Set after MSQ 5.3, background unrequited Runar/Y'shtola. A Runar and Lyna short.
Exchange fic for elynne, prompt: "Still mourning the loss of his beloved Master Matoya, Runar comes to the Crystarium on business and discovers that the Captain of the Guard is similarly downcast about missing the Exarch, though they find that there is some comfort in companionship. This can be anything from a heartfelt discussion over tea to hot healing sex, so long as they end up as friends (at least)."
The Crystarium did not mean to be so bright, Runar knew. Like a swaggering uncle who always seemed to get too deep into the mead jars before anyone could stop him, the city bellowed its presence to all who set foot near its borders. Its people were a good-natured lot - but unaware of their own volume. On every corner, there were merchants at their stalls or crafters hammering away on their worktables. Everyone spoke more boisterously, slamming their mugs upon the tables and yelling out to one another from across the market ways. Their exuberance refused to be dimmed; their spirits blended together in one fierce, unending shout.
It was all, Runar thought, very loud.
The city's residents had resisted the Light with the same bravado. Where the Night's Blessed had chosen natural barriers of earth and tree, the Crystarium had mocked their common adversary by displaying themselves fearlessly to the sky. Their city was defined by open-aired courtyards and frosted domes. Their shield had been hewn from stone, but one of a permeable nature: a crystal that had allowed light to shine through while it remained untouched.
Much like the Exarch himself had been, Runar had gathered. Every soul taking sanctuary within its walls had come to rely on his eternal presence as a part of their lives - but the reverse had not been true. After a hundred years, the man had departed to the same world that Matoya and the others called home. For him, there would be no return.
Like the stone of his namesake, the warmth of the Exarch's people had passed through him without leaving any mark behind.
But the city remained, decorated now with all manner of colors as its inhabitants prepared for their winter festivities, and Runar did his best not to flatten his ears back at the uncomfortable riot.
He introduced himself to the guards on the way through - politely asking for directions as he bumbled along - and they were the ones to append his newest title to him, bowing their heads in a deference he did not truly deserve. Master Runar. It sounded so foolish no matter how many times he heard it. Every time, it made him want to hunch his shoulders, half-afraid - and half-hoping - that he would spot Matoya leaning against the nearest wall and smirking at him for his audacity. He wanted to give the title back to her, to wrestle the responsibility off his shoulders and drape it back where it belonged, like a misplaced cloak that did not hang right on his body.
But Matoya was not here, no matter how much he wished otherwise, and the thought of it nagged at his heels as he was ushered into the office of the Captain of the Guard.
The room within was thankfully subdued, though it sported a pair of massive windows that took up nearly an entire wall. Daylight poured in, and while it did not have the same foul pearlescence that had coated the skies for decades, Runar still took care not to step on any of the sunbeams.
Lyna's head was bent studiously over a parchment, flanked on either side by mountains of paperwork that remained to be conquered. As the guard pulled the door shut behind Runar, she pushed the latest document aside and straightened up with what sounded like a grateful sigh, stretching out her arms to unkink them.
"Master Runar of the Night's Blessed." She inclined her head politely, waving him forward into a seat. "By what honor do we have you today?"
"The honor is mine, Captain Lyna." Settling himself gingerly upon the chair she had indicated, Runar tried to keep as much of his body as he could from pressing against its frame. The furniture seemed far too fancy to actually be used for the purpose it was crafted for: every ilm of the wood had been coated with a dark varnish, carved with knotwork designs which alternated all the way down to the floor. Rose-colored crystals had been laid into the armrests. It was a far cry from the sturdy stools and chairs he was accustomed to, cut from swampwood and prone to harboring splinters.
If Runar leaned the wrong way, he might break it, and put his entire village into debt for generations.
Trying to banish the awareness of how filthy his robes must be from the journey, Runar cleared his throat and set his hands on his knees with respectful attention. "It was time for another round of trade, you see. I thought to see the wagons to their journey's end."
Lyna's brow furrowed; she cocked her head to the side, assessing his statement with a soldier's alertness, seeking out any threats unsaid. "It is not often that one of the Night's Blessed escorts your goods all the way here, let alone their leader. Is all well among your people?"
Runar ducked a nod, though he could feel his ears itching to twitch. "Aye. I have a small personal question, which is neither urgent, nor worrisome. But first... how is the Crystarium? Have you had any troubles here?"
"No more than usual." Making a curt shrug, the viis slouched far enough back in her seat to cast an unamused eye towards the windows. "Our biggest threat to peace appears to be ourselves. The date of the annual Sinner's Revel draws near. Though I am loath to admit it, it will be far more dangerous this year without the Light to illuminate the city's spires. With darkness cloaking the easements, it will be too easy for those celebrating on the upper walkways to spill and fall. I have half a mind to cordon off several areas, save that doing so will attract even more souls in search of secluded dens for their trysts."
With a gloomy sigh, the woman squinted at the sky outside as if daring someone to plummet past on command. "Would that we could convince everyone to get drunk at noon instead."
Runar shifted in his own chair. "The darkness is not so malicious as to mislead your people on purpose," he protested gently. It was an uncomfortable, strange argument to have: he knew better than to think Lyna railed against the night, but it felt odd to hear anyone's displeasure towards it. "We must all simply come to know its ways once more."
Fortunately, Lyna's frustration had not gone that far. She nodded in agreement, her irritation already calming. "Aye. I would not be so boorish as to spurn the priceless blessing we have waited so long for. Nor do I mean to make you feel unwelcome. You do not celebrate the Sinner's Revel in Slitherbough, correct?"
He shook his head. Outside the office, he could hear the heavy tread of guards moving past, following the changing of the bells. "Ours is the festival of Tutayay Raymi - which will be all the more memorable this year, now that we can see for ourselves the night which it honors! Indeed, the days grow markedly shorter each week. Have you heard if this is true in every nation?"
"The earlier sunsets?" Lyna enunciated the word carefully, as they all did with the rusty vocabulary that they had had to practice: terms from ancient legends which were now a part of their everyday life, overcast, eclipse, twilight. "Aye. They are to blame for the colder weather as well, or so the records in the Cabinet claim."
She opened her mouth to speak further, but then - as if only belatedly coming to some realization - she flapped her hand at Runar in a baffling gesture to bid him to wait. He frowned back in confusion, but Lyna was already rising to her feet and heading for the neglected tea set on the sideboard. After heating the water, she brought back two cups to steep - both as delicate as eggshells, and not like the practical vessels that Slitherbough's potters produced upon their wheels - with such a distracted air that he could not help but forgive her for any lapse in hospitality.
"All these years past, none of us could understand why the air would grow cold enough to form frost on the windows and pull snow from the skies. It seemed but a mere whim of the calendar, and naught more." She set his cup in front of him, and Runar stared at it morosely; he suspected he could crush it simply by picking it up. "Now, the reason is laid bare. Winter comes merely from the lack of the sun's heat, and not - as so many of us have been taught - from the sky's aether becoming exhausted and needing to restore itself at intervals. How our forebears would have laughed at our foolishness," she added, her voice going low and bitter. "Confused by the simplest of logics."
It was embarrassing to realize that he was among the deceived - him, along with all the rest of Slitherbough. Runar winced in chagrin. "But... the Exarch must have known otherwise, no? Did he say naught on the subject?"
Mention of the man was enough to cloud Lyna's expression further. She translated her agitation to her tea strainer, lifting and swirling it about her cup rather than allow it to steep in peace. "There is much that my grandfather did not share. I suppose he did not wish to trouble us with an outlandish idea that we would have had to take on pure faith. At least... that is what I tell myself."
The viis frowned once more, and then changed the subject abruptly, wheeling it back to his side of the table. "How have your people understood these growing nights? I imagine that such a phenomenon cannot be a source of distress."
He did not mind the question. It was easy enough to answer, and Runar cupped his palm around his teacup, the porcelain shell hot against his hand. "We have seen it as a blessing, of course. We had thought the darkness was merely being generous to us, responding to our prayers by bringing its comfort to shelter us through the colder months. But... your explanation makes sense too," he admitted, feeling a sheepish laugh color his voice with all the shame he deserved.
"They both do," Lyna said graciously. "Yet, it makes for dangerous traveling. Do you wish for a few of my guards for your escort home?"
It was his turn to wave down her concerns. "I have no fear of the night," he replied, with equal kindness.
The conversation fell from there into a lull, Lyna's gaze flicking up repeatedly towards him with renewed curiosity, and Runar knew he could not avoid the matter further. They had exchanged enough polite conversation as leaders of their respective communities. His flimsy attempt to buy time was running out.
He gathered his courage, struggling to figure out how to make the transition sound natural rather than clumsy.
"Indeed, 'twas the changing of the seasons that reminded me of another matter." He rubbed the toe of one sandal against the floor, and then realized he was fidgeting. "I am certain that Master Matoya is not taking proper care of herself in the land she has traveled to. And... I have heard rumors that the Warrior of Darkness still visits here on occasion?"
"Aye, though the schedule is unpredictable. The Warrior has warned us that it may grow even more erratic in days to come." Pursing her lips thoughtfully, Lyna studied him with a focus that Runar might have found unnerving if he had not already known Matoya first. "Do you wish for them to come to Slitherbough when they next arrive?"
Runar shook his head, rapidly enough that his weight shifted on the chair; he swore he heard it creak. "I dare not drag them away from their work! Yet... the request I have may be equally rude. Would it trouble you to hear it?"
As much as he might have feared that Lyna would turn him away on the spot, the woman only inclined her head expectantly as she waited. Digging into his knapsack, Runar rummaged about until he found the leather pouch that had been carefully tucked into a corner. Its contours were irregular, bulging at odd angles and making suggestive shapes - but at least that made it easy to lay a hand on.
He tugged the package free and set it upon the table, nervously patting the lacings that kept it tied shut.
"When I started preparations for this year's Tutayay Raymi," he began, resisting the urge to try and turn the pouch about until it presented its least-offensive side to the captain, "I realized that I had sent along my recipe for Master Matoya's favorite tea - but not for my stew. Neither will taste as good without the same herbs to brew, and the roots we use to strengthen the broth. The Greatwood shrouds the soil we tend, and our crops are nourished with water that has been blessed by the Dark. There is a, a flavor that these ingredients impart which may not be found in other lands. I fear that... Master Matoya may miss it."
He was aware of how foolish he must have sounded, and could not prevent one of his ears from flicking with embarrassment, though he managed to keep his tail tightly curled next to his leg. Laid between his broad hands, the leather satchel seemed even more pathetic: a token that did not have the right to sit alongside the other vital documents and charts which occupied Lyna's attention.
"It is an imposition upon our savior, I know," he concluded. "Though they have been kind enough to labor in Slitherbough before as guests, the Warrior of Darkness is not a courier, meant to carry and fetch on command. But if... if it would not be a burden, mayhap? If there are other items which might be sent across, could this... join them?"
His uncertainty only grew the longer that Lyna did not speak. The viis stared down at the offering in rigid silence, as if judging the lumpy, suspicious package that had been dumped upon her pristine desk.
Finally, the woman turned aside, rising to her feet again - but only so that she could stoop to rummage through a small cabinet near one of the windows. She yanked open drawer after drawer before finally pulling out a slender, silk-wrapped box, no larger than a scholar's book. Cradling it in her arms, she set it gently down across from Runar's shabby vegetable pouch.
"You are not the only one who has been tempted to make such requests of the Warrior," she admitted, and then pulled the covering open with a few deft tugs of her fingers.
As the silks fell away, they revealed a box of fine white oak, varnished until the wood was nearly golden in hue. The edges had been sanded down meticulously, removing every splinter and burr until the grain seemed to glow with a soft warmth. Like the chairs, the box's surface had been etched with patterns, inscribed with a geometry that transformed effortlessly from diamonds into locking spirals, and then back again.
Lyna unlatched it briskly while Runar was still marveling over the craftsmanship, and then pulled the lid open.
"These were to be my gift to my grandfather this year for the Revel," she announced quietly, her voice steered so carefully into neutrality that the effort had broken the syllables of all emotion whatsoever. "I had prepared them many months ago, before... everything happened."
Runar blinked at the velvet-lined tray. Nested inside it were several pens that had been laid out in various disassembly, spread out like a banquet of gold and crystal fit to rival the Tower itself. He could not imagine the cost that must have gone into preparing such a present. The nibs looked strong and sturdy, with designs that bloomed like lace across the shanks. Several of the holders were carved from wood, but others looked as if they had been spun from glass instead, with threads of color winding like ivy around the grips, bursting into occasional leaves and petals.
"They are beautiful," he said at last into the silence, if only to acknowledge her effort.
"They are useless." Lyna skimmed her hand over the case's lid, the angle of her palm like a slap. "An unnecessary reminder that can only plague my grandfather with what he has left behind."
Before Runar could protest, Lyna made a short, dismissive jerk of her chin towards one of the walls. He followed her gaze in confusion, seeing only what he assumed were the normal trappings of a soldier's office: bookshelves filled with sturdy tomes, a rack of chakrams, an armor stand with a full suit of leathers.
"Were these his too?" he asked, suddenly unsure if the stories of the man's legendary magicks had been exaggerations, and the Crystal Exarch had been a dancer after all.
Thankfully, Lyna took the misunderstanding in stride. "My grandfather was prone to practical gifts," she explained. "Unsentimental ones. All these years, I appreciated it as a sign that he respected me - that he did not feel the need to coddle me with trinkets which could not be replaced by my own hands. But now, it makes me wonder if he foresaw this conclusion, one way or another. As if he was preparing me for a time when those favors would end one day, so that I would not miss them once they were gone."
Restless, Lyna's hands snatched up one of the nib holders, and then just as quickly shoved it back into its slot. "Every time the Warrior travels through the portal, I think about asking if they would bring this gift back across. But every time, I question if I have the right. It would not be fair. All of us here in the Crystarium have promised that the Exarch need not think of us again. That his long duty of watching over us has ended, and he is now free of our presence. Of the burden we must have been to him for so very many years. One which he... no longer worries about now, or so the Warrior assures me."
With that, Lyna's voice at last betrayed her. It shook along her final words like a rail cart bucking off its track. Her fingers curled tightly around the corners of the present, as if to seek some sharp edge that would reject her, offering a beginning and an ending to her pain - and an excuse.
Suddenly, she shut the box's lid and shoved it towards him, the polished wood sliding easily over the felt mat.
"Here," she said stiffly. "You should take them instead."
Runar found himself protesting on instinct, his hands lifting to ward away the generosity. "I dare not," he sputtered. "The craftsmanship is magnificent! You should sell them. Use the funds for new houses to be built, or for hiring extra guard patrols upon the road. The box alone would fetch a lordly price."
"Selling such things is what one does when the recipient is deceased, rather than absent," Lyna snapped. Grief made her voice tart. "Better to see them used than to have them gather dust like a statue."
Then she exhaled, regaining control of herself again with a soldier's discipline. "Mayhap you may use them to write letters to Y'sh - to Master Matoya," she corrected, graciously observing the tradition despite not being one of the Blessed. "For it is different with her, aye? I am told that she promised to return one day, using all of the magicks and wisdom at her command."
Runar dipped his head in assent, trying not to let his face show any of the joy that came along with that reminder. "Aye," he acknowledged gruffly. "There is too much unfinished here for her to leave unattended. She has given us the right to call upon her in future years, and we mean to welcome her back gladly."
He did not intend to be cruel with his honesty, and yet he could see how Lyna's expression tightened further. The viis pushed the box forward another ilm with her gaze turned aside, directed towards an empty spot on the table.
"Write to Matoya," she insisted. "Let her know that you have not forgotten her. Share with her all your news of Slitherbough and the Night's Blessed, so that she will have a road home when the time comes, using your words as a guide."
The worn tips of Runar's claws tapped against the wood as he finally reached out to accept the case - helplessly, for it seemed unbearable to allow the gift to be rejected a second time. His mind felt as if it were floundering for anything useful to say. He knew how unspeakably fortunate the Night's Blessed were. Matoya had been with them for only three years, and yet she had sworn to never forget them. Her life was still entwined with theirs, no matter how far away she might be now.
Out of all the questions Runar might have for the Warrior, one of them would never be if Matoya still cared. Trust alone already provided the answer.
"I can do more than that." Slowly, he leaned forward, fumbling through his own lack of eloquence. He had felt like this all the time around Matoya, and somehow, she had always understood. "You should not go without a gift of your own for Sinner's Revel either, practical or not. I will write of Slitherbough, aye - but of the Crystarium too. Amh Araeng as well, Il Mheg and Eulmore, everywhere that Matoya's companions have been. That way, my letters may serve as a road for any who might wish it. Anyone," he emphasized, tentatively setting his hands atop hers, the paws of his palms enveloping her slender fingers. "Even if only to send back news of their own."
He couldn't tell if he was making things worse. If - in his clumsiness - he would appear to be acting out of pity, smug in his safe haven of surety. If Lyna had already killed her own wish so thoroughly that any attempt at comfort would only be salt upon a wound that was still scarring. The Crystarium was a more complicated place than Slitherbough. Its people felt more complicated, with layers of obligation and expectation that went far beyond merely patrolling the village, and taking turns at weaving on the loom.
But Lyna's shoulders went slack as some of her tension began to seep away, and her lips parted as she made the faintest sigh.
"I would like that," she confessed.
Then the viis's mood lightened enough that she was able to lift her eyes at last, her mouth crooking with humor. "Though I fear that in order to accomplish this, you will have to make the trip from your village rather frequently, Master Runar. Else, I will need to send a scout every month simply to keep you properly updated. 'Tis a hard thing to ask of a Night's Blessed."
Runar offered her a smile with more confidence this time, squeezing her hands once in reassurance before letting go.
"I am more than happy to make the journey," he promised, and then patted the box expectantly. "It will make for good holidays for the both of us that way - and for the ones whom we love."