#ailey cethlion | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cathcacen · 6 years ago

Text

Shatter the myth

Ailey shares her thoughts on what death might mean for a Northerner.

Dawn brings with it the fresh, cool breath of a late spring day, the sun a gentle master in the wake of harsh reality. Despite the hour, she’s had about enough of trying to sleep; Sankett’s been gone a month, so her bed feels too empty and too cold. To add to that, a deathly chill has settled overnight upon the house once occupied by the vivacious lifeforce of her brother.

Sleep has become impossible. More than once she’s walked into the kitchen to find Deiadra sitting on the floor by the fire, pale eyes glazed over as the light flickers in and out. Lars sneaks out night after night, occasionally returning only after mid-day with circles beneath her eyes and leaves in her hair. Sometimes, she finds the girl asleep in the guest hall, curled up on the hearth with Mae’s little robin friend roosting by her cheek.

She runs her fingers through her hair, raking down the matted orange curls. There’s a letter from Sankett at her desk, most likely a continuation of stories from his retreat in the Isle of Mists in the Sea of Light. A flash of irritation brings with it an underlying sense of loneliness and jealousy – that he’s away in her time of need further drives in the point that she’s never really been able to depend on him after all.

Two thick sheets of paper fall out of the envelope, loosely tied together and lazily folded – but Sankett’s writing is careful and beautiful as always. A small leaf rustles free of the pages, its blue-green hue unfaded despite its crisp and brittle nature. She sets the leaf aside on the bedside table.

She skims through the words and pages, barely making sense of the sentences. A part of her wonders at the change within herself – just two weeks ago, she’d have given anything to have news of her sometimes-lover and friend.

Now, she just wants her brother back.

She lets out a sigh, then sets to work with her response.

J – glad to hear you’re alive. Treat the villagers well and try not to get tangled up in another dangerous excavation – some truths are better left to the past. You might have heard. We came under attack recently. My brother gave his life to fight them back, and Mae has taken his place.

Her hand stops of its own accord. The words linger in her consciousness. I miss you.

Instead, she signs off with her customary farewell. Then she pats the ink dry, folds up the sheet of paper, and begins to dress

It’s midday by the time she’s done running her errands, but with no pregnant woman to see to at present, the midwife has more than enough time on her hands. She meanders leisurely across the village, and finally finds herself at the hill where her brother is buried alongside so many others she’s loved and lost.

She finds her niece by her brother’s grave, the young woman wearing a frown and a light coat. Lars glances up with a gasp as she lays a hand upon her shoulder, evidently previously lost in thought. “Oh, Aunt Ailey. I didn’t see you.”

She settles down onto the grass beside the other, wincing as the bones in her knees pop. “I thought you had some scouting to do today.”

Lars looks down, her hands tightening about her legs to pull them closer to her chest. “I fell and rolled down a hill earlier. Uncle Lear told me to take the rest of the day off.” A slightly strained, yet sheepish chuckle follows. “I guess I got careless, eh?”

“I’d be careless too if I’d been up all night doing gods know what in the woods.” She tugs her cloak closer, letting out a sigh. “Can’t sleep? Sankett left some sleeping tincture behind; you can take some if you’d like.”

Lars shakes her head, her voice turning glum. “It’s fine. The mages identified some hotspots. Apparently the day it happened, someone opened up a few demon gates. That’s where they came from.” The girl lets out a breath through clenched teeth, brows furrowed. “We just need to make sure they’re all sealed, in case more come through. Just a few more nights should do it.”

“Well, don’t work yourself too hard.” She ruffles the girl’s hair. “You’re the dependable one in the family, so I need you to wheel me to Rei’s when I’m old and sick. And, y’know – dig my grave when I’m dead.”

Lars lets out a laugh at that, half tinged with sadness. She’s silent just then, her bright blue eyes affixed upon the inscription on the newly-mounted headstone.

Taranis Cethlion. Husband, brother, father, and friend. And just below, in smaller script: I go now to see my friends, with the knowledge that others will follow at their leisure.

“Aunt Ailey,” Lars’ voice breaks the silence. “Where do you think we go when we die?”

She studies the girl’s face, and finds in it a sentiment she recognises. That’s right. You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you? The roots of our people run strong after all.

Beyond the hilly peaks to the northwest, and past the boxy grey structure of Bastion’s Keep, she can just make out the sight of Arreat Crater – the remains of their ancestral home and history. The first settlers of Virkove, along with General Naveau had picked this very spot to house the remains of their people for the exact reason – a connection to their past in their new home, a place of hope and the belief that death would bring peace.

“Some would say we’ve been cast out by our gods for failing the charge of our ancestors. When the worldstone was destroyed, your grandfather fell into a state of deep depression.” She lets out a breath. If she closes her eyes, she can still see him – a man in his thirties who had lived to see too much, hunched over by the fire with Taranis by his side, then only a boy who did not understand. She hadn’t understood, then, neither. “That’s not the story you grew up hearing, though. Your parents fought so you and your siblings would never had to suffer the same kind of restlessness. They wanted you to have purpose in life.”

Lars manages a weak smile. “Dad said his purpose was to do good in the world – and to get Uncle Lear back for all the pranks he’s pulled in his lifetime.”

She lets out a laugh at that. “I daresay he’s made good on that. But there you have it. When General Naveau chose Virkove to settle, he did so with the sole intent of giving our people new purpose. And, as cheesy as it sounds, hope. Do you think your father did enough good in his life to warrant a place among our gods, at the end of it all?”

“Yes.” Lars grits her teeth – then her voice hardens, and she looks up, eyes blazing. “Yes. Dad wasn’t perfect, but he did his best.”

“He did.” She looks back to the grave, and can’t help but to chuckle. “It’s funny – his subordinates used to say he’d make the worst father in the world, and yet here we are.”

Lars scowls at that. “They’re wrong.”

She smiles, and wraps an arm around the girl. “They’re wrong.”

#emmbot writes #ailey cethlion #laori cethlion #jamie hayes-sankett #raindrop pendants

1 note · View note

cathcacen · 7 years ago

Text

Lear runs off to die and Rei is #done.

Sort of requested by @phylophe? XD Kinda helpful for canon-fic-writing, too.

The restlessness eats at her, and she doesn’t like it. Lear’s bedroom door is slightly ajar, and if she peers in through the narrow crack, she can just see his empty bed. Perfectly folded upon the undisturbed sheets is his scarf; he’d left his knives, too, the twin blades laid flat over the soft white fabric.

He’s gone.

She rubs at her forehead. Her head hurts; sleep had eluded her all night. She’d given up on finding any rest a couple of hours after midnight, and had ended up in her study. Over the course of the past week, she’d slowly, but steadily made her way through tens of old cases from her father’s records.

Stab wounds to the chest and punctured vital organs.

None of her father’s patients had done what hers had, though – as far as healing went, it was a remarkably dumb move for a patient to unplug a gaping chest wound.

Then again, none of her father’s patients had wanted to take down their opponents this badly.

You did everything you could. Her father had looked over her notes after. And she obviously knew what she was doing. There was nothing else you could have done.

That wasn’t good enough for her, and it sure as hell wasn’t good enough for Lear.

After his friend had died, they’d returned to the state of unease she thought she’d seen the last of. He withdrew deep into himself once again, and with that went whatever hope she thought she’d seen in him before.

As much as she hated to admit it, his coldness towards her hurt like hell.

I guess I should’ve seen this coming.

She nudges open his room door and takes a cautious step inside. The bathroom had been empty when she’d looked in earlier, negating the possibility of his being occupied inside. There’s no note. Nothing.

The heart tries to trick her – maybe he’s just out taking a walk.

The mind knows he’s gone for good – gone to end it all, after all.

She feels her jaw tighten. Fighting back the urge to throw both his knives and scarf into the fire, she turns on her heels and heads back to her own room. She doesn’t touch his belongings.

It’s a good half hour later when she shows up at Taranis’s home down their street. Ailey is out, so it’s Madam Cethlion who lets her in. She knocks at her friend’s bedroom door, and when he deigns to roll out of bed to greet her, she sees he’s still half asleep.

To his credit, he sobers up immediately at the sight of her expression. “What is it?”

She swallows, clenching her fists. “I need your help.”

“Okay.” He disappears into his room and she watches as he throws on a shirt. “Is everything okay at home?”

She shakes her head, not really trusting herself to speak. But she’s about to drag him into her business, and he deserves to know why he’s going to be spending the day riding in circles.

“Lear’s gone.” Somehow, she doesn’t stumble over the words. “I need to check our perimeters.”

Taranis raises a brow at her, but doesn’t question any more. Instead, he hastens, pulling on his boots and throwing a heavy cloak over a leather jerkin.

They don’t speak until they’re well past the gates of Virkove. She’s packed some potions, as well as antidotes for common poisons – after all, she’s not sure what she’ll find, if there’s anything to find at all. At her insistence, Taranis had consented to bring his hounds. She’d given them an unwashed shirt to smell – one of Strahan’s that Lear had borrowed.

“How far are we going?” Taranis glances aside at her.

“I don’t know,” She admits. “If Uncle yells at you for missing training today, tell him I borrowed you for an important errand.”

Taranis thins his lips. There’s more he wants to ask, she knows. All things considered, she thinks she’s holding up pretty well, so she takes his questions. “Do you think we’re going to find him?”

“Probably not.” She nudges her horse forward after the hounds, who have taken to sniffing at the base of a tree. “I’m pretty sure he won’t be coming back, but on the off-chance he was just taking a walk and fell into an icy pit, we’ll be able to find him and make sure he doesn’t die of exposure.”

“So you think he ran off.” Taranis follows after her, and the concern in his voice is palpable. He’s probably heard the rumours – the latest news on the Southerner who’d been chased all the way up North, and who’d killed his pursuer after.

As far as Taranis knows, Lear could be Diablo incarnate.

She’s grateful he’s followed her out here despite all that.

“Yeah.” She swears as the hounds alter their course, and turns her horse around to follow after them. She’d expected this. “It’ll help me sleep at night knowing I did everything I could, too.”

She neglects to tell him that Lear’s likely gone off to die.

“Are you sure that’s all there is to that?” Taranis reaches out to take her arm, halting her. He’s frowning, and she recognises apprehension in his eyes. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

She shrugs a shoulder, then lets out a heavy breath – she’s so damn tired. “It’s too late for that. I’ve already screwed up, so I might as well see it through to the end.”

“Fair enough.” He gives her arm a light squeeze. “Let’s split up. We’ll cover more ground that way.”

“Holler if you find something, then.”

It’s well past noon by the time they finish scouring the terrain surrounding Virkove’s rocky paths. She’d ridden further down, as far as the docks to check for news from the ferrymen; none of them have seen a young man of Lear’s description. Taranis brings news from the surrounding wilderness; it’s no-news, and she’s forced to admit that he’s done a damn fine job covering his tracks.

She tells Taranis to go home; he’s loathe to, at first, clearly worried, but she makes up a story about wanting to find some herbs to replenish her storecupboard at home, and he pretends to believe it.

Before he leaves, he hugs her to his chest and kisses her forehead. “Hey.” His muscle-bound arms are warm, and he squeezes her lightly and affectionately. “It always hurts the first time.”

She smiles tiredly. “So I see. Thanks for your help today.”

When he’s gone, she rides a little ways further out into the wilderness. She finds a ledge facing Southwards, dismounts, and sits.

The tears don’t come. There’s a sourness inside her chest that corresponds with a tight feeling in her throat, and her heart is racing. She clenches her fists and punches down into the snow, leaving knuckle marks.

Screw you, Lear. She grits her teeth, holding back the urge to curse him out aloud. Screw you for dragging me out of Tristram. Screw you for staying. Screw you for making me hope. Screw you for making me love you.

A singular thought pervades the anger. This is how little I mean to you.

She gets to her feet and heads back home. Sleep continues to elude her, but there’s plenty to study and she’s got no more time to waste.

A week later, her father quizzes her over the breakfast table and she answers every single question without pause. He’s evidently surprised by her tenacity, and she has to remind him that she’s been his top student for years before he agrees she’s ready to join the official militia healer ranks.

“Good,” She says. “It’s about damn time.”

Her father exchanges a sidelong glance with Strahan. “You sure about this?”

She downs her cup of bitter coffee, brow furrowed. “Yeah. I’m sure. Put me in the roster.”

#emmbot writes #anarei ilvait-sagen #taranis cethlion #raindrop pendants

0 notes