#reziel

[ipraygreywords]

“don’t touch that!” (sairaagdreamer)

   “But I’m HUNGRY,” insists the world-famous elderly priest, paragon of wisdom, hands poised greedily over the cinnamon monkey bread cake Sylphiel has just taken out of the oven. 

[ipraygreywords]

"I will try it now," Dove says, placing the small backs of her hands against the large palms of her father's. She shapes hers as though resting atop a sphere centered over her skinned knee and imitates what she has seen him do. "Your way is not the same as Mama's," she observes, confidently.

Rezo nods gently to his daughter.

      “Begin,” he breathes–this ancient legend among mages–to the being who ensures joyful days to come. 

So joyful that, perhaps, he might shed at last the shroud of past shame and suffering. 

Eyes closed, Dove’s father listens, extends the corners of his mind to feel for her mana conducting his.  And there it is, the sphere of healing energy. 

    “Well done, love. Well done.” 

    “No, but mama and I draw our power from the same source. We call it white magic.” 

[ipraygreywords]

You're so tired, she still cannot bring herself to say, but he is. In fact she has delayed to enter the study for he will know when she does, and no one works so voraciously for something unimportant. Sylphiel sometimes feels she has interrupted Rezo from a great task by entering his life and not wishing to leave. But, she remembers, he welcomed her. So now she does enter the study, and she has something warm on a plate, and spiced seasonal tea. "Is there time for a break?"

Rezo hears Sylphiel asking him a question, and in his mind he’s answered her. 

It’s only when a thick and heavy pause ensues, and her soft footfalls advance, and the scent of mulling spices entices him, that the Sage realizes he hasn’t actually spoken.

    “Ah. Gods. Sorry, darling.  Yes, of course. The frantic task-slave in me says no, but I can never resist you, or something with an aroma that scrumptious.” 

The reason why Rezo’s fame has surpassed that of his four illustrious antecedents among the “Wise Men of the Age” is that he can explain complicated, dense theoretical magic to anyone as though it is arithmetic, and perform it more easily still … . but he also uses words like “scrumptious” unironically. People gravitate toward him in loving trust, because for all his cunning, his shrewdness and his knowledge, something innate to him is so joyfully pure.  

He rolls his shoulders and scrubs his hands down his cheeks. 

    “Please tell me I’ve not gotten myopic and neglected you too many hours again,” he groans. 

[ipraygreywords]

SMASHES ASK SO HARD 👶 i mean gently sends Ask //Sairaagdreamer

Send 👶 to meet my muse as a child. 

   “Ah!” 

It’s a far cry from the velvet-timbred baritone that has been a trademark of Rezo’s liturgical style.  

Rather, Sylphiel finds herself bumped into by a startlingly small-boned child, small too in stature, head a short shock of springy plum-hued waves waves, features pale and seraphic and vaguely daydreamy.  

Seems an age-reversal hex has done its damage on the intended target; the culprit in question dashes, cloaked, from the courtyard. 

Rezo blinks brown eyes that are even more startlingly large in the face of a seven-year-old. 

    “Sylphiel, I’m sorry, I fell into y … .is that my voice? Is that… .MY voice?” 

He feels his face, pudgier than in adulthood, and his chest and arms, and squeaks a dove-like sound of alarm. 

    “What’s happened?” he more or less demands, although he shies against her–clearly gauging how troublesome it is to ask for help, with a more marked concern even than he shows in adulthood. “I’m teensy, ah … ! Oh dear.” 

A pause.

Then a vague smile.

     “How interesting . . . !” 

[ipraygreywords]

@sairaagdreamer continued from X

For the duration of Sylphiel’s conversation with the condemned bandit called Bryant, Rezo cycles through a true epic poem’s worth of emotions. 

First, the anger, cold and startlingly malicious.  But then, little by little, one ragged raging breath through his nose at a time, one taut muscle of his jaw at a time, fury gives way to quiet focus. Focus, to clarity.  Clarity, to shame.  

He, world-renowned healer of hundreds of thousands, neglected to ask the name of the convict.  With icy exactitude, he had amputated his compassion--very consciously retracted that most characteristic element of any good cleric--in his treatment of this man who hurt a person he loves. 

Yes, loves. He can admit that to himself, however unrequited it may be.  

But that’s not the point. The point is that he used his ingenious medical knowledge, his considerable social clout, and his capacity to manipulate others with his uncanny insights into their psyche and emotions . . . to threaten harm. 

And it’s hardly the first time he’s done so.

By the time Sylphiel has gently bartered penitence out of the very man who brutalized her, Rezo’s guilt has been sidelined, though only slightly: by his admiration for the priestess’s often unacknowledged intelligence.  Her deductions are brilliant, gathering simple cues from conduct and appearance, and they are motivated by sympathy.  

I don’t deserve her.  But then, I knew that from the start.

Rezo glides to the door, every bit the untouchable, ethereal, immortal Red Priest, before this enemy.  His face remains coldly impassive and his voice thunderously authoritative, as he “asks” (commands) the guards to take Bryant into custody,  Then, quietly, to the last guard leaving, “Send one of the knights--a good and gentle man--out into the city in search of a girl called Aeyna.  She is young.  Bring her here to Miss Sylphiel’s chambers by way of the High Council, and tell them that I instructed that she be made a ward of the palace, indefinitely. I will mention this to the Queen.”  

He waits until they are alone, and turns, gripping his staff a little too tightly.

   “Your thanks is . . .  generous.  I have behaved . . . I would like to say, beneath myself, but perhaps it is more accurate to say, beneath decency, out of anger.  Forgive me. It isn’t a side of me you’ve seen, but I . . . . was scared. For you.” 

His eyes squeeze shut; fool. 

   “Please excuse me, I. I do hope you’re feeling better soon.”

He flees.

[ipraygreywords]

@sairaagdreamer continued from X 

The funeral was two days past. Sylphiel had received Rezo’s invitation yesterday and had tittered a good while at the idea of the tall, broad-shouldered Sage in red absolutely spoiling a barely-roused, probably-confused child and then groaned audibly at his closing quip. He’d even included an image of it…

“He likes puns even more terrible than I thought,” she had mused. She forewent addresses; it would speak for itself.

Should you succeed in pulling an apple out of the open air, I am sure I can manage to spirit up a dip to accompany it. I pray this will provide a more attractive alternative than pelting the local physician, but I certainly won’t stop you if you have a bone to pick with him.

She sent the enveloped letter by courier.

Now the morning of the third day, Sylphiel spent a generous amount of time exploring shops on the fringe of Seyruun. She did feel a bit guilty for her high spirits in the face of so recent a tragedy, and indeed the late prince’s untimely death was still a ubiquitous conversation piece among the locals. But, so too was everyday chat, laughter, business, and the other intricacies of city life, both interesting and mundane.

The resilience of a people can be a great indicator of its trust in its political servants. People here still know they are in capable hands.

Sylphiel collected small satchels of spices, rich cream for a base, and very fresh butter. She would process the butter slowly with heat to separate the solids and produce an almost toffee-like flavor, infuse the spices and whip in the cream and a soft, mild cheese for structure. (She had already gained permission for use of the inn’s kitchen in exchange for some of the apple dip). On her way out of the crowded strip market, she saw cranberries that were too tempting to pass up and wondered if the innkeeper would allow her to bake a loaf of quick bread as well? She purchased the other ingredients for that, too, just in case.

Rezo’s shoulders lift to his ears as he reads the latest correspondence; he bites down on his lip, but his grin is no less foolish.  He’s having uncommon difficulty maintaining his expansively tranquil demeanor of habit.  He feels a barb of guilt to experience such exhilaration at a time of mourning; yet he reminds himself, Philionel was nothing if not a bastion of hope, and reaching out in darkness for friendship, how can that elicit anything but joy from the king’s departed spirit? 

And dear gods, the Sage feels young again.  Unburdened.  Is it an illusion, a trap set by fate, to punish him by deprivation later? Possibly, but he can barely stumble over that doubt before he’s giddy again.  And when, when, has someone done something so innocently nurturing, as cook him a meal?  It is an act of wonderfully uninhibited camaraderie. It is the gesture of a caring equal.  It is refreshing.  

He’s already decked to the hilt in the robes of his office.  With a quirk of his lip, and a moment’s pensiveness, he sheds the shoulder pads and cloak, the brooch and the sashes.  

But now he’s self-conscious of the strange formality of his robes.  So he changes again, into a tunic and trousers, and wraps the cloak back around his shoulders.  Excellent: an ordinary man. Approachable. 

The lunch hour arrives, and Rezo ventures to the market stall to purchase his customary apple, some cheese, and a loaf of ordinary wheat bread.  He’s fairly swarmed, as is typical, on his way to and from, and he greets and mends as best he’s able.  

While listening to an elderly Seyruunian describing his gout in truly excruciating detail, Rezo, trying to diplomatically escape, backs, staff rings jingling, directly into Sylphiel.

     “Ah, excuse me, I . . . . oh. OH. Hah, ah, goodness! Hello again.” 

He is backlit by the noonday sun, and he looks utterly seraphic; it’s almost comical.  

     “Good news, I’ve struck no one with this as of yet.” 

He brandishes his apple. 

[ipraygreywords]

@sairaagdreamer continued from X

“Keep me close, then! We’ll stay warm together.”

Sylphiel presses gratefully up against Rezo and walks a slightly meandering line to avoid lumpy snow that probably conceals branches and dips, until the path is more evidently trustworthy, downtrodden by footfalls and only lightly dusted by that snow what had filtered down through the canopy. At this point she keeps close to Rezo, of course, but no longer leads. The transition is seamless with tells not evident to the usual observer.

As they walk, he speaks about the trees in a way that is reverent and lyrical, so as he does when the words are truly heartfelt, at least to her ears. And with the snow and needled greenery to dampen reverberation, should he sing just now, it would be the purest way to hear his voice.  This, in comparison to the (absolutely lovely) acoustics when he sings in his laboratory, (which she has not heard “first hand” for entering might disturb him, and so she lingers in the hall, and leaves after, in case he might be self-conscious, and the occasions have been few, but each time he has paused briefly before continuing, which might be nothing, and yet she suspects he may know she is there).

Today she will ask him to sing something for her, but just now, he has called these living monuments sentinels and watchmen: “That is why you brought me one, isn’t it?” she asks, “For my dormitory.” He will remember the occasion, though it seems so long ago.

And now he calls the trees his dear friends, to which she says, with evident compassion, “You have been lonely.” It isn’t a question, but he knows her well; he doesn’t have to speak, but if he wishes to tell a tale, she wishes to hear it.

You have been lonely, Sylphiel gently observes.

And Rezo’s doting smile evaporates.  

    “ . . . Maybe so.”  

He is a proud being, to a fault, and hearing a loved one so easily reading his frailties is . . . . somewhat agonizing.  And yet, no anger borne of embarrassment surfaces, for she speaks the words in love. 

   “I don’t think I’ve ever felt fully part of anything, or any...any circle of people.  The sighted world has never understood that the sorrow of blindness isn’t just what can’t see, what you miss, but also the fact that you feel disconnected to the world as everyone else experiences it.  Ah, but. I haven’t let myself talk about this . . . . not since I came back.” 

He fears that it’s an addiction: dwelling on his blindness, on what he will, can, never have.  He fears he’ll fall prey to grotesque habits again, habits he doesn’t realize would never have formed without the oppressive darkness of Shabranigdu feeding on his soul.  

Rezo doesn’t believe he can take the risk of self-service ever again.  Not even when his needs are reasonable, and moderate.  Not even when he needs to unload his sorrows on his lover. 

He exhales and chews on his lip, in clear but quiet agony.  

    “But, yes, that is why I gifted you one. I had the mad hope that you might be a friend beyond mere trees. I thought at least I could share what comfort they’d been to me, when I was my most lost, and perhaps they might help you, too.” 

His smile, now, is guilty, and bashful. 

[ipraygreywords]

@sairaagdreamer continued from X 

The moment Sylphiel bites Rezo’s finger, his whole brain short-circuits, and his touch-sensitive body reacts far more strongly than that of the average man.  That thumb screams out for more stimulation, and by the flush of his pale face and the way he steps--casually, he thinks--behind his laboratory table, to conceal his crotch--he’s also aroused. 

He coughs, and incredulously chuckles: it seems the pupil has outdone the master. 

    “I suppose I deserved that,” he chortles, inordinately aware of his tallness and the reputedly bright hue of his robes.  Nowhere to hide.

Had he known her joy at any occasion in which he sheds his mantle of shame and regret, he’d be doubly besotted. And yes, he’d be delighting thoroughly in Sylphiel’s flustered blush were his own not such a preoccupation.

   “You’re asking me about my research but I happen to forget my name at the moment--ah!  What’ve you got, then?  Marvelous!” 

A mischievous impulse seizes him. Months ago, he wouldn’t have dreamt to test Sylphiel this way, but now, a natural propensity to the roguish triumphs, and he snatches the entire tray, mugs of strawberry and chocolate and all, and begins to make off with them, as though he has entirely misapprehended her flirtation. 

He gets three steps before wheeling around with the most fiendish grin.

    “HAHAHAHA, gotcha.  Of course, love, you are my favorite distraction.” 

He places it aside--there’ll be time enough to savor the treat--sweeps her close and kisses her again, all the more passionately.  He grins into that kiss. 

    “Hmh! Don’t be mad at me.”