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Scattered Starlight - Stolas' Farewell

"You have fallen from what little grace you had and I know you'll pay for it."

Stolas slumped against the railing of his balcony, scanning the city skyline for the answers that he could not conjure on his own. Basked in vermilion twilight, the horizon gave rise to strange thoughts, sad thoughts, the kind that scattered upon the slightest touch. Too fragile to be held, too dangerous to be given form. A melancholy in macabre dress, fleshy and bloodless and distant.

Her words rattled around his head, pounded against his skull, threatened to escape him. How could this be? The prince had dreamed of this moment for so long; his flighty muse, the smiling temptress with her siren song, beckoning him to the water's edge. At last he had listened to that enchanted tune in truth, not by deception or trickery, but by choice, and upon its lilting melody he'd been carried not to his drowning, but rather to his rebirth. Those waters, whether real or imagined, had receded from his shores.

And yet he felt empty. Hollowed out. A tired, worn out husk stretched over someone else's idea of a man. Was this triumph? To pluck with one hand and toss free with the other? Stolas had won, and it had only cost him everything.

But that was not true, was it? Even now, with the ghosts of the past stretching through him and the shadows of the future looming above, there glimmered something. One thing clutched tight to his chest. It was his, it would be his, and nothing, no one, could ever undo that. Now unbound, perhaps they could move on together. Perhaps it had not all been for nought.

So trapped was Stolas in his head that he did not recognise, at first, when the rain began. His body shivered, weak, but his mind had been too far removed to notice. His arms hurt, his legs ached. How long had he been out here contemplating from his balcony, waiting for the echo of a whisper of the turn of a page; a memory of a story that was yet to happen. That would never happen. How pleasing the sound, from the courtyard to his balcony, carried upon a voice sonorous and sarcastic and silly, yet real: "O Stolas, Stolas! Wherefore art thou Stolas? I fucked up!"

But that wasn't how the story went, it is isn't how his story would go. A pity.

And yet such pity weighed him down, anchored him still to a past he was supposed to have discarded. It would not do. It would not do! The owl prince sighed, and pulled himself up to his full height, having finally felt the chill and wanting no more of it.

"Ever the fool, Stolas. It is time to be done with it all. Done with him."

Stolas pulled his cape up around shoulders, turned and strode inside. The rain water dripped from clothes, cape, and plumage alike, making a mess of the carpets and then, when he sat down, his ornate study chair, but he cared little and less. Fabrics could be cleaned and furniture could be replaced, but the words that slid from brain to fingertips like writhing black adders would not be stemmed. They would give him one chance to capture them, right now in these breathless moments, with parchment and quill, or else they would escape, scattered with the rain, leaving only the shape of old thoughts and old habits behind.

Refusing to look at himself in the mirror, the prince gathered his materials thus: a parchment with princely markings, a dull gemstone, a quill of his own making, and ink as red as blood. The tools of a man of power -- him: powerless. Enchanted for serious occasions, and binding contracts. For signing away one's heart in exchange for a glimpse, for a chance, at one's future.

He took a breath, dabbed quill tip to inkwell, ink to parchment, and began:

'My dearest Blitzy,

Blitz,

I understand now. Though the method has been dreadfully painful, I have at last come to recognise the roles we have each been playing. You may have invited me to this dance, yet I accepted so eagerly, didn't I? Took your hand without a second thought. So quickly I fell into its steps, as if I had practised them all my life, and before long I was taking the lead just as often as you were. But as pleasant as it has been, this dance has come to its regrettable, yet natural conclusion. I must have known it would, known from the very start, but I was so caught up in each step, each new turn and twist and thrill, that I had not the moment spare to think of it. Or perhaps that is just an excuse.

I want you to know that I don't blame you. Whatever lie I believed was one of my own making, not yours, and I'll not have you suffer for my many inadequacies. As such, I wish to entrust you with a parting gift: an Asmodean Crystal. Its magics will let you access the human world and continue your business without the need for my Grimoire. I know it must frustrate you to hear that this was an option -- and I will not lie, it always had been. Why did I not share it with you sooner? I do not know. Or, rather, I do and I am too weak to say it. I can only say that I am sorry.

So let this be goodbye, then. A goodbye to the illusion of a man I thought I loved. And though it was a farce, a pretty little lie, I must say this: I do not regret it entirely. In many ways, though it might have been nothing more than a dream, everything I felt -- the passion, and the precious, essential pain -- was real. And for that, I thank you. I thank you, I thank you, I thank you.

I will always remember the boy that showed me it was okay to be happy for happiness sake. My very first friend, forever and always.

Stolas.'

Almost to the second, as with trembling hand he set down his quill, there came a knock at his chamber door. Stolas steeled himself for further conflict, but relaxed when he remembered that his wife never knocked.

"Enter," he called.

The door cracked only slightly, and pushed through its slight opening, delicate fingers grasping the frame for balance, was the face of his starlight.

"Father...?" Her voice was low, exhausted, and scared.

"Oh!" Stolas, startled, jolted upright. "Via! I thought you were -- it's too late, I mean -- Oh Via, come in, come here."

He felt a terrible pit in his stomach, a pit that only grew as he frantically thought through all the possibilities. What did she know? What had she heard? He'd barely had enough time to reconcile his own decision, and he certainly wasn't ready to explain it to his daughter. What could he possibly say to her right now?

Yet as she entered his room and slinked across the carpets, shoulders drawn in and holding her own arms, he set aside at least some of his fears. As usual, Stolas was not the only one who had been hurt, who would suffer, as a result of his actions. He owed it to his daughter to be there for her, to comfort her. And the downward cast of her eyes told him she needed him now -- not later.

Octavia stopped before him. He reached for her, hesitated, and then pulled her into his lap. Stolas wrapped his arms around his daughter's slender frame, let her rest her head against his chest, and the two of them slipped into a comfortable stillness that was accompanied only by the drumming of rain. When she at last pulled her head back to look at him, he was at least more settled than when she had first walked in.

"Mother is angry. She's been yelling. More than usual, I mean. Is this... it?"

Stolas raked his fingers through his crest, took a breath.

"Via... your Mother and I... I mean, yes. This is it. We'll be getting the divorce. I suppose it has been a long time coming."

"I'm sorry, Father," she said, looking away.

"Sorry? Oh no!" He pulled her close once more for a hug, a tight squeeze that left the both of them breathless. "Via, you've nothing to be sorry for. Not a single thing. Your Mother and I may have our differences, we may not be... in love with each other, but in a small way I will always have some love for her. For without your Mother, I would not have you, and you have been the greatest gift a fool like me could ever ask for."

Octavia nodded, sniffed. She wouldn't really look at him, lost to contemplation. In that moment, he was reminded of just how fragile she really was. Octavia was mature for her age, yes, but she was still just a teenage girl in a confusing world. A world with great expectations for her, only some of which he'd managed to shield her from. Stolas was Goetia, and with that responsibility also came great power, but he was still just one man. He could not protect her from everything, no matter how hard he tried, and that thought galled him. He knew very well the weight of royalty -- it had bowed his head so, and for so long.

"Dad?" She looked at him now with eyes wide and frightful, and the tears she had been so bravely holding back came spilling freely. "She told me to pack my bags. Am I going away?" Her voice cracked, pierced right through the chest.

"My darling starlight. I would never make you leave. You are old enough now that the choice is yours. If you wish to stay with me, then I would gladly have you. If you wish to go with your Mother, well... I would respect your decision. Or perhaps you'd prefer a mixture of the two. I haven't worked everything out yet, but whatever happens, the decision is still yours to make. I will always be here for you, Via. Always."

Once more they clung to each other, and this time he, too, shed tears. As exhausted as he already was, he knew Octavia must be feeling much the same. How she must have felt, walking the tightrope of his sham of a marriage, barraged on both sides by its inadequacies. Fearing what was to come and yet, in the wild and innocent way of youth, naively hopeful for the future. Hopeful that, maybe, things might work out. This wasn't one night's worth of mourning she now wept into his chest, but rather all the tears built up over a lifetime.

Stolas gently rubbed her back, didn't pressure her by talking. Not until she was good and ready to speak about it on her own terms. She must have a million questions, a million desperate assurances. He surely would in her position. Yet, when Octavia eventually settled and steadied her breathing, when she pulled back from his chest and wiped her face, she seemed... okay. Yet again he was surprised by the strength of her character, for her next question was composed, calm, and not for her own sake.

"What are you writing?"

"I..." He struggled to find the words. How much to share? It would not be right to dump more of his problems onto her. That seemed to be all he was good for, lately. "A letter. To a friend."

"Blitz?"

He sighed. She was as keen-eyed as her mother, that was for sure. Give her any two lines and she'd read between them. It would prove to be an invaluable asset in the courts, when then time came.

"Yes, Blitz."

"You love him, don't you?"

Stolas' heart almost leapt right out of his chest. How could she...? What had she seen? How in the Hells does a father respond to a question like that? A lifetime spent training in the arts of prophecy and political intrigue, and yet he found himself undone by the casual questioning of a teenager.

"I'm sorry, Via. It's not going to be a problem anymore. We are... I am, separating... myself... from him. I've acted like scatter-brained hatchling for too long. And I-,"

"What?! Dad, no! You can't!"

Stolas blinked. What?

"Via, we-."

"No. I've seen the way you look at him. When you're not just being a pervert. It's like... it's like the same way you look at me when you think I don't notice. In a non-weird way, I mean. Ugh, you get what I'm saying!"

"I'm... sorry, Via. I don't understand. He-."

"Did he do something wrong?" She was more worked up than he'd seen her in a long while. As much as he adored Octavia, getting her actively passionate about something was like drawing blood from a stone. But here she was, angry at him for... ending his affair with an imp?

"Not exactly. But we just... weren't what we thought we were. What we... I... pretended we were."

"That's bullshit. You're just going to give up at the first sign of trouble? He makes you happy. Like, genuinely happy, right? Yeah, he's weird. And obnoxious. But isn't that happiness worth something? Isn't that... like... worth fighting for... or something?"

Octavia's outburst had tapered down, and she must have realised it, because by now she blushed, that awkward teenage self-consciousness creeping in as it always did.

He'd been this close -- this close! -- to being done with it all, to being firm with his decision. And now his daughter wrenched open doors he'd thought locked and barricaded, let their captured flames escape. That war of emotions now raged within his chest once more, brighter and fiercer than ever, and he didn't know what to say. So he was silent a while longer. He turned to look at the letter that he had written, inked and enchanted and merely awaiting his seal to be made manifest.

But in his pondering, his eyes caught upon the mirror, and Stolas could not help but chortle. Octavia blinked.

"Look at us, Via," he said, pointing at their reflection. The two of them were a mess -- bedraggled feathers, crumpled clothes, and, of course, tear-streaked eye-liner that smudged around their cheeks. They were the very picture of a goth disaster. Octavia groaned, but even she couldn't help but snort. "I used to dress just like you, you know? Your father looked quite dashing in all black. He still does, of course."

"Shut up, Dad," laughed Octavia. He framed his face with his hands and mimicked her typical dour expression, and she playfully pushed his shoulder in response. "I do not look like that!"

"Via...," he said, softly, and serious, "you know, if I were to have a partner, or perhaps even a husband... I would not love you any less. You will always be in my heart."

"I know, Dad. I know."

"Right, well then!" Stolas stood the both of them up and clapped for emphasis. He placed his arm around her shoulders and began to lead her from the room. "What say you and I go and find some ice cream? I dare say we've both earned it."

Octavia rolled her eyes as only a teenage girl could, but she didn't say no or pull away from him. As the two left the room, the candles within dimmed on their own accord. In the darkness, sitting plainly and unsealed upon the desk, the letter, still unsent, caught magically alight and flashed to ash.

No new beginning ever came without some pain, and often to rise from the ashes one must first burn down what they had. But Stolas was no phoenix. Though he was capable...perhaps he needn't lose everything in order to find himself. Not without a fight.