The Prodigal Son

[Rorugir]

65th Spring 512 A.V. -- midmorning The statue had been carved from bronze and worn by age. Despite this, it was tall and illustrious, beaten into the shape of a man. A low-set body framed by a carving of armor led up to a face that had been elaborately carved by isurian metalworkers, but had been battered by years of sitting in a gigantic, moist, underground tunnel. And yet, the face of Gildos Steelrune was one not easily forgotten, and the founder of the Steelrune family was still recognized as the gateway to his descendants themselves. Rorugir had dreaded seeing that face since he had arrived at Sultros. The tunnel the statue of Gildos Steelrune was situated in lay far beneath the Pitrius Citadel proper, but the erstwhile blacksmith knew his way down the maze of mountain passageways by heart. He had lived and worked in this very tunnel for years, after all. He had left his horse, which had led him across the treacherous mountains between Sultros and Pitrius, above in the citadel; he would have no need for him down here. This journey had to be made alone. And this journey's destination was what lay behind the famous statue of Gildos; the ancestral home of his family, the Steelrunes. A bridge spanning the tunnel had led Rorugir to a stairway, which had then led him to the courtyard he knew by heart. A lining of subterranean plants led Rorugir around his ancestor, back to a uniquely situated house in the back. It bore the heavy touch of isurian architecture, yet light touches like flowing columns and archways gave it elegance. A door, a jarringly plain steel, awaited him there. Rorugir spent a moment just looking at that faceless metal facade, his mind awash in a multitude of feelings. They couldn't be placed easily; the situation he had with his parents was complex and tangled. They had parted on less than good terms; he had departed in the dark of night, with naught but a note for them. A prodigal son of sorts. The rebel, the defier of his father's wishes. And yet... Always, always, he had just wanted to make them proud. A breath was taken. Rorugir closed his eyes for a minute. And then his hand, the one blessed by Izurdin and bearing the weight of black stone, knocked on the door. Once, twice, three times. It echoed as booms across the courtyard, and doubtless inside the house as well. There was a shout from the inside. He knew what it meant. But there was a part of him that didn't want him to answer, that urged him to tuck his tail between his legs and run away, but he forced it down. Resolve forcing his brows together into one determined line, Rorugir grabbed the door handle and opened it. And then, he entered his childhood home for the first time in two seasons.

[Rorugir]

His home was dead. Nobody answered him at the door, leaving for Rorugir to make his way through the entrance hall into the living room proper. The large room was similarly heavy. The fine craftsmanship continued from the outdoors in, but the columns and fine furniture were full of dust and cobwebs. The flowers on the mantel there were wilted and brown. The only sign of life was in the fire burning below it, in the fireplace, and the shadowed figure that sat at the fire's side. As Rorugir approached, the figure took on the form of a man, robed and well-built. At long last the man turned to look at him and his face was exposed to the firelight, and in it Rorugir saw both himself and the man he loathed. Klaldir didn't immediately burst into anger, which scared Rorugir more than if he had. Instead, his eyes were dead gray ovals, and were soon turned back to the flames. Despite the open flame, it was cold. So cold it riddled Rorugir's bones, so adapted to Syna's light, but he didn't allow it to affect him. Rorugir stood still behind the other isur, and waited. “She's sick, you know,” the elder Steelrune said in Isur after a long pause. “The healers don't know what is is. They sure do like to act optimistic about it, though. They like to say she'll make a recovery. But Elianel and I both know the truth.” “I want to see her.” “How dare you,” Klaldir muttered. His voice was low but Rorugir could hear the anger trapped within. “You leave your mother and me behind, abandon us for two seasons, and then, when you reappear, all you have to say is 'I want to see her'?” “Father...“ Rorugir began, but was swiftly cut off. “Don't even try. You are a fool, Rorugir. A romantic fool who thinks he can change the world.” Klaldir stood up and flowed swiftly to block Rorugir's access, the vanguard of the door he sought to open. “You left a life here, Rorugir, and for what? Obviously,” he spat, “Nothing.” Rorugir laughed gruffly. “Nothing, you say?” he challenged. “I've been to strange and wondrous places, father. I've met ethaefal, kelvics, all those creatures you said were just the stuff of legends. I've been transported a dimension not our own, and found my way back. I've found magic more powerful that with the Sentinels and seen the faces of gods. Don't talk to me about not accomplishing anything.” “But what does that mean in the end? You met a couple of people, so what. Look at what you abandoned for these dreams of yours! You, Rorugir Steelrune Pitrius, left the organization you swore to uphold and protect and your family as well. Where is the honor?” Klaldir, despite his height, seemed to swell and expand. “Your. Mother. Is. Dying. And you weren't here. How can you not understand that?” “What could possibly drive a man – no, a boy – to do such a thing?” The younger looked away. “It's...not my fault.” Rorugir mumbled sullenly. “Not your fault?” Klaldir asked, his voice rising in a crescendo. “Not your fault?! After running away from home, after abandoning all your responsibility to prove yourself, you have the gall to say the fallout in this household in not your fault?” Klaldir asked incredulously. “Well then, whose fault is it?!” He had had enough. “It's your fault!” Rorugir yelled, drawing close to his father. They stood like opposing storm fronts, lightning crackling in the between. “Your fault for pushing me, your fault for not accepting me. Your fault for thinking that I'm the same as you! And I believed it too. Everything I did, every single action, it was for you!” Silence. For a second, Rorugir looked into his father's eyes and Klaldir's into his son's, and neither spoke. Then something, some expression that was indescribely aged, passed over his father's face, and the spell was broken. The storm clouds shifted, dispersed, and they both looked away. “I'm sorry,” Rorugir mumbled at last, “I didn't come here to fight with you. I came here to make amends.” A laugh with no humor in it passed his lips. “I'm doing a real petching good job, ain't I?” “I shouldn't have blamed you.” There was yet another silence. And then Klaldir sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his lessser hand, which seemed more mottled than it had a moment before. “I'm getting old, Rorugir,” he said. “So old. And in my age, I am beginning to see all the mistakes that I have made. There are so many...” His eyes rose, caught Rorugir's browns. “A father only wants what is best for his son. I must forgive you, but first you must forgive me. Can you do so?” There was a part of Rorugir that wanted to say yes. By Izurdin, he wanted to. But he couldn't. The years had wrought a rift between them that was too large to overcome by one simple sentence. “I don't know.” he finally said, “I need time. And...and you should do the same for me.” Klaldir nodded and looked away, towards the fire. “Can I see her now?” Rorugir softly asked. Klaldir didn't look at him. “Of course you can.” he said, even softer that Rorugir. Rorugir's head bowed. He started to make his way past his father, only to be stopped yet again. “...Rorugir,” Klaldir whispered, his hand which was on the younger isur's shoulder feeling as light as a feather. “I don't know how much longer she's got. Be careful with her.” Rorugir gripped Klaldir's arm, strengthening it with his own. He looked into his father's eyes, noticing that they were brimming with tears. But that was absurd. The first lesson Rorugir had ever been taught was that Steelrunes don't cry. Ever. And yet... Rorugir's paused, and then nodded. “Of course.” he promised, and meant every syllable.

[Rorugir]

The door creaked slowly open. It was the quiver of anxiety, a gut jerk reaction that stayed Rorugir's hand as he opened the master bedroom's door. Even as he opened the door but a crack, fumes, mainly the scent of herbs that just barely failed to cover the smell of sickness, met Rorugir's nose. For a second he gagged. He had never dealt with sickness well. Any sign of Vayt's presence and Rorugir was out the door, out of the house if need be. Even now, older and stronger, he couldn't bear to sense disease in any shape of form. But he pushed past it. For her. A large bed, four-poster covered in clothes woven by the finest weavers Sultros had to offer, dominated the far end of the room. She slept fitfully underneath the covers. The blankets had been tucked right up to her chin, covering the rest of her body, though her long strawberry blond hair was spread erratically across the bed. Those very same tresses had seemed so vibrant in Rorugir's memory, the perfect complement to a laughing face and twinkling eyes. Now they just seemed dead. He approached her from the left side. Elianel's eyelids were closed, but Rorugir could see her pupils moving back and forth beneath them. Whatever she was dreaming about, it consumed her. He stopped there. What should he do? Should he wake her, or wait for her to wake up on her own?...Conviction alone had driven him thus far, had brought him to the step of his door and had faced down his father, but now, at the most critical juncture, it abandoned. Rorugir was at a loss for what to do. Elianel's eyes flew open. Rorugir's mouth opened, but no words came out. The eyes that focused in on him were hazy and bloodshot, straining to see Rorugir even where he stood, a mere foot or two away. It wasn't entirely certain if Elianel recognized her own son. There was a pause, and then a very faint. “Rorugir...” A weak hand rose into the air. Without even pausing to think, Rorugir grabbed it. He tried to configure his features into a smile. “Yes, mother, it is me.” he said in Isur. She smiled in turn. “I knew you would come back,” she whispered, speaking not in Isur but in Common. “I just knew it.” Her smile grew, and she squeezed his hand. “I saw you in my dreams.” Rorugir's mouth felt dry, but he nodded. “Yes, mother. I am here.” “You...you...” Elianel seemed to struggle to speak for a second, and Rorugir's smile faltered. And then: “You weren't too hard on your father, were you?” she looked at him, eyes shining. “He only wants want what is best for you.” Rorugir chuckled, but he felt closer to tears than laughing. “No, I haven't. If anything, he should be the one hard on me. I've been a fool.” “Not a fool, Rorugir. Just an idealist. And there is nothing wrong with that.” There was a falter, another pause. Rorugir's eyes were downcast, at a loss. Again, it was Elianel who made up the difference. “I've been waiting for you,” Elianel pronounced slowly, “My dreams...they told me you would shortly arrive. There...there is something I need to tell you.” Despite himself, Rorugir frowned. “Your dreams?” “Yes.” For a moment, Elianel struggled to sit up, finally with Rorugir's help managing to reach a sitting position. “While...while you were gone, your grandfather...” Rorugir's eyebrows knotted. His grandfather? His grandfather had been dead for eleven years. What could there be that possibly concerned him?... “I found something of his, tucked away in the basement. A journal. I think he meant for me to have it, but never got around to it.” Elianel turned, plucked at the table drawer besides her. “Here...” she whispered, pulling something for it and thrusting it into Rorugir's grasp. It was a diary. Innumerable yellowed pages were contained within the loose binding, and a bookmark singled out one of these pages in particular. Rorugir still didn't know what was going on. On a whim he flipped open to the bookmarked page, and there he saw his grandfather's angular writing. His eyes opened wide as he read. “What is this saying?” he demanded. “'The lost have been found again'...'Dreams, not magic, have always been the Steelrunes' specialty'...'A legacy undiscovered'? What does...” I've been waiting for you. I saw you in my dreams. No. It couldn't be. The book dropped from his hands, and Rorugir staggered back. His face was broken, shock drawing lines on his face that should have belonged to someone much older. This, this was exactly what he didn't need. But no wonder he had always been the pariah. Elianel's other hand, her left one, rose and gripped Rorugir's face along with the other, consoling him. As it emerged from the cocoon of blankets, Rorugir managed to see, it was no longer a shade of silver-black. Instead, it was a bright shade of yellow. The very same shade of color Rorugir's arm was becoming... “You are no longer a Pitrius, Rorugir,” she whispered, “Your legacy has been realized, Rorugir Steelrune. You are precious, the most precious of us all. Rorugir, you are, now and forevermore--” “Uluth.” END?