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“i’m not going to leave you behind. if need be, i’ll carry you.”

Blood and Bruises || Accepting

It would have been so much easier to simply leave him there, and see the objective assigned to them through to the end with no further complications. By all means, it is the smarter, more tactically sound move. Yet here they are, the archbishop doubled-over, a hand pressed firmly against an open gash on his stomach, and Sigurd insisting that he should not be left behind, despite his urging. The wound itself could be fixed, provided they made it back in time-- that much Saias knows, and is the very reason he began telling the other to go on; that he would find his own way to the healers stationed nearby. Perhaps the way his free hand could barely keep him from collapsing on the ground had been enough to garner sympathy, or the sight of a renowned tactician-- a descendant of the Crusader Fjalar-- almost being felled by a wing of an axe was too pitiful to ignore.

“V...Very well,”

His words, while filled with more air than sound, are reluctant to leave the archbishop’s lips. He is not used to this. Even among the liberation army led by Leif, he had not experienced a wound so severe, and while their comradeship had come in abundance, such a thing still feels so foreign to Saias. Though unable to focus enough to properly discern the look on Sigurd’s features, somehow he knows that it is not one of disappointment, nor tainted with some degree of coldness. No-- it is not like the looks he had imagined his own father would have shot his way upon hearing of any sort of failure at his hands, even if the rational side of him knew that would never transpire. He takes a moment, attempting to steady his breathing, and tries once more to stand. His form quivers. A sharp inhale. A grunt of pain, and Saias is unable to do more than straighten his posture. He was not made for the frontlines of war-- or not when weapons other than magic were involved.

“If you could help me stand... that would be enough.”

#✟ ⊱⦃ ❝ɪғ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏғ ɢᴏᴅ… ᴛʜᴇɴ sᴏ ʙᴇ ɪᴛ.❞ ⏤ {ic.} ⦄⊰ ✟#tw: blood #ofbaldr #{Sigurd.}#✟ ⊱⦃ ⏤ {verse: Heroes.} ⦄⊰ ✟#{oof... i'm not emotional you are}

@ofbaldr sent:

"father saias, well-met—!" sigurd has a hint of curiosity in his eyes despite his politeness. he tries to conceal it as they differ immensely from the subject of the battle at hand—fight the thought as he might, the holy knight is reminded of two immensely different people when he gazes upon this one heir of fjalar's; father claud and the only other wielder of valflame he knows of. it’d be foolish to share the thought, he knows that much. “say, do you have any time to spare? i’d like your counsel in the oncoming battle against embla and by what i’ve seen, you outclass me so as a tactician i feel as if my troops would benefit immensely from your advice.” he could, of course, ask others given the wide array of tactical genius in askr, but perhaps his curiosity is what drives him now. "of course, only if you have the time to spare!"

‘Father’-- now that is a title that he has not heard in a long time. ‘Your grace’, ‘Archbishop’, ‘the most reverend’-- even ‘Bishop’, as most in Jugdral have taken to, almost like a an oddly formal term of endearment--, but never ‘Father’. Perhaps it stems from just how young the tactician had been when he ascended the ranks of the church. Perhaps calling a boy of sixteen ‘Father’, even in a religious context, was strange for those around him. Still, Saias finds his attention wandering over to the other, a small nod acting as a prelude to any sort of verbal response.

The request is one he has humoured many times before-- not with Sigurd, but other men of titles the same or higher than what the other man bears. Yes, even if his presence is one that still unnerves the archbishop so, there have been far worse people who have sought his advice on matters of war. Marking a page, the book before him is then closed. A single hand moves, gesturing to the seat tucked in over on the other side of the table. With any luck, forcing himself to speak with Sigurd in any capacity might finally free him from the tension his name alone is able to bring.

“I'm honoured that you would seek my counsel, Lord Sigurd. For you, I have time,”

It is the truth, son of his murderer or not, Saias cannot regard the other with anything but respect, even if it is made to hide behind a cautious and overly analytical gaze. In the brief moments between words, the archbishop attempts to ease his own concerns, silently repeating that this ought to be no different than when Seliph would ask for guidance back in Jugdral. His posture tenses slightly, yet the tactician’s voice remains just as low and welcoming as it had moments prior.

“What was your plan?”

#✟ ⊱⦃ ❝ɪғ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏғ ɢᴏᴅ… ᴛʜᴇɴ sᴏ ʙᴇ ɪᴛ.❞ ⏤ {ic.} ⦄⊰ ✟#ofbaldr #{Sigurd.}#✟ ⊱⦃ ⏤ {verse: Heroes.} ⦄⊰ ✟#{god could you imagine if sigurd actually said to saias that he reminds him of claud and arvis}#{it would be a disaster. For saias that is-}#{i hope this is okay though!}

"you are arvis's son, are you not?" the similarity is there, but sigurd has heard enough while under askr's service. there is no resentment in the tone the crusader uses, sat atop grani as they march into the prospect battlefield, only sincere curiosity.

Even in this world, that dreaded question still finds him.

Had the voice not been one Saias made an effort to connect to a certain name-- had it been almost anyone else--, perhaps the young archbishop would have found the courage to deflect the question, or usher one of his many well-rehearsed lies. He has half a mind to ask Sigurd how he was privy to that detail-- who told him such sensitive information. Yet, he refrains. It could, after all, come off as hostile regardless of the tone that coats his words. Tense shoulders force themselves to relax, as if to hide the innate discomfort that clings to his question, and an insufferably neutral expression falls over the tactician’s features.

“Indeed, I am,”

There is no animosity present in his voice, nor any hints of other unsavoury emotions. Instead, it is calm, and laces itself only with the odd remnant of hesitance that the archbishop has failed to fully suppress. Never mind how wrong it feels to admit those words out loud-- for now, Saias tells himself as his gaze remains on the other’s features, he can continue to push his thoughts away. After all, he does not loathe the other-- in fact, perhaps unknown to Sigurd, he is in fact the reason the tactician feels so strongly against wielding what is his birthright. Rather, the other’s death is.

“Though... I ask that you do not tell others of it. For my own sake, there are some in these halls that should remain oblivious to my lineage.”

#✟ ⊱⦃ ❝ɪғ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴛʜᴇ ᴡɪʟʟ ᴏғ ɢᴏᴅ… ᴛʜᴇɴ sᴏ ʙᴇ ɪᴛ.❞ ⏤ {ic.} ⦄⊰ ✟#hamartio #{Sigurd.}