facti ignis ;

my time has not yet come , but the graveyard of the world is already here

[sunsinger]

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— SUNSINGER ; an independent multimuse blog by alina featuring muses of fire emblem, league of legends, and genshin impact. 

blog is getting an overhaul rn so ignore that

.MUSES  ✧.* .TAGS  ✧.* .MUN

[sunsinger]

do us part .

gxldings​:

“That we will, surely… Assuredly.” 

Some memories fever fade, some lessons never leave. The difference between surely and assuredly was taught to him long ago, but it lives on in the madman’s heart. And the witch he looks to for comfort. She is living proof that some things are assured: borne of a constant and undying need.

They step through. Together.

And what they see is a sweeping view of the land along the waves. Contrary to Valentia, the sky is pitch-black. Only the glow of the stars, shine of lanterns, and pale reflection of the moon on the water light their way. Fitting, but cursed all the same. It seems destiny has resolved they never emerge with the morning dew or glow of an afternoon sun. No, darkness is their only guide–light must be kindled by their own hands. 

For their own sake, the destination of the gate nestles itself nicely within a back alley left untrodden for years. A nameless place on a nameless street, it may as well be a graveyard in a long-forgotten corner of the bustling city. Speaking of, their surroundings are anything but grave. Passerby will be seen if they walk to the edge of hole, the rambling of vendors can be heard not far away–listen a little more intently, and a gentle melody drifts into their ears. The night air is cool but brisk, kept tempered by the swirling storm of moving bodies and an active nightlife. It nips at their skin–both the feeling and unfeeling parts–in a way not that bites it off, but invites it to delve further. To feel it rush as it roves on by. Lif turns to Thrasir. The flickering of lights and robustness of activity is a lot for his eyes to adjust to. He needs to give himself a break with something familiar, something easy to look at.

“We arrive,” he heaves, before gesturing to the opening of their alley, “though it would seem our answers are not so easily obtainable that we could walk out and take them.” For what would the public eye have to say, about a pair of corpses in their midst? They look like monsters, they throb with an unholy beat. One look at their bodies and anyone sane would flee with fear. Anyone brave would attack them, creating a scene. 

So Lif proposes and alternative route: he turns his head skyward, gazing up at not just the stars, but the sides of the buildings encapsulating them. At the flattened and emerald eaves that would serve as the next stepping stone for their journey. “This city is naturally flat, being built on the water,” a fact anyone can reason out and attest to–one he has no doubt Thrasir already knows, “and it is entertaining enough to keep one’s attention on the ground. Our best bet… Is up.” 

And so the climb begins. His fist cracks through the tan brick that lines most buildings round these parts, digging with brute force a shelf to grab onto. Hoisting himself up, Lif creates another, and another, until he can fit his foot onto a windowsill. Reckless but efficient, he once again leverages the safety of his own flesh for time to further their goals. As the ringing of his gauntlets creates a tingly feeling against his skin, and the crumbling of hardened clay trickles over his hand, he offers the other to his witch. Better that he handle the physical work, putting to use a body cursed by beastly strength–

Spitting in the face of Hel’s design. 

∘₊✧── the beginning of another story unfolds before them. this one is lively in a different way than the last, populated not by the chatter of birds but the hum of laughter. it’s a sound that sends thrasir’s spine rigid with anger, with envy. 

it’s beautiful, though she can only acknowledge such a fact silently. in the heart that has been long since silenced by death’s own hold, she imagines not a witch or a swordsman but a girl and a boy, hand in hand as they step through star-lit streets.

foolish, that thought, for such naive things should have died with the very girl she mourns now. 

crimson meets crimson, irises equally bloodstained. in the silence she hopes that he has thought the same, that she need not feel so ashamed of her worthless daydream -- that perhaps, in his own chest, there is a heart that longs just the same as hers. maybe then, when they have rebuilt embla and askr, when they are born anew... maybe then they might return.

and she hates herself for thinking such a thing. 

witch’s head turns abruptly away, facing the gate through which they had just stepped. lips wrought into her ever-present frown, thrasir does as she was always meant to do. even without veins to carry it, her bloodline’s very purpose flows through her still. with a burst of the arcane, askr’s gate is closed by embla’s own. to his beginning, she is the end.

when her gaze meets his again, the hopeful girl has been extinguished once more.

“up,” she agrees, though does not phrase the question of how. it is not as though she has to, as he wastes no time in beginning his ascent. in this just as in the way he fights, her alfonse resembles the beast that death has made of him. it is as harsh of a reality check as any, and as thrasir picks along the path that he carves, she tells herself that it is better this way.

when brick finally falls away, revealing ebony sky and gilded rooftops, thrasir pulls herself up with a soft grunt of effort. dusting crumbled brick from the armor at her wrists, she comes to stand at her partner’s side.

“ oh, ” though the noise leaves her involuntarily, like a sigh. the city spans miles, cut in sections by crystal water, and throughout it is the unmistakable breath of life. warm light dances upon each surface, glittering even without the sun.

and, at its center, a glass dome from which even she can hear a violin choir.

just as soon as the girl is dead does she rise, a nuisance in the back of the witch’s mind, and yet present all the same. thrasir’s lips press into a line.

“you said... we were looking for a song...”

it’s as obvious as it possibly could be, and yet she feels embarrassment burn at her cheeks as though there were still blood left to pool there. she does not look at lif, for she fears that should their gazes meet once more, he will recognize what dwells beneath them.

[sunsinger]

do us part .

gxldings​:

A sigh. She believes. She doesn’t stake her hope on the song itself, but the madman’s theory that it could be her cure. Thrasir trusts Lif, willing to very literally throw herself to the edge of the world with him.

“Veronica…” Jump into chaos, and she’d follow. It’s not that she can’t think for herself, but the presence of the other has taken on new meaning: “Having you at my side… Is more important than anything else. I’ll not let myself forget…” 

He can’t bear to look at her now, not when something between wistfulness and dangerous love brews beneath. Keep it down long enough and he can learn to bear the pain, but let even an ounce out, and their fate will smell it. It’s a predator, never stalking far behind–ready to hunt their hearts…

That’s what they’ve always believed, right? 

Firm fingers fiddle with the gate. Its mechanism is barely half as complex as that of Askr’s. Lif has to inch closer and focus when shifting its destination, allowing the task to leave his muscle memory so he can focus on it–so he can push out thoughts that would only bring him harm. Thrasir, naturally, proves hard to shake–evidenced by a brief pause in his work to three-quarters turn his head, “And… Thank you.”

The final slot clicks into place; their destination is set. The shovel buries the last of the wanderer’s thoughts as he presses forward, and from the sky erupts their calling bell. It tolls once; the rift expands. Peering inside reveals little more than a dark corridor, but walk some few feet forward and light would begin to shine. The forgotten backstreet of Cyrkensia would be their rendezvous point, should the inevitability of their plan joining them in the grave catching up to them. It always happens that way. The dead are unceasing, ever-growing: it would take a miracle for the bones to thin. 

Lif steps back, allowing the entire view of the portal to fill his gaze. As he stands next to Thrasir, the silent oath is made. They would go in together, only when the other is ready. An open palm–ready to hold–is the witch’s cue that her swordsman is waiting on her signal.

Perhaps this world would yield more of an answer. Perhaps it would be the one to be worth the time it takes to explore. Doubt and hope pull on Lif in equal measure–his heart swayed in neither direction. 

It won’t ever get easy, but they would have suffered enough at some point. 

∘₊✧── “ alfonse... ”

his name, that’s it. it’s all she dares to breathe, the only affection she trusts to fall from her lips and not be swept away by whatever cruel force had so mercilessly snuffed out their hope only moments ago. 

but it is an affection worth more than any flowery words or stolen touches. they have such little left--skin that can hardly feel and hearts that do not beat but only ache. to tell him something so cruel as the fact that she loves him would be to invite more misery upon their already wretched souls.

because to love him plainly is to acknowledge just how much their fates have denied them. it would be unraveling the bandages of a years old wound, revealing a scar they both know is there but refuse to see.

“you need not thank me.”

her arms are drawn together, armor-clad fingers folded around herself as though there might be some warmth to draw from them. this all has been one long funeral procession--one miserable parade towards death, each step fueled by rebellion, by denial. carmine eyes glue themselves to the ground, daring not to watch the other as he works.

a death march, but one made together. at least, when all is finally gone, it will have been lost with her hand in his.

for now, they may continue to cling to their hope. feeble, fickle, hope, but nonetheless. it dulls the blow, to pretend they have some sort of control over this all. to allow themselves to believe that there is a way to defy the hand that death has dealt them, and to throw themselves helplessly towards a cause that will amount to nothing.

but at least there is him.

their gateway is opened in a brilliant flash and, not for the first time, thrasir is reminded that she envies him. her partner in this grave, two steps deeper than she, and yet still capable of creating. something that she had never been graced with, for the life laid before her was always laced with the promise of closure.

of an end.

perhaps she had accursed him to this fate--blown out that spark of hope she had so envied in the boy who had done her nothing but kindness. perhaps it had been his proximity to her, a curse. perhaps-

thrasir blinks, the palm of her other coming into focus.

they have further yet to travel on this path, longer still to pretend that what awaits them may just be something even an ounce less miserable than eternity in bodies that cannot feel the touch of the other.

“this will be it,” fingers slip into his, curl around his palm and squeeze, “and if not...”

witch takes a step forward, lips pursed.

“then we’ll find what is.”

[sunsinger]

do us part .

gxldings​:

“And no less salt to rub in our words.” 

The revenant stands before the tower, hope drained from his eyes. He knew it was foolish–boyish, so much like Alfonse–to cling onto hope. Dead hands cannot grasp the living; cold steel won’t touch the warm sun. The scene before him is grim: rocks forming the foundation of a once-great structure, rubble consisting of what little ‘floors’ are left. It’s enough to get Lif to hiss beneath his mask. To even voice that it is of no use to them would be to mirror Duma Tower’s sorry state of affairs.

Lif steps forward, and rage coils around his fist. His instinct is speaking to him–roaring in his ear and demanding he lurch forward. He wants to lash out, demolishing what little remains with just his gauntlets. And his hand trembles, ready to really do it. But he stops. He could hurt himself. Injuries against a rotting body are permanent; for her sake, he cannot allow himself to be reckless. So instead he draws Sokkvabekkr from his hip, brandishing it as he did against the undead. Using his hilt he delivers a fierce bash to a chunk of still-standing wall. It crumbles beneath his strength, giving in before having a chance to resist. Such is the lethality of the swordsman, such is the brutal strength of this construct built to kill. “Let us go,” he snaps, whirling on his heel–that tattered cape flapping in his wake.

“There is nothing left for us in these lands. We must rethink… Our strategy.” 

Strategy. It spews from his mouth like poison. To say they even have the inkling of a plan would be a poorly constructed lie. There is no strategy, no goal now that Plan A is bust. And Lif knows that. He knows, and yet, the boy comes back to haunt him. Alfonse wants to believe that there’s something more. Maybe a thread he can take hold of: something even zombified hands can stand to grab. 

He begins to walk, trusting Thrasir would follow.

Dragon degeneration isn’t the answer, nor is it something they can even begin to research. Retracing their steps, Lif begins to think; Alfonse browses the shelves of Askr’s great library. He knew so many heroes from so many worlds, some lost within themselves, some learning to heal after dreams of dark and dusk. He could recount every country from every continent they pulled them from, once upon a time. There were the worlds of Blazing and Radiance, of Fate and Genealogy. Most everything is lost to him now: a book with pages torn right out. 

Nothing clicks. Not as they trek past the site of their encounter, not as they head through the forest, not as they sneak through roads less traveled by until finally they reach the gate. During all this time Lif speaks not a word, with the reflection of his past hard at work rummaging through scraps of history. It is only once he sees the swirling tempest in the sky that memories come flooding back: trashed records a graveyard of knowledge, thrumming with new life. He once knew, he once knew…

“The Kingdom…” speaks the boy, his paper-cut hands waving a passage of text dug from a mound of rubble, “…Along the Coast…” 

And Lif says the same.

“Veronica.” He turns to her, mask wedged between thumb and index. He does not look directly her way at first–and his eyes are rife with a kind of scheming fervor–but they refocus onto her carmine when the idea solidifies. He’s found something, “There exists a song capable of removing curses… Our curses. Our time is better spent trying to take that power ourselves, rather than wasting away out here.” 

He makes no motion to move. Not while they are yet to be in agreeance. No pieces are to be placed on the board until they are both sure it belongs, no decision made without the confirmation of the other. Time is a resource to their fading bodies: they must be absolutely sure they can make the most of every. single. second.

∘₊✧── this song and dance is one they both know well. disappointment, hopelessness, all that comes in its wake.

thrasir watches, expression distant, as her companion wears the same pain she feels. rock crumbles, another casualty amidst the sea they stand in. at least this one is of their own doing. all of this hope, this potential, taken from them by fate.

and yet what they seek now was surrendered by their own hands. the naïve, foolish hands of children, but theirs all the same.

not for the first time, thrasir wonders if this is what they deserve.

more stone crunches, though now to her swordsman’s heavy footfalls. his pain is the storm that it always has been, wrought into anger, each tear accompanied by a thunderclap. he is at his fiercest this way--grieving--and how fortunate it must have been for their master that he never has a chance to stop.

his assumption is correct, as her own feet begin along his path of their own volition. it is natural to follow him, to make sure the distance between their bodies is always measured, intentional--to ensure that he may never wander far, that he may never be forced to add her absence to his list of things to mourn.

witch’s eyes never once leave him as they walk. death has made him a masterpiece, carved a creature as fascinating as this one from the cruelest of marble. he is beautiful in this way, strikingly human despite the silence that has replaced his heartbeat.

in these moments, she thinks she might just catch a glimpse of the boy that started this all. the boy who she hated, the boy who she envied. the boy who ended the world with her, who stood hand in hand at her side as they bled humanity dry.

the boy who wants so desperately for that world back.

he has stopped, and so she has as well. eyes narrow in anticipation, readying for whatever evidence of that boy might surface now.

“a song,” she echoes, voice dull. it is not quite disbelief, not quite consideration. there is no doubt in her eyes, no sign of unwillingness. she would follow him across time, scar every face of every earth at his side, for far less.

eyes shut and arms cross, shoulders rising in a crude mockery of an inhale. she could doubt him, could drag him from this path before they go further. their lives may have ended, their time to haunt this universe unending, but the clock on their salvation ticks ominously.

and if they do not find it before that hour meets its end, there will be nothing left of the both of them. no flesh, no soul, nothing but mindless puppets without a master. two who can find comfort in nothing, not even one another.

“if you believe that this song might truly save us,” through her lashes now she sees him, framed by sunlight and life, by all the things that he once was, “than we will find it. we must.”

[sunsinger]

Midnight Solstice

gxldings​:

A long silence follows. 

She has given him much to think about, and he only hopes she doesn’t mind that he does so. When stalking the kill, when hiding in shadow, Talon has an eternity’s moment at his fingertips. Sometimes it’s there without his say-so, and other times he does not need to wait but he does, contemplating one’s life before it ends–envisioning futures where things were different. 

It’s only now that he begins to contemplate his own life… And hers. 

Most people bat eyes at corpses. As he breaks their shared stare and saunters forward, he reads the subtext of her statement. The Crownguard family is not most people. They’re exceptional, he hears, far different from the rest. Infamous enough in Noxus to have their faces plastered over bounty boards, and likely painted on portraits in Demacia’s vanguard. He was right to bully her about being a black sheep, and now that he’s won, he realizes the victory was always meant to be a hollow one.

He continues through the off-road, and a gnarled tree blocks his path. Its roots twist and arch over the ground like they’re grasping for the surface, the main body less of an original idea, and more the lucky winner of the bunch. Only it gets to grow into the canopy above, stretching leaves like fingers into the warmth of the sun, the cool glow of the moon.

And as he passes it by, a faint light catches his attention. Stuck under a mound of warped bark is a firefly: existing as a light in a place where he saw only darkness. It gives Talon two flashes and flies off, leaving him to turn the other way.

He trusts Lux isn’t far behind. She has no reason to run, after all.

“… What does it matter to you if we do, if we don’t? Death is all the same to you: an escape.” Practiced hands thrum against a belt of well-worn knives. Each has earned its glory in battle, its exalted status as an instrument of Talon’s art from the blood they’ve spilled. They remain sheathed as long as it takes Lux to inch closer. Once Talon’s eye–half turned to spot her–makes out the details of her face, he cuts his finger holding one by its edge. The pain of freezing blood doesn’t bother him.

It flies through the air without a sound, its lethal point shining through the darkness–able to end one’s life before they can gasp. But is does not seek that of the blonde, and for that he will call it Lux. Rather, its handle collides with her chest, having been thrown backwards. It would still hurt on account of the force put into his swing, but leather-bound steel cannot kill. “Fight me,” a hoarse voice demands, “and I’ll give you something you’ve never had before… A chance.” 

One of his own slips between his fingers, and the great blade on his arm retracts to make the fight fair. It’ll be just her, him, and the moon as their witness. Talon wants to believe that his faith in Lux is real; he wants to see her swing with the kind of hatred that he learned as a boy. As his arms cross over themselves and pull the butt of his shiv to his chin, they long for the validation that comes with knowing their skills are common among all raised without love–that they chose the only path they could, that they were made by Noxian streets and nothing more. 

If they’re the same, he’ll kill her. Lux will learn the lessons Talon did, only from a far more effective teacher. And if not, the assassin will reach a crossroads. Could hope be brought to his future? Could past scars be healed–a blade taught to not cut? He fully expects to bring the beast out of the blonde, but the faintest spark can be seen in the corner of his eye. Were he not focused on the fight, he’d wonder if it was the firefly, or the solemn wish that things could be different. 

∘₊✧── he leaves, she is obligated to follow. a funeral procession. a joke.

metal knocks against her sternum with a dull thud, falling unceremoniously into the grass between her feet a breath after. it leaves her stunned, heartbeat thrumming in her ears. it was perfectly aimed, her life spared only by the direction of the razor edge.

lux swallows, staring down at it. moonlight glints back up at her, reflecting in perfectly polished steel. her assailant speaks from where he stands, demands something of her.

a fight, her reward a chance. what chances did he truly think she wanted for. a chance to live? to run? she has done more than enough of either, is sick of both.

and he will kill her. bought time expires here, hours before it is due. she cannot wield a weapon, whether sword or dagger, she has never been allowed to try. physical strength is not something she has ever honed, her training limited to the kind of things noble ladies were expected to know. her family valued power, sought to cultivate it.

the idea of her with it scared them.

but what is there to do other than go out fighting? pathetic of an effort it will be, at least it was one at all. lux crouches, taking the dagger between her fingers carefully, studying it as she rights herself. an object that could take her life in a half of a second, hardly larger than the distance from her middle fingertip to her wrist.

eyes flicker towards her captor turned foe. he does not move to attack her, only stands with his own blade raised. he’s anticipating her strike, offering her the first move. gooseflesh crawls over her skin, gaze catching on that sliver of orange that peeks out from the corner of his eye.

she feels clumsy, inching a foot forward, finding some crude imitation of what a fighter’s stance should be. heat creeps to her face, inexperience showing in absolutely every move she makes. is it sad, to find herself embarrassed in a moment like this? where her life is the thing she’s supposedly fighting for? shouldn’t she care more about the objective than the means of getting there, be more desperate?

teeth gritted, lux does as she has been asked. she lunges.

if her movements had felt clumsy a moment ago, they are undeniably so now. her knife hand arcs wide, an awkward motion far more resemblant of a sword than a dagger. it doesn’t connect, sings through empty air.

she knows as soon as she stumbles back that she has failed, signed her life away with one futile attempt to save it. her chest heaves, breaths heavy, as prepared as she knows how to be for what is sure to come.

[sunsinger]

Midnight Solstice

gxldings​:

“I find it odd, nothing more.” 

Lux receives another prod for her insolence, the trained killer spiteful of the way it never falters. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot wrap his head around her mind. Normally he is rather contemplative, and normally he can understand one’s intents for the purpose of fighting them; he’s spent years tracking movements and behaviors, yet hers eludes him.

Maybe it’s best to give up on the chase. It’s clear he won’t get anywhere by trying to reason with the unreasonable. 

“It’s pathetic,” he comments, “that this is the best Demacia can do. No training, no guards… They let you walk out without anything to keep you safe. You were meant to die here.” 

It’s amusing in a way. Talon came to Demacia with the intention of earning a duel, and has come out with enough information to make him head of House Du Couteau. That his country’s enemy equips their VIPs with so little… He wonders what the likes of Noxus’ military would think of that. He could probably earn himself a career off of missions like these: diving into enemy territory and coming out with one of its important figures, again and again until Demacia is a headless chicken. 

He smirks beneath his mask. Not something Lux could see unless she turns around.

“Almost like they don’t care. Nobody will realize you’re gone until your body hits the Noxian gutter.” Her shoulder suddenly jerks back from the force of Talon’s hand pulling on it. He wants her to stop so that he may walk in front, turn to look into her eyes, and drink of the despair he can inflict onto her with daggered words. “I wonder if they’d even bat an eye at your corpse.” 

Just like him.

In truth, Talon doesn’t actually know the situation in Demacia. They could be fighting a battle right now and have no soldiers to spare. They could simply be so trusting of fools that a Crownguard out at night with no means of self-defense is a common occurrence. They could absolutely care. But nobody has ever cared about him. He’s long since forgotten the familiarity of family, the comfort of home. Seeing and knowing that another has an abundance of both twists his heart into a knife. He hates it. Loathes it. Wishes that taking their life could take everything else from them, too. 

Understanding that his wish will never be granted, he settles for kicking her to his level. If she is stripped of her dignity–her privilege–Talon can pretend he is above her. If she begins to actually believe that she is unloved and discarded by her house, some twisted part of him would revel in that misery. Or so he thinks. 

What he disguises as a desire to hunt and take away can crack to reveal the simple truth: Talon wants to be understood. His heart is cold and pulseless, but it is still a heart. And a heart yearns for another. It wants the comfort in knowing that what he has to go through is, in some way or another, felt by those he hates. 

In all his time spent thinking before the kill, he has never reached this conclusion himself. He believes the face value of it all, completely blind to the inevitability that whether intentional or not, he will dive deeper. No secret stays hidden forever, not even the little street boy who could smile and laugh before his world went tumbling into shadow. 

∘₊✧── for blindly thrown daggers, they bury themselves in every tender part of her flesh that she had thought guarded. those hawk’s eyes are trained on her again, burning with an emotion she cannot place.

is it hatred? maybe, though something tells her that there is more to it than that. hatred does not come without cause -- to everything there must be a reason -- and this feels hotter than just a petty distaste for nobility. 

her own are unreadable, swimming with a hundred different thoughts. there is no hurt there, not the fresh kind that he likely seeks. this is not a new wound, does not weep scarlet or mar untouched skin. he digs into old scars, carves away at poorly healed flesh. it will only knit back together again after, only be marginally worse than before. he cannot make the truth any uglier than she already knows it to be.

lux is silent, her jaw clenched. he doesn’t know, she tells herself. and yet the fact that it is so plain, that her home’s indifference towards her life is clear enough that he doesn’t have to, makes her chest ache.

“most people bat eyes at corpses,” she retorts, though the fire behind it has been snuffed out. there’s more to be said, insults to be thrown -- not everybody surrounds themself with death the way that you so clearly enjoy -- but she finds herself too tired to aim them properly.

you were meant to die here, he had said. laughable, almost, for she had hardly been meant to live at all.

she would like to step forward now, press on, and force an end to this uncomfortable staring contest. such an act would likely have consequences, though idly she wonders if he would prefer that. if giving him an excuse to to cut her throat just to hear her cry would put an end to whatever mental game he’s trying so hard to play.

“if would hope you aren’t foolish enough to believe that this is demacia’s best. not that i can stop you, or that i should bother trying,” it would be funny to let him believe the ease with which he had won her life would be reoccurring. 

fingers twitch at her sides. she has made an error here, finally implied that her life’s worth is different. eyes search his, waiting for that to click and praying silently that it doesn’t. the truth is that they will search for her, but only after however long it takes to realize she is missing, and only for as long as they have the patience for. it would be easy to pronounce her dead and bury an empty casket, to laugh at some noxian heresy should they dare accuse their dear, sweet luxanna of mage’s blood.

it would be that easy to act as though she had never existed at all. a relief, even.

her throat is tight when she speaks again. “what does it matter to you if they care, if they don’t? are all noxians truly so barbaric to play with their kills before they bleed them out? does it make you feel better if they hate the lives you choose to deprive them of?”

[sunsinger]

Midnight Solstice

gxldings​:

It bothers him to no end that poking her back with his blade is a pointless act, but he does so anyways. Fleet-footed boots trudge through the dump they made to take her hostage. She’s been cooperative thus far, not even seeming to carry a weapon on her hip. So Talon trusts she would simply let him do this. He isn’t even on his guard for a second of his walk, though his teeth grit at the idea that control isn’t something to be seized between the two: it usually gives his knives a fair deal of weight.

“I have no name or family,” he confesses, “you’re going to help get them back.” 

When he steps forward, the extension of his arm drives deeper into the skin of her shoulder and acts as her signal to move. Again it is not necessary, and again it enrages Talon to think so. But what other choice does he have? If he waits longer, debates philosophy as a terrorist, the sun will surely rise. And he’ll lose the protective veil of shadow, but more importantly, she will have fled to Noxus. If Talon wants his plan to work, he needs her in a vulnerable state. Lux must die before her very eyes, and the work is to be made to look like hers. 

Talon muses over the specifics now that he has the Demacian in his possession. He dreams of leaving Katarina, the dagger, lodged in her throat. To the unsuspecting eye it’d be just another of Sinister Steel’s many knives, but to her, it’s Talon’s calling card.

He imagines she’d try to pick it up and kill him with it… When he wins, it will come back into his hands, and life will begin anew.

But the longer they walk–slinking just some ways off the traveled path, through brush and thick forest–the more she bugs him. Little details, like her lack of preparedness, strike a chord within his soul. Why haven’t the people of Demacia noticed one of their royals missing? Why hasn’t he heard the sound of a search party, or the swift spokes of a convoy sent to spread the word? And what of counter-assassins, lurking where he would, trying to spy into Noxus because they would do anything to shift the blame onto them? 

Seconds stretch into minutes, and minutes into what feel like hours. He’s not one to deny his own skill, but even Talon expected some kind of alarm to be tripped. That, or a way for Lux to defend herself.

“…Have you no sword?” he asks, his voice the only thing to cut through the dead silence of night, “You Demacians always have swords… Your brother is known for his.”  

∘₊✧── no, it isn’t necessary. she would comply regardless, the thought of running long since abandoned. he will kill her anyway, what is the benefit of speeding that process along?

so she lets him lead her in this silence of his own creation, not bothering to push or shatter it. he had given her the answers she sought, even if vaguely. it will be more than a single night’s effort to understand the rest.

it’s a surprise when his voice finally breaks the night’s quiet. lux’s lips etch a frown into her face, her jaw clenching. now he’s asking questions, ones that prod a dangerous line.

“i was never trained with a blade,” the answer is given matter-of-factly, like he should have known already. “my brother is the captain of our vanguard, of course he is known for his.” 

garen had a purpose, a pedestal, and he took such things in the stride expected of someone with their last name. he had been her best friend, once, when they were younger -- had carried her through the streets of high silvermere on his shoulders. there was a time where he was her most trusted confidant.

she had watched that light go out at the introduction of her own, siphoned from his eyes when he had returned home one day and never to be seen again. it was always colder, after that, watching him succeed in all of the places she was told to step away from.

though it isn’t envy that makes her chest ache, it’s the feeling of loneliness that she has been forced to become acquainted with.

“if i had a sword, i’m certain you would know by now. why do you care? me being unarmed and unguarded should be nothing more than a relief to you.”

[sunsinger]

Midnight Solstice

gxldings​:

Fine… Fine?! She can’t see the hole his mouth makes from under his mask, but the shadow’s eyes explode at the mention of being fine with this predicament. Anger sets his cloak ablaze in the cold of midnight, warming an otherwise shivering soul. Something is sincerely wrong with this girl. He was either right about her having a death wish, or another matter is brewing beneath the surface.

Whatever the case may be, Talon doesn’t like it.

His blade grows weary–trembling once–at Lux’s speech. He questions whether this is fear he feels, or violence? Hatred? Solace…? The shivs at his hip are strangely forgotten about, though they jingle and play their bladed notes with each breath he takes. He wants to stab her, and he doesn’t. The Crownguard doesn’t know it, but she’s willingly handing over more than just her life. Talon’s chance at freedom and restoration ride on the seizing of her body. If his hands can just sink into that woman’s guts, everything will be alright again, won’t it? Life will return to its simpler era, the General will be found. He can go back to killing for its own sake, not having to worry about living in anyone’s shadow or honed-in sights. Something so grand can’t be coming to him so easily! No, he won’t accept it. Nothing has ever come to him easily, not food nor water, sweet breath nor the voice to cry screaming.

His foot draws a line in the mud as it moves. It’s beginning to curl into a readied stance: a beast, about to strike.

“Corpses don’t have memories,” he replies, letting the lunar glow against his weapon set his face alight, “what good would it do you to know? You’ll die all the same.” 

Nothing about her is likeable. Her attitude and defiance betray her noble appearance, each sliding up her arm until they’re worn over her fine Demancian garb. Surely she can’t be so brash. Yet he is drawn to her. Wants to know more, to study and analyze this behavior while he skewers it to pieces. Would she struggle? Maybe wail? if he lunged for her gut right now? His contemporary understanding of blue blood says yes, but everything in this brief meeting just screams otherwise. He gets the strange feeling he’d be thanked for killing her–for lying, stealing, slaughtering, all to survive. For the ugly way of life he spent years carving from the hands of others in the Noxian underbelly, that all mortal life must otherwise despise. 

But… Not her. Not Luxanna Crownguard, of all people. The woman whose life he intended to dangle from his finger like a common trinket, until one of Katarina’s daggers came flying for its chain.

Hawklike eyes relax some, having thought through their feelings regarding the matter. They cast their pointed glare straight for those of their prey, knowing and perhaps having grown to expect, that hers would glare right back. 

“… Drop the act. I can smell your fear.” 

∘₊✧── “that is exactly why you should have no issue telling me,” she is firm in this, unflinching at the careless throwing of the word corpse, as though she has already been made one.

“i cannot sell your identity, cannot turn you in. knowing what my life’s purpose is to become will harm nobody but myself.” 

perhaps she wishes to know just in the hopes of it being something better than what it was before her days were numbered. that at the very least her life will have amounted to something. even if that something is cruel. she can accept that, she thinks, for anything at all would be better than the disappointment that she has been so freely named otherwise.

he snarls at her, but it feels empty. she loses nothing by admitting to her fear, does not strive to conceal it for any sincere gain. it is nothing more than for her own self. to look defeat in the eyes and simply accept it for what it is feels leagues better than to do what perhaps she should.

to admit that this fate is better than the one that looms over her head every day in the comfort of her own home -- a guillotine waiting for only a single slip up before it drops.

“good,” she turns her head, thrumming impatient fingers against her bicep. “i am sure you are well accustomed, that you enjoy it, even.” 

a huff, breath fogging the night air. “it would serve you well to savor it, seeing as it is likely i’ll only live to provide for half as long as you’d like.” now she looks to him again, clenching her jaw against a shiver. “or is it that you would like something more performative? i thought my instructions were not to scream.”

though her resolve does show wear, even if subtly. in the way that she stiffens as his hackles raise, the way his taunts make her flinch. if he’s prolonging this interaction to get something from her, they will be here until dawn before she cracks.

absently, she wonders if anyone would come for her. if guards would see, if they have orders to pretend that they didn’t. the answer is no, she realizes with a jolt, and it is not because her life matters. 

it is because she is demacia’s best kept secret.

another show of her impatience, this time in the shift of her weight from one foot to the other. “do you intend to keep threatening me here until you are caught? or are you just that incapable of accepting an easy victory?”

[sunsinger]

Midnight Solstice

gxldings​:

“Hmph.”

Talon scoffs, almost in amusement. She isn’t revealing anything to him, and that’s smart. He, on the other hand, has already said too much. It’s a strange feeling to have the tables turned on a practiced assassin in this way, and so Talon is–for once–at an impasse for how to act. Would he benefit in any way from divulging into his identity? The work of a killer is lonesome, and he often thinks to himself about things. Many things. Sometimes, things he had forgotten, like family, compassion, friendship. But who is he kidding? He’s on a mission, for himself. It had been long since he did something truly selfish, and he isn’t going to throw this away over the cleverness of a little girl. He resolves that no matter how much cunning Lux intrigues and surprises him with, he’d be true to his purpose.

So he sighs, blowing hot breath through his mask and into the dead cold of night. Talon watches as the vapor nearly forms a translucent cloud. It’s fleeting. Like this moment, like this woman. Her life would end in a matter of days, if she doesn’t try to resist him here. It’s useless trying to get anything out of her besides his fight with his sister, and with that he’d make up his mind. 

He shakes his head, hawk-like eyes folding into slits serving as the only facial feature Lux can see in this dim light. “I am an assassin,” is the crude answer to her question, “nothing more. You happen to be worth more than the average street dog, Crownguard, and so I’ll get from you what I want.” 

But that would probably fuel a desire to get her life done and over with, wouldn’t it? After all, spiting his increasingly unlikable personality might seem a more appealing option. And let’s face it, she no doubt knows he was bluffing about keeping her alive. He can see it in her eyes; she wouldn’t have acted defiantly otherwise. Unless of course, she has a death wish. But no highborne noble who actually believes their pursuer might keep them alive if they cooperate would want to do things that would even risk getting themselves killed. And Lux has overstepped the typical cation of nobles, by a large margin. Talon muses for a moment, before the sharp end of his arm-blade extends and glints in the darkness. Through the reflection of its metal, the crescent moon shines, and marginally illuminates their surroundings. 

“Come quietly, and I’ll make your end nice and swift once I dispose of you…” Fingers rise to trace along its edge, stopping at the point before Talon makes a downward-stroke motion. He’s no longer lying about keeping her alive. “But resist, and I’ll slash your teeth with my blades, then toss you to the underbelly streets to fend for yourself.”

The choice is hers, and knowing the structure of high society, it is an incredibly obvious one.

∘₊✧── an assassin. helpful, he is, offering the absolute bare minimum. lux’s lips press into a thin line. it’s only a scrap of self preservation that prevents her from rolling her eyes, for demanding he state anything other than the obvious.

her fight is already lost, at least in the physical realm, but the mental is another game entirely. he isn’t after money, and yet her life is still of some sort of worth. he has revealed his hand, there is something personal going on here.

metal sings through crisp midnight air, attesting to the sharpness of his blade and the sincerity of the threat it carries. lux swallows, narrowed gaze darting between silver and searing orange.

a predator’s eyes, sizing her up like prey.

“fine,” plain and simple, said as her eyes settle finally back upon his own. she does not fear death, not really. in a number of moments it feels favorable, though perhaps it is her inexperience with the matter that allows her such a brave attitude.

shoulders roll back, her posture righting. it could appear as an intimidation tactic, perhaps, were such a display being made in the middle of a classroom, but here it only serves to make her feel small. nonetheless, her arms fold over her chest and she makes a great show of tilting her chin upwards.

she has been a noble brat long enough to look it, at least.

“i will come with you, silently, and you can have my life when you’re done with it.” he doesn’t have to know that her family will feel nothing but relief in her absence, that her funeral will be held with false mourning. her parents had spent all twenty odd years of her life mourning the sweet little noble daughter they had hoped her to be, they will have no problem saying goodbye to what she had turned out to be instead.

he also doesn’t need to know that she is a mage. even if money isn’t what he’s after, surely a man like this will know someone who is. 

“in exchange,” she sucks in a deep breath, pausing here, gauging his reaction. it takes a great deal of effort to keep her voice even, knowing the foolishness it takes to make demands of a man so willing to put a knife to her throat.

“you will tell me who you are, and you will tell me what purpose these last days of my life are meant to serve.”

[sunsinger]

seraphiam​:

“i, well i—” he stumbles over his words in his attempt to answer her. his tongue clicks in annoyance at his own faltering. “i’m not sure.” he finally manages to say, and the following words are anything but happy. melancholic at best. the mage gazes at the floor for a moment, reminiscing about times where he had only himself to rely on.

“i was separated from tine when i was very young.” and you. he goes silent for a second before continuing. “we only just reunited during the war, and even then with the state of grannvale now… we’re both too wrapped up in politics. i don’t have much time to spend with her at all. certainly not enough to know what she likes. ” he gazes back up at tailitu— at his mother. how long would this strange feeling in his heart last seeing her like this?

“honestly i only planned to go here figuring i could get something that girls like. perhaps… you could help me with that part?” he never asked for help, certainly not in his childhood at least, and so his gaze turns remarkably timid. “i don’t erm.. have much experience in that department, so.” his cheeks flush a subtle red.

∘₊✧── “...oh.”

there is such a primal wrench of her gut that her façade falters. the mask slips for just a moment, cracks down its center and reveals just a fraction of all that lay beneath. that joy, crafted as carefully as any sculpture, gives way to fear. 

fingers twitch, long to dig into the skin of her palm or perhaps the fabric of her skirt. how terribly had she failed, then, for her children’s lives to become what they are now? it aches somewhere deep in her chest, leaves her feeling sick.

“well,” tailtiu clears her throat and tears her gaze from arthur’s face, “i sure can try.”

the next few moments are quiet, filled with nothing but the sound of shuffling objects. mage inspects her options, a finger on her chin. “she wears her hair up, right? in those pretty ribbons... mmh!”

the energy has found its way back to her voice, tone returning to normal as though nothing had ever changed. triumphantly, tailtiu produces a beaded headband from one of the shelves. “think this’ll compliment ‘em nicely?”

[sunsinger]

someone to talk to

argetstars​:

Days after their conversation, he still runs through it in his head. 

It seems they both began this journey for different reasons—he was motivated by love, infatuation as his brother would no doubt call it—and she simply went where the winds called her. There’s more to it than that, he now knows, and what a strange thing to reconcile the boisterous, gentle girl of his childhood with the concerned woman before him. 

Azelle sighs and rubs at his eyes. The words on the page are beginning to swim; he takes it as a warning not to overwork himself. Proving his worth as a soldier in Sigurd’s army isn’t measured in how quickly he can read a book, even if he acts that way. 

Young mage stands and emerges from his tent. Eyes squint as they adjust to the sudden sunlight Just how long had he been buried in his books? 

He keeps his head down while wandering among the camp. Not a soul has so much as blinked cruelly in his direction. Either they know the truth about his parentage and don’t care, or they have no idea and still decide to treat him kindly. Regardless, old wounds make him hesitant to engage in unprovoked conversation. 

Except with her. 

He finds her, eventually, and she’s mercifully alone. “Afternoon, Taliltiu,” he says softly. “Are you feeling better today?” 

∘₊✧── talking with him doesn’t ease things, not really. if anything it only serves to make her think harder, to make her dwell for longer. tailtiu frowns, dragging her finger lazily in the dirt. 

azelle’s kindness had never been a blessing that she shared in, nor his optimism. teeth sink into the skin of her cheek. he had always been the better of the two of them -- never cruel, never jealous. not like her.

she doesn’t know who to expect at the sound of footsteps and doesn’t bother looking up to find out. knees draw up closer to her chest and she wills herself to go unnoticed by the passerby, making herself smaller as though it will help her any to blend in to the greenery around her.

it doesn’t, of course. they approach regardless. tailtiu looks up finally, easing her face into a smile. she’s surprised to see azelle, but her features are careful not to show it.

“to you too!” she chirps, lowering her knees and dusting off her hands. she doesn’t miss a beat. “i’d say so, yeah. thanks again, it means a lot ‘nd all.”

lavender head tilts just so as she peers up at him. “need me for something? or just lookin’ for company? you’re welcome to sit, y’know, if you wanna.”

[gxldings]

∘₊✧── she longs when it is silent and she is alone, when there is no soul present to bear witness to such pathetic sin.

because she shouldn't. because this magnificent, miserable love was one meant to die along with the knight for which it burns. because this foolish feeling had brought nothing but hurt, but ruin.

and yet she yearns anyway. yearns when she lights another candle in her cottage's cramped foyer, when the sunrise is particularly lovely over foreign hills.

nyna's lips press together, her shoulders resigning themselves only to draw closer. its cold, winter's first earnest breaths whispering through the early morning. her walk into town is a short one, routine, made with a basket of fresh flowers and herbs tucked carefully beneath her arm.

vendors are just beginning to flip their shops' signs to open, the street starting to populate itself. she will not be here long today, intending only to make her daily rounds and retire to the warmth of her home.

only she stops in her tracks, heart lodging itself in her throat. before her -- directly in the path to the little shop that particularly enjoys buying her stock of thyme -- stands the silhouette that has haunted her every moment since last they met.

it isn't him, it couldn't be. and yet that terrible what if gnaws at strings of a heart plucked too thin. nyna trembles, tells herself that it is the cold.

"forgive me," for she has been staring and most certainly caught his attention for it, "i had just... thought i recognized you."

he had not indulged her with his name, were it truly him who had saved her so long ago, but perhaps now...

"if i may ask," cautious is her tone, slow, the barest glint of hope in crystalline eyes. "what is your name?"

✧. ┊ nyna to zeke god forgive me

"You do," he begins, and immediately he hesitates. She knows more than his name. His honor, his loyalty, the way he stands up for what he believes in, the way he loves. Through not one, but two chance encounters, has Nyna encountered it all--drank every last drop of his draught, seen him at points both high and low.

The names Camus and Sirius are familiar on her tongue, but neither are what he is now.

He belongs to another. He should not be speaking with her. Though the memory of her has crawled back to the surface, it must be pushed back down. To break his vow with his beloved would betray the very quality he knows she loves him for; his heart is stone, but she is its sculptor.

"I am Sirius..." he continues, affixing his mask to the bridge of his nose, "the traveler." Knight spins on his heel, the conversation with a street vendor briefly abandoned. His golden locks shimmer in the morning sun, a pale reflection of the queen's own radiance. She is a hall of tarnished gold: beautiful beyond compare, but so easily succumbing to her fate. How long had it been since her husband met his end? She must be lonely, he reasons, for why else would she grasp at the phantom of her past?

As much as it pains him to do so, he hides his smile from her. Never can he allow her to recognize Camus by it--it is now reserved for his lover, just as hers once was.

(How ironic, that fate has them playing each other's part.)

"Though, if I may admit something... I have not been truthful with you." Heartstrings dance to the sound of his voice, feeling all that he once felt from her. Every moment with her is like being pulled into quicksand: one day, he may find himself unable to turn back. "That is not my real name. I..." again Knight pauses. For a moment, he considers a reality where he told her the truth. Where Nyna's suspicions were confirmed, where her smile could be brought to her longing face. Would it be so bad, to run away with her now? Surely he'd have a place in Archanea. Surely the others would understand, that the now-king Marth would grant him pardon for Grust's past.

But it is hardly that simple.

Dreamlike his mind may be, those thoughts are deaf to the cold truth of that reality. That in Valentia, the woman he owes his life to--has pledged his life to--would be expecting him. For days, weeks, months, she'd lie in wait. He does not doubt she would sit by the windowsill, trying to force joy onto her features, convincing herself that he'll just be a day longer, praying to whatever saint or god she believes in that she'd be right. His teeth clench together, the bridge of his mouth ready to pronounce the first 'c' in Camus. But it stops.

"If you wish to know my name, it is Ezekial. I am a knight in service of the Unified Continent of Valentia. My business with you was merely to repay an old debt."

He stabs himself with his own words; takes up the chisel Nyna had used to shape him those years ago, and adds another notch into the firm stone of his heart. There is pain and sadness behind his mask, and yearning too. Were he any other man, had things happened any differently, then perhaps he could have been honest with her.

"... If you have nothing more to discuss with me, I ought to be on my way. There is someone... Expecting me."

[sunsinger]

do us part .

gxldings​:

He can feel it: the strength of the Titan receding. It has been hit by one of Thrasir’s spells, which means its end is nigh. Years of fighting by her side have taught him this one inalienable truth, that once you are in her grasp, there is no escape from the Omnicidal Witch. When the axe lets up, he can angle his body and stick out his good hand just in time to catch Sokkvabekkr. That, too, is a feat representative of their perfect synergy. 

During the few moments when Thrasir is eviscerating their foe, Lif allows himself to relax. He pulls his arms back, sheathes his sword–mentally prepares for what she would say to him. 

Yet somehow, her general lack of dialogue is worse.

Alfonse, you fool. So simple, yet so much more painful than a scolding–so much harder than actually losing his flesh. He knows those words cover the agony stirring just below her skin. The despair on her face is easy to read, the impact of his mistake evidently wearing on her body. He can offer her no solace, for the only solace to be had in this scenario is their old flesh back. Lif doesn’t resist as Thrasir pulls his vambrace away, instead turning his head so he does not have to look at it, too. 

Now and forever, he is once inch less of a man. The thought wounds him, racing through his mind even when he closes his eyes. If he could still sleep, he does not doubt he’d have nightmares. Dark dreams of offshoot realities and ‘what ifs’–grim predictions of what will happen to him should he lose all that remains.

Would he wind up like them? The soulless husks in the Cohort of the Dead? The emptied puppets he once commanded? 

“I…” but he cannot speak. Words evade his tongue, deeming it unworthy of their grace after that stupid stunt he pulled. Why didn’t he just dodge? If holding the beast’s attention wasn’t the first thing on his mind… No. He had to make sure Thrasir was left unharmed. Her body isn’t used to physical fighting–it never was. Watching her take the brunt of that blade would have split his soul more than the result of today’s battle, that he knows for a fact. “Veronica… I am… Sorry.”

Lif knows his apologies are meaningless, that they can’t bring back what he–what they–just lost, so he continues, “We should let this be a reminder for us. Time is finite. We must find a way to restore our world… Before all is lost again.” It feels like taboo, saying the word again–admitting that they still have something to lose. But Swordsman believes that it has its place here. He and Thrasir must never forget that they have a goal to chase. They may have their time for mourning, but losses must be overcome if they wish to reclaim anything at all.

For now though, Witch will be allowed to express her sorrow. Lif’s eyes open once more, finally daring to examine his wound. It looks as real as it feels, the pain on Thrasir spreading to him as well. A false sigh is expelled from beneath his mask, that familiar blue mist billowing out in spurts. It marks the beginning of their period of silence, and though Lif wishes for it to be short, he knows it is vital for Thrasir all the same. 

∘₊✧── back home, sacrifice yielded a vigil.

thrasir fights the want to sneer at the word home. she knows no such thing and only betrayal and grief from that which she had once called one. but even now its traditions breathe within her, even as she herself does not.

there is no blood or gore to his wound. only eitr -- crystal in the moon’s light and not quite as solid as the rest of him. it will blend seamlessly into the sapphire of his false skin in a mere few hours, another shred of life shaved so easily away.

she considers his words with lips screwed into a frown, not letting go of his arm. it’s irritating when he’s right like this, even more so when she wishes with all of her being that she could be angry with him. sorrow and grief are emotions far harder to handle than wrath, than hatred. 

they do not have time for her silence, for proper mourning. the night is only so long, its hours wasted already by their fight. 

“we should go.”

comfort is found in the thought that this loss could be their last. in the thought that the sooner they are to breathe life back into their askr and embla, the sooner they may be whole again. childish hope nips at witch’s ankles.

and what humanity is left in her allows it to.

her vigil is held in the process of reassembling her partner’s armor, fixing it back over his forearm and murmuring in foreign tongues, coaxing metal to reforge itself. she is silent otherwise, each movement slow and deliberate. an admittance of love in the way that bloodstained hands take such care to be gentle. 

and when she is done, thrasir jerks away from him, back turned and shoulders straight. it’s an offensive kind of defense, covering her hurt with a facade of hate. 

they make decent time, following their formerly cut path with no further distraction. sunrise approaches, warding off the monsters that may have named themselves foe, and so death’s soldiers march uninterrupted. 

thrasir knows something is wrong before she sees it. knows it in the strange stillness that continues as they approach, in the silence that replaces birdsong as morning’s earliest light begins to make itself known. the life that they had seen only so long ago, illuminating the forest with a warmth now so foreign to her, has been sucked away.

this is a graveyard.

the rising sun frames crumbling stone. trees part finally, the forest giving way to their destination. their hopes, precious few as they may be, lay to rest once more in the ruins before them.

witch is silent a moment, cursing herself for having truly thought they may come to face anything different. her teeth clench.

“it would seem that this world too has no shortage of cruel jokes to play.”

[sunsinger]

-: ✧ :-    @gxldings​ asked;

"Princess Fjorm."

A familiar voice, stern yet caring. Should the blonde turn to meet it, she would find Laegjarn, stone-faced as usual. The general is to attend a festival shortly, yet as is evidenced by the sharpness in her eyes, she is treating it no differently than an assignment.

"Your kunai." The weapon, tinted blue to indicate it ought to belong to her, is presented to lancer. It had gotten mixed up with Laegjarn's belongings while the two were getting into costume, Laegjarn herself only just now making final adjustments with her spare hand. "I know we are to enjoy ourselves today, but it would be wise to not find yourself unarmed."

// laegjarn at fjorm

∘₊✧── blade settles into open palms, the same shade of blue as the ends of her hair. fjorm considers it a mere moment before slipping it into place beside its mirror, cool against her skin.

“thank you,” crystal eyes alight upon her partner, a fond warmth stirring beneath their ice. “it would have been a shame, had i forgotten such an important detail.”

they are both fully dressed now -- head to toe in the garb of ninjas. fjorm’s own dress is far from her usual, clinging to her where she isn’t used to, but it is supposedly practical and therefore the princess will excuse the strange fit.

that, and she hasn’t much focused upon her own.

“ah, one last thing.” a smile turns the corners of fjorm’s lips just so, lithe fingers settling upon the red and black of laegjarn’s mask. it jingles a little as it is lifted, beads clicking against one another. princess turns and takes a step towards the thing’s rightful owner.

“may i?”

[sunsinger]

how heavy is the head

legendspun​:

"Byleth," the name is breathed out with some difficulty despite all of her practice up until now. Does the other notice? Rhea shields her eyes from the errant sunrays that come down upon the archbishops - current and former, and finds she cannot tell at all. Sitri's child, is as ever, a mystery to her.

But after everything Rhea has put them through, she really would like to repay them.

"I apologize for the odd choice in decor for tea," Rhea laughs lightly, nodding at the nearby forest path where they've both left their carriages. "Catherine did not want me to go far even with King Dimitri's ardent promise of protection, and I owe her much."

She rises slowly, sets about steeping the tea as if this is just another odd meeting in Rhea's chambers. It is not of course - Rhea's chambers are Zanado only now, but to invite Byleth there... well, she knows she at least is not strong enough for such a thing. (Yet. Perhaps ever.)

"...He writes to me that you are well. But surely your new position comes with new worries. If I could help alleviate those, even by listening I very much would like to."

She sits back down, letting Byleth choose their type of tea as well as the next eddie in the conversation.

∘₊✧── has she dreamed of this before?

no. it takes no more than a moment, recounting her every interaction with the woman across from her, for byleth to know that whatever is so familiar about this image of rhea is not a memory of her own.

that happens a lot, these days.

“i don’t mind.” she hadn’t really paid all that much attention to the decor, and likely would not have still were it not so plainly pointed out. “catherine is right. your safety takes far higher priority than this.”

rhea moves and still byleth finds something so offputtingly human to her mannerisms. it is as though she is seeing the other through a different lens than before -- seeing a goddess through the eyes of another as opposed to those of a mortal.

“it has its stresses, yes.” her hands unfold from where they had been resting in her lap, reaching towards the table’s center and selecting an already prepared bag of chamomile. it’s easy routine, settling it into the teapot with a quiet hum.

“but i am fortunate for seteth. i have not been without guidance.” 

fell star’s hands settle once more and her gaze finally fixes itself upon rhea’s proper, expression ever unreadable. 

“was it lonely, for you?”

[sunsinger]

seraphiam​:​

he’d lived in turmoil for so long his life, it was hard to accept the peace of askr. even what he remembered of his mother was hardly peaceful— not when it was accompanied with the memory of his mother and sister being taken away from him. his happiest moments in life were at fee’s side…. maybe. even then, he could never let himself lie in leisure for too long. there was always something to be done, always no time for relaxation. the young child in him who’d had to build a life on his own would never let him truly relax.

he startles far more easy than usual, turning to look at the voice that suddenly chimes in— bursting his thought bubble in the process. he normally remains calm, logical in the face of adversity, but his family— no, his mother especially makes it hard to do so.

he doesn’t know how to be a son, just like he didn’t know how to be a good brother. his mother being here in front of him is only a reminder of that. arthur shifts unnaturally, preparing for an awkward at best conversation. “hello mother.” he greets back politely, an unusual timidity to his tone that he doesn’t take around anyone else for the most part. he starts to explain his reasoning for being at the accessory shop, only to pause and blink as tailtiu brings the feathered clip to his hair. he wasn’t looking for something for himself, but his mother’s enthusiasm is infectious in its own way. still, he pushes it away— not physically but mentally. “oh i’m not here for myself. i’m here for tine.” the thumb of his lightly clenched hand rubs anxiously at the side of his fingers. “i asked the summoner what i should get tine as a gift and they suggested i go to the accessory shop… so here i am.”

∘₊✧── something about his reaction makes taitiu’s enthusiasm falter. she blinks, watching the way he silently dismisses her, and lowers the clip back down.

whatever fate it is that awaits her, she hates that it has made her own son react to her in such a way. lavender eyes avert, settling back on the display of accessories as she settles the feathers back into their rightful place.

“well!” although the enthusiasm in her voice feels a lot more strained now -- hopefully in a way that arthur does not notice or choose to point out. tailtiu forces the corners of her lips upward into something of a strained smile. “they have plenty of options for that kind’a thing.”

now she shoves herself away from this particular display, fabric swishing around her legs as she twirls towards another. it’s all for show, of course. if the body language expresses joy than one is less inclined to look too hard at the face.

or, well, usually. 

“what sort of stuff does she like, tine?” tailtiu doesn’t look back at him as she asks, focusing all of her attention on the rack of hats that she has evidently chosen as her next point of interest. she ignores the awkward way her tongue fumbles over the name of her daughter, the way her throat feels suddenly dry as though she had screamed the word instead of simply spoken it.

“guess i should learn! since she’s my kid and all.”

[sunsinger]

fillespreferees​:

From afar is not good enough. Her son deserved far more. He should have been there with her at Belhalla Castle to grow up alongside his siblings. He should have been showered with love and luxury. He needed his mother just as much as she needed him.

She wonders what he thought of her, knowing that she had a family and a life without him.

She holds him tighter. He deserves happier thoughts.

“I never stopped loving you, not even for a moment. Even when I could not remember your face or your name, I found you in my dreams and you gave me peace while I slept.”

She does not mention the tears filled her eyes when she woke or the hole in her heart that nothing could fill. If their time together does end up limited, she does not want to ruin the happy memories with sadness.

∘₊✧── there is a hurt that is undeniable, a feeling of abandonment that had choked him when he had first heard the news of his mother’s family. all of those years that he had spent with only a name and a suggestion of his blood, and all of those years that she lived and breathed despite it.

but hate is not a feeling seliph has ever been keen on keeping. for everything there is an explanation -- a reason -- and he had chosen to trust that his mother’s had been a good one. 

now she envelops him and for all that he is and has become, seliph feels impossibly small. 

“i am glad,” voice a gentle murmur. he could cry now, but he tells himself that he won’t. “you were in my dreams, too. always there when i faltered, when i was scared. you and father both...”