sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-03-29 21:37:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, aspel cassul, rictor cassul |
so much for reason when, cold and unfeeling, it brings every trial to your door.
Who: Aspel Cassul & Rictor Cassul
What: The last few months, as the siblings rebuild their relationship and expose certain vulnerabilities.
Where: Throughout Emillion.
When: Late November through mid-February.
Rating: Profanity and feels.
Status: Complete!
There were a great number of emotions he’d expected to feel upon learning that his older sister was sick and possibly dying—concern, worry, and fraternal love, perhaps. But chief among them, unexpectedly, Rictor was angry. His signing up for the mission had followed shortly afterward, a kneejerk response before he even had the time to parse the idea or properly sort through those emotions. All of that fizzled out once he saw her, however, Aspel lying slumped dim and diminished in Mag’s bed. Rictor lingered in the doorway, brow furrowed. He’d already delivered an armful of groceries to the untouched, pristine kitchen, and Mag had politely excused herself to let this family reunion play out however it might. He was tempted to give Aspel a tongue-lashing for not informing them about her illness—did you think we just wouldn’t notice—but instead Rictor pulled up a chair and sagged into it, seating himself beside his sister. “Morning,” he said. Everything was cold, and miserable, and quite frankly, Aspel just wished it’d be over with at this point. If it was the illness being removed, or her dying, it’d be better than laying about miserably while being given pitiful and worried filled looks every few hours. When Rictor arrived, the smith had curled herself up in a set of blankets, and had been attempting to sleep, but it didn’t always come, or when it did, it often was in bits as she’d end up waking in fits of coughing, or trouble breathing. The voice was a bit foggy, and eyes dragged open, a weak smile offered. “Good morning.” A pause of consideration was given, her brain still working at speed of molasses running uphill. “For what do I owe such visit?” “Just checking in.” Concern, he might have said, but didn’t. “Considering you’re obviously not easily reachable through the network anymore, it seems I’m reduced to in-person visits. How are you feeling?” "My apologies." Were of course the first words out of her mouth, even if they were a bit weaker in strength and volume than she really desired them to be. Faram, was she sorry for so much too. Sorry for what she'd done to their family, sorry for how she'd damaged the bridges with Rictor while growing up, sorry for how she had taken so long to get to where they were now, sorry for how she wouldn't get a chance to attempt to make things right with him, sorry for how if he knew of her past how he would likely to react... The apologies could continue on forever, and for half of them he would never be any the wiser as to what they were for, she prayed. A weak smile was offered regardless of herself. "As well as one can be, and yourself?" “Well as I can be,” he echoed. A pause, then: “I’m going on the mission. Too many people are lying sick and dying from this.” Rictor’s hands were knitted together over his knees, the knuckles white, his jaw wired shut. He sounded like a man who had come to a decision by way of a rolling boulder settling into place, heavy as rocks, decisive. “Are you?” Her voice cracked, and Aspel had to swallow hard to help fend off the terrible cough that was sure to soon come. She’d allow a pause to hang in the air for a moment. “It will likely be dangerous.” Not that she thought it was a particularly strong deterrent, Cassuls put their lives at risk in all sorts of ways. But really, what else could she say...? “Aye. Probably.” Ric waved off the intimation of risk as he always did; the idea of facing down monsters was much easier than facing his bedridden sister, to tell it true. He splayed his hands, indicating sheer inevitability. “I know what I’m getting into, Aspel. I just wanted to...” Seloria’s concerned too, he thought, but finally shook it off. What else was there to be done? Nothing. By Rictor’s standards, he could do nothing here in Mag’s apartment—he could, however, accomplish some good out in the mountains, side-by-side with others questing for the curative plant. So he stood, and patted her hand awkwardly, noting that the scarred fingertips felt like a fighter’s. “You’re going to be all right. We’ll make it all right. And if I play a role in this, you’ll owe me a fucking drink or twenty when I get back.” Aspel’s eyes fell away, closing, another swallow down a scratchy throat was made in attempts to keep herself steady - whole to some degree - before him. Rictor needed not to see her at her worst. He had more important things to do, more important people to see. “Of course.” He was a Cassul man, of course he knew what he was doing, of course he could handle it, of course he… Rictor… It still nearly wrenched her heart from her chest to know that she couldn’t help, to protect her little brother from the horrible things in the world. Aspel always knew someday she wouldn’t be able to anymore, but never knew how much it would hurt. Then came the feeling of his hand on hers, and eyes opened. This time the next words were assured, stern even to some degree. “If you are to do this, act not for me, but for the city, for our community, and for our name.” Really, her life was miniscule, irrelevant in the end. “Do this for the betterment of the whole, not me.” Her words sank in, and for a moment, they sent an echo rippling through the years: the shade of Lord Eriks Cassul reared its head and spoke in that stern voice, rattling off the instructions that drummed in Rictor’s skull. Serve your liege lord in valour and faith, protect the weak and defenseless, fight for the welfare of all. Persevere to the end in any enterprise begun. Keep faith. Keep faith. Rictor straightened, standing at attention. Yes, sir, came easily to his lips, but he bit it back, shaving off the syllables. “Yes,” he said instead. “I will.” While she’d ventured off to midnight mass with Vivi and Mag, there had been murmurs she’d caught about Rictor’s attendance as well. A Silver Blade, of course, would be revered within these hallowed walls. It was a point of pride, yet also stung her heart within the same instance. Her brother - which she felt like she still barely knew - lauded amongst commoners and nobles alike - within the holy city. The reminder of what her family valued, of what her goals and aspirations should have included would always accompany Rictor, and Seloria alike when they were together. She loved them dearly, but the distance, the time, and the clear continuation of their familial traditions was like a stab in the heart each and every time they spoke. If they even ventured outside of the norms some, it would make things so much easier, but instead, she remained the black sheep, the one who would always stand out, and never fully be accepted. The sight of Rictor was caught from the corner of her eye, and a hesitation followed. Perhaps, she would be best suited to leave him, and his fellow Blades alone to saunter, and soak in the glory and praise that they often might not obtain. Though, somehow she couldn’t help herself. Aspel never had been that strong. And before she knew it, the smith had landed herself next to her brother, a soft smile upon her face as a hand rose up to pat against his shoulder. “I pray your eve is bountiful, Sir Cassul.” He turned to see who had addressed him (her voice still wasn’t entirely familiar, especially with that address, especially inside the buzz of conversation in this packed room). The man looked bright and chipper and awake, despite the late hour and the fact that he’d be back here again in the morning, paying for piety with hours of patience. “Sir Cassul?” Rictor remarked dryly, raising an eyebrow at his sister. “Could say the very same to you: I wish you long days and pleasant nights, Sir Cassul.” It was a joke – he’d tried to joke about it, for once – but it still drove a sharp little spike into his chest, the words feeling strange and unfamiliar on his tongue. That title was his, ought to be his, should never have been hers. But still, it was Mass, and if there was ever a time for letting bygones be bygones, particularly considering last month’s events, this was it. His comrades milled behind him, the Silver Blades vigilant and faithful as always (though Balder was clutching a large thermos of coffee as if it were a hi-potion). “Do you come every year?” he asked politely. He hadn’t been in Emillion last year—and the year before, they’d been barely speaking at all. Perhaps they had indeed come a ways, though it didn’t always seem it. “Please do not call me that.” The words were quick, perhaps a bit too fast, and they’d easily portray her instant discomfort with the thought, and her smile strained at best. While Aspel was a knight, enjoyed the abilities, and class, the idea of being called Sir Cassul had never felt completely right. Perhaps, it had to do with how a Knight should uphold far more honor than she did, or perhaps… No, it was better not to dwell on for too long. “I do.” The new thread of conversation was desperately grasped. Really, anything that got them away from the uncomfortable talk of titles would be more than welcomed at this point. “Shall I assume the same of you?” A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I wish. Would if I could, but occasionally duties call me away. I was out of town last time, on mission with the Blades.” As if they’d sensed themselves being mentioned, the aforementioned Blades drifted away, sliding down the aisles to take their seats and leaving their Korporal behind, to fend this particular battle alone. “But even when we’re on the road, we do our best to observe,” Ric said. “Ah.” Was initially all Aspel could offer in response, a slight bow of her head given with the single word. “I am certain Faram will forgive as you take special hedence to accomplishing missions of his importance all year long.” Another gentle smile rose, seeming to feel at least a bit comfortable with this conversation. “How would one go about observing such holiday whilst outside the city walls?” The question was an honest curiosity into her brother’s life, and while she could take many an educated guess - and did observe while traveling in the past - it was always interesting to learn how the other side lived. And this was an easier conversation to have, safely enclosed within the walls of the Grande Cathedral as they were: Rictor could practically feel Faram waiting around them, a patient and abiding presence, sheltering him from flares of ungracious temper. “It helps, having a priest with us on the road. Father Luscini would always lead the prayers for us, and we would recite sacraments and catechisms by whatever—” He suddenly stopped mid-sentence, revising whatever choice of words he’d been about to use. It wasn’t appropriate. Not here. “By whatever place we’ve stopped for the night,” Ric eventually said. “There are old Kiltian ruins sometimes. Not necessarily active churches, but still holy places.” An eyebrow quirked at the sudden stop to his sentence, but a pleasant - yet light - smile would remain regardless of her internal quandary for his sudden redirection of sorts. "Yes, of course. I would imagine it would make many aspects of one's journey much easier in the end if it were for holidays or forgiveness of the tasks one must complete upon the road." What those tasks were, she wasn't about to voice within such hallowed walls, but being fighters they would both understand such trial and tribulation. Murder was a burden upon the soul which simply came with the profession. “I rest assured in the tasks I must complete on the road.” Rictor gave the assurance like a holy man reciting some familiar rite, or a soldier repeating what he’d been told. He stood straight, standing at attention before the woman who was older sister and predecessor and rival and councillor alike, and trying to smile. It was a relief to hear that Rictor did not shoulder the burden within his heart, that she did in hers. He shouldn’t have to. He did Faram’s work, not the work of a dirty scoundrel as she had once been. Rictor had direction, he had goals, and the grace of god upon his side. Hopefully, things would always remain that way. “I am glad.” Her smile was sincere, her voice soft, and filled with a gentle happiness for him. Though, a nagging doubt ate away at her insides, but for now, for tonight she would let it go. Though, a glance would be given - an attempt to speculate where Vivi and Mag had gone, and if they were preparing to leave. Surely soon, they should all be headed home. He watched where Aspel’s glance went, following her gaze as it flitted away to check on our friends. “I should leave you to it,” he said, cracking open that metaphorical gate, allowing a doorway through which they could back to their respective circles and lives. “Early morning tomorrow.” A formal bow or handshake was too stiff for even these two, but a hug far too familiar, and so Rictor simply settled for a respectful nod of the head, a half-salute (fingers tipped to his temples) and then he was gone, drifting back into the crowd and seeking out Balder and Filip just as she sought Vivi and Mag. She was reluctant to see him go, yet parting ways for them was inevitable. The thought left a heavy feeling in her gut, and the urge to latch on to her brother, to hug him close and tight, if even for an instance surged up within her. However, that was just as quickly squashed - with much disappointment welling inside of the smith - as Rictor nodded, and all Aspel could manage was a soft smile and a nod back. “And a good eve to you.” The urge to touch would be repressed. That was no longer her place. The time between Faram’s Mass and the Valendian new year was always a strange one, he’d found; Valendia lay dead and quiet, the streets wreathed in cold and snow, many storefronts closed as shopkeepers took their vacations and disappeared for the week. It was called Faramtide in some circles, but mostly Rictor considered it a colossal waste of time: the world seemed to lay dead and muffled, the days and hours bleeding hopelessly together. The Blades wouldn’t have new duties until the new year had passed. So for now: they relaxed, and they drank, and he’d seized the opportunity to go out with Aspel while they still had some spare time (slowly chipping away at that wall between them, brick by brick). “Cheers,” he said, as matching sets of frothing tankards were deposited in front of them. The rest of the pub was more empty than usual; most people were at home with their families. Strangely appropriate, then, that he could largely only face this particular member of his family when armed with alcohol. It tended to help erase the lines between them, shrinking their decade apart, cracking through their respective stilted reservations, until he was able to treat her (almost) like a friend. “Cheers, indeed.” Came the easy reply - even if everything inside of her felt strained - as the smith had become quite skilled at lying over decades. Fingers pulled at the base of one of the tankards, sliding the mug back towards her with a sort of practiced ease that came with nights of drinking. “Have you enjoyed your time off?” The question seemed appropriate. With the holidays abounding at this time, it led to quieter things which could be beneficial… Assuming one’s head wasn’t filled with the mess Aspel constantly found herself tangling with as of late. He snorted. “Aye, I have, though it also gets boring as shit sometimes.” Rictor’s fingers nudged at his own tankard, sliding it restlessly back and forth in a sheen of condensation on the table, unable to keep still. “Though—guessing you wouldn’t really have that, since I assume you’re kept busy with council business?” It was a hesitant attempt to reach out, a jab in the dark. “Yes.” To answer his question was easy. When it came to speaking of matters of their respective jobs, it always seemed those things would forever be a safe topic to discuss. “Between the matters of safety, the public’s concerns, and the internal workings of the guild, if my days are not filled with meetings, paperwork, and complaints, I surely know that something foul is afoot.” The smile offered was tired, worn down to some degree. Aspel had applied, and taken up this position more due to need of the guild, need of the city than for personal fame, fortune - though it did pay quite well - or desire. “If you would like, I am certain I could send some squire or another to scamper about underneath your feet if you so wished to fill your days with more mischief than not.” The tease was present, and safe it would seem. With fingers firmly wrapped around the mug it was lifted, and a drink taken. It was curious how many non-important topics one could always find to talk of if needed on any day. It was like a perpetual shield carried between them, an intact wall rarely breached. He shook his head. on the verge of saying something about Storm Kapur, perhaps another joke—harmless topics and subjects, nothing to ever dig beneath the surface. “I already have a squire,” he said. And a moment later, the man took a deep breath, a deep drink, and then asked: “When were you ever gonna tell us, Aspel?” The conversation had carried on pleasantly enough at this point, and thus far Aspel had no reason to think it wouldn't continue as such. Though the sudden change in Rictor's demeanor, earned pause from the smith. Was there possibly a problem? Her own glass raised, an uneasiness setting into her bones as he seemed to shift, to prep, and... Then that question and Aspel's brows furrowed, confusion reflecting across her face. "Pardon?" She may have a clue regarding what he spoke, but at the same time... Why now? Perhaps there was no such thing as a good time to bring it up—it would simply have to be the luck of the draw, Rictor trying his chances at the first opportunity, the closest thing to an open window he could see. Still, he felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. “When were you thinking of telling us that you were sick,” he repeated. “Before or after foisting the Armoury onto me?” Aspel’s jaw locked shut for a moment, not sure what to say or how to continue. Her feelings were still turbulent regarding the entire mess, and the smith still spent more time than not wondering why Faram had allowed her to live, but killed the mothers and fathers of innocent children. Had she not committed enough sins to surely take their places? Then came…. No. Best not to think of that here. A smile finally emerged. “I think perhaps our mugs have become quite dry, do you not?” A glance was cast out, attempting to flag down a waitress or bartender of some sort. “Drink up, and I shall assure us proper refills.” The man’s eyes closed briefly, a flicker of irritation working its way across his face before he smoothed it away. Her deflection was inexpertly done, blunt and direct beyond measure— but that was the Cassul way, was it not? “Another round it is, then,” he said roughly. But even so, there was a slight, palpable relief that Aspel had chosen to let it drop; these conversations weren’t his specialty, talking through these bouts of uncomfortable emotion. Instead, they could drown this conversation in their cups, smothering this topic in Kerwonian ale rather than approach it. That was easier. The last several hours had been spent wandering the streets aimlessly. There had been a parade earlier, confetti littered the streets, and random odds and ends still clung to posts and poles. The flyers stuck about had still remained, certainly, the streets would be cleared by the following day. Aspel had never fully taken to the Valendian new year, but she had an odd haunting relation with it. The day would come, Aspel would quietly wander the streets, and then before the day was complete she’d retreat back to her home, taking up as much time and solitude as she could muster. Today, she expected, should be no different. Though, as eyes shifted glossing over various carts, booths, and toys that had littered about, her thoughts had run rapid, delving between topics rapidly, far faster than she could really keep up with, but not really sticking with any given idea more than a few seconds before it had once more fluttered off, and away. At least she could gain reprieve for a few moments, that was until the next concept struck not even a second later. Unfortunately, with an absent turn, her thoughts would not be the only thing striking as she bumped up against another standing nearby. “Ah,” A hand rose, gently being placed against the body she’d encountered. “My apologies.” The words rapidly slipped out, low, and sincerely apologetic before her eyes rose to see precisely who she’d happened into. Oh. “Fancy running into you here.” Her brother’s face was flushed with the cold: his cheeks reddened and his beard growing in as he tended to do over the winter, to help stay warm. Rictor grinned. “Weird time to go daydreaming. It’s cold as a fucking Wendice’s balls out here.” “Quite queer, I assure.” The look across Rictor’s face had an odd sort of calming presence. How or why, she couldn’t be entirely sure, but it was what it was in such times. “I would not be familiar with the temperature of that particular piece of anatomy.” A soft - and slightly playful - smile arose. “Yet, I take you must have experience if it is your preferred reference, no?” The unexpected joke made him do a double take, practically bowling Rictor over; he choked on whatever response he’d been considering, instead spluttering out an unplanned laugh. “That snowstorm in Sagittarius,” he said. “Got way too close to that aforementioned anatomy than I’d have preferred.” A pause, a cock of the head. “It was with Chiaro, actually.” A low, amused scoff was the best she could muster in response to the somewhat seriousness of his reply. Though, it was a curious matter in the end as Aspel thought back to what precisely she’d been involved in then. “Ah, an amusing twist of fate from Faram himself I must theorize.” A hand raised, gesturing idly for no real reason other than a form of elaboration upon the words she spoke. “For that particular foray, I found myself assisted by Almalexia.” His eyebrows rose in surprise and for a moment, Rictor trawled back through his memory, trying to recall what he might have mentioned about Lex. He normally didn’t bring up the mage, instead warily skirting the issue and the nature of their relationship. They’d tried to keep it under wraps— But then again. “Huh,” Ric said. “Funny how that worked out, then. I saw her after the battle but she never mentioned it.” Eyebrows knit, how... Odd. "I happened to venture into Ari after as well, and nor did she mention you." Though, Ari had seemed far more concerned with Aspel's broken armor, and bloodied body than anything else. "A queer thing they are, no?" And then the realization struck... Had she really just unintentionally opened up the door to talk about women problems with her brother? .... Faram save them both. “A bit,” he acknowledged. “Though Chiaro and I get along well enough.” It was an unusual turn of events, the contemplative mood seeming to sink into both of them. Glancing around at the near-empty streets around them, Rictor coughed and cleared his throat. “Happy new year, I suppose, though we’re not Valendian.” “Always beneficial.” What else was she to say? It was good that her brother got along well with one of her lovers at least. The other one, well… That was best left off the table at this point. “Happy new year to you as well.” A beat fell between them. “Perhaps we ought to get some of these Ordalians and Valendians we know together sometime for a proper Kerwonian celebration, no?” And there were a number of holidays for which they could, and which Aspel would love to celebrate with her brother if she were honest. Now only if he would take the extended olive branch and say yes… The offer took Rictor aback for a moment, surprise lighting up in his eyes before delight took its place. “I never saw you at Bierfest,” he said. “So it sounds we’ve got some time to make up for.” (That and more: thirteen years’ worth, at last count.) “The dinner at The Duckling over Faram’s Mass was fun. So that would be good. I’d— I’d like that.” The words were stilted and difficult and hesitant, wrung out like squeezing blood from a stone, but there they were: another attempt at bridging this gap between them, a glad welcoming of Aspel’s offer rather than the whiplash irritation she’d always received from him as a child, petulant and obstinate. Today, instead, he grinned back at her. “We could show ‘em how it’s done.” The being taken aback caused a mild panic to began bubbling up in her stomach, and started to surge through her chest - causing it to tighten - before dissipating at his delight. A sudden rush of relief seeping into her every fiber of being, and - perhaps - just a little, tiny bit of hope. “Indeed, it would appear that we do.” She’d gone drinking with Mag, and even ventured into some others around then but… Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately for that time, she hadn’t run into either of her siblings regardless of how much she’d wished to share that time with them. To connect through their shared heritage and roots. However, his next words, how the Faram’s Mass dinner was fun, that he’d enjoyed himself gave her another drop of hope. For the first time in a long time, she felt her heart warm, and had to wonder if - maybe, just maybe - perhaps their relationship could truly mend. “But of course. Someone must keep all these supposed drinkers in line.” “Amateurs all. We were practically weaned on mead since childhood, after all.” But then that brought Rictor’s memory skittering back to the last time he and Aspel had been out together—the words exchanged, the conversation suffocated before it could truly get anywhere, trying to dig some answers out of his older sister and failing miserably. Subjects she seemed to be avoiding with the stubbornness common to them both. The holy knight’s smile flickered and froze, but then after a second, he managed to wrestle himself back into some state of order. “Where were you headed, anyway?” “Indeed.” A soft smile, fondness clear in it when she spoke. Perhaps they could arrange something in the near future? Even if there weren’t any holidays, something to share their history with friends and lovers alike wouldn’t hurt. Besides, after Rictor’s confession over drinks months ago regarding Lex, perhaps she could even persuade him to bring his little… Friend along as well. “No location specifically in mind, merely appreciating the culture as presented today. Yourself?” “On my way back to the Cathedral to meet my superior. But I have a couple hours before I’m expected.” His voice trailed off, gaze slipping to the clocktower visible at the edge of the square. The man seemed to be juggling some sort of internal dilemma, balancing his available time against the sight of his older sister in front of him, against the knowledge of their relationship and what it was like now—but it was an ever-shifting and evolving beast, was it not? It was slowly but surely inching its way back towards something tolerable, if not intimate: comfortable, if not confessional. “Wanna grab lunch or something, if we can find any open vendors?” Rictor finally asked. A solemn nod was offered, duty would always come first. It was in their history, in their blood. Admittedly, perhaps Aspel was more willing to shuck off the toils of such than Rictor, but on the other hand, perhaps it was simply the nature of the beast that they were each willing to face that was different, not the fact that they were willing to dance toe to toe with death and destiny itself. The offer came as a surprise, but a pleasant one that she could hardly deny. “I would adore so.” A pause. “If you did not have preference, I believe I saw something or another Kerwonian a ways back over that direction.” A hand absently gestured towards where she had come from. If Rictor was willing to offer his time to her, Aspel would quite happily - and greedily - take it. She’d been in this city longer, and thus had more time to sniff out its lesser-known hole-in-the-wall restaurants. The ones found in by-ways and alleyways not on the list of recommendations bandied about for visiting nobles. So at the mention of Kerwonian cuisine, Rictor predictably perked up like a hound scenting food. “Sounds great,” he said, and this time there was no hesitation, no trepidation, just one wide grin exchanged between siblings. With Aspel leading the way, off they went to seize what was left of the afternoon—and the day and the new year, wherever it would take them, for better or worse. He hadn’t seen Aspel for a while, but they had gotten better at setting aside time for each other, rather than letting the weeks and months trickle by as they’d done when Rictor first moved to Emillion. Instead, they made a point of meeting for lunches, drinks, and nodding to one another in the guildhall rather than the holy knight skulking away—and today, they’d decided Ric would meet Aspel for a walk after her council duties wrapped for the day. Waiting by the exit, Rictor watched her exchange a few words with the quartermaster, a flock of squires, and their trainer. And he found himself slipping back into the old habits of analytical attention, piecing together the scene with the eye of a strategist: he could see that she moved and spoke with casual authority, like he did around the Silver Blades. Ric straightened as his sister approached. “Ready for that riverside walk? Unless it’s too cold for you, of course.” He was bundled up safe and warm, leaning against the wall and shooting her an expression that was distinctly cocky and playful. Squires needed leading, a firm guiding hand to assure they understood that actions had repercussions - along with repercussions appropriate for the offense level (though sometimes she might be a little hard) -, and that they too would have to find a truth to live by, but at the same time, they also needed caring. A firm, yet caring nature was always best, and she’d seemed to earn a level of respect, and appreciation from the Squire’s she’d interacted with thus far. Or… At the very least, they all liked baked goods. With all issues resolved for the day, it seemed a simple matter to continue on to their walk, and Rictor’s comment earned a soft laugh, a smile easily crossing her face. “I lived in Kerwon longer than you, cold is hardly a matter of concern. Unless your comment is an attempt to get away from our date.” Hilariously, it was true. Aspel had not left until she was the age Rictor was now roughly, and he’d been about Emillion for nearing three years if her memory served correct, but regardless, there was plenty of amusement in her voice. A nod of her head would indicate the direction of their walk, her breath showing in the cold winter air. “Ready if you are.” “Aye.” Ric fell into step beside her, his hands tucked behind his back. Neither of them were the types to sit idly by; the outdoors exercise was refreshing, the cold air bracing and reminiscent of home. Rictor preferred to keep moving no matter how atrocious the weather, keeping his blood pumping. But the image of Aspel at the head of a rabble of squires wouldn’t leave him. Thoughtfully: “You don’t have a squire at the moment, do you? Have you ever had one?” “I have not.” The response was easy, though there seemed to be a touch of dismay within it. The idea of assisting the molding a young squire’s mind had always been appealing. There was so much that Aspel could easily warn one away from with her questionable choices, and experience within this life but… Could she really act as a role model? A beacon of good for them to aspire to, and chase after the idea of? It was unlikely, impossible really. Why she bothered thinking about it at all.. “You have one, do you not?” It was better to think of someone else’s life than her own. “I do. Storm Kapur. Ordalian nobleman’s son. I like him, even if he doesn’t wanna go into knighthood.” He barked a rueful laugh, shaking his head. Rictor Cassul’s picture of the world was occasionally structured to the point of comfort: the idea of his squire not wanting to follow his exact steps was disappointing, though he’d finally come to terms with it. “He wants to be a dragoon instead.” “Ah.” A soft smile formed at the mention of the Kapur boy. He wa an eager sort from what she could remember of him, and those types always housed great promise. Regardless of his title, of his wealth, or any other factor, she’d be happy to see him prosper and grow. Certainly, giving all squires that support would assist them in becoming the contributing members of society the the guild, nay, the world would need. Though... “A Dragoon?” The slight surprise, and curiosity present in her tone would be impossible to miss as a low thoughtful hum vibrated in her throat. A Dragoon with a Holy Knight was far from an ideal match, really. Faram, how were they going to get these kids the proper training they deserved? Perhaps she ought to advise Rictor to work with Ma-.... No. The thought - while she knew it would be fantastic in theory - would never work in practice. Mag still used her Dragoon skills but… She’d put so much distance between herself, and all those years before that it may just… Be painful to consider all around. “Do you have someone who he may train upon Dragoon skills with?” It would be an important thing to know. Perhaps she could ask Kiernan or Bram if they had a bit of time to spare… “Not really. Maybe I could ask Kiernan or Mag.” Evidently Rictor’s thoughts were circling around the same route, shared as their friends now were. “But it’ll work out. It’s not like I expect him to go into the Silver Blades anyway—he’s not Pharist—so I’ll get Storm some time with a guild dragoon, have him try out the techniques, see if they’re really as good a fit as he thinks. He still wants to be a holy knight, so I’ve still some things to teach him. Besides, who the fuck even knows what they want when they’re a squire?” The older Cassuls had known. Both of them. So it was a dry joke, self-deprecating, self-aware. “I was a piece of shit when I was that age, me and Caspar both.” Aspel had missed all of those years; there had been letters, advice and wisdom scribbled in fine-wrought handwriting that the young boy largely ignored, crumpled up, sometimes even tossed into the fire. Rictor winced slightly now, remembering it, though he said nothing. “Wise choices.” Though the thought of mentioning how it may be best to only refer to Kiernan flickered across her mind. However, perhaps it would be best if she left that decision specifically to Mag at the same time. The other woman had been a terribly skilled Dragoon and it was quite the pity to watch such skills almost… Go to waste as time marched on. Though, with the rest of his rant, she debated remaining quiet, almost feeling like an unwelcome stranger in a strange land. However, it would seem out of place if she did not talk… “Ah, it is a difficult time in one’s life. There is much to be uncertain of, and yet more - with hope - to cling to. The possibilities of the future seems endless in such years, no?” It was better to approach things like this with a touch of wisdom, yet vague. The topics were easier to steer away from uncomfortable territory she’d quickly learned, which seemed to be a tactic that Aspel would master before long if Rictor chose to stick around. “Yet you both have grown into respectable members of society, it is something for which to be proud.” And maybe, just maybe, her own pride for him creeped into her voice. At least one of them hadn’t lost their way along the journey from being children to women and men. Once upon a time, Rictor Adelard Cassul might have bristled at receiving such hints of praise from his older sister—shying away from her assessment, spurning her judgment, shrugging off whatever compliments she could give. But the past three years had dragged on, and things had changed. “Thanks,” he said, hands folding into his pockets as they walked. The corner of Ric’s mouth twitched as he remembered something else, one thought leading to another: “And hey. Did you know Siri’s in town now? All members of the respectable trio are now accounted for.” “The truth does not require thanks.” And instantly she regretted the words. “But you are of course welcome.” A weak finish, but at least it was one, regardless of herself. Maybe some day Aspel would learn how to interact with her siblings, maybe someday they could be… close. Closer at least. And maybe someday, she’d stop coming up with these ridiculous ideas and dreams, and simply live in the reality of the world. Though, the sudden new bout of information caused a sudden jerking of her out of her insecurities. “I…” Aspel’s gaze rose, looking over at Rictor completely puzzled. “Pardon?” A beat. “Siri? Here?” The last she’d seen the girl Siri had been not much bigger than… “When did she arrive?” “She said she arrived a bit over a month ago. I’d missed out on the fact—no announcement or anything, no contact from her, I accidentally came across her on the networks.” There was no bitterness to his words, however; if there was anyone who was exempt from normal social mores, it was Siri d’Albis. “The Reinberg guild sent her here, to continue her education. I’m pleased as fuck, obviously. Means Caspar and I can keep an eye on her.” From what he could recall from those vague, hazy memories, Aspel had always been protective as well; she’d kept an eye on the two children as they played in the wood, small feet running headlong through the forest loam, leaping over fallen logs despite Selene’s entreaties to stay close, don’t roam, don’t stray from the path. Siri had always been more comfortable at Cassul Keep rather than with her own parents. "I see." Was all Aspel could muster up to offer, a definite pensiveness overcoming her at this new information presented. It was an interesting twist to the story of their lives, though honestly, it was far from one that she had expected. Who would have thought that one of the furthest points from Cassul Keep in Ivalice would apparently now have become the home to - only Faram knew - how many of those she had watched, or heard of, as children? Aspel almost feared if it kept up she may lose track of the number before long. A pause of silence swept over her as brows knitted, and finally once more, Aspel spoke. “Education...? I fear I have not kept up well in this regard.” And the truth was, when Siri turned twelve was in the same year that Aspel had left the Keep. Ah, how the times had changed. It took Ric a moment to connect the dots, but once he did, he simply nodded. “Aye. Magic. She went into the mages guild, eventually.” Eventually: that word comprised so very much. “She’s a black mage now, if my memory serves.” Rictor opening up about his old friendships was another concession, another outreach to his sister: each topic like this was another brick in the newfound bridge spanning between them, finally nosing up alongside more important subjects. They were both trading olive branches by this point. So the siblings kept walking and talking, probing their way around the rough patches and vulnerable spots, and feeling out this new ground each tentative step of the way. “While upon this particular mission, the group I had been paired with was a rather rag-tag lot.” A hand waved idly to one side, amusement clear across her face. “It was so long ago, I can barely recall what we had been set to fetch for this particular merchant. I distinctly recall it being a material of some sort, perhaps a hide or something to create silk.” Her glass of mead was brought up, a sip taken quickly, as a finger rose, indicating him to hold on just a second, and that the story was far from over. “Roughly a week in, we had run across the beast twice, the creature was terribly fast, not landed a single shot upon it, and one of my….” Her smile turned a bit devilish. “More questionable comrades upon that excursion, a young woman, likely no older than nineteen,” Aspel honestly hadn’t known her age, “had decided she had had quite enough of this creatures shenanigans.” A nod of her head was given, an upward turned palm waving off to the side as if to commiserate with the poor girl in her story. “Her plan then, while the others prepped for the day, was to take my shotgun, because clearly, a set of bow and arrows, and a gun could not be so different that a person who could use one could not use the other.” Another sip of the honey wine was taken. Rictor leaned in, elbows propped against the table as he listened in rapt attention. “She was as lacking in her ability to aptly lift equipment, as she was common sense, and I found her shortly after attempting to snatch it and sneak off as I had prepped one morning before we were going to move. This, of course, resulted in an altercation where she blamed the lack of success of the mission to date on my inability to aim, and use my weapon properly.” A smirk rose. “Of course, I implored her to please try her hand with my gun, if she would but allow me to make a few minor adjustments to it to allow a first time user a better handle upon it.” A nod was given, Aspel’s head bobbing for a moment, a look of mixed amusement, and pity rising. “She denied the offer, stating I was merely attempting to make excuses, we went out upon the hunt once more, and the first shot fired the gun reared back so hard that she knocked herself out in the most grandiose spectacle of gun use I have ever seen.” Aspel put her glass down, raising up and aiming a pretend gun before jerking the “butt” of it back, and right into her own face from a fake shot fired. “The poor girl had a perfect imprint of the shotgun’s butt across her face for three days to follow.” With that Aspel finally laughed. “When we caught the blasted beast, the merchant pulled me aside, asking what trouble the girl must have given me.” Another laugh as she fetched up her glass again, swishing around the liquid in it. She’d need another bottle soon. Ric was laughing along with her, now leaning back as the story concluded. He could perfectly picture the ricochet of the shotgun (how long had it taken him to adjust to the kick of a gunblade? the sprained wrists, the blossoming bruises digging into his shoulder as the weapon laid its mark). He could see the horrified and abashed shame of such a cocky scheme backfiring so fully and completely; he had, after all, been on the receiving end of similar karma himself. “Fucking arrogant is what it was,” Ric chuckled. “By all means, criticise someone else’s performance if you like… but assuming she could do better? When she wasn’t even a gunner? I go to the range with Zacheus or Cressida every so often, but wouldn’t assume that’d make me an archer. The weapons aren’t the shitting same at all.” The knight shook his head, hand curling around his beer, a grin curling on his face. “You must have a lot of field stories.” Aspel had been regaling him with some of them tonight, and he’d traded back with some of his own—but three years with the Silver Blades still didn’t stack against his sister’s amassed experience, her longer time on the road. “I have my fair share.” Aspel mused easily. “Many a year on the road will do that to one.” Not to mention the missions she’d started taking up once in Emillion to assure the success of The Armory. “Unfortunately, they are not all quite so amusing.” Along with the comment came a soft smile, another sip of hear mead taken without thought. “I warn you to be wary of putting Mag, and I within the same room when stories of this nature come about.” A light chuckle followed. “We had quite the time on the road before ending up where we are now.” They both had had their own wild sides, back then. Faram, really, they both still had it now. “I love her stories,” Rictor said. It was an easy, comfortable admission. Meeting his sister’s best friend had been a cautious affair at first, the both of them circling each other like wary predators sizing each other up—but then they’d clicked, two puzzle pieces on either side of Aspel that fitted nicely together. Their dynamic was stripped of the baggage of this one, free and simple instead. And at that thought, his mind seemed to freeze, palms prickling as the question loomed on his tongue once more. He hated to ask it. They had a good thing going at last, finally. The last time he’d tried to bring this up had been months ago, and been fully shot down. But he had to ask it. Rictor was never one to shy away from a battle, and so he finally took a deep breath. It would be abrupt, there would be no segue, but there was no other way to do this. “And quite some time ahead of you yet,” the man said. “You keeping the Armoury?” It was… Oddly refreshing, and also comforting, to hear that Rictor seemed to get along so smoothly with her best friend of many years. Perhaps, that would work - or had been working - to her favor more as time went by. Another sip of her mead would be taken, a hand signaling for another bottle to be brought over absently when the question was suddenly spit out. It took the smith a moment, confusion flickering across her face that turned into a sort of thoughtful curiosity. “I had planned such. Is there rumor otherwise?” What a strange question to ask. “You gave impression otherwise,” Ric said dryly. “Seems there was a time you were set on my inheriting it for some Faram-forsaken reason, even though I know shit-all about forges.” In another light, he might have found it funny—the thought of the templar running a business he barely knew, fumbling his way through , turning out horrible warped swords—but those particular circumstances hadn’t been amusing at all. The confusion still lingered for a moment more, that was - of course - until he went on a bit. That finally cemented precisely what he had been referencing, and the realization even dawned upon her face. Which, Aspel swiftly brought up her drink, finishing the last bit from her glass, much to her dismay before setting it aside. “Ah, I suspect that shall be an issue that will not” The wording that came to mind seemed the poorest choice of her life. “bother you more.” A glance was cast back, hoping to find her bottle of mead well upon its way. Unfortunately, Aspel would be disappointed once more. So her brother seized the opportunity and ploughed on, a grim and stubborn soldier wading into this troublesome conversation. “Yeah, I guess not,” Rictor said. He strove to keep his tone light as always (never broach serious subjects with Aspel, never—) but he failed, and it grew tight instead. “Since you don’t have the plague anymore. Guess we’d only have found out when we buried you, right? Send your remains back to Kerwon, read your will, find out I’ve suddenly got a forge to take care of, but no older sister?” Aspel’s jaw shifted, tightening a bit, and fingers that had retrieved the glass, playing with it absently placed it back upon the table gently. Her gaze finally rising when he had finished his gruff accusations of a sort. However, the smith would remain unruffled regardless of it. “Rictor,” A pause, letting a beat fall between them. “When have you ever taken care of me before?” The line was delivered smoothly, cooly even to some degree, a statement of fact with no harsh connotations behind it, but a challenge of sorts obvious at the same time, even if it was not one intentionally made to provoke negativity. An eyebrow quirked at him, and fingers stroked absently at the glass that she’d stopped toying with just seconds before. “It was not as if you had bothered to inquire regarding my well being for... a decade? Two? I had assumed you would rather not be burdened by my…” The sentence fell off for a moment, consideration given for the words. “troubles.” A pause, something a bit pained sliding into the next words. “and I was not about to inconvenience you with such, but thought you may have use for the various items that could be found within my shop’s walls.” Her words still held no anger, no venom or spite. Aspel’s tone merely remained as if she were walking through a coolly removed analysis of the facts of the situation, as if - perhaps - she’d even done this before. “Not saying I’d need to take care of you, just—having you around, period.” (And that was a change, wasn’t it, from what they’d had before.) “So it’s that business-like, is it? You had some useful items and accessories and thought that might be nice for me to have? That’s great. A nice trade-off for the… burden, as you put it.” If there was one thing Rictor was absolutely terrible at when it came to family, it was cool analysis. Whatever instinct which had him sizing up a battlefield and assessing its variables as Feldwebel Shaw had taught him, seemed to crumble when it came to his social life: the man struggled to remain calm and level, trying not to let his voice ratchet up in volume or passion, trying not to leap right out of his chair with that nervous energy. He gripped his own glass as if it were a weapon, or perhaps an anchor. “You were gone for over a decade,” he added, “but you’re not anymore.” It stung a bit, as if another accusation had fallen at her feet. “I did not want to be a burden.” Really, it was as simple as that to her, as easy the words she’d just spoke. “I have tried to never be one upon you, or Seloria.” And that was hard, especially with how things had been. Yet… Aspel could feel herself breaking down a bit. “Perhaps, I would not have left to begin with if things had been different.” She tried to keep the pain away from her words, tried to remain cooly collected, reserved, but failed as hints began to show in her tone, and the dropping away of eyes. The vagueness setting in an old defense mechanism, but one she was still attempting to work around, to struggle through for the man sitting before her. For Rictor. For her brother. A thought flickered through her head at his last words, and her mouth opened, as if to speak, to give the idea life, but then, with a pause, her mouth would close again. There was no need for that here. If things had been different. Rictor balanced that thought, but there was no use mulling over for it for too long: Eriks and Selene Cassul were the way they were, and everything had happened as it did. There was no way for them to go back, retread their ground, and rewrite history. (If there was, he would have done things somewhat differently.) But certain realisations had come hard-won during the plague: they may have their differences, and might always have their differences, but they were still family. “I’m pretty sure the point of us is that if we are a burden to each other, we carry it anyway,” he said. “Venienti occurrite morbo.” Meet the misfortune as it comes. Another Cassul saying, one that had been drummed into the three siblings practically since birth. “Ah.” The word was low, soft. She had no rebuttal, no other thoughts that would be appropriate to voice. Though, if he were going to…. The pause lingered, Aspel’s eyes playing over where her hands had come to rest against the table. “Do not feel beholden to me, Rictor.” A slight pause. “I never would wish it upon you.” “Beholden? What d’you mean?” Now hadn’t she gotten herself into a sticky situation? Brows furrowed, attempting to find the right words, to figure out the proper way to approach this but… There seemed no good way for the life of her. “Simply because we share the same blood, it does not mean we need converse. It does not mean you must feel indebted to making our relationship work.” With each word, Aspel could feel her heart break. “I will give everything of me for you both, but you need not feel the same towards me.” And that was it. It was out. She’d always been the one pushing, the one writing long letters to her squire brother, the one issuing invitations to lunch, setting that ball rolling again while he reeled. For one of the few times in his life, Rictor stopped. He stared at his sister across the table, her weathered hands rolling the glass between her palms, the eyes that couldn’t quite meet his own (and their pale shade matched his perfectly, the shared blood written in their faces and even etched in the way they moved, both carrying themselves with a fighter’s swagger: him by the keep’s quartermaster, her by Uncle Verrick). “It’s not…” He faltered. “Aspel, I’m not fucking beholden or indebted to anything. If I didn’t want to see you, I wouldn’t see you. I’d hole myself up in the Cathedral and with the Blades, I’d go on another six-month excursion, I’d say no to lunch.” A weary, dry smile. “I’m not afraid of saying no to things.” (Truly, it was the opposite: Rictor was afraid of saying yes, of following this new road, of the new relationships he was forging in this city.) “If I ask you out for food or drinks or go to visit you in the damned clinic, it’s because I want to.” It would take what felt like an eternity - it was not - before words finally formed in her head once more through the frantic surge of emotion. “Then I suspect that is that.” He wanted to see her, wanted to have lunch, to go for a walk, to have a drink, wanted to partake in her life - perhaps not to the same extent - just as she wished to be a part of his. Faram, she felt like she was about to cry. Clearing her throat, Aspel’s gaze finally rose. “I do believe our drinks have run dry, no?” A strained smile, weak, but honest in its fragility. “One would think the wait staff would know better.” The attempt at a joke was given, if it succeeded or not, well, that would be another tale to tell. He barked a low laugh, fingers finally loosening around his tankard. That was another similarity between them, Rictor realised. He’d never noticed it before, but there it was, emerging like a sight glimpsed behind clouds: the tendency to crack jokes when unnerved, latching at forced humour to fend off unease. It was a habit he recognised immediately, because it was like looking in on himself. “They probably saw the stormclouds, decided it was smartest to steer clear.” But Rictor’s answering smile was just as frail and warm as hers, flickering in and out. They’d been fully absorbed in their almost-quarrel but relaxed slightly now, the tension winnowing out of their muscles. “Ah, it appears Faram himself has blessed them with a greater wisdom than you or I.” The soft smile remained as she poked fun at them both with a sort of practiced ease. Really, at this point in their talk, what else was there to do? This time, her gaze rose, seeking out a member of the waitstaff in attempts to flag them down, more assured of her decision than the insecure looking of before. “Perhaps we ought to order a few rounds to be delivered in case they choose to take flight from our conversations again, no?” With that, the smile offered to him this time was a bit stronger. If they could make it through a serious conversation without severe repercussions, if they could come out on the other side having both spoken their piece and no one was walking out the door, it was progress. In fact, that they were able to continue speaking, to continue sharing each others company after such a talk it was perhaps the best place they’d been in - together - in the entirety of their adult lives. It was a new normal, a laying-down of weapons between the siblings. They slowly inched back towards the way the conversation had been before Rictor sundered it, dragging them both into murky, aching waters. But the tenor of the scene was indescribably different now, the ground shifting beneath their feet. It was a slight lessening in the tension and anxieties that they’d each carried for thirteen years, a small weight shed from their shoulders. Something had loosened in Rictor’s chest, as if a clenched fist had let go of his heart, his lungs, as if he could finally breathe properly for the first time in a decade. They looked at each other across the table, and that gaping chasm was, perhaps, not so wide after all. |