Reconcile
Morning arrived again, indifferent and pale.
Viena, curled in Lisabelle’s bed, lay adrift in sleep long past sunrise. Her eyelids were heavy, her cheeks faintly swollen from the tears she’d shed the night before. She hadn’t dreamed—just sank, quietly, into that deep, listless rest that comes after being scolded by someone you love.
The muffled clack of wood striking wood stirred her.
She flinched beneath the covers. Again: the thud of footwork on dirt, a barked exhale, then the sharp, echoing crack of two wooden swords meeting.
Voices followed. One calm, low, unmistakably Randia’s. The other lighter, sharper, familiar even through the windowpane. Lisabelle.
Still half-draped in her blanket, Viena pushed herself upright. Her body protested, slow and sore with remembered hurt. As she padded over to the window and pulled back the curtain, the scene below unfolded like a play staged just for her.
There they were: Lisabelle and Randia in the clearing behind the house, sparring.
Again.
Both wielded practice swords—thick, worn oak with dulled edges—but they moved like duelists in earnest. Randia’s style was efficient, honed by experience. Lisabelle, by contrast, danced with a brash, brilliant energy, her hair tied up in a lazy bun, her cheeks flushed from exertion and laughter.
They’d been doing this often. Every morning, almost without fail, ever since Lisabelle had lost to him in a messy, one-sided match. That defeat had bruised her pride, but instead of sulking, she had returned to the field again and again, demanding to learn.
And he’d obliged.
Now, when she looked at Randia, there was admiration in her gaze. A hint of something even warmer than that. Lisabelle grinned when she parried. Grinned when she stumbled. Grinned even when Randia point out the flaws in her form. She looked—Viena’s heart twisted—happy.
Morning arrived again, indifferent and pale.
Viena, curled in Lisabelle’s bed, lay adrift in sleep long past sunrise. Her eyelids were heavy, her cheeks faintly swollen from the tears she’d shed the night before. She hadn’t dreamed—just sank, quietly, into that deep, listless rest that comes after being scolded by someone you love.
The muffled clack of wood striking wood stirred her.
She flinched beneath the covers. Again: the thud of footwork on dirt, a barked exhale, then the sharp, echoing crack of two wooden swords meeting.
Voices followed. One calm, low, unmistakably Randia’s. The other lighter, sharper, familiar even through the windowpane. Lisabelle.
Still half-draped in her blanket, Viena pushed herself upright. Her body protested, slow and sore with remembered hurt. As she padded over to the window and pulled back the curtain, the scene below unfolded like a play staged just for her.
There they were: Lisabelle and Randia in the clearing behind the house, sparring.
Again.
Both wielded practice swords—thick, worn oak with dulled edges—but they moved like duelists in earnest. Randia’s style was efficient, honed by experience. Lisabelle, by contrast, danced with a brash, brilliant energy, her hair tied up in a lazy bun, her cheeks flushed from exertion and laughter.
They’d been doing this often. Every morning, almost without fail, ever since Lisabelle had lost to him in a messy, one-sided match. That defeat had bruised her pride, but instead of sulking, she had returned to the field again and again, demanding to learn.
And he’d obliged.
Now, when she looked at Randia, there was admiration in her gaze. A hint of something even warmer than that. Lisabelle grinned when she parried. Grinned when she stumbled. Grinned even when Randia scolded her form. She looked—Viena’s heart twisted—happy.
Like last night hadn’t even happened.
Like she hadn’t tattled.
Viena frowned, pressing her forehead to the glass.
So that’s how it was.
Lisabelle wasn’t sulking. She wasn’t even sorry. She was off having fun with him, laughing and sparring like the night before had never happened.
Viena sank down onto the floor, hugging her knees to her chest.
“…Stupid Lily,” she murmured. “Stupid Papa, too.”
Lisabelle stepped quietly into the house, still toweling the sweat from her brow. The sparring match had gone longer than expected—Randia never went easy on her, and she never asked him to.
Without pause, she climbed the stairs and nudged open her bedroom door.
Inside, the morning sun cut soft gold slats across the floor. Viena lay curled beneath the blanket, turned away, as if still asleep. But Lisabelle knew better. Her breathing was too steady, too controlled—no little murmurs, no twitching fingers like when she dreamed.
“Viena,” Lisabelle said, keeping her voice light. “Let’s get cleaned up and have breakfast. After that, we’ll go somewhere fun.”
No response.
She crossed the room and sat on the edge of the bed.
“Still sulking?” she murmured. “We already settled things, didn’t we?”
Silence.
Lisabelle glanced over her shoulder. The little lump under the blanket gave no sign of moving, but Lisabelle could feel it—the quiet weight of emotion hanging in the air. A familiar tension. Not anger, exactly. Something softer. Sadder.
She let out a long breath.
“You know,” she said, tone shifting to something gentler, “there’s a parade in the central district this morning. Musicians, puppeteers, street candy. If we don’t hurry, we’ll lose all the good spots.”
Still nothing.
Lisabelle leaned forward slightly. “Viena. I stopped him, didn’t I?”
The blanket shifted—barely. Just enough to show she was listening.
“I only tattled because I got worried, you know?” Lisabelle continued. "How could I know he'd go straight for the belt?” She sighed. “We even shared the bed afterward, remember? I held you until you fell asleep.”
There was a long pause.
Then came the faintest murmur, muffled and small:
“But you laughed. This morning, with him. Like nothing happened.”
Lisabelle blinked. For a moment, she had no answer.
“I was just trying to keep up,” she said finally. “He’s strong. So I have to get stronger too. That’s all. It's like uh ... something spontaneous, just like when you dragged me all over the place every time we hang out.”
“You looked like you were having fun,” Viena whispered again, voice almost accusing.
Lisabelle didn’t deny it.
Instead, she reached out and gently brushed a lock of hair away from the blanket’s edge. Her fingers lingered a moment, warm and hesitant.
“I did have fun,” she admitted quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I forgot about you. Or that I’m okay with what he did. And I’m not going to let him treat you like that again. I promise.”
The silence between them settled, softer now, less brittle.
Lisabelle leaned forward a little more, arms resting on her knees.
“But… you shouldn’t stay mad at him either,” she added, more carefully now. “I know it hurt. And it’s okay to be mad for a little while. But, hey, no one is perfect, right?"
She searched for the right word as she twirls the edge of her hair.
"People do things we don’t like, even the people who love us the most. Especially them. But that doesn’t mean they stop caring.”
Viena’s voice was barely a whisper. “He didn’t even say sorry.”
Lisabelle nodded slowly. “No, he didn’t. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel sorry, right? And maybe he just ... didn't have the chance? Maybe he'll say sorry today?”
Viena sniffled.
Lisabelle moved a little closer. “If you stay like this forever, keeping that little mad-puddle in your chest, he’s not the one who suffers. You do. It gets heavy. Like a stone in your belly that won’t go away.”
A long pause. Then she added, a little teasingly:
“And I refuse to share a room with a stone-bellied gremlin for the rest of the week.”
Viena let out a weak sound that was almost a laugh. Not quite.
“…You’re so annoying, and smelly.” she muttered.
Lisabelle smiled. “Takes one to know one, midget.”
She stood up, brushing her knees off, and extended a hand toward the bed.
“Now come on. let's fix ourselves!"
The household settled into the usual routine. At breakfast, an awkwardness hung in the air like a delicate thread stretched taut, ready to snap. Eleanor sat at the head of the long wooden table, quietly observing. Randia sat across from Lisabelle, his gaze calm but unreadable as he ate with measured silence.
Beside Lisabelle, Viena picked delicately at her food, eyes flickering uncertainly between her plate and the adults around her.
Lisabelle leaned slightly toward her, lowering her voice to a gentle murmur.
“Do you want honey today? Or jam?” she asked softly. Viena hesitated a moment, then shook her head for honey and nodded faintly for jam.
“Butter, then?” Lisabelle pressed gently. Viena gave a small shake of her head.
Lisabelle’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, then she straightened and spoke louder, projecting so everyone could hear:
“Vivi, we’re going to see the parade. Have you asked your dad for permission?”
The table fell silent. Viena’s cheeks flushed faintly as she lowered her eyes, fingers tightening around her spoon. She stole quick, hesitant glances at Randia, who met her gaze only briefly before returning to his meal.
Randia said nothing. (He was giving Viena the space to find her own words — just as Lisabelle hoped — believing that true reconciliation had to come from within.)
Viena looked up timidly, her fingers nervously twisting the edge of her napkin. After a brief pause, she spoke softly, “Papa, may I… go to the parade today?”
Lisabelle, sitting beside her, glanced at Viena with a subtle, teasing smirk. “You’re making it harder than it needs to be.”
Randia glanced up from his plate, his expression calm and steady. “You can go. But stay close to Lisabelle, and go home before dark.”
Viena nodded quickly, eyes wide but still hesitant. “Okay… I will.”
Eleanor, seated at the head of the table, gave a soft, reassuring smile. “Your papa speaks wisely, dear. But remember, the parade is a celebration. Don't forget to enjoy yourself, dear.”
The tension at the table eased slightly, the quiet acceptance settling around them like a soft blanket.