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The dawn of a new day was like a chalice filled to the brim with potential, and Seteth enjoyed being the first to hold it and sip from it in the peaceful stillness of the morning. It put his mind at ease, allowing him to make plans and reflect on his duties before he was swept up in the gushing stream of the monastery’s affairs.
Satisfied with his morning rounds, he headed to the church’s private quarters. The sun had already crept high enough in the sky to illuminate the long corridor with its pale white slopes and wake the birds nesting under the eaves. In a matter of days, their chicks would hatch and fill the silence with their chirping. Curious if Flayn had already hatched out of bed, Seteth strolled towards her room, his heels clicking on the polished stone.
Her door stood out among rows of identical chambers, decorated with a wreath of colorful ribbons and herbs. Initially, it was to help Flayn navigate, but it had quickly turned into a tradition she chose to preserve. Leaning in closer, Seteth caught a whiff of rosemary and thyme weaved into the coniferous branches of a pine tree. He suspected they would soon be replaced by his daughter’s favorite forget-me-nots which always bloomed around Macuil’s birthday.
He was about to knock when a sound coming from within gave him a start. It was a rich, melodious hum, its notes rising and falling like a boat swaying against the tides. Seteth put his ear to the door and withheld his breath in anticipation. Reaching the chorus, the voice rippled with yearning so strong and pure it made his heart ache.
The melody had accompanied him for most of his life: from carefree nights on the Rhodos Coast to bitter years in the ruins of Zanado. To hear it in the sombre halls of the monastery was both a pleasant surprise and a moment of sorrow.
He waited for the voice to fade before knocking. “Flayn.”
“Brother, is that you? Come in.”
Entering the room, Seteth closed the door and leaned against it.
“Is anything the matter?” Flayn asked, getting up from her desk.
“I heard you sing.” He said solemnly, his eyes lingering on the floor.
“Ah, is that not allowed?” the girl tilted her head, her locks bouncing off her shoulders. “I thought about auditioning for the choir and—”
“No, it’s just that… It took me back.” He walked over to the bed and sat on its edge, making it sink under his weight with a quiet sigh.
Flayn twiddled her thumbs. “I was trying to remember the lyrics. I know the tune but the words have faded.”
“It’s been a long time.” Seteth looked up, his gaze softening at the sight of his daughter. To see her awake and well was a blessing he thanked for every day in his prayers.
“Not so long for me,” she pointed out, “and yet, I must have forgotten in my slumber… I feel like there is a lot I can’t recall.” She walked over to the window and studied the scattered clouds passing over the monastery’s spires. “Remember how we used to have a word for those? And the various kinds of wind and rain?”
“I do. Macuil was very adamant about them,” Seteth spoke in a hushed voice, a glint of amusement in his eye. “He invented most of these words, you see.”
“And he got upset if you confused them,” Flayn giggled.
“An understatement.” A gentle smile played about Seteth’s lips.
Their kind had always venerated nature, and their language reflected it by devoting tender attention to its wonders. They admired the colors of the sky and savored the taste of the water. Their poems and songs were filled with praise for the world they inhabited. By doing so, they paid homage to the goddess who brought them into a land where neither time nor illness could truly harm them.
“Why must the human language be so barren?” Flayn asked curiously, resting her hands on the window sill. There was no malice to her remark, only her usual desire to know.
“It isn’t barren, just different,” Seteth answered, intertwining his fingers. “We developed vocabulary for the things that were important to us, and so do humans. They may not see the merit of calling the wind by its many names, but they have various words for the soil they use for farming and the institutions they need to govern themselves.” He followed his daughter’s gaze far into the distance.
“I feel like I become a different person when I speak it. It is... baffling.”
“Language is a window into another’s culture,” Seteth explained. “When you learn to use it, you view the world through its lens, and understand its people better. It is how we blend in.”
“But does it mean we have to forget our own?” Flayn knit her brows, turning to face him.
Seteth shook his head. “No. We may live in secret, but we mustn’t forget, even if remembering brings us pain.” He leaned back, studying his child. “We only need to adapt.”
“Adapt,” the word rolled off Flayn’s tongue with hesitation. “Just the other day, a student tried to interrogate me about our background, insinuating that my speech was formal and out of place. Is that truly so?”
Seteth stood up and approached her. “Just a little. I had to overcome this obstacle as well, when I first came here.” He rested his hand on her shoulder and squeezed it softly.
Shortly after his arrival at the monastery, he and Rhea would often speak Nabatean, allowing themselves a semblance of home in a world destined to forget them. However, as years passed and more people joined the church, it had become increasingly dangerous and impractical. At last, they had to let it go and learn to speak like humans of their apparent age and stance.
“Do not worry about it. You will get there in no time.” He crossed his arms. “And I should have a word with that student…”
Flayn regarded him for a quiet moment, processing everything he’d said.
“If we are not to forget, would you help me remember the words to mother’s song?” She asked suddenly.
Seteth frowned, tossing a glance towards the door. The request was not unexpected, and he knew the lyrics well, having sung them to Flayn in her slumber, but was it safe to speak them out loud here, in their fragile bastion of secrecy? What if they fell upon the wrong ears, giving way to dangerous suspicion?
Flayn must have noticed his hesitation because she continued. “Please, it is one of my fondest memories, I do not wish to lose it.” She took him under the arm and tugged on his sleeve. “I will keep it to myself, I promise.”
Seteth took a deep breath. “All right, but you must be very careful if you ever sing it out loud.”
“I will, I swear.”
He responded with a nod. “Could you hum it again?”
“Yes!”
Taking a step back, Flayn straightened up and placed her hand on her heart. The notes of their beloved melody filled the room and Seteth couldn’t help but think how similar Flayn’s voice was to her mother’s. He joined her, murmuring the opening lines in their native tongue, its natural accents synchronizing with the rhythm. For a moment, it was almost as if their family was, once again, complete.
“Brother? What’s wrong?” Flayn paused suddenly.
He felt her soft hand on his cheek, brushing away a tear he didn’t know he’d shed. Concern pooled in her green eyes, like a taint on a precious gemstone.
“It’s nothing. I’m all right,” he rasped, covering her hand with his own. “I just… I thought about your mother, and how I miss her.”
“I miss her too.” Flayn dropped her gaze. “Forgive me. We must not continue if it hurts you so.”
Seteth shook his head, mustering a tender smile reserved only for his daughter. “This song has been with you since the day you were born, and I am happy to hear you sing it. It takes me back to the best of times.” He returned to the bed and sat down. “Let’s try again, from the start.”
Flayn’s lower lip trembled, but she nodded, closing her eyes to breathe life into the words they had practiced. Together, they worked like this, verse after verse, until Flayn’s memory was stirred, too, and subsequent stanzas came back to her while she sang. By the time they reached the end, her eyes were moist and her cheeks flushed pink from excitement.
“Stellar performance. Your mother would have loved it,” Seteth spoke softly, his throat constricted with feeling.
Flayn beamed at him, touched and proud. “It was her favorite song, wasn’t it? Do you know why?”
“It’s a prayer for peaceful days.” Seteth reached out, gently drawing his daughter into his arms. “It was composed after mankind turned against us for the first time, many centuries ago. Your mother would sing it to you as a blessing. To keep you safe.”
Flayn nodded, swallowing. “Thank you for helping me remember,” she whispered, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck. “I hope our peaceful days are finally here.”
“Me too.”
“Papa—”
“Flayn.” Seteth pulled back, regarding her with a stern look. “We may be alone, but you can’t slip up like this.”
The girl shook her head. “Nobody would understand.” There was a smirk playing about her lips. “We’re speaking Nabatean.”
“Ah. So we are…” Seteth let out a chuckle.
The transition came to them so naturally he hadn’t even noticed. It wasn’t wise to get caught up in it, but for a fleeting moment he felt more like himself than he had in ages. It was as if a neglected part of him had been restored, wrested away from the ruins of what had been, and propelled into the present. For years, he had tried to distance himself from Saint Cichol and embrace his new identity, but no matter how real Seteth and Flayn had become, at the core, they were, and would always be, Nabatean.
“Papa. Do you think we could do this more often? So we don’t forget?”
“Yes. I think we could.”