Chapter 8
Azyr of Veyathi
As the low murmur of Portland stirred outside the office window, I settled into the familiar pattern of my days with Astoria.
A pattern of small comforts I hadn’t anticipated, layered over our work with clients, a rhythm that both eased and excited me.
It felt like navigating uncharted territory; the map was unfamiliar, but I wanted to discover every inch.
Each morning, I found myself stepping through the door that led to her office…
her domain, fragrant with the scent of fresh herbs, and imbued with a vibrant warmth I had never encountered before.
Astoria was always at her desk, poised and professional, ready to counsel the next human embarking on a leap of faith across the stars.
I, on the other hand, played my role… her quiet observer, or rather, her professional, light-shifting companion who scanned through our appointment lists while trying to avoid the heavy weight of the truth I was carrying.
We traveled around Portland like a well-practiced team, the neon lights of the city reflecting off the water-drenched streets, my skin responding in tandem, blurring into shades of blue that mirrored the shimmering sky above.
I began to recognize every shadow, every crack in the pavement, as if mapping the heart of a living being.
Astoria was intent on guiding her clients through their trepidations, easing their hearts and minds as they readied to leave everything they knew.
It became our pattern. The nervous human clients, glancing between their phones and the extensive pamphlets in their hands, looking for reassurances from the woman who stood before them with an encouraging smile.
I often joined the dialogue, my voice calm as I attempted to decode their fears and guide them toward acceptance of their fateful decisions.
“You are merely choosing your next adventure,” I told one young woman.
“Like charting a new course across a starfield. Each decision is its own map.”
The translator, of course, had its way of sabotaging my sincere attempts at comfort.
“You are choosing your next adventure,” it rendered, “like charting a new course across a great unknown. Each decision is its own food.” My voice landed awkwardly in the room, and the anxious young woman blinked at me, caught between confusion and laughter.
Astoria giggled, trying to cover it up with her hand.
“He means you’ll be fine,” she said, though a smile was already breaking through the tension.
“Right.” I tilted my head, absorbing the humor, even as I tried to hide my own growing amusement.
The linguistic malfunction eased the heaviness around us, creating space for a moment of levity in our otherwise serious work.
Each time the translator provided this odd levity, it tangled in the air like the lingering scent of her herb garden, an aroma I was quickly beginning to crave.
The moments of awkward laughter danced around the melancholy looming over our client discussions.
One afternoon, we sat across from a match that felt distinctly fragile. The woman’s trembling hands gripped her chair’s arms as she faced Astoria, eyes wide and earnest, looking for clarity. “What if I don’t belong there?” she asked. “What if he doesn’t want me?”
“You belong wherever you decide to plant your roots,” Astoria said gently, her voice warm and soothing as it cut through the chaos of self-doubt. “And if he doesn’t want you, it’s only a single chapter in a larger story.” Her words were potent, laden with the weight of experience.
I listened intently, standing back as Astoria gave the woman a reason to dare step into the unknown.
The way she steered the conversation reaffirmed the respect I held for her.
Yet there was something else stirring, a recognition that each session meant something deeper.
Each match forged new connections in both our lives.
We finished up at the office one evening after long discussions filled with hesitant laughter and awkward exchanges, only for the muted hum of Astoria’s terminal to catch my attention. I glanced at my handheld device, where a notification glowed… a systems ping.
My extension was set to expire soon. It would happen like the swift click of a pen’s cap, an everyday motion that came and went, unremarkable yet substantial.
I could feel the weight of the lie I had built around my extended leave slowly tightening around me as I stared at the screen, realizing it was counting down the days.
In that moment, it struck me how badly I would prefer a Tuesday in Portland over an entirely new horizon.
The thought sat heavily in the pit of my stomach as I kept the news buried deep, unwilling to admit just how much I wanted to continue the routine that had suddenly blossomed around me.
“Azyr?” Astoria’s voice pulled me from my internal musings, a gentle probing to draw me back to her. “You alright?” Her gaze was steady, reminding me just how easy it had become to get lost in her presence.
“Of course.” I could only manage a smile, one that was likely more practiced than genuine. “Just… admiring the tides of your city.”
“You’re going to make me laugh again, aren’t you?” Her mouth tilted, teasing my thoughts into a lighthearted exchange once more.
“Promise.” I leaned back, ignoring the looming clock on my device for just a moment longer. Each visit through the city revealed layers of a reality I had kept at a distance, unwilling to find permanence.
“We’ll tackle the next matches tomorrow, then.” Astoria flicked her eyes toward the window, where the sunlight began to recede. “How about I brew something for our next round? I might actually let you pick my coffee order.”
“I believe that will be an affront to every human I’ve ever known,” I joked, though beneath the surface, the depths of this interaction began to resonate in ways I could not fully articulate.
Astoria walked past me toward the kitchen, each soft step echoing through the office space in a way that reminded me of what I was beginning to fear: The extent to which this fragile connection could take root in my heart.
The allure of what it meant to stay curled around the corners of my mind, all while my countdown to departure ticked closer with each passing moment.
I stood in the doorway, absorbing the scent of her herbs lingering in the air, the dappled sunlight tracing patterns over the floor. I wondered about the new horizons calling my name even as I felt the magnetic pull of this makeshift home and the woman standing at its heart.
For now, I resolved to relish my Tuesdays.
My life of maps and starfields awaited in the near distance, but here in Portland, there was still time to decipher the tenderness between the vast unknowns.
I took a breath, each inhale wrapping around me like her warmth, and stepped further into the comfort of what it meant to be home.