"And what are gestrals, exactly?" The pirate lass asks. "You sound very familiar with them."

plus, it's easier than it was when he was a kid. at the age he was- the real verso- when he came up with gestrals in the first place.

when the distortions fade, he's managed to create a small figurine of one. a portly creature made of wood. ❝ they're much larger back home. this one's just a replica. ❞ but he thinks for a moment that he's homesick. ❝ they're essentially immortal. if they break, they're brought to a sacred river, placed in the water, and they come back. granted, every time they come back, they're not quite the same as before. it's like starting life all over again. ❞

" What makes a man a warrior? What shapes him into someone able to survive the pain necessary for greatness? Some like to say that it's pure willpower. Working sunrise to sunset with sweat on your back and blood in your mouth. Releasing attachments and focusing entirely on the honor of battle-- is that the mark of a real fighter?

Or, some tell me that having someone worth fighting for invigorates their spirit in combat. If there is nobody to return to when it's time to lay down your weapons, then, what is the point in any of it?

❝ i think it varies from person to person, ❞ he thinks of simon. strong and brave and full of love. simon had joined expedition zero because he was that noble sort. that, and he was physically built for the task. a mountain of a man, an oddity among the people of lumiere. ❝ i've done my fair share of fighting, so ... i've seen a lot of people come with different things that they've fought for. ❞

somehow, he feels like that's not the real question. this guy's asking him what he fights for. verso doesn't know how to answer that. at least not honestly. ❝ i come from a place where every year, people die. it became more and more obvious as the years went on. see, there's a being called the paintress, and she's been counting down from 100 every year for the past 67 years- ❞

❝ and for a long time, expeditioners have been going out to see if they could stop her. they fight so that maybe there will be a better tomorrow for the people who are left behind. you know, for those who come after. ❞ the words flow easily enough, because they're true. ❝ before i came here, i was an expeditioner, too. we always told each other- when one falls, we continue. maybe a real warrior is someone who holds onto an ideal and fights for it, even when things seem hopeless. ❞ that's what maelle would say- something like that. maelle who fought so hard to ... no, he knows better than to think of that. maelle's not here. none of the others are here. and he's alive, whether he wants to be or not.

and whose fault was that? a fragment of a child's soul, the person he had been made from, made in the image of- the real verso dessendre had been a rather whimsical child trying to escape from the duties that would be placed on his shoulders, and while he had wielded godlike powers, he was still just a little boy.

he's seen people crumble under that sort of knowledge. he's seen the results of the death of self. he thinks of the yawning abyss and the golden blades, and simon who had been locked away in place of the curator. in the place of his father.

back then, simon had been the strongest person he knew- in body and in willpower. he'd vanished and verso thought that he'd died in the battle with the hauler ⎛ swords of light driven through the axon's body, but no trace of an expeditioner ⎠ - the truth was so much worse. ❝ there are people i know who would want to think that even under these sorts of circumstances, there's hope. ❞ he thinks of maelle's smile.

❝ well, tempting fate is almost second nature, now. ❞ verso thinks to every expedition he'd traveled with. of all the things he'd done in the times in between. reckless things, fighting nevrons and axons. reminiscing on the past-

seeking release as well. but he'd learned that there was no freedom from the agony and the truth in this new world; only an endless waking. ❝ i suppose the only thing we can really do is survive- i've also proven to be startlingly good at that. ❞

he laughs then, a sound laced with a deep exhaustion. god, he's tired.

You're not fooling anyone, he wants to say. It's okay to fail sometimes, he wants to say as well, just as strongly. The Prince is at war within himself, and he has to wonder--why does it hurt him so badly, to watch this little boy lie? Lie to Lorene--lie to himself?

Maman says I must practice more. Ah. There it is.

Lorene loves his mother. He looks up to her, and that's natural, not just because she is his mother, and not just because she's one of the most accomplished sword fighters in his country. It's because someday he will be her--that is his destiny, as the secondborn royal of his generation. To take on the mantle of High General. Atariel, daughter of Diaphana, the Blue Rose of Tir Dolmindon is admired by all, not because she is a Princess. Not because of the accident of her birth (and things could have been very different for her; she is the secondborn of twins). But because she took back her birthright from the Usurper with her own two hands (she was the one who crossed the sea to recruit Dair's help. The fact that they later fell in love as a result was only a happy accident). Because she earned the title of Champion, the fifth and highest tier of earned titles in Mongol, one that can only be attained after a person makes major, lasting contributions to the wellbeing of their nation. And because Atariel did all of this--and she is not a mage. She did it all with strength of will, power of personality, and the might of her swords alone.

It hurts to look at this child. It hurts to hear him speak--speak of the expectations heaped upon his shoulders. The expectations he heaps upon himself. It's only been a scant handful of minutes, and Lorene doesn't know how much more he can take. The Prince can weather, has weathered quite a lot, but this? To this, he is weak inside. He'll crumble. He hates it.

But he also can't bring himself to turn away.

"You don't owe me a thing." Lorene says it quietly, morose, with a gravity that he knows the child won't understand (and he won't explain). "You don't need to make up for a thing. You haven't done a single thing wrong, little one."

the youngest was alicia. timid but curious, she was more fond of reading books in her room than of painting. she trusted people easily, perhaps too easily. she had a life to live and time to grow.

the middle child and only son was verso. odd in a way that alicia wasn't, he was, in a way, a blend of his parents and his siblings. his first love was music- a natural when seated at a piano, his dream was to compose and to play in the grand opera house of paris. but verso had the same powers as the rest of the family- no matter what he did, he would always be a painter, too.

no one would say that the dessendres were an unhappy family, but they were not quite happy, either. standing at the pinnacle of the painters, they were admired by many and resented by even more. and the painters' council had been in a faction war with the writers' guild for ages- the conflict escalating in a tragedy that ruined the dessendres. not in their power or status and influence, but in the fundamental parts of their souls.