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With a sharp gasp, Fourchenault shot up in bed, his heart pounding and head darting about as reality returned to him in waves.
It was a familiar dream, though one he despised.
The days that had led up to the calamity had been wrought with worries and fears, Fourchenault biting them all down to maintain his logical demeanor. Day after day of arguing, his mask slipped a little more each day as his stubborn father brought out his emotions through sheer tenacity.
As carefully and thoughtfully as he had planned out his arguments, their last conversation together was anything but civil. For a moment Fourchenault was not the brilliant mind that debated the Forum and measured the worth of Sharlayan’s endeavors— he was a scared, trembling boy begging his father to not leave him. In his nightmares he saw himself as such, naught but a child wailing and pounding his fists on his father’s knees.
Those days bled together in his mind, Louisoix’s voice growing quieter and colder as Fourchenault raised his own, flecks of red aether raining down over the sea from beneath foreboding clouds darker than night. He screamed and shrieked until his voice went hoarse, crumpling into a ball on the ground as his father sailed off into certain death.
Fourchenault sighed, rubbing his face with both hands as if to cleanse himself of such an unpleasant dream— and unpleasant memories, for that matter.
When the news came, Archon Urianger had thought to inform his children first. Children of only eleven summers, who watched in horror from their telescopes as the sky fell, clinging to hope that their grandsire still lived but knowing in their hearts he was gone before the call even came.
Fourchenault knew what had been said before his own linkpearl rang. The way his children wailed and threw themselves into their mother’s waiting arms spoke clearer than any words could have.
Urianger’s voice over the linkpearl had an uncharacteristically fragile timbre, the otherwise well-spoken man stumbling over his words as if he could barely hold himself together.
Louisoix had been his mentor, he supposed, Urianger had spent many long nights in the Leveilleur manor studying and ruminating this or that with the old man. Fourchenault could not say he knew him well, as they had rarely spoken conversationally, but he knew him well enough to recognize the devastation in his voice.
Setting his jaw, Fourchenault pushed his heart deep into his chest, so deep he wondered if he could ever find it again if he ever cared to look. His eyes went dark, acknowledging the somber news with a flat tone before disconnecting the call.
He had been little comfort to his children then— much as he wished to hug them and cry with them he could not bring himself to do it. The pain was too difficult to bear.
Standing from his bed, he pulled on his robe and quietly left the bedroom. Ameliance hadn’t been disturbed by his nightmare and he refused to disturb her now. It was still several bells before dawn, and if she awoke now she would fuss over him and be exhausted for the remainder of the day. No, he would handle this himself.
Fourchenault walked softly down the dark hallway, his heart heavy as his thoughts lingered on his father. Each step came with more difficulty, a weight pressing him down into the floor, so much so that he could swear it made the wood beneath his bare feet creak louder than usual.
With two soft clicks, he opened the doors to the balcony and slipped outside before closing them behind him.
The moon was large in the sky, bright and pure white. He wondered how Etheirys must look from the moon— is it just as beautiful? Or has the greed and bloodshed of mankind tainted the planet too deeply for it to resemble what it once was?
Fourchenault scoffed, shaking his head before he instead focused on the stars.
His father had given him a book on constellations for his sixth nameday, and he had memorized all of them within a month or two. He would stand in this very spot, pointing to the sky and tracing imaginary lines between the stars. His father guided him at first, praising him when he began to recognize each constellation on his own.
Without realizing, his hand had begun to move now too.
He traced the shape of the Bole, its heavy boughs making him feel safe and protected.
He traced the shape of the Spear, Halone’s brave posture and solid arms filling him with strength and inspiration.
He traced the shape of the Spire, the looming tower of creation and destruction both— not unlike the plans which he had been working so tirelessly toward these last few years.
That smile soon faded as reality came back to him. He was an aging man who had been given the responsibility of saving as many people of their world as he could, missing his father and pointing to the sky as if it weren’t about to fall any day now.
Why did he have that dream now? Years had passed since that day and he thought he was finished with grieving long ago.
His logical brain fought with his heart, ultimately losing as tears began to flow down his cheeks.
Their last words had been an argument. Was he repeating history with his children too? A question he had been fearful to ask himself sprang to mind, his tears growing into sobs as he fell to his knees.
Would their last words be an argument too? Would he be burdened again with their deaths?
If his heart could barely contain his sorrow for his father, it would surely overflow if he lost his children too.
Lifting his hand up again, he traced one more constellation: The Ewer, overflowing just as he was, tears streaming down his face.