Work Text:
The Zanado breeze is warm today. Pleasant, it lifts the curls of her hair and tickles the backs of her knees in its wake. Though Cethleann would normally be overjoyed on such a lovely day, she only finds herself sighing now.
Goddess, how she wishes she could fly.
She exhales. Tentative, her legs shift, weight moving from one foot to the other. Climbing up to this precipice was a long struggle, what with her freshly awakened legs, but she yearned to do it regardless. It would not do to let such a gorgeous view go to waste. Though, peering down its edge, she realizes the cliff she stands on is not so far from the ground, really. She supposes there are around six feet between her and the ground right now. She can't quite say—her eyes aren't as keen as she'd like. She takes a deep breath, closing her eyes.
When she awoke from her slumber a week or so ago, she had found this peculiarity within herself. Hollow, like birdbone, it was as though someone had chipped away at her very core. She didn't think much of it until she'd tried changing forms—to stretch her legs and wings after such a long slumber—only to find out that she was unable. Trapped in this cage of 'human': from here on out, that was to be her destiny.
Father told her this would last forever.
Her knees bend. She supposes she ought to test eternity, then.
-#-
"Why did you think jumping off a cliff was a good idea? What exactly were you thinking? "
She knows her father doesn't mean to sharpen his tone when he asks her—that it is only the jagged pieces of his heart piercing her and not his anger. But she cannot help but lower her gaze and flinch at it anyways. Not wanting to answer, or perhaps unable to, she focuses on healing her fractured leg bone, feeling the warmth travel from her hands to her marrow. At least she kept her healing prowess. At least there is that familiarity she can anchor herself to.
"Let me ask you again," her father says, almost pleading, "why did you jump?"
Her spell slows to a stop, shaking hands falling uselessly onto her blanketed lap. Cethleann sinks into the mattress of her bed, frowning at her leg.
"I wished to fly…" she says finally, quietly.
"Cethleann." There is grief in her father's voice.
She looks up at him and flinches. He looks far older than when she had seen him last. Far sadder, too. There is a worry in his forest-green eyes so sharp that it hurts to look at, and the lines on his face that spell out a centuries-long exhaustion. He had gone through much the same, had he not? Seen the same blood water their soils, seen the same, tired violence that spilled said blood. Perhaps his ordeal could even be considered worse. Cethleann thinks her father should be able to understand her desperation—should be the only one who could understand, even—yet she sees his eyes still begging for an answer. She doesn't quite get why.
She swallows, throat dry, and responds to him anyways.
"I thought I could—" Cethleann starts, though her voice quickly falters, "That perhaps my body…"
Her words ebb into silence. Though her sentence remains unfinished, its message lingers in the air, persisting like a stubborn winter frost. Her father tenses up, the frown on his face tightening. Cethleann's chest constricts. She's said too much . She holds her breath, awaiting his anger, but to her surprise, none comes. Instead, he sighs, the tides of his pain crashing upon his sagged shoulders.
"Say no more." Her father says quietly, mournful as funeral flowers, "Say no more."
Of course. Her father should be the only one to understand her desperation.
She obliges and lowers her head, blinking away the hot tears that begin to form. Curling up into a ball, Cethleann bites down the sobs that threaten to escape her. Why did this make her so…angry? So lost? It was as though someone struck her mid-flight. There's nothing for her to do except fall, helplessly grasping at something she could hold onto. The girl takes a deep, shaky breath. This world she had woken up to was so bleak, so dark. How she wishes her mother were here! How she wishes she could fly! How she wishes nothing ever changed at all!
Floorboards creak. Tears stop momentarily as she lifts her head up to see her father come sit on her bed's edge. She feels one arm wrap tight around her shoulders, pulling her in for an embrace, and the other move to gently stroke her head. Her father murmurs something—she can't quite make it out, but at this moment, the sound of his voice is enough. Cethleann breathes, eyes closing and lips shivering.
"...I am sorry, father," she whispers, leaning closer into his touch, "I will not be doing it again."
-#-
In the coming moons, she takes to hiking around Zanado.
It's a terribly lonely activity—with her father leaving to involve himself with human civilization, visiting her aunt Seiros, Cethleann finds herself with a wealth of time. Time that, according to her father, ought to be spent shaping herself to the mold of humanity. She had protested fiercely at first, demanding that she be taken with him as well, but her father maintained his firm stance. It was not as though he didn't trust her, no—it is the humans that he cannot trust. If they saw her as something unlike themselves, she would be targeted. And thus, she must learn to conceal herself; thus, she must learn to be human.
So it begins with walking. Walking and walking until she forgets how to fly. It is, by all means, straightforward. It's mindless, after all. But she finds herself having difficulty with it all the same. Perhaps there's something about exploring the ruins of a life she once lived that hurts her so.
She climbs up a steep peak, her gaze sweeping the flattened area. Asleep though she had been for centuries now, she still recalls when this had been a bustling civilization; when these dusty plateaus had neighborhoods by the mile, stretching across the Zanado horizon. She had countless aunts and uncles, then. All had greeted her with smiles. Now she's told only a handful of them remain—and she would not see their smiles for a long while.
Her legs keep moving forward, but each step grows heavier and heavier. This is Zanado. The stone, the cliffs, the peaks and valleys…she is familiar with them, yet also not. The sun feels dimmer, and the air far heavier. The rocks had maintained their shape, but only memories of her people remained. This is not the Zanado of her youth—and it never will be again.
Still, she recalls her mother's wise teachings—that they cannot turn back the hands of time. Its flow is constant, and stops for no one. Not even the dead. And so, in the emptiness her people had left behind, time continued its movement, pushing like tide against shore, and life found a way to persist. The canyon is stripped bare of its former joy, yes, but in the absence of the Nabateans, other life forms flourished. The neighboring stream teems with fish of different varieties, and the population of insects and other such creatures shone with all sorts of colors.
In her long hikes, she learns the limits of her form…and the wonderful things that can come out of it. Yes, she misses soaring through the skies and seeing the sights below her, but walking means she can journey more intimately through nature's growth. She misses the strength in her hind legs and how her claws helped her climb trees more easily, but developing the skill as opposed to it being inherent within her lets her feel the satisfaction of hard work. Things she once considered inconveniences slowly turn into opportunities to grow and learn.
Cethleann comes to discover the beauty in all this—in the solitude, in the cycle of learning and relearning, in this gradual acceptance. She stops lamenting her loss of wings and finds other ways to chase freedom, nurturing a curiosity she never realized she had.
The moons bleed into years—Cethleann doesn't find herself counting how many. She adjusts well enough that she need not to. The uncertainty of this new life smooths itself out like a stray wrinkle. She grows into this new shape of hers well; her back straightens and her feet callous and her teeth grow dull. Like Zanado, life persists within her, and the half she thought had died centuries ago is soon filled again. No longer is she fearful of what she's become. Even her father, in his brief and scattered visits to her, takes notice.
"You've improved significantly, Cethleann. I can sense you've grown more content with yourself," he tells her one day. They are sitting atop a precipice, overlooking the canyon—the same that she had leapt off of all that time ago. Cethleann hums, her feet swinging over the rock.
"I had not realized," she muses. "Have I truly?"
Her father nods, the movement solemn yet sincere. "Truly. Perhaps…perhaps you are ready."
Cethleann tries not to smile too widely when she teases him. "Ready for what, father? You ought to be more specific."
The breeze passes by them. Cichol closes his eyes and breathes deeply, as though to drink the noontime warmth in. Cethleann can spy his brows furrow ever so slightly. "I think you know what I am referring to."
She grins. He is being rather aloof with her, but she knows it is difficult for him to be forthcoming in a matter such as this. He is, in essence, inviting her into a lion's den. But it is as he says—she is ready. The years have made her thus.
The curl of her lips brightens the tone of her voice when she replies. "I believe I do."
-#-
The Rhodos breeze is rather cold this evening. Sharp, there hangs a chill in the beach's salty seawind, causing silvery wisps of exhale to slip from her every breath. Though Cethleann—no, Flayn—finds herself enjoying the view nevertheless. It's difficult not to when she has her father by her side.
Knees dig into the sand as Flayn leans over a pile of firewood and dried leaves. Her hands are clumsy when they strike stones together, but despite the tremble, she's able to create sparks to set their kindle alight. After a few soft puffs, their fire crackles to life, and warmth soon begins to envelope the pair. Flayn turns to her father, a triumphant smile on her face.
"Impressive, is it not?" She beams, "What an exciting way to usher in this new era of our lives!"
Her father—no, Seteth, is his name now—huffs in amusement. The orange light of the flame highlights the creases of his small, small smile.
"Be careful with the fire, Flayn." His warning is stern despite the shine in his eyes. "I do not wish to see you burn yourself."
"Father! Er, Brother! You worry too much." Flayn pouts, "I would do no such thing—not when we have terribly important business to attend to tomorrow."
Seteth sighs. "Terribly…important, indeed."
He trains his gaze upwards, matching the slow rise of their fire's smoke. Arranging her arrival to Garreg Mach had clearly taxed him. Piles upon piles of parchment were needed to let her settle into the monastery as a non-student, all of which he had personally organized. Not to mention the new identity he had to train her into—Flayn catches him flinch whenever she slips. He still worries for her. In fact, his worries seem to have only grown. But his suffering will not be in vain. Flayn believes it won't be, at least. Grueling as all his preparations had been, they allowed her to finally join the humanity she had been shaping herself into the mold of. They allowed her to be happy. Just as she allowed herself to be happy.
Flayn reaches for Seteth's hand, taking it and squeezing.
"Do not worry," she says softly, "please, do not worry. This is the path that will lead us to happiness."
Seteth brings his gaze back to her. The emotion is clear within the greens of his eyes but is nigh unreadable. He squeezes her hand back. "Are you not afraid?" he asks. "Though you have adjusted well, I…humanity might not be what you expect."
Flayn doesn't take her eyes off of his. His voice is deep with history and pain, and quivers slightly with hesitation. She does not think any amount of training would ever sate the fear buried deep in his heart. And so she only smiles. Only squeezes his hand again.
"I am not afraid," she finally says, a history of her own powering the confidence in her tone. "I had been, once. But I am not anymore."
Seteth is silent. The crackling of their bonfire is the only noise they hear for a while. Flayn, after a moment, chooses to continue. "I am not the same girl who jumped off a cliff because she longed to fly. I am not the same girl who wept at the loss of her draconic form. And I am not the same girl that you nearly lost all those years ago. I am happy. And I hope that makes you happy as well."
"...It does," he says quietly, "It brings me no shortage of joy seeing your growing happiness of late."
Flayn hums. She moves closer to him, her skirt dragging along the shore as she inches towards him. Her hand still in his, she leans into his shoulder, resting her head by the crook of his neck.
"Then that happiness will overcome that fear, eventually. Just as the tides eventually break the rocks upon the shore." Her gaze shifts, turning up towards the sky. She can feel her father's head move to do the same. They remain there for some time, silent as they watch the stars. Then, Flayn speaks.
"...And when that happens, we ought to let it."