#cynrall

It tells you all sort of things. It tells you’re a good for nothing drunkard. It tells you used to have so much promise, used to be such a great marksman. But after that scout mission in Orr, you were never quite the same.

From the counter, a quiet mechanic chirring makes you stir from the heap you’ve collapsed yourself into. You roll your head to the side to spare a glance with your good eye to the little bugger you call family. And Jelly, your baby princess, your little bio-mech queen tilts her head at you, all seven of her eyes blinking slowly, even the two you needed to replace with lenses. For having been a mass of raw breeze rider meat, barely still alive, you’ve done a good job patching her up at least, you can admit that even through your drunken haze.

She chirps quietly, low, and no matter how much people think you’re a nut job for believing you can communicate with a breeze rider, you’ll be damned if it doesn’t sound worried. Her tendril lifts to coil around the rough bark flare of your ear, ever so gently. Nut job it is, you think, as you nuzzle into the touch. You must be one, because you love the little thing like the daughter you’ll never have.

She has reason to be worried, you presume. The Jungle’s gone quiet, you have no more reason to drink yourself under like this to drown the voices. But ah, those were hardly the only bothersome thing in your head, you muse.

Jelly turns, suddenly, looking past you. You can feel a presence approaching, but you’re big enough, scarred enough and armed enough for most thugs to smarten up and leave you alone, with a few avid ‘sylvari are evil!’ preachers being an exception. But where your gold is good enough, the patrons are usually good enough to remove anything that would stop it from flowing.

Ashen green is the arm that leans on the shank beside you. You’ve seen it before. You’ve held that supple hand. And as your eyes fly up, hazy as you might be, you remember those pretty green eyes.

“It’s been a long while, Cynrall,” he intones, quietly. His voice is as unobtrusive as his presence. No bright colours, no excessive trinkets meant to catch one’s eye - not that he needs them. He’s still dressed in black, his robes tight down to his hips where they’re fastened by a wide belt. They flow from there, still split at the hip. His bark is a little more ashen, his leaves a little bit longer, but he’s no less of a sight than he used to be all those years ago.

“'ey Jellybean,” you pipe up, addressing the little breeze rider at your side. “'fraid it’s my time. I’m seeing things that ought to only happen in heaven. Looks like I’ve had one too many after all.”

You watch those spring green eyes roll at you again and feel five years younger.

“I can come back another time,” he informs you, already turning to do up the cowl to cover those full lips of his. Everything but his eyes. Everything- even that ring he’s wearing…

You’re not sure when your hand shoots up to grasp his wrist and stop him, you only register him turning to regard you, surprised. “Don’t go, Foxy Eyes,” you murmur, “don’t go. Let it sink in that you’re still alive an’ a'right.”

Oh thorns, you weren’t thinking- he’ll tear his wrist free any second now, give you a glare for calling him that pet name. But he doesn’t. You can see the silent flash of memories in his eyes. He offers you a small, tired smile, leaning back against the shank next to you.

“Are you ever going to give up on the nicknames?”

You’re still trying to recover from the fact that he’s not blowing you off, fire circles ‘round his wrists and all. But you let go of him regardless, or perhaps because of that, picking up instead what remained of your last whiskey shot. The ice is long gone of course, but you hardly notice.

“Never,” you chuckle. Never ever.

“Hm,” he’s leaning on an elbow now, reaching to caress Jelly’s cheek somewhat curiously. She takes it as an invitation to feel along his hand in return, curiously amused at the attention. “What about me? It’s been years. Have you managed to give up on me?”

You can’t read his tone. It’s soothing, gentle - but blank. You don’t want to know what he means by it, you find. But this is a conversation and you’re drunk enough to have the balls to answer anyway. “Almost,” you chuckle over the rim of the glass, “almost, but nah. You’re the one that got away, as they say.”

You see him sigh with the corner of your good eye, leaning away from the shank. Is he going to leave? Are you going to forget he was ever there, come morning? You don’t wanna think any more. Not tonight. Not ever. You knock back the whiskey and sigh as it burns its way down your throat.

He moves from your good side to the other, leaving Jelly floating with a chirp. As he moves, you can feel the slight chill of his presence that brushes pass you, carrying the scent of Convallaria lilies. It’s the scent of the pale Orr moon that kisses the dead planes of broken corals as you fall asleep beside him up on a bare ledge above the Whispers camp that will be torn apart come morning-

A cool, gentle touch brings you back to the dusty bar in the Arch, to the present. His cool fingers run along the edge of your visor, over the long grown-over scars. It’s not cold enough to freeze you, and you know how cold his touch can be; you’ve seen him freeze blood and tear undead throats open with ice. But no, it feels gentle, almost painfully so.

“Please try your best. I would not be here today if it weren’t for you,” his green eyes hold yours and you don’t dare breathe just in case he’ll pull his hand away. “I’d like to repay you, keep you safe. But I can’t; not until you give up.”

You tear your gaze away to bring the empty glass to your lips. When you realize there’s nothing in it, you scowl. You’re still too sober for this.

“Let’s be friends, Cynrall,” he goes on, leaning there, so you have no choice but to see him. “I can’t give you what you want from me… but there is so much more I want to share with you instead.”

Your glass fills with water from thin air- you can barely see the water rings dancing around his wrists, but you know it’s him. Sighing, you drink till you down it all.

“I won’t give up, no matter how many years it takes,” he’s saying, softer now. “I want to see the day when you’ll laugh from the heart. I don’t want to keep tormenting you. I’m not worth all this pain.”

It hurts to hear him say these things. Your chest feels pierced through, split open back to front. You have to look down to assure yourself that’s unfortunately not the case. Instead, there’s a tension letting loose. Like a distant song it spills forth, and when you breathe out it goes and goes and never stops.

You set the glass down to turn and really look at him. He swallows and even you can tell he’s mortified, imploring silently. It doesn’t break through anywhere but his eyes. You can’t stand that expression on him; it’s the same one he gave you when you kissed him on the sunny docks that are no more, sunk to the bottom of the harbor with the rest of the Old Arch.

You sweep him close just hold your temple to his. “I’m the drunk one, I get to say stupid stuff, ye?”

“Stupid?” he’s huffing now, but he doesn’t tear away. It’s nice. This feels good.

“Yes, stupid. You’re worth the world, y'know?”

“I’m worth as much as everyone else… well, everyone that can tie with me in battle. Everyone who’s ever been chosen as a Rainmaker.”

You chuckle, remembering the night he got that title, the night you fell in love with him. But instead of hurting worse, it—it’s soothing. It’s a memory you share.

“You still dance like that? All elementalists together?”

“Sometimes, in the summer…”

“Can I watch next time?”

“Only if you learn to sing and clap.”

You laugh, leaning back.

He’s smiling too, you notice, he claps you on the back, and this time, for the first time, leans in to squeeze you close. He’s never- ever- ever–

You’re too happy, but you can blame it on the drinks later. You hug him tight and spin him around, barely to the other side of you, but his robe flutters and he’s a little winded, surprised. Jelly floats above the shank, startled as well. Sylphien quickly makes to soothe her.

It still hurts of course. But this is good. From the deepest parts of you, you can feel your wounds stitching closed.

The next round’s on him.

-

When you wake up in the morning, you wake up in the inn bed and not at the shank as per usual. Your head feels like it wants to split itself open anew, and of course, you can barely look around. Your boots are sorted by the door, your equipment cleaned and gloves folded. Jellybean is resting against your chest and there’s a glass of water waiting for you on the nightstand.

It’s been five years since you told him goodbye without meaning it, hoping against all hope for something you needed to drown in a dozen drinks night after night. And yet today-