wall of ice.

Her voice falls silent. Then what? Then we would be doing something else. Like what? Of the activities available in this room — more confidential paperwork? Her battle tactics homework? Small talk? A nap?

Anything else. She doesn't need permission — why had she even asked for it? — for even if the Margrave does not consent to leave, she could simply file away the current documents to make a point. She should. The census is no one's business but the Empire's.

But a louder voice than her own whispers over her shoulder, tugs at her hand: Who permitted you to speak, girl?

"U-um." The census. His question. She shouldn't sound so surprised at the sound of words coming out of her own mouth. "Of course I know the usual reasons." Taxation, agricultural planning, distribution of aid, both fair and prejudiced in all the above aspects; still, she does not know what answer he is looking for, and so she holds her tongue.

"...But Begnion's case is rather unique. This is the first survey since the war, and since two disenfranchised populations were granted full citizenship. We've given the people a few years to resettle," it is a little easier to muster confidence with a we to speak of, "and we are considering how to encourage everyone to respond, even those who have had little reason to trust our government in the past."

A flip of the page. She stares at it, and these words do not read any easier than the last page had.

This is important.

He has seen a few others here and there with their hands bound as their are now and the fidgeting confused him. It is not so terribly hard to sit still.

"A census is as likely to help as it is to harm. A census is a target just as much as it provides a haven of stability for others who journey to Begnion in search of a place to call home." If ever the army was too thin, it's quite easy to recruit if you know ten years back the family had several children. As a resource it is to be protected at all costs. It is better burned than left to enemy hands.

"You will gain no trust by watching them in this way. You would find more success in hosting a festival and simply taking note of who gathered. The margin for error is similar enough but people are far more amicable when you are not intruding upon them to gain such information."

That and, in his personal opinion, it is far more secure. It is more time consuming he fears, but far easier on the people's hearts.

There is a part of his mind that dwells upon the letters they had exchanged, at the other's question. That the Margrave of Faerghus himself had taken enough personal interest in him to keep up a correspondence, even after returning to his own lands on doubtlessly pressing duties, is a social boon that cannot be understated, and had he still been Duke, regardless of the lands he finds himself in, this would be a duty he could never forgo.

(Here, though, it feels… different. Had he responded to the margrave out of a mere obligation of station, or…?)

“I have been well,” he replies, still, with a light incline of his head, echoing the same dutiful, empty words he’d penned in the returning letters, though those same words clash awkwardly with his still-pale expression, with the way his hand trembles tightly against his bow.

There's a pause, a little too long to feel natural, before he forces his gaze up to meet the other's. Without a clear read on the margrave's expression, he cannot help but feel chastened.

"No such alarm was caused." Then, to lighten the mood, he turns away to make himself more clear than mere words could. "Fully trained knights have fired shots more worryingly close."

○○○○○ | ATTRACTION ○○○○○ | AFFECTION ○○○○○ | INTEREST ○○○○○ | LOYALTY ○○○○○ | TRUST

But now? All he could imagine was,

That sure is a Matthias response.

And that filled him with amusement and a tinge of comfort rather than hurt or anxiety. “Is my current appearance not enough of a sign? And here I thought I had managed to finally distance myself from that horrid lesser presence.” Just thinking back to it sent a shiver down his spine out of pure discomfort. It wasn’t quite disgust for the man that he had been- if Lambert were to look at himself divorced from his own body, he’d understand the attitude. Pathetic and a tad unbecoming to witness sure, but considering everything, he could understand.

The issue was, he couldn’t divorce himself from it. That was him. And for him that was unacceptable. “I have been faring quite well if I do say so myself.” Weight shifted slightly from one hip to the other, Gradivus standing tall and proud by his side. “At last my services as a knight have been acknowledged properly, so now I do not look like an out of place, last minute hire whenever I happen to tag along the Academy’s expeditions.” A soft sigh. “Though I suppose my current role would give you some…dissonance. The Academy seems quite keen on deploying me as a commander for the skies, rather than the land. I am not one to complain however, one more mastery under my belt will surely not hurt.”

“And what about you, my friend? All these moons…how have you fared, truly? How is the North holding up?”

The self awareness present is appreciated, nearly pulling a proper smile from the margrave.

It swiftly falls again. "A commander of the sky? Are you certain you're okay with that. The last time I recall you that high up it was because a beast decided to make a plaything of you and Oleg and you, my friend, took far too long to wake." All that had mattered then was that his heart still beat but still, the sight of Blaiddyd blonde in the skies is hardly comforting.

How have he and the north fared? That's a question with such a simple answer it hurts.

Well, it was nice, until the tax man arrived at his house.

They sit across from each other at the table. Ike stares at him. He stares at Ike. He folds his hands on the table, awkwardly flicking his nails. "So, uh..." Ike untangles his hands to rub the back of his neck. "I'd offer tea, but I don't drink it. Sorry."

So he sits now across from a young man. Well mannered enough to lament the lack of tea but not so wise he knows to offer water instead. Indeed, the kind of man who would forget something as important as his taxes. "That is fine. This should take no time at all."

In his hands and in the middle of the table there are papers. The ones on the table are blank, those in his hands are filled with the list of those who'd yet to give the church their property dues.

Twirling a pen in clever fingers, she moves to redact the entire following clause, but without her other hand pinning down the folio, the sudden motion sends the page skittering across her desk.

She blinks. Bites the inside of her cheek. Carefully, calmly sets everything in its place again, ink dripping onto the paper all the while.

It's — it's fine. Fine. This is hardly an important document, merely directions for the upcoming census. She is not so dense as to willingly allow a foreign noble free reign over sensitive intelligence, no matter his authority in these lands. But come to think of it, why had he even agreed to play the tedious part of chaperone? Doesn't he have better things to do than hold hands like a schoolgirl... with a schoolgirl?

Perhaps the same could be asked of her. Whatever havoc she had wreaked at the Ball, she is in possession of more than enough leverage to pull herself free of consequences. That she hadn't, figuratively; couldn't, literally, now —

— well, call it curiosity. Or, as she is only beginning to realize, a test of her own resolve.

The pen clatters to the table, too sudden and too loud. Holding back a flinch, she adds, "Surely there's something else you would rather do. I'm no delinquent, you know — quite the hospitable lady, in fact."

Her eyes flicker to the open door, then back to meet the Margrave's gaze. "I am amenable to suggestions."

Ever so slightly, he scowls. Just before he makes to speak, the pen falls and he has to wonder if working in the vicinity of another is truly this hard for her. No, she isn't incompetent or clumsy. She's trying to be sly.

"You are now?" Incredulity slips into his tone. Has he forgotten who is in what role here? That she is amenable. "There are a number of other matters I could attend - but most are as yours. Confidential."

"Ah, but a word of caution. They only accept patronage from those with a special card and in order to obtain said card, one must be in a relationship." Her tone flat, undercut by a tinge of annoyance, not directed towards the stranger, but towards the shop as a whole.

"Should I ask another? I cannot let this opportunity pass." Words for herself, but not spoken so quietly that the stranger couldn't hear.

Even a chance at finding a hint of a way to fix her would be more than enough. The absence of progress isn't proof of a lack of effort, but rather a testament to how momentous this goal she seeks truly is.

"There is no need to give up that easily." The answer is quite obvious. "You are my daughter."

"I've not the time to waste and I'm doubtful the clerk would allow you in if you simply brought along the first person who said yes to your proposal." If the relation card is as coveted, they likely wouldn't accept such half-assed couples anyways.

The tip of his arrow lowering silently, Andrei watches the doe cross the clearing, a clean path of hoofprints through the damp, frigid earth.

A doe that survives winter could mean two young fawns in spring. The amount of game available in any given year could make the difference between abundance and famine, contentment and revolt. It is the kind of lesson that imprints itself, like second nature, within his mind, even when Garreg Mach is not his territory and neither its future nor its inhabitants his responsibility.

(Even so far removed from his own land, obligation leaves its mark, still.)

It would be more ideal, then, to seek out prey that is larger, older, its value for the future decreased in proportion to the meat it can supply now.

A rustle in the undergrowth draws his attention, and narrowed eyes train onto his new target, drawing back his weapon—

"!!"

—only for the bow to swing downwards with his sharp inhale, eyes wide in shock at the figure that emerges from the trees.

(He wouldn't have made the mistake. He wouldn't have. And yet. His hands shake, the shadow of a turned back, the tip of his raised arrow, floating into mind.)

Andrei's own steps crunch the fallen leaves underfoot as he emerges from his hiding spot, careful, nonthreatening posture in stark contrast with the haunted look that he is unable to wipe from his expression quite in time.

"…Margrave Gautier?"

There are ways to manage this. Stretching thin a smaller number of caught bucks or improvising spice wise to make up for missing meat.

His thoughts make him incautious. To begin with, there are prey they shouldn't be killed and work far better as guides to more fruitful targets. Should whatever hunter he happens upon be upset then-

Instinctively he flinches and dips to a lower stance, eyes are on him and though they aren't hostile, they certainly stay and stare in a way he would be utterly ignorant to ignore.

He hears his name and finds a familiar face calling it. "Andrei." Contact has been amicable. Short and sweet - letters can only do so much to tell the stories of what happens in the world.

However, at the mention of a peculiar large shop with an even larger selection of tomes and items, Nyx just has to verify. Even if what a minuscule fraction of what they speak holds truth, then it must be pursued.

After all, a remedy to her curse might be present. A siphoning ailment that pollutes her every waking moment. The heavy years cannot weigh her devotion to a search. Every little lead must be followed, despite how taxing or true it is. 

How cruel a thing hope is.

Though, something that the rumors conveniently forgot to detail was the need for a ridiculous card. To guard at the store front, Nyx crosses her arms and furrows her brow, "You mean to tell me that in order to be a patron, I must possess a card or be spoken for? How obsessed. To reject one's coin simply because it doesn't have that 'romantic gleam'."

She turns her back to the store front, her pride ready to move her feet, but her desperation forces them to stay. A torrent of frustration builds, soon to be met with an exhale, venting all her pent up thoughts.

She must get in. A store truly that big must have hints on how to reveal her true self, or perhaps how to revert her form. This possibility absolutely cannot be passed up.

So now she turns to the crowd, and to the first free person she spots, one donning fiery red hair, she approaches, "Pardon me. May I please have a moment of your time?"

Now that he is in front of her she truly realizes what a character she has picked out. Looming over her, his stare is met with her unwavering gaze.

I really did choose quite the character.

"Young man, I require your aid. Could you please pretend to be my lover?"

Moments earlier... Matthias had found himself waiting. A store this large begets a line just as long and he has no qualms about such a thing. Rushing to the front will do little for him and it's not as though it's stood still. Though the pace is a crawl, to move is to move.

These are his thoughts before the most baffling of questions is asked by, frankly, most baffling a person.

She comes from the front, yet her arms are devoid of wares or any such trinket from the shop. Dismissed at the entrance then. For what reason he cannot fathom aside from looking to her question.

He looks about them at the others in the line. Were they all just waiting to be turned away if they weren't holding hands or here with their lover? What of those with 'lovers' far away? He doubts they would turn a profit, even with the monastery's population, if their criteria for entry were so restrictive.

And did she just call him a young man?

Matthias finally sighs, the beginning of his response. His glove is pulled off as the second part of it and he holds his hand out such that his ring finger is visible. Around it are two ring like marks, one mostly covered by an actual silver ring. "I'm not keen on a third marriage," -to say nothing of the fact that before him is most certainly a student.

A small chuckle and the bookshelf returns to his view. Carefully, he disassembles and pulls out one of the shelves. Weighty as it was- goddess this had to be some work deemed not good enough for an enthusiast.

"You could say something of that sort. It's not a trade I'm versed in." Thinking back to the reconstruction of the monastery itself, most people who helped that effort could at least call themselves novices with how things had come along and help up.

Goddess forbid he reveal his title lest their merchant attempt to sell promises the poor case couldn't keep."

He holds the shelf itself out and turns it over. "There's pitting on the bottom. For all the rigidity it has, one could need to be mindful of that being a weak point."

Gloved fingers guided over each weak spot and in a quieter voice he spoke. "With a bit of care, it could certainly be reliable."

He felt like he was beginning to sell the young man on this thing more than the merchant was. "... works like these eventually end up as kindling somewhere. Imperfections so minor as not to be seen are a grave offense to some nobility and most commoners tend not to have the collections nor the funds."

 Once the sun had set, it nearly felt like another world ,save for the one or two other people to be found between the pews.

 The margrave closes his eyes and let the silence take him. So many are the things he can pray for but he can't help but feel as if this night may prove to be little more than a first draft of what he should say, what woes it makes sense to present. Hundreds of faces line the peripherals of his vision. None truly were there– or so he thought. A man stood out amongst the crowd of nameless faces. His too had no name attached but he was more tangible if only barely. Matthias wouldn't put it above himself to converse with a ghost of his own making.

 Prayer wasn't this man's purpose so much as it seemed to be relaxing.

 “The winter air makes this place feel a bit warmer somehow, does it not?” He offers in a tone just above a whisper. He was hardly getting rest anytime soon. A conversation would hardly hurt to help that along... and most importantly, his thoughts alone would hardly allow this place to be the sanctuary he'd like it to be.

"Huh?" Rhys turns and the man's question registers. "Oh, books mostly. I have a few I've brought all the way from home and I would like to give them a proper place. They're not hefty, but they are precious to me." He smiles but knowing that he can't buy the bookshelf makes the sentiment not quite reach his eyes. "But I'll have to leave this here. I'm sure there's another around that I can afford." There's many other things he'd like to use it for. Candles, perhaps a small altar arranged atop it, or any trinkets and baubles he and Ike might come across. Still, it won't be this bookshelf.

"It'd be more than a shame to do so." His eye draws over to the man running the stall. "Pieces like this are rare yes... but they aren't so perfect as to always fall at the given price point."

Stepping closer to it, he ran his hand over the inner walls between the shelves. Inquisitive fingers were quick to take note of something and he turned to the ginger haired man. "A few of the inserts need to be reworked. It's likely the ones the shelves rest upon now also need such work.

 Matthias’s eye is keen, some trinkets he’s tempted to keep but would he really need it? More than that, he’s not sure he could stomach the pain of almost losing such things if they did gain a sentiment.

 “Final price- I can't go lower than that for a shelf like this,” the margrave overhears.

Amber eyes find themselves on the spoken of shelf and he hums, feet carrying him over to look upon it closer. 

 At a glance, it was sturdy. Longevity likely played a factor in even the docked price but… he could tell already, there was a story as to why something like this found its way here.

 The wood itself was a beautiful color, minimal pitting, the finish upon it had protected it well. With shelves that guaranteed one likely would need a lifetime to fill it to capacity… he could see himself caving to it even at the higher price point. Such couldn't always be the case for others.

 “How hefty is the material you plan to line the shelves with?” he asks to the man eyeing it in the first place.

Victorious was the hunter who tracked back to nest, rutheless in pursuit and merciless in capture. Survival was always at a cost. He had done his best however to be wise in his choice of prey. They had food, he need not be wasteful and slaughter a family for what was nothing more than a comfort meal, meant to gently soothe and take some bite of the cold away. Lukas truthfully could manage with what they had...and yet Matthias found his mind wouldn't allow him to return empty handed. A lone rabbit. Plump. One set of tracks, none alongside the way to it's den.

He stalked and he recalled. It was rare his boys got sick. Between simple being so used to their environment or something within their blood as Gautiers. It was why when it did happen he felt beside himself. His steps were silent as he approached and waited close by the entrance of the den. Sylvain...there were times he still had nightmares of that day. No matter how many blankets, how close they were to the fireplace, how tightly he held his son, vacant eyes and blue lips were all he was met with.

His eyes narrow slightly as he watches the man reenter as if he had not taken any risks at all, a rabbit dead in hand as his apparent reward. He'd...done that to go hunting...?

"I...saw that you were not here when I awoke," Lukas started to answer slowly, brow furrowing faintly as Matthias went out of his way to readjust the blanket around his shoulders. If he were not feeling a bit better, he might blame his confusion on the fever -- which was surely not helping, but wasn't entirely responsible. "Seeing as we had established the need to stay inside earlier, I don't think it's too out of the ordinary to be...concerned that you walked right back out there as soon as I fell asleep."

Lukas goes still again at the touch of a hand to his forehead, blinking owlishly for a moment after it was withdrawn before shaking his head in the negative. "No, I'm...quite alright for the moment. You went to the effort to get us extra food, the least I can do is help you with what you wish to make. If you're concerned, I'll sit by the fire as we work, if that will suffice?"

He gives Matthias just long enough to acknowledge that compromise, not waiting for permission to do so, as he went back to their packs to what food they had brought with them. He was hardly a cook -- and though he had learned some things by necessity in the Deliverance, making things taste good consistently wasn't something he'd mastered nor tried to get better at -- but he knew how to dress a rabbit, and perhaps they had some extras they could use to add to whatever meal Matthias had in mind.

"I did not think our situation so dire as for you to sneak off like that, however. Did you think I would protest, or demand to follow after you?" Lukas asked, sitting back down by the smaller fire with, pack set in his lap as he digs through it.

He shakes his head, fond of the initiative at least. "It's good you'd like to not sit still but for the moment, I think your body will thank you for allowing a bit more rest." That was what he said, yet as he began to prepare the rabbit, he made no efforts to stop Lukas.

"It'll be plain tasting but it'll go down quite easily."

The question has to be pondered. What he knew of this young man was that while undoubtedly sharp, he was a bit reckless with himself. His own antics hadn't helped or been the most shining example of control but Lukas...