* ✶ REMINISCENCE IN GOLD.
at first, he swore it was a faint trick of the eye. canary yellow and concord purple are the whispered remains of a childhood forgotten, in a similar fashion as the bruises that no longer litter across tanned knees or the milk teeth that had fallen one by one and signalled the coming of adolescence. the end of their companionship was dictated when land fell to sea, when the glitz and glamour of nobility crumbled ‘neath the devastating call of war. constance von nuvelle became a name that was no longer attached to the face of a beloved friend but an idea, an idyllic period of life nestled in the temporary sanctum of childhood.
they were as thick as thieves once.
inseparable.
when they were children, it did not matter who belonged to higher nobility or who originated from a lesser house. status was fictitious to youth enamoured by the allure of grand ballrooms and crystalline chandeliers, innocent spirits yet to understand their place to the world at large. admittedly, ferdinand remembers: the echoes of their laughter and the cheers that surrounded them as they twirled at center stage, the applause that showered down upon them and her smile that sparkled brighter than the fluorescent lights of the banquet. they were naive in those halcyon days, blissfully unaware of how transient peace was. infinity was defined in the layers of taffeta that she would wear, of how many times they would spin in the hall, of how much they could laugh until their cheeks would grow sore and their feet tired. even when they would inevitably depart back to their respective houses, the mundanity of politics overshadowed itself with the lingering anticipation of when they would be able to meet again under shimmering chandeliers and their wardrobe’s best. days were secretly counted by the beat of his heart and the constant wonder of what antics they would be able to pull in the grand hall next and if constance, too, waited eagerly for him.
however, at the end of the day, status mattered.
it would be too late by the time both of them would realize it. and, for them, that was it.
ferdinand was not someone to be overtaken by sentiment. he does not reminisce for he comes to learn that his position does not allow for it. always moving forward becomes his motto, head forever focused upon the future. when she falls, he does not halt. he goes onward, he keeps his head high, he tells himself: that was the end for her. it’s easier to believe that constance had perished with her house that day than to lead himself to believe that she remained alive, even if there were rumors of a nuvelle that survived. admittedly, there were times where he would reflect, times of which his heart turns back to his paradisal childhood and he thinks of her. times to where he would ponder what constance would be doing now, if she were well, if society would still accept her even if she were a fallen noble. times where he wished he could write to her again or times where he wished they could see each other in those noble parties once more and share a dance. there, at least, they would know it would be their last.
fate is strange.
fate is a fickle concept, always changing in the face of grand opportune. fate plays its hand again and initiates the impossible. for ferdinand, fate changes its course one spring afternoon. the day is mundane, eventful as any day is at the officer’s academy. it’s his turn to lend aid to the baby pegasi at the stalls, something that is admittedly the aegir heir’s joy even as he attempts to tame a rowdy foal. in a series of unfortunate event, it manages to drag him some distance until ferdinand latches onto a gate to steady himself. his footing slips and he stumbles into a person. they fall over and ferdinand immediately lifts himself up, gloved digits carding back wavy locks. he’s ready to issue an apology until he realizes who he’s above and finds himself rendered inaudible.
“constance,” he says, quietly. he blinks, then blinks again. she is not a figment of his imagination or, worse, a phantom. he stares until a smile cracks onto his lips, “constance von nuvelle!” a wave of enthrallment washes over him and his grin grows, “my, what a chance encounter this is!”
