conversations such as this. And none so kind or understanding as Del.
The penance for murder is not death in turn, he reminded himself. It is to live, and remember.
Such was his burden, to share the memory with those who asked. And he had. Since his first stumbling contract in the forests of Moonglade, a line of foreign faces stretched out over the span of years, each one twisted in fear… scorched in his mind so that, no matter how privately, they still lived with someone. And at the very end of the line, now rested Zarius. Ironically, returned to obscurity within a myriad of souls after all Cyran’s attempts to free him from the last one.
“I am the one who is sorry.” He lifted a hand to rest on her cheek, only hesitating in the air for a fraction of a second. Like he still couldn’t believe she was wholly real, but rather, the bliss of a dream-conjured vision sent to tell him what he wanted to hear. Yet, he swallowed his fear and confronted the edge of that hard truth, resting the palm of his hand against her warm skin. Real. “I know you were friends with him too, however tangential… and Eameia-”
His voice finally broke, withering away like the last stalks of a dying plant claimed by winter’s frost.
“I am s-so fucking sorry.” He repeated.
It was unclear exactly who he was talking to.
“The hard choice is not always the right one.” Cyran admitted, remembering the betrayal as Caedes looked upon him and saw the man who’d taken away all that he loved. And yet, perhaps frustratingly, Del was right. If she were in the same position, Cyran would never deign to call her a monster. Yet, he felt if she ever found herself in the same situation, she’d look at the two paths in front of her, find herself dissatisfied in the grim answer, and forge one herself, because that was what she always did.
To Cyran, such roads had been obscured in the dark, where only the reflection in the silver of his knife led the way.
“... I cannot say I did him right. Only that I did what I thought was the right thing. Whether that is what I ought to have done remains to be seen. And for all the truth-discerning magic I possess, I am no soothsayer. I don’t know what will happen from here. But I-”
And her stuttering apology finally sent Cyran over the edge, his words giving away to a quiet sniffle. And another. She rested her forehead upon his, and Cyran could not stop the cold tears that he shed, silent and choked with memory of the ghost that they left behind, and the ghosts that lie ahead. It would not be easy, but he hoped, at least, this one would be right.
He wasn’t sure how long they cradled each other in that position, unfettered grief flowing between them. All they could do was cry, until there were no tears left to shed and all that remained was the sorrow in their bones and the small spark of hope that tomorrow, they would be able to start rebuilding.