Flashback I wish I could forget you. (Simpriana)

[Torias]

3rd Summer, 499 AV The bells between midnight and dawn. There are many things I sometimes wish I could remember. The feeling of a hot bath on my skin, waking up slowly on a lazy morning, the sweetness of Kalean mountain wine, the melodic hum of a woman greeting me in bed. It is certainly selfish to have wanted more years to enjoy the small things, for my life before this new age of existence was a long and full one. As the years pass me, I feel my mind gradually letting go of everything I was before. I wish I knew why it chooses to keep the longest hold onto all the things I would rather forget. In time, I suppose these too will pass. Three things were painfully clear to Torvias Aconite as the door, the moment he’d been imagining since the day he stepped out of the shadows of Kalinor and began his months-long voyage to Sylira and even long before that, finally arrived in front of him. His own tall shadow loomed across it, rising to match his height as if to meet him in the eye. For a private, irritable moment, he bored into it with a golden, accusatory glare. The first: Torvias was not young anymore. Every inch of him ached with the memory of cramped sea travel, and even the moonlight was too much for his ill-suited, sensitive eyes. The second: What he was planning was probably the most despicable thing he had ever done, and if his family ever found out his intentions, he might never be forgiven. The third: He was going to do it anyway. It was his own race’s disadvantage. Men were taught to kill their consciences. Even as his shadow pleaded with him to leave, Torvias knew he would take some pleasure in disobeying its demands. The night air was cool and salty, or it might have been Torvias’s own clothing. The corners of him were still damp from the ocean’s mists from the bells he spent on the top deck, staring down the shadow of Sylira as it grew steadily on the horizon. The Symenestra who regularly worked on board the vessel were still in the process of unloading bundles of silk for trade, making room for the handful of slaves they would purchase and return to Kalinor. Cheap surrogates for the Symenestra of poor constitutions who refused to hunt. That was none of Torvias’s concern. If his plans went as he had written them, he would save a human life before he departed from this place. A pale hand rose, tipped with long, black claws, and rapped unceremoniously at the door with the backs of two fore knuckles. He returned the long, spindly limb to his side and glanced off to the right, squinting in the light to watch the quiet writhing of this wretched, upside-down city. Torvias loathed being on the flat ground. Why would anyone choose to live here? The chilled, early summer winds threatened to remove the Symenestra’s cowl, which was quickly caught with a sinister hand. Except for a few strands of ashen, cobweb-colored hair, only his amber eyes were allowed to show. Humans didn’t much care for the sight of fangs. With any luck, Winter Whiterose would know to be duly terrified and spurn the Widow from her home before he had the chance to forever scar his own sense of dignity.

[Simpriana Whiterose]

The sun that shone in from the dust-covered window on the far side of the house was the only thing that gave the drab, sad building a sense of happiness during the day. Simpriana, of course, was happy as well so she was the light of the small home on this dark summer night. This was a different sort. The sweet ignorance of childhood when you had no worries and not a care in the world. All that the little blonde haired five year old knew was that her father was not well and that her mother had called for someone from out of town to help. Simpriana didn't know why. She didn't know why her father was sick and she didn't know why someone foreign to their home of Sunberth had been called in to help him to get better. The little girl hadn't been able to fall asleep that night so her mother had permitted her to stay awake until she herself went to bed. "Mummy," she asked, walking over to her mom who sat in a beaten old wooden rocking chair that looked out through the small front window to the streets of Sunberth. Winter Whiterose, her silver eyes tired and sad, looked to her young daughter, opening her arms to let her climb onto her lap. She smiled at her weakly but the smile did not reach her eyes. "Yes, precious?" Winter replied in her sweet, fluid voice. "Who is coming to help Papa?" Simpriana wondered. Her mother had never said before. The only thing that she had told Simp about the doctor that was coming was that he was from far away and would take a while to get here. Winter sat there for a moment, her eyes glossing over as she swam through her memories. Simpriana watched her mom, waiting for a response. After a few beats, Winter sighed and looked down at her daughter. "Someone special," she replied simply. Raising her eyebrows, Simpriana nodded. "A special doctor?" she wondered in that childish sort of way. Winter laughed softly at that but her laugh faded as she turned to look out the front window again, her voice absentminded when she responded with, "Something like that." It had been months since Winter had sent out the letter to him. Simrpiana could often hear her mother talking to her father about other options, saying that she wasn't even sure if the doctor remembered her. Being the airheaded five year old that she was, Simp had suggested just going to a doctor in Sunberth, thinking that her suggestion would help. The only response that she had gotten was a small shake of a head from her mother and a soft, "We've already tried that." "Can you get up?" Winter asked her daughter, placing her hands on the arms of the chair. Simpriana scooted off of her mother's lap and onto the floor, walking around the chair to stand on her tiptoes in front of the window. Winter stood and sighed, wringing her hands. It was a tick that she had whenever she was nervous. Just as Winter was about to disappear into the bedroom where Georgios lay, there was a knock at the door. Spinning around, she fixed her long, pale green dress and retied her apron. Simpriana craned her neck, looking out the window at the strange man on their doorstep. "He has claws, mum!" she gasped, her big blue eyes wide. Winter chuckled at Simpriana, patting her softly on the head. "That's okay," she replied as she placed a hand on the door handle, twisting it and swinging the door open to come face to face with a man that she had known for years. "I didn't think you'd come," Winter said, her own eyes nearly as wide as her daughter's. She took a step back and motioned that he could step in. All the while, Simpriana stood behind the rocking chair, her eyes still as big as saucers as she watched the old Symenestra enter their home.

[Torias]

With five words, she had banished all my doubts and chained me to that moment, sealing my fate. It had been fifteen long years since I had last looked upon that woman’s face, but she hadn’t aged at all. I knew the same couldn’t be said for me, but for a moment, my old heart was beating and I felt like a teenager. The crime I was committing felt fitting for one. Torvias held Winter’s silvery eyes for a breathless moment, guilt and gravity keeping his features calm. His golden eyes angled away and squinted, catching sight of the small girl half hidden on the far side of the searingly bright room. “Nor did I.” A wary glance was tossed over his shoulder at a nocturnal Sunberth before he glided inside the human residence to relative safety. The smooth sweep of his hand pushed back his cowl, revealing his narrow jawline and moderately long, near-white hair. “Hello, Winter.” The Symenestra moved with a smooth, inhuman grace, not befitting a man his age. His limbs were longer and thinner than they should have been, giving the doctor a spindly appearance. Yet he was dressed colorfully, donning silk wraps of of gold and violet. It was topped with a form-fitting tunic, black with floral, yellow embroidery. To a human, it might seem like an aristocrat’s attire, but silk was more common than linen in Kalinor, and weaving was a staple trade. This was simply how Symenestra dressed. Another look was edged in the young girl’s direction. She was about the age of some of Torvias’s grandchildren. It was easier to look at her than it was to behold Winter Whiterose. “If you care for her, you’ll instruct her to fear me,” Torvias cautioned to Winter, his accent thick and appropriately foreign. There were too many things being unsaid, and he sought to fill the air with trivial words to keep it that way. “It may save her life should she meet more of my kind when she’s older.” It had been a very long night, and Torvias was unbelievably exhausted, but the sooner this was over with, the sooner he could leave. He was not prepared for the way his heart ached when he looked at Winter again. “Take me to him.”