#chyrus

Adrestes’ feathers fluff for a fraction of a second, annoyed by the question. “There are others better suited.”

They have already had this conversation, and Adrestes hopes to the Archon that Chyrus will not make him relive it in its entirety.

“You truly have no interest in expanding your horizons?”

At least this time, it’s not a command.

Adrestes is tempted to fly away here and now, but he knows better. That would be disrespectful.

And Chyrus’ wings are bigger, so he will keep up far too easily. Adrestes doesn’t need to make a scene of being chased down by a paragon, either.

“I know so little of venthyr culture,” Adrestes begins, taking care to pick his words, hoping he can explain himself in such a way that the subject will be dropped sooner than later, “that I feel I can easily cause more harm to any…relations between realms than good.”

Chyrus’ face shifts as he considers it, crossing his arms, eyes rolling up toward the sky in thought. “You did not think to read up on etiquette before you went?”

“Both Xandria and Visephone required my assistance,” Adrestes says, matter of fact. After all, it is his job to assist the paragons and serve as the voice of the Archon.

Appraising him with care, Chyrus nods slowly.

Adrestes turns to go, hoping to take the lull in the conversation to his advantage, though the paragon of humility will not allow him so clear an exit. “I will send you the scrolls I have on the subject. So that you may be better prepared next time.”

This time, when Adrestes’ feathers ruffle, it is far more noticeable. There is amusement in Chyrus’ eyes that he doesn’t bother to hide. Adrestes fights back the panic that swells inside him at the thought of having to leave his duties to play at politics again. “I do not think there will be—”

“There will,” Chyrus cuts him off. His earlier good humor seems spent. “This Ember Court has been picking up momentum since its establishment. It is not something that will fall apart so easily, nor will you be excluded in its future.”

Adrestes doesn’t bother to hide his scowl. “There are better people—”

“And the dark prince asked for you,” Chyrus interrupts him again. “In his master’s absence, he is the leader of his realm. Tell me, would you deny the Archon an audience?” Even as Adrestes goes rigid, Chyrus adds, “Would you brook someone else denying the Archon an audience? Simply because they feel they know better with whom she should meet?”

“The prince is not a god—”

“No, he is a noble creature trying to save his realm that has been abused and abandoned by its god.” Chyrus’ does not give Adrestes time to respond. “Imagine, horrible as it is, if the Archon left us.” The mere thought is feels so abhorrent beyond anything Adrestes has ever considered in his eons in Bastion. “Worse, imagine that the Archon has turned our purpose into some twisted mockery of what it was, and that those of us who hold true to our purpose are openly hunted and slain for standing up to her.”

Adrestes swallows, fighting the urge to tell Chyrus that what he says feels like treason. That the impact of those words are like a punch to the gut. That if he goes to the Archon now, she will be wounded and outraged anyone would even consider such a notion. To even consider doubting their Archon, after all she has done for them. All they are, all they enjoy, all they do is for and by her grace.

The incense that rises in him so naturally gives way ever so slightly as what Chyrus is actually saying sinks in. He is not supposing about the Archon to offend her in all her virtue, but to put Adrestes in his place, to make him consider why his desires to avoid any future court appearances are selfish at best.

Still, he wants to insist that horrible as it is, what is happening in Revendreth, he is not the one to seek out. Not for parties and posturing. Adrestes is a soldier, a polemarch.

His thoughts must be plain in his posture and the frown that drags down the corners of his lips, because Chyrus reads his protests with ease, without a single syllable being uttered.

“Imagine that you are trying to set things right, to save your realm and your purpose. That you reach out to other realms for aide, fearful that they will look down on you because how can they believe that you are truly any different than your wayward god? Imagine how desperate you would be to find help, and imagine how painful it would be to have it turned away.” Chyrus motions to Adrestes. “And when you find out why you are being denied, the injury is even worse than you feared. Rather than doubt in your allegiances to the Shadowlands, the people who do not help you, who dismiss your attempts to reach out and establish allies, are doing so merely because they feel you picked the wrong person to ask for help.”

“It’s not like that.”

Chyrus tilts his head. “Isn’t it?”

Adrestes opens his mouth to argue, but he cannot. He knows he is not the person to call on for these frivolous events, and yet, when Chyrus puts it as he has, points out the intent and meaning behind these frivolities, Adrestes sees why it is so important that the person requested is the one who comes.

It is a sign of respect, a promise that Revendreth is worth saving and that Bastion has noticed their anguish and is willing to help, to acknowledge the dark prince and his rebellion as the rightful leaders of the realm, and not those who seek to abandon their realm’s true purpose.

Adrestes can only imagine—and poorly at that—the anguish those hosting the Ember Court must feel, and he is all the more grateful for the Archon, knowing that she is as steadfast in her role, in her care for her people, as she has ever been. The venthyr deserve compassion, not dismissal.

While he does not want to admit that he could use this lesson, Adrestes bows his head to Chyrus. “I thank you for the scrolls. I will read them as soon as I am able.”

He tries not to frown at the smile Chyrus gives him before taking flight.