steadfast

   ❝Hmph—.❞    He is aware that the tale is a hard one to swallow; especially since humans that know about the Seraph Records are displayed as fables rather than actual documentation. Various people laugh and chortle at his human friend’s supposed ludicrous faith in the forlorn race when he speaks out about them in these infested cities. Were people more accepting; may-haps the looming destruction being wrought with the Hyouma wouldn’t have reached this abrupt pinnacle. The scent that festered underneath the soil, the corruption that has begun to churn water into sludge— it felt as though humans were the cause their own ultimatum. The reason the Seraphim abandoned them was no doubt due to the greed and self-righteous perspective. ❝You’re thinking that I’m absolutely mental,❞ and to be quite honest he cannot blame the lordling. ❝And yet all the proof is laid out before you to see.❞    Humans have such a difficult time grasping the ideology that there are creatures above them. Though the Seraph does not see himself as someone to be revered as the Seraph Records state— there were vivid descriptions of the forests and plains that are almost afloat in a separate plane all their own. Sacred villages as the one he came from; surrounded with barriers that are meant to repel humans on sight. Mikleo’s kindred no longer believe in humans but at least acknowledge them as a threat to their tranquil existence that borders isolationism. There was an open-minded leader in his village; someone he affectionately called his ‘grandfather.’     The same person had allowed a sole human to live amongst them until his late teens. But also knew that Sorey would choose to meld in with his own ‘kind’ and forget his affiliation with the Seraphim. Had he not chosen to go with his childhood friend— perhaps he too might’ve assimilated and chosen to forget about the otherworldly deities hidden atop the mountain grotto. Riddled with ruins and unanswered questions; there is little he could use to hinder the blond’s doubts about his lineage. 

    ❝You know, there were some written records about Seraphim—. I think most have been left to gather dust on shelves.❞ Not that he expects Cline to go and seek them out. His host seems to be the scholarly type; but to go digging through ancient records would look like borderline scrupulosity. Or insanity; probably both. But the Seraphim seemed gracious enough to be at the side of someone who could at least see him and commence communication. There might come a time when this lordling loses the sight— and thus Mikleo would have to start all over again. He has to regain his bearings and move forward to connect his world with this one before it is too late. Indeed, it sounds like an unachievable dream. Fantastical, hopeless, and at the same time— admirable. Because he does not choose to struggle for the sake of the Seraphim. But also for those most consider subpar to his people whom bear the divine elements.

   ❝I—.❞ The white-haired Seraph is speechless that even with that hesitation; Cline accepts him into his home. Not even aware that— it could’ve all been lies. He could be a humanoid Hyouma in disguise that could easily crunch him up and devour him. Bones and flesh; soul and spirit—. ❝Thank you.❞ He makes a vow to protect the human as long as possible. Skies above rumble to signal the natural rain. Befitting since the droplets do not cling to the flesh nor dampen the Seraphim. In fact, it almost like Mikleo is synchronized with the torrents that have begun to gracefully fall from the heavens.     He had not been given such altruistic benevolence since—.    ❝Is it more comforting to imagine me as a spirit?❞

He brings his hands behind him, clasped loosely as he lifts his head slightly. It is a gesture, a stance indicative of some kind of pride though it is, for now, an acceptance of this being standing before him. Unbelievable in purpose and form, wavering however slightly, though almost imperceptible now. Cline listens a moment to ponder what the very presence of this Seraph implies, perhaps still waiting for the illusory creature to vanish, though the expectation wanes, ever steadily.

"I admit I am not at ease to believe you--" But neither does he have any reason at this point to disbelieve him. Born entirely of air, whether his warnings and his purpose are imaginary or otherwise, he cannot say that they are entirely impossible. "-- But perhaps you can show me."

There is something small, some sentiment without proper name, that likens him to this apparition's purpose. A facet of human empathy -- a shred of admiration, for the determination to take on such a task for a people that had no inkling of his existence.

"I know little of such records, at least in Sharilton's own archives." Beside the sympathy, there is the slightest thrill of warning. A man cannot function effectively as the lord of a city without some grain of hesitation. But neither would he be doing these people a service in being so closed. Seraph, spirit or otherwise, he cannot bring himself to turn away from his plight. "It may be best if you were to tell me these legends instead."

"-- It is my first reaction to refer to you as such. Whether you are spirit or Seraph, however, makes little difference now."

He nods once, the deep breath he gathers lending some measure of steadiness and reality to a situation his logic would otherwise be eager to dismiss.

One time your muse… was brave.

The dawn seemed to have come without warning. Even long after the light had begun to seep from the gaps at the edges of the pale green curtains, the air in the study still seemed frigid. It would be a long time yet, before they’d warm again. The sounds of the city outside were hushed that morning, afraid and uncertain. Perhaps they, too, were in mourning. Perhaps it was only the chill of the room that had made him numb. The soft sobs from several rooms along the hallway had subsided what must have been hours before — there was no sense in waking her now.

He nodded slightly at the guard that appeared in the doorway, more like a slip in his composure than any conscious movement. “I will greet them,” he said, his voice still hoarse. “I will speak.” He owed more to the people beyond the manor walls. They did not need silence from the boy newly burdened with the responsibility of their lives. They did not need a boy, afraid.

One time your muse... got in trouble.

It fell with a terrific crash.

A flat disc with it’s painted features lost in the brief moments of its fall — once whole, now nothing more than fragmented glimmers of the sunlight still streaming from windowed walls. Even its note, the sound of it’s shattering seemed to have splintered in the air around them, a clatter whose faint tinkling still lingered in the breath that followed. The small fingers that had let it fall were still splayed in the air, pale eyes wide in disbelief.

The moment between the slip of his mother’s plate and the sharp click of approaching footsteps was all but quiet. His ears had been filled with the near-imperceptible pitch of panic. He could almost feel his mother’s voice in all the hard sternness that had touched it’s timbre in the last few months.

                                                                                                               'Cline?'

He had only wanted to make her something.

                                                                                                               'What in the world…!'

— to help her feel better.

                                                                                                               'Did you do this?'

It had been an accident —

                                                                                                               '… Did you hurt yourself?'

Her embrace was warm. He could feel himself begin to tremble. ‘I told you to be careful with the plates in the display, didn’t I? You're just like your father.' He could hardly speak for surprise, the disbelief. She wasn't mad, then. She couldn't have been, if she was smiling like that.

     ”Oh?”

Cline saw the small card sat atop a package first. Addressed to him from Jude, the governor wondered briefly when Jude had stopped by the manor, or if the young man had it delivered, still engrossed in his research as he likely was. A surprisingly hefty box, he opened it with a particular care.

Its surprisingly cumbersome weight was easily enough understood upon his opening it, revealing a small series of books on the history of Elympios, as well as a journal and accompanying pen. Cline had been searching for additions on Elympian history for the manor’s library in the west wing, and this certainly eased the search.

                                                                                                                       ”A package, my lord.”

Cline looks blankly at the messenger and the parcel in his hands for a moment. He breathes a “thank you,” smiling slightly as he takes it into his hands. Inconspicuous at first, a simple box that seemed to have traveled a long way.

Inside, a set of quills in an array of colors and rich hues. Their arrangement recalled the banners that flew outside the manor, and those outside the castle in Barona. A card and its illuminated borders bore evidence of its sender.

The delay in Xian Du had held him off for too long already. The glimpse of the timepiece at the furthest wall of his study did little to assuage his nerves.

Ah, the familiar holiday question, one he’d already faced on a number of occasions. There never seemed to be an appropriate response.

                     "Only one?"

"The one we're in now, I think, is the most enjoyable. There's something rather cozy about the colder seasons." Any occasion for a celebration was a welcome one in the manor, even beyond the additional planning and work it often warranted.

♤: Cooking headcanon

☼: Childhood headcanon

☻: Mood Headcanon

Cline is of a naturally tranquil predisposition. When he was younger, he used to be rather excitable, easily drawn into the momentum of different situations and dwelling too long on his emotions. There is, of course, a danger to be found in letting emotion dictate the decisions that a leader is meant to make -- even if lives are not directly implicated in his actions, there will of course be consequences for those involved. Making difficult decisions often leaves him emotionally detached from the outcome, though he certainly pays close attention to any consequences of his actions. This distance has some effect on his personal life as well, to a particular degree.