Fenochsian cutlery was characterized by the sharp, grating edges tempered and molded from the rustic metal that was Azdanti. The iron-colored substance often found residence deep in the bowels of the earth in caves of bioluminescent fungi; prized for the durable yet malleable surface it sported, most often it found its ways into the upper class, who delighted in being able to secure much of the product. Merlin was the same in that regard; since Ali's passing, she had shifted much of her income towards procuring an elevated form of lifestyle for her and her child.
He still missed the semi-detached house they used to live in. The brick-layered home struck nostalgia with its arching sides and cross-gable roof, large open windows that opened both inside and out, plus the wooden party wall that separated his home from the neighbors'. On a good day, he would make an effort to scale the three meter wall and sneak over to play video games for hours on end. By the time he would return, it would be past sunset. Both Ali and Merlin were forgiving—they didn't really care what Raoul was up to as long as he returned home safe and before the latter had finished cooking dinner, which to say was half an hour before Nyxia fully fell.
Raoul hated the way their new forks scraped against the plates. The sounds were grating on the ears, like the incessant shrieks of nails on a chalkboard. He didn't say anything. Merlin was on the opposite end, eating away without much care in the world. Every few seconds he would look from the delicately-prepared steak frites and to his mother. She didn't seem to notice his cursory glance, for she was hunched over her plate with much nonchalance.
Her food was delicious, as it always was. Past changes hadn't done much to diminish the effortless way she prepared her meals. Each one accurately detailed the particular palate of the person she was feeding; a habit she formed when she was much more amicable was to question beforehand the guests at her dining tables before she would personally cook for them. She called it "breaking the ice", but in her instance it was more badgering her correspondents with intensely detailed inquiries that served to get her to know every detail she needed. That wasn't to say her proficiency wasn't there. In fact, the few that had managed to get past the initial confusion at her idiosyncrasies found that each plate she served them was perfectly catered.
That was why his father had married her. He considered the habit more endearing than off-putting.
Still, there was undoubtedly something off about her food. The scrumptious taste that Raoul had long expected to be present in each and every meal was there, but the moment each bite hit his mouth, it would be sapped away and begin to taste both bland and cold after the first few chews.
Merlin didn't seem to notice, and was still just as always eating silently.
That was another thing he missed. When the dinner table held three seats and not two. When the silence was instead noise that made it difficult to fully enjoy the food. It was the good kind of noise, however. The atmosphere made up half the delight in dining with his parents. There wasn't much of that to be seen anymore; the deafening silence would only be interrupted by the occasional scraping of cutlery or the residual running of cars from outside the property.
Suffocating wasn't what he wanted to do. Raoul had resolved to be more than the bird. And that resolve wasn't going to die down easily.
"The steak is delicious," he muttered quietly, just enough for Merlin to hear.
She pulled up from her solace to favor him with a warm look. "Thank you. I made sure to cook it medium rare like you prefer. Light on the salt and pepper."
It was only when talking about cooking did she seem to phase back to how she was years prior. She didn't make backhanded comments nor pushed Raoul to strive for even more. She gracefully accepted the casual talk and would even speak up more.
Softening up his mother wasn't exactly the ideal way to get what he wanted, but Raoul knew it as the only one.
"Did you also handmake the fries?"
Her eyebrows raised higher. A part of her delighted in the way her son always caught everything that entered his senses. It was his talent, and to have it be used to give a tentative once-over her cooking was just about enough for her to forget his "misdeeds".
"I did," she nodded. "The air fryer was acting up, so I cut up and deep fried the potatoes myself. I couldn't find any garlic powder in the pantry, so I'm sorry if it's not savory enough."
"Sorry". She rarely, if ever uttered the word. It was as good a time as ever to broach the subject with her lightened mood.
His fingers tapped on the glass inner of the table with practiced calmness, yet his heart was beating loudly, almost threatening to burst out of his chest with each thump. It was only his exterior that radiated the confidence he needed to push through, while the interior was threatening to shut down at the slightest obstacle. His lips pulled themselves apart, the quiver leaving as he steeled his resolve.
"I… I want to be a Pioneer, mother."
Her reaction wasn't as heavy. If a thermometer were to have been held up against her, then it wouldn't show the room temperature suddenly drifting below freezing like it typically did when her repressed anger flared up. Instead there it stayed at a mild chill, not enough to fully knock the wind out of Raoul but enough to indicate she wasn't much liking the direction the conversation was turning.
"I hope you have a good reason for telling me straight why you wish to follow in your father's footsteps, Raoul Galloway."
He tensed up. The strength in his legs sapped away like the juice of a fruit and bottled into a beverage of anxiety. It was then shaken and force fed into his mouth for him to experience all over again in the form of his teeth chattering.
They called him Lächeln—Sonnenhort for "Smile". He hailed from the City of Brightness, and carried with him a smile that never faded no matter the situation. In fact, it had almost been considered his resting face for a while with how much he remained positive.
Lächeln was a Pioneer, and perhaps one of the more fortunate ones, for he left behind a legacy that many scholars respected even before his death. Prior to settling down, he was part of a Pioneer party that took to uncovering what wasn't already uncovered on Rynth. The party breached the known limits of reality, constantly bringing forth new discoveries that left much of the academic world constantly rolling their eyes at each theory disproven after each adventure.
The angel housed in the center of Cias Buril in the open cage was of their doing; at the supposed peak of their pioneering height, Lächeln and his party had managed to contact Estof, the goddess of angels, and convinced her to remain in the city as its patron deity. The exact limits of the deal fostered between the party and her still stood as a mystery even to the present, but the latter remained as unmoving as ever.
In his heart, however, Lächeln was a family man. He was Ali. After his final adventure nineteen years ago, he decided to settle down in Cias Buril with Merlin. Raoul was set to be born just a few months after, and so he announced his retirement in order to focus on raising the boy with his soon-to-be wife.
Raoul admired that about him. Above all his achievements and merits, Ali was still someone who put forth his family above himself. That same devotion struck a chord or two right from childhood, and he began to emulate much of his habits.
"I just… don't want to stay like this."
He cut off his words with a deep breath. He was gathering both breath and backbone for what came next out of his lips.
"You've changed, mother. Since father's been gone, you've changed. There isn't a day where I don't hear an insult or backhanded comment come out of your mouth. Each one eats away at my mind. When it first started, I thought it was your way of grieving." He sighed. "And so I kept my mouth shut, believing my silence would allow you to air out your frustrations."
"It's been four years, mother. Each day I have strived to constantly push myself to meet your ever-increasing standards. I've sacrificed my childhood to constantly place top of my exams. I've endured endless nights of cramming just to get that extra point, because I thought finally acing everything would get me your approval. I've distanced myself from the ones I once considered friends so I could focus on my schoolwork. I thought it would bring us back to the way we were. It never did."
He suddenly stood up and placed both his hands on the table. "So… I want to change. I don't want to ask for your permission. I want you to listen and watch me. I don't want to be the bird that stayed inside the cellar. I want to be the bird that decided to fly free."
The fingers gripping her utensils tightened. The veins in her wrist clenched, and Raoul swore the Azdanti was bending under the force of her grip. Then, as if he hadn't spoken at all, she went silent and set down both fork and knife on the table. Her next words were heavy, with a measured slowness that emphasized the deep frustration she was feeling.
"Do you think this is freedom?"
She cast an apologetic look at the painting set at the far end of the room, directly behind Raoul. Beset on the wall was a framed portrait of the boy's father—his stubbled chin, layered, center-parted curtain mane of brown that perfectly shaped his face, the half-cut star tattoo split by his left eye, and finally, the smile that everyone knew him for. There was Ali in all his glory, posed in front of the horde of artifacts he had garnered over his many pioneering years.
It was difficult to remove from her mind their similarities. From where Raoul sat, it hurt her to maintain eye contact. It reminded her of just how much of a carbon copy he was of him.
"Your father chased freedom all his life. Sure, it found him endless joy, but what did it all lead to in the end? A disgraced widow and her son who won't listen to her wishes. Freedom brought me the death of my husband and the endless loneliness that came with it. Freedom is a curse, and you of all people should know that."
She stood up and cleared her plate. "Your father is gone. If you so badly wish to follow in his footsteps, then be my guest. Understand this, Raoul Galloway Mestefi. Your flight will only lead you to keep soaring ever so higher, seeking that same thrill he did until it kills you."
She turned to step away.
Three steps was all she could take before her son spoke up again.
"Freedom was also his way of saying he loved you. Freedom was also what led him to choose to leave and live with us. Freedom was his way of living until his very last breath." He clenched his fist tightly. "I won't be struck down. I won't be fazed, no matter what the world throws at me. I might fall and break my wings, but I won't worry."
He too, then turned.
"Do you know why? It's because I already have three others who will swoop down to catch me, just as I would for them."
He couldn't help but smile as he favored the painting one last time. It still held that unchanging demeanor signature of his father, but he sensed something within it. Pride. Respect. Approval. Wherever he was right now, Raoul had no doubt that he was happy with his decision.
That same comfort held true within him even as he left that cold, bleak mansion.