Remnants of the Earth

   It was always too late. By Fortune or fate or whatever streak of dumb, awful terrible luck that ruled the timeline of his life, it was always too late. It was too late to keep his brothers alive. It was too late to keep his Commander alive. It was too late to keep Adal in the game and it was too late to keep Raz from getting hurt and it was too late—

   There was nothing that could have been done about it. And that was the background radiation of his life, wasn’t it? Even if he’d known, even if he’d been there, even if all the dice rolled seven, and all the coins had fallen right side up, there was nothing that could have been done about it. Yavul wasn’t a fleet commander with a hundred space ships. He wasn’t some kind of mage. He wasn’t capable of twisting the fabric of time, he wasn’t capable of reaching up into the sky itself and pulling it all down.

   Lucky him, though. The sky was already falling, anyway.

   ”Look the red dot just north by northwest of Amristah, Coyote Man, that’s where you’ll find me. Don’t worry. I’m going up just for a few. I’ll be back before you know it.”

   Yavul looked up from where he stood on Valhalla’s roof, panting hard against the tightness in his chest, blinking hard against the burning in his eyes as his vision swam, making it harder and harder to keep north by northwest in his sights. Seeing a red dot in all of that was a futility. Keeping the burning in his eyes from overflowing was a futility. Each breath came out harder, harsher, more ragged than the last, and no matter how much he tried, Yavul couldn’t keep the sobs from coming.

   It was always too late.

   Whatever fleeting peace Yavul was afforded was always paid for in miles of Too Late, and he’d had it so, so good for too, too long. He should have known better than to expect it to last. Should have known better than to think what happened to Neeko would be the worst of it. Should have known better than to think the winds had finally stopped pushing the sand dunes higher and higher over his head. He’d gotten cocky. He’d gotten happy. He’d gotten hopeful. He’d genuinely believed that Luck had finally decided to show a little mercy, that Fortune had decided to make a little allowance on his behalf, and that maybe he’d paid enough dues to warrant not having to face the rest of what fate had in store alone.

   ”Don’t worry. I’m going up just for a few. I’ll be back before you know it.”

   Except he wouldn’t. It had taken days for the news to even reach Yavul. Distantly, he remembered the string of texts he’d sent Grisham between now and when he left Solarta. How they’d started off the usual way and then grew more and more unsure the longer silence hung between them. It was laughable, really, how quickly self doubt had snuck in. Yavul blinked hard, sniffed harder, and pulled his comm from his pocket just in time to push the icon denoting Bluebell’s name to the left, ignoring the call and instead pulling up his message history.

   

   Sunday 21:34 Miss you already darlin
   Sunday 21:36 Gonna be hittin th hay soon. Can’t imagine why I’d be this worn out LOL. I love you, I’ll talk t you tomorrow.
   Monday 09:56 You’re probably all suited up an ready t go but wishin you some Luck anyway. I’ll keep an eye on that red dot a yours til you get back again
   Monday 17:09 One hell of a mission were it?
   Monday 20:24 Hope you’re gettin some proper rest in, can’t both of us be shamblin messes now. LOL Night, Dyna. <3
   Tuesday 09:17 Y’all ain’t still up there are you? We’re gonna be hittin th sands for a little critter control, figure I can at least send up some scorpion steaks for you for dinner if you like. We’re headin out top a th hour so let me know before then if you want any.
   Tuesday 10:00 Goin silent. Be back later.
   Tuesday 18:26 Swear t both th gods if I’m sendin this shit wrong an some poor bastard is pickin up all these messages instead I’m just gonna swear off tech forever an farm mud.
   Tuesday 21:34 Did I do somethin t make you angry? Was it th brandy? Whatever I done t upset you, I swear I never meant to. Talk to me? Please?
   

   To think Fortune would be so simple as to have it all be over brandy. That had been a genuine fear, too. That somehow trying to keep up with a stupid bet had somehow insulted Grisham and that Grisham was somehow petty enough to give him the cold shoulder over it. It was shameful, really, and now that Yavul knew the truth of it, he felt even more ashamed.

   ‘The truth of it.’

   The truth of it was, Grisham had never gotten those texts. The truth of it was, Grisham probably never would. The tightness in Yavul’s chest turned to a vice, and his blood felt chilled even in the hot afternoon air. One last time, he tried to look up to the sky, beyond the shielding glass of the dome and beyond north by northwest, beyond that red dot and daring to hope one last time that he might see anything other than brown, smogging emptiness.

   The truth of it was, there was nothing there to see.

   Something flickered beyond his blurred vision, and the fingers in Yavul’s flesh hand twitched and spasmed. The muscles tensed with every little jolt of energetic pain, but such was the severity of the rest of it Yavul didn’t even notice. Everything hurt, what was one more? He sucked in air that refused to fill his lungs, and shuddered in horror to think this was how Grisham felt. Panicked and breathless and far lost in the emptiness of everything. Yavul’s shoulders shook as the spasms rocketed up his arms, arcing between metal and flesh and stinging in places as every last bit of control was robbed of him.

   It was always too late. And there was always nothing he could have done. All that was ever left was the moments after, and where any other point in time Yavul had managed to bite down on his grief and carry on, this…

   This was too much. The thought that Grisham would never come home, the thought that he’d never get to speak to him again, see him again, watch him get grumpy-grunty over being pranked again, never get in another mud fight and never—

   This was too much. Yavul sucked in another breath, dropped to his knees, and this time didn’t try to hold it back as the breath left. His throat burned, his chest ached, but every breath in left in a scream— long, howling agonies yelled to the dometop as the arcing between his hands sparked out of control and thundered skywards. The hot white lines of lightning cracked uselessly against the glass, wild and rageful against the still spring air. Yavul shut his eyes tight— even if he wanted to keep them open, even if he wanted to face the blinding thunderstorm of his own generation, the tears were in full force now and no manner of willpower could keep them from spilling over.

   Yavul had spent all of his willpower getting up to the roof, after all, and now it was all he could do not to get caught up in his own storm. It was all he could do to convince himself not to let himself get caught up in it. Something sparked and popped and exploded close by, and his flesh hand spasmed again, though something else kept his hand from moving quite the way it wanted to.

   It would only be after he had no spark left to expel that he’d realize his comm had exploded in his hand, and the something that had prevented his hand from moving was a piece of shrapnel in his palm. But even then, he wondered if he really even cared. Blood pooled against the fabric of his uniform pants, staining the thigh a deep, darkening burgundy. He really needed to get up, to get to medical, to take care of this mess before it got worse. He knew he needed to, and yet no manner of knowing made his muscles respond. What did it really matter, anyhow? He wouldn’t die from this— he’d taken far worse and had little more than scars to show for it. This would just be yet another one in a long line of injuries, as Fortune had decreed, and he’d just march along bloodsoaked and battered the same as always.

   So what was the harm? What did it matter? The crackling energy gave one final blue-white arc between his metal fingers before finally fizzling out, the mechanical limb clicking in warning that he was, indeed, out of ammo. Down to reserve batteries, the little potato clock that was the human body, and nothing else. No lightning. No screaming. No tears.

   There was just nothing left.

{NAME}
Dante DeRath

{ALIASES}
“Mittens” online.

{AGE}
30

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, yes.

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Your friendly neighborhood weretiger Libran.

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’, strong build.

{OCCUPATION}
Co-owner of a nightclub with his bruha. They trade off who has to suffer the door or the bar.

{RESIDENCE}
Libra station



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}

• Big boy; while not exactly a brick house, Dante isn’t small, either. Standing tall and with a solid layer of muscle to him, there’s a very real expectation that if someone were to pick a fight with him, there is no guarantee that someone will win. His shoulders and arms are well defined, giving him a decent silhouette  even if he’s getting a bit of a tummy. He’d like to rock a six pack that could cut glass, but any and all efforts have failed, and he’s not about to crash diet himself into oblivion over it.
• Being stuck on a station means his tan isn’t as dark as it could be, and his shock of strawberry blonde hair might become a little more golden in direct sunlight. But, che sera sera, he still thinks he looks pretty damn good. His facial hair is a little bit darker, with Dante sporting golden brown brows, sideburns and one messy proto beard scruff. Otherwise, he shares his brother’s lively blue eyes, and similarly can seem just this side of feral. 
• Casual attire means casual; He does not like dressing up for any occasion. Tshirts and jeans or bust, and he’ll often wear his pants into dust before finally throwing them away. He’s actually gotten really good at fixing minor tears.

{PERSONALITY}

• He really goes too far in either direction; he’s got a temper, he’s a bit territorial, and he’ll posture until the goddamn cows come home. But he’ll fall right back into jovial asshattery, equally quick to laugh as he is to throw a punch.
• Has a severe problem with authority, and doesn’t often listen to anyone telling him what to do if their reasoning is “Because I told you”. He wants a genuine reason, or else he’s just going to keep doing his own thing and you can deal with it.
• Preeeetty irresponsible as a result. He’s really not the first person you’d ever entrust something important to, because he does have a tendency to flake if the mood strikes him. At least he’s up front about it? Question mark?

Fun Facts!:

• Tries to avoid going “full tiger” as much as possible. He has a harder time controlling the wild side of him then, and that’s saying something. Plus, he doesn’t think he looks *nearly* so handsome that way.
• Likes picking fights and the angry makeouts that follow.
• tba.
• tba.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Weretiger things! Can transform in between, but strongly prefers his more humanoid forms. Still, he retains acute sight, smell and hearing throughout.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
Sin, his older brother and coworker.

{HISTORY}
TBA

{NAME}
Meztli Veleyn Atl

{ALIASES}
“Cheshire” for work, “VIISwords” online, Mezzo in general. “Mezzothelioma” by certain long-suffering coworkers.

{AGE}
Old enough to know better. (He’s like, 270.)

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, something something who knows. Very promiscuous.

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Half-Starstrider Elf, Half-something somewhat sinister. Looks close enough to House Archernar so that’s what he goes with.

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’4”, lean but strong.

{OCCUPATION}
Dirty, rotten scoundrel. Also officially a “runner”.

{RESIDENCE}
Bathtubs and broom closets! Or, idk, somewhere, he’s always somewhere man.



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Tall, lean and slinky, with some musculature around his shoulders and arms for getting up into overhead ventilation ducts. He’s just a little bit “off” in comparison to rest of his elven kind, most noticeably his hair, which has a habit of moving like it’s underwater rather than in open air.

He’s usually in relatively unassuming casual clothing: white or pale grey tshirts, well-worn jeans, and ankle-high boots. When he wears jewelry, it’s usually small and silver in color.

{PERSONALITY}
His bibi would be very disappointed in him. Or maybe his opo. Or maybe both!

Sneaky, mischievous, humorous, and somewhere between completely idiotic and an evil genius. He has a talent for getting into places he shouldn’t be, and making himself right at home while he’s there. Count the silverware, there’s no guarantee all the pieces will still be there when he’s done.

That being said, when he cares for someone, he cares. He may not show it in the… traditional sense, in that he’ll never stop being his snarky insincere self and you’ll genuinely question his methods, but if he really cares about you there is nothing he won’t do for you.

Fun Facts!:

• Likes playing the RotE equivalent of “Kwazy Cupcakes”. He doesn’t have a problem, shut up, he can quit any time he wants.
• Is full of alarming and you hope useless information about getting out of tight spots. Like how to escape ziptie handcuffs, how to escape being buried alive, etc..
• Has something of an… oral fixation. Take that as you will. You’re probably right.
• Has been handcuffed to various bits of furniture more times than he can count. Not always been worth it.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Mezzo has the distinct talent of using water and shadow as a “wormhole”, either submerging himself in one body of water to reappear in another, or similarly so with suitably dark spaces. Closets and the dark spaces under your bed are the best. Water’s just comforting.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
Mezzo never knew his family, and that particular hole in his life has been a struggle to fill.

Crowe - Coworker, and honestly his favorite target for silly prankster antics.

Atashi - Co-conspirator for said silly prankster antics.

Sera - BOSS MAN, DUHNUHNUHNUHNUHNUHN UH!

Nall - Coworker/contact, but also someone Mezzo considers to be a close friend.

Levi - Nall’s child and someone who Mezzo considers to be his very own nephew. And he always has time to read Levi a bedtime story.

Lisabete - Younger half-sister and partner in professional crime. And goofball prank crime. So many crime.

{HISTORY}
The usual sad story of an orphan who ended up being kind of an asshole.

{NAME}
Athaliah Amyntas Ciel

{ALIASES}
“Lye”, “Mint”

{AGE}
273

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, Pansexual, and a huge flirt.

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Starstrider elf, House Archernar. Though he’s often mistaken for Procyon.

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’4”, slim

{OCCUPATION}
Funerary Specialist - he runs the kilns all day.

{RESIDENCE}
Ryun, Aedolis



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Slender, long, and hauntingly pale, Lye definitely sticks out in a crowd. With snow-white hair and ghostly pale skin that seems just this side of translucent in the right light, it’s easy to mistake him for one of his Procyon cousins, save for his eyes. He has several tattoos along his neck and collarbone, all featuring skulls and bones. To add to his macabre sense of style are the multiple reliquaries he wears, those containing the members of his family that have passed over the centuries.
{PERSONALITY}
Cheeky, flirtatious, playful and with a seriously bleak sense of humor. Lye doesn’t really take… anything seriously. He genuinely has to; working as closely as he does with the dead, he’s all too aware that despite their longevity, life is just as fragile for his kind as it is anyone else’s. So why waste time worrying over every little thing?

Fun Facts!:

• Constantly reeks of citrus. Has lemon-infused soaps and everything, because the alternative is unspeakable.
• Takes his meat rare or raw whenever possible. Charred food makes him gag.
• Spends every weekend at the choir. Mostly favors the spa segment, but he’ll wander upstairs pretty often.
• Really loves playing skeeball.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
N/A

{RELATIONSHIPS}
Has a family: his bibi and opo, and a little sibling on the way.
Has a resonance, somewhere, but who knows who that is.

{HISTORY}
He’s been working the kilns, same as his opo, and his opo’s opo, and his opo’s opo’s opo, ever since he came of age.

{NAME}
Rahmi Ayden

{ALIASES}
Lazarus

{AGE}
Official records state he’s 38. Having no access to this or anything else, he has no idea!

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, homosexual

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human? He’s super sure he’s human. Pretty sure.

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’ because I like that number, okay don’t judge me.
Kind of a lean musculature sort of build.

{OCCUPATION}
He has NO idea! Yaaaaay!

{RESIDENCE}
This is a nice hole in the ground.


{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Tall, with broad shoulders and wrapped in lean muscle, there’s plenty of evidence that whoever Lazarus once was, it was definitely a man of some discipline. Years of drilling have sunken into every line of his being, and everything from the way he stands to the way he walks screams military. His skin is a dark tan, and his hair, twisted and braided into tightly coiled dreads as it is, is a deep brown. His eye (because there is only one anymore) is a bright, pale seafoam green, and full of the alertness that you would also expect from someone who’s known nothing but conflict for most of his life. Which would be true!

The marks of said conflict are pretty obvious. Both his arms have been amputated from the upper bicep down, and replaced with rather sophisticated cybernetic prosthetics. They’ve gotten scratched and dinged over the years, but careful cleaning and some routine maintenance (how he knows how to do maintenance is anyone’s guess) have kept them largely operational despite the copious dust and dirt. His right eye is also missing, though the wound is far more fresh, the molten scarring taking up a good portion of his face. He usually wears a simple black patch over the empty socket, which is as equally burnt out.

{PERSONALITY}
Quiet, cautious and largely solitary, Lazarus does possess a good heart. He likes helping people if given the choice to do so, and will often go out of his way to assist if he sees someone struggling. He doesn’t talk much about himself, because there’s not much to tell— he has no idea who he is or where he came from, and after a certain point trying to explain that sort of thing just gets old.

Still, he’s not un-friendly. He enjoys being around others, and likes people as a general rule. But something always keeps nagging at him, compelling him to keep moving, some base instinct that makes it so he never stays in one place for very long.

Fun Facts!:

• The blow to his head not only took his eye, but a good portion of his hearing. He’s largely deaf, and completely so on his right side, and as such has a little issue with volume control while speaking. Usually he just scribbles what he needs to say down in a little notepad.
• He likes cats. Cats are good critters. He always gets little treats if he knows one is nearby.
• Somehow, he knows how to drive most military-grade ground vehicles. Even more interesting, is he knows how to repair them. And can pretty much apply that knowledge to civilian cars in a pinch.
• Really likes to stargaze in his free time. Can point out specific stars and name them, but has his favorites.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
If he has an ability hidden away, he doesn’t remember it.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
Someone Special. He doesn’t know who they are, or where, or even what they looked like. But he knows they were important, and they live at Home. But no matter how much he tries, he can’t remember more than that.

{HISTORY}
Lazarus was found in a shallow grave out in the Edani frontier. He can remember the taste of the dirt, but nothing before being dug up again. Little clues keep popping up, and he hopes that one day the clues will actually amount to something.

{NAME}
Roscoe Pruitt

{ALIASES}
Just Roscoe. JD sometimes calls him Ros.

{AGE}
Question mark?

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male, bisexual.

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
A human man of some Adelan descent.

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
5’11”, lean and slinky.

{OCCUPATION}
Necromancer. Also manages the apothecary portion of an antiques/herbal remedy store.

{RESIDENCE}
A shared townhouse type residence with his brother on Libra Station.



{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Lean, angular, and utterly cold. Unlike his brother, Roscoe never looks at ease, and instead carries with him this vague sense of hostility. His dark brown eyes are almost always narrowed either in agitation or concentration or disapproval, and his full lips look like they haven’t tried the smiling muscles in a long, long time. The closest to looking happy he gets is when he’s buried in his work.

Like his brother, Roscoe favors comfortable and functional clothing. He likes his shirts with long sleeves, usually black to hide any stains from whatever he’s brewing, and his jeans are usually dark to do the same. When he’s working he wears a half apron, stuffed full of odds and ends, and the constant joke JD has going is to walk up to his brother while he’s concentrating, ask for something wildly random, and see if Roscoe actually manages to pull it out of his apron pockets.

{PERSONALITY}
Fiercely intelligent, practical, responsible, no-nonsense and a bit of “A complete and utter grumpus-wumpus, call the zoo, it’s on the loose and ruining fun everywhere!” -JD 5k18

Fun Facts!:

• Is terrified of deep water and thus, has no idea how to swim.
• Rosemary is his go-to herb, so he tends to smell pretty strongly of it.
• Has so many frigging books it’s actually a problem, Roscoe, this is how old men die alone under a pile of their own random crap.
• Sleeps naked, and sometimes sleepwalks, much to JD’s utter horror.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
Mage - specializes in necromancy, but uses it in the most classical sense rather than actively raising anyone from the dead.

Also is really, really good at giving you the Eye when you’re doing something loathsome and you’re pretty sure that look itself is a curse.

{RELATIONSHIPS}
Jedidiah Pruitt; younger brother, utter pain in the ass, and a monster of Roscoe’s own creation.

{HISTORY}
Roscoe got them both into this mess. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  But they’ve had at least 200 years to work through their issues with one another.

{NAME}
Étienne Amir

{ALIASES}
Ironspine, Iro, Boss, *sir*.

{AGE}
Idk somewhere closer to his 40s.

{GENDER, SEXUALITY}
Male.
Bisexual.

{SPECIES/ETHNICITY}
Human, Solartan native, now just another Waster.

{HEIGHT/BUILD}
6’1", he's a brick… HOUSE… he's mighty mighty--

{OCCUPATION}
Raider gang boss

{RESIDENCE}
Fortress where Yoreiq used to be.




{PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION}
Like many Solartans, Iro is big, big, big. Thickly muscled and well toned from years of hard living, Iro is not a man to be trifled with, seen as he looks like he could wrestle a wasteland grizzly and win.

Even beyond his intimidating stature is his general appearance: heavy brows and deep-set, vibrant hazel eyes make for an intense stare, and even when he's not actually scowling he looks like he's about two steps away from doing so.

As a Solartan, his skin is naturally tanned, more heavily bronzed from constant exposure to the sun and elements, except for a few splotches on his left brow and right jaw. He's got several scars criss-crossing his body, some new and some several years old.

His dark brown hair he keeps shaved in an undercut, and tends to grease back with oil and pin in place with a set of aviator goggles. It's patchily done at best, along with his facial hair, because you try shaving with a combat knife and no mirror and see how well you do with it.

His most defining feature, however, is the mechanical spine he's modified over the years to have sharpened iron ridges, which often results in torn shirts and a lot of sleeping on his stomach.

{PERSONALITY}
Big grumpy teddy bear. He has to be tough, and doesn't make threats idly, but when it comes down to loyalty, Iro sees it as a two way street. The loyalty of his crew is loyalty hard earned, and he returns that loyalty in kind. He doesn't take on just anyone, and to him, his crew is invaluable in their own right.

Fun Facts!:

• Is a madman for tea. He will absolutely fistfight the biggest meanest mofo out there for a good cup of tea.
• Has absolutely taken on a nest of mutant lizards for his dog, and won.
• Messes around with gun mods in his spare time, often resulting in some weird shit. Is also prone to naming each of his favourites, Marie, Camille, Angelique, etc..
• Has an angry mutt named Dragonshit, who is a right pisser to anyone but Iro.

{SPECIAL ABILITIES}
None; he does his murders regular-like

{RELATIONSHIPS}
Artemisia, his 2nd in command, and as big and buff as he is.
Rest to be determined.

{HISTORY}

TBD

Hey Jain,

I realize this is probably wildly out of the blue, but I reached Apcintoch and saw some mouse clothes and thought of you. Which, in retrospect, I realize is a bit weird and possibly not what you want to think about? But it looked cute, I was pretty tempted to have a set sent back over to Samariel for you. I'm still here for a couple of days, so if you'd like them I'd be more than happy to send you some.

[uploaded image of a hoodie with little mouse face and mouse ears on the hood]
[and another different sort]
[and a little fish purse for the hell of it, too]

How have you been? I know it's been rough for you this past week, and I know shit went absolutely sideways when I last visited. But it was genuinely nice to finally "meet" you and I'd love for that to happen again. Let me know how you're doing, I have a lot of free time coming up so it'd be entirely when you have a chance.

-Ren

[flagged for some seriously fucked up family dynamics, verbal and emotional abuse, past and present.]

   Ren didn’t like being cold. But some things just sank right into your bones no matter how much you tried to stop them. The cold seeped, the ice lingered, pressing into every joint and every nerve ending until it was hard to move at all.

   Ren didn’t like being cold, but the numbness in his hands made it so he couldn’t be anything but. He had given Chu succinct answers from where he sat, presently alone at the curry house just a few blocks from his most recent hotel. That was one thing he was learning to appreciate about this particular city; Yvrie had plenty of curry houses, and plenty of them started “mild” off burning hot.

   Which he was thankful for. The spice-induced heat helped to bring a little bit of feeling back into the rest of him, something that he’d been losing at a steady yet alarming pace for the past several weeks. This past 24 hour cycle, however, had resulted in a sharp drop, and now he could barely manage to get his fingers to lift his spoon without rubbing his hands vigorously first.

   It was… damning. But what was there to be done about it? What could there be done about it? Ren knew he needed to simply sit back and accept this was just how it would be, and yet…

   And yet, here he was. In Yvrie, sitting on the heated patio under the glow of vibrant lamplights, waiting. Waiting for the only person he could think to talk to. Waiting for the only person he wished he’d never have to talk to again.

   It didn’t take long for him to show up. Ren wasn’t sure what exactly that level of punctuality meant; it could have meant anything, or nothing at all. After all, his birthgiver never seemed to give much rhyme or reason to why anything was done, just that, somehow, in some way, it was always because Ren had supremely fucked up.

   Well, Reitrael Dei wasn’t wrong. Not today, anyway. Ren sat up a little straighter in his seat, before remembering he didn’t give a shit what his birthgiver thought of his posture, and went right back to putting considerable effort into his next spoonful of chicken curry. After all, why sit through a lecture hungry?

   “I see the years haven’t improved your manners,” Reitrael stated, matter of factly and with the kind of long-suffering sigh that leaked into every word without any additional breath. It was an art form unto itself; a shitty one, in a shitty gallery, full of shitty people and probably made of literal shit. Ren swallowed it regardless and gestured at the seat opposite him, which his birthgiver was already in the middle of taking.

   “Hello, bibi. I’m glad you could make it.”

   Reitrael hummed, a short, soft sound as he looked around at everything but Ren, raising one tanned hand to summon a nearby waiter.

   “The yellow curry, chicken, extra hot, and skip the vegetables.” He said, again with that same kind of sighing word structure that had Ren involuntarily gritting his teeth. Which, of course, Reitrael automatically noticed and waved a hand at him admonishingly. “Don’t do that, Erenys, you’ll spend the next decade at the orthodontist. Oh, and a bottle of wine. I don’t know, white and sweet? What do you think, Erenys?”

   “I think it’s three in the afternoon.”

   “Don’t try to be cute, it’s just embarrassing. I read the news, you know, I know you and your coworkers don’t care about what time it is.” The waiter, the poor bastard, looked incredibly uncomfortable, and for a moment Ren was forced to take pity and give her a quick nod of agreement.

   “White and sweet, then.” He said, and she took off almost immediately. Which was a shame, because that meant the only person left for Ren to put his focus on was, of course, Reitrael himself. Which was more than a little hard to swallow.

   It wasn’t as if Reitrael wasn’t pleasant to look at— quite the opposite. The elf was tall, angular, regal in stature and carriage and seemingly made of sunlight and spun gold. To any random passersby, he was beautiful. To Ren, who knew far better, Reitrael was— at best— a reminder of just who Ren could have been. In another time, another place, another reality, Ren could have been looking across the table at another version of himself. His height, the freckles that were hidden so thoroughly against equally dark skin— all of it had pointed to what could have been. House Phaeton, if things hadn’t gone as they had.

   Which was why Ren had invited his birthgiver to an early dinner-late lunch in the first place. Because things had gone as they had. Reitrael had chosen, for one reason or another, to make Ren. In whatever way anyone chooses to make a child, but most importantly, had chosen to do so without his Resonance.

   Ren paused in his train of thought to consider the elf he’d never met. Not really, of course. He was sure there had been a fleeting moment, infant to adult, where his birthgiver’s Resonance had looked down upon him, bundle of dark hair and blue eyes that he was, and had realized Ren had not been his. Had it been obvious before that? Or had it been a complete surprise? How had he felt? All questions Ren had never asked, nor would he ever get the chance to do so. The Resonance had died, one way or the other, before Ren had any kind of mental capacity for recognizing he had disappeared forever. Reitrael certainly never spoke of him beyond any passing remark, and there had been no photos left behind. Like he’d been forgotten entirely, and knowing his birthgiver, Ren wasn’t sure that wasn’t the usual case.

   “So. This is rather far north for you to travel. Did you think to alleviate some kind of guilty conscience during a work trip?” Reitrael asked, not bothering to soften the bluntness of his words. Which was fine. Ren was too used to that to really feel the bludgeoning anymore.

   “That kind of requires having a guilty conscience,” Ren replied, just as carelessly. For a moment Reitrael’s golden eyes narrowed, and for a moment Ren felt a bitter sense of glee in knowing he’d been the one to cause it. But he couldn’t let his birthgiver know that, and so instead focused on taking another bite of curry, patting at his mouth with a napkin to catch any excess sauce. “No, I was— am on vacation. And had a few questions that I really could not for the life of me find anyone better qualified to answer than you.”

   “Oh?” Reitrael said, falling for a moment into the trap of assumed flattery. He’d always had a bit of an ego (more than a bit), and Ren had learned very quickly when he was younger to use that to his advantage as much as possible. Or, in this case, use it to stick the knife in as deep as possible. Just on principle.

   “Mm. Seeing as you’re the only person I know who came out of fucking your Resonance over looking healthier than ever. I had some questions about that.”

   Reitrael’s eyes narrowed again, dark lashes framing the golden yellow of his irises until all that was left was a pair of bright slits. It was remarkable how someone who was made of such a warm color could look like they’d been birthed from an iceblock. But, Ren supposed, he had to learn to hate the color yellow from somewhere. Still, the momentary power shift didn’t last, and Reitrael sat back in his chair with an utterly knowing smile.

   “What did you want to know?”

   Ren had been expecting him to make a biting remark. Had been expecting a backhanded insult or some other manner of verbal trap. It was utterly unlike Reitrael to be so direct, and for a moment Ren didn’t know where to go from here. He’d been expecting to jump through hoops, and yet here he was, already at the finish line.

   Which, of course, was probably exactly how Reitrael had wanted it. The absolute bastard.

   Ren caught himself before he could start grinding his teeth again, and carried on like nothing had happened at all. It was the only winning move he’d ever had, even if “winning” was a generous sentiment.

   “I suppose… I suppose why you did it. You had your Resonance, why would you cheat on him?”

   “And what difference does that make? Having my Resonance as I did?”

   “All the difference? He was your soulmate.”

   “Soulmate. Look at you, using human words like they mean anything.”

   “They do mean something.”

   “No, they don’t. Nor do our words, for that matter.”

   “Follow-up question, are you just a complete psychopath or is that just for my benefit?”

   “Would you like me to say yes, I’m only ever mean to you, specifically?”

   “No, I want to know what you were even trying to accomplish!”

   “I wasn’t trying to accomplish anything. Certainly not you. Or were you hoping I’d somehow ascribe meaning to your existence after all these years?”

   “I think after a lifetime of being your son, I already know that’s a moot point.”

   “Well,” Reitrael sighed again, sitting back in his chair just as his food arrived, one eyebrow arched delicately and with zero regard for the servers standing right there, “you are the one who seems interested in moot points this evening. So instead of beating around the bush and wasting everyone’s time more than you already have, no, I never actually intended to have you.”

   “Again, an answer to a question I never asked,” Ren growled, letting his agitation bubble to the surface despite himself.

   “Don’t make a scene, Erenys, it’s uncultured.” Reitrael said over a sip of freshly poured wine, waving away the servers who had already begun their hasty retreat once more.

   “Says the man who basically spat in the one thing our culture holds sacred. So, what, your soulmate didn’t mean anything but arbitrary social actions do?”

   “We all ascribe our own meaning. Stop trying to get me to create it for you.”

   “I don’t give a shit about some kind of existential answer to myself!”

   “Then why would you ask about how I could possibly have made you?” Reitrael said, already losing his patience in the kind of way that had him scooping up his food somehow at Ren. He’d always been good at that: doing the most mundane things in your direction. However, something made Reitrael pause just as he was about to take a bite. He looked at Ren, and then slowly put his spoon back down. “…You’ve found yours.”

   It wasn’t a question. Even Reitrael’s questions were rarely questions. And somehow, even at nearly three hundred years old, they always took Ren by surprise.

   “That’s a wild assumption to be making.”

   “And that’s a terrible lie. What, after all this time you haven’t learned even how to do that? You’ve certainly tried enough.”

   “Seriously?”

   “Oh, please, like that time you smoked my cigarettes and tried to pretend you’d just put out a candle. Or, even better, when you used your great-grand-bibi’s prized china to feed the local stray cats. Not like those were irreplaceable or anything, but no, really, they just got paw prints on them all on their own.”

   “Exactly what is the expiration date on my childhood transgressions? I’d like to set aside a time in the future to celebrate never having to hear about that again.”

   “Well, either get better at lying, or stop lying. So, who is it? That commander of yours? Oh, but that’s assuming something prestigious, isn’t it.” Reitrael shot Ren a lifeless smile, and Ren shot one right back at him in kind.

   “Who it is doesn’t matter.” Ren said, matter of factly, wanting nothing more than to leave this entire guessing game behind. But then, that meant he had to finally get to the point, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that, either. He took a breath, let it out, and took a quick gulp of his own glass of wine to brace himself. “It doesn’t matter at all. It’s not going to happen.”

   Reitrael’s eyes narrowed again for a moment, and something in his expression shifted. He didn’t say a word, which was telling all on its own. Ren decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth and carried on, brushing his previous statement under the rug like it’d been nothing more than dust.

   “Listen. I just wanted to know why you’d choose this. So I can make sense of it.”

   “You’re assuming there’s something to make sense of.”

   “Bibi, please. Please. For once in your life, I am begging you, be a fucking parent and help me.”

   Their dinners had no doubt gone long cold, and the wine had long since grown warm. But it didn’t matter. Ren felt none of it; not the way the wine tasted or how it shot straight into his veins, not the warmth of the patio or the strength of the lights. He didn’t feel the table beneath his elbows, and every movement reminded him of just how little his fingers wanted to cooperate with him.

   “I’m being serious, Erenys.” Reitrael said, almost gently. The juxtaposition was enough to get Ren to look up with a snap, staring at his birthgiver for a long, silent moment. Reitrael sighed, and this time the tiredness there seemed genuine. Sincere, in a way Ren had been so sure the older elf was utterly incapable of. “There’s nothing to make sense of. What I did to my Resonance was pointless. What I did with your father was pointless. Keeping you, raising you, all of that was pointless. Because in the end, this is what’s become of it.”

   The Phaeton elf sighed, set his spoon down, rubbed at his face and peered over his clasped hands at his son, eyes flicking minutely as if Reitrael was trying to sit and memorize Ren’s face. Which, for all Ren knew, he was. It was… something. Because in the end all any of them had was their memories. Reitrael hadn’t kept anything to remember his Resonance by, but here he was, sitting with Ren and looking for all intents and purposes like he was trying to make sure he’d remember Ren.

   It was the closest thing Ren had ever felt to fondness. And for a moment his heart clenched, and for a moment Ren wanted to succumb to the wild, impulsive urge to burst into tears and clutch onto his birthgiver like a child. But, like always, Ren swallowed the feeling down, and took a deep breath.

   “I know I’m doomed,” Ren said after a moment, “I mean. I’m pretty sure I always knew it’d be like this. Even before I knew who it was.”

   “You are the psychic.”

   “I’m not that kind of psychic.”

   “No, I know. But maybe that’s kinder. If there is such thing as kindness in this universe of ours.” Reitrael said. “You’re Erenys Dei, my one and only. There was never going to be any fixing that.”

   “…No, I guess not.”

   They sat in silence for a long moment, but for once, it wasn’t the kind of cold, biting silence that Ren had come to expect. There was none of the scrabbling for some kind of clue as to what the “right” thing to say or do was. Because there was none— not in the way that as a young child Ren had tried to navigate, when his birthgiver would make sure there was never a “right” way he could have acted. This time, it was because there was simply nothing left to do but… be. The pair of them, sat at a table in a curry restaurant, and knowing full well there was simply nothing that could ever save them.

   “Finish your dinner,” Reitrael said after a moment, already picking up his own spoon again, “it’s getting cold and you’re too skinny as it is.”

   “Yeah. Okay.”

02-04-6218: 07:30 HR

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