Takes place right after: Ad Astra
Julian was supposed to visit on the eighteenth. They’d planned this before he left the previous Saturday. Much of that visit had been spent with Julian asleep, tucked into the roots of his favorite tree, but Cyril hadn’t felt like it was time wasted.
They’d spoken again after Julian woke up–after his stream of apologies–and when Julian left, it was with a plan to return in a week. He’d hoped that things would be back to normal by then.
They weren’t.
On the twelfth, Julian wrote to Cyril:
- ‘Cyril,
I think things are a little dangerous down here right now. I’m going to try to be there on Saturday, but some weird things keep happening. I’m sorry. I hope I’m just being paranoid. It’s too much to write, but we’re still having problems with that General. His youma keep finding us. I’m being safe. I’ll tell you everything as soon as I can. I hope you’re doing well.’
Julian did not write back before the eighteenth, nor did he show up. Of course, Cyril expected the worst. He paced around the forest, circling the clearing. Waiting.
If he’d had a body, he’d have worn a path in the grass. Even without it, the tall blades seemed to wilt where he’d been walking.
He didn’t hear from Julian until the twentieth.
- ‘Cyril,
I’m really sorry. I don’t want to disappoint you. I’m trying. There was a bad fight. It’s very dangerous right now. I can’t come up yet. I want to be there. I’m sorry. I’ll see you soon, I hope. Please take care.’
The handwriting was wrong. Crooked, cluttered, smushed together.
Something burned in the bit of Cyril’s stomach. He chose to ignore it, because if he was going to feel after all of these years, he didn’t want it to be the devastating worry sprouting in his gut.
Julian did not write more. Cyril expected the worst.
On the evening of the twenty-fourth, another letter:
- ‘Cyril,
I had to rest and lay low. My friends and I are meeting up tonight to figure out a plan. Everyone is okay, but it’s dangerous. I’m sorry for not writing. I hope you didn’t worry. I hope it will be okay if I visit soon. I’d like to tonight. I’ll try. I hope you’re doing well.’
Scribbled a little sloppier, and in a different color pen, Julian had also written more beneath the first message:
- ‘I will be there tonight. I promise.’
So, Cyril waited. Walked. Worried.
The moon was bright above him. Somehow, Julian still managed to arrive in shadow.
He didn’t offer a greeting, just stood a few yards back, holding his lute tightly to his chest. He hovered, a ghost himself, like he needed an invitation to even be in Cyril’s presence.
When Cyril turned and spotted him, he froze.
Julian looked small, even more so than when they’d first met. He was rubbing his fingers along the neck of the lute uncertainly, like if he found the right groove, he might find words, too.
“Julian,” Cyril greeted. Warmly, because he forced it to be. Even if it wasn’t quite in his nature. “It’s good to see you.”
He wanted to demand answers–to poke and prod and pry and know. But something was wrong. Julian flashed a smile, polite, but he seemed half here and half…not.
Tired, but different than before.
“It’s good to see you too,” Julian said, but his voice sounded strange. Gravelly. Sore. He raised a hand to cover his mouth, all while bowing his head slightly.
Cyril wanted to ask how it could be good to see him when Julian wasn’t even looking at him. He waited for the apology–it came fifteen seconds later, when Julian could bear the silence no more. When he had to announce regret and name his shortcomings.
As had become habit, Cyril let him, even if each apology was grating on his ears.
“I’m sorry. This is so irresponsible. I didn’t mean to waste your time,” Julian said.
Cyril didn’t want to interrupt him, but he didn’t want to let him go on.
Words tumbled out anyway as Julian pressed his lower face into the palm of his hand. “I don’t mean to be flaky. I wanted this to go much differently.”
“What happened to your face?” Cyril asked, catching Julian by surprise.
“Nothing,” he lied, but under the weight of Cyril’s scrutiny, he said, “It was the fight. That’s all. I’m sore.”
“Are your friends okay?”
“Yes,” he lied, and before Cyril could give him that look again, he clarified, “In body. Spirit, I don’t know. I think everyone’s…having a hard time right now.”
“And you?”
Julian wanted to say no, but he couldn’t. Cyril was waiting to catch him in a lie, and Julian was smart enough to know he was already in a trap waiting to be sprung. He could not say it out loud, so he nodded.
“Do you want to sit down?”
He didn’t, but Julian shuffled after Cyril, anyway. He didn’t sit on the roots he loved, but instead on the ground. The fog was not a blanket across the wonder, but instead existed only in pockets. There were none close enough to hide in.
Without his backpack, Julian had nothing but his lute to hide behind. He settled it in his lap and bowed his head.
Cyril sat across from him. They stayed like that for a moment, together, but in different worlds. It was only a few moments before Cyril could not contain himself. "You're so quiet."
"Oh, thanks." Julian didn’t look up.
"It wasn't a compliment."
Julian swallowed loudly enough that Cyril could hear, and spoke quietly enough that he almost couldn’t. "Oh, um. I'm sorry."
"It wasn't criticism, either,” Cyril said mildly.
"Oh."
Cyril exhaled from his nose, watching Julian closely. For as much as Julian said he wanted to be here, he did not seem to know what to say. So Cyril wanted to help. Or, at least, get things moving in some direction. “The General again?” he prompted.
Julian nodded once more. “He…” Doubt crept in, and Julian might have talked himself out of answering were it not for Cyril’s narrowed eyes on him. Intense, but not cruel. Just paying attention. “...He’s getting more dangerous. We don’t think he’s going to stop. But it’s–” Julian swallowed. “It’s okay, it’s–you don’t have to worry.”
“I don’t have to,” Cyril agreed. “Don’t deflect. I want you to finish telling me what happened. Just give me an idea.”
Julian resisted. Fell into silence.
Brushed his thumb across the strings of his lute, but made no sound. Folded into himself, and–
Crumbled.
He sniffled, once, and could have blamed it on allergies if Cyril had pressed. But, since Cyril said nothing, Julian just answered him. “He’s just so strong. He’s just so dangerous. Every time we fight, he’s holding back, and then he comes back stronger, and angrier. Everything we do, he’s one step ahead of us. And we have so many people helping us. And I don’t know what to do.”
His head bowed lower and Cyril wondered if he might have been planning to press his forehead to the dirt.
“All of my friends are so good at this. They’re good knights. Their Wonders are doing well. And they have summons. And they can do things with their weapons, and they have magic, and–I just–”
Still didn’t know what he was doing wrong.
Cyril had answered his questions about getting stronger, but since then Julian hadn’t been able to implement anything. Hadn’t been able to unlock anything.
Julian deflated, shoulders sagging.
“I’m worried my shield isn’t going to be enough. My friends keep getting hurt. And I’m not the only one with a shield. But I should be better. I’m letting everyone down. And I’m scared. And I’m so, so sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”
It was like the words were clawing up his throat and jamming there, like he couldn’t breathe until he forced them out. It was humiliating. He’d spent hours at home thinking of all of the ways he could show Cyril how mature and how serious he was about this–about how he could prove he was ready to be a good Knight, that he was supposed to be here.
And he was failing. So, so miserably.
He covered his face with both hands. “I’m sorry. I’m just–it’s a lot. I’m just trying to figure it all out. I’m not trying to bother you. I don’t mean to be dramatic.”
Cyril expected half a dozen more apologies, but Julian must have bitten his tongue to hold it.
The silence between them was again uncomfortable.
It would have been in Cyril’s nature to offer criticism, but no matter how well-meaning it was, he could not look at Julian and find any justification for it.
There were a hundred reasons why Julian might be here. To heal. To seek power. Obligation. Fear. Company.
He looked like he was falling apart, like a house held together with too few nails. Like someone picked up whatever pieces they could find and decided this is enough.
It wasn’t. It very obviously wasn’t.
The silence did not settle, and Julian sank into it, condemning himself to it because he knew he’d said too much, and he’d been so reckless, so stupid, so–
“Stop,” Cyril said calmly, firmly. “Whatever’s going on in that head of yours, just stop for a moment. I think I understand what you’re trying to say. But let me make sure. Okay?”
Julian swallowed, silently this time. He didn’t look up, but Cyril accepted his nod.
When Cyril spoke again, it was slow, cautious. “What you’re trying to say,” he guessed, “is that you are very stressed about how powerful this General is. And you and your friends are in a lot of danger, so it’s very important to you that you get the most out of your shield. Am I right so far?”
Julian considered. Weighed the words. They were kinder on Cyril’s lips than they were in his heart, but he nodded again.
“You are comparing yourself to your friends and their Wonders. You think you should be where they are. You think you should have more magic, like they do.”
Another nod, as reluctant as the first.
Cyril exhaled–a false breath, but he wanted to keep the silence at bay. Julian was listening now, but if he sank much deeper…
Then they’d be here all night trying to get to the bottom of this.
“What’s so dramatic about that?” Cyril asked, watching as Julian considered the question, and then answered with the rise and fall of his shoulders.
Truthfully, there wasn’t anything dramatic about it. About any of this. Julian was young. His friends were young. Someone was terrorizing them. It had been weeks so far, of course he was on edge. Of course he was afraid.
They’d met because Julian was trying to get stronger–weeks ago, already.
He hadn’t made much progress. Of course this was weighing heavily on him.
Doubt was a poison. It had been in his blood for as long as Cyril knew him. If it hadn’t been bone-deep already, it certainly was now.
“You’re here to learn, aren’t you? This is not your fault. You inherited–”
Branches rustled in the distance, wrestled by a foul wind. The forest was dark, looming. Shadows stretched closer, and branches seemed to bend inwards. Dering was eerie in the daytime–worse at night.
Maybe it was for the best that Julian’s head was still downcast.
“–A sickly wonder. I’ve told you that there is a curse upon this forest. Do not compare yourself to others, nor their Wonders. Not if you wind up hurting yourself.” Cyril should not be the one lecturing–advising–of such matters. He was a jealous soul. He’d resented Dering long after he’d been assigned here, wishing for bigger, brighter, better Wonders.
Julian offered a timid shrug. He didn’t speak, but he listened.
“We can’t control the goings-on of their lives, or their Wonders, or their magic. I know you’re not upset that they have access to those things,” Cyril said, and it sounded enough like a question that Julian shook his head. Of course he wasn’t upset that his friends were able to accomplish more.
The problem was always that he couldn’t accomplish enough.
Cyril knew this without Julian ever saying it. “When you first came here, you wanted to get stronger.” Julian nodded, once. Cyril continued, “I’ve been thinking about that. About what I can do.”
His jaw set, but Julian didn’t see.
“I found something, a while ago. I told you about the hidden paths in the forest–the caches, hidden underground?”
Julian didn’t move, but Cyril watched him process the words and went on, “I’m far less susceptible to the dangers of falling through pits. So I sought out a few. Some are collapsed. But I want to show you one. Come with me.”
Once more, Julian hesitated, but with a clear instruction, it didn’t take him long to push himself up. He wiped his face on his sleeve, scrubbing a little too harshly, but moved to Cyril’s side.
Cyril did not get up. Rather, he flickered from one place to another, and started walking a few feet in front of Julian.
“...Is it far?” Julian asked after a moment.
“No, not really. Just well hidden. Mind the roots,” he cautioned, as they passed from the clearing into the forest. Trees were dense and close together, and their roots knitted dangerously.
It was no surprise that Julian hadn’t found the passage before Cyril guided him there; a narrow passage was almost completely invisible between two trees, with roots rising on either side. Cyril walked through the first root but said, “Here, there are stairs. It’s slippery, and narrow. Leave your lute. You won’t make it very deep. Do you have a light?”
Julian was already shrugging off his lute, laying it carefully against one of the trees before climbing over the chest-high root. “Um, yes. I do.”
“Good. Go down there, you’ll find a small box. It’s buried under rock, and dirt. Dig it out and bring it up here.”
“What’s inside?” Julian asked, fishing around in his subspace briefly before producing a flashlight. It wasn’t heavy, but he held it in both hands and pointed it towards the ground before turning it on.
Cyril tilted his head. “You don’t like surprises?”
“Um,” Julian was quiet for a long moment. “...They’re not my favorite, sorry.”
Cyril hummed and crossed his arms. “It’s a relic. A treasure of Dering.”
“Oh,” Julian said, and Cyril felt particularly proud to have elicited such a curious response. Julian had been shrinking himself since he arrived, but there was a spark of curiosity as he shined the light down the hole. He took two tentative steps into the narrow passage. “Why is it down here?”
“Because I was a stubborn fool in a fit of temper.”
Julian looked up at him, and Cyril thought he might ask about that. Instead, Julian just accepted the answer and made his way down the stairs. Cyril stayed above ground. It would have been crowded below, and he didn’t want to deal with the awkwardness of hovering over Julian’s shoulder–whether or not he was a ghost.
Two minutes passed before Julian’s head popped up again. His hands were covered in dirt and he carried a tiny wooden box and his flashlight. “Is this it?”
A dry voice in the back of Cyril’s head wanted to ask, ‘Did you see any other boxes down there?’ but one look at Julian’s hopeful, worried face, silenced him. “Yes, that’s the one.”
Julian finished ascending, and dismissed the flashlight. He held the box out to Cyril, who stared at it.
“It’s yours,” Cyril said, instead of reminding Julian that he could not touch it.
“Oh. Thank you.” Julian drew it closer, and when he did not attempt to open it, Cyril sighed.
“It was given to me when I was made a Knight here. A ‘welcoming’ gift,” Cyril explained. “Meant to enhance my magic. I never had to use it, because nothing ever happened here. I was bitter. I thought I was going to a Wonder that needed me. Instead,” he gestured to the lonely forest, “I hardly used my magic at all. I threw it down here, in fitful rage. There might be more down here. If the ground hadn’t caved in, I’d let you look. But I don’t want you trying to get any deeper, not right now. It’s too dangerous.”
Julian understood, of course. Since he’d gotten here, he had a perpetually defeated expression on his face, and even when making his best efforts to mask it –with a tired, unconvincing smile–Cyril had seen through him. Even as Julian nodded, Cyril wondered what thoughts were fluttering through his head.
“Thank you,” Julian said, soft and earnest.
He didn’t get mad when Cyril advised boundaries. Maybe disappointed, but not in a way that felt like it was directed anywhere but inward.
“For what, wanting you to be safe?”
Julian considered this, and nodded.
Cyril hummed. “Open the box.”
The latch stuck, and the box was splintered in a way that made it difficult to open. Julian pried carefully, but it wasn’t enough. Cyril didn’t chastise him, but the weight of his gaze was heavy, and Julian dug his nails into the wood to peel it apart. Something cracked and then the lid flung open. Julian scrambled to keep the box in his hand without spilling anything.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, but Cyril didn’t acknowledge the apology. Didn’t want to encourage it.
Tattered purple fabric lined the box, and in the center of it, a little golden bracelet.
It was plain, but heavy, and probably worth more than any piece of jewelry he’d ever held before.
Julian swallowed and asked, “Are you sure?”
“Yes. I spent a week looking for it,” Cyril said dryly. “I went to every cache I could think of to see what I could find. I know this doesn’t unlock more power, but it does amplify what you already have. So I know you’ll be able to use it.”
Julian held the bracelet in his hand, and though he uttered another word of thanks, he didn’t seem to know what else to do.
Cyril was distant for a moment, like he was there, but faraway, too. A silence settled over him, and the shadows of the forest did nothing to ease the strange discomfort. Finally, he shrugged, and shook his head. “I wish there was more I could do,” Cyril said. His voice was soft, almost a whisper, and he avoided Julian’s eyes.
“No, um.” Julian ran his fingers over the smooth metal. “...Thank you. This is a lot. I’ll take good care of it. How do I…?”
“When your magic is running low, this will replenish it. It’s innate. You don’t have to fight for it to work, it will complement what you can already do.”
“Oh.” Julian carried stress in his shoulders, and worry, and doubt, and fear. “...So I won’t be able to mess it up?”
Cyril watched him closely, and would have sighed if Julian were not doing the same–seeking approval, or validation, or regret. Cyril made sure he saw none of his doubt. “No,” he said evenly. “You won’t mess it up, Julian. Why do you always expect the worst?”
Julian did not rush to answer, though it would have been easy to buy time with another ‘Um’. Cyril appreciated the silence more. Julian wasn’t speaking just to fill the emptiness between them. He was thinking. Usually, deeply.
“Because…” Julian continued to brush his thumb across the metal but hadn’t yet worked up the nerve to try it on. “...I just don’t want to be a mistake. I don’t want to get anyone’s hopes up if I’m not good enough to…”
“...To keep up with them?” Cyril chanced. When Julian nodded, he exhaled. “You’re too hard on yourself. You’re comparing yourself to others when there’s no baseline for how this is supposed to go. Compare apples to oranges, ground to sky, water to fire. You’ll have the same luck.”
“I know,” Julian insisted, but so gentle that Cyril didn’t think he even sounded confident about it. “I just…I…want to be more like them…”
“...I know. I know how badly you want to be’ more’. But I don’t want you to be so hard on yourself.” Cyril was stern, but not unkind. Sometimes Julian couldn’t tell the difference. Sometimes Cyril couldn’t, either.
Julian nodded. He would have, no matter what Cyril said. He was already raw from–whatever happened before tonight. He was vulnerable, like he’d been scraped raw and was trying to convince everyone–himself–that he was fine.
He’d never been fine.
But he’d never been this bad, and Cyril felt a churning guilt in the bit of his stomach. And, worse, an ache in his heart.
It wasn’t fair that organs, long dead and rotted, could feel so strongly.
Tenderness had not always been foreign to Cyril, but a thousand years of bitterness made it harder to reach the gentler parts of himself. For Julian, he tried. He didn’t always succeed, but he made an effort.
He drew in a breath, for lungs that held no air. It steadied him, regardless. “I wish you had someone better here to answer your questions. To help you become a better Knight. I wish I’d had someone to teach me how to do this. It’s not an excuse,” though he had plenty, “but I just want you to know that. I wasn’t here for you before, but I am now. I will help you through this, no matter how long it takes. But I need you to trust me. I need you to listen to me.”
“...I will. I’m sorry. I really appreciate it. Everything you’re doing for me.” Julian spoke slowly, again choosing his words carefully. It was less that he didn’t have things to say and more that he had to choose what he was allowed to say. Every word that tumbled from his lips was uncertain and guarded. Even, “I think I’m just…scared.”
Cyril’s eyes found a faraway tree. There was no path deeper into the forest, but he watched the distance like he expected to see someone emerge.
He was tense, uncomfortable.
Aware that Julian was watching him, too.
Cyril forced himself to ease, which was difficult to do when you had to focus on exactly how you wanted to manifest. Being a ghost wasn't very easy.
“Sometimes,” he began slowly, “People are the most brave when they’re at their most scared.”
As always, Julian listened. Heard. Pondered.
Julian’s brows furrowed in wordless contemplation. He wanted to believe it, but it was too clean. Like what you might say to a kid with a nightmare. “...I don’t know if that applies to me.”
Cyril frowned. “Why not?”
Silence returned. Julian shrugged. Weighed down by one of the thousand secrets he kept, undoubtedly. Cyril gave him the chance to answer, but Julian didn’t.
There was plenty to infer, regardless. Cyril simply didn’t name it.
“Was it just a fight?” he asked. Not accusatory. Careful.
Julian looked at him for only a second. Cyril knew it for what it was, less for contact and more for containment. Julian was reading him, planning an answer around him. For him.
Trying to figure out how much of the truth he could hide in a lie, probably.
In the end, Julian didn’t even trust himself with words. He swallowed, but it was stiff. Like the words fought not to go down. A hand rose to his face, like he meant to rub his jaw, but his hands were still covered in dirt. He rubbed his forearm against his mouth but it didn’t do what he’d hoped. He shrugged.
But Cyril saw it for what it was, even without words to name it.
“Your friends are safe,” he reminded. “And so are you.”
Julian laughed suddenly, which surprised him. The little noise bubbled up, raw and brief, before he swallowed that too. He nodded quickly, too enthusiastically, hoping to move on from it. He still didn’t look up. “Sorry. I know. Thank you. I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I–I should probably sleep some more, I don’t–this probably isn’t making much sense, I–”
“It makes perfect sense,” Cyril interrupted.
Julian’s shoulders slumped, from guilt and gratitude. He didn't really want to explain anything, didn't want to put out the effort to sort through his thoughts or explain in a way that made sense. He knew none of this made sense. He knew he didn't make sense.
And he was afraid to be too open, afraid to put all that on display.
Afraid of Cyril deciding this was too much, that he'd made a mistake, that he wanted out.
Cyril couldn't tell what Julian was thinking about, but he could guess. He could see it was weighing heavily on him. Comfort did not come naturally to Cyril. He was brittle and sour and acerbic and begrudging. And Julian was–
Trying his best. And telling himself it wasn't good enough.
"You're very hard on yourself," Cyril said slowly. "I can tell how important it is to you that you do this right."
Julian didn't quite ease, but he nodded again.
"You're doing better than you think."
Julian's lips twitched, with a thousand thoughts demanding to be voiced. He pressed his mouth closed tightly, even when it hurt. He rubbed his wrist over his jaw again. And nodded.
There wasn't more to be said tonight. Julian reached his threshold. Probably had been there even before he showed up, but he showed up anyway.
Distracted, scared, hurting. Hiding some of it well, and some of it hardly at all.
"You're tired," Cyril chanced. Julian shrunk under the observation, and then seemed to think better of it. He stood taller, and squared his shoulders. Not in defiance, just in correction.
"No," Cyril continued. "I want you to go home and rest. You said you and your friends were coming up with a plan to stop him?" He paused so Julian could nod, "That's soon, isn't it?" Another nod. "If you want to keep your friends safe, you have to keep yourself safe. You want to make them proud?" Nod. "And Dering?" Nod. "And me?" Nod.
"Then go home. Breathe. Rest."
He didn't tell Julian he'd done enough; Julian would never believe he'd done enough.
He'd keep himself up at night, worrying. He'd done it before, and the stakes were lower.
"I will give you one more gift," he decided. "Get your lute. I'll teach you a song."
Julian hadn't been expecting it, which Cyril had learned was sometimes the only way to pull him out of his thoughts. Agreeable and obedient as always, Julian slid the bracelet over his wrist and pocketed the trinket box, brushed his dirty hands off on his robes, and lifted the lute reverently.
"It's got old magic in it," Cyril said. "To help you relax. Play it before bed and it will help you sleep. You've got an instrument other than your lute at home, don't you?"
"Oh–yes. I have a violin, but..."
"Do you need another instrument? You know where my collection is. You can take another."
Julian paused–flushed, at the reminder of the guitar he'd taken, and seen restored, to give to Riker. Technically it was in their bedroom, but Cyril didn't ask about it.
"I'd rather they be played than not," Cyril said simply. "I've got one instrument." His fingers glided across the strings of his lyre. "This is all I need. It pains me to see them rot. You can help me figure out what to do with them when you've handled this General."
"Oh–okay," he agreed, but was quick to insist, "My violin works."
"Good. Maybe you can bring it here sometime and play for me. Listen to the notes. It doesn't matter what instrument it’s on, only that you can play this."
He plucked the strings slowly, giving Julian a second after each one to make the sound on his lute.
They played through the song once--short, only half a minute long, but it looped easily. They played again, and Julian leaned in as he absorbed it. By the third time, they played together, faster. Julian messed up twice but kept going.
By the fourth time, he kept up perfectly.
"There you go," Cyril said. "You've got it?"
"I think so." Julian played it once without Cyril, who listened closely, and nodded when he finished.
"Yes, you've got it. You're a fast learner, aren't you?"
"Oh, I don't know about that. You're a good teacher."
"Am I," Cyril mused, but it wasn't really a question.
"I think it's helping," Julian murmured. "...I feel better."
"Do you? Good."
Julian played the song once more, and Cyril was certain he looked more relaxed.
Remarkable, really, considering the only magic in the song was how quickly Cyril had been able to make it up on the spot.
