Backdated to May 9
Julian arrived on Dering holding his breath and wincing, already preparing for the same assault to his senses as he'd experienced last week. To his relief, things were back to normal. Mostly.
It had taken a single good rain to clean up the mess left behind the fluffbugs, but that just made last week feel more like a fever dream.
A cough persisted for a few days after his trip to Dering, and he'd spent more time sleeping. Some of it was because his body wanted time to heal. Most of it was because of the sheer, exhaustive terror he felt at the idea of losing Cyril.
Julian had written to him every day. It was overkill, he knew it.
And writing letters had gotten him in trouble before. It probably would again.
He just didn't know what else to do, and in the face of helplessness, the answer was always more.
And on top of that, his memory of that day was very different from Cyril's, and now he was grappling with which version was true. Could both versions be?
Cyril was adamant that he'd been there the whole time. Julian was certain he'd been running around frantically. When he'd gotten home, his fingers were bruised and split from how desperately he'd played on the lute, desperate for a song to reach Cyril even if his voice couldn't.
If only one version was true, it was probably Cyril's, but that only left Julian feeling confused and disappointed in himself.
Oh, well. Nothing new.
He arrived on Dering desperate to prove himself. Even if he never got answers, he still wanted to do his best.
To his very great relief, not only was it sunny outside, but he could hear Cyril strumming his lyre as soon as he arrived.
The grass had grown a bit, not enough that it needed to be cut, but Julian hurried towards the music.
Even though it sounded...
Off.
Not quite discordant, but not quite right. Cyril was an amazing musician, and Julian would sooner believe the song demanded the anomalies than thing it was an accident, but...
Cyril was missing strings. They were being plucked too quickly, or too slowly. He was strumming two at a time, or more, and there was a complete lack of harmony. The pace was inconsistent.
It sounded like mistakes.
And that didn't sound like Cyril.
When Julian found him, he was staring into empty space.
His fingers were locked up. Twitching. They would move awkwardly, and then in rapid bursts of unexplainable speed. Sometimes, Julian couldn't even see them, and the music faded in and out.
Julian did not know, nor had he thought to ask, if Cyril manifested the music by will. He was a ghost, but his clothes didn't tear or snag. Julian couldn't play the lyre; his hand would pass right through it. Had any other part of Cyril made a sound? Julian had never heard his clothes rustle, or his feet on the grass, or any of the small adornments clink.
Cyril's eyes were wrong, too. Misty and pale. But so was he.
The light played tricks where Cyril was concerned. He looked pearlescent now, more than usual.
He looked like a ghost.
For a moment, Julian didn't know what to do.
Cyril flickered. There, gone. Back, but playing with no sound.
Julian swallowed. "Cyril?" he asked, and all at once Cyril snapped out of it.
He blinked, and his eyes were back to normal. His form regained its color, at least some of it, and his fingers slowed. "Julian," he greeted, plucking at the strings of the lyre again.
A tune Julian knew--something light and friendly. "You look pale. Are you sick again?"
Julian felt sick. His heart was pounding in his throat and for a moment he forgot to breathe, but he forced himself to nod.
"Did you rest when you got home? And drank lots of water?"
"I did everything you told me," Julian promised. He wrung his hands together in front of him, but Cyril could sense the nervousness. Julian saw it in his face, so before Cyril could ask again, Julian blurted, "Can I sit next to you?"
"Of course. Why do you look so distressed?"
"I don't know," Julian said, seating himself quickly. "I guess I've just been a little out of it. I'm sorry."
"Hm." Cyril raised a brow but shrugged. "I saw butterflies by the roseberries this morning. Did you?"
"No, I haven't been yet. I wanted to find you first."
"Is everything okay?"
Julian nodded quickly, but he hadn't stopped tugging at his sleeves since he sat down. Cyril could probably feel Julian's gaze on him, heavy as it was.
"I thought you'd be more excited that there were insects."
"I am," Julian insisted, and--to be honest, that hadn't really settled in. He hadn't even been sure that last week was real so he hadn't been able to celebrate. "It's just a lot to take in. I'm sorry."
Cyril ignored the apology. "The fluffbugs have moved deeper in the forest. In a few weeks, you might find that powder again. But it's more likely you'll see a bunch of little ones drifting on the wind. They look like dandelions."
Julian felt the strange urge to cough but nothing came of it. The tickle in the back of his throat felt like the tip of a manicured finger. He swallowed. Again. He cleared his throat. Massaged it.
Cyril was watching him now.
"Sorry," Julian said, and put his hand back down in his lap. "...I'm all over the place. I really want to be excited about the bugs."
"But you aren't?"
"No, I am. I just. It's something else, too. I don't know."
Cyril learned a long time ago that 'I don't know' meant that Julian usually had plenty more to say, but he had decided it was safer not to. What he hadn't yet learned was what the parameters for 'safe' were. There was an effort being made there, though watching it develop was like watching a flower unfurl its petals and then get stage fright. There was no guarantee that each subsequent effort would yield any progress, because sometimes it was two steps back and no steps forward.
Nothing about Julian was straightforward.
Still, Cyril nodded. "I suppose you're going to tell me you don't want to talk about it."
"Um, no. It's not that. It's just not important."
"So you do want to talk about it?"
"...I don't know," Julian answered. This time he placed his palms flat on his legs, but the action made him too still, so he scrunched the fabric of his pants instead.
A few seconds passed. Cyril would have let it stretch into a minute to see if Julian changed his mind, but there was an uneasiness about Julian that didn't seem close to settling. His gloom felt out of place.
Sunlight slipped through the leaves above them, casting dappled shadows across Julian. The grass danced in the breeze, and the air was fresh and fragrant with new blooms.
A yellow butterfly weaved between trees, but Julian's eyes were on his hands.
"...The roseberries have gotten bigger. I think they'll need another pot soon."
Julian swallowed. It didn't dislodge the lump in his throat, but it helped him find his words. "Are you sure they aren't weeds?"
"Quite. The flowers are budding. They're small, but plentiful. Come, let me show you."
He stood, unsurprised when Julian mimicked his exact speed and form. "I think they could use some sun. And you, too. Will you be able to bring bigger pots next time?"
"I can do that." A small spark flickered in Julian's eyes, not enough to completely dispel whatever fog he had clouding his mind, but enough that his eyes were in front of him instead of on the ground.
"Good, thank you. I think, if all goes well, you'll be able to plant them in the ground, soon. I think they'll be strong enough to make it on their own."
"...Really?"
"Really. You've done a good job with them. I don't think they'd have grown if you weren't trying so hard. And before you say you didn't do that much, you did. I wonder, when the roseberries grow--when those eggs hatch--what our next task should be. I'll have to think on it this week and get back to you."
Julian exhaled. He walked next to Cyril, step in step. His shoulders loosened, unwound from whatever knots had been building. "I'd really like that, thank you."
