Yardie (prime)/Tears of the Phantom
Kneeling at the side of the bed, the young Faendryl examined the woman before him with widened eyes, tears clinging to eyelashes like morning dew. With a healer’s delicate touch, he exhaled and placed a flattened palm upon the lavender blanket covering the elder Faendryl’s form. The young adult then took the ill woman’s right hand into both of his and held it like a precious jewel before pressing it upon his dirt-stained face. “Mother,” he said quietly in the mystical tongue of Dark Elven.
Despite the weakened state, the woman’s eyes swept behind closed lids before they pulled open, curtains letting in the world's light. She took in the quiet flat, a cramped room, threadbare with only a thin white cotton sheet over a maoral bed, a matching heavy wool blanket covering her body. Even in the ill-stricken state, her high cheekbones gave the mark of dignity and a layered strength despite her condition. Crows' feet on the sides of her eyes did not deter the prideful gaze around the walls of her shoddy home. She glanced towards the lit candles that cut through the darkness, then shifted her attention towards the kneeling boy that shared much of her features. She swallowed weakly, then gave the faintest of smiles from cracked full lips. “Son.”
“Save your strength,” he soothed reassuringly. “The work in the mines. They have not slowed down since I entered in your stead.”
The Faendryl woman smiled, mirth that pulled away the concern in her son’s heart. Her eyes widened, and she took in a sharp breath before entering a wet coughing spree, the lungs flooded with thick mucus. He reached for his shoulder and grabbed a damp towel, wiping the mixture of phlegm and blood. “Rest, mother. It is my turn to provide,” the son gently requested. Reluctantly, she nodded, her voice labored with a shrill rasp. Her son continued. “I am much better served in the mines, mother.”
His mother's fingers curled around his, and he choked back a sob. “Your grandfather lacked the touch of magic,” she said. “And I lacked the mind of a scholar.” She closed her eyes, her mouth curled ever so slightly, caught in the melody of content. “I served the Patriarch in the best way I know how.”
“And I do the same,” the son answered.
She gave the faintest shake of the head. “You serve the Patriarch, yes. But you’ve journeyed through my path,” she wheezed. “It is not yours to follow.”
“I’m...I’m sorry.” The young Faendryl entered schooling in the city-state with promise. Clever, but not intelligent to conjure magic. Talented but lacking aptitude to grasp literacy. Swift, but not strong enough to serve in battle.
He was the scientific definition of potential, a still object, never moving unless another force impacted it.
The lowly son provided for his mother in the way he knew best. He should have been more.
The droplets could no longer hold, and the son cried. Salty streams traveled down his face, accentuating his youth. He turned away from her gaze, ashamed.
His mother sensed it, and she canted her resting head slightly. “A show of emotion is not a show of weakness,” she said comfortingly. Her violet eyes twinkled in the dimly lit room. She reached up laboriously, then ran a set of withered fingers through his blue-black hair, grinning at the part at the center that matched her white hair. “You have a long life ahead of you. Your talents remain dormant, but they will emerge. Absorb. Engage. Trust your instincts.” Her nose flared, but her voice gained strength, like a wounded soldier spurring the next man to continue the fight. Her hand grazed his face, wiping the tears away. “Above all, never be ashamed of who you are.”
She had weakened considerably from a lifetime’s work. Her lungs rasped and bubbled. Arms hung like branches, thin and ready to snap with the first gust of wind. But in a burst of the woman she was, that miner’s strength returned when she clamped her mighty and calloused hand around her son’s right fist, squeezing tightly, her eyes aglow with a love for her only child.
“I know you will make me proud.”
Yardie’s fist shook, the impact still pulsating from the familiarity of a well-connected shot. His eyelids reached for his forehead; those violet orbs nearly popped out from their sockets. He was deaf to the stunned crowd, blind to the motionless vathor on the floor. Shock removed the blood and limbs, and bodies from all around him. The demon had fallen, and the newest Palestra class of outsiders had succeeded where others had failed. They had done it. The class completed the arduous task in front of friends, enemies, and even the Patriarch.
In an instant, the naysayer voices entered his mind.
…disappointment…
…barely anything…
…failure…
…dense…
And they went mute, drowned out by the voices whispering in the wind—the breeze of their words liberating the balefire burns on his chest and leg.
Dee…
…so…bloody proud of you…
…resolve…
…good shot…
In the end, his mother’s voice always rang last and loudest.
…never be ashamed…
…you will make me proud.
His mother might have been around to see this moment if he had not given in to his fears.
The guilt, the pain, the weight collapsed his shoulders so much that he fell on his rear, legs sprawled comically as his mind raced.
He finally spoke…to her…in the language of his people, the language he always struggled to master.
“Mo…,” Yardie sobbed in Faendryl. “Mother. Forgive me.”
And then he shed a lifetime of tears in an ugly cry, unashamed of who watched, for his mother held his hand one last time.