ahnenstolz.

mitama, please help / they got my oats on whatsapp / my future is dark

Though she is lighthearted in tone, the abrupt subject does worry her. Siegbert had spoken of his decision to arrive here with the same gravity that he approached every situation placed before him. If he was already contemplating returning home…

She sighs as she neatly places her cutlery down on the plate. Clearly, the letter he has placed between them has something to do with it. She takes it up and opens it slowly, giving him every opportunity to object, before she scans over its contents quickly. Her expression darkens with every word that she reads.

At least make it a rumor worth spreading.

His gaze flickers low as he clears his throat, the most he can manage to keep from embarrassing himself.

"Regardless, I anticipate they'll demand a ransom of some sort in exchange for the evidence, but I don't intend on paying a single coin. My conduct was not the best, I admit... but I refuse to let it be used against either that lady or you."

It's just the how that's stumping him. He can't claim to be well practiced in handling scandals; every waking second spent in the Nohrian courts had been carefully managed so as to live up to his station as his father's son. That he would make such a big blunder here, not too long after his arrival...

(...he has so very much to learn.)

"i'm sure you will, siegbert. have you been keeping up with your own training since we last saw each other?"

' since the war ' didn't sound quite right, and nobody wanted to think of that, anyway.

"when we rode into battle together in valla, it was always heartening to fight alongside you. it gave me so much strength."

After all, he, of all people, should have known that her many talents were not simply handed to her. She'd worked hard to hone her every skill, ever and always her own harshest critic and cruelest enemy. But every time he'd heard glowing praise with her at its center, rightfully placed; every time he saw her sweep across the battlefield, brave Athena with Nike at her heel...

"You were one of the most capable and talented individuals I'd ever met. I envied you like none other," he admits. It hadn't been easy to say before, and it certainly isn't much better now, but—he has thought to himself, time and time again, that should he ever have the opportunity to meet Caeldori again, he would tell her. If nothing else—more than anyone else—she would understand how even admiration, if left untended, could so quickly fester and rot.

"In truth, I thought of you when I was in Nohr for that very reason. When I felt inadequate or unkind, or when I felt my mind too slow in grasping certain concepts, I wondered how you might be doing, and I imagined you doing... well. This," he says, gesturing to her now. Training. Studying. Constantly applying herself, because she would never escape the shadow of her own expectations. "It encouraged me to keep trying, too."

There is a beat, and then a clear of his throat.

"I couldn't have asked for better, my lady," he answers, his gaze shifting away from the classroom's deep red banners to find Mitama once more. While a small part of him does find it a shame that they aren't all in the same house, he constantly reminds himself that he's here to study and to learn. It is blessing enough that he'll be able to see his friends at all, whether it's between classes or during meals.

"Thank you, Mitama. Truly. If it's alright with you, would you like to join me for lunch later? I shall see if I can get Caeldori to come as well. It can be..."

(Fun. A reunion. A homecoming of sorts, for those who have never quite known what home could mean beyond a realm far removed; who have learned that the same warmth can be found in kindred spirits and allies and friends.)

Though their time here together might be temporary, Mitama is quite glad to have any of it at all. It only suits, then, that they should strive to make the most out of it that they can. Look at her, being proactive. The others should be jumping for joy at such a display.

"I will hold you to it." Though her favorite thing in the world, she would fight through any amount of exhaustion if it meant the chance to see the smiles on the faces of those she cares for. In return, Mitama smiles and bows briefly to Siegbert before waving. "I will wait for you. Later."

Though today is a day unlike any other, Mitama cannot help but think to herself as she walks back to her dorm room that it is the most beautiful day that she has seen in a while.

That said, the petite princess didn’t think it twice and she rushed to the large room set up as a ballroom for the occasion: the monastery staff eagerly anticipated the preoccupation of people and like Sakura, many others would surely ended up going there to practice a little bit and why not, perhaps finding the perfect partner for the ball.

As she entered the luminous room, she immediately noticed with pleasure that she wasn’t really the only one worried about the event: in front of a long wall completely covered in mirrors, the pink-haired girl found a familiar figure trying his best in front of himself, moving back and forth while attempting paces the princess herself wasn’t sure to actually know. But him, yes, she knew him quite well.

They find a space before the mirrors, and he releases her hand momentarily only to offer a proper bow. Etiquette demands it, after all, and regardless of where they are, she will always be Hoshido's princess, and he, Nohr's prince. He wouldn't dare dream of disrespecting her.

"...I can certainly share what I've learned so far."

When they come together again, he waits for the right beat before he gently guides her into the first few steps. It doesn't start off as anything too foreign; six steps break into sets of two in the way that they know, just a little closer, just a little slower.

"This one is apparently from the Adrestian Empire to the west—where Princess Edelgard of the Black Eagles hails from. I was told to envision the motions of a bird in the morning, just before it takes flight."

There was a slight swish about her steps as she pranced along to Siegbert's steps, matching her footfall to every measured beat—or at least trying to. Even with his guidance, she found her feet stuttering slightly, though it was more a fault of her stiff, amateur limbs than of him. She could feel him moving to adjust to her every misstep, like a boat that rocked to match the chaos of the waves around it. He truly must have been used to practicing without music. She could not fathom maintaining such constant rhythm without the help of a piano at least!

They continued to sway about. Flayn could feel herself begin to loosen up bit by bit. There was something about dancing with someone that felt a lot like a conversation—there was this growing familiarity that she felt towards him, a trust that formed in the space between their bodies. Flayn hummed.

"I will say, however, I find it rather unfortunate that you possess great skill in dancing, but do not attend very many dances. Does your father not let you go to many events? I understand, my brother is quite strict too, but…" Flayn looked down at Siegbert's hands, which were entwined with her own, "Is it not a terrible waste of your talent?"

One, two... a pause, then three. He understands the sentiment that burdens her steps; he remembers how it'd felt when he first learned to dance, his limbs still awkward and growing, his sense of rhythm terribly off. He'd been so concerned about holding his instructor's hand too tightly or too loosely that he'd tripped on his own feet, once. Despite assurances that it happened to "everyone," Siegbert remembers the moment with the embarrassment of someone who has made a mistake that no one else ever has.

"I was born and raised during a time of war," Siegbert says, because that's an easier explanation than what sorcery had crafted the Deeprealms. It would be terribly embarrassing, he thinks, if he were to tell her that he'd spent a vast majority of his life sequestered away, too young and too inexperienced to yet fight alongside his kin. "It was only recently that my lands came to know peace. If anything, that there are any balls at all for me to attend is due, in part, to my father."

She's easing into herself a little more, which is good. His expression settles into something a little proud as he guides her into the next spin, slow and steady. "But I assure you, none of this is any natural talent; I spent many hours practicing so that I wouldn't step on any toes. If you'd seen me when I first started learning, you might think me more a clown than any prince."

One, two, three. One... two, three.

(At least, she had been fairly confident none of them had ever seen it, as they were all Hoshidan born and bred, but they talked with such authority about what they did know of Nohr and spoke in such a consesus that sometimes, it made one wonder.)

Most of what they had described had been what she'd grown to learn was the expected; that it was dark. That it was difficult to live there. That it bred the harshest of fighters in the roughest of conditions. The battlefields of war had already long since moved from Hoshido and Nohr by the time Mitama had been pulled from her nest, and though she had been given the chance to see Hoshido, she could not say the same for Nohr.

Yet, when Siegbert spoke of it, she thought that it might be a very lovely place to see after all.

"I would like that, someday." She tells him with a soft smile and a light squeeze of the arm he so politely offered. Imagine, the future king as her guide? She would expect nothing less than the greatest of views from him.

"I couldn't have asked for better, my lady," he answers, his gaze shifting away from the classroom's deep red banners to find Mitama once more. While a small part of him does find it a shame that they aren't all in the same house, he constantly reminds himself that he's here to study and to learn. It is blessing enough that he'll be able to see his friends at all, whether it's between classes or during meals.

"Thank you, Mitama. Truly. If it's alright with you, would you like to join me for lunch later? I shall see if I can get Caeldori to come as well. It can be..."

(Fun. A reunion. A homecoming of sorts, for those who have never quite known what home could mean beyond a realm far removed; who have learned that the same warmth can be found in kindred spirits and allies and friends.)

the laugh turns into a shrill crackle as she sweeps in, her arms secured firmly about his waist to trap him in a hug with soleil trying on trying to swing him around like a child that'd only just found their favorite toy.

it'd been a long time since she'd been taller or stronger than him, but—

could you blame her heart for trying?

"i missed you too!" comes out without having to be coerced, because it's true that she'd thought of him and the others now and again as she went about her travels. bought things, didn't know how to send things, ended up with a veritable treasure trove of other things until she finally just gave it away to the prettiest faces she saw—no one needs to know that part. she shakes her head.

"oh, hardly! i came and went myself only recently. i only just got back!"

"Still... I would like the ability to write to you, should you ever find yourself wandering again." After all, there is a particular and unique joy in waking one morning and finding a letter waiting, even if there is nothing much to write about. Those little joys—those moments of mundanity—are precious, too. He very much likes the thought of memorializing them in ink.

"In any case, I've been as well as can be. I'd thought myself adequately prepared for court, but I realized very quickly that I still had a long way to go before I could appreciate all its... intricacies." And though he's not very proud of it, he suspects this, more than anything else, is why he'd been allowed to depart from Nohr and attend the Academy.

"...And you, Soleil? You've been conducting yourself appropriately, I trust. After all, regardless of these uniforms, we are still representatives of Nohr."

He has his pencils and paints, of course, but drawings could never replace the experience of watching her in motion. A force on the battlefield and the stage alike, and with every day that passes, it fades a little more from his mind...

Speaking of, the choreography before their eyes now would be a perfect fit for the grand theater in Cyrkensia—noble patrons in full evening dress, a gulf between them and the dancers beneath the spotlight. It's true that not many commoners would ever find their way to those seats, but… "The commonfolk have their own art, you know," he reminds Siegbert, not unkindly. "It's different in every village I've passed through. I do think they might be disappointed with a comedian you couldn't throw a tomato at, or a dance you couldn't be pulled into."

"I shall keep that in mind," Siegbert says instead, because it is important for a prince to know the lay of his land—and that, by necessity, includes their struggles and their joys. "I'm not sure the villages of Nohr would prefer gifts of tomatoes or something else entirely, but I should know what gifts they share to show gratitude."

For now, though—for now, he watches the dance, first with curiosity, then with wonder, then with shock.

mitama, please help / they got my oats on whatsapp / my future is dark

"…"

The messenger owl departs, and takes with it Siegbert's bright and promising future.

…Which is to say, two hours and thirty-six minutes later, Siegbert finds himself seated across from Mitama in the dining hall with his head hanging low. His breakfast has barely been touched; at most, he's been able to stomach a few berries, but even that had felt like a herculean effort. The reason sits on the table between them, an innocent enough looking piece of paper that has been neatly folded into a perfect square.

"…I," he says quietly, "might have to withdraw from the Academy, Mitama."

Because the letter, should it be opened, reads in nondescript handwriting: "I have a compromising video of what you did last night. Meet me at the Amiibo Gazebo after the sun sets today or else."

"This is fine." She assures him, even if the idea of seeing if she could persuade him to his knees is tempting. The height is enough for her ideas. Soft hands slip out of his to settle on his shoulders instead, and that sweet and innocent smile persists. "I appreciate you worrying about my reputation. However..."

Like this, the gap to cross is not so big. It is not hard at all for Mitama to lean into his space, for her hair to brush against his face as she makes to whisper in his ear. "Next time, at least make it a rumor worth spreading." The two pronged attack concludes with a press of her lips against his cheek.

Just as abruptly as it had all begun, Mitama steps back and turns away with a laugh, going to fetch her bouquet up once more. She spares a moment to fuss with the flowers, exchange one of her lilies for one of his roses - how fitting! - before she is walking back to the ballroom again.

...and, well—that's an apt way to put things, really. He, and then a resounding, deafening silence.

Mitama's lips are soft—he thinks they're soft; they're probably soft; they are soft, what is he thinking—and fleeting—as they should be, but; but!—and she smells very nice—not that he's sniffing her like some animal, but—and she's... she. Her.

Siegbert's hand is at his cheek the moment she withdraws, and it's difficult to tell if it's from shock or any desire to trap the ghost of her against his skin. He's more than experienced his fair share of kisses, mind! It's just—they had been laid to the back of a hand as a greeting, or just against the cheek as greeting. This had not been a greeting.

"M... Mitama, that is... um!" Oh. His tongue feels like it doesn't even belong in his mouth. Has he always had a tongue? He was born with one, wasn't he? Why is he finding it so hard to use it, then? "Y... Yes! I'm coming!"

He likes to think he walks more than scrambles, depending wholly on his years of training and fixing his gait to reach her.

Make it a rumor worth spreading.

...a rumor about...

For he is her dear friend, and for all she may scoff at the image of the perfect prince that he chases after, she wants to be there when he falters to ensure that he regains his step once more.

She is glad to see such a result here. Mitama can only laugh softly, and while she allows him to guide her hands, she is the one who chooses to linger where he places them, fingers curling around his jawbone. "I would rather my hands heal, instead of hurt." There has been enough hurt as is. Things like that can be saved for friendly spars between princes that fate fought to separate. "You will have to make a far more grave mistake than this to earn that again."

And they are! Soft, that is, in spite of everything she has been through, and gentle besides. But he supposes that's how she's always been; even when they were still little wading awkwardly between strangers and allies, he'd never seen her hesitate to lend a helping hand. When they came to her broken and bleeding, these small hands had felt like the steadiest things in the world.

So—yes, he thinks. Yes, he would rather her hands be kept to heal, too.

Dutifully, he lowers himself, bending at the waist at her request. "Uh—like this?" he asks, brow slightly furrowed. It's difficult to imagine what she might want to do, but it's more curiosity than apprehension that has him searching her face for a clue. "I... would offer to kneel, but..."

If this is what it takes to see him finally unload the weights he wears like a crown on his head, perhaps she ought to tease him more often. For the amount that breaks through the dam at once is heartbreaking, and she worries that small hands that have not worked beyond when necessary will not be enough to stop it.

She will try though. Of course. Because she will always try when it comes to him and the others. They are the most important things to each other, after all.

"Firstly, I must ask that you not create worry where I carry none." His face is released so that she can lightly clap her hands against his cheeks, just enough to give a little bit of shock and hopefully drag his attention back to her. "I could care less of what those I do not know think of me, and those who matter will not believe that."

His concern is kind, and she appreciates it like always, but no noble here with a shining future ahead of them is going to care about the personal activities of a nobody commoner. Some of them might even expect it from her.

"Secondly, I doubt anyone will be talking about this by evening's end, with everything that happens at these events. And, even if they were to, there are far too many competitors for you to claim that title because of one incident. Soleil has more of a claim to it than you do."

She will apologize to Soleil when next she sees her.

But, would it still not be even the least bit hurtful should strangers whisper falsehoods about her? Even in the short time he'd remained in Nohr, he's seen the damage that could be wrought with a single rumor spread with ill intent. It isn't a matter of whether Mitama could weather it without care; it's a matter of honor and pride and that she must be made to endure at all.

"...still. Should I hear any slander against you, I swear to step forward and clear the misunderstanding immediately," he says, and tries very hard not to look as much like a doused cat as he feels. His shoulders start to slump, but it's only for the barest moment; they return to a proper posture the moment he catches himself, as if reminded—maybe by the gentle reminder by his cheeks, maybe by the muted laughter spilling from within the halls, maybe by the fears he can't seem to swallow down no matter how desperately he tries—that here is neither the time nor place.

With a deep breath, Siegbert lays his hands atop her own and wonders when it became so difficult to keep his composure—and wonders, just after, if it is truly a matter of when so much as who he happens to be with, whether it's Mitama, Shiro, Shigure, or anyone else.

Mitama slips her arm free from Siegbert but is quick to return again before the action can be misconstrued. She takes hold of his hand tightly with her own. "Come with me."

She does not wait for an answer, because she knows Siegbert, and knows his heart well enough to know that for all his propriety, he would not deny her either. She pulls him along through the nearby crowds, weaving through other guests until eventually they are able to slip through a set of open doors and out onto one of the balconies.

She thinks the weight of four walls might kill him, but she does not want an audience either.

Once outside, she does her best to shut the doors just enough that someone would have to stand right next to them in order to see out at the two. With that done, she can deal with him properly.

"Siegbert." Returning to his side again, this time she moves to cup his face with both hands and ensure he actually looks at her. "I know you did not mean that. I was being cruel and teasing you. It was nothing more than a joke."

"No, you shouldn't be apologizing, Mitama," he assures her, gaze almost hesitant before they fall to meet her own. "There isn't any offense taken from your teasing; I would never hold such a thing against you. I'm just frustrated with myself for ever having put you in a situation where the facts could be misconstrued, and for making such an awful, careless mistake..."

Really, the fault is entirely with him. That he'd made her think she must apologize when he is the one at fault...!

"I've no doubt that word is spreading now of how I've attempted to dishonor an innocent woman—of how I am a wretched scoundrel, come all the way here t-to... to carelessly and recklessly sow my oats!"

Agh. Agh. Agh...! Even just thinking about it now makes him so...!

And though he'd lost rather spectacularly, it'd been a clarifying moment in several regards—first, that he required a different approach to different people if he meant to forge the kind of connections he desired, and second, that Shiro was simply like that. Personable. Warm. Strong, too, though not only in physical prowess alone. He was the kind of man who made himself impossible to forget.

"...But, as prince, I'm sure you understand how these kinds of events will always remain important. Even if you don't like it, you'll have to learn to dance and use the appropriate utensils eventually." Turn, turn—and yes, it's abundantly obvious that his friend has precious little idea of what's even going on. Siegbert tries to, and so he hopes he is successful in, biting back a smile.

"...oh, come on. what's the difference?! there's only so many ways to stab food...!!"

bicker as they may—his complaints are already starting to drown out the final notes of the song—there's still an indisputable truth in what siegbert says: that he is reliable, and it won't be the last time shiro follows his lead. it's their path to walk together as future kings, anyway: stride-in-stride, heads turned toward the same future.

by the time the music ceases, he will have come to swallow that reminder. there will never be any love for this, he's sure of it, though he can begrudgingly admit there's no shirking the duty that's befallen them.

"goodbye, prince siegbert," shiro says with a bow. a playful one, a touch mocking, but he holds the other's gaze long enough for him to understand: i hear you. "thanks for the dance."