FANFIC: A Life Well-Loved
30 August 2023 07:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
cyanoscarletWord count: 1,617
-
The service they held for Master Harpocrates was a celebration as much as it was a memorial. Many of the Hideaway’s former residents had returned to the town now called Windbloom to pay tribute to the great scholar and loresman who befriended all who came to visit the library and learn together with him. Various stories were shared, from the notable to the sentimental, even to the lighthearted and the hilarious, all underscored by great fondness, admiration, respect and love for one of their own.
Dion, too, shared his own tale to the large gathering, which was beset with various states of mourning. He sometimes envied them—ashamedly so—who had come to know his former tutor in the years following his untimely dismissal from the Imperial Court and subsequent banishment from Oriflamme. Dion remembered clearly the day his studies were unceremoniously ended by his father, followed by his immediate enlistment with the Holy Order of Dragoons that same week. It had been a jarring experience that left a hole in his young heart, one that grew with worry and festered with sadness, guilt and regret through the years.
It was with those same burdening feelings that Dion had ended up facing Harpocrates once more, at Ifrit’s insistence, before they departed for the final battle with Ultima. Back then, he could not—dared not—imagine what his tutor must have thought of him: a wayward student who threw away his lessons for the battlefield, becoming more and more steeped in the blood of his enemies until he became nothing but a mindless monster. The shame of it all had simply been too much for Dion’s broken heart to bear.
But then he had been given the most unexpected thing: with the single wild wyvern tail came an earnest desire to reconnect, to befriend and to support—all feelings Dion did not let himself accept. The memory brought a small pang of regret now; in hindsight, his main reason back then—to keep intact his own resolve to atone for his crimes and fulfill his duty—had been nothing but a cowardly excuse, one that both Harpocrates and Ifrit must have clearly seen through at once.
Then he had survived after it all. Lived to see the new Valisthea and helped rebuild his homeland. Learned to accept that death is no atonement and that here, at the helm of the new Sanbreque, was where he was meant to be, and how he ought to fulfill his duty. To this day, Dion still wondered whether he was indeed worthy of having this chance at a second life and realizing a new purpose in a new world; this was a concern he had shared with Harpocrates when they had met again, when he found himself unsure and close to a breaking point once more.
“You are not defined by your past alone, nor by your mistakes,” his tutor had gently advised once again. “Look into the eyes of your people and those whom you cherish, and within them you will find all the other good things, too—the things that matter most of all.” So Dion had dared to look into Harpocrates’ eyes, and saw himself, plain and clear and true.
He had finally accepted the wild wyvern tail this time, tears of relief streaming down his face as he held the bloom close to himself, along with everything it symbolized and everything that mattered most. It had been, in many ways, the salvation he needed all along.
“I am eternally grateful to Master Harpocrates, not only for his tutelage but also for his friendship, a sentiment I am certain everyone in this gathering shares. His life was well-lived and well-loved, and for this reason we celebrate him today and all the days to come,” Dion closed his speech then, finding a good number of wet eyes as he scanned the room. “May Greagor, in Her infinite mercy, grant his soul, and those of all the faithful departed, eternal rest and joy in Her loving embrace.”
“Amen,” the crowd murmured with bowed heads in response to the prayer. The moment of silence was followed by tearful applause as Dion stepped away from the front and rejoined Terence and Kihel in their seats. It was only after the next person had begun their speech that Dion finally let himself sob quietly, Kihel joining him while Terence gently rubbed both their shoulders in comfort and reassurance.
Later that night, Dion remained alone on the small hill overlooking the field of wild wyvern tails. Those same purple blooms also adorned the single headstone in front of him now, which bore the wise words of the great man buried underneath it. “I’m glad I was not too late,” Dion murmured both to himself and his tutor, his hand slowly tracing over the simple engraving with much fondness. Harpocrates had never cared for the lavish and luxurious, instead preferring the simple yet meaningful. “The finer things in life, Your Radiance,” he had joked over a half-filled goblet of red wine, the first from the fruits they had harvested from the new soil.
Heavy, quiet footsteps slowly approached, and Dion looked up to Ifrit— Clive, who shrugged at him with a smile before inviting himself to the space beside him. He brought with him a couple of filled wineskins from the town’s alehouse, one of which he wordlessly offered to Dion. He gratefully accepted it, meeting Clive’s eyes before they both nodded and drank together. “To Master Harpocrates,” Dion toasted.
“To Loresman Harpocrates,” Clive echoed. They both continued nursing their drinks at their own pace, taking advantage of the clear skies that night: it would not be long before the rainy season was upon them. For now, the moon and stars shone a faint light over the field of purple flowers, and the warm, gentle breeze carried its faint scent to where they sat.
“Your Radiance… Do you… still regret anything?” Clive broke the silence after a while, hesitant yet earnest with his question. Like everyone from the Hideaway, Clive also had the honor of having learned from Harpocrates, his extensive knowledge greatly contributing to his journey and eventual purpose to save Valisthea and usher in a new age where people lived on their own terms. In a way, maybe Clive also asked this of himself, especially after everything he had given and sacrificed, but Dion did not wish to learn his answer—not yet.
So he gave his own answer for now, rueful as it was: “Not directly, I would like to believe. I’ve set out to fulfill the great task before me—to atone for my sins, as it were, or die trying. But I lived, and I realized it wasn’t as simple as I thought it would be. Every day became both a blessing and a curse. For a while, I felt lost through it all, but deep inside I did not want to give up—not after I have been given this second chance. Master Harpocrates had set me straight then.”
Clive hummed in agreement; he had an idea of Dion’s struggles from the letters penned to Joshua during those days. He and the Rosfield brothers somewhat shared the same sentiment as they worked to rebuild Rosaria from the ground up after formally regaining independence from Imperial occupation. Almost no one had held the sins of the past Sanbreque against Dion, instead openly coming together to work for the good of the new Valisthea and bring the realm towards its future. “So you finally accepted Loresman’s gift, then?”
“Yes. It blooms in a small field in the palace gardens, along with newer ones. Our daughter tends to them daily, along with the medicinal herbs she grows for her poultices.”
“That’s nice. She’s headed to Kanver for further studies soon, right? Tarja told me earlier.”
“In a few days, actually. It will be quieter back home.” Dion was wistful at the thought, already missing Kihel even though she was still back in their lodgings, probably catching up with Clive and Shiva’s—Jill’s—children. Terence would often tease him for his attachment, but they both knew who would be lonelier once Kihel actually left. At some point, Dion had begun to understand how a mother bird with an empty nest felt, and he realized that he mourned the passage of time as it slowly but surely crept on them, facial wrinkles and quieter homes alike.
Harpocrates’ passing was also the same: a stark reminder that they, too, were growing older, as various figures from their youth faded away one by one—even those whom they thought would live forever. “It felt as if a part of me also died with him,” Dion reflected, gazing at the headstone once more. “Master Harpocrates was more than a significant influence on me in my formative years, though I had sadly failed to realize it at that time. I only truly understood when he was already gone.
“I am glad he found himself in better company afterward, though I found myself a little jealous at times. I am certain he felt the same way towards everyone here, as I also have when I joined you after the end.” He finished the rest of his wine and stood up, Clive doing the same.
“Thank you, Clive,” Dion smiled, not missing the way Clive’s eyes slightly widened as he was finally called by his name. He extended his right hand for a handshake. “Master Harpocrates was truly blessed to have all of you by his side.”
“He’s proud of you, too,” Clive replied, returning the gesture. “Never forget that, Dion.”
And Dion let himself accept it, without regrets. “I know.”
(Fin.)
Dedicated to my old school's former director and chaplain, who passed away yesterday. Grateful for his leadership and warm presence, especially during my and my siblings' formative years. He will be greatly missed.
