“Comparison is the thief of joy,” Azul said calmly. “The things you’ve seen, the journey you’ve endured, they all have paved the way for your path to return to where you belong. You’ve done well and should find joy in that. Whatever you have left after that is a gift that you’ve earned.”
“The thief of joy…”
Shabuto echoed the words reverberating in the cavernous chamber of his mind. Azul’s pronouncement clung to him, a persistent echo in the silence perpetually surrounding him. He repeated the phrase, examining it like a tarnished coin – comparison is the thief of joy. It was painfully accurate.
He glanced around the room, the flickering of light twinkling through the crystal on the walls. His mind eye painted the encounter with the others earlier. Across the flames, the chef chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that filled the air with warmth. Around him, the others bright laughter, and even Gunther, ever calm and observant – moved with an easy familiarity, a camaraderie that resonated like a perfectly tuned instrument.
And that was where the thief had first crept in. He’d seen their easy smiles, shared jokes, the way they moved as a cohesive unit, and an insidious voice whispered in the back of his mind: They have this. You don’t. He'd compared their laughter to his own silence, their easy banter to his guarded pronouncements, their shared purpose to his… aimless wandering. Each comparison was a minor theft, chipping away at any nascent joy that dared to bloom within him.
Rudral. The memory surfaced, sharp and bittersweet. His party, back on Rudral. They had a similar bond, and though it was hard fought, it became an unshakeable connection. But even then, even among companions, he had allowed comparison to fester. He’d fixated on his perceived shortcomings, on the ways he was different – quieter, more analytical, less… outwardly demonstrative. As a result of his life as a pawn of Nightmare Wolves.
Azul’s words were a mirror, reflecting back his own self-imposed prison. He was building walls where bridges should be, widening the gap between himself and others instead of seeking common ground. It couldn't be blamed on Cyrus or Grixas anymore; it was his own mind, meticulously constructing barriers out of self-doubt and perceived inadequacy. He was now the architect and the prisoner of his own solitude.
“You’ve done well and should find joy in that,”
Azul’s calm voice drifted back to him, a gentle counterpoint to the turmoil in his thoughts. What had he done well? He’d survived. He’d endured trials that would have broken lesser men. He’d navigated treacherous landscapes, both external and internal. He’d learned, he’d adapted, he’d… persisted. Was that not something? Was the sheer act of survival not a testament to some inner strength, some resilience he was failing to acknowledge?
Perhaps… perhaps Azul was right. Possibly, his journey, though fraught with hardship and seclusion, had forged him, shaped him, and prepared him for something. Prepared him for… what? He didn't know. But the path he’d walked, the burdens he’d carried, they were his own. They had led him here, to this moment, to this flickering fire, to these strangers who now seemed less like distant figures of comparison and more like… potential companions.
“Whatever you have left after that is a gift that you’ve earned.”
Azul’s words resonated deeply. What did he have left? Anger, yes, a simmering resentment at the unfairness of fate, the urge to get back at the Nightmare Wolves...Cyrus, all of them. But beneath the anger… there was something else. A flicker of determination. A stubborn refusal to be consumed by the darkness.
Could this anger be a gift? He pondered the notion. Anger was a fire. Uncontrolled, it could be destructive, consuming everything in its path. If he allowed his fury to control him. But focused, channeled… fire could forge steel, provide warmth, and illuminate the darkest corners. Could his anger, this burning ember within him, be fashioned into something… beneficial? Could it be the fuel that propelled him forward, that broke down the walls he had so carefully constructed?
Just as the thought began to solidify, Azul moved. He reached up, his long fingers deftly gathering his hair, tying it back in a swift, practiced motion. And in that moment, as Azul secured the tie, his head tilted slightly, revealing his eyes fully. They were… extraordinary. Oddly colored, one a deep emerald green, the other a startling sapphire blue. They were unlike anything Shabuto had ever seen.
And suddenly, a new layer of understanding peeled back. Azul, with his calm demeanor and wise pronouncements, was not some flawless being untouched by the vagaries of life. He carried his own story etched in the very anomaly of his eyes, a story Shabuto could only guess at, but one that hinted at journeys endured, at unique paths walked. He wasn't some ideal against which to measure himself; he was simply another traveler, further down his own distinct road.
Azul met Shabuto’s gaze, a quiet knowing in his mismatched eyes. There was no judgment, only acceptance, only the gentle encouragement woven into his earlier words. The thief of joy, comparison… it was a prison of Shabuto’s own making. But the key to unlocking that prison, perhaps, lay not in erasing the past, but in accepting it, in recognizing the value of his own unique journey, and in finding the gift within the embers of his anger. And maybe, just maybe, in choosing to see not the differences that separated him, but the shared humanity that bound them all together. The journey back to where he belonged, wherever that may be, had already begun.
“Why not show me what Cyrus saw in you before this anger took hold in you? What Saltare had you learned by the time he had his way with you?”
Shbuto tilted his head to the side. CONfused by what was being asked of him.
"I..don't have any saltre to speak of, not one that I can remember at the moment...but...I can do this..."
Shabuto resolved to show Azul what he asked for, a tangible demonstration of the journey Azul spoke of. He focused inward, drawing upon the strange, deep well of power that resided within him. A faint tremor ran through his hand, a subtle shift in the very structure of his being. Then, pushing outwards, he willed it to manifest.
A pale white material began to extrude from the back of his hand, flowing and solidifying simultaneously. It was bone yet unlike any bone found in nature. This substance shimmered almost crystalline, catching the light and refracting it into miniature rainbows that danced across the walls. Slowly, deliberately, Shabuto shaped it with his will, the bone morphing and elongating, sharpening at one end, becoming a small, elegant dagger.
With the bone blade complete, resting cool and solid in his palm, Shabuto switched his focus to his other hand. He drew upon the naten. A flicker ignited at his fingertips, a hesitant spark at first, then growing, coalescing into a controlled flame.
He watched the fire dance, its light painting his face in hues of orange and red. Then, with a precise movement, he brought the flaming hand towards the bone dagger. He imagined the rune for ‘Ein,’ a single stroke of power imbuing the weapon with focus and intent. As the flame touched the bone, it was absorbed, not extinguished. Instead, the bone itself began to glow, the crystalline structure now laced with veins of fire that pulsed with a gentle, contained heat. The blade was no longer merely bone but a weapon of solidified will and controlled chaos, blazing with an inner light.
He extended the flaming bone dagger towards Azul, offering it silently. The flames danced around the blade, casting long, flickering shadows that moved like living things on the cavern walls. The air crackled with subtle energy, a tangible hum that resonated in the stillness.
"I can...create Mistral from my bones, which regenerate pretty fast...and from there, I can... enfold things into it. Elements...and..."
He hesitated to finish, unsure Azul would even believe him if he told him.