Mother's boy

CW: Death (mild)

His steps echoed in the basement corridor like every day for a hundred years before. Izil’daerryn inserted the key which hung in a lovely golden chain he had ordered from one of the best goldsmiths in town. It was adorned with sapphires -Mother’s favorite- and he had spent quite a hefty sum of money on such a beautiful piece of chain which rivaled the necklaces of the matrons of some lower houses. Only the best for his Mother.

He didn’t pay much attention to the retracting wards at this point, when the doors opened to the crypt and he stepped inside. He had visited the final resting place of his mother for so many times that these corridors were known better only by the residents of the crypt. Without a fail, for nearly one hundred years, faithfully like one of the followers of The Dancer visiting the temple, every single day praying and lighting a candle for the memory of the deceased.

“Good evening, Mother.”
He exclaimed almost gently, when he approached the most familiar sarcophagus, the only one which still had a candle burning on the small stone shelf next to it. Izil’daerryn lighted up another candle he had brought with him; scented, in the way he knew his mother had always liked it.
“I have news.”
Izil’daerryn sighed and smiled a little, letting his fingers run on the smooth surface of the beautifully carved stone coffin. “I followed your advice; apart from the other things I’ve prepared for my future, I got a real chance today to put some things into motion, so I -of course- seized it. We’ll see if it bears any fruit, but you can’t win if you don’t bet.”
He chuckled and let his eyes rest on the carved, lifelike face of the woman whose remains now rested beneath the heavy stone lid. Her image had been memorized into the stone, when she had been on her prime. As beautiful as he faintly remembered her being when he had been just the age of his youngest nephew. Her expression was stern and matronly, as only proper, her silhouette as fresh as if she wouldn’t have given birth to seven children, but her bosom full and voluptuous, yet in no need of tight corset to keep the breasts in place.

“I won’t be satisfied with the small fish. You taught us better. Much better. I’m too good to be left rotten in the dusty corners of this palace. I know you meant me for bigger things, Mother, for the real game. Why make a beautiful sword if you’re only showing it off on the wall of the lounge.. Don’t worry, I’ve kept honing my edge during these years, and it’s sharper than ever. You always said I would make you proud. And I will. I will… and, perhaps, I might even be able to give a little reminder to the Shadowblades. A slap on the wrist… for what they did to your oldest son. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, mother?”
He asked and caressed the cold cheek carved in stone.

“For brother…”
Izil’daerryn hummed in his thoughts. Just, if he could get into the Holy Palace, it would be enough to show that they have presence inside those walls. Even if it would be just for a day or so, it would be enough, and he would be satisfied. Just to prove that he still had the charm… and not just to his deceased mother, or the Shadowblades, or even to his sisters, but to himself. He still had what it took. He had the spark in him. ‘The Essence of Frozenhearts’, as mother had always called it. What did it matter if he was a bit on the older side? Weren’t the years just a proof of his seniority, of his skillfulness? He would make Gaussara regret of keeping him confined in their palace. He would forge his own life, his own future, and he didn’t give a flying fuck of what his sister thought he should be doing! He wouldn’t be rotting in this place as a babysitter for some unruly children which were not even his! He had had enough of the magical textbooks and exams and practical tutoring and helping the kids with their beginner spells! He knew he was meant for greater things! He wouldn’t become a laughing stock of the cream of the crop; how could he carry himself in any party, let’s say, in a hundred years a time, when his youth would have finally left him and he would still be ‘just’ a tutor! If he wanted to strike the iron when it was still hot, now was the high time.
“Nine days, mother. After that I am finally able to leave, after guarding over you like I promised.”


A flash of memory washed over him.

“Mother…”

He said, softly, quietly, afraid of breaking the silence of the deathbed. He knew his mother was leaving soon, but unlike his sisters, he had stayed here his every waking hour, by the matron’s side. He was here when the healers came, he was there when they left hours later. Like the patron of the house himself he had watched over his mother, overseen every procedure and tried his best to make her final moments as pleasant as possible. Her long, slender fingers felt bonier than just a few weeks ago, but he caressed them like he wouldn’t have noticed anything odd. He had put on her makeup like usual, dressed her in her best to make her presentable -to whom, exactly, he wasn’t sure anymore, but the thought that his mother would look weak, even if it would have been acceptable now that she had declined rapidly in these last few weeks, made him irrationally distressed and even angry. He knew Mother would want to leave with all the dignity she had had during her life; and he would make sure no one could utter a bad word of her, even in such a frail state. Her skin had lost the glow and her fingers were more like those of a skeleton, but he denied her ever being weak. She was the strongest woman he knew; the most amazing female in this whole house, the most beautiful, the only one who had ever gained Izil’daerryn’s unwavering loyalty.

The wedding had been called off, but it was just a tiny speckle of cloud in the corner of his mind. It would grow later, when he would have more time and mind to pay to the matter. But now he had been completely occupied by the worry over his mother, which was slowly turning into sorrow. For once there was a small piece stuck in his throat. He felt like suffocating, anxiety rising. Please, mother, don’t leave me now. I need you. Don’t go.

“…I promise… Mother…”

izil’daerryn began and had to stop, because his voice sounded even hollower than he had been afraid of. His mask was cracking, but he tried his absolute best to keep himself in check. Like mother had taught him ever since it had come clear he was different from the rest. Conceal, don’t feel.

“…That I will not open my heart… to any other woman until you’ve… you’ve finally…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence, because his voice cracked and he found himself in loss of words, which was absolutely rare. But that small pause was enough that he heard the quiet, slow breath, which was not followed by another in a very long time, and never was.

“The matron is dead.”

He exclaimed in a toneless voice to the guards outside, turning his face away to hide his glimmering eyes, which now were like the palest blue sapphires in her mother’s favourite necklace.

His fingers left flowers of frost on the door handle when he stepped into his room and closed the door after himself.

“No, no…”

Izil’daerryn repeated nervously, pressing his fingers into tight fists, trying to stop the frost of the frostbite spell spreading upwards his arm. No! Don’t let it get out of control, mother always said that you’d make a fool of yourself if you’d lose your composure! Mother always knew best!

It was a low, almost animalistic roar of pain which he didn’t recognize as his own voice at all. It was an involuntarily reflex, rush of blood echoing his ears, blackness lingering on the edge of his vision like deep shadows ready to eat him alive in the brink of fainting. Despite this, he was able to make the final save.

A whoosh of fire signed the end of his curly hair, painful blisters rising on his fingertips, but the fireball was contained for most part by the masonry of the fireplace. The flames crackled almost angrily, like they would have been mocking him as they licked the toes of his shoes. Look at you, you lost it! You lost the control! Loser! Failure!

Izil’daerryn took a deep breath, when his eyes suddenly recognized movement from the corner of his eye. His precious oval mirror, now cracked and charred on the edges, partially melted on the other end, reflected a picture of a man who looked like him, but he didn’t recognize the image. Anger and grief had carved deep wrinkles and the dancing flames on the mirror darkened by the fiery blast made his reflection flicker like he would have been partially made of smoke himself. Broken, fractured like the framed glass. Disfigured and ugly, completely alien.

His knees gave in and he let himself fall on the floor, but even despite his blistered fingers he started to put out the fire which was trying to spread further into his room. No tears came when he wanted them to, to exchange this hollow emptiness to the more tangible and familiar feeling of loss. All the emotions had been sucked out of him in the same fiery blast which he later explained to be caused by a bottle of alchemist fire left too close to a candle. His explanation was never questioned, the sisters were too busy quarreling over the title of the matron of the house. But the only matron he would ever look up to in this household was now dead.

“Don’t worry. I won’t fail you.”
He chuckled and placed a gentle kiss on the stone hand of his mother. The stone relief had a smoother spot where his lips had caressed the lifeless hand for almost a hundred years. Nine more kisses it would still receive, but not more nor less. Finally, his wake would be over, and he could live again. And what a life it would be, Izil’daerryn promised to himself, when he said the prayers Mother had taught him when he had still been too young to understand the true meaning of such gestures. What a life indeed…