To Wish the Flame, and Set Fire

Cheche Dotharl peered through the door, her head barely bobbing through the crack-- a tray of tea resting upon her hands. Her tail flicks about as she considers for a few moments whether to speak up or not.

Nathaniel Salem: "What is it?"
Nathaniel Salem remains bent over the worktable, a grimoire and a few aetherial devices about. He doesn't bother looking over his shoulder.

Cheche Dotharl measures her words several times out of habit before finally speaking up. "I was... wondering if you would want some tea." She doesn't enter just yet. "May I come in?"

Nathaniel Salem pushes himself off of the surface, slowly but surely. His head turns, and after a lengthy pause, there's a breathed: "Yes," for sole answer.

Nathaniel Salem: "The attentions are nice and welcomed, Cheche. I just think your free time is best spent elsewhere. No?"

Cheche Dotharl bobs her head, quietly entering the room. It takes her a while to find a sufficiently empty spot on the table to leave the tray that she's brought. "I think-- that is a choice I should make," she states, though there is no offense intended in her tone. She speaks as honestly as usual, carefully lifting her eyes to look his direction.

Nathaniel Salem keeps quiet for a moment at her affirmation, eyes following the tray. He approaches her, and makes a gentle sign with his hand that he is to serve her. "Even if I didn't want the tea, I am not so cruel that I would refuse you when you went up such a ridiculous flight of stairs with it."

Nathaniel Salem hands her a steaming cup, "How are you feeling?"

Cheche Dotharl finally managed a smile. "Do not worry, I took plenty of breaks in between." Whether it is true or not remains a mystery, the xaela choosing not to elaborate. At his following question her expression grows serious while her hands reach out to accept the cup. "-- my aether has not improved thus far. Though, I have been... resting, as you have told me. The process has at least slowed."

Cheche Dotharl: "In the meanwhile, I have been reading more books during my--," she hesitates before the unfamiliar word. "-- holiday."
Nathaniel Salem listens to her. Once the cup is released, he raises a careful hand to keep a strand of hair out of her eyes. The same hand lingers on her cheek, affectionate, as if to assess her. "What have you found? Fiction?"

Cheche Dotharl neither pulls away nor embraces the touch, simply accepting its presence upon her cheek as she thumbs the cup in her hands. She seemed to be considering some interesting choices. "-- there was one of the folklore in Ishgard. There were many difficult names, so I have not made much progress. And-- ah. I found one of Eorzean humor. It is... even more difficult to understand. But each book is charming in it's own way, I think."

Nathaniel Salem: "Curiosity is the only thing you need for now," he presses that same hand on her shoulder, in an attempt to be encouraging. "...I have been meaning to talk with you, anyways. Might as well do it if you're here." The priest pours a drink for himself and turns, to lean on the enchantment table.

Cheche Dotharl nods. She considers asking Nathaniel on some of the jokes, though more pressing matters seem to be at hand. She straightens up attentively.

Nathaniel Salem: "Why did you ask me to teach you offensive spells?"

Cheche Dotharl blinks, her lips parting slightly as it's opt to do in surprise. She's quiet-- not in hesitation, but in a way she's likely finding the right way to explain it. "-- during my time in Eorzea," she starts, "I have learned that not all fights can be avoided. I wanted to learn how to combat those situations." This time she hesitates, though her gaze lifts to meet his own. "I wanted to... learn a way to live, I think."

Nathaniel Salem: "And for you, offense is one way to do that," he states. "There are other men and women in Eorzea who can not wield magic, nor pick up a weapon. What are they to do, when conflict comes their way?"

Nathaniel Salem asks carefully, though the tone makes it evident that he is eager to get to a point.

Cheche Dotharl: "I do not know, for I am not those men or women. I cannot make their choices for them."

Nathaniel Salem: "Evidently," he adds, some manner of fatigue in the tone at that. "We are built differently, and choices are obviously ours to make, yes? Still, aren't we supposed to do what is best for us; by us?"

Cheche Dotharl watches her mentor, a silent sort of measuring in her eyes. "-- Father Salem. Please." She waits for him, a sort of invitation for him to directly speak his mind.

Nathaniel Salem: "I do not believe this is the only reason."

Nathaniel Salem: "And I believe you want to set yourself on a path that you can not bear, as your heart refuses it, unbeknownst to the rest of your body."

Cheche Dotharl 's expression stays rigid as he says so. It doesn't hold for long, softening into a defeated smile. "I see. Why do you think so?"

Nathaniel Salem: "Magic is an art of the mind, Cheche. We spoke of this before."
Nathaniel Salem: "Some people have stronger affinities with certain channeling techniques or spells because of how they think, beyond aetherial inclinations. Magic is an idea made reality. To wish the flame, and set fire. To wish the healing process, and supply aether to mend a wound."

Nathaniel Salem: "I have taught hundreds. Your progress in offense has been absolutely mediocre /at best/."
Nathaniel Salem: "Talk to me."

Cheche Dotharl nods. "And you are rarely wrong." She listens obediently, all concepts that Nathaniel had likely shared before. In context, however, she makes the connections of theory to what is happening in practice. As he finishes she sighs, eyes briefly closed before she opens them. "I wish to fight-- that is something I know. I simply--," she cuts short, a crease between her brows as she considers.

Cheche Dotharl: "-- what if despite such. Despite what you hear of me today and my tendencies. My ability. The way I am-- I still stubbornly insist to learn? Would you deny me of that? Father Salem."

Nathaniel Salem frowns in turn, eyes not leaving her one second. Though there's mild frustration here, he seems to knit brows in concern.
Nathaniel Salem: "I might, without the right context." He speaks quietly, breathed words perfectly audible to the young woman: "I will not see my students play pretend when there are deeper issues that demand my immediate attention."

Nathaniel Salem: "I am not that kind of teacher. Something that I think you should know, by now."

Cheche Dotharl nods once more. "I know and I understand. There has not been a reason for me to doubt such." Her eyes lower to the ground, contemplative, before the rise with a determined inhale. "-- but nonetheless, it is something I needed to hear. Thank you." She raises her hands, palms upwards as if to offer them.

Nathaniel Salem puts his cup down, not breaking eye contact with her as he does. "You will not thank me until /I/ get to hear what I must." His traits soften after that, "How can I teach you otherwise?"

Nathaniel Salem: "I am to give you the tools you need. The tools you can use, and steer until you find what you are best at, once all options have been exhausted."
Nathaniel Salem: "What mentor can I be -- what mentor would I be, if I were to let you burn yourself on arts that you do not truly wish to practice?"

Cheche Dotharl balances her own cup upon her hand, watching it for a moment. How easily it would fall and break. She manages to catch it this time before it does, wrapping fingers around it before taking a sip. It's lowered onto the table as well. "-- then it is your right to know that I do not fear the art itself. I have no qualms of the tools you offer, neither what they are capable of."

Cheche Dotharl pauses a while longer, thinking. Contemplating. "-- From the practices of my tribe, do you recall the conditions we must meet for reincarnation? The most sacred, necessary practice we partake in as a Dotharl."

Nathaniel Salem: "I do remember us writing an /entire essay/ or something of the sort on the matter, yes."
Nathaniel Salem frowns in her direction.

Cheche Dotharl chuckles. "It is a practice I cannot partake in. For I fear taking another's life."

Nathaniel Salem: "...Is it something Cheche has been known for?"

Cheche Dotharl shakes her head. "No. He was one they remembered a true Dotharl."

Nathaniel Salem: "...There are things we will not admit to ourselves, or our entourage. Even as death comes."
Nathaniel Salem: "You have forgotten who you used to be, yet you still are Cheche."

Cheche Dotharl nods. "Perhaps. But it does not change that regardless of whether the affliction was with the Checheyigen of before-- he had managed to kill. And thus here I stand."

Nathaniel Salem: "Why didn't you tell me this?"

Cheche Dotharl: "Because," she sighs, "I did not think it would affect the practice itself."
Cheche Dotharl: "I am still able to sling a bow."

Nathaniel Salem: "A bow has uses that go beyond destruction or harm. It can be used to feed."
Nathaniel Salem: "Magic bound to acts of offense, little else."

Cheche Dotharl lowers her gaze. She doesn't deny that he's right.

Nathaniel Salem: "I am always as honest as can be with men and women that would ask what purpose I serve, on a battlefield. I can ward, I can exorcise, I can heal."
Nathaniel Salem: "But there are things I can do that have no other purpose than to cause harm."
Nathaniel Salem: "I have, in me, an inheritance that demands I become executioner for those who have gone too far, and committed one too many odious acts."

Nathaniel Salem: "It is because I accept this task and its weight that I am capable of casting the way I do."
Nathaniel Salem: "Others might not. Others will not."

Cheche Dotharl tugs at her sleeve, weighing his words. "-- I understand." It is somewhat conclusive in tone.

Nathaniel Salem opens an arm, inviting her to come closer. "I do think there is a riddle for you to solve, here."

Cheche Dotharl raises a glance, taking small steps to approach. Her tail flicks before tucking habitually around her leg, as if not to knock him over by accident.

Nathaniel Salem: "Perhaps it is unfair to die before others truly witnessed what Checheyigen had become. But you are still a potent mage."
Nathaniel Salem pats her head with a gentleness uncharacteristic of the man. "They must be wrong."

Cheche Dotharl 's lips part as if she had something to say about that, but she decidedly closes her mouth again. She nods with eyes closed.

Nathaniel Salem: "And you would be stronger for coming to terms with who you are now. Do you understand?"

Cheche Dotharl: "Not yet," she states honestly. "-- but perhaps with time. I will try until then." She looks to him a moment longer, lips pursed. Rare of her to do, a question is asked-- almost a murmur. "Can you be honest with who you are-- to yourself?"

Nathaniel Salem: "...Yes." The question prompts his focus to change, and it feels as though he is looking through her, now. "Though it comes with pain most times, if not always."

Nathaniel Salem: "What was done, what was said. Inconsistencies explained and sorted through anger, most times."
Nathaniel Salem: "At myself, at others," he retracts his arm. "You are young, but you will come to know your worth, in time."
Nathaniel Salem: "I will be here to help. Yes?"

Cheche Dotharl smiles. "-- I see." This time, she carefully reaches a hand-- hovering it over him before she took his. She gives it a soft squeeze before letting go. "Sometimes, you are much like those of the Steppes. I think Nhaama would be very fond of you, had you been of our kin."

Cheche Dotharl: "I think she relishes in that anger."

Nathaniel Salem smiles at her, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You have said something similar before. If I didn't know better, I would say you might even mean it." The lukewarm teasing quickly dispatched, he continues: "I am bound to some other lands, and to some other culture; as well as to some other Gods."

Nathaniel Salem: "I would not have it any other way, love."

Cheche Dotharl returns a stare, her eyes not quite reaching anywhere in particular as they face him. Faded as they were. "-- then I can only hope that your land, your culture and your Gods are kinder to you." Her hand reaches the table this time, feeling in estimation before locating his cup. She brings it, offering it to him. "As I hope you are kind to yourself."

Nathaniel Salem: "...Not act of kindness has ever truly pushed a man to better oneself."
Nathaniel Salem: "Fear does."

Cheche Dotharl: "Still, there is no harm in hoping."

Nathaniel Salem: "Then hope to the best of your ability." He looks down on her, eyes vaguely sunny. "Anger is not a thing to look for, in a Salem, though we know it present. It is something to harness. The best mages know that passions lead to wanton destruction."
Nathaniel Salem: "Of the warlock who would raise a loved one out of love, of the cultist who would call forth horrors beyond our plane, as the world destroyed them, and they want to destroy it in turn."
Nathaniel Salem: "All," he articulates, "Acts of anger left unchecked."

Cheche Dotharl hums, tilting her head. It's clear she doesn't entirely understand it but she would nonetheless accept it. "-- in that case, I hope that you harness that anger for yourself. Perhaps after tea." She smiles after that, a rare spark in her eye.
Nathaniel Salem looks down on her, and even with the hardened expression, keeps humor in his tone: "Tread with caution. I am still your teacher."

Cheche Dotharl feels to pick her own cup. She sips from it. "I was under the assumption you would enjoy a challenge." Her tone turns more sincere afterwards. "-- thank you. For still deciding to teach me."

Nathaniel Salem: "We will have to make adjustments, Cheche. But I will teach you, still. Though I will teach different things." He cants his head to the side. "I would like to see you go home when we are done, if only for a short while. Let them know who you are; and that you are not to be trifled with. That they are to accept who you became."

Nathaniel Salem: "I will make you fierce, and beyond worthy of respect. Offensive spells or not."
Nathaniel Salem: "You need not kill to be understood as a force of nature."

Cheche Dotharl takes another slow sip, eyelids fluttering with thought. "-- perhaps." The tips of her fingers drum upon her cup several more times after she had emptied it. She would, eventually, lower it down to smile. "It is the least I could do, I suppose."

Cheche Dotharl: "-- would you prefer me to leave you to your work, now?"

Nathaniel Salem: "Now that I have another pair of arms to help me go through the collection? I think not."
Nathaniel Salem: "I say we resume training today. ...Might as well."

Cheche Dotharl chuckles at that. Settling her cup upon the table, she nods. "At your word, Father Salem."