“Xindarin, Xindarin, Xindarin!”
Unlike so many of us who know not to tempt an ass-whooping when unneeded, Ceylica pays no heed to such social discretion. Chock centre in our room, she bounces up and down, yelling out profanities, eyes on yours truly.
“It rolls off the tongue well. Like saliva!”
“You should consider not saying that.”
“Hrmm.” She folds her arms in exaggerated defiance. “It’s just a word, isn’t it? I don’t see what the problem is.”
“Well, you wouldn’t like it if someone called you mean words, right?”
“Nope.”
“Sooo?” I explain, sighing for effect.
“So I’d punch them if they did!”
“And you wouldn’t want to be punched, right?”
“Hehe, I get ye point, but remember, no one can out-punch me!”
Right. You can’t contest with a force of nature and call it wrong while not having anything to show for it. Same goes for Ceylica. She can say whatever she wants without the risk of retaliation.
“And plus, ye don’t seem pissed about it, either, so I can say it as long as I like!”
“Seems so.”
I resign at that statement and go back to working on my laptop.
Over the past day, I’ve learned to take her words with a grain of salt. So much so that it has reached the extent where she could personally threaten to tear me limb from limb, and I would not care in the slightest. In this particular case, it’s not because I share in suicidal temptation and would actually be welcome to dying, but rather because I know that despite all else that she would not do it.
“Also, it’s Xicarin, not Xindarin, so you should say it correctly if you want to offend someone.”
“Ooh, thanks, Morgana, yer nicer than I thought!”
She then proceeds to, quite jubilantly, dance around as if motivated by the single-minded pursuit to shout out profanities when possible. It’s only a minute in that she stops, walks five paces, and looms over me, her long crimson hair dangling on my face.
“Say, why do you Aoelians get upset when ye hear Xicarin?”
I pause out of consideration.
Should I answer? The question crosses my mind, ultimately leading to a self-reflection on its merits.
I feel a bit out of my element, all things considered. Given that I spent my life living in a city-state that’s somewhat outside of the USA’s sphere of culture, would it be right of me to speak on their behalf?
Shrugging inwardly, I do so anyway.
“Not all Aoelians. Just humans.”
Now that I’ve given up any pretence of decency, my mind can finally contemplate the question at hand.
“There may be some vampires who believe in her, but that’d be rare. Considering they were the ones who turned against her in the end.”
“They turned against her?!”
Her expression is particularly astonished. As if the idea of betrayal is tantamount to the purest form of evil.
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
“Yeah.” I nod. “Their king, Surmakkan, assassinated her.”
Ceylica’s normally candid expression becomes indecipherable. Some amalgamation of fear, prejudice, and rager alike. Moving on from the matter, I smile and try to remind her of the conversation at hand.
“So, with that said, only us Aoelian humans really think she’s important.”
“So why she’s important?”
“She protected us during the Eighty Year War, and she’s sort of a patroness for Aoelian resistance against Elvish conquest, basically.”
Ceylica scratches her chin for a few seconds before letting out a perplexed ‘hrmm’.
“So, she some kinda hero?”
“Hero and God.” I reaffirm. “The God of Death, to be precise.”
“She must be pretty strong then.”
“Yeah.”
“Think I could beat her?”
“No.”
“Damn,” Ceylica says, begrudging respect in her voice. “Damn.” Her self-reflection on strength persists for the next few seconds before intrigue once again claims her eyes. “So, if she’s so cool, why can’t ye say her name?”
“You mean Xicarin?”
Oops. Well, it seems no one overheard me anyway, so consequences be damned.
“Ye.”
“Xicarin’s not her name; Xicarin’s the Elvish insult for her. It means the black one.”
“What’s wrong with being black?”
I reign in my sigh with a blink and proceed to elaborate.
“They don’t mean black skin colour, only black of heart or wicked.”
“What’d she do that was so bad?”
“War.”
“But the elves were doing war too.”
“That’s why we have insults for their gods and generals too.”
“Teach me some insults against Elves!”
“Sure thing, but don’t tell anyone I taught you.”
----------------------------------------
I spent what remained of that night detailing insults to Ceylica, discussing with her boyfriend, and working away. Since my first day here, my relationship with her has progressed quicker than expected—with us possibly being even able to see eye to eye now. Were it not for my underlying sense of doubt (of which sometimes there is no justification), I’d even say we were friends. Friends on the basis of the pressure of having to get along, sure, but friends nonetheless.
The next morning was close enough to the day prior. Class began with homeroom, and by then, I had managed to gather the names of every student that was a part of it. Not only that, but I had the occasion to share conversations with them too. I learned through such means their interests, lives and overall personalities.
Some of them were mages. Some of them were eccentrics. And some of them were warriors, determined to pursue some right of martial primacy (I’m not sure how financially secure that is, but hey).
Remember when I mentioned ‘close enough’, though? What I meant by that was the measure of relative peace of the homeroom on day one versus day two.
I didn’t know when it was exactly, but around a minute in homeroom, I recalled that the topic of the ‘boy in history’ came up. The root cause, no doubt, was to stir some passing interest and call fact to his existence. In the same way, devoted fans sometimes call reference to inexplicable tragedies and talk about how it cancelled their sports game, unaware of the grander implication.
Much like the unintentional yet inconsiderate notwithstanding ruminations of a devoted fan, though, there came a cause for grievance.
Initially, one student hurriedly tried to shift the topic, her words hushed and terse. The other called attention to it and asked why. Then the first student replied briskly, obviously not wanting to explain, only for the other to become even more insistent and annoying. Naturally, what became of such a positive feedback loop, was a never-ending cycle. A series of sustained anger and tension, fed in by a constant refusal by either side to back down and concede.
About eight minutes in—wherein peace seemed to finally near, and agreements seemed to reach consensus, a student had the mind to mumble, and I quote, 'Xicarin's tits', leading to a whole new debacle yet again.
On the bright side!
No one resorted to fisticuffs. So to me, it was still peaceful, all insults and accusations considered. The same measure of non-violence extended itself to the rest of the morning classes. Save for the usual arguments dumb young people get themselves into; no great controversy came up—nothing of the sort. Though if I did have one complaint, it would be why I kept getting purchase notifications from ANIMELF on my phone during class time.
One. Two. Three. The purchases piled up and up, reaching a grand collective total of 5000 laines by the end.
It wasn't out of fear that the thought came up. I knew, instinctively, that it was Lucius who made the purchases. The thought that concerned me, though, was why.
...
No.
If I'm honest, it wasn't that. At heart, I was looking for a reason to think about Lucius. Me and Guillaume mauling and teasing him aside; he's still family. I had avoided him thus far for his own sake, but I'd be lying if I said he didn't take a progressively larger part of my conscience.
All things considered.
It would be nice to reconvene with him sometime.