but would any of them blame her for feeling this way? even if she had decided to aid them in the quest for claude’s ideals...faerghus was still her home. it always would be. yet here she was, still reeling from the horrific story of how her future king was ruthlessly slaughtered. guilt was the first and foremost emotion at the forefront of her mind. the endless storm of “what ifs” that nipped at its heels could wait until later to be dealt with. could things have gone differently had she remained beside her former classmates? she doubts it.
but thinking about it helps keep the wound fresh in her mind.
“ you know, this wasn’t how i could have ever expected to see any of them again. ” the words come out unusually hushed as her mount lands gracefully beside the other. she knows it can’t be easy on him, either. but it was different --- their situations were different. her shoulders slowly release some of the pent up tension from battle, the only relief she’d probably find for some time after this. there’s a part of her that wants to seek comfort...even a part of her that wants to cry. but she won’t. not like this. not here.
“ how are you holding up, ignatz? are you... ” ‘alright’ is hardly the word she would use to describe any of them right now, but it’s the only thing she can think of. she’s far too weary, both in her body and in her heart. “ are you alright? ”
“ IGNATZ ! just the person i was hoping to see . tell me , ” claude holds up a VERY PURPOSEFULLY , POORLY done drawing in front of him . smiling from ear to ear with practiced pride at a valiant attempt to do art . “ how much of a masterpiece is my design ? come now - be honest ! ” / @paintease
IT’D BEEN SOME TIME SINCE SHE INDULGED IN HER HOBBY, yet it feels as if she never stopped painting. the paintbrush in her hand moves with a grace unparalleled, color blending and merging with each other as the painting comes together. this is her happy place-- a luxury she hasn’t had the time to enjoy these last five years.
movement is caught from the side, a flash of pale green hair, and her eyes tear herself away from the canvas to gaze at Ignatz. ‘ ah, good morning, Ignatz! ‘ Laei’s voice calls to him, hoping it’d be loud enough to catch his attention. ‘ are you busy? I’ve got an extra canvas and some spare brushes if you’d like to join me. ‘
‘ paint it as you see it. ’ he says urging the other to continue. he has somehow convinced ignatz to pick up the paintbrush again, but to get him to paint the goddess is a whole different story. perhaps he should let it go and not press the matter any further ( has he not teased him enough? though he is curious. ) ‘ i’m certain the goddess has no objections ! ’ / @paintease s.c
Dorothea has been called a lot of things in her time----a diva is always in the spotlight, and so is a poor child lost on the streets, waiting in the wings for the axe to fall----but nosey is definitely the most accurate of the faults listed against her. The son of a rich and powerful merchant with ties to the Alliance---who claims to want to be a knight to collect a hefty paycheck---Dorothea could score no better match, and no easier life, if their interests were to align. Unfortunatley, the longer Dorothea sized Ignatz up, the more she came to see there was more depth to Ignatz than a delightfully, adorably shy and polite boy with much talent with a bow.
He was the sensitive sort---not a strike against him as a partner, no. (In fact, a hefty boon.) But not one quite suited for a life of fighting. The more Dorothea got to know him and his quirks----his love of the Goddess, his predisposition towards sneaking off with papers and easels in hand---the more the outline of the answer started to click into place. Ignatz did not want to be a knight. So... what did he want to be?
As much as Dorothea would like to say that she was merely curious about Ignatz as a formal potential suitor---she had grown fond of him, the wide-eyed doeish boy that stuck his hand up so quietly and slowly during class and seemed to get every question right, his lip and voice quivering like his fingers laced in an arrow’s fletching every time he was forced to respond to Dorothea’s flirting. He was fun. He was interesting. He was nice. The same could not be said of most men, and certainly not of most suitors. But as the outline began to form in Dorothea’s head of the type of man Ignatz really was beyond what his Father wanted him to be---it was clear that outline was in a friend-shaped sillohuette, a boy forced into the same situation of trying to increase his social status at the Academy without necessarily wanting to.
Still, the outline was not filled in; shadowed with a mystery. Where did Ignatz go, with all those papers? Were they study materials? Was he a secret poet? He spoke so beautifully and passionately of the Goddess. The idea of him sneaking away to write sonnets to his divine love made Dorothea’s chest bloom and rise with the romanticism of it all.
Dorothea may be nosey---but the idea is so appealing for her dear little friend (and the mystery so enticing)---that she truly cannot be blamed for following Ignatz out here, to the edge of the forest, an abandoned courtyard where no one goes (save Lindhart, trying to take a nap in peace, a fact that Dorothea only knows because she also followed him). She watches from a distance at first, watches Ignatz place his papers on some sort of wooden stand she is too far away to make out. (From what she can make out, he looks so much like her old conductor at the opera as he shuffles papers on the stand. Hands busy stroking through the air to sweet, luxurious music. An audience of only her and the orchestra, and still so vibrant a performance.)
Her curiosity strikes again like the spur of a boot on a horse’s bottom---and she wanders forward, right behind Ignatz, the brush shaking and stirring behind her with leaf and branch breaking in her wake. Ignatz does not seem to spot her---and she can see in front of her, obscured only by Ignatz himself and his shadow---the most beautiful painting she’s ever seen.
She gasps.
This painting is not like the opera at all. The opera is bombastic. The opera is dramatic. The opera sings to entertain. This art is holy, soft and formless, the outline of Ignatz filled in outside its form. Colors sing like a choir in perfect harmony, each face of worshipping joy & divine sacrifice and bliss perfectly, beautifully captured, in only feelings, only the shadows of emotion against stained glass. Ignatz is the conductor and the audience and the bishop himself---making each dilution and sharpening sing in so many shades and shapes and strokes.
“I... This is... Ignatz! This is beautiful! Did you do this?”
It is a foolish question. But she could not have imagined Ignatz would be so talented as to give such music form.
he hasn’t been himself for the last few days, a detail that hasn’t escaped her ever so perceptive clutches. he’s been clumsy, unfocused and over all...he looks like hell. she’s tired of beating around the bush, ( whenever she questions him, he avoids answering ------ ) so now she finds herself cornering him, hands rested atop her hips and lips pulled downwards into an aggravated ------ and by extension, concerned ------ frown. “ ignatz, please...you’re looking worse and worse every day. just tell me what’s wrong, please? if it’s something i can help you with, i’ll do it. ” even if he need only to get something off his mind, she’d listen. if there was something preventing him from getting a proper amount of sleep or anything else that stood between him and taking care of himself ------ she’d do anything. he was her friend, after all. it pains her to see him in such a state...
“ ...please? you know i only ask because i care about you, don’t you? ”
