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| Details |
| Author: | Alli |
| Summary: | Anareline waits for Celaven after he finishes 7th Legion training one day. The two of them discuss a number of things that they probably should have before now. ~2500 words. |
| Rating: | T for Teen |
It’s early evening in Oldtown. The autumn sun is already beginning to dip below the horizon, lengthening and shifting the shadows around the military complex. The air has that faint hint of woodsmoke that always comes with the early chill nights of fall, and yellowed leaves twist in a brisk breeze along the cobblestones. Despite all the troops deployed throughout Azeroth, the training center is still busy and the sounds of sparring filter through into the open street.
Celaven Evensong emerges from the entrance of the complex, his soft-soled shoes making only a faint sound. Despite the season, his utilitarian clothing, and the no-nonsense tie-back of his long violet hair, he carries with him a scent of spring flowers. His silver gaze is a little distant as he moves into the streets of Oldtown, and perhaps that’s why he does not notice right away when another figure emerges from the shadows.
“Celaven,” Anareline says, shifting out of her shadowmeld to reveal a solemn kaldorei woman in shades of blue, her armor a dull silver that matches her eyes. “I hoped I might find you here.”
Celaven startles, turning towards her, his ears twitching before he recognizes the woman and the voice and relaxes again. “Mother, what are you doing here? Did you come to see…?” He doesn’t quite voice the entire question, guarding against disappointment.
Anareline hesitates. “I am exactly here because I thought you might be departing soon from work. I am in Stormwind because I have students here. Human women.”
Celaven lets out a quiet sigh. Of course, there’s no reason she would come all this way simply for him - or at least, not only for him. “Naturally. Forgive my assumptions. I’m pleased to see you nonetheless, and to hear you’re widening your horizons. But no men, still?”
He sees the uncertainty in her eyes, weighing what answer to give the child who wasn’t suitable to be trained. Maybe it isn’t fair of him to challenge her in this way - he likely wouldn’t have appreciated Sentinel-style training. His calling was always to Elune.
Eventually, she says, “My ways change slowly, when they change at all. I have always taught women, and I teach women now. In any case, you do not seem to feel the lack of it. It has not stopped you from joining the Alliance military.”
“Don’t,” Celaven says, and he sees his mother frown at the sharpness in his tone. She must not be accustomed to anger from him. No one is, really. He takes a breath, forces a smile, and says more gently, “Don’t start an argument that might cost another five hundred years, as it did with Lara.” He glances at the street, the other humans passing by - any one of them might be SI:7. People who collect information like squirrels collect acorns. “I’m headed home - will you come with me? We could have dinner. Even speaking in Darnassian, which few understand here, I prefer not to linger in the street.”
His mother raises one eyebrow, but nods in silent assent. Celaven leads the way away from the headquarters of SI:7, guiding them to a canal-side building of red roof and gray stone, with nothing to distinguish it from the others on the block. He can feel his mother’s critical eyes on the facade, though she doesn’t speak.
“I used to keep a place in Loch Modan, when most of my work was in Cobalt,” Celaven says, answering the complaint she hasn’t made. “It was beautiful there, but now the lake is a ruin. I might have lived in the park district by the moonwell, but that has been destroyed by Deathwing. This, at least, is close to my work. And there’s the canal, so the area isn’t entirely stone.”
“Mm. Do you think they will ever build another moonwell? There is plenty of land for it to the north.” Anareline says, and he can hear the reproach under her mild tone. That there ever was one here? That they may not replace it? Celaven can’t be certain.
“I believe that would be the choice of our embassy, if it is replaced, though I hope…” for what? Maybe he just feels generalized hope. Celaven shakes his head. “I could have lived there, in the north, but this is temporary.”
The solid wooden door surrounded by stone doesn’t feel welcoming to him, but he moves to open it anyway, trying to feel at ease in his own home. The door swings open with a creak, and he steps back to allow his mother into the dim foyer. “I’ve grown accustomed to the walls.”
His mother walks into the building, and the door closes behind her. She looks around at the bare walls, and Celaven wonders if he should have decorated. He reminds himself again that he won’t be here for long. The words are starting to ring hollow, since he has already rented this place for several months.
“Perhaps you should not become accustomed to things that are not natural to you,” his mother says, and he pauses before turning towards the kitchen, trying to work out if that’s intended as a comfort or an accusation. She continues, “Why did you leave Cobalt for the military, if I may ask?”
“You may always ask me questions, mother,” Celaven says mildly, stepping through into the kitchen. It is a small room with a countertop, sink, and a few cabinets by an oven and stove, across the room from a small wooden table with two chairs. Late evening light still filters in through a street-side window over the counter, but he raises a hand to light the lamp, augmenting the sense of warmth of the room. Then he busies himself with the cabinets, collecting ingredients, setting out squash and an onion on a cutting board and retrieving a sharp blade. “I was not needed in Cobalt Company. I was appreciated, as a healer, but not needed. I gave what help I could in the healing tents and infirmaries, but my strength has always been as a battlefield healer. Here, with my expeditionary unit, I am needed. That is what it has always come down to for me. Every one of us is someone who does not fit well elsewhere, but who is necessary within our team. It is like another family.”
Anareline sits at the table, watching her son’s steady, sure movements as he slices vegetables. “I am sorry that your father was…” she pauses, and then falls silent. For a long while, there’s only the sound of the knife on the cutting board. Then she finds words again. “They say he’s in Moonglade now, but they don’t allow visitors. Not even me. I am sorry, if the time I am spending with Lara lately makes you feel set aside.”
Celaven stops then, surprised, and turns to his mother. “No, mother. Absolutely not. I was not pleased to see the two of you argue years ago, or to watch you drive her off. I have had time to spend with you for centuries while you waited for her to make the first move toward reconciliation. Let me be clear - I am entirely happy to hear of you and her fighting side-by-side in Ashenvale, to know that our family is a little less fractured now than it was before. If you are to play favorites, mother, choose her for the next few centuries - she has missed you for too long. My choice to join the military was not inspired by negative feelings about my father or you. I have already explained myself.”
He glances at his mother’s concerned face for only a moment before turning back to meal preparations, lighting the stove and setting a pan in place to heat.
After another pause that would be awkward in a conversation with someone not his mother, she says, “It is just that I see a pattern for you. And perhaps I have not meddled in your lives enough, yours and Lara’s, or at least I have not done the right kind of meddling. I am trying to fix that now, for both of you. I know it will not be a thing fixed over a year, or a decade, but I am willing to spend the time.”
“I have always been willing to spend time with you,” Celaven says, sliding vegetables into the pan with some kind of small grain. “But speaking of my sister, is Lara well?”
Anareline hesitates. “I worry about her. Things are not going well in Ashenvale, and she has taken to slaughtering orcs with an absorbing enthusiasm. There is nothing wrong with defending our forests, and neither will I show mercy where it is not merited, but… I am concerned she is burying grief in violence. I did the same for a time, after the Sundering, before I retreated to solitude. I would like to see at least that she is not alone when the fury is spent. But for the time being, when you visit her, you would do well to remember that she is not interested in peace.”
Celaven turns away from the pan as the meal cooks, collecting a carafe of water and glasses and seating himself across from his mother. “I will remember. I doubt I will be able to match her ferocity in combat, but I will not judge it. I have come to terms with the fact that there are some hurts I cannot help to heal. ”
His mother reaches for the water, taking a sip without taking her gaze off Celaven. “Is it Velrin who has taught you that?”
Celaven - just barely - doesn’t flinch at the question. “Velrin is doing well these days.”
“Are you?” she asks, watching him carefully. “Things seemed well in Felwood, but I do not forget that she has broken your heart before. And now… I cannot imagine that it is easy to see her with another as her soulmate.”
Celaven rests his chin on his hands, letting out a low sigh. “I knew Velrin and I were not soulmates long before she knew about Nylarria. I will never be that to her, nor she to me - and who knows? Perhaps one day I may even meet my own. Still, we choose to be committed to each other, and the presence of her soulmate adds to our family - it does not subtract.”
His mother stares at him, and he can read the concern on her own face. “I hope you do not feel…” she searches for the right word, “…lesser. Your father and I…” words fail, and she pauses to take a sip of water before continuing. “I cannot tell you that it isn’t different with Caspis, because it very much is. Still, I do not regret the time I spent with your father, though I would not take him back now. Love is love, soulmate or no.”
Celaven sits back peacefully for a long moment, listening to the sizzling of food on the stove as the scent of it rises around them in this small, warm room. “I did not come to my current understanding immediately. Velrin and I… we do not fit together naturally, like you and Caspis seem to. I think there is value, though, in learning each other’s shape, learning how to become something better together than apart. Even if part of that process is pain.”
“Some part of any relationship is always pain, even with your soulmate,” Anareline says, sitting back against her chair. “Caspis and I have argued. We have become angry with one another. But the love is there, too, and it always will be.”
Celaven smiles, resting his hand on his glass. “I am getting better at that, I think. Arguing. Not just with Velrin, but with everyone. Long habits are hard to break, but I am trying to yield less.”
“You have always sought to please others,” Anareline says, frowning. “But it is not necessarily a flaw.”
“Until it is. Until I cede when I should not, or until others assume I do not want anything, simply because I do not ask. I have friends now, who…” Celaven pauses, but then continues firmly, “Friends you would not approve of, but who have helped me to see things I needed to understand. The death knights you saw briefly in Farshire - they have taught me that some friendships work better with firm boundaries. And there is a shadow priestess named Almeiria, who has helped me come to terms with the Void. Death and shadow are as much a part of our world as life and light, mother, and I would understand all of it if I could.”
Anareline stiffens in her chair, her expression hardening. “I took you away from Northrend when you began to hear whispers, and you know about their eternal hunger. I thought you understood how to keep yourself safe.”
“I do, mother,” Celaven says, clenching one fist against the feeling like falling in his stomach. “I have lived for centuries, and I know how to guard my own safety. Yes, I have chosen to pledge my life to the 7th Legion and the Alliance, and I choose to keep dangerous company, and my chosen partner’s soul is bound to another. I would also choose not to lie to you about any of it, if you would be willing - after all these years - to know who I am, rather than have me pretend I am who I think you want me to be. I could not meet father's expectations, and I have tried, for many years, to meet yours. Now, I only want to meet my own. Does that anger you?”
Anareline closes her eyes and takes a breath. Given the time she remains silent, Celaven imagines she might be counting to ten, trying to banish a flash of anger. Or maybe she is only trying to figure out what to say. Then she opens her eyes, and looks at him, and says, “You are my son, even if you walk a path I would not have chosen for you. I will worry about you, as I worry about Lara. I will try to push you when I think you need it, but you do not have to yield. I may grow angry with you, but there will always be love, too.”
Celaven breathes out slowly, his shoulders lowering with a release of tension. He doesn’t hug his mother - they aren’t quite that kind of family - but he does smile, even though her face remains solemn. He repeats, “There will always be love.”
Then he stands and turns back towards the stove, so his mother can’t see the faint glint of relieved tears in his eyes. “And now, there will be dinner, I think.”