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irisbellemoon · 19 hours ago

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as the clouds weep, you weep with them;

Before leaving Sylva for once and all, Jason goes to tell Crispin's family of his demise || AO3

The village Crispin was born in sat on the fringes of Silva. Just outside the kingdom. Close enough to be under the Silvan territory, but far away that it was left mostly on its own. It was a small thing. Population of some hundred people, all of them metalworkers or cloth dyers.

Jason had been there only a few times. Mostly on the usual knightly rounds to check for any troubles. Bandits or the like. He’s seen Crispin’s family from the sides. Eternally proud. Always smiling, kissing his cheeks, patting his back. Crispin had invited him a few times, but he’d always been a bit terrified to say yes.

He wishes he had now.

Wishes his first formal meeting with his love’s family had happened with him on Jason’s side. Wishes Crispin was here. Wishes he could join him on the other side.

Wishes, wishes, wishes.

None of them ever come true.

The rain that had been pouring for the better part of the day finally gentles into a light drizzle. He doesn't trust that it won't start pouring again, with how dark the clouds are. But at least for now, Zeus has stopped pelting him with rain. His wet clothes stick to him in ways uncomfortable, making the swelling of his chest more visible than he wants it to be. Not for the first time in the past few days, Jason yearns for the solace his armor provided. But he was recognizable in it, and he can't exactly risk being thrown in jail over discomfort right now.

He had shed the silver armor the moment his exile was put into place, exactly five days ago. Since people rarely ever saw him without the metal skin, normal clothes hid his identity for now, including among his fellow soldiers. Well, ex fellow soldiers now. He was supposed to be long gone, but.

Jason can't just up and leave Crispin’s family with nothing. It simmers in him. The need to leave, to go somewhere so far away that Silva is nothing but a distant memory. Yet. Yet. He can't. Not without setting things straight with his love’s family. Can't have them thinking their noble son was a traitor.

He knows all too well what it's like to not know your children's fate. He will not wish that upon anyone. Least of all Crispin's loving mother.

Still, it does not mean the need to escape isn't eating him alive.

He can't remember the last time he'd bothered to stick around someplace out of some actual sense of duty. The unease of the act alone is making him far too aware of everything, of his body. He’d spent the last few days in clear single-mindedness. But now the hunger that pinches his stomach. The too-tight bandages around his chest send aches that run through his entire midriff. His eyes feel swollen though he cannot remember crying. His throat is dry. Breathing hurts.

He can see the small house — hut, really — that belongs to Crispin's family, inhabited by his aging mother and widowed sister, Aria. He can see her, hazy in the distance, embroidering a small dress. Her light hair flutters around in the wind. Knows that she's singing the same lullaby Crispin used to sing during either of their bad nights.

He’s just stalling now, he knows. He's been hidden behind the same tree for the better part of an hour. Just because he's made up his mind doesn't mean he's not nervous about it. This is objectively the worst way to meet the family. You can't just stand here forever, he tells himself. He's got to get a grip on himself.

Exhaling, sending a quiet prayer for resolve, Jason starts to make his way to the hut.

It takes far too few minutes for him to reach the hut, and for Aria to notice him. Jason's first thought upon seeing her closely for the first time is she looks exactly like him. The same light hair, and hard face and broad nose. The only difference is her grey eyes being more stern than Crispin's ever had been. But that minuscule difference doesn't do much to quell the grief that rises in him, sudden like the waves in his long gone birthplace.

A shuddering breath leaves him as he tries to recalibrate himself. It doesn't really work. Stones have already settled in his throat. Forcefully, he drags himself away from it. He doesn't have the time to sit here and grieve. He has a duty to fulfill.

Aria stares at him quizzically, raking a judging eye over him. He can't even blame her. Knows that he must look a mess — wet from the rain, hunched over slightly, covered in mud and blood. Nowhere near the charming knight he's come to be known for. If he had the strength, Jason might have found it mildly embarrassing.

“Aria?” he asks hoarsely.

She slides back a little into the house. Her face spelled out distrust. “Who's asking?” she queries back, voice hard.

He takes a breath. It is getting harder to push air into his lungs actually. Distantly, he realizes that he's been wearing the bandages for far too long. “I'm Jason,” he says eventually, “Crispin's partner in knighthood.”

Aria’s eyes light up in recognition. “You’re Jason? Jason, the Undying?”

He hates that title so fucking much. There's nothing glorious in it. Just his curse put to name. He nods through a clenched jaw.

Her eyes look over him to behind him, running over the wooden planes he came out of. Waiting for her brother to eventually make his way from the forest too. Jason swallows down guilt as the reminder of Crispin's death hits him again. It'll never stop hitting him.

“Where is Crispin, Sir Knight? I have heard my brother is never a foot away from you.” Her voice is sly, as if she knows what they were to each other. A smirk — so similar to Crispin's — sits on her face. Jason suppresses the bile that rises in him.

He opens his mouth to say what he'd come to say but the words refuse to leave him. Once he says it, it'll become real. He’ll speak it into existence. He'll be alone again. Crispin's death would no longer be a bad dream he can hope to wake from. It’ll be something there's no hiding from. A truth. Fact of life.

Speak up, he thinks. He needs to speak. That's what he came here to do. And yet, his mouth betrays him. All his body does is betray him. He tries again slowly, “Crispin is —”

Jason can't stifle the sob this time. It wrenches out of him before he's even aware. All he can do is press his hand against his mouth and muffle the wretched sound. He stands there, shoulders shaking, lungs burning, nearly a thousand years old, still as bad at handling grief as he was then.

Aria's face falls, her hands bunch up the dress she'd been sewing. He sees the stuttering breath she takes, face turned away from him. Sees the realization settle in her. Sees the way it breaks her apart. She opens her mouth, and closes it just as soon, her expression turning sorrowful. Her face falls into her hands, as she bends in half. Her shoulders hitch up and down as she cries.

She's a quiet crier, like he used to be. Like he still is sometimes. Women tend to cry quiet. A fact of life, really. After years of bitten off cries, he doesn't know how to be a loud crier either.

“I'm — sorry,” he says, because he needs to. Aria sobs. She needs to know how much he regrets this. “It was my fault. I got him involved him in my mess and it — it took him. Believe me, your brother did nothing wrong. They'll tell you he was a traitor. He wasn't. He just — just —”

He breaks off in a gasp and a cough. The rain starts again. It drowns out his words and her sobs. He wants to leave. He should leave.

“Crispin was trying to help me,” he continues, at last. “I dragged him down. Your brother did nothing wrong. Don't trust a single thing they tell you.”

He moves to where she’s sitting, unable to help himself. He’s never been good at seeing others cry. Gingerly sits down next to her, putting his hand on her shoulder. She doesn’t push him off, so that’s something good, at least. He almost wishes she does. If only for the catharsis her anger might bring. He needs someone to blame him almost half as much as he blames himself.

“He loved you,” Jason whispers to her shaking form. He can’t pull up the emotion swimming in his chest into his voice. It makes him sound blanker than he likes. “All he did was sing praises of you and your mother. Never forget that. He loved you, loves you, will always love you from whatever afterlife is out there.”

Aria sobs, pushing herself up into his hand.

He doesn’t know how long they sit there. The rain makes it hard to calculate time. It’s been dark the whole day, though he supposes evening is close by now. Aria cries and cries and cries. Jason sits there, hand on her knee, patting periodically. As close to comfort as he can offer in his own numbness.

The rain doesn’t stop, but Aria does straighten up eventually. Her tear-stained face full of grief. It seems to age her more than her actual lived years. She stares down at his hand, eventually wrapping her own around it. For a minute, it’s just them in their shared grief.

A thunder sounds above them, loud and angry. It breaks whatever reverie they had.

Jason breathes in the cold air. “I ought to go now,” he says. “Take care of yourself. Please.”

Aria looks up at him. She wipes her tears off, sniffing. She looks so much like Crispin, even covered in tears. Grief lines her entire frame, broad and strong just like his love's. Something in her expression is achingly familiar. It makes him fumble. “The storm won’t let up tonight,” she whispers. “You can stay, Sir Knight.”

“I can’t,” he replies back, just as quiet. “I’m not even supposed to be in the kingdom anymore. My staying here would bring you trouble. I’m sorry, Aria. I need to leave.”

She stares at him. Takes a look up at the sky, then steels her face into something stern. The whole act is so much like Crispin's it just twists the knife into an already weeping wound. “Let me get you a cloak, then. Please. I can’t let you leave without some protection.”

Jason can’t say no to that. He nods. Aria leans towards him, gently kissing his cheek like a sister to a younger brother. She smiles at him, watery and sad. He tries to smile back. It doesn’t really come.

“Stay here. I’ll be back in a moment.” She gets up, her dress pooling at the ground. Jason watches her recede back into the house, her footsteps light on the floor. He should stay. He can’t.

It’ll be better for her if she doesn’t know where he takes off to. Which direction he follows. Galen won’t send any soldiers here, he knows that, but caution never hurts. He won’t let himself hurt one more person. Not today, at least.

Jason gets up, pulling his bag over his shoulder again. With one last look at the house that birthed and raised the man he loved, loves, will always love, he sets off into the rain. Never to return to Sylva. Hoping the ghost of it won’t follow him into wherever the fates take him next.

Hopes, even if its naïve, that he might just find Crispin again. That maybe the bad dream is, in fact, a bad dream.

Jason has always been a fool, after all.

#the technomancy project #jason fenix #ttp #decided i might just put the fic here since it's >2K words #also as always jason's trans

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