Chapter Text
A Time for Family
1: Of Montellis and Fisalia
There was a saying among Rinascitans that one was rarely far from the waves. When he was much younger, the boy had never quite understood that parable. Rinascita, after all, was an archipelago: a collective of islands, most of which were, at the most, a few dozen square kilometres at most in terms of size. Of course one was never far from the waves, he had scoffed.
Now that he was older, wiser, and more knowledgeable—thanks in no small part to the education that only a family as affluent and influential as his own could provide—he could safely conclude that he still didn’t understand that ancient saying.
As he looked out at the glinting waves that lapped at the coast of Ragunna city, though; heard the gently shifting tides, the distant cry of gulls high above, and the distinctive tang of the salt-rich coastal air, he would admit to feeling an adventurous pang. A sensation that he was starting to very much equate to a yearning for him to clamber aboard a ship—any ship—and venture out into the waves to see what lay beyond the horizon yonder. He thought about mentioning this unbidden desire to his mother, and was certain she would give him a patiently indulgent smile before remarking that he had spent too much time with Uncle Brant.
He adored his mother greatly, but she had always been perhaps unhealthily devoted to her family, and while he knew all the tales of her long distant escapades, the boy knew with absolute certainty that she would never stray far from Rinascita unless the most uncompromising of business demanded it.
In fairness, though, she was the head of the Family, so he reasoned he could forgive her that much. And besides, he had spent perhaps a little more time than usual with the rambunctious Captain and unflappable First Mate of the renowned Troupe of Fools in recent weeks. Already, he had overheard several of his tutors remark that his studies had slipped of late; and knew only too well how much this displeased his mother.
Though no longer considered outlaws by the vast bulk of the Rinascitan archipelago, the Troupe clung to old habits like the ocean barnacles stubbornly stuck fast to their ships, frequently arriving unannounced before departing just as swiftly—once they had indulged in their usual rambunctious merrymaking. Each time they showed at the main isle, though, his home was always a stopping point, and the boy smiled as he recalled the shadowy but gentle Echo, Pero, tap-tapping at his window to be let into his room, a softly smiling Roccia and the broadly beaming Brant just behind.
His own smile faded as he considered the reason for their current outing. He wondered if Brant and Roccia ever sailed around to the south of the main island after regaling him with tales of wonder and excitement and derring-do? He wondered if they ever quietly stopped at the dark, solitary, and foreboding manse that stool sentinel upon the cliffside, and poked their heads into the room of a lonely young girl to cheer her with their presence as they did for him. Or did the presence of her own mother cow them into keeping their distance, as so many others tended?
“Pietro?”
“Coming, mother,” said Pietro Montelli, realising that he had stopped in place, deep in thought. He winced at her scolding tone, and the subtle narrowing of her pale crystal green eyes. Few were those who could hold Carlotta Montelli’s flinty gaze, even given her relatively diminutive height, and her thirteen-year-old son was no different.
“Don’t stray, now,” said his mother. “I have no intention of being late. I’d never hear the end of it,” she added in a dark mutter.
“Yes, mother. Sorry—”
“Don’t apologise, dear heart,” Carlotta shushed, a more matronly smile replacing her grimace. “But you are a Montelli; and heir to the Family, besides. Others will wait on you, never the other way around.” Unless those ‘others’ happened to be his father, Pietro mused to himself, suppressing a snort. Then, his mother would wait all day, and happily at that.
“Yes, mother,” he nodded. Her gaze lingered on him a moment, and Pietro spent the time in quiet unease, wondering whether she had guessed his thoughts. To his relief, she simply nodded, and raised a hand to brush at his short, dark grey hair.
“Good lad,” she smiled. “Hopefully, we won’t be long. Once we are, we can take a Gondola back to our quarter.”
“Can we stop at Margherita’s on the way?” he asked. She considered his request, and after a short pause, relented. “Oh, I don’t see why not,” she said. “Though I expect you to finish your homework when we return home, young man.”
“Yes, mother! Thank you, mother!” Pietro beamed. Carlotta giggled, and leaned forward to give him a doting tousle of his hair. “Good boy. Now, let’s be away, hm?”
Nodding eagerly, Pietro took his place at his mother's side so that she could lead them to their ultimate destination. The café—and Pietro found, strangely, that he could not recall its name for the life of him—was a recent addition to Ragunna’s already considerable repertoire of eateries and social venues, positioned in the south quarter with a wide, open view of the sea that was nothing short of picturesque. His mother had, of course, already sampled the menu, and reported that they offered extraordinarily good coffee. More importantly, or so she had told him, it was relatively secluded, an ideal spot for a private meeting.
To his utter lack of surprise, save for the owners, a suave-looking older man and his wife, the place appeared to be completely empty. Carlotta seemed most pleased by this, at least until they were led to a table overlooking the Ragunna bay and found two others waiting for them.
Pietro had laid eyes upon Cantarella Fisalia only four times in person that he could recall. Each instance, however, left exactly the same mark as he once again found himself frozen in place. To say that she was gorgeous was a disservice worthy of a criminal conviction. Tall, long-legged, with a figure many women would kill to emulate, the Matriarch of the Fisalia family exuded a deep sensuality that stopped men—and even a few women—dead in their tracks. Pietro was only recently becoming aware of girls, but even before this moment, the sight of Cantarella Fisalia had affected him no less deeply.
He fought to clamp down on his rising flush. To ogle was improper; all the more so, given that she was, technically, family. There was also the disapproving frown his mother had shot him, though she knew full well the effect her opposite number had on people.
Of course, Cantarella herself appeared to find his reaction distinctly amusing-or so he thought. Her sapphire eyes always appeared to shine with the faintest glimmer of mischief; as though she were privy to some private, unspoken joke, and knew only too well that no one else would ever get in on it. Clearing his throat, he finally tore his gaze away from the older woman and instead focused on the smaller figure at her side.
Instantly, he felt his thoughts soften as he beheld his half-sister. Celestina Fisalia, already tall for her age, looked to be, at first glance, a carbon clone of her mother, with her rich, noble countenance and long, lilac hair. As was only to be expected, the girl was no less elegantly dressed, garbed in a pristine, white dress embroidered with exquisitely detailed floral patterns, and an equally bright, wide-brimmed sun hat that, for whatever reason, had a thin, black veil hanging from its left side across that half of her face. As always, her soft, youthful features were blank and expressionless, her gaze falling just shy of the two Montellis.
“I see you’ve beaten us here,” remarked Carlotta, her voice tight with thinly veiled displeasure.
“Oh, please, Signora Montelli, do not feel as though you’ve kept us both waiting,” smiled Cantarella through half-lidded eyes, gently nursing a small cup of steaming coffee, idly tracing the rim with one long, dainty finger. “We arrived scarcely minutes before you. Hardly enough time to even get settled in, really.”
Pietro swallowed and cast a nervous look towards his mother. Though Carlotta Montelli was as practised a businesswoman as they came, and quite capable of reining her thoughts and feelings in with an expertise born of great experience, he knew only too well that control tended to slip whenever she was directly engaged with Cantarella Fisalia. The older woman seemed to know precisely what to say and do to push her buttons. Privately, he didn’t even believe Cantarella was being malicious—rather she simply seemed to delight in the reactions she could provoke in her fellow Head.
Then again, perhaps there was a little of that involved. Though both their families had long since called an end to their bitter feud in the wake of the great Sentinel crisis, generations of mistrust and hatred didn’t simply vanish, even across the span of almost a decade and a half. Some things, his mother had told him one evening, were simply too well-ingrained; handed down like ancient rites from parent to child. Or family head to family head, as was the case with both matriarchs.
One day, perhaps, Fisalia and Montelli might abide one another more openly and fully, but Pietro felt wearily certain that neither his own mother, or Celestina’s, would live to witness it in person. Indeed, it was quite feasible that he wouldn’t, either.
“Is that so?” said Carlotta. “Well, good. I don’t suppose you’ll mind if I request a drink from our gracious hosts? I could rather use a coffee.”
“I would suggest a Marocchino,” smiled Cantarella, raising her cup and taking a sip. “It’s really very good, especially if you prefer your coffee to possess a little more flavour.”
“Espresso will do for me,” Carlotta replied, shooting the two owners a glance. Being the conscientious souls they were, in addition to having mastered the subtle art of anticipation, they were already halfway back to their kitchen to fulfil his mother’s order. Exhaling softly through the nose, she approached the table and took the seat opposite the Fisalia head.
“Pietro,” she said. “Be a gentleman and entertain your sister, would you?”
“A fine idea,” Cantarella’s smile widened a fraction. “I was just about to suggest the same.”
Pietro cut his mother a sidelong glance. He had been under the impression that she had brought him here to shadow her as she cut whatever deal or business agreement that she had fermenting with the Fisalias. To learn only now that she wanted him to babysit stung.
“Mother—” he started, only to stall at Carlotta’s sharp look.
“Do as I say, Pietro.” He relented immediately. Who could do otherwise, under that gaze of hers?
“Yes, mother.”
“Go with your brother, Celestina,” said Cantarella, giving the young boy a look he could almost describe as sympathetic. A blink later, though, and it was gone, leaving Pietro wondering if he had simply imagined it.
“Yes, mother,” the young Fisalia heir echoed her sibling in a voice scarce more than a whisper. She rose from her seat, her manner impeccably demure, and took a small, blue parasol hanging from the arm of her chair before unfolding it and trotting towards him. Despite himself, Pietro managed to dredge up a smile for her, and offered the girl his arm, which she took without pause, and he lead them both to the opposite end of the café so that their two mothers could speak privately.
Cantarella watched their children depart, turning to regard Carlotta only once the shorter head had taken her seat. “That seemed rather unnecessarily harsh.”
“It was a long walk,” huffed Carlotta, ignoring Cantarella’s arched brow. Both women knew only too well the Fisalia matriarch and her daughter had travelled a far greater distance than the two Montellis would have had to cover in their own city.
“Indeed,” Cantarella hummed, taking another sip of her coffee. “Well, inelegantly constructed as it was, I do appreciate the gesture, Signora Montelli.”
“I have no idea what you’re referring to, Signora Fisalia,” replied Carlotta.
“I suppose not,” conceded the older head, with a wry half-smile. “But I still appreciate it. My Celestina rather lacks for the company of her peers.”
“One can hardly imagine why,” snorted Carlotta, unable to resist the dig.
“Yes,” sighed Cantarella, her exquisitely carved features taking on a rueful cast. “One rather can.”
The Montelli head paused, momentarily flat-footed by the admission. “Even in spite of the passing of years, our strange, collective engagement, and all that we experienced in-between, my family’s ill-fated reputation persists,” Cantarella continued. “The Fisalia still have allies, of course, but few of them tend to ever consider bringing whatever children they might have over, when they come to discuss matters of business.”
Carlotta considered this quietly. Of course, she had long suspected such was the case, for it was hardly difficult to judge the young heiress’ timidity as having stemmed from loneliness. A lack of social interaction frequently led to awkwardness and anxiety, or such was her observation, at least.
“Well, perhaps you should find more choice allies,” she mused. “Or at the very least ones who might read between the lines a little more ably.”
“Ah, the privilege of those with bountiful choices,” said Cantarella. “Much as it pains me to admit it to you, of all people, we are not quite as rich in either friends or influence as once we were.”
“The… changes made to the Order left marks on us all, but they were necessary.”
The Fisalia matriarch inclined her head in assent. “You will hardly find me arguing with you on that much. But you will recall that, prior to the Crisis, the Fisalia had—”
“—far more to call on amongst those aligned with the old Order of the Deep then, than you do now; yes, I am quite aware, thank you. Why, may I ask, are you relating to me this ancient history? Neither of us requires the exposition. I was rather there, if you do recall. Indeed, I seem to remember you showing your face once or twice as well.”
“You would be dismally surprised by what people can forget in the span of a year,” remarked Canterlla through a dry, humourless laugh. “Or longer still, as it turns out.”
Carlotta sniffed, grudgingly conceding the point.
“So,” she said, after a long moment of silence, “did you actually have anything to discuss with me, whilst we’re here? Or was getting your daughter out of the house the only purpose of this meeting?”
“My dear lady Montelli, perish the thought!” Cantarella laughed. “I do, in fact, have rather a lot to go over with you, though while we’re on the subject of the children…”
“Please tell me you aren’t about to suggest a joining of our two houses,” groaned Carlotta, through a grimace of distaste.
“Oh, don’t be so tacky,” huffed Cantarella, rolling her eyes. “We are hardly living in the dark ages.”
“I can think of a few imprisoned members of the old, deposed Order who might say otherwise.”
“Well, there is a reason they are locked firmly away behind bars,” said the Fisalia head. “And let’s not pretend any of us are losing much sleep over their being there, at that."
“Hear, hear,” nodded Carlotta, trying to inhibit the instinctive unease she felt at even so brief a moment of solidarity with a Fisalia.
“At any rate, as I was about to say,” Cantarella continued, “I wondered if you might entertain a little, mm, proposal of mine.”
“A proposal?”
“Call it a suggestion, if that makes it easier to swallow. But I believe—I hope—that it will solve not only my daughter’s problem, but also perhaps aid both of our families in the process.”
Carlotta cocked her head, wary as ever, but her curiosity had been piqued. “Well, fine. No harm in hearing you out, at the very least.”
“My thoughts precisely,” smiled Cantarella. “So, before we start, tell me what you know of our dearly beloved’s exploits across the waves…”
Pietro watched their mothers converse from across the other end of the café, reasoning that the suggestion to take care of his sister came with an unspoken demand not to eavesdrop. He fought the desire to sigh and curtailed his disappointment as best he could.
Celestina sat opposite him, looking out over the waves. For some reason he could not discern, she had elected to unfold her parasol, perching the long haft upon her shoulder. Though she was only a few months younger than himself, the way she seemed to shelter beneath its royal blue surface, combined with the manner in which she appeared to hunch her shoulders ever so slightly made her seem almost half her years. He then realised with a jolt that his strop had perhaps given her the impression that she was bothering him.
“So, Cele—sister,” he corrected. “What have you been up to recently?” The question was painfully stilted, and he subtly cringed at the awkward manner in which he’d tried to strike up conversation with his half-sibling.
“Studying,” she answered, after a long pause, still looking away. As was so often the case, he had to strain in order to hear her.
“Oh, really?” he said, trying to keep the flow of conversation. “What is it that you’ve been studying?”
“Things,” she answered, after another bout of hesitation. Pietro faltered, now at a loss. He knew from prior experience that his sister was socially awkward, and such short, closed answers as those she just gave were not an indication of any tendency to rudeness. No, if his mother’s many, many lectures on just how awful the Fisalia family had been in the distant past were any indication, he was certain that his sister just didn’t get out very much—or at all.
He took her in, trying to see past the purely physical. With her long, silky hair, and smooth, elegant features, he was aware, on an objective level, that she would inevitably grow to become a woman of singularly head-turning beauty—at least if her mother was any indication. Unlike her formidable parent, however, his younger sister had not yet acquired much of anything in the way of confidence, and with the Sentinel Imperator as his witness, that showed as clearly as the sun shone in the skies above. He wondered if there was anything he might do or say that could help. Years past, he had once just told her to stop looking so gloomy; an act that, with the benefit of hindsight—and a firm cuff from his own mother having been one of the results—he could ruefully agree had the opposite intended effect.
“Do you want a drink at all? Coffee? Tea?”
He caught a flutter of distaste at the suggestion of coffee, which then immediately shifted back to her mask of placid indifference. This time, though, her eyes darted his way. That was improvement, at least.
“Tea,” she said, her nod so faint he almost missed it. Pleased, he nodded and peered around for the two owners. He soon frowned, not seeing either husband or wife, and grunted in dissatisfaction.
“Wait here a moment,” he sighed, getting up from his seat. “I’ll go and find the owners and see about getting you your tea.”
He waited for her to respond, but it became clear that he wasn’t going to get one beyond another vague hint at a nod. So up he got.
As he went, he heard faint, hushed voices from outside the café, and turned to spy two boys, perhaps a little older than himself both peering in. His frown deepened, and he followed their gaze back to the table where his sister still sat. He rolled his eyes and turned back, initially set on ignoring them. It figured that they both looked smitten, and privately, Pietro thought that if that was the sort of attention his sibling’s good looks afforded her, then he felt sorry for her indeed.
Then, he picked up on the tremble of her hands; the way in which Celestina’s gaze fixated upon the glittering waves as though straining to keep it there, and the way in which her expression now appeared to have been frozen upon her face. He saw the faint shiver of her shoulders, which had hunched over as though to minimise her profile, if only slightly.
A surge of protectiveness blended with irate disdain for her two not so secret admirers. While his mother had made him know, in no uncertain terms, that some individuals were quite capable of fighting their own, battles, his mother was speaking from a more privileged position, given her status as a Resonator—and a considerably powerful one at that. Indeed, while there was every chance Pietro and Celestina could well develop extraordinary abilities of their own in time, especially given their parentage, neither of them possessed any such thing as of this moment.
Besides, it rankled with him greatly to see his sister, even if she was of Fisalia blood, so shaken by those who clearly either didn’t know or didn’t care what their attention was doing. He thought about approaching them discreetly but dismissed the idea. Both were taller and had the roughshod look of some of the made men the Montelli family would occasionally call upon when their business ventures were directly threatened. He couldn’t be certain they’d not do something rash, and while neither his or Celestina’s mothers were far, he felt as though calling upon them to resolve this was somehow an admission of defeat or inadequacy; something his adolescent pride found entirely unthinkable.
Almost immediately then, another thought emerged. It was, in conception, perhaps even more bold than simply approaching the blackguards. But if…
Surprise would be paramount, so he affected to trot away as though resuming his original goal, not that he really thought either boy was paying much attention to him, anyway. Satisfied that he was sufficiently out of their line of sight, and crept around the neat little rows of set tables and chairs until he was perhaps a dozen paces away.
He faltered as he drew himself up, uncertainty stilling the words he intended to draw upon to disperse this rabble. What if it didn’t work? What if it just made them laugh—or worse, angry?
He glanced back, wondering if perhaps he should get his mother after all. By chance, his gaze rested upon his sister. The sight stirred him, and he reflected that, if things did get ugly, support would at least be near to hand.
Sucking in a breath, he strode forwards with all the pomp and bluster that he could conjure, hoping he didn’t look as foolish as he felt. Straightening, he addressed the two with an audible clearing of his throat, first to draw their attention. Before their gaze could settle, however, he enacted the next step of his plan—such as it was.
“Leave this place, you dogs!” he shouted, gesturing sharpy with an arm. “Or the wrath of the Montelli shall fall upon you like the vengeful blade of the Imperator!”
The cry had been from something he had seen at a theatre performance not weeks before. The particulars mostly escaped him, as he had found it frightfully dull for the most part. However, there had been one scene towards the climax of the show where the protagonist had finally faced down her arch rival, and with all the confidence and bluster she could accrue, had bellowed for them to face her or perish.
…of course, critical as he had been of the troupe, he doubted that he had managed to ape even a fraction of the gravitas the actress had achieved in that one solitary reading. Of course, part of that was simply down to his own youthful inexperience; another being that he had, naturally, substituted his own family name with that of the role the troupe’s leading lady assumed. Then there were the nerves to consider…
And yet, to his burgeoning incredulity, it seemed to have the desired effect. The two boys looked at first perplexed, then snide, and then suddenly very alarmed indeed. With a sharp hiss, they swiftly scampered away, fleeing deeper into the city to leave the two siblings in merciful peace.
Pietro felt his face burn as he returned to the table, relieved and embarrassed and feeling strangely drained. Through all of it, however, he was certain that it had been the invocation of the Montelli name that had seen the two ruffians away, rather than because he had come off as sufficiently intimidating.
He glanced over towards the table their parents were seated at, and felt his cheeks burn yet hotter as he found himself under the scrutiny of both Family heads. Carlotta had arched one eyebrow, a sly half-smile gracing her features that warred with a sterner concern visible in her eyes, and Pietro knew with certainty that, had Cantarella not been present, she would have already marched over to discern what the commotion was about. The Fisalia matriarch, however, appeared decidedly more sanguine than his mother did—reasonably so, given it wasn’t her own daughter who had just embarrassed themselves in public.
He gave them both a sheepish wince of a smile and contrived to bury himself in his seat and hope the ground opened beneath him to swallow him whole. It was then, however, that he noticed his sister staring at him.
“What?” he asked, puzzled by her sudden interest.
“That line you spoke, to make those boys go away,” she said, her voice still but a whisper, but there was more fibre behind it this time—Celestina had made more of a deliberate effort to be heard. “It’s from La Ballata del Vento e Della Pietra, yes?”
Pietro blinked, not understanding, until it finally clicked that she had recited the title of the performance he had just quoted. Or mis-quoted, as it were.
“I think so, yes,” he nodded, suppressing a cringe and feeling heat flare up in his cheeks once more. “What about it?”
“Mother took me to see it the week before,” she said. Was she smiling? She was. Pietro marvelled quietly, and soon decided that it was a nice smile. It certainly helped ease his chagrin some. “I liked it a lot.”
“Oh. Really? You did?” he blinked, rubbing at the back of his neck. He hadn’t found it terribly interesting, nor had his mother, as he recalled, but enough of the crowd were appreciative enough of the effort put in by the Production to offer at least a vaguely effusive applause.
Celestina nodded with something approaching eagerness. “The structure of the play was quite typical for such a tale, but given the broader themes it delved into, such as love, betrayal, and faith, I found the—” Pietro sat in his seat, stunned as his sister practically gushed.
Never before had he witnessed her speak so much, or so effusively. Where had the painfully timid little creature before him hidden away, to replace it with this babbling analytic—this thoughtful young maiden who had clearly considered in far more depth a slice of entertainment that he himself had only the vaguest memories of?
Abruptly, Celestina seemed to realise the change that had overcome her as well, for she suddenly ceased her bout of logghorea, a fierce blush darkening her pale complexion.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I was boring you, wasn’t I? I—I don’t go out very much, so I just tend to read my books, and—”
“No, no!” Pietro recovered, eager to capitalize on what was, to him, the greatest progress he had ever made with his younger sister, and realising only too well that if he allowed this to slip away, he might never see her open up in this way again. “I was just surprised. I… don’t really know a lot about what interests you, despite us being, well…” he trailed off, uncertain as to how to proceed.
Celestina nodded, after a long moment. “It’s unusual, I gather.”
“To say the least,” Pietro nodded through a grimace. He had overheard enough talk to infer that the situation between their mothers and their shared father was anything but common. In fact, he had deduced from many an overheard conversation that, had their father been anyone besides the Rover himself, both he and Celestina might well have been sequestered away along with their mothers so as not to embarrass their prestigious families for having born a child out of wedlock.
“Have you seen father recently?” Celestina asked him, after a pause. Pietro blinked and shook his head.
“Not since the last month when he took me fishing.”
“Oh,” Celestina seemed crestfallen. Quietly, Pietro found he could well relate. His—their—father was perhaps the most powerful Resonator that the world had ever known. Yet, for all his gifts, he had never lorded them over others, instead inviting the many nations of the world to band together against the crises that had almost resulted in the cataclysmic destruction of all known creation.
Or so the stories told, at least. Pietro had no idea about any of that. All he knew of his father was a warm smile whenever he arrived—typically unannounced—at the Montelli quarter; of a sly wink and a present from afar discreetly handed to him before his mother would be informed of his return. He recalled the previous month where they had spent a whole weekend fishing out at the Riccioli Isles together, and felt himself smile at the recollection of fighting to keep his footing upon Rachel the Gondola’s deck as she bucked against the waves. He recalled the gentle heat of the sun, and the plucking, salt-stained breeze as it tousled his grey hair. He remembered the singing locals as they indulged in a great feast by a roaring bonfire. He remembered dancing, revelry, and the unbridled joy of those who simply relished in what they had and were grateful simply to have it.
Perhaps most of all, he remembered his father’s fond smile as he observed the fisherfolk indulge in the simple pleasure of life itself. He had seemed so much older than he appeared in that briefest of instants, and even now, Pietro could not account for where that peculiar thought had arisen.
He realised belatedly that he had fallen into deep thought, once again to the exclusion of the world around him, and that he had just missed something his sister had said.
“Sorry, Celestina,” he said. “I wasn’t paying attention. What was it you said?” His half-sister seemed almost put out by the knowledge that he hadn’t listened, but she repeated herself for his benefit anyway.
“I just said that I haven’t seen him since about that time, either. He took me flying, though. Not fishing.”
“Flying?” Pietro cocked his head, a flare of envy heating his breast. “He took you flying?”
Celestina nodded, her usually placid features giving way to a smile even a seraph might surely envy as she indulged in memories as precious to her as his own were to him.
“All the way up to Avinoleum, where he said he found Aunt Carthethiya. He took me to the Lake of Spirits to see the Starshower. It was…” she trailed off, her pale tresses shaking as she struggled to vocalise the memory. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sight in my life.”
“Really?” Pietro hummed, glancing out at the waves. “I wonder if he’d take me there, if I asked him.”
“I think he would,” insisted his sibling, and Pietro found he couldn’t stop a smile at the idea.
“I think you are probably right, sister.” He glanced at her and found that she was smiling as well. A warmth settled in his heart, like the one that he felt whenever their father returned, or when his mother told him how proud she was of him.
Perhaps, he mused, a true reconciliation between their two families in his lifetime was possible after all…
Atop one of the many slanted rooftops of Ragunna City, a lone figure watched the two young people quietly continue to bond, and felt a stirring of hope, and a deep affection well up within him.
“You can join them any time, you know,” a familiar voice said through a yawn. Abby, the Rover’s ever-present companion, materialised from the Tacet Mark upon his hand to hover genially next to him. He laughed, fixing his curious little friend with a wry half-grin.
“You’re just saying that because you want to sample the menu.”
“Can you blame me? Rinascitan food is beyond delicious!” chirped the little Echo, gently jabbing at his ear with a paw. “And don’t pretend you don’t feel like getting a snack yourself, mister.”
“True enough,” he conceded. “But I’d still like to leave them to it.”
“Hmm, well all right. If you say so,” Abby hummed, scratching at their fuzzy belly. “For how long, though? You know their moms are down there too, right? And if I know those two, neither of them will be happy to know how long you were in town for without going to see them first.”
There was a moment of silence as the Rover watched over his children, a gentle smile settling upon his ageless features, paternal pride swelling within his breast.
“You’re probably right. Even so, just a little while longer yet...”