Mother's Day Special (Caelestiālis)

The Quietest Day
Capital City, Celestia

It was a strange thing to notice, but Damir Gwyrtheyrn had always been good at noticing what others missed. Even at ten years old, while other noble children were fumbling with their etiquette tutors or learning how to sit up straight for court portraits, Damir had already begun collecting patterns. Not flowers or marbles or sweets like the other children, but patterns of behavior, of consequence, of shadow.

And today was one of those days. The quiet ones.

The capital of the Empire and jewel of its realm, gleamed under a soft veil of spring haze. Cobblestone avenues caught the sunlight between grand buildings carved in ivory and gold. Stalls were dressed in streamers, and the scent of jasmine and honey bread filled the streets. It was Mother’s Day, the 33rd of Bloomreach, and the city was singing.

But not with crime.

Damir leaned against the marbled balustrade of the palace's lesser courtyard, a book in one hand and a thoughtful frown stitched into his boyish features.

“Odd, isn’t it,” he said aloud, not for the benefit of the sky or the birds, but because he knew someone was hiding in the hedges. “Not a single thief’s hand, not a whisper of a cutpurse. The streets are all too… polite.”

A figure groaned behind the hedge. “You always talk like you’re forty.”

Artemisia Fanum, two years his junior and not at all fond of being snuck up on, rose from the underbrush with twigs in her braids.

“You know eavesdropping loses its edge when you grunt like a boar,” Damir said smoothly.

“I wasn’t eavesdropping, I was watching the sparrows.”

“From the rose hedge?”

She sniffed. “Yes. Very territorial this time of year.”

He smirked, then turned back to the courtyard. The sounds of the city beyond the palace walls were different today. The clang of vendors was more musical than desperate, and even the drunkards at Crossquarter Street were singing lullabies instead of war chants.

Arty came to stand beside him, brushing leaves from her sleeves. “What’s with the face?”

“There hasn’t been a single mugging,” Damir replied. “No pickpockets. Even the Black Dagger boys didn’t show for their regular dice game. It’s like someone passed a law when no one was looking.”

“It’s Mother’s Day,” she said, as though that were explanation enough. “No one wants to be disowned. Or have their ears boxed.”

“Fear of maternal retribution, then?”

“More like love, you marble-hearted aristocrat.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that what they’re calling it now?”

She rolled her eyes and pointed toward the far rooftops, visible over the palace wall. “Look. There, past the prayer spires. See that line of flags? That’s for the Festival of the Matrons. My nurse says people in the lower quarters put everything else aside today. Even crime waits. You’d get hexed by your gran if you tried anything bold.”

“Hm.” He didn’t sound convinced.

“You really think you’re the only one clever enough to take the day off?” she teased. “Maybe the criminals just have mothers too.”

That made him pause. Not because he disagreed—of course criminals had mothers, everyone had to come from someone—but because it had never occurred to him that affection might outpace desperation. He stared at the rooftops longer, watching colored kites dip and spin between the chimneys.

“I think,” he said after a moment, “that if someone were to commit a crime today, they’d get away with it.”

Arty stiffened. “You wouldn’t.”

“I didn’t say I would. But if I were someone else—someone who thought sentimentality was weakness—I might see opportunity.”

She narrowed her eyes. “You’re thinking about it, though.”

“I’m cataloguing the options,” he corrected, tone clipped and regal. “Knowing when not to strike is just as important.”

“You’re the weirdest prince I’ve ever met.”

“I’m the only prince you’ve ever met.”

“Exactly.”

They stood in silence again, the air heavy with spring bloom and incense drifting from the shrine balconies.

Arty hugged her arms to her chest. “I always thought Mother’s Day felt… strange.”

“How so?”

“It’s like the world pretends. Pretends everything is fine. Pretends all mothers are kind, and all families are full. But they’re not.”

Damir glanced sideways. Her voice had dropped, and her face had turned from his.

“What about yours?” he asked.

“She died before I remembered her. I’ve seen paintings. She looked like me, I think. Papa says she was brave.”

He nodded solemnly.

“And yours?” she asked quietly.

“Alive. Regal. Cold. Dutiful.” He let out a short breath. “She sees me more as a legacy than a son.”

A shared silence passed between them, neither heavy nor light, just full.

“Still,” Arty said, trying to smile, “I got flowers from the servants today. They always do that for girls with no mums. Pretty ones. Hyacinths. Do you think that’s kind or sad?”

“Both,” Damir answered. “But mostly kind.”

They stood there, watching Aravanthe breathe. The great city was always moving, but today it did so gently, like a lull before something else.

Far below the palace, in the gutters and alleys where the perfume of the temples turned to soot, the gangs were quiet. The beggars were fed. Even the gravediggers had the morning off.

“You know,” Arty said, squinting toward the edge of the city, “I bet someone out there is planning something big, saving it for tomorrow when everyone stops paying attention again.”

“I’d wager they are.”

“And you’ll want to catch them.”

“Of course. For study.”

“For justice?”

“…Eventually.”

Arty grinned. “You’re a strange boy, Damir.”

“And you’re far too perceptive for a Fanum.”

She gave him a look. “You say that like it’s an insult.”

“It’s not.” He offered the faintest of smiles, the kind that rarely graced his face. “It’s a compliment. The city will need people like you one day. The ones who understand when the sparrows go quiet.”

Her face lit up a little, despite herself.

And somewhere deep in the city, a woman tucked a stolen blade beneath her pillow and decided not to kill anyone today. A child pickpocket clutched a pastry instead of a purse. A guildmaster offered a day's peace to his rivals. Not because they were good, but because they had mothers too.

And even monsters, Damir thought, knew better than to disappoint their mothers.

The world would start again tomorrow. He could already feel it, rising like a tide behind the sun-soaked day. But for now, there was peace. Artificial, perhaps. Temporary, certainly. But peace, nonetheless.

And that, he decided, was the strangest pattern of all.

(This is a non-canon event, I was just thinking how Damir and Arty would be when they're young. Though the place I would say is canon.

This is dedicated to our mothers who's been with us despite everything.

Happy Mother's Day! ♡)