Backdated to December 27
Cyril was–
A lot of things.
If anyone had asked Julian what he thought of the previous Knight of Dering–not that he’d mentioned him to anyone but Riker–then Julian would have said Cyril was ‘nice’. Which, objectively speaking, wasn’t entirely true, but Julian would say nothing bad about him.
Sometimes, Cyril was too bold, too pushy, too sarcastic, too bitter, too blunt, too rude.
Julian would say he hadn’t noticed. Pushed the thoughts from his mind. Blamed himself, really.
Cyril had lived for a thousand years. Julian was young–seventeen, and still freshly, at that. He had a lot to learn.
He arrived on Dering for the fourth Saturday in a row, diligent and timely.
It had been a busy week, and Julian was not good with holidays. Christmas was nice. If anyone asked–and he hoped they didn’t–his favorite Christmases had been at Talia’s house. Last year was good, but this year was better. He’d still been nervous and didn’t know what to expect last year, and in the face of the unknown–no matter how perfect and charming it was–he’d still been near-sick with worry. This year, his nerves were much tamer. Not calm, never completely, but better.
He told himself that next year would be even better, but the niggling voice in the back of his head also reminded him that he'd be eighteen next year, and everything might be different. But that was a problem for later.
For today, he was here for Dering.
Julian arrived on his wonder in good spirits, eager to learn about the place he was supposed to be protecting. He and Cyril had talked for a while last week--a good talk!--about the Academy, how Knights used to be trained. Julian hadn't quite remembered all of it, but enough. This week, he was more prepared.
Cyril had agreed to meet him in the clearing where Julian usually arrived, and he was already there by the time Julian showed up. Cyril had no clocks, so Julian's plan to meet 'by 9 Earth time?' had meant nothing to him.
He simply waited, all week. He had nothing better to do. So when Julian showed up, backpack slung over one shoulder, and balancing his lute on the other, he tipped his head in greeting.
Julian waved. "Hello!" he greeted, a little more enthusiastic than last week, but still with a lingering cautiousness. His smile dimmed only slightly afterwards, not because anything had happened, but as if he meant to reel himself in.
He didn't want to be too much for Cyril, who was still a bit too stoic and guarded for Julian to feel like he could really open up. He wasn't good around adults in general, not quickly, but he was eager to please and hopeful to win Cyril's favor. He was still trying to learn what type of person Cyril wanted him to be.
"Hello," Cyril greeted, mostly to draw Julian's attention back to him instead of the ground.
It worked. Julian smiled again, soft, but hopeful. "I hope you weren't waiting for long."
"All week," Cyril answered, but Julian's fading smile made him reassure, "No, I've only just gotten here, myself."
Actually, he'd been here all week. But Julian's smile returned, and he made his way to the roots he liked to tuck himself into. "Oh, good," he said, and chose to believe that was true. "Is today a good day for questions?"
"The same as any other day," Cyril answered, trailing slowly after Julian. As Julian settled, so did he. Being a ghost meant there was little need to assume a position for comfort. There was no comfort in this existence.
He was simply there.
But, for Julian's sake, he sat on a slightly lower root. They were nearly eye level like this, but he let Julian have an inch over him. Or, it should have been an inch, but Julian hunched forward, curling in on himself just enough to still seem smaller.
Julian hadn't planned anything, it was just instinctive. He was squirming a little, wringing his hands together. Cyril hadn't known Julian for long but he'd become accustomed to the way Julian seemed like he hadn't quite settled into his own skin. It was worse when he had something to say.
"Before we start on that, I was wondering..."
Yes, there it was. Cyril waited patiently, even when Julian stalled. It was as if he were waiting for Cyril to finish his sentence for him, but Cyril couldn't imagine why.
"I wrote," Julian continued. He was picking his nails now, and they were already red, like he'd been doing it for a while. Cyril couldn't remember if they'd looked like that last week, but he thought not.
"You did."
Several days ago, the night after he'd last seen Julian.
He'd been skulking in the forest, as a spectre was wont to do, waiting for night to bleed into day for no other reason than to see something change.
With no warning, a sheet of paper appeared before Cyril, and took his breath away. Metaphorically, of course, but it was enough of a surprise that he felt something stutter in his chest. He'd recoiled immediately, not sure what it was, but the paper hovered before him.
Dering's sigil was imprinted on the sheet, so he leaned in and squinted at the tiny text.
Dear Cyril,
I hope you're doing well. I'm sorry I can't come visit more often. But I wanted to say thank you for taking the time to answer all of my questions. I'll be back again this weekend. That's still five more days away here on Earth. I think it's about the same on Lysithea? I'm not sure but maybe you can help me figure that out? I don't know if you'll get this message. But I hope you do. I'm looking forward to talking to you again. I hope you'll let me know if there's anything I can do to help you, too. I'll write again soon. I hope that's okay. Have a good night!
- Julian
Cyril couldn't answer. Even if he could hold a pen, he had no signet ring to send a letter. Julian was wearing his. Remarkable that he even found it.
For the best, too. It wasn't like Cyril had anyone to write to anymore.
Julian's eyes had raised from his lap, again with that little spark of hope. He was still waiting for Cyril to say something.
"It was a nice letter, thank you."
Julian was shy. It didn't take much to flatter him. Cyril wasn't even sure if Julian liked the praise, because half the time he tried to disappear as soon as you noticed him.
For now, Julian seemed relieved. He pulled something else out of his bag, slowly. "Um, that's good. Thank you. So, I brought a clock. My friend Soleiyu--he's a Mauvian--made it. He says it'll be waterproof. Um, I hope that's okay?"
Cyril shrugged and tipped his head to the side slightly. He didn't have to ask for an answer, Julian was quick to provide. When silence drew on, he was quick to fill it.
"Well, I think--in my letter, I mentioned about, you know, time. But I realized that it wasn't any use to you if you had no idea what I was talking about. So I have--this clock tells you the date on Earth, and what time it is."
Cyril had no use for it. He didn't express gratitude quickly enough, or maybe his face stayed too blank, because there was Julian again, rushing to fill the silence.
"I don't have to leave it here. Maybe it was a silly idea, sorry, I just--"
Cyril interrupted, "We'll find somewhere safe to put it. Thank you."
Tension had gathered so quickly in Julian's shoulders. It lessened, not all at once, but he breathed a little easier, and nodded. "Okay. Thank you. If you get bored..." Julian's voice tapered off. He tried to finish the sentence only once, and then shrugged.
Filling in the blanks was easy enough. Cyril had read the letter a hundred times. "Do you want me to keep an eye on the time so you can compare Lysithea to Earth?"
Julian fidgeted again. Picked at his nails with vigor. "Yes, please. But only if you're bored. Or have nothing at all to do."
Resisting the urge to remind Julian that he was dead, long dead, Cyril nodded. "I can do that."
Maybe Julian hoped for Cyril to say something else, maybe he wanted him to say more, but Cyril didn't. Julian didn't press it.
He wanted today to go well, and if Cyril didn't want to talk about something, he wasn't going to force it. Julian wanted--desperately--to be likable. Or tolerable, even. Asking annoying questions would burn through any goodwill he'd earned. Although, he wasn't certain that Cyril wasn't just humoring him out of pity.
Too prone to doubt and worry, Julian had to chase the thoughts from his mind before they could take root. He left the clock at his side and pulled out a composition notebook, folding the cover back to a page he'd already prepared. Questions were written neatly, spaced with several blank lines so he could write an answer beneath them. "Is this okay?" he asked, glancing up and searching Cyril's face.
Impassive, but not cold. He nodded, and Julian clicked the pen. Cyril watched the way the tip pressed against the page and left a seamless line.
"Have you had a good week?"
It wasn't the question Cyril expected. He tilted his head and leaned forward to see if Julian had written the question down, but the letters all looked strange to him, and Julian sheepishly tilted the composition book away before forcing himself to lay it flat again. "Sorry," Julian said, but Cyril shrugged.
"Nothing to note, same as always."
Julian wrote something down. "Oh, okay. Does that get boring?"
Cyril blinked slowly. Yes, of course. Obviously. But Julian looked at him with such an honest expression. Cyril shrugged and nodded once.
Julian nodded understandingly, of course. "Is there anything I can do to help?"
"Probably not." Cyril's eyes fell to the page. He still couldn't read any of it upside down. "Ask your questions, the important ones. You don't have to make small talk with me."
"Oh, okay. Sorry, I just don't want to be rude."
Cyril hummed and stared at the page expectantly, until Julian took the hint.
"Oh, right. Um, well--my first question, it's about Dering. I was wondering if you could tell me more about it? Last week you said that wonders were important places. Special places, that needed protecting. I was wondering what made Dering special? I mean, enough for someone to be sent here to protect it."
"The unicorns," Cyril answered easily. "Lysithea was known for them. The forest used to be full of them. It's old, deep roots. There's always been legends about such forests. 'Old magic'. Poets, musicians, artists, used to come here for 'divine inspiration'." He shrugged, and his fingers moved to rest on the strings of his lyre. "I can't say I ever had such luck. But it was always peaceful. And," he nodded towards the treeline. Julian turned to follow his gaze but saw nothing worth noting, so returned to the page as Cyril continued, "There's a strategic advantage to having a Knight here. There are a few castles nearby. Lysithea itself was host to many peace negotiations. Sometimes," he exhaled, and shrugged. "you need a little creativity in the process."
Julian nodded, jotting things down quickly. Cyril couldn't tell if his handwriting was neat or sloppy. Julian wrote strangely; his posture was stiff and his fingers nor wrist moved. His elbow did, and his shoulder, but his hand stayed oddly rigid.
"Does it have old magic?" Julian asked.
"I think so, yes. Even before the Code was brought here. But that was well before my time. I wasn't the first Knight here."
Julian paused, torn for a moment because he wasn't sure what question to ask next. He looked at the page, pointing at a few different questions as he chewed on his cheek thoughtfully. "Did you know the Knight who was here before you?"
"No, we didn't meet. He retired."
"You can do that?"
Cyril shrugged. "You can give up your mantle, yes. He was old. And this forest..." Cyril looked around, at all the empty branches. "...Can get lonely. Even when there was company."
Julian seemed surprised by this and wrote a few things down. "Was he here for a long time?"
"I don't know. I wish I'd thought to ask."
"Do you think Lysithea would know?"
"Don't ask her," Cyril said sternly, and Julian nodded immediately. He knew these talks were conditional. Secrecy was mandatory, though he didn't really know why.
"Um, sorry, I'm jumping around a little. So he chose to give up being the Knight of Dering, and you replaced him?"
"Yes." Anticipating Julian's questions, Cyril said, "I had a brief tour, by a local. There were notes left for me. I'd give them to you, but I don't have them anymore. I don't know where they've gone."
Julian nodded understandingly but asked, "Do you think you could give me a tour someday? If it's not too much trouble, I mean. I just haven't found much. The fog makes it hard. I tried to mark out where the holes are, but--"
"Have you fallen down them?"
"Well," Julian flushed, "A few, yes. I was paying attention. I'm more careful now."
"How many?"
"...Six, I think. Most of them were just holes? But I did find the Code, too."
"Only six? You're lucky, there's more than that around here." Cyril looked beyond the clearing. Fog clung to the perimeter, thicker and curling around the trees, but more sparse here. "Are you any good at mapmaking?"
"I don't think so, but I've never tried. I have a friend, he's an artist. I could ask him?"
"Maybe," Cyril said, but seemed contemplative. "I have a few maps. I don't know how much they'll help you. The trees have grown much since it was last made. Paths have been lost to time. The roots have grown over some of the holes, I think. Which is good, and bad, for you."
Julian glanced up, but he was still writing. The words grew crooked and slipped off the lines but he hadn't noticed. "What do you mean?"
"Well, good, because you're not falling through them. Bad, because not all of those holes are traps."
"What are they?"
"Passages, some of them. Caches. Shrines, holy sites."
Julian nodded. He was halfway through writing 'passages' when his pen slipped off the page. Startled, he turned his gaze back to the page and continued on the next line, shrinking the size of his letters to fit. "Shrines to what?"
"Lysithea. To Dering. To the unicorns. To whatever ancient spirits were said to guard the forest. The old legends say that Dering would open itself up to those it found worthy. It was an honor to be blessed by the forest."
"Oh," Julian nodded. "I've never fallen into a hole with any of those things. Does that mean anything?"
Cyril clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
That the forest rejects you.
He didn't say it. Julian glanced up hopefully.
He couldn't say it.
"Bad luck," Cyril said, and Julian accepted that. Wrote it down, too.
"Is there a way to turn your luck around? Could I maybe..." Julian's voice trailed off. The pen slowed. The nib pressed into the paper so much it left an indent. "...I mean, if there are shrines..." He shrugged, mumbled. "You make...offerings there? Could I maybe...?"
He didn’t finish the sentence, and Cyril watched as Julian tried to find the words. In the end, he seemed afraid to suggest it himself, so Cyril did it for him: "Make an offering?"
Julian’s brows were knitted slightly but he glanced up and nodded.
Cyril guessed Julian had prepared for him to say something like ‘don’t bother’–and really, that’s what he should have said. But ink was bleeding on the page, and Julian didn’t even realize how hard he was holding the pen to paper.
“You could,” he said instead, finding it interesting how that simple assurance eased so much tension in Julian’s shoulders. “But let’s not rush things.”
Julian’s look was curious–expressive, despite the fact that Cyril wasn’t even sure what had changed on his face. Their eyes were not locked for long; Julian never held a gaze for long. Surprised by the bleeding ink, he withdrew the thumb and brushed his thumb over it, for some reason. All it did was smear, and stain his finger.
Cyril could see the way Julian berated himself, which was an equally strange thing to observe. So guarded with his thoughts, and yet so obvious, too.
While Julian kept his head bowed, Cyril explained. “First, we’ll have to find the shrines. Then, you’ll have to excavate them. Dering protects what is important to it. So I suppose you’ll have to find a way in. Then, you’ll have to restore them.”
With renewed enthusiasm, Julian was writing this down quickly. The letters again became smushed together and he had to write in the margins of the page. “What do the shrines look like?” he asked.
“Stone, mostly. And flowers. Bring up some cleaning supplies.”
“Like bleach?”
Cyril stared at him. “...Like soap? And water. Rags and brushes. Don’t bring anything toxic into the forest.”
“Oh,” Julian crossed something out. “Okay, I can do that, thank you.”
Cyril grunted, and a moment later Julian asked, “What sorts of things do you bring to make an offering?”
“Are you getting ahead of yourself?” Not cold, but cautious.
Julian hesitated, and fought to get the words out. He knew they were being scrutinized. But he knew Cyril was looking out for him. He told himself three times that it wasn’t a criticism, just a curiosity. “I was thinking…” The silence stretched, but this time Cyril did not rush to fill it. He gave Julian the space to find his words, and was rewarded with something honest: “...If I’m going to make an offering, I want to make sure I have time to get it right. Sometimes it takes me a long time to figure something out. And since I can only come up here once a week, I was hoping that maybe I could think about it while I was on Earth.”
A surprisingly good answer, which Cyril made sure to tell Julian. Who, of course, looked pink in the face and just hunched a little smaller. Cyril thought he earned an answer so said, “Flower seeds, to sprinkle on the ground. It’s said that if they grew where you planted, the forest was blessing you. Of course, that could take weeks, months. And it was impossible to know if it was your flower growing, or someone else’s, usually. Some people would bring a pot and fill it with soil, and plant the seed there. If it grew unattended, your offering was accepted. If not,” Cyril shrugged.
Julian nodded, scribbling while Cyril continued, “The forest can be fickle, though. It does not care for pretty trinkets, so no gem or coin will earn its favor. Its favorite offering was a piece of your soul.”
At this, Julian paused. A frown settled on his face and he thought with great certainty that he’d misheard.
Cyril was watching him already; he didn’t have to look up to feel the eyes on him. The pen slowed, hovering uncertainly over the page.
“To offer something you poured your heart into. Something born of your own inspiration. Sketches, paintings, songs, poetry. On a sheet of paper. You sit, you meditate. You burn the page. I used to play at the shrines, sometimes. I composed quite a bit in my time.” Cyril shrugged, quick to dismiss it. Julian wrote diligently, nodding.
“What if you don’t know how to make something?” Julian asked.
“That’s not possible.” Cyril sounded confident, a bit pretentious. But, his voice softened–intentionally–and he explained, “Everyone is capable of creation. It doesn’t have to be ‘good’. It just has to be you.”
The pen stalled again. Julian pressed the back of it to his lips. A moment passed, and then, “What if you offer up the wrong part of yourself?”
Cyril watched him curiously. He didn’t answer immediately, because he could see the weight in the words behind the question.
The silence fell on Julian like a verdict to a crime he hadn’t even thought to commit. But he took the blame, anyway. His shoulders tensed, and folded inward. Already punishing himself for another question, like maybe he could make himself small enough that Cyril would forget he heard it. Heat crept up his neck, and an apology bubbled up with it.
“I just mean–” Julian started, and then stopped abruptly. He laid the pen flat on the page, but picked it back up immediately. “Sorry.”
“Don’t,” Cyril said, sharper than he meant. Julian sucked in a silent breath, bracing again. Cyril softened his tone and tried again. “Don’t apologize for asking that question.”
Julian couldn’t bring himself to look up, so Cyril exhaled slowly–out of habit, not necessity. Perhaps simply to take up space and fill the silence so Julian wouldn’t try.
“You can’t,” Cyril said finally.
Julian blinked at the page and repeated softly, “You can’t…?”
“You can’t offer the wrong part of yourself,” Cyril clarified. “Because the forest doesn’t take what you’re trying to get rid of.”
Julian’s grip loosened on the pen, just a fraction.
Cyril continued, more carefully now. “Offerings aren’t sacrifices in the way people think of them. You’re not cutting something out of yourself and handing it over. You’re…sharing it. Letting it exist where it can be seen.”
He paused, then added, “If you present something you made in anger, or fear, or desperation, the forest doesn’t keep that. It is a witness.”
Julian swallowed. His voice came out small. “But what if you want to give it something good?”
“Then give it something good.”
The answer made Julian pause, but mostly, he faltered. His mouth opened and closed, and he tried to make sense of the real question he was asking. “But what if you don’t know how to give it something good? What if–what if all the other stuff, what if that’s all you have?”
“Then that’s enough,” Cyril said, without hesitation this time. When Julian’s head remained bowed, he went on, “You aren’t lesser for having shared an imperfect part of yourself. There is no person who has ever walked this world, or any other, that was without flaw. Do not worry about offering the wrong part of yourself. Worry about offering something that isn’t you at all.”
Julian nodded slowly. He wrote that one down very carefully, pressing less hard this time. His shoulders eased again, but he made a few mistakes while writing and had to cross them out. There were still a few more questions on the page, but it was clear that he’d gotten derailed during their conversation.
They had time to get back on track, but Julian seemed dangerously close to losing his place. He came in here with a script–and no doubt had rehearsed it. Prepared for this, so he could pretend like conversation came easily to him.
“It’s a lot to take in,” Cyril said mercifully. Julian nodded, relieved that Cyril said it. He wouldn’t have admitted it himself, but it was easy to agree when someone said it for him. Cyril continued, “You don’t have to rush to understand everything. I told you, we have time. If we don’t finish all of your questions today, you can ask them next week. I’ll still be here.”
It got a little smile out of Julian, and Cyril felt oddly satisfied. He sat up a little straighter, and something like a smile even worked its way onto his own features. “Go on,” he urged. “Ask me the next question. Before you run out of room on that page.”
“I almost have already,” Julian confessed, and when he looked up now, his smile–embarrassed, shy–lingered. He almost laughed, too.
Emotions did not come easily to Cyril, but the corners of his lips remained just slightly upturned. “Then I’ll try to give shorter answers.”
“Please don’t,” Julian requested. “I like listening.”
Which worked for Cyril.
He liked talking.
He’d just been alone for so long that he’d forgotten.
