Archive of Our Own ^beta

Cyril’s work is complete. The readings are complete, the skyship diagram is complete, and the essay on the known ways to cut and shape featherweave is finally complete. They check their pocket watch, and it’s early still. Not long past midday. There is white light streaming through the library windows, catching floating dust particles on the air, and the rest of the day stretches before Cyril, golden and uninterrupted. Maybe they should take out a book to read for pleasure, for once. They did it all of the time when they were a child, devouring page after page of thick volumes, collecting new people and places and holding the knowledge close in their chest. There was that book on the history of the Church forbidding rituals that they’d been eyeing for over a week now. But the idea of sitting in the library for hours more holds no appeal for Cyril today. They chuckle quietly to themselves, they can hear Celia’s voice clear as day in their head. Cy not wanting to spend time in a library? I never thought I’d see the day! Well, quick, check outside, the world might be ending. Cyril misses their sister’s teasing more than they ever thought they could.

Cyril stretches their arms above their head and winces at the crack of their spine. Maybe they should consider some time out of doors. Well, they do need more spell components. Maybe they could walk down from the university into town, shop at the apothecary. Cyril ponders the thought of spending their rare free time running errands, and then immediately puts it from their mind.

And then suddenly Cyril knows exactly what they’re going to do, and there’s a quick flash of guilt for not thinking of it before. They’ll go to the garden and write to Ambrose. Normally Cyril is quite punctual with their letters home, but their schooling has been particularly brutal this week. Cyril feels a sharp pull at their heart at the thought of Ambrose watching the window for any sign of a letter. And he’s always so attentive about writing to them. Mind made up, Cyril makes their way to the gardens immediately.

It’s lovely out here, in the warm spring sun, the smell of rosemary and basil and thyme mixing in the air. Cyril is spread out on a bench, their cravat loosened and their sweater folded neatly and set to the side. They aren’t terribly far into their letter, so far only having Beloved Ambrose, I apologize most sincerely for the delay of this letter and I hope the departure from our usual schedule did not cause you undue distress. Though my lessons may call my attention, know that the deepest of my longings and most devoted of my thoughts are always, unwaveringly yours . They are just moving to bring their pen back onto the parchment when their elbow is jostled, and ink splatters onto the page. Cyril lets out a noise of alarm and looks over in time to see Vivienne, the letter clutched in her hand.

“Hello Cyril,” she says, her voice all mischief and playfulness. “Now, who could you be writing to?”

She taps her chin in mock consideration and Cyril feels their face begin to heat.

“Is it by any chance your betrothed?” Her eyes scan the letter, and honestly this is Cyril’s fault for writing outside. When Ambrose’s letters or parcels or extravagant bouquets are delivered, it’s to the dining room, where it's impossible to stop the other students from seeing. But this, this Cyril brought on themself.

Lionel comes over from where he was previously involved in some ball game, his sleeves rolled up past the elbows and the short tight strands of his kinky hair peppered with blades of grass.

“What’s going on?” he asks, looking just as impishly pleased as Vivienne. “Are we talking about Cyril’s intended?”

“Yes, Cyril was just writing to their attached.”

Lionel and Vivienne could continue on for many minutes more, finding increasingly ridiculous euphemisms for fiance, and had done so in the past, so Cyril interrupts before they can really get going, snatching back the letter, spluttering and blushing up to their ears. The teasing about Ambrose always flusters them, which was probably why their peers enjoy it so.

As if reading their thoughts, Lionel smirks and says, “Aw, c’mon Cy, it’s only in jest. We think it’s cute that you get so embarrassed about writing a letter to your own fiance. There is nothing the least bit untoward or scandalous about that, but you still act like we caught you in bed with a Lily”.

Cyril’s face goes even redder at the prospect of such a thing. Lionel laughs, clear and irreverent, and reaches his hand over to ruffle Cyril’s pale yellow curls. Then he turns around, and runs back to rejoin his game. Cyril absently tries to push their disheveled hair back into place as they watch Lionel’s form grow smaller. They turn, and to their surprise Vivienne is still standing there.

Her jaw is set tight and she looks hesitant. Then, she leans over and picks a flower. She brings her cupped hands to her mouth and whispers a few words in the divine tongue. There is a soft silver glow, and Cyril can feel the magic, can feel the tug on the strings that connect Vivienne to the flower and Vivienne to them. One tiny shift, one adjustment to the vast, encompassing web of strings that makes up everything. Cyril is certain that as long as they practice magic, as long as they live it will never be mundane or dull to them.

Vivienne extends her hands towards them and holds out a dried, perfectly preserved sprig of yarrow. Everlasting love.

“To put in your letter,” she says, almost bashfully. Cyril accepts the flower and smiles at her and all is mended.

Cyril returns to writing the letter and contents themself by imagining what Ambrose will look like when he receives it. They picture his warm brown eyes alight with joy, his strong, gentle hands shaking slightly as he tries to tear the wax crest, the way his voice accidentally rises in volume when he’s excited. Cyril thinks that this is a very worthwhile way to have spent their free afternoon.