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Lucilia moves through the hallway, enjoying the cool touch of the floorboards against her toes — she's still getting used to shoes — and escaping another admonishment. Master Varyn had chosen to take her mentorship, swooping in and claiming Lucilia before pecking at her every day for measly mistakes. Today, she'd failed to block an incoming blow three times in a row. A lecture about how easy it is to die had ensued. Fighting is not her forte. She prefers the lessons with books and maps, places and names to memorise. She's good at that.
Lucilia reaches out toward the stone wall as she walks, trailing her fingertips across the rough surface. She wishes, as she presses her fingertips into the curve of the mortar, that Master Varyn weren't her mentor. That Sero or Cenric had claimed her instead. But that's unfair. Lucilia admires her, respects her, wants to become just like her. Master Varyn just... Reminds Lucilia a little too much of her family. A family she's trying to actively forget.
When Master Varyn is frustrated with her — or worse, angry with her — Lucilia can barely stand it. She feels like she's back home again, having to make herself small and quiet, hiding herself away so her mother doesn't have to look at her. She's been at The Spire for months now, but nothing has really changed. She still feels like an outsider, like a ghost haunting the hallways.
Still, there's one room here that does make her feel welcome. Master Cenric, for all his brusqueness, has been nothing but kind and patient with her. And his study is like a never-ending treasure trove of books, maps, and scrolls. All the information of the Wayfarer Order just waiting to unfurl itself at her fingertips.
Cenric isn't at his desk, as he often is. And he's not on the tall, sliding ladder attached to his floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. In fact, he's not here at all, Lucilia confirms as she pushes the door open and takes a couple of steps inside. She frowns, chewing on the inside of her lip, hands on hips as she absently gazes at the mountainscape through the large, arched window behind the desk. She really wanted to spend the afternoon here. Is she still allowed if Cenric isn't here? The room isn't locked, so...
"You okay?"
Lucilia lets out a tiny, startled noise at the sudden sound, practically jumping across the room to put some distance between herself and the mysterious voice. Lucilia can just imagine the look of disapproval Master Varyn would give at that reaction. Composing herself as best she can with a little cough and a toss of the head, Lucilia spins in place to face the voice.
A boy, a few years older than her, is sitting on the other side of the room, tucked away in the shadow of the open door. He's curled up in a deep green chair, one leg hanging over the arm and an open book perched, page down, in his lap. His long, blonde hair is braided to perfection and his bright, melusine eyes have her pinned in place.
"I'd say you're blocking my light but, to be honest, I was asleep til you opened the door," he says. Despite his mild tone, the intense darkness around the boy's eyes and the wolfish yellow pupils sends a shiver down Lucilia's spine.
"I..." Lucilia flounders with her words. The boy frowns, straightening up in the chair and delicately placing the book down on a nearby table. "I w-was looking for Cenric," Lucilia manages to mutter. She sounds ridiculous, but it's all she can do to get those words out. What if she's not supposed to be here? What if the boy tells Cenric? What if she's never allowed back? She can feel her hands shaking. She grips the bottom of her shirt tightly.
"He's gone to Trost, won't be back for a while," the boy says, tilting his head to the left, eyes drinking her in, frown only deepening. He's probably one of Cenric's apprentices. She shouldn't be here, she probably isn't allowed here if Cenric isn't in. It's probably against the rules, only no one has told her.
"Oh, sorry," Lucilia says quickly, trying to get her legs to move toward the open door but just standing in place like a dumb little statue instead. Her heart is racing. Her palms are turning sweaty. But the boy smiles, revealing sharp, melusine teeth for a moment.
"Sorry for what?" he asks, his expression softening and a small chuckle forming in the back of his throat, "you haven't done anything wrong."
"Forget it," Lucilia says too quickly, defensively. This whole conversation is a disaster, and if she can just get her damn legs to work again, she can leave and pretend it never happened.
"You're new, right?" the boy asks suddenly. He's still smiling, his brows turned up, hands calm in his lap. It's not a mocking or cruel smile, not one of amusement at her foolish behaviour. No, his eyes might be fierce, but his smile is as warm as sunshine on the skin. Something about it makes Lucilia feel just a little better. She lets go of the bottom of her shirt, wiping her moist palms on her pants.
"Yeah..." Lucilia says quietly, almost ashamed at the admission. The fact that he could tell just from the few words they had exchanged... It's just embarrassing how un-Wayfarer-like she still is.
"It must still be kinda scary, huh?" the boy asks, "it was all a bit overwhelming for me when I first arrived," he adds in solidarity.
"Yeah, I guess..." Lucilia replies. She can't tell if he's telling the truth or just saying it to make her feel better. He looks the furthest thing from overwhelmed right now, just lounging in Cenric's office while he's not even at The Spire... He must be pretty comfortable here to do that. Comfortable or brave.
"Well," the boy says, suddenly standing and crossing the space between them, "you don't have to be scared of me, I promise," he says as he stops in front of her. The few half-melusine Lucilia had met since leaving home were all like giants, towering over her. But this boy is only a few inches taller than her, almost eye-level. More human than melusine, more like her.
Now that he's close, she can really look at his eyes. From a distance, they look like two holes with a burning orb at the centre, almost terrifying to think about. But, up close, she can see the subtle shades of dark grey in his sclera as the afternoon sunlight falls on them, the woven threads of yellow and gold in his irises. And, most importantly, she can see the way the soothing warmth of his smile touches his eyes, makes them crinkle at the corners. Lucilia has known malice her whole life, and there isn't a trace of it in those eyes.
"I'm Anatol," the boy says, extending a hand, "but my friends call me Ana," he adds.
"Anatol..." Lucilia echoes, raising her own hand. At the last moment, the boy pulls his back, holding up a finger warningly.
"Ah ah!" He exclaims, a playful lilt to his voice, "I said my friends call me Ana ," he says with a grin.
"Ana," Lucilia corrects herself, surprised to find herself smiling back. Has she just made her first friend? Is this how it works? It feels... Good ... It feels like a warm blanket on a cold night, like a hot meal in your stomach, like a tight hug on a bad day — not that she has much experience with that last one.
"I'm Lucilia," she says, swallowing against sudden tears as she takes his re-extended hand and shakes it.
"What do your friends call you?" Anatol asks, tilting his head again. There's something so kind about his face, something open and eager, like he genuinely wants to hear what Lucilia will say.
"Um... W-well... I..." Lucilia stutters, her grip on his hand slipping as she stumbles for an answer, any answer. But her fumbling doesn't seem to faze Anatol.
"How about Luci?" he asks quickly. Now it's Lucilia's turn to grin as excitement bubbles up inside her. There's something deep behind it: an overwhelming sense of belonging. The only other time she'd felt this way was the night she'd arrived at The Spire, cold and sore from the journey but finally home. A real home... And now a home with a friend... The tears are hot behind her eyes, forcing her to blink as they blur her vision and roll down her cheeks.
"Luci," she breathes, letting go of Anatol's hand to wipe roughly at her eyes, "yeah, I like it."
"Great," Anatol says, his voice quiet and calm. He moves past her toward Cenric's shelves, leaving her to clean up her tear-streaked face. Lucilia's grateful that he doesn't ask about it; it would only make her cry more.
"D'you like stories, Luci?" he asks instead.
"I love them..." Lucilia says, twisting in place to watch his back as he stands in front of the bookshelf, analysing each row with care.
"Me too," he says, "I didn't get to leave the house much as a kid, so stories were kind of like a bridge to the outside world."
"Same!" Lucilia shrieks her response, clamping a hand over her mouth the moment the words leave, shocked at how loud she can be. Anatol looks at her, eyes wide with surprise. There is a moment of silence between them before Anatol cracks a small smile and huffs a small laugh. Relieved, Lucilia lets her hands fall to her sides again, returning the smile sheepishly.
"Sorry," she says, "Just... Me too. I didn't leave the house much... Or ever ," she says, walking forward to stand beside Anatol, gazing up at the leather-bound books and rolled scrolls, all neatly stacked and labelled. It's really a thing of beauty, a place of comfort and peace.
"I guess that's two things we have in common," Anatol says, peeling away from her to grab the bottom of the ladder and slide it laboriously down the row toward her.
" Two things?" Lucilia asks, rushing over to grab the other side of the ladder and pull, keen to be of help.
"We're both from Vestra, right?" Anatol asks, switching to their native tongue as he slides the ladder into place and extends his hand once again to help her up onto it. "Let's get you something fun to read, friend."