"I know this is a little unconventional for a birthday present," the Duke starts, and what he means is that it's much more than a little. Among all the stages that the former archon might call a home away from home, this one resembles those places only in its beaming spotlights and audience seating - for now mercifully empty. In all other ways - the faint stains of blood and other bodily substances on the floor, the lingering stench of iron and sweat, and the man across from her who has discarded his usual costume instead of adorning a new one - this is, he assumes, like nothing she's ever experienced.
"I thought you might have had enough of the cakes and autographs by now." Even if he'd asked Wolsey to prepare some sort of confection, he knows it would have been just a drop in the ocean by comparison. So he'd endeavored to steal Furina away instead, once all the festivities and attention had died away, and dragged her down to the deep, dark depths of the sea. Alone. The guards posted at the entrance to the Pankration ring had a duty to stop anyone curious or otherwise from coming to her rescue, so that prison warden and accomplished actress might square off in the center of a crude fighting ring undisturbed.
"I hear stories all the time about retired celebrities being assaulted. As you know, most of the offenders wind up here. Being out of the public eye just means it's easier for criminals to catch you alone."
He rolls the sleeves of his dark work shirt up past his elbows and raises his bandaged fists into a readied stance.
"So instead of another cake, you'll be getting a few lessons from the 'King of Criminals.'" He smiles teasingly - it'd been Furina who'd called him that, after all. "Say your complaints now or forever hold your peace."
THE DUKE CERTAINLY HAD A WAY WITH SURPRISES.γβ§γshe still has yet to decide whether she means that in a good way or not. arms fold across her chest. "i certainly don't have any shortage of complaintsββlike some warning, for instance." when he'd said he had something prepared for her deep inside of meropide, part of her had recalled the news reports of the grand ship that'd breached the churning waters of the flood that destined day like an ark of old and wondered if the belly of the fortress harbored some other secret for her just as unbelievable.
when the crowds of milling, regular workers had dwindled and then eventually disappeared altogether, leaving only his staunch figure to guide her through the network of massive pipes that served as the fortress' corridors, she'd hardly known what to think. like the first time they had properly met, the rubber tread of his footsteps and her own piccolo-staccato ones by comparison had been their only companions in the silence, and it brought back a strange claustrophobia she knew was a bit unfair to attribute to the duke alone.
any other man, and the thought would have crossed her mind earlier if she ought to devise an appropriate exit and take her leave where she could. but, she'd reasoned, this was wriothesley, with whom she had traveled alone all the way to natlan and back, and if he had wished to do her ill at any point of their somewhat unexpectedly prolonged acquaintance so far, he'd hardly need to wait until now. and so, all she'd kindled instead was a curious anticipation that built and built. . .
only to be. . . questionably?ββsuspended when the great iron seal of the pankration ring booms shut behind them with a rather threatening fall of a latch.
should she be worried about how excited he looks?
or was it just that she'd rarely seen him smile before?
with a sigh, she uncrosses her arms, but even the most dignified mask can't completely hide the nervous light behind her eyes. what exactly was she supposed to do against him? his hands, bandaged and pulled taut into fists that, she's certain, could cave her skull in a blow if he wanted to. gentlemanly as he could be, wasn't he also just thatββthe king of criminals? "is it. . . hand-to-hand?" not even with her sceptre she could manifest, or the help of her salon? by comparison, her own gloved ones, laughably delicate and nearly without callous.
but in looking down at them, out of nowhere, she finds herself envisioning brilliant fire and atomic, dazzling strikes. fu hua. her stomach squeezes uncomfortably. some time ago, she had asked her for a lesson under similar reasons after a humiliating showing among proper warriors had left her smarting and chagrined. with another sound exhale, furina squares her courage in her chest and thinks to herself:
what is the worst that can happen? surely, he won't kill her.
and so those delicate hands resolve to peel off their ivory gloves, laying them one over the other to the side on the edge of a crate. polished nails, smooth knuckles, unblemished skin. all the work and time that had gone into keeping them that way for the exacting and all-seeing eye of the kamera. she can't say she has faith, necessarily, that anything would come of this save another round of embarrassment, but at least there wouldn't be anybody else around to see. and wriothesley seemed a man that could keep secrets.
"very well. i don't know how much i can promise, but i imagine you don't offer this to just anyone, or very often." her expression lifts a little at thatββfrom one sort of virtuoso to another, she can appreciate the time and effort set aside to take another under their wing, even if only briefly, and for a most bizarre birthday present. "so if nothing else, i should at least give it my best."