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There is something about Stonehyrr that doesn't sit quite right with Cid, and he sure as hell cannot pinpoint what it is. The atmosphere, he assumed at first, what with the sea breeze filling the air with its particular scent, most days feeling damp and gloomy. But no, that wouldn't do. Cidolfus Telamon sailed long enough to grow more than used to ports; whatever it is that makes him uneasy and restless lurks in the silence between words, just out of sight.
And when he fails to figure out the source of his discomfort, he paces about and smokes. It may not be enough to settle the nerves, but at the very least the sound of his own steps and the cigarillo on his lips are enough to keep his mind distracted.
It works on most nights, anyway, or so he tells himself. Still, when his thoughts take less than a heartbeat to jump from the smell of fish to a fish suffocating on land and then the not so metaphorical lump on his own throat, he simply knows that there will be no rest for his damned body before the sun rises over the horizon. In the dark, he wanders the hallways of the old castle—a fortress built of stone and stone only, as lively as the man who conquered the throne—, and for a wild moment, he cannot help but wonder whether the ghosts of the now dead kingdom once felt just as out of place as he does.
Thunder cracks, which is enough to abruptly pull Cid away from his reverie, as every inch of his skin seems to respond to the bellowing skies. Count on the old wizard to somehow be the unsolicited voice of reason, he muses. He is no superstitious fool to give Ramuh more credit than he is due; thunderstorms are no novelty on this side of the world, after all, but the way Cid reacts to them surely has changed since the Eikon claimed his body. Thunder calls to him, sound and light feeling ever so familiar—a most welcome sensation on a land where everything else is foreign.
Lightning crosses the skies once again; a flash of light so intense, every jagged end of the stones of the wall looks three times sharper. Close one, Cid thinks, and he barely has the time to finish the thought before the loud rumble sends vibrations through the flooring under his feet. The noise is such, most men would never notice the small gasp coming from another transverse hallway, right ahead.
Good thing Cidolfus Telamon was a trained soldier, skilled hunter and Bearer when everything else failed.
“What are you doing up?” He asks, the rumble of his voice reminiscent of the storm, once he reaches the next hallway. Another surge of light floods through the window, outlining the silhouette of a small figure sitting on the windowsill. She hugs her knees close to her chest a bit tighter when she's caught.
“Can't sleep.” Benedikta tries to shrug it off, as if it is of no importance. The dismissive attitude is a new trait on her, but one that Cid can appreciate; as the months go by, new layers of his young protege are revealed. Or perhaps she has been finding new layers to wear over her skin; that remains to be seen. “Not with the way the wind howls and the window in my room rattles.”
“Never thought I'd see the day you'd complain about the wind,” Cid prods, moving close enough to see Benedikta roll her eyes. How odd is feeling proud about what can be regarded as a sign of disrespect?
“The wind itself is not the problem. The noise is,” Benedikta explains, with little patience to deal with Cid’s humor—which is also new. Quiet as a mouse when he first brought her home, she wouldn't react to his jests for some time, as if the very concept of a joke escaped her. When she started snickering, however, Cid found new inspiration, and they seemed to bond over light-hearted jabs. At least until she grew prickly.
Cid does not blame her, though. Stonehyrr is what it is, and he has never seen a place more apt to mess with one's nerves.
“Fair enough.” He sighs and leans against the wall, his profile briefly lit by lightning. “Weather isn't getting better anytime soon, though, and we have a long day ahead of us. Sooner or later, you'll have to get some sleep.”
“I could tell you just the same…” Her voice is quiet this time, almost hesitating—as if afraid of pushing too far. When Cid simply scoffs in response, however, Benedikta straightens up her back; when he takes a drag of his nearly forgotten cigarillo, she quickly puts her legs down, letting them dangle from the windowsill, shifting closer. “Can I try it?”
“Try it?” It takes Cid but a moment to notice that she is eyeing his cigarillo with clear interest. “Hells, no. It's bad for your lungs.”
“But not for yours?”
Being implicitly called a hypocrite by a girl that is almost half his age was not in his plans for the evening. Let alone seeing it happen twice.
“What's the point of smoking anyway?” Benedikta insists, probably noticing that the previous question is not going to be graced with a proper answer.
“It soothes the nerves,” he lies, holding onto the safety of a widely accepted answer. It must be true to most people—even Cid himself finds the act calming, except when he truly needs to relax. It hasn't made a difference in gods know how long now.
Benedikta frowns at the response, which is a usual reaction; if anything, Cid has learned that those knitted brows can convey all sorts of meaning, depending on other signs. As of now, given the way she lowers her head slightly and presses her lips together, Benedikta is thinking deeply about what she has just heard. Cid fails to see why she would be so intrigued by his words, but he does not have much time to wonder.
“What is getting on your nerves, then? That’s why you can't sleep, right? Something on your mind…”
Thrice damned be Benedikta’s observant nature. What can he even tell her? Openly admitting that he hasn't been entirely sure about Stonehyrr or King Barnabas and his creepy right hand, so shortly after having the girl call the place home, would do nothing but undermine the trust they have built. Not to mention that Cid’s uneasiness is a matter of gut feeling, nothing more; he has no proof that anything is wrong—nothing other than the fact that his gut has never failed him.
On a fateful day, Cid offered Benedikta a lifeline. Any sign of uncertainty would be the same as pulling that lifeline away, and that simply will not do.
“Do you really want to try it?” Instead of a proper answer, he offers her the cigarillo, in hopes that it will be enough to keep her distracted.
The pointed look she gives him makes it clear that no, she will not ignore the fact that he is dodging her question; but apparently Benedikta is willing to accept a truce for now, shifting even closer.
“I do. Will you show me?”
“Eh. Why not?” If that is the price for a modicum of peace, Cid is more than willing to pay it. With a flick of his wrist, he offers Benedikta the cigarillo, watching with some amusement how she hesitates before taking it. Her final stance, however, is quite familiar; keeping the cigarillo between her thumb and forefinger, Benedikta holds it exactly the same way Cid does—which in turn makes him wonder whether that is a mere consequence of their coexistence, or rehearsed mimicry. “Bring it to your mouth, pull in, inhale, and then breathe out.”
Benedikta still eyes the cigarillo and then Cid with careful suspicion, as if still uncertain about how to proceed. That is his cue to shrug, being deliberately casual about it. “You're still in time to give up…” And he half wishes she would, but Benedikta seems to take his words as a challenge. Wariness gives way to exasperation in her expression, and she hastily lifts the cigarillo to her lips, taking a deep drag that leads to the most predictable coughing fit Cid has ever witnessed.
“Fuck—!” She manages to cry out between coughs, her voice strangled and eyes red. Cid can taste the words on the tip of his tongue; uttering ‘told you’ feels almost too easy—and that is why he decides against it. Knowing Benedikta also means realizing when to spare her from playful prodding. He chooses to rub her back instead, trying to soothe her.
“It burns!” She spits out in a choked protest, half accusatory, half confused.
“I know. It's not that bad if you don't rush through, but…” Cid retrieves the cigarillo from her hands with the same caution he would use to put a babe down in a crib. Or to drag a half-mangled body away from a coeurl.
“But what?!”
Funny how things go. Benedikta is the one who asked for the damned cigarillo; Cid merely indulged her. And yet, as she looks up at him with frustration—perhaps even some disappointment—written all over her face, Cid cannot help feeling that this is his fault somehow. That he should have known better before offering; should have kept his word and protected her, even if from something as simple and inoffensive as a cigarillo.
Maybe this is what it feels like, being responsible for someone else.
“... But in a way, it did work, uh?” The notion hits him like a smack to the back of his head. “We sure ain't thinking of the storm anymore…”
“Really, Cidolfus?” When they first met, Benedikta wouldn't look him in the eyes; weeks later, she still hesitated to use his name. This, Cid ponders, is a thousand times better.
“What? Can't argue with facts, can you?” He watches as she presses her lips together, almost pouting, glaring daggers at him. The sight is as endearing as it gets, enough to boost Cid's courage and have him rub Benedikta's back again, in a silent peace offering. “The storm's still raging, and yet here we are.”
“Right. Here we are—me, making a fool of myself, and you, laughing at it…”
“If you laugh, I'll be laughing with you, though. It's all up to you.”
Cid doesn't know exactly what does the trick. Maybe it is the sense of camaraderie carried by his tone, or perhaps the way he winks at her. Whatever it is, Benedikta stares at him with wide eyes for a split second, before scoffing and shaking her head. When she looks away, Cid knows that it is because she refuses to let him see how easily he brought a smile to her face—even if he would argue that it was not that simple to begin with.
“The storm will pass. And we'll live to make sure that you try smoking once again, how’s that sound?”
Instead of answering, Benedikta looks out the window. Cid watches as the angry skies lighten up once again, tinging her face in a ghastly, purplish shade. There is something in her gaze that he cannot quite read, not from this angle.
“The storm will pass.” It is her turn to scoff; if there is any humor to it, it doesn't quite reach her eyes. “The storm will pass,” she repeats, almost as if savoring the words, taking in some bigger meaning that is clearly beyond Cid.
When Benedikta turns to him and smiles, he understands why she was so hard to read just a moment ago. The fact that she is usually an open book means nothing when there is so much written all over those green eyes of hers—sadness shifting into gratitude and then fear and something else, emotions overlapping faster than he could possibly process. Keeping track of them is as useless as trying to hold a handful of sand, but he tries anyway. After all, Cidolfus Telamon cannot possibly walk away from a puzzle.
Benedikta is the one to break the spell, deliberately bumping against Cid’s side when she hops off the windowsill; he almost loses his balance (and a fraction of his cool) in the process.
“What? Getting too old to even hold your own?,” she taunts. It sounds a little too much like Cid’s own jabs, but her voice is light, coated in genuine amusement. He cannot complain about that, can he?
“Think I’m retiring in a couple years and naming you Lady Commander in my stead? Think again. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”
Cid doesn’t think much of his own words, and yet once again something shifts in Benedikta’s eyes.
This time, however, he gets it. Or so he assumes, at the very least.
“Eh… Go back to bed. I’ll try to get some sleep as well.” Benedikta is getting better at pretending to be unfazed; that much Cid must admit. From her nonchalant tone to the way she shrugs while slowly walking away, it is easy to think that nature itself is beneath the girl. Cid knows better, of course, but playing along doesn’t hurt.
“Go ahead. I’ll finish the job you couldn’t handle.” He raises his hand, cigarillo resting between his fingers; it is almost completely spent, but the man refuses to waste what he has already paid for. The only answer he gets from Benedikta is a dismissive wave of hand, but he knows exactly what kind of glare he will get if she turns around.
She doesn’t. At least not until she reaches the end of the hallway.
“Cidolfus?”
“Yeah?” The single word comes out in a puff of smoke. From this distance, in the darkness of the intersection where she stopped, Cid cannot really see Benedikta’s face.
“I don’t think cigarillos will do it for me,” she says. Her voice is small, but the silence carries it with ease over the walls, making it seem like she is much closer than she really is. “It’s you.”
He doesn’t even have a chance to ask for clarification. Just like that, Benedikta is gone, the rumble of another thunder covering the sound of her footsteps.
But Cid gets it. Or so he assumes—even if the assumption feels heavy on his shoulders, leaving a bittersweet taste in his mouth.
When the cigarillo finally burns his finger, he curses under his breath and throws it away, lighting another one. It is hard to shake the feeling that yet another storm was brewing within Stonehyrr.