scion of darkness

But then she says something interesting and the petulant scowl that would one day become common on his face unwinds into amazement as pieces click into place. A mage who is close with his father - there was only one in the emperor’s court that Julius could think of, but the resemblance between that decrepit old man and this girl is non-existent. Nevertheless, he has no reason to doubt her.

“Do you mean Manfroy?” He blinks. “He rarely leaves my father’s side. When would he possibly have time to teach you–” It’s too late by the time he realizes what he’s said and stops the thought just short of its natural end. A frown, this one more apologetic than the first, flashes across his face as he looks to Sara for a reaction, but shifts swiftly into interest, her previous offering now cast in a new light.

“Actually, there may be some things I can learn from you after all. Even my father respects your grandfather’s ability.” It was the only reason he could think of for why his father would bow his head to that man, anyway. Returning both toy and vial to the box, Julius glances back up with renewed smile and offers his hand.

The second frown makes her uncomfortable somehow and she is grateful when it does not overstay its welcome. If he could afford to, the Archbishop would spend less days at the capital with Emperor Arvis, but they all must make sacrifices in pursuit of a shared dream.

Blue-green eyes flit between two hands curiously before she deigns to extend hers in turn, “Do you like the Emperor?” This boy will topple the empire built by his father regardless. “I do not have a father, a mother, or a sister. I can’t be sure they ever really existed besides the stories.”

Her fingertips lightly press into his solid palm, exploring the indents, fascinated by how smooth flesh can feel on a living person. He feels human.

"He's quite busy," he amends, as if it offers any clarity to the swirling, inarticulate thoughts the man stirs in him. "But the country loves him. Whenever we go out to the city, someone will stop him just to thank him for the good he's done. It makes me proud to be his son." And that's probably the closest he can come to how he feels. His father is good, loved by all. He can ignore the way his father sometimes looks at him. Sad. Distant. Like a man on the other side of the world. Not like a father. Perhaps only an emperor.

Julius strokes his chin, but he hasn't let his smile falter too much. "I'd be an emperor who carries on his legacy, of course. What is this talk of gods and crusaders?" he scoffs, but follows it with a boyish laugh. "I have the blood of both."

"Lord Julius!" someone calls from the other side of the garden hedge. Julius glances over his shoulder, then back to Sara.

"nuh-uh, i totally have a lead." and he's really proud of it too, had given up his whole tart last night for the scoop — with the little candied bits on it between the fruit and everything.

hushed and surreptitious: "but you can't tell anyone else, okay? our secret."

straightening again, he continues their short detour. "i'll take you there soon. but first, if there really is some kind of fae or something behind this, it's good manners to bring a gift. food's always a safe choice, so i was thinking we could grab something from the dining hall."

walking inside just as he says that, rosado starts scanning a nearby bulletin for the menu, humming thoughtfully to himself.

"Hah! If the secret is one worth keeping, it will be safe with me," he promises, although anyone who knew the Prince of Darkness knew that any such promises were often made with his fingers crossed behind his back. Rosado seems to trust him implicitly, however, and that had been true ever since they met. (And maybe, although Julius wouldn't admit it even as he marched a half-step behind his bounding, overjoyed guide, the trust was mutual). They come to the menu board, and Julius, arms still crossed to prove that he has no stake in this, scans over the dessert selection as Rosado reads them off one by one.

"A new menu item, surely." Because Julius, a connoisseur himself, would have sampled all the rest of the desserts by now. "We'll get it," he decides resolutely. "A rare creature ought to appreciate a rare gift. But--" He steps closer and drags a the nail of his index finger down the handwritten list, stopping near the bottom. "A chocolate tart as well."

Tried and true is his reasoning. Not simply because it's among his favorites.

Without waiting for agreement, Julius turns on his heel to place their order with the kitchen. The woman behind the counter seems surprised to see him here a second time in the same hour, but he pretends as if he doesn't notice. Surliness melts into a syrupy sweet smile, and he waves for Rosado to come to him.

and that's not why he's here today!

"i want to go check out these rumors— and i want you to come with me! c'moooon, it'll be fun. we can go look for fae, and along the way, i might even get better ideas for how to paint you later . . . ~ " the temptation dangles in the air like a hook, paired with a meaningful look and flutter of lashes. no way he could say no to that, right?

who wouldn't want to go snooping? especially if it involved treasures or goodies at the end of the line? talk around the monastery was that these horses would lead the lucky follower fast or clever enough to keep up back to their master, who'd then grant a wish or a blessing or reward of one's choice. what would he ask for. riches? eternal life? to be the bona-fide cutest to ever walk this earth for all of time?

so far, no one'd been able to finish the task. but he also hadn't talked to anyone who'd seen them twice and thought to fly after them the second time. so!

obviously.

rosado and carmila to the rescue, to figure this out once and for all!

"Only a fool would believe that they attend to some all-powerful master. If they exist," he scoffs and crosses his arms, but keeps pace with his new (subject? ally? pawn?) friend despite it. The other student had found him at the end of a lonely lunch in the midsummer sun, lamenting his inevitable return to the damp and dark, but even had he other plans, or a more positive relationship with his shelter, Rosado's invitation would have still been tempting. Or rather, the sliver of childish hope that so often made the foundation of such rumors would have called to him all the same.

What if?

"nooot a problem!" he chirps at the boy before they dart off, though not before casting a last fleeting look over him, his hair, and the way he's dressed with a kind of baffled wonder rosado's long gotten used to. his smile broadens; the bewildered awe of a child always beats the unsettled judgment of adults. but those days are behind him now, and there are so many different kinds of people from so many different places here in this school that it almost didn't even matter whether his habits were weird or even if he had three eyes on his head! at least right now anyway, everyone here is looking at him with wonder and excitement, filling his chest with lightness; this was supposed to be with this workshop was about, right? giving people something better to focus on, bringing them together in the middle of all the dark and freezing and hopeless? feeling like he and julius had managed to do just that makes him almost want to try holding a crash class on crafts and art right here, or make each and every one of them a crown or a toy too if it'd keep them smiling and looking like that.

it takes a second before he snaps back to and realizes his newest commissioner is giving him his third request.

"aww, painting?" clasping both hands together in his lap, rosado sways with exaggerated uncertainty where he sits, "i dunno, that seems like, mmm . . . just the kind of thing i happen to excel at!" playacting flips over to glittering confidence and a dazzling smile. julius really couldn't have asked for anything better or more suited to his talents!

but there was just one problem, and that was the decided lack of anything to paint on or with around here.

"i can't do it right now though; i need my things and a canvas. but i can give it to you when i'm done. how's that."

His cursory search turns up nothing but a piece or two of leftover charcoal on otherwise empty tables. The creation of the dragon puppet had been the last thing holding everyone else in this cathedral, it seemed, as the groups that had been clustered around each earlier are now gone or dispersed to other corners, and the full brunt of winter rushes in to occupy the empty space. Stone walls are colder now, the windows backlit with the last embers of sunset, and Julius wraps his arms around himself to fend off the chilly draft as he finally stands up.

“I told you that I was not one to waste my time with such frivolous pursuits,” he answers, ignoring a stray spool of thread that rolls off the edge beside him to bounce across the marble floor. Disappointment and, faintly, indignation still add an edge to his voice, but it’s simply the fact that he had not been the one to collect the materials in the first place that stays his hand from helping (and, even if not for that, he would find some other excuse ultimately boiling down to status and status alone).

What had he done with friends though? His memories of Belhalla are seared in too many places, like a table runner that’s had a lit candle knocked over it. Holes and tears blot out most of his childhood - had he any friends at all? He shuts that thought down at once - of course he did - and thinks of Ishtar.

“We would spend afternoons in the royal garden when we had the leisure, eating cake and talking about whatever we wished. Hm—“ A crease marks his brow as he tilts his chin downward to look at the tabletop, trying to visualize those halcyon days. “I suppose painting was not entirely out of the realm of possibility back then. I’ve never been interested in art, however. If you intend to make good on your promise, then we shall do it in a similarly picturesque garden. The drab backdrop of this hall would not suit its subject, after all, and I will merely watch you work. I have no need for your lessons.”

A pause, one final attempt to recreate something that holds together like smoke, and then Julius glances back up with a newly-painted sneer.

Was it possible he had come all this way to save the man who had sought the end of the world?

Fists ball up in rage, at becoming the plaything of fate, but he has to remind himself what else Nanna had told him.

At its core, Julius is the main objective—his revival signals the greatest undoing in Jugdral’s history. …But his power has vastly decreased since we saw him last. He still claims his stake at godhood but has nothing to show for it.

Was that true? It would have to be, Leif would force himself to believe in it, for the sake of the mission. The monastery expects a hostage returned, and Leif had already planned on seeing that through.

(But what had happened to the power of Naga? Had divinity not been enough? Had the stories of light triumphing evil been nothing more than a lie?)

For all the questions he has, doing nothing now and forfeiting Julius's life, if this really was him, wouldn't net him a single one of those answers.

“ Fine. You can have my pegasus. It'll fetch a good price, ”  he tells them first before starting to rummage through his belongings. The two watch, not moving, not relenting, as gold and silver baubles one by one hit the soft snow.

First an ostentatious necklace with crystal. Then a ring. Then a tiara. One by one, jewelry pieces scrounged up on borrowed promises are tossed to the ground as offerings, the weight of the need to return them weighing on Leif's mind even as he makes a lacksadasical display of it. Last of all, Leif throws down even his own blade, making a show of his being unarmed now.

“ All those pieces are real. You can inspect them if you want. my blade too. It's a rare blade with light magic imbued into it from the far-off land of Jugdral. There are few like it in the world... You can sell all this, and you'll still be able to get the supplies you need, right?? ”

It's far from a delightful sales pitch, but the ruffian who wasn't currently preoccupied with keeping his dagger up against their hostage's vitals moves forward, intrigued by the assortment, and it's with a tense anticipation that Leif too watches, holding his breath as the man seems to take his time appraising them. He even bites one of them for good measure, testing the metal between his teeth, before he looks back to his companion and signals to him.

“ Alright. Princey's all yours. Release 'im. ”

A done deal is made as at last and Julius is roughly pushed over to Leif's side as the men go to collect all the sacrifices in the snow, but before they can get far, the moment Julius is within Leif's reach, Leif makes to grab him and push him behind him so he doesn't get caught in the blast radius.

A charge of the Aura spell, slowly building, pulses through Leif's palm and shoots right out at the men, forcing them to part from the glittering bargaining pieces.

“ Ha! So you're a scoundrel too, huh? ”  one of the men laughs.  “ Fine by me. We'll just have to teach ya a lesson then! ”

Was that--?

Eyebrows knit together, blood turns cold, but the world is in motion before he can act on his own. He's shoved, stumbling forward, and then thrown to the ground by his collar as bright light fills the woods. With his hands still bound behind his back, Julius struggles in the snow for a moment to right himself.

Did he think he could fight?

He'd have to.

"Obviously," he shoots back testily, managing to inch his way up to a sitting position in time to catch the sigils of a second spell forming around the two brigands. "I'd melt them down to charcoal were it not for this rope."

There isn't time for grousing though. Julius staggers to his feet, shaking away the dark motes of a headrush that come to dance in front of his eyes, and turns his back swiftly on the fight to direct his magic with his hands.

He knows magic like the back of his hand. He could do this with his eyes closed. That's what he'd always told other people. He believed himself, of course, but for a split second he fumbles and his control over the Meteor spell falters dangerously. Fire explodes from the ground all around them, running up dried tree trunks and devouring winter-brittle leaves in an instant.

He doesn't like what he sees when the light flashes over the crumbled wall, and for a moment he remains on the ground, leaning on his elbow and staring up at it in disbelief. Caeda had pushed him out of the way, Caeda herself narrowly evading the rocks as well, but if Julius cares for her wellbeing, it comes out only in the way his eyes flicker over her for a second. He doesn't say anything right away, chest heaving with mounting panic, but then he pushes himself to his feet and marches to the wall.

"This can't be happening." He beats against the rock with the palm of his free hand as if that would get him anything more than a new scrape, then starts to wedge his fingers between the the debris to dislodge smaller stones. They skitter down the side of the rubble but comparatively make little difference.

"No, no, no no no no--" The panic he had tried to mask with outward frustration adds a hue of desperation to his futile digging. When he stops to turn on Caeda, his eyes are wide and furious.

Ishtar thinks she does not care. If she is to die, then let it be in mourning. She had not deserved to leave that battlefield alive, and she did not deserve to find salvation now when he could not do so with her. It should have been him to survive.

And so she hears no footsteps, nothing that might alert her to company.

Nothing, until he speaks.

Ragged breaths come to a dead stop. It as though the air has been pulled from her very lungs, even her heart stilled. She does not dare move, does nothing that may scare that voice away.

And she does not have to. Her body moves to Julius' order the way it has always known to, brought to face him with eyes wide and lips still in the shape of words yet to be spoken. There is warmth where the holds her, a promise of life in the fingers that curl around her wrist. It must be a dream, Ishtar thinks, all of her longing taken shape into something so real.

His fingertips brush at her cheek so gently that she may have mistaken them for a breeze. Only the air hangs still here, between them, and there is something so unmistakable in the words he speaks next. She thinks it an emotion so raw that not even her imagination could conjure it in his voice.

"You... Lord Julius..." The emotion in her throat allows for nothing more than a whisper. "I had thought..."

Mother's ghost smiles, the weight in her chest eases. Spectral shackles built by guilt and tightened by grief loosen for a moment. Ishtar lets out a shaky exhale, searching her lover's face as though in anticipation of it disappearing. It does not.

He remains even after she blinks once, twice -- after her hand has settled atop his own, holding its warmth to her cheek as though she fears to be without it.

However, their lives remain at risk here, he knows, so he bows his head and lowers his voice, the hand pressed against her cheek now turning to weave their fingers together. Fluidly, he uses this hold to lead her to the cover of a bent myrtle tree, their cloaks eddying dried brown petals in their wake. It is not far from the altar he has yet to recognize, but provides them an unobscured look at the double gate down the hill.

“The continent believes I have died and that is how it will remain for the foreseeable future. That is, until I amass a following great enough to challenge Seliph on his stolen throne.” The words come out between bites, but his expression softens back into admiration when he turns to look at Ishtar squarely again, unable to resist the compulsion to brush a stray hair across her forehead back into place. She could be nothing less than perfect, even in mourning, and in rapture.

“By some miracle, you have survived as well. The gods still bless me, even if the rest of the world spits on my name,” he says proudly, admiring her as he would a beautiful doll. The rest of the world is wrong. Blind. Blasphemous. His own penitence unjust. Ishtar is proof, a glimmer of hope. Gold and amethyst tucked away at the back of his emptied treasury. His fingers tighten excitedly around hers, and the dark half-moons that had come to settle under his eyes these past few years seem to lift for a moment.

as he'd thought, this one's a bit more challenging than the last. "oh sure, i've seen a dragon before!" or at least pictures and statues of them, anyway; they'd been all over elusia, especially in the castles and cathedrals, all different types of dragons, though mostly the fell ones. those weren't liked too much by everyone besides the elusians though, hm — would it still work for julius? scales as dark as stormclouds . . .

"that might be a little tough though," none of the pieces here were very darkly colored, with the point being to lift everyone's spirits in all this gloom and cold after all, "buuut i'll figure something out. just sit tight."

dragon, dragon. how does someone make a dragon out of craft scrap? rosado studies the assortment of bits and bobs scattered before him, the tools he'd used to make the crown. eyes dart around to the other tables too, wondering if there was anything else he might borrow.

then it strikes him! he's thinking so much about wire frames and bases because that's how the charms start out, but who said anything about having to stick to it?

this time, rosado grabs all the paper and card stock he can.

it's not much, and purple is the closest thing he can get to ' dark as storm clouds ', but . . . "hm hm hm ♫ . . . dragon, dragon ♫ "

once again, hands work as nimbly as they can; good arts and crafts can't be rushed, but he also doesn't want them to be here until the witching hour sets in; it took a little while, but he's learned that most people need to get to sleep! so, cutting a couple corners here and there, leaving out some details he'd like to add if he had more time ( but not the horns that'd been requested — did fell or divine dragons have horns? he can't remember if sombron did. oh, wait, that one mage lady they'd faced had been a dragon! he'll go with hers. )

a long, sturdy line of string threads into the inner shoulder of one wing . . . and then the other . . . "aaand . . . " rosado holds it up — a purple origami mobile of a dragon, sort of like the ones in the artworks. "hmm . . . " it's a bit, well, not as polished as he'd like, and kind of reminds him of the toys they'd sell at festivals for kids, but it's not bad either. he holds it out to julius by the string, smiling for approval.

but before anything can be said, a small voice pipes up beside the table. speaking of little kids, this one's staring up with nervous eyes, looking between him and the latest creation. "you're so good at these, miss . . . can i have one?"

"huh? . . . er—"

What begins to take shape, however, is more akin to the toys Julius had imagined made up the majority of Rosado’s repertoire, and his eagerness cools on his face until it sets into neutral lines. He feels a draft, he thinks (or maybe it’s the emptiness that rushes behind the absence of attention), and draws his cloak around his neck as he glances away from the juvenile papercraft. How could paper measure up to precious metals and jewels? It didn’t. Nevertheless, what he sees on the faces of those who have knitted a tighter circle around their table - around Rosado, that is, leaving Julius at its edge - is just as much awe, if not more than that which had glowed on their faces when Julius had strutted before them with his crown. Somewhat sullenly, he pulls out his chair, pointedly bumping the foot of another student who murmurs a quick apology before stepping around to Rosado’s other side, and drops down into it, fabric billowing briefly around him as he crosses his arms.

“Do you not have expert artisans where you come from?” he challenges the crowd, catching the eye of one of the girls. She smiles brightly despite the hard edge in his voice - a subtle get lost that misses its mark - and shakes her head.

“I’ve seen plenty of handmade crafts but the process is fun to watch, wouldn’t you agree? Especially when the artist is so passionate.”

Julius hums. He’s not displeased with the answer, but the fact that the girl, like all the others around her, seems not to have realized that they should be seeking his permission to gaze upon his artist makes a downward arc out of the thin line of his mouth. She doesn’t catch the hint, however, and keeps watching with those covetous eyes.

It isn’t much longer after that when Rosado finally presents their finished product. A dragon - undoubtedly so - hangs from their fingers by fishing line, but the should-be terrifying god is instead a cute paper caricature. A child would not fear such a thing, much less any nation, and Julius does not bother pretending that he is not somewhat dissatisfied by the results. Arms crossed, his assessment silent and passive until a child indeed approaches and begs for a toy just like it. Without looking at him, Julius stands and snatches the puppet from Rosado’s hands, face now alight with interest and pride. The dragon hangs from his fingers with wings rising and falling with each movement.

“What a cute toy,” he praises condescendingly. “You have indeed made a dragon—” It did not resemble Loptous in any other way but its color, but a dragon it was, “—but what empire would bow its head to this?”

With a disdainful sniff, he passes the mobile to the child, who gasps with surprise as he catches it between his arms. Delicately though, so as not to collapse the cardstock that makes up its body.

“This would be better suited for a child’s hands.”

“Wha—!? Thank you, thank you!” the boy beams up at Rosado, as if for approval, and then at Julius, who hardly looks at him. In fact, he waves him away with a dismissive hand and continues talking to Rosado as if the child and the toy did not exist at all.

In its prime, she is sure this place had been beautiful. There are echoes of that still, in graying rose petals that litter the headstones and ornately carved obelisks that now play host to lichen and ivy. Generations frame the overgrown path she walks now, a hundred names she is certain belonged to the portraits once hung in Belhalla Castle's great halls.

She cannot imagine they are there any longer.

Fallen leaves catch the fraying hem of her cloak. In a way this is a homecoming, though it feels far more like a funeral march. Ghosts watch her here, walk alongside her. They are her mother and all of her ire, her brother and father, every child she had lead to their death. She tells them she is sorry every night, weeps when mother's nails dig into her throat or children's sobs echo in her mind, and yet they never leave. It is because she has failed them all in one way or another, she supposes.

But of her ghosts and their thousand faces, none of them are his. Ishtar would like to think that it is because in his final moments he had not been disappointed in her, though she knows better than to let herself believe it. He punished her insolence with his absence.

The sound of her footfalls stop. The path does not end here, but the rows of granite do. Here, at the very end of the Velthomer's royal bloodline, Ishtar stands face to face with her lover's altar.

With a quiet sigh, she lowers her hood. There is no need to hide, for there is no soul left with respects to pay the ashes buried here but herself.

Fingers brush dirt from the stone's top. Tears well in her eyes, a heavy longing in her chest. Here lies her future as mother had intended, encased in stone and without her.

Ishtar bows her head, lips moving in silence. Forgive me, and I love you, and I should have done more until her throat has swollen shut and her cheeks sting with salt. She trembles around the first syllable of goodbye, of I miss you, as though those words may cement his passing any further than the tomb she stands before now.

He had returned for neither homecoming nor penitence, he reminds himself as he draws his cloak close to his chin and ducks his head past the carriage driver. He is still a fugitive prince, loathed by the populace, acting the part of the rat who slips into the pantry while the cat dozes elsewhere - here, his half-brother, and those who knew his face and held the power to do something about it, had left their posts entirely. Wryly, Julius thinks that he is likely safer here now than in the place that had been his prison. This thought, however, does not last when the iron fence enclosing the royal cemetery finally comes into view. Whether he is safe here or not, he has been granted a rare opportunity to confirm the truth of a waking nightmare: the return of both of his parents from the grave.

The grounds are deserted and the dense clouds that have rolled inland to blot out the spring sun shroud them in a desolate melancholy ordinarily reserved for places condemned and abandoned. Even the wrought-iron gate forgets to creak when Julius nudges it open and shut again. The dream sensation has not yet released him, so he does not reflect on the state of disrepair within, or how it mirrors his own life, even though his eyes linger on the decayed remnants of some now-unrecognizable flower left in a stone urn, merely looking, unable - unwilling to piece together a thought.

The urn, he realizes as the crunch of dry leaves brings him closer, marks an altar dedicated to the Crusader Heim. It had been a controversial idea in the not-so-distant past to honor carriers of Lopt blood alongside one of the Twelve. Julius knows that his father had clawed his way to Grannvale's throne to change such prejudice, among others, but it is perhaps here the man's only legacy remains: his cursed blood laid to rest alongside those of nobler lineage, the same honor that had been hard-won for his wife many years prior. Spitefully, Julius plucks the dried offering and scatters it to the wind.

Onward, he weaves between headstones and altars. Sentimentality does not slow him quite like recollection does - or the lack of it. He hardly remembers visiting Deirdre, and had only overseen the placement of his father's memory before he faced his own death, but he sifts between the holes hollowed out by Loptous nonetheless for a hazy map to guide his way.

Suddenly he stops, registering a second cloaked figure at the end of this row of grave markers a moment after. So the cemetery had visitors after all, he thinks dimly before the mourner drops her hood and reveals a cascade of silvery lavender. Whatever notion Julius had to hide until she left disappears instantly and shock threatens to strangle him. He's moving toward her before he can think.

"Is this another ghost to torment me?" he challenges, nearly voiceless, in lieu of a greeting, but when he grasps her wrist to turn her to face him, he feels the pulse of life beneath his fingertips. Then porcelain face beset with dazzling amethyst captures his attention just as it had every day for nearly a decade. He reaches delicately for her cheek, almost afraid that his touch would dissolve her into smoke.

The gift hits the grass before he notices it, his hand instead around Sara’s wrist with unabashed worry writ large upon his face.

“What was that supposed to be?” he asks, releasing her to inspect what she had dropped. Only then does childish selfishness push selfless concern aside and he joins her to peer into the box.

“You haven’t dirtied it, have you?” Without waiting for an answer, he takes it from her to examine the plush dragon himself. It’s free of the garden’s dirt but most importantly well-made, and a smile once more blooms across his lips.

Grasping her wrist just before Sara fell had been his way of looking out for her probably. She is not any better at reading hearts than faces just yet, but has been told it will come with time. Sara hopes she does not have to wait as long as the church has for Lord Loptous to reclaim the Empire. The priests have a number of expectations for her to perform to, preparations that must be made for the second coming of their god. She hadn’t thought to ask what a god looks like before meeting with him. As he is now, Prince Julius certainly does not fit the part. He will surely grow into it, just as she will become the Archbishop after her grandfather before her, again with time.

After seeing the world he lives in, a part of Sara might envy Julius. Although her grandfather overlooks when she occasionally steals dirty toys off the children herded into the monastery like farm animals, something tells her that he would not be pleased if she did that now. And contrary to her own earlier assessment, Julius is special. She can hear her grandfather’s laugh ring in her memory: holy water for a holy child.

“You don’t know about warp magic? Aren’t you a prodigy?” 

The surprise in her voice is genuine as it was earlier, tinged with the same disappointment. Beneath it is a longing for connection not even Sara understands. 

But then she says something interesting and the petulant scowl that would one day become common on his face unwinds into amazement as pieces click into place. A mage who is close with his father - there was only one in the emperor’s court that Julius could think of, but the resemblance between that decrepit old man and this girl is non-existent. Nevertheless, he has no reason to doubt her.

“Do you mean Manfroy?” He blinks. “He rarely leaves my father’s side. When would he possibly have time to teach you--” It’s too late by the time he realizes what he’s said and stops the thought just short of its natural end. A frown, this one more apologetic than the first, flashes across his face as he looks to Sara for a reaction, but shifts swiftly into interest, her previous offering now cast in a new light.

“Actually, there may be some things I can learn from you after all. Even my father respects your grandfather’s ability.” It was the only reason he could think of for why his father would bow his head to that man, anyway. Returning both toy and vial to the box, Julius glances back up with renewed smile and offers his hand.

why not? if the jana could put something like that together from grass and pebbles enough to make a real king of an ordinary guy in the old stories, then he could make something at least half as good with less, right? rosado jumps eagerly to his feet to take the circumference measurements of his new friend's head with a line of string. "one crown for the liberator prince, hero of the continent — coming right up!"

it's just like evenings after classes at elusia's academy again. tucked away on velvet love seats, surrounded by the best sweets and pastries; they'd stake the alcove out for hours and hours, sometimes late into the night. even if hortensia had been a student like anyone else, none of the staff were exactly lining up to be the one to ask the princess to move somewhere else.

they'd put on dramatic salons, gossip about their classmates and the day's latest news; sometimes they'd spend hours trying out the latest liners and dyes and color shadows on each other, turn one another into palettes and faces almost unrecognizable until it was almost hard to see past all the powder and perfume in the air.

would julius like to join them for something like that, if they started it up again here?

despite the intricacy of the piece, rosado works quickly and deftly — trimming down the iron clips and polishing them to a sheen to adorn the wire band, sanding down shavings to form a symmetrical pattern of alternating spokes to evoke the rays of the sun. ( mmm, still missing something. oh, the black rhinestones should add some majesty, and just the sparkle to complement julius' look! a couple different sizes... ) humming a jaunty, tuneless beat as he fits and measures and glues, rosado's caught up enough in his work that, towards the end, he doesn't seem to notice they've started to garner an audience — others who've drifted by and caught on that something's coming together here that's several degrees past the basic yarn-and-bead charms they're crafting.

Were it not for the spectators gathering around their table, Julius might have let awe shine plainly on his face, but they are, in some ways, a welcome distraction. Between his furtive glances toward the haloed half-sun in Rosado's nimble hands, he spends longer stretches glaring at the onlookers who appear too openly covetous or greedy (which is, to Julius, all of them). This creation and its creator both belong to him, he tells them with hard stares and curling lip, like a wolf defending its rare meal in the dead of winter where such things are scarce. He is the prince who had won over the fairy who could spin silk from wool and turn rocks into gold. Exclusivity, after all, made him valuable, just like friends.

(although he had never had to defend against thieves who would steal his friends before, he realizes, quietly, when his eyes alight on an old engagements list in his notebook)

When the crown is finally finished, Julius shuts the back cover down over the page and sits up straight, hands in his lap, chin lifted just slightly in challenge and in triumph for their audience. With it rightfully placed (returned, rather), Julius stands and flourishes his cloak. The audience is now no longer competitors, but subjects, and he struts before them to show off the enviable magnificence Rosado has bestowed upon him.

"I can tell by their eyes that you have made something truly astonishing," he says to Rosado. "You have met my expectations." Exceeded them, even, but he would not say so. Hand on his hip, he turns and circles back around the table to his chair with all the majesty of his station. The impressed whispers satisfy him even more than the crown itself. He had once been someone; they remind him that he still is.

"Next," he commands Rosado's attention back to him, one hand resting on the back of his chair as he stands behind it. The other one he raises palm up toward the ceiling in a theatrical gesture. "Make me a dragon god. Its scales must be as dark as stormclouds, its head horned for an unmistakable silhouette. This god made a deal with humans so that they would raise an empire in its name."

Realization quiets him for a moment. The people of Fódlan worship a humanoid goddess. Perhaps Rosado does too. Julius looks at him.

He grit his teeth. He saw the weapon as it was held in his child's -- his son, his monster of a son's -- hand. He had questions, both new and old, principle amongst them a demand to know what had become of all that he thought was once Julius.

He did not ask though. You do not get answers from a whisper of a thing, a trick of the light, mirrors reflecting within mirrors and distorted faces that reveal too sharp teeth and too narrowed eyes. He wants to reach out and rip off the mask and unveil his boy, but he knows that he is romanticizing something that he should not.

This child -- this man -- is a murderer.

"A shame we must meet like this," he did say. His teeth were bared, and he felt upon his shoulders the weight of a nation. He wanted to be a father. He was not, right then. He did not think he could ever be that again for his son.

"If you are so wise about the machinations of this place, then maybe it is you who should be answering my questions. I am still your father and your emperor, and you will do well to answer me," he paused. He felt out of breath a moment ago, but then fire reignited in his mouth and he was ready to demand what should be his.

He wanted to ask: what happened to you? is this my fault?

If the thin smile across Julius' lips seemed to grow a little broader, a little more sinister, it was only because of the erratic shadows thrown by the sputtering candle.

"Of course, Father," he answered, honey-sweet. "Had I known that you would arrive at this monastery, I would have prepared a reception for you. It would have been a finer atmosphere than the confines of a stuffy library late at night, and we could have spoken at length about all that is new to you here."

Born and raised in court, Julius could talk circles around anyone. Wasting time, distraction, subterfuge - all were well-worn techniques honed and sharpened again and again to be used against other nobles. Arvis, former Duke of Velthomer, Emperor of Grannvale, was still just another nobleman, and one Julius had wrestled with his whole life. He eyed him carefully.

"Unfortunately, I do not have the time to idle away with catchup like you do this evening." He held up his book. Embossed in gold leaf was the title Men and Stars, and beneath it in smaller print "How the Saints Named the Moons." "As a student, I must not neglect my studies. As for why I am studying here, and not at the prestigious Belhalla Academy, well--" He stopped himself and smiled coyly. "Why should I spoil the surprise? You had a hand in it, I will say."

A half-turn took him a step toward the door.

step. step. step. the gravelly cave floor crunches beneath her boot and the distant sound of pebbles trickling from the walls to the floor is one that caeda’s ears do not register. not when she focuses on explaining their situation to her hunting partner.

"You're imagining things," he decides in a condescending tone he does little to hide. Another check over the quite-normal wall assures him that it is indeed exactly that, so he turns away from it and holds his light back out toward the deeper parts of the cave, from which he had heard sounds.

"I have no intention of spending longer than necessary in here anyway. The sooner I capture my prey, the better." Any whisper of "we" or "us" is absent, as Julius assumes this excursion to be his alone. Caeda is here in the same way that squires had accompanied Julius' retinue to Belhalla's royal forests, tasked solely with the retrieval of their quarry. He would give her no more recognition than that.

Taking the lead again - naturally, as he carries the light as well - Julius ventures deeper, though he places each foot softly to muffle the echo of his heels against the frozen ground, ears straining all the while for that sound again. When they reach a fork, he spends only seconds deciding on the direction and takes the right tunnel.

hhurrroooooh

That sound again. This time Julius freezes in place, flashing a look over his shoulder for Caeda to remain silent. It sounds closer, more defined, but still impossible to determine whether it belonged to beast, man, or something else entirely. For several seconds after it fades back into the darkness, Julius keeps listening, waiting for another round. It never comes.

Now, running into these kinds of situations is a talent he wishes he could rid himself of, for the ability to resolve them is still one he does not entirely trust. But it is what it is. Perhaps, when he embarked on the mission to deal with some doppelgangers, he should have expected this.

… Hm. Now that’s a thought.

… But he’ll come back to it later, they need to help this man first. Julius turns to him after an unsuccessful attempt to approach the horse, and the Mage nods, albeit with a hint of hesitation. “I am not the horses’ favorite person either, but let me try…”

An outstretched hand is slowly offered to the animal as a show of a peaceful greeting; it is accepted with a curious sniff, and so it wanders upwards, towards the halter; he grabs it, while his fingers continue to stroke the disheveled horse’s cheek. (Oh, this poor boy could use a bath at the earliest opportunity.) With Freyr having seemingly calmed down, Merric moves to the horse’s side to check the saddlebag; indeed, it doesn’t take long before he finds the rope they need.

“OK, there we go… You think maybe we tie it around a tree to help him climb up as we pull him out?”

As the greenhead moves to realize this plan, it escapes his notice that, while he was taking the rope out of the bag, a few pieces of paper fell out as well; some documents, perhaps, and a hastily drawn, crude picture of a lilac-haired woman that Freyr promptly steps on as he turns away and heads back towards the bushes to eat, having seemingly decided that his role in this whole situation is complete.

“Sir Sigurd’s son studies at the Academy, huh?” Only as he works, does Merric return to a topic Julius had previously mentioned, his tone of voice a touch more nonchalant than earlier, as though to attempt a conversation more casual or inconspicuous in nature. He has not entirely forgotten the nature of the mission he embarked on, and as much as he dislikes accusing people, this is a thread of thought he should examine. A little bit of trying and prodding may be a good idea. “Why not pay him a visit? I’m sure he would be happy to see you.”

As he looks down into the hole to throw the man the rope’s other end, he can see the wince on his face in the form of an almost perfectly straight line, though it breaks soon as he lets out a sheepish chuckle. “Oh, I-I’d rather not let him see me in th-this state, haha…”

"I'm sure Seliph would be overjoyed to see that you are still alive. This 'state' you find yourself in - out of sorts and at the mercy of a pair of strangers - would not surprise anyone more than the fact that you draw breath."

There is a short, constricted gasp from the bottom of the hole, but Julius turns away to join Merric on the other side. Perhaps the man was finally realizing the fate of the character he portrayed, or that he dared continue his charade for someone who knew the real Sigurd well enough to see instantly through his shoddy disguise. Still, Julius has no qualms allowing the man to tarnish the late duke's reputation for the rest of Fódlan, and plans to let him continue to do so. For a price.

Taking up a length of rope behind Merric, he tests its knot around the tree with a hard tug. The coarse hairs that grate his uncalloused palms, unaccustomed to carrying anything more than leather-bound books, force him to loosen his grip, however. He values his own comfort more, and would not return to the monastery with uncomfortable abrasions if he could help it. Whether or not they could save this man did not matter to him. His generosity had stretched this far already.

"Ready," he informs the professor, and they both tug in a concerted effort. By some miracle, a head of blue hair peeks up past the edge of the pit, followed by an arm, then the rest of the white-suited king as he rolls out, disheveled and panting, and onto his back.

Julius drops the rope immediately, a smirk and a scathing quip ready on his lips, but a slip of paper on the ground nearby catches his eye instead. As Sigurd sits up to recompose himself, Julius kneels down beside the drawing. Curly, lilac hair. Silver dress. Lavender eyes. Those are the only distinguishing features he can make out from the rough lines and crude colors, but he guesses it's supposed to be Deirdre. With a frown, he swipes up the paper and holds it out for the king to see.

"Your wife?"

Back on his feet now, Sigurd works over his suit, brushing out wrinkles and scrubbing futilely at dirt stains. He stops to glance up, then shakes his head with an apologetic smile.

"My sister."

What? Julius frowns even more sharply now, and the man takes it as criticism of his artistic ability. He quickly takes the drawing back and tucks it carefully into his breast pocket.

"I am no artist, I fear. She has gone missing, you see." A rueful sigh. "Have you seen her? Some have called her the Purple-Haired Maiden, but to me she is simply Deirdre."

Julius crosses his arms in disbelief. "I know only a Silver-Haired Maiden."

her expression grows concerned with each step they take, the ground feeling more and more unstable as the minutes passed on. stepping closer to the cave walls, she presses her hand and feels the rock for any uneven surface. there are bumps and ridges, but she can’t know for certain if they were cracks just by feeling.

Caeda calls for him.

"Shh!" he hisses back, and strains his ears in the silence again. A few more moments and

Nothing.

With an unhappy huff, Julius turns and marches back to where Caeda had stopped to examine one of the walls.

It sounded coarse and ugly, like a shattered window and the whistle of the invading wind. Julius had been called many things in his few years - special, beautiful, talented, a scion from birth, a long-awaited messiah - but never ordinary. He stares with the faintest wrinkle in the otherwise smooth skin between his eyebrows as if he’s never even heard the word before. The one who had uttered it looks like his sister, so he can’t call her ugly too, but he doesn’t recall having seen her face around the castle before, and for a fleeting moment they each try to figure the other out.

“You must not understand what that word means,” he settles on a reasonable explanation, and he smiles radiantly, eager to help, eager to show off. He is, as his tutors have told him time and again, quite bright. A reader by the age of five.

“Ordinary is the opposite of what I am,” he says with the guileless arrogance of children, the kind yet to grow thorns. “The whole country wouldn’t bring me gifts on my birthday if I was ordinary. Didn’t you bring me something, too?”

He reaches out his hand, still smiling, his eyes sparkling. “Usually they’re left in the parlor, but if you wanted to give this one to me in private, then I won’t tell. Then I’ll send you along to my sister.”

Most who found him were looking for her. She could be so terribly elusive.

Sara shakes her head longer than strictly necessary, insistent, “I’m not here to see your sister.” 

Though the boy does not know her, she has heard enough about him to fill several pages of memory. She is sure that there must be something special about him despite how he appears because Sara’s grandfather would not lie to her. He lies only when he must.

“And I meant what I said, but I guess I was just surprised you don’t look very different than any other kid.” Her shoulders lift in a small shrug, decidedly unapologetic.

Having cleared that up, she allows him a glimpse of her smile before it disappears. The rest of her follows in a feeble flash of light that blinks in then out of existence, leaving Sara standing in its wake. 

Transportation magic - an advanced technique - is the newest addition to her ever-growing repertoire. She likes to get in practice where she can in anticipation of the day she is skilled enough to accompany her grandfather wherever he goes.

…Except she doesn’t quite stick the landing, one foot catching on the other and his present tumbles from her hands onto the grass, jostling the contents inside. Miraculously, the box rolls onto its side with the lid in tact. 

The gift hits the grass before he notices it, his hand instead around Sara’s wrist with unabashed worry writ large upon his face.

“What was that supposed to be?” he asks, releasing her to inspect what she had dropped. Only then does childish selfishness push selfless concern aside and he joins her to peer into the box.

“You haven’t dirtied it, have you?” Without waiting for an answer, he takes it from her to examine the plush dragon himself. It’s free of the garden’s dirt but most importantly well-made, and a smile once more blooms across his lips.

deft fingers weave placidly as julius speaks, nimble hands easily finding the natural holds in gaps of string, fastening quill-point-sized beads with leisure, looping, tying, gathering the next bit, repeating the motion; it's almost meditative. colorful little handicrafts or intricate tapestries spun from looms bigger than a person — they all ask for similar skills, really. sketching portraits to be their most life-like, too, or landscapes to capture a mood. an ear lends itself to the other boy's recount in the meantime, and though it doesn't really give him any more of an idea where he'd heard grannvale than he'd started out with ( it hadn't been that long ago... one of the emblems...? ), he enjoys learning a little more about his new friend either way.

"wow, that sounds like it must've been really tough. spending your whole life in a war..." he'd only been in a short one, all things considered, and had already been counting the days until it could end. couldn't imagine having to fight and fight for longer than that. if there's any further thought given to the mention of idling time away while his empire fought for him, rosado doesn't seem to hold onto it for long.

nor does the sneer appear to strike any questioning note in him either. he notices it, sure, but what about it?

after all, the game idea sounded fun!

"oooh, sure. i'm totally up for that." maybe he'd even come out of it with something new, something he never would've thought to make on his own before. "hang on, let me make sure i'm ready for anything you throw at me." pushing from the chair, rosado vanishes once more out into the rest of the entrance hall, bouncing peony and periwinkle proclaiming his departure like a flicker of butterfly's wings on liftoff from its perch. he alights at one table, then two, then exchanges something energetically with one of the supervising acolytes, before fluttering his way back with new assortments of boxes under his arm. "ta-daaa." letting them clatter to the table, he flips them each open to reveal a kaleidoscope of supplies: everything from twine to buttons to little iron shavings. "now i can accept— your— challenge." and he wasn't going to come up short, or his name isn't rosado, cutest in the land!

He sits up as Rosado drops his new supplies onto the table, peering into the boxes to make his own assessment, a smile snaking back across his lips.

"You certainly do look ready for anything," he notes approvingly. Many of the knickknacks inside hardly resemble anything he's seen before, and the other half he'd mistake for common junk or forgotten trash if he didn't know that they had been procured for him specifically. Rosado's voice rings with confidence, and Julius wonders if he believes that his hands can turn whatever they touch to gold. He settles back in his chair again, arms folding over his chest.

They were just going to have to find out then.