sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-01-27 10:16:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, rictor cassul, siri d'albis |
she whispers as an aspen tree in her windy, windy way.
Who: Siri d'Albis & Rictor Cassul
What: An unexpected reunion between old friends.
Where: Outside the Grande Cathedral.
When: Jan 16th, shortly after this.
Warnings: None save for Ric's profanity, per usual.
Status: Complete!
He was hard-pressed to rein in his enthusiasm. Rictor would have dropped everything in a heartbeat, dropping all responsibilities to go scurrying out the door and down the hall and towards the Mages Tower looming at the heart of the city, literally running through crowds in the street to make it back to Siri D’Albis’ side. Childhood friends were few and far between, Kerwon practically a distant and fading memory by now; there was Caspar to remind him, there was always Caspar, but that man worried himself under Rictor’s skin like a thorn in his side. Siri, however, was the oldest of friends— But he reined himself in, with all the discipline he’d been taught over the years. Ric appointed her a little quest, hide-and-go-seek as they’d played once upon a time when they were small. And he stood outside the Grande Cathedral, waiting (im)patiently beside the church’s board of announcements, standing for the mere reason that he would have been too restless when seated. He paced up and down the broad avenue in front of the imposing and beautiful church, waiting in its shadow, always waiting. Rictor Cassul — as soon as she read those words, her heart had lodged in her throat and refused to move, beating and struggling to get out. All the emotions trapped in that single knot that she carried to her destination (it was so large, so loud - a Gordian knot that only her childhood friend could release-cut-remove). How long - too long - time had gone and come back and now he was holding it — holding it — — Steady. Much like her slowing steps as she arrived at Grande Cathedral, stopping in her tracks and looking around. Siri breathed in, muttered a few rushed words to Him. Tell me, tell me, tell me. Siri would’ve recognized him anywhere, such was the certainty she had in their friendship, such was the responsibility she had put on Rictor. One of the last things shielding her from falling. Making a bee-line straight for him, everything else blurred to her. Nothing mattered, he was time and so close — if only she could grasp him, then all the pieces would fall together and she would be (as much as someone mad can be) okay. The moment he saw her weaving her way through the crowd like a small light bird, gaze darting left and right in search of him, Rictor felt that surge of relief: she'd made it safe, hadn't gotten lost in Emillion on this fool's errand, he hadn't sent her astray. He saw Siri's eyes light up—she came flying to his side and, without hesitation, the knight lifted her into a bone-crushing hug. “I had this idea it was you,” he said, voice muffled into her hair. “You sounded familiar, on the network, even though I didn't think there was any fucking possible way you could be here.” He finally dropped her after a long moment, then gave Siri a pat on the shoulder, reassuring himself that she was actually present, she was here. That knot of relief twinged, again. (She'd always been the little sister when Seloria was too young; someone to run the woods with him when his actual sisters were either at the training yard or still in swaddling clothes.) “Welcome to Emillion, I guess, although you've already been here for a month, so…” She pressed her face against the crook of his neck, laughing and the knot dissipated from her throat (returning once again to the hole inside her chest where it continues to beat). It was with reluctance that she released him, feet on the ground. “You found me first, now I found you. We’re even.” Siri wouldn’t have been afraid of getting lost when she stepped out to meet with him; Emillion was big and new — Faram wouldn’t lead her astray. Every single step she took, she took it for Him. Rictor was here and it all had to mean something (she didn’t know yet what but it did) and lifting herself on tip toes, her fingers wrapped around the inside of his wrist. Perched like a bird. The pace shifted and her whole self fit in neatly, no longer puzzle pieces jammed together to create a distorted image. “Mostly in the Tower, difficult at times.” Siri isn’t looking at him but out into the crowd, at no one in particular. “Are you happy?” Not ‘how are you’ or ‘are you well’. She’d always tended to approach conversation from an askew angle—and the particular phrasing of this question, more than any other polite formality, made Rictor pause and consider his answer. Was he happy? The knight mulled over his response, a half-dozen different factors all flickering in his pale eyes. Until, finally, a small smile bloomed on his face. “Aye, I am. Very. Emillion’s got its set of troubles, but for the most part things are going well. I work hard with the Silver Blades, my sisters are here, and, uh, things are good.” More than. He gave a tilt of the head, indicating the glowering stone building behind and above them, the Cathedral casting its shadow over this district and both their lives. Then: “Difficult?” Ric repeated. “How’s it been difficult?” A great many things were difficult for her, he knew; Siri could probably take her pick in the answering. The smile she didn’t see but felt, causing her to smile vacantly and slowly turn her eyes on him. “I’m glad.” Siri’s hand rises to rest against the Holy Knight, attention shifting from him to the structure behind them. “We will never leave this shadow. You have to shine inside it. You can do it.” His future beyond her eyes, so great—he could be so great. No, he already is. There so many answers that could be given. (I’m afraid. I’m lost. It is dark. Something is wrong in this place—half truths that she had no proof but nightmares.) “They sent me to a place where people don’t know my face, my name — it doesn’t mean I don’t see what I always do.” Except now she had nothing familiar to grasp for sanity. On her better days, Siri knew it was a downward spiral. She was afraid. “They sent you here?” There was no question of which they Rictor meant: the Mages Guild back in Kerwon, the assortment of stuffy figures all watching and monitoring Siri for the past decade-plus. “Siri, how long are you in Emillion for?” he asked, his forehead creasing with thought. Perhaps their reunion was turning into a friendly interrogation—but Ric always had a propensity towards blunt questions, worrying answers out of people like a hound sinking its teeth into a bone. Interrogations didn’t bother her, and from close friends it didn’t even feel like such. The answers were given freely, more coherent than her usual replies. “I do not know. They sent me here, but there were -” A pause because Siri knew they had left reasons out, “- they said it was because I could learn more here. Do you think that is true? Have you learned more here than being back home? Is it your home still? Or is this now your home?” And now the tables were neatly turned. “Kerwon is still home. Twenty-four years there can’t really change that.” He’d started walking, innately trusting Siri to scurry along in his wake—Ric felt the nagging and restless need to walk, to move, to stay in motion, to expel his usual energy. “But I’m learning much more here, yeah. There’s more people to meet and learn from and shit.” Eloquent as always, Rictor. “The Mages Guild in particular is pretty big, so I think it’d be good for you, if you’re here to learn. Your tower pretty much fucking dominates the entire city. Right in the middle.” Wrapping her digits around the nearest thing she could (Rictor) his gloves, the edge of his shirt - anything to keep a hold on him as she followed him closely. Tactile on her own terms, she clearly was using the physical contact to ground herself. He really was here. She was not seeing this in her head. For someone who saw so much in her head this distinction was particularly crucial. He jerked slightly at the touch, but then settled down. “I’m here to learn.” Siri agreed, though there was not much conviction in her voice. Expanding her magical talents was important, but at times it seemed to come with such ease it was almost reflex. Mind forever ensnared in future(past) — never present. “Grande Cathedral is more beautiful, but I want to hear about your life here, Rictor. You’re happy and I am glad for you. Show me.” Everything. Anything. The familiar lack of eloquence had her mouth twitching, a small smile. How reassuring it was to finally have someone that made sense. Dangerous as it was, Siri felt okay with the rest of the city misunderstanding, as long as Rictor was around. “Well,” he said, walking along like conducting a grand tour, ready to cart her around the Bazaar and his favourite cafes and hole-in-the-walls. “I have a Feldwebel I don’t get along with, but that’s getting better. I guess.” Rictor would never admit his own blame in how rocky that transition had been, a year-long teething exercise. “Good friends in the Blades – I’ll need to introduce you to them at some point. It’s Filip’s birthday soon, actually, so maybe you could come to the party? They’re all good men, all loyal swords of Faram. You’d like ‘em. You should meet our Kaplan, too, he’s a priest. I know a bunch of people in the Fighters Guild and I have a…” beat, “uh, a very good friend in the Mages Guild.” Rictor was a cheerful conversational train, content to bulldoze onward for as long as she’d let him. “Both of my sisters are here. Hadn’t seen Aspel in fucking years before I moved here. And Caspar’s here too, of course.” There was a hint of irritation, a hint of inevitability: he’s here, of course he’s here. The world would have it no other way. The brief pause caused a unbidden smile, she wanted to tease him and rib him about finding a better friend than her in the Mages Guild. She swore her mouth had asked the question, but didn’t actually do so. The moment passed, she drifted. Siri settled in comfortably, both mind and body following his unconsciously; pleasantly ensnared by him — she didn’t want to pull out of that familiarity, that certainty of being. Rictor was not made of smoke and fog and nightmares, but warm, solid comfort. The mention of Caspar, however, jolted Siri out of her reverie. “Cas is - here?” Of course he was here, and mind raced ahead making conclusions and linking in pieces. Of course. They were tied, the two of them - Rictor and Caspar, locked in a rivalry that would potentially outlive them. Passed down to their children and then again, generation to generation until — Siri jerked, using the physical movement to cause enough pull to bring her mind with it. “It will be good to see him too.” Her fingers are squeezing his arm lightly, Don’t mind him. Don’t fight. It’ll be fine. Rictor's mouth curved into what looked like a smile, but wasn't entirely. An uncharitable little thought surfaced, bobbing like a barrel in the current: thank Faram that Caspar hadn't seen her first. If the sentinel had beaten Ric to the punch and been the first to welcome their oldest friend to this city, it would have been an unbeatable point for the other man, a milestone stolen. “Maybe we should all go out for drinks sometime,” he said, barking an incredulous laugh. (A joke, of course: they would rather self-combust first, annihilating themselves at the table. On the few occasions when the stars aligned and the men co-existed peacefully, Siri was the bridge in the middle, holding both hands and smoothing down tempers.) “How about you?” Rictor asked, abruptly see-sawing the topic. “How are you doing? I’m fucking glad you’re here. It’s been—” A pause. “Well, it’s good to see faces from back home.” “I’m staying here.” Siri declared, fingers tightening and seeking all the ways in which she could make sure to stay. The guild had sent her here, her parents didn’t require her at home - there was no need for her to be anywhere but here. The only one who held such power now was Faram Himself. Move her or keep her here. Physically, emotionally — Siri would do what she could to remain with Rictor. “It will be like old times. Won’t it.” A statement, not a question. “Good,” he said, his own arm locking around hers, their steps falling into sync as they kept walking. “It will.” Time was past and past was gone but history repeated itself. Different variations of the same tune. Just like old times. |