Astilbe [1/2]

Astilbe is too much and not enough.

He loves things that don’t suit him. With a face like his, they say, why spend so long buried in blueprints of dusty old ruins? It’s such a waste. He should like popular things, like everyone else. Pose for paintings or sculptures, perform on a stage, be an adventurer and make a name for himself as a dashing hero. Of all things, why this​? Why ruins infested with monsters and decrepit buildings that can barely keep two walls together? What appeal could it possibly have over all the wealth and fame that would be his for only a little trying?

But those ancient stones mean the world to him. There is beauty in what remains of bygone eras and cultures. There is genius in the intersections of their lines, in the precision of their arches, in the columns that refused to fall centuries after anyone stopped caring for them. Artistry in the architecture of a place that was once a grain store, or a kitchen, or a grand hall. Astilbe looks at those lines, at the rubble of what was, and builds palaces. Sees the greater in the lesser, the whole from the parts, the totality, and he loves it.

From the first time he ever saw the drawn reconstruction of a humble shed, he has loved it. The charcoal rendering of what the whole would have looked like from what remained of the parts. A handful of stones, a collapsed roof, a buried and eroded foundation. It wasn’t the fanciest or most unique reconstruction at the exhibit, but it was one of the most degraded. It was a building so common that no preservation runes were inscribed, what remained had only lasted by chance. It wasn’t the slightest bit special, and yet it had been rebuilt alongside all the others. It had been studied and precious. It had been revived.

In his chest, his buried and crumbled heart had been exhumed. The parts of himself that had been carefully stomped out in favor of what he should be found their way back to the surface. Chunk by chunk, stone by stone, line by line, he was reassembled with every step. In those blueprints, he found a map back to who he was always meant to be. He grabbed on tightly and refused to let go.

He wouldn’t stop just because he had “better” options. Options that suited who others thought he was. Options that suited who he was conditioned to be. He wouldn’t, and he didn’t.

But the world of academia was not an idilic ivory tower. Nor was it a beautiful welcoming refuge away from the trappings of society and its flaws. It wasn’t a place of naked truth and sincerity like he once thought it would be. And he would learn that even knowledge has a price. Even scholars wear masks to get what they want.

Ice poured down his spine when he discovered that here was just like anywhere else with people. The shock gave way to fear and doubt. Maybe this wasn’t the place he was looking for, either.

Astilbe is familiar with the game, however.

He knows how to wear masks; he knows how to win. It’s just like anywhere else, with walls to climb and hoops to jump through, and gates set in meaningless places. Astilbe is good at the game. He stumbled when he didn’t yet realize he was playing, but no more. He does what it takes to get by, to succeed amongst the fierce competition that comes with limited resources and vested interests. He does well, thrives, in this arena where he has both passion and skill. Too well.

He forgets. Of all people, he should have known better. Never expose your true heart to someone that has only ever seen your mask. What you love is the wind in your sails, but what you love can carry you into horse-latitudes before you know it. Suddenly the wind is gone, and you are stranded long before you realize that you’d been traveling on momentum alone for miles. You overstay your welcome on the seas and, sometimes, you drown.

Astilbe, like all individuals deeply entrenched in their passions, is effervescent. Magnetic and beautiful and so terribly alive; he burns, and draws others to his flame. Like fire, some who come are moths, some are weary travelers, and some want only to put the fire out. He is also sun-blind, unable to see how the depth of his love hides the shallowness of others’. When he starts his own research and needs funds, he finds them easily. They fill his hands practically before he can ask. It doesn’t cost him much; a bit of time here, a smile there. He knows it's all transactional, that his attention is the favor he returns to his patrons.

Except, humans are creatures prone to attachment. There’s a reason why humans rise as undead so readily, why they linger where they die. The dead linger, so it’s no surprise that the living do too. Astilbe knew better than to trust the shallow affection he received, and yet, he still fell. Still managed to fool himself into believing that the relationship was more than a mere sponsorship. If not romantic, at the very least he genuinely believed that the older woman cared for him. That she was truly interested in his work and in supporting him. That she saw value in reconstructing and restoring the creations of the past.

Unfortunately, he was wrong. Like everyone else, his sponsor saw only what she wanted him to be. To her he was just a pretty face; one that was grating on her nerves as he forgot to play the game. He spoke too much of what he truly loved, and not enough words of flattery or charm. He was a toy, and he was quickly losing his shine.

An exposed heart breaks without resistance.

Enough talk of ruins, darling, it’s a waste of time.

Astilbe was always, always, a waste of time.

He found new sponsors after she left him; he was good at that, but none of them maintained more than a passing interest in his research. He tempered his expectations and never fell or lost again. This was not the ivory tower of his dreams, full of people passionate and dedicated and nothing else. It wasn’t quite a refuge. It was more like a hearth; one where he burned all alone, encased in stone. Too much, and yet, never enough for anyone to take him seriously. Never enough for his words to matter more than the masks he could wear.

***

Then came Yew; who was never enough, and always too much.

Yew who didn’t play the game. Who didn’t even seem to be aware of it in the first place. An incomprehensible being that had left him confused several times before he figured out that she was just like that. Her words seldom held double meanings; it was always obvious when they did because she would smile or laugh with mischief glowing deep in her eyes. Her confusion was never doubt, and her doubt never insult. When Astilbe figured that out, he thought the game would chew her up and spit her out. Yew was a lamb waiting for slaughter, being circled by carrion birds and wolves.

Likewise, Yew didn’t read between the lines; not very well, at least. If someone snipped at her, he couldn’t tell how often she realized the implicit jabbing in their words. It didn’t seem like she understood. She didn’t react enough either; not to others asking for praise, nor to receiving it. She was a conundrum. The antithesis of everything he had grown to expect another person to be. There was so much she didn’t get. He once mistakenly believed she was helpless. He even thought her fellow department members were harassing her by sending her for the most dangerous jobs on the inter-department project where they met.

They were both part of the survey team for a, then, newly discovered ruin. It was expansive and couldn’t be handled in a timely manner by the usual group, lest the adventurers start complaining, so they had recruited a larger initial pool of researchers. A younger Astilbe had correctly assumed that it would be exciting, but incorrectly predicted his enjoyment of that fact when he volunteered. Never again, he shivered at the thought. He would be very happy to avoid any and all survey work for new discoveries going forward.

Whenever someone needed to walk through a door first, deliver something to one of the other teams at night, or scout ahead for undead, the task was handed straight to her. No discussions, and no complaints on her part. It was so frequent that Astilbe’s mood began to worsen whenever it happened. He certainly didn’t want to volunteer himself, but it felt wrong to just assume she would do it. One day he had pulled her aside and demanded to know why she let them treat her like that. Astilbe would never forget the wide eyed shock that had blinked up at him then, as if it was an absurd thing to ask. Yew narrowed her eyes at him so sharply in confusion that he was about to call himself stupid for asking.

“You don’t know?” In a reversal of fate, now he was the one that was missing something obvious.

“Know what?” He couldn’t begin to guess what she would tell him. Of the narrative he had been quietly weaving about her to himself, the truth she had revealed then held no place in it; except, that it utterly obliterated it.

“I’m a fully licensed adventurer,” then she mumbled, “my moniker is Ghost Shepherdess.”

“What?” He thought he’d misheard, somehow, despite the scant arms-length between them.

Her answer didn’t change, and she had proceeded to be more than he knew what to do with forever afterward.