Cichol misses the voices. No language sounded quite like the one his mother had gifted the people of the land. Whether this was due to the humans’ interpretation of Nabatean sounds or the natural evolution of them over time, he wasn’t sure. By the time he was born, countless generations had been forgotten and their knowledge had gone with them.
A handful more generations have passed since then. Though young by his standards, by the time Cichol learned how best to present himself to humans there was no human alive to remember the way he spoke to his family. This was not a façade raised out of simple necessity (though he won’t deny its utilitarian benefit), no. When one wishes to travel the vast lands outside of one’s home, easy communication is vital for bonding with the people who live in said lands. If honesty is the key to being genuine then the expression of it is the oil that keeps the lock easy to turn. If he hadn’t made the effort then he would have never met his wife and the Goddess wouldn’t have blessed him with Cethleann.
The middle ground of twilight is giving way to sunrise. The sun rises to Cichol’s east, casting the beginning glow of orange into the sky. Once he thanked his mother for lifting it and Rhea, the baby of the brood, had shouted out her gratefulness as well. Macuil had laughed while Indech, the penultimate brother, shrank away from the extended family, snickering at the two’s foolishness. His mother had simply smiled, patted his head, and told him that the great star needs no help from her.
Cichol rubs his eyes. What’s he to make of these sudden thoughts and memories? Ones which he had never mourned because they had slipped away? This is why he has always avoided Zanado. The rubble is far greater than it seems.
Focus. Cethleann. Rhea. ...and then what? Head back to the monastery? He can’t twiddle his thumbs and wait for her to return. Those beasts could be draining her blood as he stands in this spot, sucking the life out of the few good things his mother gave to the world-
“Seteth?”
“Catherine.” He states before turning around. The Guardian of Zanado is as expected as the emptiness she protects. She still wears her Church of Seiros uniform but it has some embellishments. Notably the pink embroidery blossoming across the white fabric of her skirt. Lilies and daffodils twirling around one another in a dance Cichol feels he should recognize. “I hope you are well.”
“I am, as is Lady Rhea.” She anticipates. Or perhaps it’s natural for her- to consider Lady Rhea as readily as she does herself. He must tell her how thankful he is of that. For now, he turns around as she steps forward. That easy smile of hers hasn’t aged a day. “What brings you here?”
“I must see Rhea.”
Cichol’s tone has been worn down by the journey but Catherine reads him loud and clear. With a curt nod she turns on her heels and begins down what was once an alleyway with Cichol in tow. It was in this- that?- alleyway he had first ventured alone, away from the protective cover of his mother’s sleeves. Standing in the narrow shadows, staring at the light on the other side, was when Cichol realized just how big and bright the world was.
Catherine kicks a stone out of their way and it tumbles into the fog below.
The stone building Rhea has chosen feels warmer than the rest of Zanado. A soft woven carpet covers the swept stone of the floor. The pattern mixes pinks, greens and silvers, all arranged with sharp points and straight lines. Cichol blinks when he sees it. Where did Rhea find such a treasure? He’d thought Zanado had been raised during the massacre. Then again, he hasn’t been back since that horrible day.
“It’s a very you action, you must admit.”
A what? Cichol snaps up from the floor and stares at Rhea. He isn’t sure what’s on his face but it makes her smile. Almost flabbergasted, he must ask: “Whatever could you mean by that?”
Rhea’s eyes glide away from him and towards the wall. The gray stones, piled and now re-piled, have worn marks on them. Dents from furniture banging into them, scuffs from shoes. A small handprint measuring a foot off of the floor with a forest of larger ones surrounding it. Rhea hums. “A whirlwind romance, a heart of wanderlust… you can’t deny that your wings and heart beat for the skies far beyond Zanado. It’s no surprise Cethleann is the same.”
It is completely different. When he ventured beyond the safe walls of his home, he was more than ready. He was skilled, powerful, and was able to transform into his dragon form should things become too risky for his human one. The world was ready, too, flourishing under the blessings of his mother and the knowledge she imparted. No humans glared at him, or believed him to be inhuman, or stole him away to do unspeakable things with the very gifts his mother trusted them with. It would be a long time before the very idea of humans scavenging his remains to create Nabatean-killing weapons would enter his mind.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Cichol shakes his head. There’s no need for professionality now that they’re no longer Archbishop and assistant. But despite that he still feels himself reigning himself in. Why? It’s Rhea who has spoken out of turn, suggesting such a silly thing. Perhaps it reminds him of when they were younger. She was shy with others but always found the right words with him. Unfortunately for Cichol those words were spoken with the intention of riling him up.
Rhea doesn’t have that cheeky, toothy smile on her face now. Instead, she watches her hand trace the weaves on the table cover with a flat expression. The teacup in front of her is a keepsake from Garreg Mach as is the tea inside it. An empty one sits opposite her.
Cichol blinks. Has she offered him some? “May I?” He gestures to the chair across from her, suddenly aware of his stiffness.
“Yes.” Rhea’s voice has a hint of incredulousness. He can hear her saying ‘why wouldn’t you?’ Cichol sits down. And why wouldn’t he? Why is he expecting her to say no? She turns the pot of tea so he can pick it up by the handle. The tea is honey gold but much clearer. Angelica. He remembers the pleasant surprise he and Rhea had when they found out they both considered it a favorite.
Now sitting across from her, Cichol can see the bookcase behind Rhea. Various tomes are lined along it. He assumes most of them are Rhea’s.
One shelf is different from the others. There are whittled figurines, house brooches, a fishing lure. In a corner are four wooden tea caddies, inscribed carefully: rose petal blend, angelica, ginger, and sweet-apple blend. Cichol smiles and lifts his cup to his lips. Sweet-apple blend is Cethleann's favorite; a drink as sweet as she is. He can’t recall Rhea having a fondness for it. Rather, she prefers subtle, calming tastes like he does.
Then again she has another of Cichol’s preferences, ginger, on the shelf as well. Has she come around to the flavor she once balked at for being too bitter? He lowers the cup from his lips, savoring the angelica taste. The ginger and sweet-apple caddies are full. It stands out in comparison to the other two which are nearing empty.
His eyes meet another green pair. Rhea is watching him expectantly. A memory resurfaces of late nights. Studying healing magic together, nicking themselves on blades to see how well the other could heal them. Even when the wounds were obviously closed over Rhea would wait for Cichol’s verbal response, watching him with their mother’s eyes.
In the present Cichol rests his cup back on its saucer. “Just the way I like it.”
Her smile hasn’t changed in the slightest. Or maybe it did, once, and it’s come back to her. It had been so long.
“I am sorry.”
Rhea’s smile falls to confusion. “Sorry?” She responds, both repeating and questioning him.
“I wasn’t there in your time of need. I should have protected you.”
He was meant to be a father, a brother, a nurturer, but all he sees around him are wilted plants and broken glass. Watering one takes his attention away from the others. Even now, after the war, the only time it occurred to him to visit Rhea was for Cethleann. What a terrible brother he’s been.
Whatever is Rhea thinking? It’s not the first time he’s desired to know. Ever since the reveal of her experiments with mother’s crest stone and the homunculus child she bore- no. Before that, too. Cichol has felt a distance between the two of them. Perhaps there was always one there and time has simply worn away the edges, naturally forming it into the deep canyon it is now.
Rhea blinks downward. “From a young age, I knew I was the one of us four who would bear the weight of mother’s legacy. You needn’t concern yourself with it.”
“And bear it you did.” As he looks down at his feet it feels as if mother herself is shaking her head at him. “I am here, sister.”
“We are both adults, Cichol.”
He raises his eyebrow. “Yes?”
“You don’t have to coddle me like this.”
“You think this is coddling? This is but a fraction of what Cethleann would call coddling.” Rhea chuckles at that. The conversation feels like too much, for now, so Cichol continues. “I only hope for her safety. It’s been so long since she wandered the world so freely. Much has changed.”
“Much has stayed the same.”
He finds Rhea staring out at the ruins. She was always an observer, propping herself up on something to watch people go about their lives the moment she learned how to walk. “It has.”
A few moments pass. “Who is it young Cethleann has eloped with?” Rhea asks.
“One of the Black Eagles, I believe. Linhardt.”
That gets her attention. “Oh? The one with her Minor Crest?”
“Indeed. In all his time at the monastery, all he spoke about was his desire to relax and find somewhere to sleep. I assumed that meant he would reliably be where he’s expected to be. It’s one of the reasons why I relented when Flayn…” He feels his mouth twist unpleasantly. “Expressed her interest in him. From where he got the idea to galavant across Fodlan, I’ve no idea.”
Rhea hums knowingly. “Where indeed. All will be well, brother.” She sighs. “It’s been so long since I called you that. Wasn’t it strange to hear Cethleann call you by it?”
“Was it strange for you?” The words fall out of his mouth before he thinks them. Those moments in the monastery, where he’d pondered the inner workings of Rhea’s mind, had pushed them out.
He hears Catherine somewhere in the distance. She lifts rocks from one pile to another, she had told him when he asked about the granite towers. To keep her strength up, apparently. With Rhea’s eyes searching him, Cichol almost finds himself wishing he was out there with her.
Finally, Rhea answers. “Yes.”
With the two of them working on each side, the bridge can meet quicker.