MAN, it's been one hell of a week. Hasn't it? Have a short one.
[doc]
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“I didn’t think you could disappoint me any more than you already do.”
The statement, punctuated by the familiar sound of his father’s teeth grinding against one another, carved a hole into reality that sucked all of the air out of the room.
Cylion said nothing, a tinnitus-like ringing the only thing he heard outside of the rush of the blood in his ears.
A gust of wind that made his face wings twitch irritably in its wake thankfully forced him to redirect his attention to the present.
Nothing about that evening was a welcome memory.
If he didn’t know any better, he might have guessed that everything that happened that night stabbed out of the kitchen at that moment and planted itself into the recesses of his mind to be rediscovered perigees later. It was all a blur from the second the words fell from his father’s lips, the memories only growing more distant in the days that forced time between him and his ultimate blunder.
Even so long after, he couldn’t will the image to his mind at all. It was only when he wished to be thinking about anything else at all, while strolling through the cloyingly chummy inner territory that belonged to the Restorer, did the memory force itself to the forefront of his mind. Maybe there was some symbolism there.
He definitely didn’t want to consider that. Instead, Cylion skirted the edges of the vegetable garden that the doll — Marrie — spent much of her time in, trying in vain to shake the memory away.
The garden was vacant at least, with only the sproutlings of spring produce in their infancy to keep him company.
“My SPROUT!” He thundered, advancing on Cylion to dig a claw into his shirt and lift him off of his feet.
Cylion didn’t move, he didn’t even wince when the fabric of his shirt stood little chance against the manhandling and a clean slice was carved into his flesh just under the collarbone. An angry paper cut that slowly painted his defunct priestly garb yellow.
Shellshocked might’ve been the word.
“You mistreated my Sprout. You. Hurt. Her. And now Roatus,” his voice was distinctly softer on the Sprout and by the time it got to Roatus, it dripped with acid. “Has taken her away from me.”
“Us.” Cylion felt himself say, but it was hollow.
“Must I teach you to do everything? Pitiful thing. Speak up.”
“He took her from us.”
Favion growled.
It was beginning to rain, a low thunder that rumbled between the clouds like an angry and monstrous god lie just behind them; warning the little things below to vacate.
Cylion sighed. Incapable of dreaming as he was, he was clearly not immune to the siren call of the maladaptive daydream.
Though, he wondered, is it a siren call if it was something that the sufferer wanted desperately to gain some distance from? Probably not, but he didn’t want to dissect it. He wanted it to go away.
He turned his head up to watch the clouds crash against the previously blemishless sky, warring with the shine of the moons to cast the city into darkness.
Ailzea Roatus enjoyed rain immensely, he read that somewhere before, or maybe his father told it to him. As little as he spoke about their childhood together. So much did Roatus enjoy the rain that his congregation made a big deal of celebrating the first rain of a new season together.
Thanks to the Nymira-Persep situation, Cylion was there for that. Of course, he made himself scarce, lest he be guilty of some sort of sacrilege for having the audacity to join. Despite Archie having tried, for some reason, to invite him out into the courtyard for the festivities.
The light drizzle that started to paint the world around him was hardly worthy of a celebration. It made sense that he was alone on the fringes with only scraps to enjoy.
Though the rain was dismal at best, it dredged up that pleasant earthy scent that had a tendency to linger in the air in the warmer seasons.
“Petrichor,” he said to the open air as he moved in closer to admire the handiwork of the grounds’ gardeners.
A crack of lightning briefly brightened up the sky, illuminating the patches of radish sprouts he nearly trampled on in his aimlessness.
Crack! Cylion’s fist made contact with Favion’s face.
He’d taken advantage of being lifted to his eyeline and punched him square in the jaw, reacting unthinkingly to the anger that swelled from his chest all the way to his ears and fists.
The sudden movement took Favion off guard and he dropped Cylion in his shock, grinding his jaw again. This time no doubt in an attempt to get it working again.
Another growl assaulted the silence. He couldn’t tell whose chest it rattled out from.
Then he was swinging blindly in his rage. Another punch, this one in the chest, brought the behemoth to his knees. When they were eyelevel again, Cylion swung hard at his temple.
Favion tried to grab at his wrist, but he just swung and hit him from the other side.
Before he knew it, before his thoughts caught up to him, his ancestor was on the floor and bloodied.
“Us! She was taken from us! What claim did you have over her when we were the ones taking care of her?”
Something crunched under his fists, but he didn’t stop.
The garden was well taken care of, just like everything else on the grounds. How could this place exist on Alternia? Even just outside the steps of the church itself bad things, terrible things, happened, nevermind the rest of the planet. Did it really come down to Ailzea Roatus?
Cylion couldn’t fathom what was so special about him, he could sift through the sweeps worth of dreams he’d stolen from the patron for the rest of his life and still never come to the answer. Special enough for the Reverend to force into this life, for his own ancestor to stick around despite being killed by him at least twice. It couldn’t all boil down to his ability to take and return life.
He found cover beneath an overhang that jutted out of the side of a shed and watched the rain as it started to pick up, quickly saturating the soil as it struck. Out of nowhere, a pang of guilt struck him in the chest.
There he was just admiring nature while God knew what was happening to his sister. It was difficult to breathe around the idea. Persep Lycaon had his sister, and he was hellbent on doing what with her? Could he really force her into the mold that Cylion had a hand in building for her? It probably wouldn’t have been possible if he didn’t just follow orders like a good little soldier.
He rubbed a hand over his face and pulled away to find that it was wet, but before he could question whether it was from the rain or tears he didn’t realize were falling, the sound of squeaking drew his attention in the direction of the door to the shed.
It could have been a squeak, or maybe it was a hiccup, all Cylion knew was that the sound pulled him back into his mind — He was standing over his father, covered in his blood, and taking big heaving breaths. Beneath him, Favion was still, save for the occasional ragged breath that said that he was alive.
The source of the sound was Somnia, standing in the doorway to his bedroom with panic painted all over his face. He didn’t need to have pupils for it to be obvious that his gaze was trained on Cylion’s still balled fist, their father’s shirt gripped tightly in the other hand.
Anger thrummed all through him now, louder and louder. He could find out, once and for all, what the limits of this beast of a man’s mortality was. Give him back what he’d doled out for decades. Find out if he knew how to beg for a life that was over centuries ago. But Somnia was watching, unmoving, his big brother manhandle his father. Hesitant to make another sound.
Cylion already lost Nymira. Passed right through his fingers. He would lose Somnia the same way. Abruptly, he released his hold, not breaking his concentration on his little brother.
“I’m sorry.” He said after figuring out how to make his voice level, and stood up straight. “Can you clean him up?”
Somnia only nodded, stepping out of the doorway to collect their bloodied father from the floor.
Someone stepped out of the shed and was walking toward him, carrying a shovel and spade in each gloved hand. Sunflower printed, because of course they were. Just like her dress was.
Marrie Roatus.
“Oh! Sorry, did I scare you?” She asked, because he bristled.
“No,” he said, because that wasn’t it at all and they both knew it. “Bit wet out for gardening.”
“It’s good to move the soil and tease out the invasives while the soil is wet, actually! I was hoping to get to it before the rain got really bad. I think I can still swing it!”
Cylion nodded, turned his attention back to the garden.
Silence settled between the pair, save for the sound of the rain hitting the roof of the shed and ground.
“I can go.” He finally said.
“Why would you do that?” She beamed brightly, instantly striking the gloom of the evening out of the air. “Don’t you think you’d be happier giving me a hand?”
There was no helping that he cracked a small smile at the insistence in her voice. He wondered what that quality looked like when faced up to Nymira’s stubbornness.
first thought that came 2 me was nymira as a roatus...
(but yknow. not like in the [redacted] way,)
now. i COULD have swapped her with Archie. but I thought this one seemed WAY more interesting
I think a Marrie in Nymira's shoes would figure things out pretty fast (things that we haven't gotten around to yet in the canon universe!) due to her curious and thoughtful nature :] But unlike Nymira, I think she'd have enough confidence in her own problem-solving abilities to try and make things right on her own.
An Ailzea-crafted Nymira on the other hand... Well! I think it would take her a LOT longer to become truly lifelike than it did for Marrie. Canon Nymira is very confident in who she is, but that didn't come from her. She was told her whole life exactly what she was meant for, and never had to wonder or explore that on her own. I think in an environment where she truly has the opportunity to become anyone, she would really take her time figuring it out.
#project hail mary
#pride month
