Rhea's Office - Midafternoon - Clear
Cyril Eisner
He supposed that a personal summons from the Archbishop wasn't something a person could really refuse. When Lyanna had delivered it to him, she'd looked mildly concerned, in that odd way she had that convinced him not everything was as harmonious between herself and Rhea as most people assumed. Either way the summons was for the middle of the afternoon, right around teatime for those who got to it a touch later than average. The monastery seemed to run on a stretched daily schedule, starting earlier and finishing later than most every ordinary enterprise did. He was more or less used to it; since mercenary life was hardly regular in the first place, he'd always found he could adjust easily to most any routine.
On the grounds that it probably wasn't meet to show up at the Archbishop's office wearing the same gear he used to train his students, Cyril had washed down and donned a black tunic with his father's sigil at the neck in white, sleeves rolled to his elbows in deference to the weather, and a sturdy pair of trousers tucked into his boots. He carried no weapons; they were rather wholly unnecessary to him to begin with, and he didn't have much desire for the Archbishop to think of him as someone who'd come to meet her armed, even if he in fact rather was.
There was much to dislike about Rhea, even as little as he knew of her overall. Perhaps he had only seen the stern face she must put on in front of those she led—he knew well that some people's public and private faces were much different. But still, anyone who thought of killing militia, real people, as first and foremost a lesson for his students about defying the Church needed, at the very least, an adjustment of priorities and a better idea of just what it had done to them. Sorcha was only barely beginning to look and act like herself again, Senka still didn't trust herself, Mercer and Vridel were beginning down a winding and ruthless, bitter road. To say nothing of Amalthea, or the others, or how personally torn Devon had been by what they'd been commanded to do.
It was with no small amount of discomfort, then, that he reached the Archbishop's office door. Fortunately, he had a very good expressionless face, one he easily employed now, knocking thrice on the wood panel before stepping back.
The door opened almost immediately after he knocked, as if she were anticipating he would arrive exactly when he did. She smiled at him, the same smile she usually donned, and ushered him in. “Welcome, Professor," she greeted, waiting for him to step inside. Once he did, she moved so that she stood in the middle, and regarded him with an even gaze. “This is the first time I have welcomed you here, is it not?" She laughed lightly as she shook her head, though.
The sound was rather strange, almost affectionate in some way. “There is no need to be nervous, though. Please, come closer." she stated, holding her hand out for a moment before she brought it back to her and folded it by her stomach. “When you speak with me in this room, you are not speaking with the archbishop, but simply me: Rhea."
He supposed that answered his question, in a way. He certainly knew now that she perceived herself as having two distinct sides, at least.
In spite of the words, he wasn't really any less wary, though he made a conscious effort to visibly relax. “I see," he said quietly, casting his eyes over the office. It was decorated with items of furniture that were clearly expensive, but like much of the monastery it had a certain... spareness to it as well. He wondered if this had something to do with her particular aesthetic sense.
He took an obliging step closer, tilting his head slightly. He didn't have to look as far down as he did with most people to meet her eyes, but he was still considerably taller than her. There was a power to her, though, a subtle thing that he could only place because, he thought, of experience with people who were stronger than they might first appear.
There is something about this woman, the girl said from her spot in the back of his mind. But I cannot be sure what.
Her smile widened if slightly when he stepped closer. “Such a sweet child," she spoke, tilting her head light as if to regard him. “Oh," she spoke suddenly, inclining her head towards Cyril. “My apologies, I should not be treating you like a child," she stated, her eyes narrowing in mirth, it seemed. “As Jeralt's kin, somehow you don't seem at all a stranger to me..." she paused to glance at him. There was something in the way she looked at him, like she was searching for something that wasn't quite there.
She didn't seem to find it, though, as a flash of disappointment crossed her face. “Speaking of Jeralt," she stated, tilting her head in an inquisitive manner, “may I ask if he ever spoke of me to you?" She seemed to be expecting a postive answer of some sort.
Expectation aside, Cyril had only the truth to give. He had no idea what she was looking for that she didn't see, but he wasn't entirely unused to being on the other end of that. His father had used to look at him similarly, as had many of the people he'd met, actually. He never seemed to quite be what anyone wanted, but it was something he'd grown accustomed to.
“He almost never spoke of the past," he said, lifting his shoulders briefly. “And never of this place, or anyone in it." His father had told him to be cautious about what he revealed, but he thought there wasn't really any good way to avoid this particular truth. He somehow doubted she didn't already guess.
“Oh dear," she stated, folding her hand beneath her head, but leaving it just far enough so that her head wasn't resting on it. “How heartless of him," she continued, her lips pursing into a fine line. She seemed upset by the declaration, as if she'd expected his father to have mentioned her at some point. “I suppose it cannot be helped, however; let us endeavor to become closer from here on out," she stated, dropping her hands to her sides and smiling at him.
“Since you are here, shall I tell you about the Jeralt that I knew?" she stated, a strange lilt to her voice. “By the look of it, you haven't heard much about his time at the monastery, have you?" she questioned, though she already knew the answer to that. Cyril had told her before that he was not familiar with the Church, nor his father once being part of it.
“When I first met Jeralt, he was quite young. Why," she seemed amused by her next set of words, “he could not even grow a full beard at that point!"
He arched his brows slightly at that. It was honestly difficult to imagine his father looking any other way than he did now, because in all honesty, it was the way he'd looked as long as Cyril had been alive... or at least as long as he could remember. “That's... not the easiest thing to picture," he admitted. “He's never been without it entirely. Not that I recall, anyway."
“Hm, indeed. It's hard to imagine, now, but there was a time, long ago," she stated, smiling somewhat as she nodded her head. “On one fateful occasion, though, the band of mercenaries he belonged to fought alongside the Knights of Seiros," she began, closing her eyes as if to recall the memory. “I was traveling with the knights at the time, and Jeralt jumped in front of an attack meant for me. He was gravely wounded, on the verge of death, even," her lips pursed into a fine line as she opened her eyes to regard Cyril.
“I tended to his wounds in a desperate attempt to save his life. Thankfully," she paused to place a hand over her heart, “my efforts were not in vain. Jeralt managed to escape a seemingly certain death." Her face smoothed back over, and the same, empty smile she had before, was back. “I made arrangements for him to receive further care at Garreg Mach. The moment he was deemed fully recovered, I invited him to join the knights."
“That sounds like something he would do," Cyril admitted, something almost wry entering his tone. He could certainly imagine a younger, more impulsive version of his father jumping in front of a blow meant for another, much as he'd—
Do you think she might know something about that? he asked the girl, suddenly uncertain. The time thing?
Maybe, the girl said softly. But do you want her to know you can do that?
The answer was immediate, and he expelled a soft breath from his nose. “I suppose I owe you my thanks, then," he said to Rhea. “The literal truth aside, I wouldn't be who I am without my father. He means..." He wasn't sure what the right words were, really. He never had been. “He means a great deal to me."
“Every parent means the world to their child," she stated suddenly, a strange, hard look to her eyes. She shook her head, though, and her posture seemed to relax. “It is not a story I have often repeated," she spoke, shaking her head softly. “Even at the monastery, there are not many who know that." She paused, her facial features smoothing out as if to make her appear younger than she looked. “I tell you this because... to me, you are the child of the one who saved my life all those years ago. And also..." she paused again, diverting her gaze to the floor before she closed her eyes. She didn't speak for at least a few minutes before shaking her head.
“Never mind, it is nothing. I simply wanted to say that I trust you. By coming to visit with me today, you have... well..." she began, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Suffice it to say that my day is brighter than it otherwise would have been. I thank you for that," she inclined her head towards him, bowing lightly in the process.
“If there is anything you should ever need, please do not hesitate to ask."
Cyril wasn't entirely sure what to make of that. There was definitely something else she wasn't saying there, but he doubted very much he'd be able to prompt her into it, either. His shoulders relaxed a little further, though, and he sighed quietly. “Thank you," he said simply. He could not tell her he would, or even that her words were reassuring, because frankly neither of those things was especially true, and he'd always had an instinctive aversion to lying. So he settled on something that implied almost the same, but was not false.
“I'll keep that in mind, Rhea."
That seemed to make a smile cross her face, something more genuine and life-like. “You are welcome, Cyril," she responded. She seemed quite curious about something, though, and tilted her head at him. “I do have a question for you," she began, pausing only for a second before she asked him, “how are you getting along with your students? I've heard a few... interesting things." She did not seem to care to elaborate on what those things were, though.
He blinked, immediately wary of the question for a reason he couldn't explain. “They are exceptional," he replied simply. “Interesting how?"
Her eyes narrowed with her smile. “Interesting in that they all seem rather fond of you. You'll forgive my forwardness, but there have not been many instances when students are particularly fond of their professors. And to have the fondness of not only your main house, but of those in different houses as well..." she trailed off at the end, her eyes narrowing in what seemed like displeasure.
“You would do well to remember that it is not always so. These students are merely that: students. The three heirs will be leaving at the end of their year to return back to their countries as, perhaps, better rulers." She didn't seem to include Amalthea or Senka, as if she were anticipating something would keep them from leaving the monastery. Amalthea's home was the monastery, though.
So the remaining exclusion made little sense to him, except as a thing of intention. He had other students, of course, the rest of the Blue Lion House and the rest of his Saturday group. But he knew it would be fairly easy to tell that he spent the most time with those five, and so he wondered.
“I understand that they'll be leaving," he said slowly. “I don't see any reason not to want to be on good terms with them while they're here, however. It makes teaching them easier." The truth, though certainly not all of it.
If anything she looked disappointed in his response. “While it may seem that way, they will leave, and you will be left behind. If you are quite certain that is something you can handle, then by all means, continue to cultivate your bonds with your students. It will make things that much more difficult when it comes time to say goodbye." She shook her head, though, and regarded him with a flat stare.
“I believe that will be all for today, Professor. You may spend the rest of your day however you'd like. There are things I must return to," she stated, bowing softly in his direction as her way of dismissing him.
He could not help but feel that something about the words was a threat, albeit one lightly-applied. Unsure what to make of that, especially contrasted with other things she'd said, Cyril furrowed his brows, returning the bow. “Archbishop," he said simply, turning on his heel and exiting the office.
Something wasn't right about that woman, but he'd be damned if he knew what.
On the grounds that it probably wasn't meet to show up at the Archbishop's office wearing the same gear he used to train his students, Cyril had washed down and donned a black tunic with his father's sigil at the neck in white, sleeves rolled to his elbows in deference to the weather, and a sturdy pair of trousers tucked into his boots. He carried no weapons; they were rather wholly unnecessary to him to begin with, and he didn't have much desire for the Archbishop to think of him as someone who'd come to meet her armed, even if he in fact rather was.
There was much to dislike about Rhea, even as little as he knew of her overall. Perhaps he had only seen the stern face she must put on in front of those she led—he knew well that some people's public and private faces were much different. But still, anyone who thought of killing militia, real people, as first and foremost a lesson for his students about defying the Church needed, at the very least, an adjustment of priorities and a better idea of just what it had done to them. Sorcha was only barely beginning to look and act like herself again, Senka still didn't trust herself, Mercer and Vridel were beginning down a winding and ruthless, bitter road. To say nothing of Amalthea, or the others, or how personally torn Devon had been by what they'd been commanded to do.
It was with no small amount of discomfort, then, that he reached the Archbishop's office door. Fortunately, he had a very good expressionless face, one he easily employed now, knocking thrice on the wood panel before stepping back.
The door opened almost immediately after he knocked, as if she were anticipating he would arrive exactly when he did. She smiled at him, the same smile she usually donned, and ushered him in. “Welcome, Professor," she greeted, waiting for him to step inside. Once he did, she moved so that she stood in the middle, and regarded him with an even gaze. “This is the first time I have welcomed you here, is it not?" She laughed lightly as she shook her head, though.
The sound was rather strange, almost affectionate in some way. “There is no need to be nervous, though. Please, come closer." she stated, holding her hand out for a moment before she brought it back to her and folded it by her stomach. “When you speak with me in this room, you are not speaking with the archbishop, but simply me: Rhea."
He supposed that answered his question, in a way. He certainly knew now that she perceived herself as having two distinct sides, at least.
In spite of the words, he wasn't really any less wary, though he made a conscious effort to visibly relax. “I see," he said quietly, casting his eyes over the office. It was decorated with items of furniture that were clearly expensive, but like much of the monastery it had a certain... spareness to it as well. He wondered if this had something to do with her particular aesthetic sense.
He took an obliging step closer, tilting his head slightly. He didn't have to look as far down as he did with most people to meet her eyes, but he was still considerably taller than her. There was a power to her, though, a subtle thing that he could only place because, he thought, of experience with people who were stronger than they might first appear.
There is something about this woman, the girl said from her spot in the back of his mind. But I cannot be sure what.
Her smile widened if slightly when he stepped closer. “Such a sweet child," she spoke, tilting her head light as if to regard him. “Oh," she spoke suddenly, inclining her head towards Cyril. “My apologies, I should not be treating you like a child," she stated, her eyes narrowing in mirth, it seemed. “As Jeralt's kin, somehow you don't seem at all a stranger to me..." she paused to glance at him. There was something in the way she looked at him, like she was searching for something that wasn't quite there.
She didn't seem to find it, though, as a flash of disappointment crossed her face. “Speaking of Jeralt," she stated, tilting her head in an inquisitive manner, “may I ask if he ever spoke of me to you?" She seemed to be expecting a postive answer of some sort.
Expectation aside, Cyril had only the truth to give. He had no idea what she was looking for that she didn't see, but he wasn't entirely unused to being on the other end of that. His father had used to look at him similarly, as had many of the people he'd met, actually. He never seemed to quite be what anyone wanted, but it was something he'd grown accustomed to.
“He almost never spoke of the past," he said, lifting his shoulders briefly. “And never of this place, or anyone in it." His father had told him to be cautious about what he revealed, but he thought there wasn't really any good way to avoid this particular truth. He somehow doubted she didn't already guess.
“Oh dear," she stated, folding her hand beneath her head, but leaving it just far enough so that her head wasn't resting on it. “How heartless of him," she continued, her lips pursing into a fine line. She seemed upset by the declaration, as if she'd expected his father to have mentioned her at some point. “I suppose it cannot be helped, however; let us endeavor to become closer from here on out," she stated, dropping her hands to her sides and smiling at him.
“Since you are here, shall I tell you about the Jeralt that I knew?" she stated, a strange lilt to her voice. “By the look of it, you haven't heard much about his time at the monastery, have you?" she questioned, though she already knew the answer to that. Cyril had told her before that he was not familiar with the Church, nor his father once being part of it.
“When I first met Jeralt, he was quite young. Why," she seemed amused by her next set of words, “he could not even grow a full beard at that point!"
He arched his brows slightly at that. It was honestly difficult to imagine his father looking any other way than he did now, because in all honesty, it was the way he'd looked as long as Cyril had been alive... or at least as long as he could remember. “That's... not the easiest thing to picture," he admitted. “He's never been without it entirely. Not that I recall, anyway."
“Hm, indeed. It's hard to imagine, now, but there was a time, long ago," she stated, smiling somewhat as she nodded her head. “On one fateful occasion, though, the band of mercenaries he belonged to fought alongside the Knights of Seiros," she began, closing her eyes as if to recall the memory. “I was traveling with the knights at the time, and Jeralt jumped in front of an attack meant for me. He was gravely wounded, on the verge of death, even," her lips pursed into a fine line as she opened her eyes to regard Cyril.
“I tended to his wounds in a desperate attempt to save his life. Thankfully," she paused to place a hand over her heart, “my efforts were not in vain. Jeralt managed to escape a seemingly certain death." Her face smoothed back over, and the same, empty smile she had before, was back. “I made arrangements for him to receive further care at Garreg Mach. The moment he was deemed fully recovered, I invited him to join the knights."
“That sounds like something he would do," Cyril admitted, something almost wry entering his tone. He could certainly imagine a younger, more impulsive version of his father jumping in front of a blow meant for another, much as he'd—
Do you think she might know something about that? he asked the girl, suddenly uncertain. The time thing?
Maybe, the girl said softly. But do you want her to know you can do that?
The answer was immediate, and he expelled a soft breath from his nose. “I suppose I owe you my thanks, then," he said to Rhea. “The literal truth aside, I wouldn't be who I am without my father. He means..." He wasn't sure what the right words were, really. He never had been. “He means a great deal to me."
“Every parent means the world to their child," she stated suddenly, a strange, hard look to her eyes. She shook her head, though, and her posture seemed to relax. “It is not a story I have often repeated," she spoke, shaking her head softly. “Even at the monastery, there are not many who know that." She paused, her facial features smoothing out as if to make her appear younger than she looked. “I tell you this because... to me, you are the child of the one who saved my life all those years ago. And also..." she paused again, diverting her gaze to the floor before she closed her eyes. She didn't speak for at least a few minutes before shaking her head.
“Never mind, it is nothing. I simply wanted to say that I trust you. By coming to visit with me today, you have... well..." she began, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Suffice it to say that my day is brighter than it otherwise would have been. I thank you for that," she inclined her head towards him, bowing lightly in the process.
“If there is anything you should ever need, please do not hesitate to ask."
Cyril wasn't entirely sure what to make of that. There was definitely something else she wasn't saying there, but he doubted very much he'd be able to prompt her into it, either. His shoulders relaxed a little further, though, and he sighed quietly. “Thank you," he said simply. He could not tell her he would, or even that her words were reassuring, because frankly neither of those things was especially true, and he'd always had an instinctive aversion to lying. So he settled on something that implied almost the same, but was not false.
“I'll keep that in mind, Rhea."
That seemed to make a smile cross her face, something more genuine and life-like. “You are welcome, Cyril," she responded. She seemed quite curious about something, though, and tilted her head at him. “I do have a question for you," she began, pausing only for a second before she asked him, “how are you getting along with your students? I've heard a few... interesting things." She did not seem to care to elaborate on what those things were, though.
He blinked, immediately wary of the question for a reason he couldn't explain. “They are exceptional," he replied simply. “Interesting how?"
Her eyes narrowed with her smile. “Interesting in that they all seem rather fond of you. You'll forgive my forwardness, but there have not been many instances when students are particularly fond of their professors. And to have the fondness of not only your main house, but of those in different houses as well..." she trailed off at the end, her eyes narrowing in what seemed like displeasure.
“You would do well to remember that it is not always so. These students are merely that: students. The three heirs will be leaving at the end of their year to return back to their countries as, perhaps, better rulers." She didn't seem to include Amalthea or Senka, as if she were anticipating something would keep them from leaving the monastery. Amalthea's home was the monastery, though.
So the remaining exclusion made little sense to him, except as a thing of intention. He had other students, of course, the rest of the Blue Lion House and the rest of his Saturday group. But he knew it would be fairly easy to tell that he spent the most time with those five, and so he wondered.
“I understand that they'll be leaving," he said slowly. “I don't see any reason not to want to be on good terms with them while they're here, however. It makes teaching them easier." The truth, though certainly not all of it.
If anything she looked disappointed in his response. “While it may seem that way, they will leave, and you will be left behind. If you are quite certain that is something you can handle, then by all means, continue to cultivate your bonds with your students. It will make things that much more difficult when it comes time to say goodbye." She shook her head, though, and regarded him with a flat stare.
“I believe that will be all for today, Professor. You may spend the rest of your day however you'd like. There are things I must return to," she stated, bowing softly in his direction as her way of dismissing him.
He could not help but feel that something about the words was a threat, albeit one lightly-applied. Unsure what to make of that, especially contrasted with other things she'd said, Cyril furrowed his brows, returning the bow. “Archbishop," he said simply, turning on his heel and exiting the office.
Something wasn't right about that woman, but he'd be damned if he knew what.