Passionfruit

[Destyn]

“Passionfruit”
25 Searing 124

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Sol’Valen was scary. Destyn hadn’t anticipated that it would be. He’d gone forth with few expectations at all, as he often did, which could make the realities of those outcomes feel abrupt and jarring. He didn’t know so very many elves, and he somehow subconsciously seemed to feel that Laurevere was the outlier and that Sivan was more the sort of elf he might expect to find in Sol’Valen. He’d met Sivan first, after all, which made him prototypical to Destyn’s mercurial, meandering mind. Instead, he found a lot of intimidating Laurevere types.

The Hytori of the motherland thereof were, at least, attuned with nature but, like nature, they could be aloof. The hard, rough, unyielding trunk of a tree was of nature, as was a rocky promontory and so were these elves. Destyn being Destyn, he found himself gravitating toward places less populated by more “civilised” creatures. Favouring the flora and fauna who kept to the woodlands, he explored this brand new biome with abiding interest. His people had kept to the vicinity of waterways and so, as if by instinct, he followed the flows visible via his cryptochrome vision and soon located a spot he quite liked that liked him back.

He would forage and bathe in this little glade, with its gentle waterfall flowing into a babbling brook with crunchy crayfish and cool clear water to drink and splash about in. He’d told his friends about it, fair dragged Torin there and Sivan had been happy to pop by when he wasn’t being fancy with Laurevere at court, but Laurevere had yet to accept his standing invitation. A point which frustrated Destyn enough that he was airing his grievances to a captive audience of waterlilies as he cooled his feet in their midst.

“Is dócha go bhfuil fuath aige dom…”

[Hekatos]

There was no telling how long he might have been there. The birds and the bees and the bugs and the trees were not telling. Perhaps they had colluded to betray him. Clearly, that meant he ought to eat all the nasty bugs and crunch them extra hard between his teeth. Even the spirits, and he was no summoner like Sivan, nor a Sembler like Torin who might mask his passage even to spirits.

"Carson a tha dragh ort dè a tha daoine eile a’ smaoineachadh ortsa, an deiseag-nathrach?"

And then there he was, the sun shining through spray from the waterfall behind him. The breeze pushed the flowers toward him as if they were in competition with the sunlight to caress him as he had sometimes let Destyn do.

He was too sharp for the soft grass and the warm breezes. His dark clothes slashed through the color like a rent in the air. Even his question, which might have been considered supportive from the right perspective was cast down like a knight's gauntlet, a challenge.

But for all that, he closed the last few paces between them, doffed his boots, rolled up his trews, and sat next to Destyn. Sleeves rolled up and tunic unlaces to let in the hot air, his witchmarks were visible. Of course, Destyn had seen them, but few did in the Kalzasern chill. His finger- and toenails were lacquered black, and it looked like his toes were balancing little pebbles of river rock under the water.

"I hope you are leaving some insects for the frogs. Mosquitoes, though, you are free to consume en masse."

Of course, this near to the city, there were wildflowers and other vectors introduced to drastically reduce those plants and animals considered pests by the elves.

[Destyn]

Destyn gasped at the sound of Laurevere's voice, his torso twisting until both hands were gripping the grass and wide eyes were looking up at him surprised, and taken with the figure he cut framed as he was by the landscape. He blushed awestruck and then bemused as Laurevere completed his thought. Destyn wrinkled his nose and frowned slightly, as if unsure whether he should be offended.

"Why do you call me a- Oh!" His eyes lit up and his body began to dance with peels of giggles. "Laureveeere! Where do you learn Vallasren? You speak a cooler dialect than we children of Summer. You mean, I think, to call me snáthaid mhór, not deiseag-nathrach. You have called me, you know, a 'ten-snake' which is, I think, silly."

Destyn scooted over, as if it was necessary to make space for the approaching elf.

"The frogs will not go hungry. I am no frog-starver." Destyn demurred, lifting a hand to tuck his hair behind ears that had been gradually elongating since his arrival in Sol'Valen. They were, by this point, moving past the half-elven norm and into what one might expect of a proper Hytori. If this was a conscious choice on Destyn's part, it was not one he'd mentioned to anyone. If one was truly paying attention, it might be noted that it was during his sleep that the bulk of the change was taking place. Even so, it was gradual enough that one wouldn't see it happening in real time unaided.

"I do not consume mosquitoes on moss. I take them off of the moss first, because the moss is very gentle and nice to sit on and not a mean wing needle like the mosquito. But mosquitoes are not filling, so I have to eat lots and lots of them and I still never get full. But there are water buggies here that are filling and tasty. They are like... I do not know the word in Common, but to me they are like wee gliomaigh. Do you want for me to find you some?"

[Hekatos]

If anything, Laurevere seemed unimpressed with the corrections to his language, but he merely nodded assent. He had used Valasren with the dragonfly for quite a while now, but as he was fairly sure most thoughts flitted around in that pretty head like dragonflies, he made no reciprocal corrections, but merely settled into his seat and took a moment to take in the loveliness of his fatherland.

"I already ate, thank you," he said with his cool politesse that could mean anything.

Glancing sidelong at the Fae, he shifted his weight away from Destyn so he could lift the nearer hand to run fingertips delicately along his new ears. Whatever he thought of the change, he didn't say. Positive or negative, he was always critical. And his fingers had been more intimate places, so apparently, he didn't feel the need to ask for consent to touch even if he gave no other indication of intimacy.

His hand fell back to where the soft grass gave way to softer moss, his gaze turning toward the water.

"Tronóridan must seem terribly tame to you."

Certainly, the dangers of the wild had been driven far away from the places where the elves dwelt. They hadn't been exterminated, nor truly bothered. Ancient agreements held, older than any elf left alive even if Ilixidor remained and wasn't just a contemporary bogeyelf.

[Destyn]

Destyn's mouth formed a little o and he nodded, seeming somewhat disappointed as his head oscillated slowly away and he looked to the lilies upon the water. He started to zone out as he eavesdropped upon an exchange between a patch of bankside grass and the gently bobbing lilies, but his back straightened abruptly at Laurevere's touch and his eyes went wide.

"Tronóridan? Is that someone that you have introduced to me?" He shifted his visage back toward the elf and tilted his head, quizzically. He had traveled through many places with many names to get here and did not recall which demesne he currently occupied. People who thought themselves civilised had entirely too many names for places, because they had strange concepts of property that still seemed alien to the extra-Ranseran lifeform that was this Fae. To him, it was useful to name places insofar as it helped people find one another, but things got entirely too intricate for his liking. How did people keep so much minutiae in their heads?

"You seem different here, I think, Laurevere. You are at your ease. Even now... when Sivan is out of your sight." He knitted his brow thoughtfully, "If you wished to stay here because it makes you happier, I think I could, you know, also dwell here. The buggies here are as yummy as those in the Northern Wilds and I have enough beacon stones, still, for the places important to me and also here if it is important to you." He nestled closer and let his head fall to Laurevere's shoulder and rest there as he regarded the water again. He was at his ease here, too, even if the foliage did seem a bit stuffier than he was accustomed to meeting.

"Are you in love with Sivan?" Destyn inquired abruptly and seemingly apropos of nothing.

[Hekatos]

"Silfanore is the capital of the principality of Tronóridan, which is one of the princedoms that make up Sol'Valen." His tone wasn't long-suffering, but it did telegraph saintly patience.

Laurevere truly didn't know why Destyn was so obsessed with him. Of course, it spoke well of his sense that he seemed drawn to even halfbreed Hytori like Sivan and him. Certainly, Sivan seemed to have helped him find a sort of equilibrium with Kalzasi if he wasn't going to travel as his lost clan had. If Laurevere mostly put up with Destyn and Torin for Sivan's benefit, well, he did see the value in them.

"What?!" he stiffened. "No!"

Quickly, he regained his aplomb. "No. I like to think I am a connoisseur of diamonds in the rough and those caught between two worlds. Sivan deserves better than the lot his father left him, and you... Well, if you ever find yourself imperiled in the environs of Silfanore, you can find succor at Istraoikos, the home of my father." He wasn't going to say that Destyn was a diamond in the rough, but noblesse oblige required he take care of his friend's friends. "I understand some of the difficulties Sivan suffers for being a halfbreed as I have suffered them myself, despite the difference in our stations. I feel it incumbent upon me to look out for him. That isn't in love. Who even does that? Besides, if I marry, it will be to a Hytori so whatever children I may have will bear less of the Siltori than I do.

"Why do you ask?" he asked, suddenly terribly grouchy. "And why would you want to be where I am? Anyway, it was convenient to travel with you. I will be returning to Kalzasi any day now, pursuant some financial questions that need answering."

[Destyn]

"Teehee!" Destyn giggled, "Princhypality is a silly word." And it had a silly meaning, to him. These people just named too many things, in his opinion. What was a capital even for?

Laurevere's reaction to what Destyn perceived to be an innocent question was so hyperbolic that the fae actually leapt up, splashing the elf and the plaintive lilies as he took to a wide-eyed hover over the brook. After assessing the scene and realising it had only been an uncharacteristic flap in the unflappable Laurevere, he alighted in the water.

"Sorry. You scared me." He noted, before returning to his seat. "I do not know what a cunny-sir is. I also do not know gemstones have to do with anything, but, so... You are not in love with him, but instead, you pity him? That is why you care so much and follow him everywhere and teach him and talk about him all the time and worry that he will be hurt if he does not listen to you and and and why you live almost with him?" Destyn seemed as baffled about the mention of marriage as he had been about the diamonds.

"Marriage is silly like princhypalities and cunny-sirs. I do not, you know, see what that has to do with being in love with someone." But still he pondered Laurevere's sentiment. "If you, you know, had babies with me they would have alos less Siltori than you do, because I am not a Siltori at all. Just so you know." He pouted at the crabby demeanour,

"I want to be where you are because I, you know, like you. I like how you are honest and brook no nonsense like an oak, and that you brood like a willow..." He reached up to touch a lock of his hair and flick it for effect. "I do not know why I like you. Maybe because most people I spend much time with are very nice to me and you are not. So when you are nice to me, it feels specialer. Also you are kind of scary."

[Hekatos]

It was easier for Laurevere to err on the side of didactic, so: "A principality is a realm ruled by a prince, just as one of your patriarchs or matriarchs rules your tribe. A diamond in the rough is a figure of speech... a metaphor... for a precious thing surrounded by unseemly... things. A diamond in dross. A pure pool in a mire. Metaphors express a concept more elegantly, more poetically than more and more words. A connoisseur is someone who knows a great deal about a thing."

He paused, considering whether he had answered all possible questions. If he often swatted at Destyn like a singing mosquito, he did rather like being looked up to for answers, even if he didn't seem to understand how the answers fit into the world. And he rather preferred being scary to most other things.

"Destynrael," he began, changing the subject, turning things back upon the fae, "do you desire to rebuild your family? Do you wish to be a patriarch—or matriarch—of a renewed Clan Dromlach’darach?"

Laurevere paid too much attention to bloodlines, perhaps, but nature renewed itself and so he didn't understand why Destyn didn't seem to see the renewal of his family as a priority. He owed it to them, to their memory.

"If so, shouldn't be find another fae'ethalan to do so? If not, what do you want? You abide in Kalzasi despite disliking it, presumably for Torin and Sivan. They come to Silfanore, you follow. Sometimes you go on strange adventures to Ecith—mind you, never travel to the Atraxian Expanse; the people there will seek to put you into the bondage of their dark godlings and controlling dragons—but you always come back to them. What do you want?"

[Destyn]

Destyn shook his head emphatically at the comparison drawn between princes and his clan leaders.

“No, no! They do not rule. To lead is not always to rule. You may lead me to a glade, but that does not make you my ruler. Our leaders are, you know, more guides than kings. We respect their wisdom, but owe them no… uh… what is the word for when a person worships another person as if they were a god? Filthy? Yes, I have heard this said that they swear filthy to their leadzh. We do not have this. We have, instead, love.” He shrugged one shoulder.

“I know, of course, what is a metaphor! My people use metaphors like yours breathe air! … but this is a simile, which we use in equal measure. I just, you know, did not know the meaning of this particular metaphor because I do not know what is ‘the rough’, but now you have told me and I do know. Thank you.” Destyn frowned, looking away from Laurevere. Staring at the gentle flow of water and the buggies that dances across the calmer stretches near the bank.

“I am not worthy of this. Can you imagine me as the -atriarch of anything? I do not know enough. So I go forth to different places and learn. I learn to earn and maybe one day be worthy, but not now. I will not make successors of a doomed tribe only to doom them, too, with my… stupidness is not the word, but close enough.” He looked on in uncharacteristic silence for a few moments, before looking to Laurevere with more curiosity than melancholy now in his eyes.

“What is The Attraction Spance? If I should not go there, why does it sound so pretty?”

[Hekatos]

It occurred to him that Fae'ethalan, if they were all like Destynrael, might truly not understand or need the feudal rule. Perhaps they would do better if their elders advised, while they were ruled by benevolent Hytori. Certainly, they had their place in the scheme of things, refugees from the Everwilds aping the noble shapes of his people—at least, more often than not. He wondered too if his seed, already mixed, might not improve Destyn's flowering whenever such a time came. No, he didn't think he would ever love someone. If he married, it would likely be for political purpose and with an eye to purifying his own blood. But he supposed he could donate that much of himself to Destyn's future happiness.

After all, Sivan loved him much like... Well, the simile of fraternity wasn't quite right as Laurevere was well aware that Sivan found the prolix fairy comely.

"Do you love Sivan?" he asked. "Do you only satiate his desires to pull me into them?"

Ah, but Destyn had asked a question.

"The Atraxian Expanse is a desert in Ecith. A race of fallen elves and uppity dragons make their home in a volcano and along a river there. They will lead you astray, you who might one day lead. Do you want to be where I am because you think you can learn from me?"

That was understandable, and somewhat flattering, as well.