sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-01-17 22:51:00 |
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It had been an incredibly long week of supervising security at the Grande Cathedral, watching the patients flocking into the makeshift infirmary, and accompanying Amos on his rounds (the kaplan looked more tired and wan by the day, practically wasting away as he laboured and strove). Rictor himself patrolled, trying to fill the empty spaces vacated by his Feldwebel, his squire, and his sister. Drowning himself in his work and duties, even his one lone cell at the cathedral was turned over to house more sick. Because he had the privilege of a second home in the city to go to: Seloria’s new apartment. The hour was late, approaching midnight on the tail end of an exhausting day. The district was quiet—people in Emillion were barricading themselves away, holing up against the plague—but one lone figure was returning, his footsteps almost stumbling on the cobblestones from tiredness. Their mission to the mountains was leaving this weekend. He needed to be rested for it. Only Faram knew what they would encounter in those caves. But tonight there was the sound of a click in the lock, a key twisting, and the door quietly opening as Rictor slipped in, conscientiously scraping off his boots on the mat before shucking them entirely. He moved carefully in all the delicate finery of this apartment, desperate not to break anything in the darkness or wake his little sister. It wouldn’t have been heard at first, but there was music playing deep within the house. The door had only been slightly opened, the light pooling into the darkness. It was festive music from their homeland. Even now, she glided across the notes, her feet stepped in memorized time as if she’d been born dancing to the song itself. She’d been at it for hours now, body covered in a light sheen of sweat. Her last student had left the studio and there was nothing to keep her distracted, nothing but the music. She couldn’t bring herself to go visit Aspel, not after she’d heard. She couldn’t bring herself to go visit her before either. But what if she died and Seloria hadn’t even gone to her home? Not once. She would rectify that once she was cured. That she promised herself, because she would be cured, because Rictor was going to fix everything. She realized it was a ridiculous and very childish thought, but it was also very comforting. Turning the music off, she also turned out the light and went out into the hall, where she turned on another light only to see her brother skulking about and… nearly jumped out of her slippers. “Rictor!” He jolted guiltily as if he were an honest-to-Faram intruder tiptoeing about in her home, or perhaps a child caught out-of-bounds after bedtime. Sheepish, Rictor drew back from the light and scrubbed at his face, letting his eyesight adjust to the abrupt illumination. “Sorry,” he said, glancing back to the dark room behind Seloria. “Thought I heard music. I was trying to creep around until then, figured you’d probably be asleep. What are you still doing up?” She could ask him the same question, honestly, but she knew. He, like her, was plagued with worry. Working had been their outlet of choice. She danced and he patrolled the streets at night. “Trying to work through a bit of choreography.” The dance had set steps, but the girls were deficient in some areas and there were only eight instead of the usual numbers. “I have to adjust a few things before the gala,” she explained. “Have you eaten?” Even before she answered, her hands were upon his arm and she was guiding him back toward the kitchen. While she wasn’t a cook, she could easily fix him a plate of things left over from dinner. “A little, but…” Rictor let himself be led, one small hand nudging him along down the hall and through the winding turns of his sister’s apartment. At the mention of food, his stomach let out an embarrassing rumble and he looked down as if his body had personally betrayed him. Seloria made a face and tipped her head to look down at Rictor’s stomach. “A little.” It came out as more of a scoff than a phrase. It was hard to think ahead to the Faram’s Mass gala, and the idea that life might simply crawl back to normal within a couple weeks. But it had to resume. That was the whole point of this impending mission. Consumed with worry, Rictor was having difficulty sleeping even before giving up his room; the only thing that helped was the company of a particular mage, her presence like a tonic. Led into the kitchen, the knight slumped into the nearest seat. “Have you been to see Aspel?” he asked suddenly, hands folded against his forehead, almost as if in prayer. Having reached the kitchen, she placed a plate on the counter and began to go through the cabinets for food. She purposely picked things that wouldn’t need to be cooked like bread and cheese and a few bits of meat. They were room temperature, but still good. That was followed up by her actually going into the icebox and grabbing a pitcher of milk. She poured him a nice cool glass. All the while, as she worked, she was avoiding answering his question as if the task had taken up all of her attention. When she set the plate before him and the glass beside it, she turned to grab a napkin before finally answering. “Haven’t had the time.” It sounded callous, but it wasn’t her intention. Rictor let her sidestep the issue, waiting and concealing a yawn behind his hand while Seloria bustled around the kitchen. When the plate clinked on the table in front of him, he set about devouring a sandwich; it was his own form of buying time to mull and gather his thoughts. After clearing his throat with a drink of ice-cold milk, he looked up at his sister. “Is that the truth?” he asked, bluntly. Even if Rictor weren’t the type to charge straight for the truth like this, Seloria was one of few people he felt he had such extra license with. For if he couldn’t harangue his little sister, then who else? When he asked if it were the truth, she had to re-evaluate her answer. She couldn’t just boldly lie to his face. She’d believed she’d been busy. “I could have made time,” she finally answered. It was not something she wanted to say, but it was the truth. She could have made time if she wanted to, but all sorts of excuses came to mind whenever she tried. What if Aspel got angry that she was there and exposed to the sickness? What if Aspel was resting and she’d wasted a visit? What if Aspel turned her away because she was sick? What if she didn’t want to see Aspel sick and dying? Would she want her sister to believe the only reason she came willingly was because she was on her deathbed? “Finding the right time is not as easy as it should be.” “Yeah, it can be difficult.” Rictor scratched at his jaw. The encroaching stubble stood as evidence of neglect, of things slipping between the cracks, spots he’d missed. “I might have an unfair advantage in that regard, anyway. Both being knights and all, I get to see her around the guildhall.” After all these years, he was annoyed to find that there was still a slight crack in his voice at the mention of their shared class. But Rictor shook it off, still watching his sister muster her thoughts and emotions together. Seloria was good at it, he had to admit. Much better than he’d ever been. After a pause, he nudged the plate away. “You should make the time, Lori. Just in…” He faltered. “Well, if my mission doesn’t go right.” He didn’t want to mention that Aspel had already tried to pre-emptively pawn the Armory onto him. That would make it worse, wouldn’t it? The crack did not go unnoticed by Seloria. It bothered her as well, but the woman had made her decision to the point of leaving them. The younger Cassul had accepted the fact that it was just how it was going to be a long time ago when she watched Aspel’s back disappear through the keep’s gate from where she stood in the window. She hadn’t even tried to say goodbye. He was trying to convince her to see Aspel on her deathbed. It was admirable and understood, but she could not. “You will succeed,” she said stubbornly, not accepting that he would let her down. Not when family, even if Aspel’s choices had not been accepted. “I will see her when she has recovered.” Whether he wanted to continue or not, the tone of her voice was clear. She was not going to argue. And Rictor knew the sound of Seloria having made up his mind. But she’d said when, not if. Rictor’s mouth twitched. “Well, I appreciate your faith in me. May Faram provide a safe resolution to the problem.” It was an easy and instinctive hope to offer, a knee-jerk reach for comfort. He scrubbed at his face again, trying to wring the exhaustion out of his bones. Finally, reluctantly: “I should probably sleep,” he said. “Get some rest before the mission.” At Seloria’s nod, he rose and started doing the brief washing-up himself (the friars had taught him a few things, humility notwithstanding). The soapy water trickled its way down the drain, the minutes ticked on, and the Cassuls retired at last to their respective rooms and worries, doors clicking shut behind them. |