Chapter Text
caim (n.)--sanctuary. the reminder that you are loved and protected by your loved ones, even in the darkest of times.
The longing hoots and coos of a mourning dove echo in through the open window, and Asta is gently woken up.
His morning routine is plain. Wake up, wash his face, braid his hip-length hair, eat a bowl of oats and fruits—then get to work. Work isn’t everything there is in his day, of course. The fields and the farm animals will always need tending. Vetto is best suited to the animals, and it’s Asta who takes on the potato field. He has help. It goes by fast.
So fast, in fact, that most of the fieldwork is handled by midday. If it’s not, it would be because someone has fallen ill or a particularly troublesome animal has wandered their way into their patch of fruitful land. Today is no different than the rest though, so Asta gathers all the tools and baskets and checks the perimeter of the farm. When nothing is amiss, and the field is taken care of, he makes a beeline straight for the meadows.
Their countryside is vast in only one direction. All other directions are taken up by human civilization. Sure, the elven tribe has forged pathways and structures and developed plots of lands themselves—they are not abundant in population as humans are. A baby isn’t rare, but they certainly aren’t common. The nearest human city has hundreds of babies to speak of. Out in the meadow and thin forest, where human civilization is only a handful of kilometers away, a table rests.
“Ah! There you are, Asta.”
It’d been built decades ago by grandparents and predeceasing Apostles. Banquets can be held there, though the level of isolation calls for something more private. Something smaller.
“Good to see you, Licht. Where’s this man you want me to meet?”
Something like a picnic, or a lunch, where a small group of friends can meet. This circle is certainly small—smaller than usual, as a matter of fact, because a human is being introduced today. Not everyone is excited for that; a few of their friends were more apprehensive than anything else. It’s an understandable stance on the situation.
“He’s right here. Lumiere, come meet my cousin. This is Asta.”
Lumiere Silvamillion Clover, a human with blond hair and blue eyes, smiles and waves as he steps forward. He hadn’t exactly been slinking in the shadows, but he most certainly hadn’t been forthcoming. “Hello, Asta,” he greets. His voice is incredibly polite. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Asta grins back his greeting. The smile hurts his face. “Of course. Pleasure’s all mine.”
“Thank you for joining us,” Licht says, voice softening slightly with sadness. For such a large table, it sure is empty. “I know this is a big deal—“
Licht is abruptly cut off by a harsh guffaw. Asta slaps his shoulder a few times. “Oh, don’t worry Licht!” he exclaims. It takes so, so much effort and energy to be this boisterous. His nap will be golden later. “I’m always happy to meet your friends! Being a human or a dwarf doesn’t make any difference to me.”
“I know.” Licht huffs mirthfully, and rubs his shoulder. “I appreciate it anyways.”
Most of the afternoon goes smoothly enough. Rhya and Fana show up at some point, though they stay as long as skittish critters would. If Asta weren’t there, it would absolutely be a date between Lumiere and Licht. There’s a bit of sadness in Asta’s chest for the small group that they are now. He can’t easily push that twinge aside knowing that most of their friends are so hesitant to be open-minded. None of it ruins the good times, though Lumiere’s departure does leave a bit of a void.
Silence reigns. Licht and Asta sit at the table, picking away at the little leftover snacks and drinks. No one has yet to show their face for the first nor second time. No surprises there. They’ll come next time.
“He’s good company,” Asta pans amidst the contemplative silence. “I like him.”
At first, Licht does nothing when he hears that. It’s not a bitter silence. It’s actually full of happiness, no matter how invisible the air makes it seem. A moment later, he replies; “He’s easy to love.”
Asta had never said anything about love, so he only smiles as he chews the last bite of sweet, mana berry ambrosia.
At the verdant age of eight-years-old, Asta’s magic—or rather, his lack thereof—manifested as some terrible power. Licht had been eleven-years-old when that happened. He is twenty nowadays; nine, nearly ten, years have since passed. The scars still hurt. They ran deep and merciless.
It makes sense, the elders would say. His mother, Licita, had the ability to suck any living thing dry of mana. She had to learn how to control it with great trials and many errors. Falling ill compromised her control, and becoming pregnant took it away completely. Why would a child be born with mana when their own mother sucked it all away before they could leave the womb?
The irony in being born to a race loved by mana with no mana isn’t funny. It’s poetic. On bad days, it’s cruel.
There are all sorts of powers out in the world; Licht had always figured this, and when he became the leader of the tribe he confirmed that suspicion. Mana—both negative and positive—and anti-magic are the umbrellas of power. They balance each other, and the only reason why anti-magic hadn’t made itself known until Asta’s eighth year of life had been entirely because of the fact that it killed those it tried to occupy with mana. Something without mana is a golden, once in a millennium opportunity…or so goes the theories.
Licht was eleven-years-old when he walked into Licita’s home, carrying a basket of freshly baked bread, only to find his aunt cold with death…and his cousin warm with trauma.
Asta had killed her.
Her death was an accident at the behest of a violent power she couldn’t absorb. Anti-magic comes at a great cost—one that is far more wicked than negative mana could ever be.
When Licht trusts Lumiere enough to tell a bit of their story, his scars begin to ache in ways that they haven’t in quite some time.
“It makes sense,” Lumiere parrots the elvish elders. “A kid with no mana being given power to destroy and negate mana? I bet it’s like fitting the last piece of an impossible puzzle.”
He nods along, and rubs his aching chest where his invisible scars reside. He doesn’t mention that Licita was his beloved aunt who he misses just as dearly as Asta misses his beloved mother.
“Does he use that power very often?”
This time, Licht shakes his head. “He never says why, but everyone can certainly guess his reasoning.”
Lumiere’s expression falls somber. It’s not a fitting look for him…yet his eyes suit the mood perfectly. “I’m sorry for your loss. I’m sorry for Asta’s loss, too. That can’t have been a smooth grieving process.”
The scars still hurt. They will always hurt. Asta may still be around but that can never change the fact that most of his joy and personality died with his mother that day. Licht can’t even begin to judge him; Licht knows that a part of himself is forever changed, maybe even left behind, after that snowy day. Asta is not alone in that. “He used to be so energetic and talkative,” Licht murmurs. “Nothing could contain him nor wear him out. Now he just works, sleeps the rest of the day and night away…”
“Can you blame him, though?” Lumiere asks. “You said he killed someone he cared for. It might’ve been out of his control, but the weight is still there.”
Licht only nods. He understands, and he certainly blames no one. He doesn’t even blame anti-magic. It’s a relentless, natural force just like mana. Selfishly, he thinks of the whole tragedy as a series of unfortunate events. He wonders about that, though. Had it been simple misfortune? It’s unlikely that it’d been anything else, and Licht believes that. So little is known about anti-magic in general. Conspiracies will only leave him stumped and frustrated.
He thinks nothing more of it.
Asta wakes up in the dead of night feeling watched nearly every night. There is nothing around to be watching him though, and on the nights that his window curtains are open he catches himself staring into the nearby forest edge. He often hopes it’s just an animal. It happens too frequently for it to be an elaborate prank, so he brushes that aside. A more paranoid side suggests that a fellow elf or a human is watching him, planning nefariously to use his anti-magic powers for their own gains.
His power is not well-known. As a matter of fact, it’s almost next to unknown. Most of everyone within the tribe has a vague idea of what he can do. Every single Apostle of Sephirah knows it intimately. They decided long ago that they have to, since anti-magic is a wild card in most if not all cases. Worry of lost control and murder cross their minds often. It haunts dreams, too.
Even though Asta is an Apostle himself, they speak of him as if he’s not there when the subject comes to light.
It happens again and again until Lumiere enters the picture. Then, everyone’s apprehension shifts to the humans and the rumors of an attack. Licht defends Lumiere as an individual; that is closely noted. Humanity as a whole isn’t defended, though. Asta has no two cents to put into such a conversation. He doesn’t hate them, he doesn’t love them. In fact, no one does; humans hate them, though. Human hatred has driven the dwarves deep underground. Distant elven tribes are growing more and more sparse over the decades. The nearest few are on the opposite side of the kingdom, some not even being in the same kingdom, and they’re numbered in the mid hundreds.
Their elven tribe, the Clover Tribe, is numbered at three hundred and six. Children are born every other year, so there is growth—but it’s slow, and nowhere near as fast as the human’s population growth.
“Lumiere is a good person,” Drowa echoes Licht’s words. “I accept that. What I do not accept is his status as human royalty.”
Young Patolli is frowning as he brings up his own opinion. “I don’t know what you see in him. In any of them. Humans are dirty. Not to mention the rumors of the royals planning an attack on us! Why should we let them be so close to us?”
“There’s no need to talk so horribly about them,” Vetto points out. He places a hand on Patolli’s shoulder in assurance when the boy opens his mouth again.
“His family could be using him,” Rhya jumps to suggest. “As I understand it, his authority as a prince is just a formality. The monarchs hold the real power and there are twisted nobles who support them. As such, the dynamic is out of balance. I wouldn’t doubt them using their own naïve son as a way in.”
“That’s just plain cruelty,” Fana murmurs. “Surely they wouldn’t.”
“They would. You know they would,” Patolli nastily interjects.
Rhya leans back and crosses his arms, pointedly ignoring the youngest of them all. “They hurt themselves. They hurt strangers. They use their own like tools sometimes. Silvamillion Clovers are no different.”
He’s heard enough.
“Give him an ultimatum,” Asta suddenly says. All eyes turn on him; they’re full of question. He goes on to clarify with a monotone voice and flat expression, re-braiding his hair for the third time since they’ve gathered today. “Being connected to human royalty like that is dangerous, I agree. Especially since they don’t keep their hatred a secret. Lumiere is smart, so he probably keeps his relationship with us quiet. It can’t stay like that forever. It shouldn’t even stay longterm. Tell him: Human royalty or no elves.”
Licht frowns. “That’s harsh. We can’t ask that of him.”
Asta believes in peace and harmony. He doesn’t believe in humanity upholding that belief, though. “I don’t think he’ll have a problem leaving his family behind for us,” he states, plain and simple.
There’s a thoughtful silence for quite a few moments. No one speaks up, but there is no tension in the air. An argument isn’t brewing.
“He does have a point.” Fana is the first to agree. “I have only met him once or twice. Even then, I can tell that he’s a kind, devoted man.”
A chorus of agreement rings out.
“Alright,” Licht relents. “I shall bring it to his attention when I see him next time. Is there anything else we should discuss as a whole?” When none of the Apostles speak up, he nods. “Very well. You are all dismissed. Thank you for your insight, everyone.”
Asta lingers to finish off his braid. Licht stays seated. Everyone else is gone within a minute, some chatting and others pondering as they go. They sit in a semi-comfortable silence, listening to the little whistles of light magic floating around the room.
Then Licht says, “What was that, Asta?”
Confused, he looks up from his hair. “What do you mean?” he asks.
“Your suggestion—the ultimatum. That’s what I mean,” Licht states. “Why did you say that?”
“Oh. Well, I figured it’d be better to bring up sooner rather than later. And, besides, you know it would’ve become an even bigger topic in the next few weeks,” Asta explains. Compassion softens his expression. “Both of you deserve to be happy. People out there are hateful. People in here are hateful, too. I really just don’t see any other way for your relationship to be successful, y’know?”
Licht’s silent, resigned nod stays on Asta’s mind for the next few days. Maybe he did step out of line. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve put Licht in that position. Maybe he’ll keep his mouth shut for the next meeting or two. He works the farmlands worrying himself into a bit of a frenzy. So much so that his anti-magic eats away the mana from a basket of mana berries he picked. They shrivel up and die and they become bitter.
That leaves a pit of terror and fear in his stomach.
He does not sleep easy after that. In fact, he almost never sleeps at all. One whole week passes where he doesn’t see Licht or Lumiere. He barely sees Vetto, who works within the nearest barn, nor does he see Fana who runs the nearest herbal garden. Hell, he doesn’t even see the freeloader Rhya nor the little bratty Patolli. They are all people he could spot from a hawk’s eye view.
For seven whole days, he refuses his friends’s company. It’s all because, when he goes home after working the fields, he has to continue working himself to the bone to control his volatile anti-magic. It’s nothing new, truth be told. His power flares up on its own quite often. The difference between this time and most other times is his emotions. Heightened feelings, stress, hopelessness—it all leads to a loss of control that he can’t afford.
On the eighth day, someone knocks on his door. Asta can tell that it’s Licht; he ignores him.
On the ninth day, Licht knocks again. Asta ignores him again.
On the tenth day, Licht doesn’t knock. He doesn’t even show up at his house. He approaches Asta directly whilst he’s digging up a particularly fruitful row of potatoes.
Licht doesn’t greet—not even a lick of a name is spoken. Instead, he holds out a hand in display and says, “Look.”
Asta doesn’t look right away. He busies his hands in the dirt.
“Look,” Licht demands this time. He kneels down and shoves his hand into Asta’s face. “Please.”
He does. A golden band is on Licht’s ring finger, decorated by small embedded diamonds. They glint beautifully in the late morn sunshine, exposing perfect corners and clean surfaces. There’s small carvings along the edges that frames the jewels; I will love you beyond the world’s end, it reads. The craftsmanship is so fine. At first, he’s confused. Why is there a poem on a ring? Why is Licht wearing said ring?
Then, it clicks. Right away, Asta explodes with happiness. “Marriage!” he cries. “That’s a wedding band!”
“Yes!” Licht exclaims in equal excitement. “It is! Lumiere proposed this morning.”
Asta’s eyes widen; the smile that splits his face fades completely. He dreads the answer to his next question. “You…gave him the ultimatum?”
He nods. “I did.” His voice becomes somber as he continues. “It took him a few days to make his decision. I sat there explaining things to him for nearly an hour, going back and forth on everyone’s worries and where we want to go in our relationship. In the end, he came back to me.”
Asta’s hands are caked with dirt, so he doesn’t touch the ring. A part of him is actually too scared to even touch Licht. Instead, he leans in just enough to catch an extra sparkle or two before looking back up at Licht. “I’m so happy for you!” he chirps.
For the first time in years, that holds truth. Asta is happy.
That happiness doubles down on Licht’s face. His cheeks are rosy as he smiles again, teary-eyed and laughing away the weight of joy. Asta can’t think of anything else to say, he knows he’d just repeat himself, so he laughs along—true and merry.