Leonora huffed and puffed as she dragged her legs up the flight of stairs leading up the hill. Right foot, left foot. Inhale, exhale. The Hall of Prayers loomed overhead, watchfully patient, sternly stonefaced, waiting at the top. A grand structure, no less, and the most majestic in all Mysidia; he was like a king of magic, a sleeping giant, a dreamer of spells and histories. He was three stories of sandstone, home to the prayer dais, the library, and the offices of the government. The hill, bright green with grass and littered with daffodils, served as his natural throne. The Ancients had painted a pattern of rune-like rectangles along the base of his first floor in lines of blue, green, and violet. Above the entrance hung the proud emblem of Mysidia. Marvelous, magical, yes! But really, did there have to be so many stairs?
Iyas walked easily at her side, the tall man that he was, thick skinned and big footed, a spire of a white mage. When he did not wear his chalk white, red-bordered robes, the villagers mistook him for a (portly) knight of Baron; so, religiously he wore them, as he did on this day, no matter the weather or how they figured into his wardrobe. His wavy, blond hair, his oval face, and his long, rounded nose made most believe he was related to Miss Sterling, the Sage-to-be. In truth, his family was descended of migrants from Agart, who had taken interest in the smithing of paladin swords, their short statures attesting to their heritage. Though he was, by far, the tallest of the family, and the only white mage among blacksmiths, they loved him, by far, the absolute most, for he was their youngest, gentlest, sweetest baby.
Certainly, often, she enjoyed his company, but at this very moment, Leonora could not help but feel a little bitter. She was slowing him down and she knew it full well. His each step was taken after careful deliberation, an obvious, courteous, stalling of time, though he made no mention of it. Slowly, he lifted his foot. Steadily, he set his foot on the next stair. Oh, why did she have to be so short? His eyes followed her movements, calculating when next he should advance. She had caught him glancing more than once, and, in response, he mustered a sudden and clumsy smile, turning his eyes forward as if she had not looked at him exasperatedly.
Pretending he hadn't noticed, he carried the conversation. "He won't bring it up, though."
"Oh?" Right foot, left foot. Inhale, exhale. "What makes you say that?"
"Leonora, he practically scuttered off as soon as you looked at him. The man's a coward."
"That man," said Leonora as she climbed the very last stair, "petrified himself to save my life, you know. Willingly. Plus, look who it is, drawing water at the well~!"
His eyes darted around anxiously as he bit his lip. A white mage stood just out of earshot, turning the pulley that lifted a bucket full of water from the dark depths of a well. Iyas watched quietly, intensely, severely. His face turned a blotchy, beet red. As the white mage struggled, her hood fell undone, revealing an arm-long set of thick, auburn ringlets. Iyas frowned and raised an eyebrow in way of Leonora.
Quite pleased with herself, Leonora giggled. "Just kidding!" Grabbing his arm, she leaned against him, as though he were a sturdy pole. He didn't even budge! "No, your sweet love, I wager, is already in her office."
"Leonora, please. We're having a serious conversation."
"Spoil sport! You worry too much."
"You don't worry enough," hissed Iyas. "Leonora, if he heard what you said to your - er - flower friend, and he said nothing to comfort you, then he's a coward and you ought not bother with him. Besides." He leaned in, their foreheads almost touching, his green eyes as sharp as a knife. His voice lowered to a whisper. "He's your teacher! You're playing a dangerous game."
She knew, on some level, that he was right. A professional relationship ought to remain professional. Boundaries mattered, especially to Lord Elder. He had a political reputation to maintain and political responsibilities to shoulder. He did not have time for Little Leah the Invisible Girl. He had only the time to teach Leonora the Apprentice. She was a responsibility, nothing more, nothing less. A schedule to keep. A person on paper.
But, then, she remembered the way he smiled. The private smile. His eyes cast away. The blush dusting his cheeks. Her heart hopped and skipped and did a little dance of Hope. Maybe, just maybe, he had seen her. He had been listening to her and Camellia, hadn't he? Most people didn't know what to do in the face of Great Sorrow. He'd seen hers, she knew, because he'd been standing there. He had even invited her to dinner that she not be so Lonely. Iyas hadn't seen that dreamy look in Palom's eyes. Iyas hadn't seen the little, rosy specs of love dusted about his cheeks. There was Hope, her heart whispered to the winds. He had given her an Inch.
An Inch of Love.
It was all she had ever wanted.
"I'm not playing a game," she said softly. She had wanted to smile; she hadn't wanted him to worry. It bloomed from her lips meekly, weakly, a half of a quarter moon. "You know how I've felt these past two years. I-I won't bother him. I just really think there's something there this time. For once, you know? Something. A real something."
"Leonora…" His countenance softened. There was a crease in his brow and a plea in his eyes. "Promise me you won't do anything reckless."
"I won't push myself where I don't fit." She pulled away and rubbed her palms. She knew herself to be a reckless woman, but she could not allow herself to worry him. She felt his eyes on her head, bloated with concern, wibbling with kindness. "I won't force myself on him," she promised. "I don't need him to love me back."
No one really needed love, after all. A person could live all by themselves in a sea of people. Distant friends. No relatives. That was just the life of some folk. The Way of Things. They could live on the kindness of strangers and the courtesy of acquaintances. They could whisper their secrets to the wind. They didn't need love to enjoy the chirp of a robin or the warmth of the sun. They didn't need love to cherish the fragrance of a daffodil or the song of the rain. A loveless life could be lived on miracles and moments like that - and on memories. Snippets of a happier time, like scattered dreams. Faded smiles and echoes of laughter. She painted her present with the colors of those dreams. She had survived lovelessness. She didn't need him to love her.
But it had been a nice dream, hadn't it? A smile for her. The Invisible Girl.
"Then I won't press the matter further," said Iyas. "Come, let's get inside. He'll scold you if you're late, hm?"
She nodded and followed him through the entrance. The Hall of Prayers bustled with duties and schedules and shuffling feet. Midday always saw a rush like this. Mages swept the floor and organized bookshelves. Children dragged themselves to class in the basement. Most of the people walking about knew who she was and waved eagerly; and she knew each by name and hand and smile, for she had played confidant to many a gossip. They trusted her, Miss Sage-to-be. To them, she was a generous well of love and compassion. They could see in her eyes that she wanted to understand. She opened her heart to them, letting them dispense in her their doubts, fears and bitternesses. That which made them vulnerable. That which they wanted to forget. They dropped their insecurities in the malleable soils of her soul.
It was a place they could grow their hearts. A place to bask in the breath-taking comfort of acceptance. A place where seeds of bitterness sprouted into roses of courage for them to pluck and carry off with them. They knew full well that she loved them. Unquestionably. It was the way she held their hearts, she figured. She had soft hands. They could feel the love in the softness.
So Leonora waved to Nudar as the black mage watered the potted plants attentively. (She was a very focused woman, and quite astute!) She bobbed her head in way of Coran and Hibah as they shuffled across the hall. (Quite the sweethearts, individually and collectively!) Mu'in and Fiona crossed paths, but both noticed her and flashed greeting smiles of infinite approval. (Where he had the charisma of a star, hers was that of the Moon!) Even the former Lord Elder, as he made his way to the prayer chamber down the hall, flashed her a knowing smile, a good wish between every one of his teeth. (No one said it was a very majestic smile.)
As they ascended to the second floor and reached the corridor leading to the library, Iyas turned to Leonora once more. His gaze hovered over her, flicked from her head to her satchel to her wiggling toes, his brow knitted with what-could-go-wrongs.
"I'll be fine," Leonora said gently, patting his arm. "You go attend your lady love."
His lips twisted up, then, and his ears turned pink. She could not help but giggle as he scoffed, "She barely even knows I exist. I doubt she'll realize I was late the one time." Releasing a sigh, his shoulders slouching, he mustered up a smile and mussed her hair. "Take care of yourself, alright? You promised."
"I did," chuckled Leonora. "Now get you gone! Shoo!"
He smiled something genuine, satisfied with her energy, and turned away. He had much work to do, being the assistant of the Lady Elder, as she was a punctual woman, disciplined and diligent and always busy. In all likelihood, she was already scribbling notes in her office and setting straight her stately affairs. It must have been exhausting, having a crush on his superior, even if she was younger than him in age by three years.
As he began to leave, and as, step by step, the distance grew between them, her heart grew cold and heavy. He approached a group of mages who stood by the door to the prayer dais, among them Mu'in and Teutas, his childhood friends. His expression blossomed into color: red lips for glad tidings; emerald eyes for excitement; pink cheeks for genuine interest. His hood had fallen to his shoulders, but he didn't seem much to mind. There was a rhythm in his parlance, a charisma, a whole life packed into a string of smooth lyrics-for-words. He was no longer severe and sincere or overly concerned with Formalities. It was as though he had walked from a black, white and grey conversation into a bright and shiny world of Real Friends.
Leonora sucked in her breath, hoping the heat would pour into her chest and melt the bit of ice sitting at its base. Warmth is a vulnerable, tender thing; the cold can sap its life at the merest touch. Suddenly, her mind went crisp and pointed with icicle thoughts. She was heavy with the nothing of air, and a layer of frost grew over the walls of her heart.
She and Iyas only spoke once a week. They were not especially close friends. From time to time, they would merely exchange secrets, in the way that it felt more natural to confide in a stranger than one's own brother. Once a week, he told her about his insecurities and indecision. Unmanly things that he couldn't tell the manlier mages. About Porom. About his family. About his place in society. Occasionally, maybe bi-weekly, maybe monthly, she would whisper in his ear about Lord Elder and how she pined for him. It seemed like a fair trade, anyway. She didn't mind it. She knew herself to be a useful ear. It was the least she could do for the kindness of his company. He was a charitable person, really. He had a kind heart. A white mage heart.
She let out a cold, little breath. The chunk of ice in her chest pierced the warm flesh of her blood pumping core like a hundred sewing needles. He was a good person. He was kind and sympathetic. He was in the business of healing, after all. She would see him next week same time, same place. She didn't have to be a Real Friend. It was nice just knowing him, really. She was lucky they had ever met. With a little swallow, she proceeded into the library, pondering whether the world had grown three sizes bigger within the span of an instant or she had simply shrunken three sizes smaller.
Palom stood solemnly at the front of their usual table by the windows. Sunlight poured through the aisles, illuminating the dust motes that danced to the songs of old wisdom. Their shadows made no shapes on the marble floor or its vine bordered tiles. The aisle in which Palom waited was narrow, or maybe the bookshelves towered high; but these were the staple novelties of the library in all its grandeur. Unusual, on the other hand, was Lord Elder's choice of seating. When Leonora seated herself at the table, Palom sat across from her. Not beside her, where, arguably, it would be easier to teach.
"Good morning," she hummed innocently. "I hope you slept well."
That frown of his stayed stuck on his face, but he did look spry. His fingers drummed restlessly on the table and his hair, chestnut with a kiss of white-blue snow, shined bright. His gaze lingered somewhere over the top of her head and between the spines of the books behind her. He must have been thinking of complicated magical theories or lesson plan outlines. Mentor-Prodigy Things. When she cleared her throat, he twitched and sat back in his seat. His eyes met hers. Violet. Like royal silks or a shade of twilight. Dreams of a bouncing, boasting boy hopped and skipped in that Field of Violets. He blinked; she woke up. Blushing darkly, biting her lip, she turned her eyes quickly to her satchel, beginning to rummage through it.
"I'm a little groggy, actually," he sighed, rubbing fingers in his shut eyelids. The way his fingers, long and rough, moved so carelessly! It was Kinda Cute. His ears glowed red, too - maybe from sitting too long in the sunlight. He glanced up at her. "Stayed up late last night."
"Doing... what, exactly?"
"Staring at the ceiling," he said flatly. He drew a notebook from his satchel and began flipping through it. Focus ironed the creases out of his countenance, giving it the stiff-crisp look of a freshly pressed shirt. "Anyway, did you have the chance to read what I asked of you?"
"Huh? O-Oh…" She, too, drew her notes from her satchel, and the pair of books she had taken home the other night. Her toe, under the table, touched something warm and soft. Cottony, she thought, which was nice. A little, lucky toe-warmer with a nice, squishy feel. When she looked back at Palom, her notes assembled and organized, he had been staring at her, eyes wide, tomato red, his scowl cutting deeper than a swear word.
"Leonora," he said slowly, "that's my leg."
She squinted. That was a little disjoin… Gasp! "Holy Hera!" Her leg jerked away. Hellfire flashed across her face, leaving in its wake crimson brands of shame in bright, bold blotches. "I'm - I'm sorry! I didn't - I hadn't - I'm really, truly sorry…"
He rubbed his cheek, a sheepish disdain twisting up his lips. "You ought to watch where you put that thing. If I were a filthier man, I'd think you were trying to play footsie."
Filthier man. Yeah, okay. For a toe tap of all things. Maybe he had a thing for feet, deep down. But, too quickly, he looked away, busy in recalling plans for the lesson, not seeing the incredulous lift of her eyebrow. He turned his book around, then, so that she could see what he had written in the margins. Yes, that handwriting was definitely his. Miniature ink blots, like an ant had crapped across the page. She stifled a giggle.
"Well~... Maybe I am."
The grin on her lips belonged solely and privately to her. She had not bothered to glance up at him because, well, she was (unfortunately) convinced this was merely a thought echoing across the quiet of her mind.
"Watch yourself, Leonora."
A sword-sharp command. It sliced her smile to ribbons. She slouched in her chair with a lump in her throat.
"There, see?" he said. "I marked this because the author is canonly stated as anonymous, though there has been a lot of evidence suggesting that the Great Sage Minh wrote this. But I'm thinking…" He opened another page. "Minh didn't live during this time. He'd have to be half a god to have lived into the next century, right? Most people say he was endowed with magic and lived to be two hundred years, but he's the only Mysidian ever recorded to have lived that long. So, what I'm saying is... what if it was written by Sage Dracul, his successor?"
"Why?" Leonora scratched her neck. "They're... a hundred years apart."
"But look at the style. It shares a lot of similarities with Dracul and there're too many allusions to the Great Chronicle for it to be Minh."
"Well, I don't think it was Minh, either…" Leonora pulled fingers through her bangs, leaning forward, hovering over the book. "No, you see here? This mask metaphor is referenced in all five stanzas of the incantation. The last one is subtle, but it doesn't just drop off like the interpreter suggested. So… I think it's linked to the ancient cult worship of Asura, back in Eblan."
He blinked, then turned the book around and followed the words with his finger. His eyes darted quickly over the pages, alive with the hungry light of curiosity. A half smirk crossed his lips as he leaned forward to reread. "That's an interesting thought, actually…"
The toe of his boot touched her calve. There was no way he could have felt it. Well, maybe. She couldn't feel for him. She sat quietly, hot faced, heart pounding, wondering if she should speak up. An undeniable spark skipped around her bones and kissed her flesh with warmth. He bit his lip; she grew weak in the knees. Gods! Had the temperature suddenly risen? Thump, thump, thump. When her legs trembled, she crossed them, as though this would tell the heat in her blood to calm-the-fuck-down-please.
"I totally see it." There was a lilt of approval in his voice. He was especially pleased with this, the way he quickly scribbled something in the margin of his notebook. Her gaze dropped to the table as she listened to him. "Those runes from the other day? I think they're a part of this incantation. Which would mean we've finally deciphered the meaning behind them, in which case we ought to return them to Eblan… Leonora?"
Their eyes met. She swallowed. "Yeah?"
"You alright there?" Blush dusted his cheeks. The sunlight left no room for doubt.
"Y-Yeah…"
A little voice in her head wiggled and whined. She should say something! He had stopped by her house the day before, hadn't he? And he had laughed, loud and rolling, as he ran off. Same old Palom. Cricket catching champion. Darer of Dreams. The boy who sang of the Elements and shouted curses at the street vendors for no real reason. He would love it if she said something! He was still Palom Tuma, after all. Still her childhood buddy (that she had a teensy crush on). The worst he could do was to say no. Things didn't have to get weird, did they? They were just friends! Real Friends.
"Leonora?" He cocked an eyebrow. His toe touched her calve.
She sucked in her breath. "Actually, there was something significant on my agenda. An important question that may require a little soul-searching, Lord Elder."
"Palom," he corrected her.
"Hear me out, Palom. Hear me out." She swallowed and sat up taller. Her fingers wound a coil of blonde behind her ear. Her face went stiff with Resolve. "We have been friends since we were little babies, right?"
"I was five, you were seven. Go on."
"Yes, well. That's kind of an old friendship, right?"
He sighed, but his frown eased up and he rested his chin in his palm."Yeah, sure. If you count the gap of eight years you went missing."
"Studying in Troia." She wondered if she really should Go On. He sounded a little tired and a little unimpressed. Her heart deflated. Maybe he wouldn't want to swing by after all. But she was in too deep and she had to save face. Somehow. "So, you know, I was wondering… if, I don't know, maybe you would want to stop by my place sometime?"
"Huh?" He sat up, too. His eyes were wide. The color drained from his face. "You mean… hang out? At your place?"
"Well. I mean." She wasn't sure where she was going with this. "You visited me already, so. The other day. And that was as a friend. We don't have to be professional all the time. We did fight on the Moon together."
And you tried your very best to protect me.
"I don't know." But he wanted to. She could see it in the worries that creased his brow. In the doubts that sealed his lip shut. In the shadows that crossed his face. He had always been so busy. They had drifted apart in the past two years. Maybe he felt guilty about it. Maybe he was worried about gossip. Oh, but he spoke up, and in a small, soft, self-reflective voice, said, "I mean, we did fight on the Moon together."
"And I'm an excellent dancer," she cooed. "You would be entertained."
This had nothing to do with anything, which was why his lashes fluttered as he tried to make sense of it. After a moment drifted by, he gave a breathy snort and waved his hand.
"Glad to know you followed your calling. I told you it was a good idea."
Back at the Queen's Bounty, he had. After that amazing dance. Well, amazing was such a trivial word and didn't quite encompass the experience, the phenomenon, the universe, that was unfolding around them. Oh, how they swayed! A sweltering heat seared in her blood and electricity pounded in her little-flower-heart! She could still practically smell the alcohol on her breath and his. The heat from the torches and the rhythm of the music all pulsed in her blood, as quick and true as their steps from that night. It had been a rush, swaying at his side, the energy of the room as infectious as a best friend's laugh.
They stared at each other for a good, long minute. Leonora giggled and flapped her hand. Palom snickered and leaned his elbows on the table.
Suddenly, it wasn't so hard to remember that they had ever been friends. Suddenly, it didn't matter that it had been eons ago since they had laughed like this together. She could feel the way their lives had been entwined since the days of childhood. Her laugh twirled around his, like a silver ribbon in a girl's thick, black hair. The echo of his rang in her ears, filling the vessel of her mind with the sheer sound of him. Her heart skipped a beat. It had never been so easy to be happy before. Maybe that was what being around Real Friends (and a teensy crush) was about.
"Anyway," said Palom, settling down, "I'll take a look at the runes again tonight. So, what else? Is there something in the reading that concerned you at all?"
Her heart sank. He hadn't answered the question. Dignified it with a vague response, more like, then sauntered on. To her, it sounded like a big, silently implied N-O, and when she looked up, he looked intensely relieved, as though the transition were natural. He must have thought she had forgotten. His face started to stiffen with Mentor-Prodigy Thoughts. The brick walls of professionalism shot up between them. She was the apprentice again.
"The stories of the Eidolons were inconsistent," said Leonora lazily. "I mean, with what people believe today. They were talked about as though they themselves were the Elements. I don't know, I found that to be interesting…"
"You mean like Shiva as the Queen of Ice? Well, yeah. The Eidolons were first described by the Callers of Mist."
"Right."
"So they aren't described with the same cultural lens as ours." He flipped through some pages, his eyes sharp and focused. "You'll recall the way Rydia talks about the Eidolons. I mean, she's the last Caller left, so…"
"Except for Cuore."
"She's an alien," he spat. His toe drew away from her calve. "You know what I meant."
"I know." No sense in correcting the man. It was an unnecessary digression, anyway.
Her eyes drifted out the window as she waited for him to decide on a page. He could be like this, sometimes: unorganized but casual about it, as though trying to make her forget that he should have thought about this beforehand. She contented herself in listening to him murmur about This Theory and That Fallacy. It was nice to hear him talk to himself. Like he was excited. Like he had so many Thoughts that he didn't know where to put them all. Sometimes, she would even catch a half of a word, or the slice of an argument. Yes-no. Black-fire. Min-Wu. He wandered through a maze of magical theories, not lost, perpetually finding. So, when she listened to him murmur, even when she could not tell exactly what he was saying, her heart inflated like a balloon and drifted out the window. The rosy fingers of Dawn left splotchy prints on her cheeks.
She could content herself in these little moments. She had been for two years. He wanted distance and professionalism. He was committed to his role as Lord Elder. She didn't need him to love her. They didn't even have to be Real Friends. It was nice to just sit by him, really. To listen to clink of his pendent as he moved.
"Okay," he said.
"Okay?"
"Yeah." He shut the book, his eyes averted. There was something shy about his frown. Like he was regretting having said it, but had too much pride to lie. Or maybe he'd known, somewhere, that she'd be able to catch the lie in her net of knowing. Finally, he lifted his gaze. The creases in his brow disappeared. His soul shivered in his pupils. "I'll go."
It was like the moment had spontaneously transformed. It was like she had walked from a conversation of black, white and grey into a world of Real Friends. She sat up and the library burst into bright and shiny colors. Red velvet book covers, living-and-growing mahogany, golden-starry words! She could feel her lips blossom into an easy, pink smile. She exuded all the daring and charisma of a Troian queen. Leaning forward, she grinned something mischievous. "Tonight? I'll cook dinner. Your favorite! That chilli of pulses that you like so much. And we'll talk theory. And childhood."
"Y-Yeah." His smile was small but soft. And gentle. Like the wings of a dove. His voice dropped to barely a whisper, but she had heard it loud and clear, like a brass bell. "I'd like that."
