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It’s been two years since Astrophel heard about Katsuo Yumishi’s death.
It was 1907 when the news reached him. And when it had, all he did in the moment was sigh, and make himself a drink behind the bar.
Bourbon, straight from the bottle. He only needed a cube of ice to accompany it.
Apparently, Yumishi died somewhere near Whiteport, all the way where Guarin still watched his little part of the country. He was with some kid, and if he had to wager a guess, Yumishi died to protect them.
The hour had been late, about thirty minutes past typical closing time, but he allowed another round of customers to come in. He spoke with them as if nothing had happened, made their drinks. He remembered none of the conversations he had with them, but he could at least remember welcoming the distraction before having to close and actually dwell on what he’d heard.
To say the news was a surprise, however, would be mistaken.
Once that round of people left, tips gracious and their spirits drunkenly high, and he’d locked up, he went back home to write the date down on the wall.
When he stepped back to look at the wall as a whole, he sighed.
Another 50 dates, and he’d have to start writing them all on a separate one.
Katsuo Yumishi was dead, and if it weren’t for all the years he’d written down already, perhaps he’d be wondering what he could’ve done differently. That maybe if he’d dissuaded Yumishi from showing up at his doorstep with a toddler in his arms, a ticking clock in his left eye, and a stilled one in the other, he wouldn’t have to know that the guy was only 19 when he’d died.
He wouldn’t have to remember that he’d met Yumishi when the kid was 8. He wouldn’t have to think that in the present year of 1909, Yumishi would’ve been 21, the little girl in his arms probably 15, now.
But when he’d gone to bed, he told himself that nothing would’ve reversed Yumishi’s death, and he was able to catch at least a little sleep that night.
Now the year’s 1909, and Aster’s cleaning a glass behind the bar, pushing his glasses up with his shoulder, vaguely listening to some of the conversations patrons were having around him.
“Did you hear about that terrible fire,” one older woman whispers to her husband, “such a pity!”
“You’re talkin’ about the de Vaubriet family?” The older man sighs, taking a sip of the seltzer Aster served him not long ago, “they were always up to no good if you ask me. Didn’t like the sounds of them.”
“ Don’t be cruel! The twins were only 14…”
Félicien and Isaure, right? Aster can only hope they weren’t suffering for long in the fire…
“And the girl was nothing but a witch. Am I supposed to feel sorry for that family when they’d been harboring that?”
“Perhaps feeling sorry for the unexpected deaths of two children’s something to feel sorry for,” Aster interjects with a raised brow, setting his glass aside to lean across the bar and look at the older man.
“... I beg your pardon?”
“You’ve got grandkids. Are you saying you’d be content letting them burn if it turned out they somehow had some old magic in their blood?”
The older man scoffs, standing despite his wife’s hand on his arm. Aster watches him approach the bar, looking him in the eyes as if he’s going to pick a fight.
Go ahead, Aster thinks, I’m not the one worried…
“No grandkid, nor kid , of mine’s got any of that filth,” the older man grumbles as he gets a little closer to Aster, almost completely leaning across the bar.
“So what I’m hearing is if they did, you’d be fine letting them burn, too?”
“I fail to see how this concerns you.”
… maybe I really do just need a big sign outside that says, ‘if you’re going to be an asshole, at least keep it outside so I don’t have to deal with it’, gods, Aster thinks as he scoffs, shrugging.
“I’m simply encouraging you to have sympathy. No one, regardless of who Justinien declares as traitors or not, deserves to burn to death just for existing,” is what he decides to say instead. He takes a brief glance around, seeing the few people in at this early of an hour now pausing their own rounds of eating and drinking to watch them. “... also, I think your wife was whispering for a reason. I’m not trying to pick an argument, but when I can hear your opinions clearly over the other people conversing, perhaps it’d be nice to stick to the volume she’s tried to set for you, no?”
In the corner of his eye, Aster sees motion, so he remains still when the older man takes him by the collar of his shirt.
Here we go.
“You’ll do well to refer to His Majesty properly, bartender. Perhaps you’re the one who needs to mind his own business-”
“I own the place. Whatever goes on here is my business.”
“Then you should understand what a tongue like yours will get you.”
Well, I thought I learned that lesson with my arm being ripped off, guess not, you’re right, my bad.
With his prosthetic, Aster firmly takes hold of the older man’s wrist, prying his hand away, yet holding it still as he gives him a quick scan before returning the previously maintained eye contact.
“You can either, quietly, finish your drink and food with your wife, or I can handle this in a way I’m sure she’d greatly disapprove of.”
The man shoots him a glare, attempting to pull his arm free from Aster’s grip, just for Aster to tighten it. “Are you threatening me?”
“Depends on what you do next.”
When the older man looks back towards his wife, Aster follows his gaze, to see how she’s standing now, looking between them nervously. A tense silence hangs in the bar, and Aster times the next ten seconds, waiting for the man to either take the knife he knows must be hidden beneath his rather well-made jacket and attempt to carve Aster’s fingers off to free himself, or babble out some form of an apology and return to his business.
Before he reaches the eleventh second, the older man huffs, and the release of tension in his shoulders tells Aster the answer.
He lets go, watching as he trudges back to his seat, and his wife starts to whisper in a harsh tone about causing a scene.
And for the next hour, it’s calm. The people return to their business, some leave extra coins on the counter for Aster to take with a brief ‘thank you’ and nod goodbye, and when the old couple makes their departure, the lady lingers for a moment to leave two gold and an apology for her husband’s behavior. Frankly, it’s nothing significant, and Aster’s already forgotten it once the door closes behind her.
The next hour is a nice, jolly time, where he can think about the prior conversation.
So Justinien’s turning on his own nobility now, too? Even if the claim that the de Vaubriet family, that Isaure, had magic… to burn the entire family down seems like overkill if you ask me. Would he go after the Sumner family, too? Where’ll it end?
If he’s losing his mind, his grip, or what, gods if I know. It’s just going to be creating more problems, more that I have to deal with, more that, frankly, Aurelius and Chunhua can’t handle. We’re verging on another war if Justinien starts declaring everyone and their mothers traitors to him and the rest of the world.
Aster’s in the middle of drinking a glass of water when the door opens, and the bell rings.
“... um- Excuse me? I’m looking for… an… As- Astrophel! That’s the name!”
It takes some active thinking for Aster to not choke, instead tightening his hold on the glass as he snaps his attention to the door, and the boy standing in the middle of it.
… Lucian, what the actual fuck.
Aster can’t help it. He just… stares, for a few moments. The boy in the door looks exactly like Lucian, gods-
Strawberry blond, pink highlights, wavy, shoulder length hair. Bright pink eyes with slit pupils. Tanned complexion, freckles dusting the bridge of the nose and cheekbones. About his height, if not an inch taller.
Frankly, the only two things that differentiate the kid from Lucian are the age (kid can’t be older than 15, Aster notes), and the scar on the left side of his face, starting from the jaw and ending just shy of the cheekbone.
Not Lucian. But Lucian’s kid, no doubt about it.
… an Arcana’s kid.
God, fucking, dammit, Lucian.
“... you’re a little young to be here,” Aster says after those painful moments of silence. “You asking on the behalf of someone?”
The boy blinks a few times, running his fingers through his hair as he approaches the bar. And as he does, Aster feels the air around him; warm, similar to how Lucian used to feel if not toned down significantly.
“Speakin’ for me, actually,” the boy answers.
… he’s from Whiteport, the accent gives him away. Aster gives him a brief second glance over, setting his glass down and folding his arms. Frankly, I would’ve never thought Lucian would be out that far, and yet… the man just surprised me with the fact he has a son, who knows my full first name, and who looks far too happy and young to be here.
“... right. And you are?”
When the kid smiles, Aster spots his sharpened canines, and he can only cringe to himself at just how similar he looks to his father. Gods, be glad I only know what the man looks like because I knew him, if he was more commonly known you’d be walking in here with at least ten different people attempting to end your life, or do worse… shit, are you alone? He straightens himself up a little as the boy puts a hand over his heart, clearing his throat.
“Cyneric Snowsill, sir! I take it you’re Astrophel?”
Snowsill. Smart enough to not be using Lucian’s surname, and he’d be lying if he said Snowsill rang any bells. So, Aster simply lets out a soft breath, letting his arms unfold as he holds his hand out for a handshake.
“That’ll be me,” he replies, “but I’d prefer if you called me Aster. Part of the whole mystery here is that a lot of folks don’t know the full name…”
With that, he takes a brief glance around the bar, seeing as people pretend to focus on their own conversations and drinks and food rather than the little bit of trivia Cyneric bursted into the bar with. An A for effort, he supposes. Then he feels Cyneric’s hand in his, just as warm as the air around him.
… painfully uncalloused. The kid hasn’t seen a lot, sure the scar had to come from… somewhere, but…
… gods, dammit.
And once he releases Cyneric’s hand, he looks back at the young man, raising his brow.
“So… first of all, where’d you hear that name? Second… what do you need me for?”
Although I have a feeling I know exactly why you’re here.
What’s the year now, 1909? I’m sure that in 1920, I’ll be writing one more year on the wall for this kid, and the cycle’s gonna start back over.
Not that I have to even take him in…
Cyneric clears his throat, murmuring an apology as he pulls out a barstool and sits across from Aster, and starts tapping his heel on the floor. Nerves, energy… ah, both.
“So- You’ll have to, uh- Excuse me a little. You’ve got no idea who I am, but I’ve heard of you- Or, well, I guess I haven’t heard of you, I just… read your name on something I dug up the other day- Or, well, not the other day, the other… month… or so… when I was still back at home-”
As Cyneric speaks, he gestures freely, his eyes flicking between holding almost unnerving eye contact with Aster, his own moving hands, and his lap. His words are quick, and he hardly takes a breath between them, making Aster finally hold a hand up to pause him.
“Get to the point,” he interrupts, watching Cyneric’s face redden at the cheeks.
Then the boy reaches into his pocket, producing a small photograph that he hands over to Aster. He takes it, pushing up his glasses with his opposite hand…
In the photo, there’s a baby, held in the arms of a man that makes Aster sigh heavily upon seeing them, so he turns it over to see what’s written.
‘Congratulations on being a father, Astrophel!’
Lucian. What. The. Fuck.
“So, um… I’m here… because…”
Aster pinches the bridge of his nose, handing the photograph back to Cyneric with a heavy, exasperated sigh. He just has to take a few moments, allowing the too familiar handwriting to completely register in his head, and what was written in said familiar handwriting. Wow, it’s almost like I can hear him laughing as he wrote that, he thinks before he reopens his eyes to look at Cyneric, seeing how the boy awkwardly rubs the back of his neck and the way his brows lift with anticipation.
“... well, I’m not your dad,” Aster mutters, leaning forward to ensure the people around them can’t hear, “if that’s what you were wondering. Haven’t been out of here since I started the place.”
“Oh, no, I figured that’d be the case once I saw ya…”
Cyneric laughs, though Aster can hear how it’s forced, “I just- Y’know. Figured… you’d probably at least know who wrote it.”
“... how’d you know to come here?”
He sees Cyneric’s blush darken, and the laugh he gives is much more genuine this time. “... lucky guess. I- Uh, asked a few people… a lot of people… most of them were like ‘dunno no Astrophel, but we know an Aster’. At least around here. The people back home, uh… didn’t really seem to wanna tell me anything…”
Back home, where Guarin still runs everything? Yeah, no wonder they don’t want to talk about me, I should’ve been dead 40 years ago, Aster stops himself from murmuring, instead opting to nod and scoff at the first part of the statement.
“... you mean to say you’ve just been wandering around, asking random people if they know me,” Aster asks with a somewhat amused smirk, watching Cyneric’s shoulders tense and the blush extend to the tips of his ears.
… are his highlights, glowing right now?
“I mean- I… didn’t know what else to do- Ain’t like I was given a description to go off of,” the boy attempts to defend himself, and frankly, Aster can’t help but chuckle at the flustered reaction, shrugging and reaching behind the bar to get the kid a glass of water. “And- It’s not like it’s my fault that- I guess my actual father, I dunno- He didn’t say where you were or nothin’- This is the only mention I even have of ya! So- Pardon me!”
Aster gives Cyneric a moment to breathe before sliding the newly filled glass over to him, watching as he relaxes and takes it… but hesitates before putting it to his lips. “... I- Don’t really have a lot of cash on me right now, if, um, you-”
“It’s water. Free of charge.”
That’s your concern? Not that this guy you don’t know just handed you a drink that you were, sorry, definitely not paying attention to the making of? Who the hell raised you… clearly not Lucian…
All Aster can be is glad that he’s the legit Astrophel the kid was looking for as he downs the glass. His highlights dim back to their natural color, and it’s now that he notices the air had heated up with Cyneric’s fluster, as it cools with him. Cyneric sets the glass back down, offering Aster a much more relaxed smile.
“Thanks, mister.”
“Not a problem,” Aster answers, taking the glass back to fill it up again.
Cyneric Snowsill. Lucian’s kid, comes from Whiteport, said it’s been months since he left home. Makes sense, I guess- Not like Solmen’s an easy walk from Whiteport, especially with the walls and- Wait, how the hell did this kid manage to get past all the local hunters and guards? Again, it’s not like Solmen’s an easy walk, and even further, we’ve had the city closed for… a year now, ever since the plague started getting worse. How did he get here? Sure, there’s the chance he talked his way into here, but considering how he’s acting now, he doubts that. There’s only a knife strapped to his belt, the leather-bound hilt has little wear to it, though. So he didn’t fight his way here.
Gods, Lucian, what hellspawn did you make to have your luck?
“... you’ve got no place to stay, do you,” Aster speaks up after a few moments of silence between the two, shaking himself from his thoughts.
Cyneric perks up, eyes widening. He opens his mouth for a second, just to close it and shake his head.
… I’m going to regret this, I’m going to regret this. I’m simply going to regret this.
“Y’know- Nox’s been pestering me about having more company that isn’t my partner,” and as the words leave his mouth, he gets the thoughts of oh gods I’m going to do it again, I’m going to put myself through this cycle again and this time I’m going to be dragging Jason into it with me, which he politely chooses to ignore. “... you’d have to share a room with an 8 year old, but if you’ve got nowhere else… I’d say get a room for you upstairs, but with how busy the place has been- People come and go. Besides, I can’t have people thinking I’ve… actually got a son.”
He watches for Cyneric’s reaction, and it’s like he can actively see the cogs churning in the boy’s head as he tries to reason through everything he’s just offered. There’s the initial surprise, and it looks like he’s about to say ‘no, it’s alright, I’ll manage’, and once he sees that there’s even the inkling of consideration in Cyneric’s face-
“I also knew your father- Lucian, somewhat well. If I’m lucky, I might be able to get in contact with him.”
Because of course I’m taking in yet another bright eyed, somehow alive kid with a tie to an Arcana.
… at least this one isn’t a legit one, unlike Yumishi…
And at the mention of his father, Cyneric’s eyes and highlights brighten, and the air regains some of the extra heat. Yet again, his lips part, as he tries to form an answer, stuttering out a few ‘I’s before he beams, once again reminding Aster of how obvious his fangs are when he does.
“If you’re offerin’- I’d love to stay with you, mister! Um- I can also help around the house, see, when it was just mama and Bells and I- I did a lotta chores and- Uh- I’ll make it worth your while, promise!”
‘I promise I’ll be helpful’ is exactly what Yumishi said, too.
“Then it’s a deal,” Aster says, once again offering his hand for a handshake.
When Cyneric enthusiastically shakes it, Aster simply has to ignore the dread that settles in the pits of his stomach.
It’s 1909.
Aeon, if you’re listening to me, don’t make me have to write 1920 on the wall.