darkness has always got there first.

crimson spreads against the bedsheets, jarring against the white. it spreads and spills, taking over the entire room now, over the edges of his vision, into his skull, filling his lungs. there is nothing but blood now, no air, no hope. fear clings to every single cell of lian's being and pulls him down to hell with it. he's there- he was just there- watching the rise and fall of sheng's chest, with bandages wrapped around his hands, with tear tracks on his face — not well, not by any meaning of the word- but there- alive. he was just there- and now, there is blood against the sheets, and a stillness that was not there before. how did this happen? how could he leave him alone now? after everything that has happened? how could you do this, lian? how could you? desperate hands first clench the bedsheet, before they recoil. as if burnt. he hadn't even pulled back when actual flames met his skin in vallarion, but he does this instinctively now. no, no, he is not allowed to be in the same bed when sheng sleeps, he can't- he can't wake him up- the older had told him that before, with coldness in his tone and anger that lian could not pick up back then. he wasn't allowed to wake sheng up, no matter what. is he sleeping? no- he's-— another wail leaves his throat, more animal than human, how it hurts to not be able to reach. the reflex of being told not to be here hits; he cowers from what he is seeing, staggering feet moving backwards, to that same wall, to where he was last night. this time, there is no strength left in his limbs, hands go up to his hair as he slides down, plucking at the strands. it's- it cannot be- 'how could you do this lian?' — it is his mother this time, who speaks the words into his ear, words full of disappointment and righteous fury. he sees her face, in a place between matter and dream, hell and nightmare. there is rushing in his ears, as he tries to stay here, in this room, where he could maybe reach sheng- but he cannot. no air can reach his lungs, vision filled with dots of red, slowly taking over his entire senses. another wail leaves the wounded animal on the floor, a creature that's far removed, a creature that lian does not recognize as himself. as if stabbed through the throat in a mirror image, all the creature can do is writhe. attempt to speak in gasps and keens, begging for mercy where there is none. its claws sink into the skin of its scalp, pulling and pulling, as if it will ground it, yet it's in vain. nothing can help, for it is tortured only by its own doing. stuck in a limbo of pain, biting its own limbs and howling when it hurts. blood fills its mouth, choking it, and it still yearns for its own pain. this lasts for hours or minutes, time does not matter in this space created by its sorrow- the creature does not know. then- a touch breaks through the trance, soft enough to frighten, for all it knows is pain. a whimper unlike the wails from before, a step further back towards an unmoving wall. the touch leaves, and the creature could almost make itself believe it wasn't there at all- yet it returns. to the back of its neck now, with more fervor, the words that attack steadily yet softly through the space in between. it tries to breathe- to get back- it really does — but it's a mountain to move. only when the touch fully moves him into warmth can it attempt to come back.

The sound of his voice is like an echo from a well—but he never stops calling for him, hoping he will hear it through the fog, that his voice would pierce the thick veil of desperation that had cloaked his brother in its shadow; he knows well what it feels to be lost in such a well, to splinter your nails on the damp walls trying to climb out only to find them closing in around you. He cannot leave him there, he cannot leave him. Every promise he has ever made pales in comparison to the sheer, clawing agony he feels to see his brother so distraught, to hear him wail as though he was in pain, raw and broken, hopeless. "Dìdi," he keeps calling. "Dìdi, I'm here... I'm here, it's okay, you're okay," he wills it into existence, begs those words to come true to whatever entity above or below will hear the feverishness with which he demands to be heard.

For one suspended moment, Sheng does not understand; his mind is ablaze, slow, thick with whatever poison had dragged him under as he presses his hands to the floor watching his brother crawl into a corner, shrink into himself as if he wished to disappear, rambling like a madman; his limbs feel borrowed and his throat aches as the words push through in ragged gulps of air, and the room itself seems to tilt. "Lian..." he tries calling, confronted with the damage of what he had done—once more. He can feel the unkind scrape of wood against his palms as he drags himself to him like a creature, the dark spill of his hair over his face, the dark silks of his body rippling in the light like oil. His pale hand reaches for his knee. "Lain, look at me... breathe." he begs of him; he'd sit there with him and beg until he heard him. He'd not leave him to be consumed by this darkness alone. His brother would live and die for him—he understands that now; he'd do the same. "Lian... try to breathe." he rests his forehead there, against his knee, for a moment; summoning strength back into the shambles of him—in and out—he was an broken tower, pieces scattered about, but he would rebuild himself for him. "Lian, I'm here... what happened? Did I scare you?" the hand rises to cup his face, lifting his eyes to him by force—his voice was a calm, frightened echo, waiting patiently to be heard. "Did I scare you? Don't be scared..." the supplication is a knot in his throat, impossible to swallow. "I'm here... you don't have to be scared of anything, okay? I'm here... nothing's gonna hurt you." he coos to him as he did as a child, his voice husky now, deeper than it had been then—he slips back into the role, wears the mantle he knows is ill-fitting now, hoping Lian could still recognize the sincerity of the sentiment underneath.

Oh? The compliment—for that is how she shamelessly sees it—is pleasing to her ears. “Why, thank you.” She treads on the tails of his robes, uncaring of the dirt she tracks on him. “Yet flattery will not get you from under my wrath. I repeat, what did you think you were doing, fool? Have the whispers in your mind addled you? Maybe my next kick should be to your head.” And yet, the fervency and anger to her voice is already running out, sharpness dulling. The fright and fury having passed, she felt her energy already draining away, only for it to come back with another offense. Awful? How dare he! “The life in the air must be noxious for you, deadlanders.” She hisses less like a cat and more like a snake, accompanied by her own venom. “Rare as it is for your lungs to get even a handful of its beauty. You are welcome to turn tail and run back home to your salted earth. I do not know what it is you expect from here, either way… It is not as if they will choose you.” Her eyes roll, but stop suddenly as she sees how disheartened it makes him; somehow, she had not yet learned that her words were more than mere wind. “Hey, hold on.” Awkwardness makes itself known in her face, discomfort, at the grief on his. “Ugh, do not do that.” Ruoxi is growing quite tired of seeing such hurt in others; she finds it irritating, as well as unable to allow them to go on unaddressed.

The color of him had drained, and there is only a lingering rigidness left in his limbs where vigor should, the desire to fight back snuffed out like a candle in the wind, held together at the seams only by the stubbornness alone. It is unbecoming to offer no fight when confronted so brashly, he knows so—but what fierceness was expected of his kind was currently nowhere to be found, only a quiet, soft resignation as he exhales wearily, mockingly.

The grip of her words curl around his neck like a rope as he swallows thickly, trying to stomach the truth she had unearthed. It is not as if they will choose you. Of course they would not. Why should they? Why should anyone? He does not blame him, though he wishes he could. He was a thing shaped by the weight of his grief, with all of the scars to show for it, made of grave-soil from a boy buried too young, in a land that seemed to reject life itself. Who would be mad enough to choose the likes of him over Lenore's gentle hands, the soft, guiding lull of her voice, the devastating cold inside her ribs that had you wishing you could set yourself on fire to keep her warm. He had come to their bright halls with blood beneath his nails and death trailing at his heels, expecting—what, precisely? That they would see past the madness of his bloodline? The whispers of court? The accusatory red of his eyes?

The thought settles quietly in his chest; with ease. He has grown used to being perceived as a bad omen, and perhaps he was. Sometimes he fears catching himself in a reflection as he stumbles out of his bed at night, half drunk on nightmares, too dizzy from a turbulent slumber to avoid them. Who could blame them, then, for seeing the same thing?

The man exhales as though his soul seeks refugee someplace else, and rubs the soreness above his sternum as though his hands could ever hope to do anything as gentle as soothing—he cannot look at her when she tells him to strengthen himself. The words feel too achingly familiar. He has spent his entire life straightening himself, being honed, being tampered. Being shaped into something useful. Had he any right to break out of this mold? When was it that he had given himself permission to want things as though it were a right?

He exhales through his nose and lets out the faintest sound of amusement. "Well, forgive my candor... but does anyone wander the halls at this hour for any other purpose than wallowing for no reason?" he cannot imagine the loneliness of being a day walker in a world made of shadows, and perhaps she had far more pleasant thoughts than his in mind—but the honed arch of his brow implies skepticism without asking. He knows what he was doing here... but what was she?

His palms press into the ground with a grunt, old battle wounds and scars burning through him. Slowly, with a grimace he tries to conceal, Sheng drags himself upright, brushing the dirt clings to the tails of his robes too unceremoniously as though he was contemplating a grimly end but moments ago; there are bruises blooming beneath the fabric, proof of her impatience, but he brushes them off too, halfheartedly, then turns his face toward her with a tired, thin sort of smile.

Idalia settled amongst a familiar riverbank; normally tidied in elaborate corsets and gowns which were fastened with several layers, Idalia's current fashion choice was tame. Glittering linens of gold, but something which proved more of a slip than anything, it could be deemed worthless to the youngest Eluwe. Regardless, a squeak of surprise left her as she noted a streak of waxen ivory collect her things and nearly hobble off, some sense of bacchanalian revelry inspiring them, surely.

" Is this what inspires great fun in Morkul ? " her question bubbled forth on the precipice of a laugh, her nose crinkling in amusement, " A delightfully rotten nymph you are , " she walked patiently towards the bushes, " That samite gown should be far too heavy for you to have sped off with it , Lord Chae . " She was rather impressed it had not dragged the young lord down with its weight.

"Aah, ahh... you got me, you got me," the gown is heavy, otherwise he would've sprinted through these woods like a nymph. It weighs down his wishbone arms, the gilded fabric puddled at his inner elbow. A pale hand emerges first, clawed fingertips curled around the gold samite as a peace offering. Then comes the rest of him, blushing cheeks and timid smile, the pointy ends of his ears blushing too, rising slowly from behind the leaves with an expression of pure boyish mischief.

"Lady Idalia," he breathes her name with such a wounded expression on his face, you'd think him the wronged party; his voice is faint, hesitant with surprise, as though he had not been caught halfway through stealing her things but the other way around. "...how did you know it was me?" he is pouting, the gown now pressed to his chest, far too much fabric for his narrow arms to contain; gold spills over the white of his silks, glittering against him in bright, ridiculous folds, the hem of his own gown dragging, a twig caught somewhere in the long pale spill of his hair.

✧˚ · . ─── Taemris did not appreciate showing vulnerabilities to much of anyone, but such sentiment intensified when stood before the Chae. The assassin of Helia Bastion had spent the entirety of his life seeking out less than favorable creatures to blot out of Nocturnia's cynosure, and though Baeksa could pull the faux carapace over their face and tease a life of lingering innocence, Taemris could surmise the truth. What bothered him greatly on the matter was that he was certain Baeksa had no intentions other than to see the world ablaze and that vexed Taemris more than anything else for his whole life he searched for cruel meaning in the quietus his hands so often inflicted.

" I think I would wager great coin to see you spar , " this was Taemris' attempt to salvage any humor, though the assassin was not proficient within this quirk. In spite of this, the faintest hint of amusement twitched at his lips, his nose scrunching momentarily as though holding back a sneeze. The serpent of Greenspire tsked in disapproval and it was enough for Taemris to pause and study them in great scrutiny as though his own red eyes could wither them beneath his gaze. Something which he knew - deep within - would be an unsuccessful bout but Taemris attempted so anyway, a brow raised in finality, " Have you ever seen my face affixed in any other manner ? " The sarcasm invaded his timbre once more, though the question could be of a serious notion.

His face scrunched in that expected twist of mild confusion; it wasn't due to not understanding the word but he found the very idea to be baffling indeed. " . . . Pamper . " It rolled gauche off the tongue and the queer look on Taemris' face appeared as though he would bust into a fit of laughter at any moment. He did not. But he had appeared seconds away from such amused fit. Such request, however mocking or duplicitous it was, proved his own ruination shaking his head after the longest pause.

The Chae's jeweled gaze finds him, a fair brow high as his mouth softens in mirth, finding his rigid attempt more amusing than he should. "Aha... would you, now?" that pert little nose pinches the air as he leans into the challenge. "I'll have you know I know my way around a sword very well. I used to spar frequently with my hyung growing up... they're very tough, my Haneul," he adds with an absent smile, and it's the first time a genuine kind of fondness touches his tongue—he brushes off with a swipe of his thumb, and his face tilts with subtle, underlying pride. "But I learned how to beat them... I'll bet I'll learn how to beat you, too." he says it with such conviction, you'd think behind those saccharine smile lurked a most nefarious plan to ensure as much. That is where his strength lies in, was it now? Strategy rather than brute strength, persuasion. "I should warn you," his voice softens then, almost cloying to taunt. "I am terribly beautiful when I get violent... it may be difficult for you to pay attention to the actual sparring." his parents would not condone their bird-boned child grading a braxigarian into measuring skill, he knows—perhaps that is why he does it. It has always vexed him so to be thought of as fragile as a flower. Had this been the same dangerous thought which once lead him into that cave of serpents so many moons ago?

A casual flick of his wrist dismisses the thought, the pretty paleness of his wrist adorned in silver, his intricate bracelets clattering as he gestures so freely and unburdened. "Sure I have," for a moment it sounds like disagreeableness for disagreeableness's sake, but then the young lord leans over the bump of his shoulder, looking particularly impish. "Would you like to see it? I drew quite a few portraits while you were busy oning your brooding skills..." All under the guise of working—which was not a lie; studying people is what he did. It's how people like him survived in a world intent on killing him. He didn't possess Taemris strength, but he had a knack for reading people. It was a habit of his, sketching portraits. It started off harmlessly enough, as a way to memorize concoctions and keep a record of newly discovered herbs and such—but it had turned into something more with time; a satisfying way to occupy time, to preserve things—people, to hold death and decay at bay while his research did not advance further enough to quell his anxiety.

Pamper. He says it as if the word was foreign, as if that alone might crack such a steely composure; it amused him to affect him so with his tongue, so he presses: "Mm. Pamper." he repeats, digging his heels in, teasing a mischievous smile at the corner of his ruddy mouth as if it was a prize earned. Those fair eyes become round and large then, shaped into something innocent against the light. "You are my responsibility, aren't you?" Some might argue it was the other way around—he would care to disagree. "I cannot in good conscience allow you to stroll about limping and bruised..." hardly limping—but he exaggerates for effect. His grip was weak compared to Taemris, he knows—but he makes an effort to squeeze the hand he's holding all the same. Squeeze, hard, possessively, allowing his ghostly hand to be sequestered within his clutches all too merrily; small pale fingers latching to his with shameless greediness. "Walk with me..." he insists, curling around his strong arm like a small serpent, the gentle rustle of his pale gown filling the gaps of silence as they came, stifling a giggle between his incisors. "I find all the staring most amusing. Don't you?" It was once he wished to evoke such fright in others—but with Taemris around, he realized how misguided such a thing could be. He has yet to see the monster beneath his boyish skeleton these prying eyes seem to see.

Milky thighs reddening, weak and plush and soft. Her touch traces the marks, fingertips pressing onto the bruises, knowing the moans that would escape from his voice—“You would not be able to.” She speaks before she thinks, and Ruoxi’s eyes, sunlit yet impassive as they are, flash in a moment of awareness.

Because even if she could—no, no. That is not what she wishes, it is a laughable thought. Thinks of the way that crimson had glared at her as he scoffed. Ruoxi wanted to claw it, leave a mark just like she had now, despicable as she is. Had his lip healed? Had it left something permanent behind through the flesh, knitting over itself? It makes revulsion and desire swell in her gut, a heady mix that she does not wish to drink. If it was as easy as lust, it would’ve been easier to shrug it off. She certainly had before. But it wasn’t... It wasn't anything else. But she did not know, then, of what it was.

Her hands slide back out, and she looks at him unimpressed, a raised brow. Then, she huffs, sitting back down on the floor, uncaring and sprawling again. Their ankles touch. “I wonder if there was ever something you’ve wished to keep.” It is not cruelly said, but that does not brush away the edges of it. Ruoxi looks at her own nails, the sharpness of them. “Would you change your nature for it?” She clenches them into fists, digging into her palm. Ruoxi scoffs, answering her own question as if his own matters not. “It is only a fool tiger who attempts to change its stripes for spots.” Baeksa is beautiful in his own elusive way, and it’d be a pity for him to change, even if into a shape in which she would wish to keep him. “Aye, otherwise you are liable to lose yourself. You may lose everything when living, but only in death you lose yourself.”

The dangerous swoop of his lashes descends like morning frost, cresting against the rose-kissed apples of his cheeks. "People are who they are. They can't change their nature..." he replies with an awful stiffness to his shoulders, pressing his skull against the cushioning white puddle of his hair. "And from my experience, when they to, they're not to be trusted." A languid breath escapes him, trapped in the wetness of his tongue. Longing swells in his throat, it fills his mouth and he swallows it down; sighing as if his soul is trying to escape his body, his mouth curling into a perfect, round shape. "I have come to this world entitled to nothing. There is nothing I have that was not taken. Not even my own body has ever been particularly willing to yield to my tempestuous demands… wishing will not make it so." he tastes the bitterness in his own tongue and bites it down, hard; a faint, humorless shape trying to twist it—cruel, because he is cruel, is he not? Even towards himself. Especially towards himself. His gaze drifts, distant as wanders towards the ceiling, his sharp claws extending above his head as he examines them in the daylight, clarity slipping between his fingertips without touching. Perhaps godhood means being close to god. Perhaps this is why he wishes to worship her.

sloane's mind had been crowded as of lately, and so it would only be cleared by two things. writing and walking. and the trip to heliophra, as well as the death of lady garramoth and the names of the eligible chosen had already been transcribed in her notes, she decided it was time to take in the warm air of the land she once called home. she had not been nearly five and twenty minutes into her walk when she saw lord chae emerge from a dense area, giggling with a bundle of clothes in his hands.

sloane's eyes narrowed, and she was immediately reminded of a child. how clouded was her judgement, to think her daughter had influenced lord chae's actions in any way? no, baeksa clearly was not one to allow others to have the upper hand. "is there no other way you can spend your time? perhaps in a more productive manner," she chided, her tone very much that of a mother.

"Well, I could run from crownwearer, but I prefer my dalliances to be less—you know, the less deadly kind..." that said, he tosses the clothes, hoping they will scatter and hopefully be carried off a cliff. He could barely make peace with the names on the pyre that was this competition—except for maybe Ophelia and Vaelor, who looked like they could take a punch and then some, what were the others thinking? And what would be the point reiterating any of that? He has a feeling her mother isn't any happier than him about the circumstance. "If you've come to scold me, I do not approve of plans that could get my friends killed. She hadn't told me... and with reason, because I would've sedated her," he flat out admits, with perhaps too much candor. "I know running sounds fun, but what if she wins? She has a lovely face, your daughter—it could happen! ...I'm not patching her up after all of Nocturnia comes after her with torches and pitchforks, you know..." he would, but he would do so while sighing and making his displeasure known. What's gotten into—he pauses, then sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in irritation. Whom. Whom had gotten into her. This is what happens when he refrains from pushing people off cliffs.

It is the body that struggles now, as he shakes from the indignity. Curls around that which cuts him deep, around Sheng’s warmth, nose pressed against that soft throat and marking him with the trail of his bitter tears. Cian does not know how to let go, but knows how to be held even as he trembles and remains stiff, and that is enough—enough for the sword to slip away, so that he can hold back and grasp those damned dark silks, wishing to tear at them again and again so he can finally get to the tender flesh, wishing to burrow there. So he gets to keep, in the end, to the end. Life is full of so many injustices, large and small both, that Cian just bears.

Anger flares, deeper at the tenderness of it. How dare you, he thinks again. Showing that which he cannot have nor keep. And did he? Want to get hurt? Pressing on the blue-and-purple to feel something, goading different hands to feel the difference in the ache. Truth be told, he is sick of the pain—but oft it felt as if it was all he has ever been allowed to learn and keep. Pain and envy, a haunting and his own hunger both. He is only greedy the way someone starving could ever be. How dare you, he chokes on it. And as always resistance flares, makes him act before he can even dare to think.

Maybe this, too, would bruise—but it would bruise them both: his own lips press against Sheng’s in what can barely be called a kiss, more of a punch. Clumsy and furious and made wet with the blood and the tears. When Cian pulls away, he is already weeping again.

The guilt comes in ruthless waves. His own lips tender, where it might’ve cut as well; their lifeblood becoming one. His heart as if grasped in a merciless grip like a closed fist; and then a trembling, left in the wake of what he has done. No, no. Sorrow and fear drowns him both as he sits up on Sheng’s lap as much as he can, already attempting to rub away his own ruddy cheeks with the marred skin of his own wrists. “I’m sorry.” Tears almost blind him, and he hiccups. There is blood under the nails of his hands as they start tearing at the torn sheets, bringing any scraps he can to try and wipe the wound he has left with his teeth. Surely there would be something nearby they could use to clean it, surely. “You must truly hate me now—how could you not have left—” The words break, broken glass where they catch. “How could you not have left when this is how I am.”

atlas carrying the world, lian with his brother in his arms. the fear that has taken hold of his entire self is rivaled by the budding hope that sheng is here, albeit in shards of blood and tears- he is here. he hasn't left. somehow, he has made the decision to stay. as if a man who has been holding their breath for hours, or walked through the desert without a drop of water, lian cannot stop the wail that leaves his lips. one of relief, of sorrow, yet hope. a knife that was stuck to his side for decades is pulled out in a flash. the skin had knitted itself around it, mind grown used to its aches, but now it's gone. he bleeds, and he bleeds. maybe the bad blood should be let out, for a chance to start anew. the words that he never thought would hear left those lips, and with sheng asleep in his arms, lian is faced with the reality of what was shared between them. to know all of sheng's behavior was out of love- out of a self-destructive desire to protect— is something that he would never even think of. the extent to which sheng has gone, for so long, is incredibly difficult to wrap his mind around. but it's the truth- the full unabridged truth. lian knows and believes it now, and as his tears grow quieter, spilling down across his brother's embroidered robes, he rubs circles against the skin of sheng's wrist, waiting long enough to make sure he does not wake. "sleep now. we will be alright." the words are a whisper to himself more than the man he is holding. much too like back in vallarion, he lifts him up with gentle hands, and carries him. sets him down on the bed, on top of the sheets. the next motions are in a haze, as lian remembers every single time sheng pushed him away, and that look in his eyes that he could not place. was it sorrow then? grief? how much time have they lost? and for what? even if the truth is there for him to grasp, it's even more impossible for him to understand what drove sheng to distance himself for so long, to suffer so much in silence. why did they lose so much time? who is at fault? so many questions without answers, sorrow and grief, as well as relief and fear, swim low in his stomach. he cannot decide on what to feel. as lian thinks and digs into the past twenty years, eyes still wet and tears tracking down his face — the next hour is spent tending to sheng's wounds. kneeling on the ground next to the bed, slowly, carefully plucking away the shards of glass that are stuck to the skin. sheng remains asleep, and it seems it hurts lian more to watch the blood bubble, to know what caused these wounds. he is careful not to let any more blood drip into his clothes, and once there are no shards to cause any infection, he wraps them slowly in bandages. a cool cloth wipes away at sheng's face, and only when all of his wounds are tended, lian tucks the blanket across him, letting him rest. then, without a goal and nothing to do, he is faced with his thoughts. with everything that has happened, everything that can still happen. the secrets that he did not manage to pluck from sheng's mind. his hands shake as he walks across to the window in the same room. he knows sleep won't take him, and he does not want to frighten sheng if he were to wake. instead, he slides down to the floor, back against the wall, knees pulled into his chest, and face turned towards the bed. pulls his knees to his chest, and sits there, the entire night, without a blink of sleep. watches him. with blood caked underneath his nails and bloodshot eyes, the rise and fall of sheng's chest is the only breath he lets himself take. it will be alright- it has to be. he will do everything he can to make sure.

The terrors of slumber have held him tight in its clutches—claws tearing, stars turning to dust; he dreams of him still, and of her, and his visions clash in violent delirium; he has asked Lian before to be mindful—not to wake him from his nightmares. What if I hurt him? He always thought. He'd sooner suffer through the night than risk gripping at him harsher than he ever would in his right mind. Back home, he'd lock himself away at night, too afraid to indulge in his desire to have another resting peacefully next to him. He fell asleep beside his sword, always alert, waiting. His body would sleep, but his mind never did.

Falling asleep on his little brothers arms had not been on his plans—he doesn't remember any of it; doesn't remember being dragged to bed, or clutching to his shirt so hard it was nearly ripped in half, refusing to let go. He doesn't remember him by his bedside, cleaning his wounds like a dutiful brother, washing the sin from his hands and swearing against reason to take it upon himself; he doesn't remember how he had plucked every hard, his own hands made bloody in the process. He doesn't remember him there while he fell, while he sunk into the depths of his unconscious, dragged down by the anchor of his sorrow into a blackness unlike any other.

You are a good little brother. He remembers that, at least, and the hoarseness of his voice as he said it, punching out confessions like a last breath before he collapsed upon himself like a crumbling pillar. You're a good little brother... I should've told you that.

When he awoke next, there was a dagger to his throat. It didn't hurt. He half wishes it had. It didn't hurt when it cut him, not even when it tore through tissue, or the red ran down the ghastliness of his skin, making it look so much worse than it really was, staining the feathers of his mangled pillow. He could not move, could barely breathe as he sunk back into the emptiness too eager to swallow him whole. He was tired, much too tired to fight it, or pretend he wanted to.

The dreamless slumber does not come instead; it is as turbulent as the others. His hands clench, his brow creases, the turmoil of his mind as violent as ever—the skies bleed, and people's screams fill the air. He dreams of the end, but not a peaceful one. He dreams of an awakening, of what he's not to certain. He dreams of his loved ones, dead, the pile of their bodies stacking towards heaven. He cannot reach them.

He dreams of Lian, and he is so young, and his little hand is reaching towards him—he is crying, and scared, and he cannot reach him. His body won't move. Why can't he will himself to move?

His body rests, rigid and still, shaking—shaking, then, like a child plagued by nightmares, fists clenching, digging into flesh, the vestiges of the poison the only thing holding him still—he jolts awake, gasping for air, gulping air as if it was scarce; heaving and coughing, as if he had been drowning; he's shaking more violently, Lian's name on his lips, searching for a spill of his nightmare wet-eyed, and there it was.

The image does not disappear, and his eyes turn desperate; panicked. What had he done? "Lian—" the name makes it to his mouth, a plea, pitiful and weak. He cannot hear him; the child, cowering, crying, he is here—and he cannot reach for him, nightmares made into flesh. "Lian," he calls louder now, and that strength of his—that accursed strength he loathes so, he summons it now, calls to it like a demon in the night to strip the weakness from him. Take me, take me, just let me reach for him—and it feels like stripping meat from bone to lift that arm, to force it against the bed, to drag himself through the sheets for him, to him. What a mantle does a good brother wear? Does he soothe him from a distance? Does he coo to him? Does he risk smothering him with his misguided affections? What does a good brother do? How does he turn this gruesome thing he became into something gentle and tender?

there was much to be said, without saying anything at all. while she had approached with caution as a precursor, she was glad she had. there was something under his skin or perhaps on top of it. lurking in his eyes beyond what she had seen before. maybe there had always been a shadow, but morella did not ask questions for she did not suffer lies. things unsaid were perhaps left just that – only in mind.

still, she listened as he spoke, watched how he shifted his body. categorized every word. clearly, her sister had spoken to him first. a rare spark of jealousy moved up her spine like lightning. not because of their friendship, who was she to say who could and could not be friends? but something else mor didn’t fully understand. perhaps it was due to there being few people she actually enjoyed. being the first could have been nice if only for that. or perhaps it was worse, it was another that spoke of it. one with righteous fury and pure thoughts?

still, she breathed a slow huff, her jaw clacking in annoyance at the mention of renovations. shaelun was a great dragon and chantara, a great dragon touched. it was not lost on the youngest kaelvorn how torn her beliefs were with the things she forced herself to do. no not forced, her heart wished to do. loyalty above all else? but where was her line? loyalty to her soul or her heart?

“yes,” she near hissed in response but not because of the question. no, it was the turmoil in her own mind that threatened her. she enjoyed the quiet of frosted steel, but a fire burned in her that was beginning to burn brighter. when would it destroy everything? “home is –“ she turned to him before she finished, “frozen but burning. emptier than it ever has been.” her eyes moved from him, looking into the dark. wishing she had dark scales to comfort her.

"Things are changing..." he can agree on that; or perhaps they have always been so, and he is the last one informed. It feels wrong not to say anything—his silence tastes of betrayal, treachery; he is not used to the taste of it, and he cannot say he cares for it at all. The young Kaelvorn should know—it becomes evident Lenore has not shared. Why? Why keep secret from her keeper? That inkling of shame burns in his ribs. She should know. He would want to know, if it was Lian. Is her love not as great? Not as vengeful? She should know. "I don't care for it either." he confesses in the same vein, his eyes are low, his breaths labored. He slides his hair between his fingers, and must urge himself to look back up, something strangely vulnerable underneath the fortress he has made of himself.

"Would you spar with me?" He doesn't spar with anyone. None other than braxigarians. None but his brother, whose strength could rival his—not always physically, but in heart and in mind, he was no match for him. There's none he considered his equal in battle, and few he considered worthy of swinging a blade against him and not meeting a grimly end for the audacity—something is definitely amiss.

Guilt. Is that what he feels?

Perhaps he feels placing a blade in her hand and aiming it at him would be justice, atonement. Whatever he chooses to name his self-loathing today.

It's as if suddenly he feels his throat dry up, and the young Chae immediately adjusts his posture, recoiling into himself as if he was searching for something to say—searching. Didn't his clever tongue knew its way out of everything? He swallows hard, rubbing a hand up and down his arm while trying to hold onto his flimsy composure. "I was just playing, hyung..." he scratches the back of his head, almost awkwardly—a bit more coy than before. It seems no matter what came out of his mouth, it was bound to displease him. Did he do something? Why would he not just tell him if that was the case? It feels like tiptoeing around a landmine.

She pondered his question for a moment. Accustomed to Drakathar's bleakness, she found it difficult to settle on only one flower she considered loveliest. "That depends whether I wish to wear its scent, or simply draw pleasure from gazing upon it. I take it you are referring to the later. In that case, I favour roses." She tilted closer, as if she were divulging a secret. "Not red. They draw attention all too readily. I like soft pink, damask. A rose that knows the merit of discretion. Beautiful enough to be admired, but not so eager as to demand admiration." A chuckle slipped free, amused by her own philosophising. "I would enjoy that very much. The flowers, as well as the token of hope." She searched Baeksa's gaze before she continued. "Are you fretful of who is to be elected crownwearer? You speak so candidly of hope, I would imagine it is a wish that rests closely to your heart." She hoped he would read it more a thoughtful observation, than idle presumption. "Your hollow may yet prevail."

"As lovely as they are potent, indeed." A nod, and a wry flicker. "I will handle them with great care."

Amarei looked to the flower he had tucked behind his ear, and found the display endearing enough to emulate it -- dark silken lock brushed behind her own ear, before a single oleander was secured in place, in perfect mirror of Baeksa's. She breathed a girlish laugh, and nodded at his words. "Lavender is a gentle way of cutting through Jasmine's heaviness. I prefer the latter at little bit less cloying, myself." She observed. "A calming scent, all while preserving Jasmine's allure. I do not have it on me at present. But I shall bring you a vial, next time." She let her mind drift to Lenore ever-so-briefly, of how beautifully the scent had enveloped her, before turning to Baeksa once more. "Not at all. I would be delighted to accompany you."

There is a subtle tilt of his mouth—something guarded as his head tilts, and his eyes fall on her with a languid kind of appreciation. The choice of flower does not surprise him, but her words—subtle and sweet, spoken too confidently to be accidental in its parallel, do. Beautiful enough to be admired, but not so eager as to demand admiration. It intrigues him—was that how she saw herself? Is this her struggle—the desire for her admiration, with all the wilfulness to take it—but with far too much pride to demand it. "One might argue roses are born and bred for admiration, even the subtle ones... a rose that wilts alone, in the shadow, without the warmth of an admiring gaze, is… ah, well—just sad, isn't it? I could hardly think of a fate more cruel," the soft hum of agreement unspools softly on his honeyed tongue. "Red roses catch every wandering eye, don't they? I suppose that is precisely why they bores me me so… the quieter blooms—the ones meant to be cherished only by those patient enough to notice… I find them the loveliest of all." he could not find it in himself to disagree—not even him, needful creature he could be, would allow himself to ask out loud for the things he thought himself entitled to—things he needed. "…fretful?" Is that how he appears? He thinks of the word, and does not find in himself to shiver. "I dislike uncertainty, I'll admit… but the future doesn't belong to me," A reality he had to accept early—perhaps too early. His fingers drift over the petals of the oleander tucked behind his ear, brushing against the poisonous bloom tenderly, as if coaxing it not to kill him."It would have a lot more flowers in it if it did," he smiles absently at the thought, shrugging that small shoulder. "I hope Nocturnia survives—and that whomever endures these elections has the strength and willingness to ensure that it does." he had a feeling Amarei was much of the same—with where she came from, where he could only imagine she wanted to go, there was little alternative but to make hope happen, to not allow it to be snuffed out, even when the weather was unkind.

He watches with a quiet softness to him as the girl mirrors him—her movements effortless, her fingers delicate as they tuck the flower into her hair like an ornament. "I think I've always liked jasmine because it refuses moderation..." he admits, absently reaching for a strand of black from her hair—a hint of earnestness in him as he urges himself to stifle a laugh—to see yourself in a flower, of all things. Delicate, overbearing. Terribly indulgent. "Too sweet. Too heavy. Too much." he sighed, carefully retreating his fingers—much the opposite of her, he imagines—restrained, composed, subtle in all of her machinations, even in her beauty. Isn't it exhausting? His gaze settles on her then, contemplatively. "Perhaps that's why lavender compliments it so well," a faint smile touches the shape of his mouth, inviting subtlety to sit between them. "Something has to make it bearable." he jests, extending a hand, then—an invitation carried as lightly as a breeze. "Let me steal you away, then. You'll indulge me... and I solemnly swear to keep your trouble away."

the  slender  creature  before  him  is  small  compared  to  himself  and  yet  he  finds  it  compelling  to  lean  in  even  if  a  little  closer  .  the  two  always  played  these  games  ,  the  foolish  individuals  who  were  too  deep  in  their  own  minds  to  consider  anything  else  but  their  vanity  and  greed  .  his  fingers  rest  upon  the  stone  as  he  circles  the  chae  .  if  he  wanted  to  he  could  push  him  down  ,  watch  his  beautiful  body  fall  gracefully  and  turn  into  nothingness  on  the  ground  .  he'd  gain  nothing  from  that  however  ,  and  if  he  decided  to  tease  with  it  ,  perhaps  the  little  serpent  between  his  arms  would  bite  .  "  a  small  nibble  hasn't  hurt  anyone  .  "  he  muses  back  and  moves  in  sync  with  the  bold  creature  in  his  arms  .  he  laughs  then  ,  a  whole  hearted  laugh  as  he  is  called  troublesome  .  he's  been  worse  has  he  not  ?  in  every  aspect  of  the  manner  .

varyn would not necessarily call his mood foul, but perhaps that is how it looked to someone who was not inside his mind. he was concerned. lord vaelor had decided to run for crownwearer, and varyn felt as though such an action could only indicate that the simmering feud between house mirethorn and house thanachalerm was drawing closer and closer to imploding.