a habitat of your heart

For to wish to forget how much you loved someone—and then, to actually forget—can feel, at times, like the slaughter of a beautiful bird who chose, by nothing short of grace, to make a habitat of your heart. 

 

— Maggie Nelson, Bluets

​



 

There are times where Rustica longs to linger in these infinite, winding corridors.  

 

(Not often, of course. And not for long — he’d hate to worry Chloe, after all. Yesterday, dawn's light had shaken him from pleasant dreams a good deal earlier than usual. Still, Rustica had sleepily but solemnly sworn to show off an outfit for him the following afternoon. 

 

When Chloe left the kitchens for the courtyard, eager to share the news over tea with Rutile and Heathcliff, there was a spring in his step; really, Chloe’s face could’ve lit up the room. 

 

Truth be told, Chloe’s handiwork is a marvel — miracles coming to life from imagination and ink. The day he had allowed the Western wizards to peruse the pages of his sketchbook, Rustica had been effusive with praise. 

 

My, each and every stitch sings of your heartfelt work. How wonderful. It never fails to surprise me, Chloe. That such beautiful creations can be crafted from just a few bolts of cloth — well, miraculous, isn’t it, Shylock?)

 

Rustica longs to linger — not for the endless, gilded staircases, decadent enough to blind, dripping with scores of candy-colored jewels. Nor for the strangely familiar hall of paintings — filled with smiling strangers in shining silks. 

 

(Whenever he tries to take a closer look, he always finds their features blurring before his eyes — distorting like mirages in summer heat, or a painter’s pigments melding together with one careless brushstroke: defined brows dissolving into indistinct shapes. 

 

No — it’s to chase the traces of his long-lost bride. To find her — here, where the sheer, gauzy fabric of memories intertwines with the soft, malleable threads of dreams. A flash of white silk, heels clicking like clockwork against the marbled floor. A glimpse of a lacy veil, fluttering like woven wings. 

 

Rustica’s riveted to the spot: listening to the familiar rhythm of his beloved bride’s footsteps — echoing through the shadowed halls, keeping tempo with his racing heart. 

 

He hurries past gleaming candelabras and glittering crowns, desperately trying to ignore the quiet croon at the back of his mind. A faint plea, begging him to stay. He can’t let himself be infected with that virulent desire — can’t allow himself to forget that the halls he’s wandering are no more than a crypt. 

 

Instead, he drowns out that insidious whisper with the steady cadence of her voice. Even though he can’t resist trying to trace those gentle words to its source, he… Oh, what was he expecting? His beloved’s nowhere to be seen. Of course! Yes. Of… course.

 

This is just… a memory of sweeter days, brought to life. 

 

If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine his bride still blushing, still breathing, her bright smile still blooming among scarlet marigolds and sky blue myosotis. All he can do is drink in every syllable like it’s his favorite seasonal tea blend — the kind his dear friend would describe as the color of a reopened wound. All he can do is savor every sip, every sound… gathering her words in his shaking hands like they’re made of gold. 

 

I used to only sing where none could hear me. To the tulips, I would sing each note like a secret; to the violets, each verse was no louder than a mortified murmur.  

 

When we first met, all I had for you was a handful of half-remembered lyrics… And a voice I hadn’t even the time to tune! But you… you said they made my songs all the more enchanting — that the bold sound of my bravery rang brighter than any bells. Don’t you know? 

 

Here is a song I hold close to my heart, dear Rustica. How can I ever let it go? The words you said to me, that day… the kindness in your voice. Mellifluous as music, and sweet as song. 

 

I could listen to that melody forever.

 

Likewise, Rustica wouldn’t mind lingering here for just a little longer. He lets her warm words slowly chase away the fog clouding his memories. He listens to the bright note of her laughter, cutting through his melancholy with ease. Like chimes dancing in the wind, he thinks. Dancing just for him.

 

Ah, but… her wistful words ring out in the silence over and over, with no one to offer her a response. That’s when he knows — there is nothing left for him here. Nothing left for him except to whisper his goodbyes. He conjures a bouquet of sky-blue myosotis and snow-white chrysanthemums with a whispered, Amorest Viesse. These pristine flowers are as pretty as a newlywed’s promise, still in full bloom.

 

… Laughable, isn’t it? It’s an oath that he’d only be able to keep within the cloud-soft confines of his dreams.

 

Offering a forget-me-not to his bride, when he can’t even remember her face. … Ah, well. Even if Rustica can’t recall her features, he still remembers the way she brightened when offered a bouquet of blue myosotis. How she giggled at the crooked crowns he’d clumsily strung together, delicate blossoms crowning her braided hair. 

 

This is how he lays this echo of his beloved to rest.

​

 

Here is a recurring dream: seething shadows surround him, snapping and snarling. A thousand hazy hands, a thousand virulent voices. They’re circling like sharks scenting blood from the depths, drawing in shallow, heaving breaths. Tough crowd. Even strumming a tavern-favorite tune from his harpsichord does little to quell their incandescent ire.

 

A thousand bloodshot eyes, glaring through the gloom. The weight of their wishes, seizing his heart in a stranglehold. It’s being thrown into ice-cold seawater, sinking like a stone through the depths. Here, the world is still as a mausoleum at midnight, and just as devoid of sound. A world starved of song and light — the antithesis of all that he holds dear. 

 

His heart howls like a wounded thing: pierced by the dagger-sharp edges of desire, damned for daring to hope. Turn it into a cautionary tale for mischievous children on moonless nights, and they’d have good reason to shiver in their sheets. Even so, this nameless creature’s incoherent. No words escape its gaping maw; all it does is weep with great, wretched sobs. It wants — he wants — 

 

Rustica wants to go home. 

 

(Rustica wants to watch Mithra, Owen, and Bradley have a standoff over the last scone in the kitchen, even if it’s long gone cold. He would probably consider interfering, but it’d be more thrilling to wait and watch the scene unfold. 

 

Like always, Nero would diffuse the tension with a sigh, pointedly announcing: he’d promised Riquet and Mitile a fresh batch upon their return. He’d grumble that it’d be a pain if the new set of frying pans he’d just purchased became a casualty to the chaos — that is, if their bickering escalated to a full-fledged brawl.

 

Rustica wants to put the finishing touches on the song he’d been writing with Chloe and Owen. It could serve as the perfect excuse for another tea party, after all. By then, the courtyard’s trees would have traded their verdant robes for vibrant silks: resplendent in hues of deep crimson and brilliant gold. The teacup cradled in his hands would warm him from within: perfect for brisk autumn afternoons such as these.

 

Owen would likely start off by scowling at the set of croissants stacked high on his plate, a precarious tower of pastries. Ah, but his eyes would light up once he’d discovered they were filled with sweet strawberry jam. A sight reminiscent of fireworks, Rustica recalls: like night-blooming flowers, blossoming bright and brief across summer skies. 

 

Although Rustica was never able to capture a star for Chloe… he wonders if a cup of Cosmos Tea would be close enough. The tea was a recent trend within Western marketplaces; a prettily-packaged bag of the blend easily caught his eye, sandwiched between a bouquet of shivering roses and a platter of philtre fudge. (…. Hold on. Wasn’t the latter outlawed several years ago?)

 

Before brewing, the teabags held a handful of dried, silvery leaves. As soon as hot water was added, the tea would darken to a deep, fathomless blue; a sweet, floral fragrance would waft through the air. Shooting stars would streak across its stygian surface, and jewel-like constellations would glitter within its cobalt depths. 

 

How wondrous. To be able to drink down manufactured starlight — to sip on celestial essence, and confine it to a cup!

 

Just thinking of his friends is enough to soothe his howling heart — that nameless beast. The memory of their mirth pierces through the lightless depths; imagining their starry-eyed delight makes the ice numbing his appendages slowly begin to thaw. Ah, but escapism can only sustain him for so long — daydreams slip through his grasp so easily, like the quicksilver comets Chloe tried to chase as a child: there and gone.

 

Rustica had indulged Chloe, of course. How could he not? Chloe told him he had the sweetest dream, one day. The remnants of sleep clung to him still, softening the edges of his voice. 

 

He’d plucked a basketful of shooting stars from the sky, see. Cradled them in his palms, watched them sparkle, and marveled at their steady warmth. He’d used them as buttons on a royal blue waistcoat, fit for a prince, and as bold embellishment for the rich cerulean silk of an evening gown: studded with literal stars. Oh, Rustica, I wish you could’ve seen it. I want to bring those dazzling designs to life. 

 

Ah, Rustica caved to his demands so easily, back then. Even if it was like trying to catch the moon in the water, or curling up on the surface of a cloud… it was difficult to refuse Chloe, once that blazing spark of passion for a new project set his eyes alight. 

 

On a set of broomsticks, the two of them would soar: over frosted valleys painted brilliant white, as winter settled over the land with a sigh, and verdant hills flush with spring’s first flowers — their fragrant perfume signaling new life. Rustica had looked forward to the thrill of the hunt, once night’s dark shroud began settling around his shoulders: cool wind carding through his hair, heels hot on the trail of crystalline comets Chloe yearned to catch.

 

Rustica had marveled at how they’d shower the sky with ephemeral, glittering sparks, but most of all — he’d marveled at the bright sound of mirth from this boy, who loved the sight of open skies more than anything. This budding wizard, this brilliant tailor who had only begun to discover the wonders of the world.)

 

The crushing weight of their wishes seizes Rustica by the shoulders. It steals the breath from his lungs, leaving him gasping like a fish: marooned on the shore, destined to die mere inches from the sea it had called home. He feels as if a serpent’s sun-warmed scales and sinew are winding across his throat, coiling tighter and tighter with each second that passes. 

 

The instant before lightning strikes, or the moment before a spell is cast — that same tension crackles through the air. Just one spark’s enough to set it alight. Listen close, and listen well: all those voices are screaming to be heard. Their cacophony is loud enough to carve through any candy-sweet dreamscapes he’d tried imagining. There’s no escaping their frenzied whispers — their frantic calls. 

 

Hanging high in the sky, the moon gleams like a copper coin. A silent, solemn witness, bright as blood. 

 

… Rustica wonders if his bride is seeing this, from where her soul rests among the stars. If so, she’s probably hiding her grin behind her hands, like always, trying to look delicate and refined. Watching him chase her shadow through those gloomy, gilded halls like a fool. 

 

Studying how those jeweled crowns glittered like mock stars in the dim: a pale imitation of night’s grand tapestry. A pale imitation of his beloved’s boisterous demeanor — nothing but an empty echo of her wildfire warmth.

 

(If so, then it’s only a matter of time before a snort — according to her, the antithesis of elegance — escapes. … Rustica wouldn’t mind in the slightest, though? In fact, he would be delighted at the sound. Really, now. Is there such indignity in raw emotion, or a joy so immense that cannot be contained?

 

Ah, Rustica remembers. She had done so, once, and it had landed her in dire straits: attracting a sea of scandalized stares. Rustica had to strike up a cheerful melody, scrambling for the nearest piano to draw their judgemental eyes; his beloved had grinned, grateful, and swiftly joined him with her lively, lilting voice. Her sweet, spring-like song filled the room like flowers after the first frost — all the more beautiful for their resilience.

 

Fufu, what a delightful duet it had been! It had been a merry piece, back then. A classic. It was popular enough among buskers that passersby would pay them to play anything but that song, please. I can practically recite the lyrics in my sleep. Its upbeat tempo made it perfect for whirling his dance partner across the ballroom floor, breathless with laughter. But now… 

 

Rustica can’t even remember the key it was in, nor the name of its long-dead composer. To keep it in his memory, he has to fill in the gaps. Transformation has always been his specialty, and yet… metamorphosis, just this once, felt a little like a murder. Of the original melody — and all the memories in which his bride had murmured the lyrics, unable to gather the courage to belt along with the crowd. 

 

No longer is it a song for dancing. Its lively allegro’s long been exhausted, slowing to a more lethargic tempo. Now, all that’s left is a dirge for all the duets they never got to play. Their half-finished sheet music used to pile up precariously on their shared music stand, steadily as snowdrifts. … The pages still had her little sketches and side notes in the margins, so he couldn’t bear to throw them away. 

 

Every time he imagines dancing to that melody, he can’t help but picture it. All the dreams they shared, that never got to spread their wings — like sweet songbirds slaughtered mid-flight. Like white roses cut before their prime. 

 

Tragic stories like these are far too easy to spin into ballads, heavy with heartache — bittersweet notes drowning his thoughts in melancholy blue. That’s why he prefers melodies that lighten his mood, instead: rose-tinted reminders of the past. Sometimes, it feels like all he can do to keep her sunny smile alive.)

 

A thousand shrieking voices, a thousand grasping hands. And yet — the world stills at the sound of one voice. 

 

Her song sets the dark sky ablaze. It soars through the night, dazzling as the comets he’d used to chase. Moonlight spills across the silk of her dress, rich as wine. Red as the rose garden he’d promised her, back when he could still dream of dancing. 

 

(Her sun-kissed melody soothes the screaming. A flurry of notes settles the snarl of thunder. She scatters the shadows with a flood of warmth. 

 

It’s coming home. It’s watching the hypnotic dance of the hearth’s flames after experiencing the North’s brutal cold firsthand — the sweet, sheer relief of feeling his frozen fingers slowly begin to thaw. It’s still-steaming corn soup laid out on the kitchen table, carrots carefully cut into stars for the younger wizards. 

 

It’s Nero’s quiet kindness. The way he looks satisfied just looking at his fellow Eastern wizards. Smiling as they subtly perk up at the appetizing aroma of his cooking — how fond his gaze becomes, when he thinks no one’s watching.

 

To Nero, it might’ve been a menial task easily completed in minutes. But to Riquet, whose subtle disdain of carrots hadn’t escaped the chef, well… their charming shape made them twice as palatable. 

 

To Riquet, kindness felt like magic, even without the whispered words of a spell. He’d keep those precious memories somewhere quiet. Store those tiny miracles somewhere safe, so that they’ll guide him through the dark on moonless nights — glowing softly like miniature stars.)

 

That lacy veil obscures his bride’s features, as always — but just this once, he can catch a glimpse of the anemone flower tucked behind her ear, blooming crimson against the white silk of her dress. It’s the color of a cardinal captured mid-flight — the color of a fatal wound. Her sharp smile lances through his heart, more brutal than any blade. 

 

She’s saying something through the silence, her voice distorting into white noise. Ah. Perhaps he should be delighted — that she’s waiting for him. Uncaring of staining her silken white dress with the sand shifting beneath her feet, or the salt carried on a balmy breeze. 

 

Here, at the edge of the world — at the boundary between land and sea — she holds out her hand, asking for one last dance. 

 

(Listen. A memory of her voice, aglow with fondness. Sepia-toned with nostalgia — a balm for his bleeding heart.

 

Before you, I had always avoided ballrooms like the plague. I spun all sorts of excuses, joking about my deathly allergy to tangos. My fatal weakness for waltzes. Can you believe it? Even my dance instructor had deemed me a lost cause. 

 

I cursed her, in my heart. For her impatience. Cursed myself, for my clumsiness. But you — you guided me through the steps with infinite patience. You greeted my myriad mistakes not with sharp scorn, but soft smiles — not once did you raise your voice.

 

I remember. That night, you distracted the crowd with a song, like always. We’d slipped through the back entrance. Using the smokescreen of their applause, we held our breath as we made our escape. Only the myosotis and the moonlight bore witness to my failings; we practiced long into the night. 

They say that love is a sort of transformation. A metamorphosis. That is to say — in my caterpillar days, I quailed at the thought of being heard. Your kindness unmade me, soothing my self-doubt. It gave me the courage to reinvent myself: to crawl from the chrysalis I’d been cowering in, and remember what it was like to take to the skies. 

 

Well. It’s nothing short of a miracle. Or should I say — trite as it may sound — that you’re mine? Your bright mirth, gleaming like a beacon in the dark. My guiding star, carrying me through the night. 

 

Moonlight fell across your face in fractals. We waltzed across the garden until we reached the flowerbeds — fragrant blooms painted blue, swaying in the breeze. I plucked one to return the favor, tucking it behind your ear. 

 

I must’ve looked like a fool — how red my face must have been, from dancing for hours. My ankles ached from exertion, even though I’d long discarded my heels. And yet — I was beside myself. Giddy with glittering, golden elation. Drunk with sheer, silver-toned delight.

 

You made a dancer out of me, Rustica. That’s why a night like this…  is something I’ll never forget.)

 

Her boisterous voice is snatched up by the snarling sea, drowned out by roaring waves. Her sentences, swallowed by the ocean’s insatiable greed, slow to half their speed — distorted beyond recognition. It’s like she’s desperately trying to reach him from underwater, but every single syllable is snapped up by sinister seafoam.  

 

She gives up on trying to speak, at the mercy of the tides. She starts singing, instead. Ah… He’d know that voice anywhere, that steady cadence. He’d close his eyes and he could — well. He couldn’t recite the words by heart, not with his mercurial memory. 

 

But he’d at least remember the warmth of her hands in winter. He’d remember: every morning, she would listen to the choir of cardinals outside her bedroom window. When she sang, she liked to think she was joining them in harmony. 

 

(Even if the acuity of his memory remains heightened only in dreams, he’ll treasure it for however long it lasts. It’s because… day by day, she slips a little farther from his grasp. The hourglass of his mind is emptying. 

 

When he wakes, he can never recall the exact shape of her features. The way she smiles when she’s self-conscious, the way she sings louder when she thinks no one is listening, the way she’d sneak the sweeter portions of her plate to him at tea parties, unable to stomach the sheer amount of sugar all at once.)

 

Voice as sweet as a songbird in spring, moonlight highlights her features in quicksilver. 

 

He wants: to capture each and every detail. Weave the shape of her smile into the flowing silk of a waltz. Preserve her image, just like this: an insect trapped in amber. Slowly, sweetly, softly.  

 

… No. He should… stop listening to that insidious whisper. It’s the same sickly-sweet voice that begs for him to stay just a little longer. It’s the voice of a groom who once draped his windows in heavy curtains, so he could pretend that winter hadn’t laid waste to the garden his beloved had left behind. See? In the dark, snowdrifts and the silhouettes of white roses… aren’t so different at all.

 

Still. He can’t help it — he can’t resist. He imagines: a hapless fly drawn to golden honey. The lifeblood of bark, suffocating a beetle bit by bit. Inch by inch, ounce by ounce. Steadily subsumed by the viscous depths of resin, crystallizing from pressure. He imagines: his blushing bride, ever-blooming. His boisterous bride, ever-beaming. Half his heart, still beating: immortalized forever in that tiny, precious pocket of time.

 

Ah, isn’t it tempting? Isn’t it so much easier to succumb to those fleeting fantasies — to remain unchanging, unmoving, unyielding to the cruel clockwork hands of time? To close his eyes to the cutting reality, and dream forevermore? 

 

See, there’s no denying it — reality may chip away at the feather-soft fabric of his consciousness.  And yet… as long as he locks his doubts behind the bars of a thousand birdcages — as long as he closes his eyes to the truth hanging over his head, dire as a dangling blade — he’ll remain forgiven.

 

(You may be wondering: forgiven for what? You see, it is a far graver crime — although Nero would call it a cardinal sin — than leaving Rustica in the kitchen unattended… or perhaps a particularly ravenous Mithra, who could remain content crunching charcoal.

 

Ask Rustica all you want, but all you will receive is a soft, measured response. A sigh. Somewhere, an empty birdcage will creak open in the wind; in the silence, it is as sonorous as a sobbing maiden — or perhaps a scream. 

 

It’s awful. It’s animalistic. It’s the wretched, wailing noise that claws its way out from cornered prey, tainted with utter terror. But if Rustica hears that raw, primal shrieking, he gives no sign. He smiles, instead, ever the gentleman. My apologies. I wish I knew the answer myself, truly — but it seems like I’ve long forgotten the answer.

 

Is he oblivious, or is he feigning ignorance? Ah, but who has the courage to drag this dreamer from his gentle mindscape — who has the heart to fling open those heavy curtains, and shatter his sweet illusions of spring?)

 

Reality can cut into the cloud-soft haven of his mindscape all it wants, but it won’t wrest this final, fleeting memory from his hands without a fight.

 

Look: a gentle dreamscape, drawn in shining stardust, sculpted from shimmering seafoam. 

 

Here is the silhouette of a beloved bride: forever smiling, even as a balmy sea breeze throws her carefully combed locks into disarray. Forever waiting for her groom to take her for a final dance, even if she had two left feet, an issue further exacerbated by the warm sands shifting beneath her soles. Forever laughing as the waves lap at her ankles; forever chasing the ebb and flow of the tides. 

 

Look: a fragile dreamscape, carved from ice. A flickering mirage, forged from summer heat. 

 

Rustica barely manages to tear his gaze away from his beloved’s face. He watches as a sandcastle’s clumsily-crafted turrets, unable to endure the endless battering of the tides, begin to crumble. Ice melts so very easily, you see — and mirages scatter, soon enough, with sufficient scrutiny.

 

Look closer. There is only one set of footprints leading to the shore, is there not? 

 

Rustica closes his eyes. Denial tastes like ashes in his mouth. It brings to mind an empty seat at the table, a hollowness. A virulent illness — an infection of grief. It carves through each and every chamber of his heart, leaving no atria unscathed. 

 

She’d held his hand, moments ago. Hadn’t she? And she’d invited him to dance, even though all the servants began to wonder, just how many times will she step on his toes, this time? They’d even started to make bets. This only stoked the fires of her indignance — sparks setting her matchbox temper alight; ever since, she had practiced like a woman possessed. 

 

Still, Rustica had loved her as she was. Loved her for her two left feet and lilting voice, loved her for her raucous laughter. 

 

(That’s his favorite melody, you see. Though he can never quite recall the notes when he wakes — even if he can never quite recapture that same swaying tempo, he remembers it as a song of love. The mere truth of its existence is miraculous as music. One day, he’ll weave the memories of those mirth-filled days into the silken fabric of a song. But for now… 

 

Beneath the bones that cage his heart, it lingers. That love still sings like a mourning dove, does it not? As long as he keeps this aria of affection alive, her memory will never die. Is that not enough?)

Listen carefully. That lilting laughter is but an echo, carried from the past on a gentle wind.

 

Rustica claps his hands over his ears instead. More often than not, Rustica is fond of listening to the cadence of others’ voices, delighted by the tales they have to tell. (If it is late in the afternoon, they might even lull him to sleep.) And yet — not this time. 

 

That gentle voice is trying to coax him to reason. It’s a siren song soaked in honey, promising the stars. It’s the kind of moonlit, mellifluous music that calls sailors from their cabins in the dead of night. They’re spellbound. Smiling, even, as they leap into the sea’s welcoming embrace. Smiling as saltwater floods their lungs, and grinning as the glow of life’s extinguished from their eyes. 

 

It’s the kind of melody that threatens to drag him beneath warm, inviting waters, insistent: it’s just like coming home. Rustica can’t allow himself to suffer a similar fate. He can’t let himself be coaxed into a watery grave so easily. 

 

He closes his eyes, instead, and tries to remember the chords to Chloe’s favorite song. The way Chloe’s face lit up whenever he heard the first notes ring through the courtyard, and how he’d grinned when he’d convinced Heathcliff to dance merrily along.

 

(Rustica drags the melody he’d started composing for Oz to the forefront of his mind: the memory of having to guide his hands across the keys, in the beginning. The way Oz had stared at him, the closest to stunned Rustica had even seen the man, before resuming the harpsichord lesson in stride. The excitement that raced through Rustica’s veins, electric, when he listened to how far the Northern wizard had come. 

 

Oz used to fumble through his arpeggios with a flat expression, annoyance darkening his features — gloom hanging over him like a cluster of storm clouds. Now, he could breeze through several of Rustica’s compositions — and he’d like to think that the Oz’s features relaxed, just a little, whenever he was able to glide through the soothing notes of the lullabies he’d taken up learning. 

 

It had been per Mitile’s insistence; Riquet was having trouble sleeping, as of late, so Mitile thought music would be just the cure. Arthur, having caught wind of their courtyard lessons, was just as eager to hear Oz perform. After informing Cain, all the Central wizards were clamoring to attend Oz’s informal recital… much to Oz’s chagrin. 

 

In the midst of the chaos, Rustica had smiled serenely — but internally, he was just as thrilled to watch his student soar through a set of songs.)

 

He strains against the taste of sea salt on his tongue, bitter brine burning at the back of his throat. Desperate for even a hint of light, he refuses to sink beneath the shadowy depths. Look — just like always, these heartfelt, radiant memories of home would guide him through the night. Even if a thousand hands try to drag him down, he’ll claw his way back from dark, endless waters just to catch a glimpse of their light. 

 

(Rustica has always lived as he pleased, wandered the world as he wished, and confessed to capricious cats and merry musicians alike, caring little for the consequences — ah, well; that is, as long as it didn’t make Chloe’s brow crease with concern, reminiscent of dark clouds threatening rain. Sunny smiles suited him best, after all.)

 

Speak, then. If you wish to deny it this badly — if you desire to delude yourself with kinder dreams, then call her name. 

 

“Rustica.”

 

… Is it not supposed to be the other way around? What a lovely voice that is, filled with a familiar warmth. 

 

“Rustica?”

… As if he could remember anything about her, beyond surface details and her delicate features. His hourglass mind is fickle. It doesn’t discriminate — loved ones and strangers alike fade so easily from his mind, after all. Memories, like sand, trickle through the cracks in the glass. He cups them in his hands, desperate; he’d never been good at letting go. 

 

He wonders: how long until it empties, leaving him with nothing at all? 

 

… Ah, well. No use worrying about it — surely Chloe will remind him of his preferred style of clothing, if he forgets. His faith in his dear student’s flair for fashion has yet to fail him; Rustica doubts it ever will. Rustica’s gotten into the habit of setting the table for two at teatime, see, and the soothing atmosphere simply grows stale when spent alone. 

 

(One of these days, Rustica will set the table with strawberry jam and scones for Owen. Perhaps it’ll coax Owen into joining him for tea more often, if the man isn’t in the mood for singing along. 

 

… And, come to think of it… fried chicken would be a fine incentive for Bradley, would it not? Surely, with his friend’s fondness for the dish, nothing could manage to go wrong. Perhaps it could even serve as an apology for the time Rustica conflated his hood for a veil — and thus narrowly avoided mistaking him for his bride.)

 

What would Rustica do without Chloe’s sensibilities to keep him from being chased from many a marketplace, or the memory of Chloe’s starstruck delight to keep him company whenever he was far from home?

 

(When Chloe was a child, he’d always stare openly at the sky. How wondrous the world was back then, for a boy who had longed to see the world beyond a set of windows, trapped in a chamber of sewing machines and stitchwork, half-buried beneath bundles of brocade. 

 

He’d watch dawn’s first light, wide-eyed with wonder, and marvel at the myriad hues that would highlight the horizon. He’d sprint for his sketchbook at the first hint of inspiration, just as eager to capture the evening’s final constellations as it slowly faded from the dark canvas of night.)

 

Truly, there’s no need to worry — surely Nero will remember the way Rustica likes his tea. Nero caters so carefully to everyone’s preferences, after all; far beyond what could be mistaken as basic courtesy, it stems straight from his heart. 

 

(The apple rabbits he cuts for Mitile are one example, carefully laid out on a brightly-colored plate. The day Nero’s typically guarded expression shattered, once Riquet risked scorched fingers and a scalded tongue — well, that’s another. Riquet had been, in his own words, “led into temptation” by the still-steaming baked apples laid out on the counter. 

 

Once Nero had saved the younger wizard from a set of seared taste buds, he had sighed in relief, ruffling Riquet’s hair relentlessly in return. 

 

Faust, subtly glancing over from a set of assignments left half-graded in the chaos, had visibly fought to conceal his smile.

 

Yes, Nero’s quiet, unobtrusive kindness is something that should be celebrated, surely — although… as an Eastern wizard, perhaps he wouldn’t appreciate the sudden spotlight. Rustica supposed he’d have to ask the man permission, then. An “Ode to Omelettes” would suit Nero well, he thinks. 

 

As soon as he gets the chance — and only with the Eastern chef’s approval, of course — he’ll procure his violin. Compared to his harpsichord, it’s easier to strike up a tune with, in an enclosed space like this. 

 

The kitchen only has so much room, after all.  When afternoon sunlight streams through the curtains, glittering like threads of gold… he’ll serenade the kitchen with an impromptu performance, smiling all the while.)

 

Try as he might to invite those mercurial memories to stay the night, they evade his grasp with ease, sinking through gaps between his fingers, grain by grain. 

 

On restless nights, memories flicker to life and fade before his eyes. Look at them now: waxing and waning in intensity, not unlike the ebb and flow of the tides, inconstant as the moon that serves as their guide. Somehow, that very same moon has captured Murr’s capricious, catlike eyes until the end of time. 

 

(Impressive, truly — attracting Murr’s attention for eternity is no easy feat. 

 

Come to think of it, Rustica has always been fascinated by the scientist’s findings, ever endeared by the scholar’s unceasing antics. He’ll never dismiss an opportunity to join Murr’s whimsical wandering, eagerly anticipating where he’ll take them next. How delightful — how thrilling! There’s never a dull moment at the mansion, as long as Murr’s around.

 

He courts chaos: carelessly unveiling the arcane, unthinking of the consequences — much to the consternation of a certain bartender. But — look a little closer, and it’s easy to see ire and affection alike written across Shylock’s features. Hidden beneath the syrup of sweeter cocktails, it gleams like ice at the bottom of a glass.

 

Really, that love has an unmistakable, burning flavor: searing like brandy downed in seconds, just to taste the fire.)

 

“Rustica?”

 

Ah, well. Here, there’s no one to fret over his messy hair in the mornings, even as he wanders this nostalgic shore for traces of a beloved ghost. Here, he can’t teach his stoic student lullabies on harpsichord; his favorite singer isn’t here to accompany his piano in song. 

 

See? There’s no use lingering in these infinite, winding corridors. How can he, when both Chloe and the Sage are calling his name with such anxious voices? It would be rude to keep them waiting, after all. 

 

(The sweet scent of syrup is drifting from the kitchens; Rustica would be delighted to procure a serving for himself — that is, before Mithra descends upon the kitchens like a hawk, seizing several platefuls of sugary prey. Riquet must have coaxed Nero into making pancakes for the third time this week, but no one’s complaining.)

 

And yet — there’s one last thing for him to do before bidding this bittersweet, beloved dream goodbye. He walks through the soft, shifting sands with resolute purpose, unhurried but brisk. Red anemones… these brightly-colored blooms carry such a mournful meaning. Fluttering in the wind, their painted petals whisper of forsaken love.

 

As he walks, he sings to his bride of his travels. A different song, a different story for each stretch of the beach. A rhapsody from the West, offered in hopes of lifting her spirits — a tune that always brought the Bennett Bar’s patrons to their feet: laughing, dancing, and singing along (with varying degrees of drunken harmony.) 

 

Here, a solemn Central hymn for a taste of the unfamiliar, sacred syllables painted silver with slivers of moonlight. A soft Southern ballad to ease the pain of parting. An Eastern lullaby to leave her with the levity of sweeter dreams. 

 

“Amorest Viesse!”

 

The scarlet anemone tucked behind her ear vanishes in a shower of starlight, rounded petals extending in shape. Transforming into golden-eyed asters, dyed a rather fetching shade of carmine. These bright blossoms sing of endless devotion, proudly declaring a promise to the bright skies above: even after a brutal winter, they would bloom again in spring. Ah, aren’t they beautiful? They’re dancing for you, my dear. 

 

Look at them now, swaying at the whims of the wind — dancing to a song of undying love. If speaking in the tongues of tulips could reach her, then at least there would be little to misunderstand. 

 

Rustica is a wizard, after all. He could transform flowers into fireworks, and dancers into doves — so why not anemones into asters, and forsaken love into a flood of fireworks, fizzing before her eyes — a flashy display of his faith? 

 

He can’t see his bride’s face. He wonders if her eyes are wide with wonder. He wonders if she is sighing in relief. … Ah. His bride’s voice may sound like clashing, dissonant chords, distorted beyond human comprehension… but the smile that spreads across her face is worth a thousand words. 

 

Fufu. Truly, what a magical sight! he muses. Or perhaps a musical one, all things considered… The source of my strength, unfolding before my eyes. Love, the most splendid song in all the world.)

 

“Rustica!”

 

Ah, the dream is shattering. Night’s velvet curtain unraveling, stars fading into the fabric of ink-dark skies. The sharp tang of sea salt carried on a balmy breeze is replaced by steam curling around Rustica with a sly cat’s contentment, drifting from a cup of freshly brewed tea. 

 

The hour of parting is upon them. … There is no use lingering, is there? There are so many marketplaces he has yet to meander through, and a set of his favorite tailor’s clothes waiting for him to admire every step of the way. There are still so many songs left for him to sing — and of course, how can he leave his dear student behind? 

 

He looks back at the shadow of his beloved bride, forever suspended in time. Her hourglass frozen, her smile forever painted wide across the planes of her ageless face. He thinks he wanted to grow old with her, once. He had told her this, and she’d laughed and laughed. 

 

The sea spray on his face feels a little like tears he can’t bear to shed. He tries to speak, but his words fall flat — sinking deep into the seafoam, succumbing to a watery grave. Feel the moon’s watchful eye, burning into his back. He sighs.

 

So Rustica bids his beloved bride farewell with a Northern nocturne instead. All the tension fluttering in his chest feels like a thousand wingbeats — a thousand sparrows held captive in the bones caging his heart, demanding their freedom.

 

Rustica summons his harpsichord with a quiet incantation, letting loose with a steady stream of notes — flowing across the infinite distance between him and his bride, swallowed by the susurrus of the tides. Praying that it would cut through the soft, feathery fabric of his dreamscape and take flight. Praying that it would reach her — wherever she may be. 

 

(And… since it’s a night for flights of fancy and foolish dreams… Rustica imagines, just this once, that he’s setting them free.

 

A thousand caged birds, escaping their confines. A flurry of brilliant white filling the sky, like snow falling in reverse. A sight as lovely as it is lonely — a sight heartbreaking as it is healing, because Rustica has always disliked that bittersweet flavor — that painful word. Goodbye.)

 

It’s a requiem. It’s a rhapsody. It’s song and speech, intertwined. He communicates in the language closest to his heart: Good night, my love —

 

— and greets his dear student and darling Sage, welcoming them with a warm: Good morning. 

 

Rustica smiles, a little dazed. Golden sunlight falls in fractals across his face, the curtains flung open wide. And yet, the way Chloe’s face brightens puts the sun to shame. 

 

Ah. The Sage shares a glance with Chloe and starts grinning, too, formerly dull eyes sparking to life. They look a little like they want to tease him — for the state of his hair, sticking up in every direction, or maybe the way he’s squinting at the sun like a sleepy cat. 

 

… Bit by bit, the ice-cold grip of grief around his heart relents, weakened by their light. Joy — one of this world’s greatest miracles. 

 

Look at this: a room filled with love. A room filled with light. It’s something he wants to commit to memory — something he longs to immortalize in song. 

 

(He listens to the sound of raised voices in the kitchen, the clack of dishes deposited onto the counter with a concerning amount of force, the concussive sound of someone sneezing. My, my. There he goes again. 

 

He wonders where Bradley’s affliction will take him next. Will it be a forest where snow decorates the pines like a dusting of powdered sugar — or perhaps like a blanket of glittering ice? Or will he appear in the midst of a crowded tavern, causing several of its patrons to spit out their drinks from sheer surprise?)

 

Ah, Rustica thinks, peering up at his unexpected guests. I must have given them quite the scare, sleeping the day away like this.

 

The Sage is grinning like they’ve struck gold, but they’re still clutching his hand like a lifeline. Like Rustica would drift somewhere where they couldn’t follow, if not grounded by their steady grip — and not in a bathtub down the river, this time. Their starstruck wonder, their frantic fear… it falls over him like a flood. 

 

The Sage really does wear their heart on their sleeve... and that’s what he likes about them. Like rain in the height of summer, he muses. It’s refreshing — to be reminded he’s cared about. And yet… he truly dislikes being the reason why both Chloe and the Sage are sporting two sets of watery eyes. Once he musters the strength to speak, he’ll have to apologize. 

 

“Looks like Sleeping Beauty is up at last,” The Sage sighs, sinking into the chair by Rustica’s bedside with relief. “Rustica, we were so worried… Geez, I’m so glad that you’re awake!”

 

… Sleeping Beauty? Is that a new blend of tea? 

 

Chloe’s hair looks like he left the windows open to listen to Rustica’s performances in the courtyard again; the wind must have crept in like an uninvited guest, unable to resist ruffling his curly hair. Now, it sticks up in every direction; Rustica can’t help but laugh.

 

“Rustica…! You… wouldn’t wake up, no matter how many times we called your name. I was about to go and call Dr. Figaro, but you woke up right on time. I… I don’t know what’d I do if you never…” Chloe rambles on and on, anxious energy practically radiating from his figure in tremulous waves.  “Huh? What’s so funny? Ah… Just hearing you laugh like this makes all my worries melt away.”

 

(Rustica doesn’t have time to linger in those infinite, winding corridors, he realizes. Not anymore.)

 

Here is another song he’s already itching to put to paper — another story to tell his beloved bride, the next time he ventures into the velvet darkness of his dreamscape. He’ll remain a visitor, of course, and nothing more. After all, this is where he belongs: surrounded by the warmth of the living, revitalized by the sheer radiance of their concern.

 

How wondrous it is, to be worried about and welcomed! How marvelous it is, to be able to whisper:

 

I am home.