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There is a kindness about you, the mix of curiosity and empathy Orpheus has searched for all of his life.
He kind of appreciates it. Just like he kind of appreciates your gentle pushback, your ever-present desire to help, your company in the autumn when he remembers what he’s lost and the winter when he remembers what he could’ve had. It’s not quite what he expected. But it’s better than his mother’s ghost. Better than his uncle’s complacency.
The bonfire crackles in front of the two of you, reaching for Orpheus like it always has, warming the last dregs of summer air beyond what is reasonable. The oppressive heat and the questions raised by your presence weigh down on Orpheus, like they always do.
He was bound to crack eventually.
“… Who did you even lose?”
You look at him quizzically, analytically, like he’s a puzzle you’re getting too close to solving. “More people than I can count.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Yeah, well. I’m a soldier. It’s my job to lose people.”
Orpheus doesn’t have an answer for that.
“You’re lucky, though, Ope. To still have people that care about you. That reach for you.”
Orpheus remembers the horrific pain of losing his mother. Remembers the moment he understood his uncle could never really care about him, not in the way he needed him to. “I don’t feel lucky.”
“No one ever does.” You pause. “I don’t know Mayor Alvin that well-“
“Neither do I.”
You shoot him a withering look. “But I know,” you continue emphatically, “that he cares a lot about you. More than you think he does.”
Orpheus doesn’t answer, bar a brief, noncommittal hum. You turn your attention back to the fire.
When Orpheus spares a glance at you, he’s struck by the haunted look in your eyes as you stare deeply into the heart of the flames. For a second he feels the weight of the spirits that hang over your head. For a second he feels lucky.
He turns back to his own grief.
It takes a few minutes for you to get up, twirling your weapon in an experimental, gravity-defying way before you tuck it away. “Your uncle’s a good guy. Give him a chance.”
You leave without another word.
Summer fades into autumn.
-
He doesn’t talk to his uncle. Can’t stomach it.
Autumn freezes into winter.
-
You appear at the cabin that isn’t quite Orpheus’ at the beginning of the season with an invitation, just like you always do.
“How’s Mayor Alvin?”
Orpheus glares at you half-heartedly. “Ask him yourself.”
“I’m asking you.”
His silence seems to be answer enough for you, and your expression falls into a mix of understanding and disappointment. “Well.” You cut yourself off. “I’ll see you at the festival, Ope.”
-
Unfortunately it’s not just complete strangers and sort-of friends at the festival. It’s also Asher.
You’ve stopped humoring Orpheus’ prolific hatred of the guy a while ago, though. He feels almost betrayed at your half-laugh, half-scoff when he brings him up for the thousandth time. “He’s not that bad, Ope. He’s my friend.”
“… That doesn’t really. Mean anything to me.”
You let out a weary sigh, and your eyebrows pinch in thought for several seconds. “Asher never had many people in his life. He cared a lot about your mother.” You meet his eyes earnestly. “He cares about you, too.”
“I cared a lot about my mother, too, but I guess Asher was more important.”
Your expression becomes pained. “Your mother was a… complicated woman, I’m sure. But that’s not Asher’s fault. I’m sure he just wanted a mother, too.”
Orpheus’ anger bubbles under his skin. “That’s not a reason to take mine away.”
“You’re right. It’s not.” You hesitate, but give up what you were going to say. “I’m sorry I brought it up. Merry Craftsmas, Ope.”
You leave Orpheus alone with his thoughts before he can even return the well-wishes.
Winter melts into spring.
-
The spring breeze sends Orpheus knocking on the mayor of Alekin’s already open door.
There’s something about your words, the way they ring in his head. It’s something like substance, something solid quite unlike the hollowness of his uncle’s placating smiles and his mother’s love for him. He was bound to hear you out sooner or later.
Alvin has something foreign about him after all of these years. A hint of grey at his temple where there wasn’t before, overgrown stubble where he used to be clean-shaven. He’s tired.
And he’s shocked to see his nephew, if his abrupt, chair-scraping, paper-scattering attempt to stand up is anything to go off of. He ignores the mess to exclaim his nephew’s nickname. After a second, though, his shock seems to wear off, giving way to skepticism. “Are you alright? Do you… need anything?”
Orpheus is almost offended at how his uncle treads lightly, about the careful way he speaks to him - like he’s an animal about to flee. He guesses he deserves some of it, though. “No, I just…” his apologies get stuck in his throat.
“Ope?”
Orpheus looks at anything other than the earnest concern in his uncle’s eyes when he admits, quietly, “I missed you.”
Alvin takes several seconds to answer, and Orpheus resigns himself to the rejection with a muttered “sorry.” He starts turning away before his uncle finally responds, knocking into his desk as he reaches for his nephew and pulls him into a careful hug.
When Orpheus relaxes into it just slightly, his uncle pops his chin on top of his head and mutters, “I’ve missed you too, son.”
It’s something.
Spring blossoms into summer.
-
With the rekindling of the forest does Orpheus’ relationship with his uncle. He doesn’t return to Alekin much, mind. Despite Alvin’s best efforts, he’s still not quite welcome there. But he still tries. Talks to his uncle and all that.
His uncle’s still not quite… right. He has a leniency about him, an unwavering faith in Orpheus’ goodness that reeks of unfamiliarity, that still makes Orpheus deeply uncomfortable. He doesn’t want to hear his uncle try to convince some concerned citizen of his value as a person. He doesn’t want his kind words. Not really.
Still. It’s sort of nice.
-
You find him at a bonfire like you always do. There’s an inherent curiosity about you, Orpheus has noticed over the years, one that draws you to people against your best interest. It’s a bit of a curse to be drawn to him.
“I’ve been looking for you.” There it is. “How’s your uncle?”
“He’s alright, I think. This time of year’s a bit busy for the village.” Orpheus picks at the ground and carefully avoids your gaze or the temptation of the bonfire. “Harvest coming up and all of that.”
You take a second to answer. “That’s good to hear, Ope.”
Orpheus takes a minute before daring to look at you, studying your profile like he might learn from it how you seem to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, your eyes reflecting the orange of a monument to your losses, a self-satisfied smile playing at the edge of your lips.
There’s something deeply unknowable, unrelatable about you.
Perhaps Orpheus takes after his mother more than he thought, because there’s a tingling curiosity about that something at the back of his brain that keeps him from pushing you out completely. A need to figure out how to be you that keeps him listening to your ill-advised life advice.
He turns back to the fire and thinks of his mother. Thinks of Asher.
Banishes that last thought from his head. No need.
Summer blazes to autumn.
-
The harvest passes half-peacefully. Orpheus’ uncle is a good mayor, always has been, and the bustle of the harvest becomes more and more manageable under his steady hand.
Orpheus must be incredibly selfish, then, for the pang of loneliness that comes with his uncle’s increased workload.
Crops are scarce despite Alvin’s best efforts. It’s to be expected; they’ve been that way since before Alekin’s great-grandfathers’ generations.
Autumn falls to winter.
-
As winter comes knocking on Orpheus’ door, so do you. Like clockwork, every year.
Accepting your invitation has become easier over the years, but it’s still not painless. Not while you still have so much to forgive Orpheus for. Not while Orpheus knows who you’re going to invite.
He still accepts.
His uncle’s always buried in work in the winter. There’s nothing better to do.
-
Much to Orpheus’ surprise and disgust, Asher approaches him a few days into the festival.
“Don’t.”
“Ope, I just-“
“Leave. I don’t want to see you. I don’t want to hear it.”
Asher heaves a sigh, like the few years he has on Orpheus have made him older and more battered. It’s pretentious. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry about Lacrona. I cared about her a lot, too.”
“Go away.”
“Of course. Merry Crafstmas.”
Orpheus leaves the festival early that year. It may or may not be because he was forcibly removed from the inn after throwing a snowglobe at the wall over his bed.
Winter gives way to spring.
-
Spring passes without much news or fanfare. Orpheus’s uncle tries his best. Orpheus does, too.
Spring blooms to summer.
-
“Hello, Ope.”
Orpheus glances at you as you sit beside him, but doesn’t answer, just turns his attention back to the bonfire. You take his silence without offense, perhaps knowing that he won’t keep this up for long.
Very predictably, he breaks.
“Did you tell him to talk to me?”
You fix him with a half-incredulous look. “I talk to a lot of people. You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“Asher,” Orpheus spits.
“Ah. No.” There’s something fierce in your gaze now, something serious and horrifyingly determined that Orpheus suspects has very little to do with him. “He asks about you, though. I wasn’t aware every detail of your existence was confidential.”
“He asked about me?”
“Is it so hard to believe that he worries about you?” Orpheus opens his mouth to retort or break down further, but you continue. “I mean, so do I, but if that’s not appreciated I can leave.”
You move as if to get up, but Orpheus reaches for you before he knows it. “No, wait…”
You look down at him with an unreadable expression, and for a second Orpheus is terrified that the war’s battered down the last shreds of kindness you’ve saved for him.
You settle back down next to him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
Orpheus takes a minute to respond. “I don’t know why you waste your time with me.”
You exhale. “I’ve spent my time on some real assholes, but I’ve never wasted it.” You pause. “Not on them, not on anyone else.”
There are several uncomfortable beats of silence as you consider your next words. “For the record, I like you a whole lot better than the lot of them. You’re a good guy, Ope.”
Hearing that’s always been deeply uncomfortable for Orpheus. “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“I’ve seen much worse than you.”
Orpheus turns away.
The flames of the bonfire dance and crackle, and Orpheus briefly considers becoming one with them to avoid this horrible interaction and the fact that his life seems to have become just one awful conversation after the other. It’s not the first time he’s wanted to touch the pyre.
“Do you ever wonder what it’s like to burn?”
“I don’t have to. It’s not pleasant.”
A horrible understanding of you settles in Orpheus’ bones.
The two of you sit in silence for what could’ve been seconds or weeks before you finally get up to return to your job or life or whatever you do.
“I’ll see you later, Ope.” There’s a strange tonality there. A sort of tenseness, finality barely hidden. It sends Orpheus reeling, searching for the right words to bid you goodbye.
He pathetically settles on, “thank you.”
You smile down at him, lightly, completely unfazed by the fact that Orpheus seems to have forgotten how to talk to people like a real human being. “Talk to Asher.”
Orpheus placates you with a, “maybe.”
A set of coordinates inexplicably finds its way to Orpheus’ cabin. In your penmanship, of course.
Under normal circumstances, Orpheus would’ve thrown it away, but alas.
Summer burns to autumn.
-
You’ve never found Orpheus in the autumn, but the complete lack of you in his life… unsettles him at the moment.
There’s just something about your last goodbye that threw him off. Probably something of his own invention, but. He can’t shake the feeling that the one person who’d ever gone out of their way to understand him somehow got themselves killed.
It sends him grasping for something to do, someone to talk to. Sends him reaching for the set of coordinates he’d promised himself he wouldn’t touch.
Asher’s cabin is… nice. A bit too pristine. There’s something off-putting and unsettling about the whole valley. A sense of foreboding, of being watched. Orpheus cannot for the life of him understand why Asher chose to live here.
He knocks on the door and waits.
Asher’s face falls when he sees Orpheus, and it immediately puts Orpheus on the defensive.
“Ope, you can’t get mad at me for approaching you in public and then show up at my house.”
Orpheus searches for a defense and comes up empty. He deflates. “… Sorry.”
Asher spends a minute looking at him- through him, really, like he’s someone else. Orpheus doesn’t have to ask who. “It’s okay. You can come in.”
The cabin toes the line between neat and messy, piles of books neatly alphabetized and color-coded strewn on half of the house’s flat surfaces, covered in a gratuitous layer of dust.
“So, uh. What are you doing here?”
Orpheus pauses at that. “I don’t… know.” Under Asher’s scrutinous gaze, he admits, “playername told me to talk to you. I don’t really know why I… listened.”
“Yeah, that tracks. Playername loves to meddle.”
“They’re very convincing.”
Asher chuckles at that. “You’re telling me.”
The pair fall into an uncomfortable bout of silence.
“I can’t remember much about my mother,” Orpheus admits, quietly. “At least, not much of the good. I guess I’m kind of jealous.”
Asher sighs a deep sigh. “To be completely honest with you, I can’t either.” He looks away from Orpheus in easily recognizable guilt. “This place does things to your memories, and it’s been a long time since I saw her last.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t know, Ope. Your mother was a person of multitudes.” Asher takes a second. “I think… she loved you a lot, though. Despite all of it.”
“She still left me behind.”
“The forests drove her insane-“ Asher winces- “they were what killed her, in the end. If it was you instead of me in Detlas it would’ve made it a thousand times easier for her to leave.” Asher absentmindedly picks at the spine of a book, collects some dust from the table on his index finger. “I don’t know if that changes anything.”
Orpheus takes a minute to process Asher’s words, lets them sink like a stone in his gut. “Is it horrible that I can’t remember what she looks like?”
“Look in a mirror, Ope. You’re her spitting image.”
You were right. Asher isn’t that bad.
Autumn turns to winter.
-
You’re late. You were supposed to hand Orpheus his invitation three days ago but you’re nowhere to be seen.
-
A sense of relief so intense it chokes him washes over Orpheus when you finally appear at his doorstep.
“Festival’s back in Detlas.”
Orpheus takes a minute to compose itself. “You’re late.”
“Wasn’t aware you were keeping track.” You shoot him a half-hearted smile. “Got caught up in work.”
“Oh.” It’s rather embarrassing, then, that Orpheus had half of a mental breakdown in the time it took for you to reach him. “Well. I’m, uh, happy you’re okay.”
“That’s very kind, Ope. So am I.”
The two of you spend a half-second in silence before you ask Orpheus to give your regards to Alvin, tell him you’ll see him at the festival and scurry off to do… whatever it is that you do. Murder, probably.
-
Spending time with Asher at the festival isn’t as awkward as Orpheus expects it to be. Once the barrier of hatred wears away, Asher turns out to be an eager conversationalist just as curious about Orpheus as he is about everyone else.
You clearly expected him and Orpheus to be closer than you are. Like brothers or something.
Orpheus has never had a brother, but he’s seen enough families to know he could never muster that closeness with Asher. There’s still something rotten between them, something they both learned to live with but something that won’t go away. Still, Asher’s a good friend. That’s worth about as much as a brother, as far as Orpheus is concerned.
-
“Why’d your dad name you Ope, anyways?” Asher asks, perched next to Orpheus on the curb where he usually finds himself this time of year.
Orpheus winces as his misstep and fights back a surge of that familiar hatred. He mostly succeeds. “He didn’t. He disappeared before I was born.”
“Explains a lot about him, doesn’t it?”
Asher scrambles aimlessly until he catches a glimpse of you. “Where did you even come from, playername, what the hell?”
Orpheus turns to glare at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Wait,” Asher recovers from his temporary distraction, “so Lacrona named you Ope? Lacrona?”
Orpheus sighs deeply and wishes he was anywhere else at the moment. “She named me Orpheus. Ope is just something a village kid called me back in the day that… stuck, I guess.”
“Do you know what it means?”
“No. Do you?”
Asher’s denial is at the same time as your, “I’ve heard of it.”
Asher’s eyes light up like a kid’s on, well, Craftsmas. Very fitting. “Really?”
“It’s from some ancient story. Something Olmic, maybe. I saw it…” you squint your eyes in an attempt to remember… “somewhere, definitely. It’s a nice name, though.”
“Oh. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
Asher asks you some question, since you’re here, and you dutifully answer, and Orpheus fades out of the conversation almost entirely.
It’s strange to see you speak to someone so smoothly. He’s gotten so used to your pensive silences that he’s never imagined you could be quick on your feet, batting away questions and reacting with such ease it almost makes Orpheus forget about the weight you undoubtedly carry on your shoulders, of souls or duty or destiny or whatever it is that brings you back to the bonfires every summer. The feeling of needing to figure you out, to unlock all of your secrets and hoard your wisdom and ease of existence to himself, can only intensify in Orpheus, it seems.
And you’re so fast. It makes a guy wonder what you’re like in battle.
-
The festival draws to a close far too soon, and with it does your extended stay in Detlas (and isn’t it so strange, how you’ve chosen to stick around for so long? You’ve never stayed longer than a few days before, and those were disjointed, scattered throughout the season).
Before you leave, you bid one last visit to Orpheus. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re one of the only people I invited here whom I actually like.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I’ve told you I’ve met a lot of assholes. Half of these people are Gavellians which have called me slurs before and will call me slurs in the future. And I’m gonna have to go back to that hellscape.”
Orpheus can’t help but laugh at you, a brief chuckle that forces its way out of him despite himself. “I guess I’ll see you at the bonfires, then. If you could try not to be late this time.” It’s said in jest- more humor than Orpheus would usually be able to muster- but.
You smile at him, and Orpheus only just catches the wince behind it. “We’ll see. I have big plans for spring.”
Orpheus’ face falls. “Oh.”
You grit your teeth and look away for a second. “Maybe I’ll see you when this is all over.”
Orpheus doesn’t have the courage to ask what “this” is. “Yeah. I’ll see you, playername.”
“Bye, Orpheus.”
You’re gone in the blink of an eye.
Winter grows to spring.
-
The corruption portal closes in spring. Inexplicably and without reason.
It’s a good day for Alekin. A good day for Orpheus’ uncle. A good day for Asher.
Orpheus can’t help but think you were behind it. It’s a good day for him, too, though, he supposes.
Spring flowers to summer.
-
You show up at the bonfires on time, and Orpheus feels like sobbing.
Still, he speaks around the lump in his throat to ask, “have you been doing…” he struggles to find a word, and lands on a very inappropriate, “okay?”
He’s not quite sure why he asked that. There’s something missing from you, something that seems to make you lighter. Not quite light, but. Lighter.
Still, you reply with a very unexpected, and very blunt, “I’m exhausted. I think the spells I’ve cast in the past few months took 15 years off of my lifespan.”
“Oh. That’s not good.”
You look over at him. “Better to be tired than dead.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“I’m always right.”
Orpheus sighs in annoyance but dares to keep his eyes on you as the knot of jealousy in his chest unravels into something purer, something warmer. Something lighter, even. Something he can’t quite put to words.
In lieu of figuring it out, he shifts his focus back to the bonfire.
It’s not the bonfires that have lightened the resentment weighing on Orpheus. Still, it’s nice to have a second to grieve without the hatred burning its way down his spine, to look into the fragments of his childhood and see something more beautiful than abandonment.
Hidden in the folds of the fire, Orpheus’ mother patches up a scraped knee he got on the playground. She ruffles his hair while tucking him in. She presses a kiss to his temple before one of her trips to Detlas.
Orpheus gives the ghost of his mother a smile and watches as the bonfire burns the sickness of the past to ashes, making room for something new to grow.