The sun had only just begun to rise, casting muted beams of light through the hazy morning mist that clung to the surface of the ocean like a gossamer veil. Cécile lay in the modest warmth of his bed, the gentle creak of the waves against the wooden walls of his small floating cottage providing a familiar lullaby. The solitude here was not just comforting—it was necessary. His role as a Funérailles, a Hopekeeper, tethered him to the quiet life, far from the noise of the mainland. Yet today, something felt different. A light knock broke through the rhythmic sound of the ocean, pulling him from his slumber.
Running his fingers through his wavy locks, he rose to answer the door, finding the supplier from Tenshi, as usual, standing with a slight smile and offering up the week's provisions. They exchanged pleasantries, the conversation easy, as it had been for years. The man mentioned some festival taking place in the distant town of Landow, a Festival of Lights. Cécile had seen glimmers of this festival through the dreams of landwellers—vivid images of unimaginable brilliance lay bare to him as he watched with amazement as a ghostly, invisible spectator in their dreams. He had done so a million times at this point, breaking the essence of his soul into 100 smithereens of fluttering blue and flung them out into the universe, taking fleeting joy in the oneiric sights he knew he could never tangibly experience. Vicariously, through their dreams, he lived some semblance of a normal life, at least.
Cécile's lips curved into a soft smile at the mention, but sadness quickly clouded his expression. There was no way he could attend, not bound to his solemn duties. In any case, the supplier bid him farewell and left, his presence gone as quickly as it had come.
Left to the quiet, Cécile returned to the care of his höpes—those delicate, frail birds in their woven cages, harbingers of the end of mourning. He moved gently from cage to cage, a tender hand offering food to the creatures whose lives measured grief. They chirped softly, their feathers fragile as paper. Another knock came then, surprising him. Perhaps the supplier forgot something. He had only just left, speaking of the distant Festival of Lights with a casual, almost careless enthusiasm that left Cécile sorrowful and conflicted.
When the knock echoed again, this time firmer, Cécile sighed and set the cage down, his fingers tracing over the brass latch. Opening the door, Cécile blinked in surprise. Standing before him was not the supplier, but a man he had not seen before, or perhaps, only in a dream. Tall, with neatly coiled dark hair and dressed in the ornate, polished military uniform of Montá, the stranger bore a familiarity that Cécile could not place.
"Good morning, Hopekeeper," the man spoke with a formal tone, though his eyes were sharp.
Cécile’s brow furrowed as he stepped aside to allow him in, noticing a tag on his uniform that read Bastion. "Have you come to mourn?" he asked softly, his voice laced with the calm reverence of his role. "Or to arrange the Mer de Rêves?"
The man shook his head gently, a slight smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "No, Hopekeeper," he replied, "I have not come to mourn. Actually, The Council of Montá requests that you attend the Festival of Lights as the representative Regalia of the city and Eshea." A stillness fell between them in that instance. Cécile was vexed by the sudden, unexpected request. His life had been one of quiet, gentle moments—never punctuated by something as grand as a festival, at least, not in a decade. His eyes flickered to the woven cages of his beloved höpes, but the birds offered no comfort, just silent witness. Though he had dreamed of attending, the idea of leaving the sanctuary of his home on the sea, admittedly, frightened him.
“The Council…?” Cécile murmured, unsure how to continue, "Surely there's some mistake. The mourners—the rites—I am bound here, sir. And who will care for the höpes? Besides...they would never..." his voice trailed off wistfully as he looked to the höpes. He could feel their fragile lives intertwined with his, and the thought of leaving them behind was unsettling.
Bastion continued, his tone leaving no room for doubt, "Well, that is not for me to say. They will decide what becomes of your duties," he paused for a moment, "and the höpes."
Cécile lowered his gaze, "I see...," his fingers lightly brushing against the doorframe as if seeking some familiar tether. The quiet isolation of the sea had been his world for so long, the constancy of grief, of tending to the dead... it was all he had known. A macabre life, but it was his own morbid moonsong. Cécile frowned, looking down at his hands, which had become too used to gentle things. He had built a cocoon here, one made of dreams and the begnin whispers of the sea. When Cécile looked back up, he noticed Bastion's gaze sweeping over the small, modest room, taking in the delicate artifacts of Cécile’s life—the höpes, the paintings, the worn books stacked neatly on a corner shelf. He didn’t seem impressed, or if he was, he didn’t show it.
In particular, his gaze lingered on the höpes, rare and revered, as they chirped softly in their cages. His brow lifted slightly in curiosity, a break in his otherwise corporate demeanor. "These birds…” Bastion said, stepping forward to inspect them more closely. Cécile’s body stiffened involuntarily; His heart lept in his chest as he instinctively stepped back, recoiling from the man’s sudden movement. His body stiffened, the distance between them suddenly feeling too short. He had long avoided physical contact, finding it strange and unwelcome in a way he couldn’t quite explain; even the faintest brush of skin unsettled him.
Bastion noticed the subtle flinch, his dark eyes narrowing slightly. “You seem like a delicate flower,” he said offhandedly, his tone carrying a hint of amusement. Cécile’s eyes hardened, a rare flash of annoyance surfacing in his calm demeanor. “I am not,” he replied softly but firmly, his voice betraying just the slightest edge as he tugged lightly at his silk violet slip, which hung on him loosely like a falling nightgown.
The man didn't press further, stepping back to his original position near the door. “Delicate or not, the Council wants you to come with me. Preparations are in order.” Silence filled the room once more. Cécile looked out past the doorway, where the mist still clung to the surface of the water like a dream not yet ready to fade. His heart wavered between longing for the comfort of his isolated life and the unknown world that beckoned beyond. A part of him, a small part buried beneath layers of melancholy, felt a flicker of curiosity. But also fear. It was one thing to experience the breath of life in the dreamworld, where he had control, where he could exist and no one ever knew he was there. But in reality...
After a moment of quiet contemplation, he closed his eyes, drawing a steady breath. “Very well,” he whispered, his voice gentle but resolute, the weight of his decision settling in his chest. Cécile glanced back at the höpes one last time, their fragile existence mirroring his own fears. Once upon a time, he had convinced himself that he was not made for the world of grandeur and witchlight. And though Cécile had not chosen to become a Funérailles of his own volition, that agency stripped away as a child, he had made peace with the mystic rhythm of the sea, the fragile höpes, and the delicate line between life and death that his duties had him walk. But all along, in that secret garden of his deep within, Cécile was blooming; he only needed the right opportunity.
So at last, with a final, slow exhale, he turned to follow Bastion to Montá.
