@divinecrest: birthday ask
Sitri is seven years old and she's only now learned what a birthday is, which means she's gone seven whole years without celebrating her mother's birthday.
It doesn't matter that Rhea didn't know birthdays are a special occasion either, nor that she doesn't seem to mind. Sitri has got to make up for all the years they've wasted. When she makes her way to Rhea's chambers it is with a silver tray in hand, atop which rest a bowl of sliced fruits and a glass of juice, along with toast in a basket and strawberry jam. Lastly, there's a package with a large ribbon. It weighs rather a lot for a little girl, but she's determined to see this through.
Her mother's attendants have obligingly not roused her yet, and one of them opens the door for Sitri as well so she can enter with the tray. Afterwards she asks the lady to leave, and she does. This makes her giggle. Mama's attendants are much more tolerant of her being the Archbishop’s darling than those silly nuns. Oh, she's not thinking about that this morning, though.
“Good morning, Mama!” She calls cheerfully, leaving the tray on a side table and gripping the package tightly before she bounds to Rhea's side. “And Happy Birthday! Oh, no no no, don't get up yet! You have to stay in bed or it won't be breakfast in bed! Oh, silly Mama, you almost ruined my gift! Alright, just a moment now…”
Leaving the package behind, she hurries to fetch the tray and brings it over, though Rhea has to help her get it up there. Well, as long as her feet stay off the ground while she does, Sitri supposes it's fine. She wastes no time kicking off her shoes and taking her place beside her mother afterwards — though she is mindful of the tray —, tucked right against her.
“I know you don't care much about your birthday,” she says, “but I do. I wish we'd had a party every year, but well… We didn't know, so — I just have to make your day super duper extra special!”
She beams up at Rhea, offering her the package. Inside rests a dark blue scarf embroidered with misshapen stars, and a drawing of Rhea herself with Sitri. Above the drawing are written the words, “For Lady Rhea on the ocasion of her birtday with all my love, from Sitri”.
“I'm not very good at knitting,” she prattles on, far too pleased with herself to stop, “and I just started emboi—embroidery, but I did my best. I wanted to write ‘For Mama’ but then I thought someone might see it…” For a brief moment she wilts, though perks right back up as a thought comes over her. “Oh, I cut all the fruit myself! Don't worry, there was always a grown-up watching. I helped make the jam and toast, oh and I made the juice all by myself too!”
She giggles, shining with pride, before her head comes to rest against Rhea's forearm, gently and playfully nudging her. “Sooo, what do you think, Mama? I wanted to give you the best day I could, because — well, you're the best.” As giddy as she is, her next chuckle is soft. “I love you lots and lots. I love you like… Oh! I love you more than there are stars in the sky. Did you know that, Mama?”
Rhea sleeps rarely; the bed, like most things in her chambers more for appearances rather than anything substantial.
(The archbishops chambers have changed little since their inception in the Adrestrian style of decor, and Rhea sees little reason for them to do so now.)
But occasionally, she rests; knowing well enough her body needs if even if her mind still roils, it is then she looks up at the hanging ornamentation above her and imagines the galaxies its mandalas are said to invoke; it too, is written to be an artwork of the Empires long past but it is much older. It comes from the time of her Mother.
She tries not to look at it too often, for the memories pile up when she does but it had at least been useful for teaching Sitri the stars (and before that as a mobile).
Alessia, a long time attendant of hers, bids her a blessed morning and Rhea rises into a sitting position to do the same; opting to comb her own hair as she thinks on the day ahead. Saint Seiros Day requires the Archbishop for prayers and blessings and so the archbishop she must become, but something today makes her hesitate.
Sitri barreling into her room (That Alessia, she thinks, fond in a subdued way) takes away her puzzling thoughts and replaces them with warmth. It is rare to see Sitri so early in her day and at first she is worried but even before the child’s words sink in Rhea is comforted by her confident demeanor and dimpled, beaming smile.
She is carrying so much though! Rhea tries to rise to help her with her last package but is chastened by that small voice in tones she know to be remarkably similar to her own. She can only smile, be sued, as Sitri continues to prepare things for her at her bedside.
“Sitri, my love, I bid you good morning - but how long since you slipped out… ah, there is nothing for it thank you.” She says, meaning it, even as *birthday* echos on her head as if an unfamiliar word. She wonders how Sitri learned it?
Even more mysterious was this breakfast-in-bed but as Sitri seems quite intent on the ritual Rhea can only do her part, making room for both the tray and Sitri herself once the child is ready to take her spot on the bed.
Sitris explanation is full to bursting as are her emotions and Rhea does her best to accept each one in turn as gently as she accepts each gift. Her hand strokes the scarf still in its package as Sitri tells her about the dedication on it and for a moment as Sitri wilts her hand freezes.
For Mama, to think there is a part of the that wants that.
Again, there is little to dwell on but Rhea does bring Sitri into her arms, seating her up on her lap as they had often done when she was younger. “It's delicious,” she tells her, taking a bite of the dust and then offering some to Sitri, “will you not eat it with me? There is nothing I could desire more on my day of birth.”
They eat and they talk, and for a moment Rhea can indeed imagine a world where once a year waking up like this becomes routine. That this love, growing in Sitri, planted without Rheas knowledge but to her greatest awe, continues to bloom.
(And it does. And it will. Taking over so much, but nothing Rhea would not already give.)
“It has only begun and yet… it is indeed one of the best days I have ever had,” Rhea replies, hoping her smile is a fraction as beautiful as Sitri’s, “and no!” She grins wider. “Every star? Even more than that one, do you remember its name?”
Pushing the tray aside and pulling Sitri close Rhea looks up at the ornamentation above her and points to the mandala of the Blue Sea Star; this time the memories that like up are of Sitri and rather than feeling buried by them Rhea feels bouyed. She thinks she could fly among those stars herself, again.
