LIVE TO SERVE.

"You're moving your index finger from left to right. That is the only finger you're holding up." A pause, as he briefly examined his own state in reaction to the question. How did he feel? "I feel... not unwell, but unusual. I'm not dizzy or anything like that, but I can feel the physical changes, so I do feel strange... I believe my mental state has remained unaffected, and the same goes for my memories. They are still complete." Certainly, his twelve-year-old self would not recall descending to Valla and the like. "However, my body has regressed, and..."

His gaze wandered downwards, to Siegfried, dropped to the grass during his transformation. Hesitantly, as though already aware how this was going to go, his hand reached for the hilt -

"URRK!..."

... The blade, normally raised above his head with ease in just one hand, now took both to even try to pick up, and even then he was unable to raise it from the ground completely.

Just as he feared.

"Well... this brings back some memories I hadn't planned to revisit, that's for sure." He sighed, looking back up at Jakob. "I believe our best course of action would be to try and find that orb again. It seems to warp at random from place to place, so this might not be easy... but I'm not sure what else could help me revert back to a normal state."

. . .Even so, there is some comfort in that this smaller, younger Xander is at least in possession of all his physical and mental faculties. Jakob trusts that what he is being told is the truth. For all that he can see. . .it fortunately is. In addition; at this eye level, and through this direct eye contact, he even thinks himself able to glimpse the lord's presence of mind. Though understandably confused, that intelligent gaze did seem very Xander-like. As did other qualities.

A measured pause reserves both men (or rather man and now boy) as Xander attempts to lift his venerated sword. In ways Jakob cannot voice, with limits to his own sharp tongue that even he understands to be wise, it seems a lot less 'venerated' in those puny hands.

"You certainly behave the same as the Xander I know." This observation is succeeded by the butler's targeted surveillance, a gander sweeping the fearless young king from head to toe. Then polite amendment: "—Ah, forgive me for my presumption. With your present form and youth, I am instinctively inclined to forgo formalities. It has been many years since I last acquainted with a prince your age. I believe that very prince was you yourself, Lord Xander."

—or perhaps not so polite. Was Jakob. . .enjoying this? Who might say, bespoke the seamless transition to matters of higher priority. He raised himself into a stand, a hand placed beneath his chin with the purity and propagation of thought.

"I would agree with that course of action, milord. Frankly, the prospect of failure is. . .troubling. A king who cannot swing his own sword, or reach high enough to sit a throne without a stool. I am sure you can imagine the struggles your new life will entail." A wry, ever so slightly teasing smile. ". . .Well; let us not call it a life, and imply it to be something so permanent."

Even back home, he didn't really care about all his titles and what not. Other than five time winner of best hair. That was the most important one after all!

As long as he gets to stay back and lounge while Jakob here does all the hard work, he doesn't care how many fish the other man catches. As long as they're also as far away from him as possible. He'd rather not be covered in the stinky slimy smell of fishies all day long. Taking that many showers wasn't good for his hair at all!

Dragons smile upon Jakob with your patience.

". . .Right. Well, then. As you say—just Izana it is." However rare the command to bypass formalities, Jakob is quick to adapt and even does so swimmingly. If the same command were to rule that the Archduke be called a 'mutt' or a 'lout' over his given title, he would comply with even greater fervor and speed. Speaking without refrain is what Jakob does per norm. To do it in compliance with his duties? Say less.

In any case, his work has much too little to do with Izana to warrant saying his name and will hopefully—hopefully—stay that way. The butler is more than happy to have the dramatic nobleman out of his hair. Really, the problem lies in when such useless people get involved.

"That is fine by me, Izana." Oh, he is enjoying this, can you tell? "Your cheer will bolster my efforts. And your distance? Will prove most helpful, I assure you."

Thankfully, the bulk of Jakob's preparations have already been completed prior to being waylaid. A fat worm on the hook and great hope with it - with a raise of his fishing rod, then its calculated throw, the good butler casts his line into the middle of the pond. Not too close, not too far. Perfect, if he might say so himself.

“It is a unique experience to be grown at the height of your parent’s notoriety, you know. Especially with a father like you or my own.” There is no insult laced into those words. This time, she speaks purely factual. If he is truly self-aware, after all, what she is saying should not come as a surprise. “There are idiots who think the sins of the father can be apologized for with the words of the child. It is exhausting.”

And then there are those who spurn her for her own valor…well, Jakob is not necessarily incorrect, except for his claim of melancholy on her part. She is aware she can be abrasive, with a tongue sharper than she means for it to be. And she too is self-aware enough to know that there are plenty who find her company unbearable.

Such is fate. She is not interested in wasting her time over those who do not matter.

"Exhausted? I can only imagine." Literally at that. Not all falls within the realm of jolly old Jakob's expertise. A burdened child is one thing, as is chocolate-making, but a parent? Takes one to know one and of those he has had none.

"—Do you resent your father for your difficult childhood?" Jakob pointedly ignores the comment about his reputation; it is not even worthy of note. Many things he does not find worthy, his detached tone implies. "I myself possessed a father plenty worthy of resentment. You speak of sins and of those I can understand. If I were you, I'd wring Azama's neck for what he did to me—indirectly or not. Even that very act of expressing dissatisfaction is a privilege, you know."

A hint of bitterness then nothing at all.

Next comes a glance, not at his chocolate but Mitama's. There is a step in the process that Jakob cannot manage by himself. This important matter would usually be alleviated by Flora but as simple knowledge can produce, his fellow housekeep and Ice Tribe affiliate is not remotely present. Which means her chilly magic is not at his disposal.

Now contrary to what some might expect, Xander treated the warning he'd received about some kind of Zenithian "orb" fairly seriously. Aware of the existence of both Valla and the Outrealms, the Crown Prince found the idea of other worlds and portals between them fully believable. It could, indeed, appear, and were he to make careless contact with it, there was no telling what might happen.

So, he resolved to be careful. Acknowledging he was new in the area, he had full intent to steer clear of the orb should he run into it, and merely report its location to the Knights, so that it could be apprehended. He had announced as much to Jakob, too, as they walked.

... What no one saw fit to inform him about was that the orb in question could materialize in front of someone out of thin air and simply not take no for an answer.

All he saw was a flash of light that forced him to abruptly halt and shield his eyes, the bright light eliciting a groan from him; midway through, his voice suddenly began to warp in some way, his vocal cords suddenly tingling with a strange sensation -

the light dissipated. He blinked once, twice. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the lighting again... But something was still wrong.

Was he crouching? Why was the ground suddenly this much closer? No... He stood upright, still.

He glanced around, noticing Jakob again, and his eyes widened as he realized that the man was, all of a sudden, taller than him.

"What..." The rest of the question froze on his throat as the voice he spoke with was strange, unfamiliar, high-pitched. Undeveloped.

Wait... he knew that voice. He heard it before...

Questions were fair game.

"—What has happened to you?"

Stranger than strange, here would be another singularity added to the repertoire of Jakob's abnormal butler-y experiences. On one blink, a patrol shared with the king of Nohr. On the next. . .with his miniature. "I must say, Lord Xander. Now, that is a face I have not seen for some years now."

Past initial surprise, the other's sight is rather nostalgic. The amusement in Jakob's demeanor is matched only by his devotion. Towering over Lord Xander—now young master Xander—he bends down upon a knee to better observe the Nohrian royal. More importantly, to confer him the respect his station is yet due no matter how presently attached to magic-induced youth.

( . . .or was it not magic? that much is uncertain. )

"It seems this is the result of an encounter with the orb that many have spoken of. Though, I do not know if reversion to one's child state is on par with its course." Jakob's analytical gaze sweeps the golden-haired princeling from head to toe. Then, suddenly, his pointer finger moves from left to right.

The explanation--defense--sits heavy on his tongue before he swallows it down. Jakob would find some way to deride it, find some way to lessen Laslow's bone-deep passion. So instead, he sighs, expression shifting into one of passive irritation.

"Well, we all have to start somewhere, no? Something had to spark my ability to love."

He watches as Jakob approaches. Curls one hand atop his hip, if only to avoid resting it atop the pommel of his sword and thereby adding an entirely unneeded element to this strange interaction. Laslow lifts his chin and wills himself not to quail. He's faced down far more threatening enemies than Jakob.

It's as good a challenge as any; an invisible gauntlet thrown at Laslow's feet. He hides a snort--what a mental image that makes. A pristine white glove, removed from Jakob's own hand. An entirely improbably scenario; Laslow can't imagine the man taking off those gloves for anything short of an explicit command from Corrin.

This is one test Laslow has full confidence he can pass. "That so? I guess you weren't the type to sneak around camp once rumors of my skill spread." He shrugs and neatly sidesteps around Jakob, aiming for the center of the room. "But if actions are necessary to prove my claim..."

Rarely was Jakob found so agreeable. In fact, one might conflate this rare moment of the butler's agreement with the bluest and rarest of moons - or an ominous and portentous blood-red one. "Loathe as I am to enact any two-person dance with you, that very waltz is what I have been teaching to my students. Therefore, that will be the dance we do."

Where Laslow goes, Jakob pursues, until he, too, is at the center of the room that will prove their arena. Closer and closer he treads until they are toe before toe, arms hanging down at his sides in the neutral starting position. At the ready; prepared to apply himself to any movement, any sudden start, and even any role. After all, it mattered none to Jakob whether he led or followed, danced as man or woman. So versatile and accomplished a teacher ought to be able to execute both. Make every shoe fit.

With that: a curious silence, sharp and dull. Both in the same. All periods of waiting entailed bated breath. Quicker heartbeats. However, as the butler looks upon the other man with a disinterested gaze, it then comes to light: why it was that he spoke with no other intention save to agree, why he slotted wordlessly into place before the other. In time, all was made clear. He expected nothing out of Laslow's performance. Absolutely nothing; denoting not even underestimation, but a sheer lack of it to begin with.

"Well?" Jakob presses with impatience as if dealt a busy hand - places to be. Students to teach. The bar, to him, is on the floor. He extends a hand and waits to be held. "I haven't all day. I've even granted you leave to be the 'man' of this dance. You do know how to lead, don't you?"

Jakob is not the beautiful 'woman' of Laslow's dreams, but he will be.

Whatever lessons are being imparted, the student is only oh too happy to demonstrate. What a shame, then, that the professor chooses to rudely interrupt with a sharp tone that, so unexpected in its transition, makes Mitama flinch and nearly let the pot slip from her fingers. How fortunate that the infirmary did not allow clumsiness to take root and grow.

The pot is snatched from her hands left outstretched. Rather than argue, she can only watch in silence as he sets about finishing the task for her, chocolate settling nicely into the molds, much better than she would have done, admittedly. All that protesting and bluster about how his assistance was not to be given out freely, and yet he has done just exactly that. Even as he continues to spit and insult as he moves back to his own work, Mitama just watches silently.

…hm.

"Thank you." Mitama pinches the edges of the molds between her fingers and drags it closer. She lifts it and taps it against the edge of the pot so that the extra goes back in before the shells can begin to harden. As she places it down and reaches for her jam, she keeps her eyes lowered when she speaks.

"You would not be the first to resent me. That is fine. I am already used to it." She takes a spoon and begins to carefully scoop out jam into each of the divots. "As for your earlier question, not particularly. I am aware that I am selfish. Such is the case when war leaves you very little to your name in the first place."

Back straight, pot held at an angle. He proceeds to empty his own mixture into their molds—flawlessly, of course—and reaches for different toppings than Mitama: a jar of salted cashews. Their satisfying crunch will complement his chocolate to complete and utter perfection. Aimed toward a mature and elegant palate; a divine combination of textures that will leave its impression with every bite. Sure to please and beguile. Ah, he is simply too thoughtful of a butler, Jakob thinks! However, he will leave the compliments to Lady Corrin when finally his creation should rest in her hands.

"—And who in the world would resent you?" This is not an attempt at commiseration, nor is it one at empathy - or, worse; bonding. Really, Jakob is only putting words to the plainest of thoughts, the most obvious conundrum on display. His attention remains downcast, fixed upon his own deft fingers. Swiftly delivering a single cashew to each waiting shell like a dutiful stork.

"You are remarkable only in sheer laziness."

Today, less so, but lazy still by Jakob's measure.

"—Foul of mouth and attitude."

Pot call kettle black.

"And dreadfully 'woe is me' over your own circumstances."

Dragons help Jakob if Dwyer should ever wield the same attitude toward the father who has ensured he was never found wanting of a roof over his head, food in his belly, and a proper education.

"But," Jakob continues, slowing ever so slightly with the drop of the last nut, "such awful qualities don't warrant resentment. If that were the case, I would be resented by a number in the hundreds. Mayhap, even thousands."

That vein at his temple certainly does not look good for his heart. She studies it quietly for a moment before allowing her eyes to drift to his hair. A soft scoff escapes her. "Summer becomes fall / leaves wilt, fall, and change colour / humans do the same."

Old man.

She is not an expert at what she is attempting to do, but the chocolate does seem to be melted now. That would make it ready to be poured, would it not? Mitama takes up a tray of simple circle molds and sets it down on her half of the counter. If these are just for her, then there is really no reason to make them overly fancy, especially on her first attempt. She taps out the spoon on the side of the pot before placing it off to the side and wrapping both hands around the handle of the pot.

It is heavy. She moves it slowly.

"Like I give a crap about that. Do you think me on the job right now? Sorry to say, but I would not dream of dedicating my services to you." Well. Even if not polite, the foul-mouthed butler was most certainly talented. The help of a pre-heated pan expedites his work; the occasional stirring of his ladle ensures that each square of the cacao butter is warmed evenly; his haste and professionalism puts him on the highway to results. A dash of sugar enters the boiling concoction and once more he is right where he started.

The tap of his ladle against the rim of the pan seems as much satisfied as emphatic, a strike of a teacher's dowel against the blackboard with a lesson to follow: "While we're at it, allow me to put it another way. Even if I were inclined to show courtesy, I would only do so while it is reciprocated. Do you think yourself such a shining example, Mitama? I think not. In fact, I am led to wonder what it is that Azama has been teaching you—what in the world are you doing?"

Jakob's speech is cut short by a force he cannot resist. Fueled by irritation and compulsion, he frowns at the sight of Mitama's haphazard pouring - offended by her dreadfully slow place, soulfully insulted by the surrounding area spattered with droplets of a precious mixture. More a crime scene than a counter! Though, no doubt this was Jakob's wild exaggeration as a perfectionist.

He tromps over to take it from her hands with a huff, "—give that here," only to pour the chocolate expertly and neatly and spotlessly into the molds himself.

Pour, pour, pour, down to the very last drop.

"An astute observation," Tsubaki remarks, nodding solemnly. There's only an ounce of surprise towards Jakob's evaluation. If a butler must be worth their salt, then they should curate a wide breadth of expertise. That is, after all, integral to the soul of a retainer— and what is a butler, if not a retainer in different attire?

Friendly banter is planned, then halted as Jakob drops a devastating topic—

"Like— Pegasi?!" Tsubaki exclaims, stumbling for the Fodlanese word as he gawks. Why would Jakob bring up pegasi?! False assurance easily crumbles— What if Jakob is bringing forth pegasi as a subtle hint that he knows of this true identity?! Surely, the butler isn't harboring a secret affinity for such majestic steeds— Unless?

"Should they sprout wings, it'd be much difficult to spectate, no~? The resistance in flight is quite different than land; there will be no bursts of power to keep the audience enthralled— I think, anyhow. I wouldn't know from experience." Nimble fingers quietly adjust the brim of his hat, "Truthfully, I have never rode a pegasi before— All my knowledge is nurtured by natural curiosity and tomes, haha!"

Tsubaki awkwardly pushes strands of scarlet tresses behind his ear.

"No. Not really."

The race track thunders with a round of cheers, drawing eyes and ears toward the source of the spectacle. Overcoming its evenly matched competitor, the losing Silverglade Dreamer was once more in the lead. Elsewhere, a silver-haired man continues cheerfully as if his own radiant victory were in sight.

"I've no fondness for any animal, be they dogs or cats, horses or pegasi. There is no love to be had for creatures situated below man. They are only our tools. Would you love a pair of scissors for how well it could cut?" A cynical opinion, and one that Jakob states as if it were only the most obvious one in the world. ". . .However, I know of a handful of foolish individuals who would think differently."

He looks to left and to sky in a figment of absorption. bringing a hand to his chin thoughtfully. In truth, Jakob is not only pretending to think, but thinking well and truly: "There is old man Gunter who has kept the same warhorse since his days of service beneath King Garon. That ridiculous Silas who feels wont to befriend his mount. And if I should recall, a foppish man from Hoshido with red hair just like yours. I believe his name was. . .?"

Come a 'startled' blink and there is an end to all prior fixation. He turns to his fellow spectator with a look of condolence. Or, rather, it would be condolence if it weren't for the fact he continued to wear the same immovable smile.

( an ever so slightly wider one, even. )

ETHEREAL BALL 2026

As amused as Niles is at the offer, it takes a moment of him staring at the other. There's some hesitance in accepting it though he pockets it without much of a second thought. He knew what Jakob was implying and it almost made him chuckle. Camilla hadn't had a problem kissing him before they arrived but instead of saying that, he forced a half smile.

"Well, aren't you subtle? I bet you wouldn't dare give one to Corrin, would you?" Said smile is turning more into a smirk now and he tries to keep the lilt in his voice. His tone didn't suggest he was grateful but he couldn't help but try to push Jakob's buttons anyways. "But fine, if you think a lowlife like me needs a little more help in seeming decent, then I should thank you for your trouble, right?"

As soon as relieved of his offered mint, Jakob snatches his hand away with a scrunched expression of barely concealed disgust. Niles; ever as unpleasant from single eye to lilting voice to tippiest toe. He has never enjoyed crossing paths with his fellow Nohrian retainer, and has always, always—always—thanked his lucky stars that such a miscreant as Niles served under Lord Leo's household instead.

Another man's trash is another man's treasure went the saying; in this case, another man's trash means that it is not his.

"I've no need for your thanks nor for your flower," Jakob says, appearing briefly constipated as the man decides to pat his shoulder. It has nothing to do with disrupted bowels, but rather the desire to disembowel. The state of his repulsion is clear, appearing much like someone who has stepped into a muddy puddle. And, relevantly, what is one to do when they step into muddy puddles?

They ensure that it never happens again.

"I request from here forward that all our exchanges be one-sided. I will give to you, and you will burden me with nothing. I will speak to you, and you will unleash not a peep in return. Now, let us begin with this exercise: good day to you, Niles."

(Why did she feel like such a selfish coward? Why did her jaw hurt from clenching it so tightly?)

To date, that art has been under no compromise. All throughout their dance, his master gave no signal of gloom, no reason to suspect her reaction to be any different than happiness. To suspect even himself in his understanding of one he has striven to know better and longer than anyone else.

That is, until she glances away.

". . .Milady?" says Jakob, startled and alerted all at once; whose silvery head raises on the end of a too-straight neck like the pricking of a schnauzer's ears. "I do beg your forgiveness. If I have offended you—if I've spoken out of line—I should like to convey that it was not my intention."

The fingers in his vest curl. It need not be Jakob's knowledge that proves handy, but simply all those with eyes and ears and senses about them. A flower goes on to press into his palm. When Jakob looks down, it seems a beautiful yet slightly bruised thing - as if packed down under stress by the cage of too-tight fingers. When he should look up, it is to the thundering of feet that ferries his very reason for living away.

"Corrin. . ."

She is upset; his lady, his light, his master and obligation. And, even more horrifyingly, Jakob cannot determine why. Where a warm weight once was, hand-in-own-hand, is an empty space he silently regards.

So Finn is here.

Jakob knows this, of course; only just recently had he spotted the other man from afar; only just recently at that had he exchanged a few tittering words regarding him. He fixes the knight with a look as he draws near and makes no move to countervail this by putting distance between them. Jakob's tolerance is much rarer than Jakob's intolerance; the magnitude of generosity being practiced here is clear.

"Hm. Not attached to Lord Leif at the hip today? I'd have thought my advice reached you last time we spoke," he jokes in place of greeting, before his eyes drop down to the bowlful of a cold sweet treat between Finn's hands. Intriguing. What a man chooses to put in his stomach says much about him. Like, for example, the way Jakob takes his coffee uncompromisingly black. No milk. No sugar. No fun and happiness.

"Yours? I didn't expect you to have a sweet tooth."

Because, of course, it doesn't possibly occur to Jakob that it would be for him. Not that he'd accept something so childishly sweet in the first place.

Though a little hovering was permissible, before any one could start getting ideas. He knew what their parents were like.

"I do not." The bowl is more of a burden than anything. Since it had come into his possession, it had already begun the slow process of melting. He doubted it would be long before he was burdened with a bowl of sugary soup. "One of the staff members shoved it into my hands, saying something about sweetening up my mood. She refused to take it back." He did not believe that he needed such sweetening. "I don't suppose that you would be interested in taking it off my hands?" He doubts it.

The change in subject is abrupt. Finn blinks before turning to see just who it is that Jakob is referring to. "Him? Really. He was complimentary when we spoke earlier." He sighs and shakes his head. "It doesn't matter. It would be unbecoming to dress in a way that distracts from my lord. Not that I know anything about fashion. I would have looked more foolish in making an attempt."

Scrape away the dignified exterior of the butler and a less proper core would be revealed. A stingy man who took no obligation onto himself beyond strictly needed, or strictly Corrin's; an unforgiving tongue that stated exactly as the mind felt; one who endured zero compromise. Acquaintance or not, Finn's burdens were Finn's own.

The quiet motion of the man in question goes on to draw Jakob's attention. A gift and a word of thanks? Oh, but he is undeserving. Beyond truly.

"There you go again, feeling gratitude for something I did just because I wanted to. That hogwash is enough to make my ears shrivel." He glowers, though the flower is accepted. It's a pretty thing; a suitable grade of quality and elegance for his good lady and surprisingly real. Perhaps he will gift it to her when next they meet.

"A final word. Do not be so trusting of others and take them at face value." Finn was surrounded by a stifling air of duty and melancholy that made Jakob feel like he was looking at a corpse. There was no such thing as a pleasant-to-look-at or sweet-smelling corpse, mind you. "You seem a flaky man, the kind who is liable to succumb to all manner of trickery. That attitude of yours will be sure to cause your lord a headache. That's all."

Where Corrin may feel overwhelmed by trying to keep pace with another, Jakob has always managed to be a perfect complement to every aspect of her character. If Corrin struggled with resolve, his was twice as strong to provide enough for them both; if Corrin's steps lagged behind by even a fraction of a second, he would bend to ensure that she remained in tempo with the way that he moved. Now, even as she tries her hardest to keep up, a breathy laugh escapes when they turn. "You know, I never have been able to keep up with you in things like this," She mumbles with a smile, closer to him than she would normally be. The cut of his jaw and the slope of his nose, the way his bangs fell into his face, and the feeling of her hands tucked securely into his... There's nothing better, she's certain, and her night will have easily peaked at this moment. "But you still always make it work. You amaze me, honestly!" A particular motion in their dance brings her close to his chest, cheeks flushed with a combination of exertion and.... something else that she can't quite put her finger on. "I'm lucky. Lucky to have ever had you at my side." Lucky to hopefully never spend another moment away, feeling complete once the other half of her life returned to her side. "Thank you, Jakob. You coming here with me... it's already made this night wonderful."

These are the words of a man present from the very start. Since there were gaps in Corrin's teeth, a clumsiness to the way she moved, and an embarrassing lack of savoir faire in her speech. All expected of a prisoner-princess plucked from dragons knew where to grace the bars of the cold northern fortress with her innocence. It means they are truthful words as well - those that Jakob means.

He leads her as he always has, foot sweeping to left, hand twirling her to right, movements altogether smooth yet flurried. Unceasing, unrelenting, for even if they tire, they must indulge the impression they are anything but. The Nohrians move with such passion and intensity; so bold that all those who dance in their way are transformed as if into completely different people. A difficult and truly advanced regime as well as one of the first that Jakob ever taught to Corrin.

To be Nohrian is to adopt Nohrian custom; to assimilate even the smallest facets of a culture in the hopes of becoming whole, becoming them. Corrin in that endeavor who has worked twice as hard; Jakob who has been there every step and waltz of the way.

"Yours has always been high albeit unnecessary praise. If I could not adapt to your movements, then my very skill as your butler would be put into question." Of course, such 'movements' are to say that she has remnants of her old mistakes still. A half-beat too slow, or at times too fast, though the pauses between these have become fewer and further in between. Then there is Jakob who accounts for it all, pressing them away as smoothly as a dogeared page set right.