𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

"We meet again. I believe I've owed you one of these for a long time, now."

Heart.

Sain's voice sounds so soft it might as well be cashmere. His sight sketches a line from the bard's face down to his hands, briefly--just to slide over a glass of top-shelf noir. It then returns to the lone peridot unobscured by hair. The knight tries to eek out a stare back, his pupil moving in half-crescents as he helps himself to the next nearby seat. Would Lewyn ever look his way? There is as much fondness in his smile as his dialogue, old memories--somewhat painful memories--of this stranger-made-friend appearing as though the past were the present. He himself has a matching beverage. Both quaffs of liquor swirl with reds and blacks and the tiniest tinge of plum. It holds itself together with ease, not bubbling or frothing even if either of them were to give his glass a rattle. But Sain would prefer its quality not be tested in this way. He would also prefer you not inquire as to what portion of last week's pay tonight has already cost him.

"Some say a knight never forgets, but I prefer to claim that it is our duty to remember." Hopefully the irony of this statement is not lost, what with all that Sain has lost, himself. "How do you fare? 'It has been a while' undersells it by a fair margin, doesn't it?"

They're supposed to be.

For today, Sain hooks a sharp right just when his fellows' gazes fall off of him. For days now, he had observed an elusive shadow darting past the arena's doors at this exact time, too fast and too stygian to make out a recognizable silhouette (but really, he should have known this one. Shame on him for not committing to memory every detail of every woman in that shared old army). For days now, he has been plotting. Talking less, reserving his silence. His was always a boisterous presence: one the other knights had come to expect. If he wanted any hope of running free, he'd have to fly under their radar. Even his dress has become modest as a result; Sain has been without his flagship scarf for the better half of a week. Do you have any idea what this does to his brand image?

But it all pays off today, when a gauntlet seizes a much less-armored wrist, and a triumphant "Gotcha!" slips between a smile. He regards his catch, sights tracing the outline of raven locks before he steps around for a full view. These are... Not new. He recognizes this haircut, these irises, this scowl staring him back-

"Mighty Karla? So it was you-"

He lets her go, but that simper only spreads. The back of his breastplate comes to rest against the large doors of the arena, and arms just under his bust. "A surprise, for sure, but a delightful one at that. I always imagined the world would miss your beauty when you died by the blade..."

His tongue clicks as he continues, "But you know this means I can't let you go, right? If you make it past me, I'll tell everyone that you retreat here instead of where you're meant to be... If you defeat me, however, dead men tell no tales..."

It's the first time Leanne has gotten to utter a word in over thirty minutes. Sain has, if nothing else, displayed a boundless stamina by virtue of how long he can flap his gums. He lays atop a long couch, cushioned with shades of velvet--his knightly armor cast for a more relaxed costume. A blouse and khaki dress pants sell him as modest--but he keeps the scarf. That gaudy thing.

The sun has already crept past its midpoint in the sky. Though they started before lunch (perhaps running past Leanne's scheduled break? Sain does not seem to feel bad if they did, or notice much at all) their conversation has stretched over the winding path the Lance has laid out. He details a recent encounter with a Fodlanese woman, one met at a traveling medicine cart. Her company was, by his account, said to spread miracles to every village & hamlet they visited. Which has the merits to be an impressive story, if accurate, because the knight describes but a trio. One white-magic maverick, one learned apothecary, and a fellow knight of medical background--all women, all outlandishly gorgeous. The knight in particular had been the apple of Sain's eye, what with the matching polearm she wielded.

But according to his story, two people having the same weapon does not constitute a romantic connection.

He awaits the counselor's sage advice with pleading eyes, as though the shimmer in those emeralds could beg a savior out of her. Leanne is not being regarded with advancing intent or ogled lecherously. He seems to, at the very least, take her work seriously--if the passion of his ramblings is anything to go by. Finishing with his portion of dialogue, Sain's chest notably deflates.

It was like he had been holding that in for a long, long time...

"Fairest Ninian, I hate to be a bother and ask--truly I do--but when does being your dance apprentice entail dancing?"

Slung around his shoulder is a bag. Worn on his back, a box. Held in his arms, a bundle of props. Wrapped round most of his fingers the loops to bags and bouncing off his hips two very full skins of water. He suddenly understands what it feels like being his horse, having to carry that hulking suit of armor and the rather annoying body inhabiting it. It's nothing stocky & sturdy Sain can't physically do, but it does make him look ridiculous. And he didn't quite imagine this to be the sort of outing he'd have with Ninian.

Is that the fault of his own rose-tinted glasses?

"It was the promise of watching you perform that motivated me, you know! To see you glide as though on ice, eyes sparkling like fresh snow in the morning... And your hands, lithe and over mine--guiding each of my steps with serenity..." Hold your horses. Really grip 'em good. Because while Sain's words may seem like a dreamy fabrication, he does not speak them with the kind of poetic pronunciation that would make them appealing. It sounds like a long, ordered list the way he says it, because he tops it off with, "...Is any of that part of today's act?"

He doesn't want to think about how long they've been at it. Or how long he's been made to wear a dancer's garb not unlike the drake's. He has the flared dress. He has the flowing ribbon. He has the gold cuffs--larger and looser than Ninians. And all the adornments jingle with every step he takes. That's probably a good thing for her; she won't easily lose track of him this way.

"Or I could teach you of the fire in the steps of Caelin! Have you ever seen a knight waltz?" She isn't missing much. Not from the way he shakes and shimmies his hips in her general direction, strutting one foot in front of the other--trying to really sell her some moves with like eighty pounds worth of stuff strapped to some part of his body.

And he anchors himself all wrong. He moves rigidly, doesn't incorporate much more than his steps. Even if he had been unburdened, he doesn't promise much in the way of wowing a crowd...

The sound of steel meeting steel sings in tandem with church bells. Every swing, a lilt. Every hit, that resonating clang, decorating the air with the color of passion. One body falls. A second weapon clatters to the ground. A third assailant is reduced to the sound of fleeing footsteps. A fourth has their armor pierced and their breast struck. Yet it all coalesces into background ambience, perfectly blended into the ceremony.

"Ah, how fortuitous this truly is! To have the chance to defend the purest love-" a white flash, the bride reaches the altar, "-Caelin was born from such love, you know. It was the perfect midsection of Araphen and Pherae: a natural marriage between beauty & valor!"

The blunt end of a spear rises from the ground faster than a blink. It collides with some poor sod's chin. They fall unconscious. Black dress shoes peeking from white suit pants move to sweep it behind a hedge.

"Ensuring that stars do not cross their skies is but the highest honor for a knight. Wouldn't you agree, fellow Heath?"

The last of the crashers simply stares still--stares stunned. Sain merely has to trod up to them, wrap his arm round their neck, and wait until a flick from his gloved finger topples their breathless body over the last one. They'll all wake up after the groom and bride are wed. And then they'll have nothing to crash at all. A hum escapes his lips as he ponders that fact.

Eyes like a hunter's scan the surrounding area for the next site of attack. As if blessed by some scary power, he finds it, spotting the malice in some random trio amidst tens of other guests. He clicks his tongue. He nods his head. He beckons for Heath to join him as he walks, fixing the cuffs on his matching suit as though they were merely ruffled by the wind.

"Ah, but what of you? Has your home any tales to tell of love? I must know, given that you've accepted this job with me!"

"-True Love! True Loooooove! O darling angel, where have you run off to? Did I upset you? I swear on my honor as a knight, I will do right by your beloved name!"

And that's Sain, calling for someone somewhere in the distance. It shouldn't sound like anything new to Eliwood at this point.

Except-

There aren't any women around. No skirts for Sain to chase. No gloved hands prepared to slap his face with silk. They are in the stables, the both of them, and-

"-True Loveeee! Deareeeeest! My heart yearns for youuu!"

-the yelling is getting louder, getting closer. The horse on Eliwood's arm tugs him toward that voice, and each force draws closer still until his emerald gaze meets that of Eliwood's sapphire.

"Ah, what a surprise!"

All of the horse's motion dies down in that instant, and the man struts forward with his arms outstretched for a hug. There's no running. Poor Eliwood is wrapped up in it, in all the trust and affection a lance would have for one of the hands that wielded it. "So she was safe with you. How goes it, Lord Eliwood? I trust my little friend here didn't give you too hard a time?"

The horse snorts, tossing her head once when he goes to touch it. Sain sighs, then laughs. "That's True Love for you... Cold and distant. Impossible to satisfy. But a noble cause all the same, wouldn't you agree?"

"Welcome to Malade's Malarkey! If you're after this morning's peonies, I have but one left! Rest assured, it is as fresh as it is beautiful-"

Up until this point, 'Malade' had been speaking with his back turned to his supposed customer. A bad decision for any bonafide merchant. Lucky for him, he's not here to peddle for gold. 'Malade' is a character built to be a bit of a wall: simple, passionate about work, more of a listener than a talker. He simply exists to be a sponge of information.

While Sain picks up a trowel with ease and has no qualms selecting flowers for noble lasses, it's the part about keeping a low profile that has been his bane this day. To shut his mouth, to sit and listen and wait for the gossip to trail in--like asking the sun to set in reverse. But no other way would work; he just has to sit here and fish until someone feels charmed enough to bite.

But worst of all? He'll have to wash out a bunch of orange when he finishes. Not a second goes by where he doesn't lament the decision to dye his hair for this job.

Anyways, he's spun on his heel now, carrying a pair of bagged plants to set down. Enter Pelleas, and suddenly he has something to talk about. Beneath his outfit, Sain recognizes him--he only hopes he knows him through some less-than-fashionable garb.

"Pelleas??" Once left, once right. Twice left, twice right. The knight-incognito ensures there aren't any more ears around before leaning close. A grin spreads over his lips. "Like a shooting star in broad daylight...! Yours is a face I'd never tire of seeing."

Briefly, he bends below his stall. Greenhouse equipment he could 'borrow' from the monastery, but wood and nails he had to scrounge up on his own. It appears homemade, ordinary. Ordinary enough to not feel like a setup.

"Here, have my last one. May its love and prosperity find you." He hands Pelleas a maroon-colored flower, indeed as fresh and beautiful as he remarked earlier. If nothing else, Sain has a natural talent for gardening.

"So," he whispers, leaning closer just-in-case, "learned anything yet?"

"-And while managing a horse's mood can be tricky, there are a few things they universally love, capable of taking them from the pits of despair to the wings of heaven..."

An unsteady hand holds a thick tome as a knight attempts to paraphrase its text. When 'Regarding Knights and Chivalry' spread around the monastery, a push came from the student body to have one of the Knights of Seiros teach it to their classes. There was begging and pleading with admin, until finally they budged, and one of the higher-ups was in Sain's barracks asking if anyone had read the thing.

Of course he had, and in no less than a day to boot. It took an even shorter amount of time for him to get signed up and assigned, and now, here we are: Sain shaking with excitement at what he thinks is an enlightening experience for droves of aspiring squires.

But what they most certainly can't believe they're hearing.

"Indeed! All horses enjoy scenic walks. Take them around town, or down to the beach--perhaps down a secret passage in a forest of dreams," he has them now, what with walking a horse being some halfway decent advice, but, "they also love to sing! Bring one into a tavern," somehow get it through the doors, "lead it on stage," where it will most certainly take up all of its space, "and watch as it begins to harmonize with the lute and lyre!"

Sain is so engrossed in these teachings that he's begun to speak with his eyes closed, merely imagining how the students would react and not actually perceiving their confused looks.

"And finally, fortune slips! Nothing equine can resist the temptation of having their fortune read, and if you get a good one-"

Clack!

Footsteps halt his advance. Not because he's scared of any old shmuck walking in on him, but because he recognizes them. Has heard their weight against a thousand different terrains, knows what they sound like sprinting and stamping out of anger and walking in disguise. His curse has entered the room, her mere presence eroding his armor. What was a high-strung instrument a moment ago sounds hopeless, sounds shocked.

"Ah! Lady Lyndis!"

He opens his eyes. He turns to face her. He slams the book shut between his fingers because he knows exactly what she thinks of knighthood and of him.

And maybe, there's a tiny part of him that wants her opinion to change.

"What brings such a heroic presence into my seminar?"

Many of Fodlan's knights clearly haven't heard the chronicles of Caelin. They weave not romance into their armor, they breathe not with love and splendor. Sometimes they'll just grunt when Sain approaches, or stare into their mug as though awaiting some goddess of wine to pop out and hand them a blessed weapon.

Oh, and the smell. Always just a twinge on the nose, that alcohol.

So when he sees a familiar head of blue (which says a lot about his ability to remember faces, because Kris is far from the only bluenette in this world) his interest is piqued. Quickly, he shuffles past many of his dour-looking comrades to the quiet corner the sword has propped itself up in. If Kris was trying to go unnoticed, Sain would give him points for this.

"Lest my eye tell me a lie--which I know it never would--I have the rare pleasure of seeing Mister White, in the flesh!" A squinting smile serves as the precursor for Sain draping his arm over Kris' shoulder, always the type to cast his affections deep into one's personal bubble. "Though you are a great deal more... Robed... Than I remember. And it must be said: my heart can't decide if it prefers you with or without this outfit."

An outfit he, bear in mind, does not do a great job getting a good look at. His gaze locks with the other's laser-trained on the tiniest twitches of muscle that might indicate some expression.

"Seeing as how you're in the Knights' Hall," he continues, hand gesturing to the sad state of the room they're in, "and are now in the presence of a proper knight, what can I do for you? Are you in need of assistance, perhaps?"

It's tough to picture Kris ever in need of anything. A weapon sharpened? A crime to report? Nothing comes to mind that doesn't seem like a thing he would just up and do for himself, one-man army and all.

Still, Kris is a friend. And as they stand, he owes him more than a few favors.

Yet it all came to a halt when he reached Mark's door. Like it was a dam and not an entrance, holding off every bit of his nonsense for the outside world to have. This is his tactician, his most trusted commander. It had always been Mark's hand turning the point of his spear whenever he pointed it an inch away from a villain's heart. And quiet was her strength, for the mind need not speak while it thinks of a hundred and one ways to bail some callow oaf out of a sticky situation. He respected Mark's quiet. Always had. She earned that respect out of him.

So his invitation to dinner came sincere and honest. Spoken like he meant it, which of course, he did.

And now here they sit, bathed in moonlight and wrapped in nighttime air. Sain picked a venue with outdoor seating. The image of Mark that he has is of her in those plains, the wind at her back and grass at their feet. He remembers the first time they fought at night, their arms strangled by ruin walls and stumbling through the low light. Of course, they made it out in the end. Just as the two of them have made it here, despite it all.

"You arrived! You know, sometimes I'm not quite sure they always will..." He offers a wry smile. It's not a very good joke. "That must make you special, no? A ruby among rubble, daring to twinkle and shine where no simple stone would. If only I could think of a gem to be your equal."

Sain delivers his line with the kind of flirty sarcasm one would expect of him. Obviously green goes with red, but...

He steadies his hand beneath the table. It had been playing with something--a box, turning it over all its sides--and any more might arouse suspicion.

"Ah, but pretty words without substance are of no use to such a shrewd mind. So instead I ask you, dearest tactician--"

"--how have things been?"

A frown pinched at his brow. He didn't need for Sain to start spouting off poetic nonsense to him as he might have to one of his conquests, did not need to the pretty words to rub a cool edge to his ire, did not need to feel the stir of an autumn wind rustling in promise -

No. He shook his head, firmly, stepping away from Sain's grip to crouch, rustling about in the leaves of a nearby shrub. It only took him a moment, the dappled light reflecting on the ground a soothing green which almost reminded him - no - before he found the dart. Small, not particularly well crafted - if he brought it up to the light, he could see the gentle indentation in the needle, still slick with his blood and, with a cautious sniff, something bitter, something sweet.

Like love. The thought crashed upon him so suddenly he didn't stand for a full minute, though outwardly his face remained the same thoughtful, irritated mask.

Heart rate elevated, saliva production higher than normal, temperature high for the time of year - he focused on the rest of his senses, the physical sensations of the courtyard and the company around him in a way that he hadn't needed to in some months. When he stood, his head swam, and Raven shook his head again; he hadn't felt his body in such a state of alarm since the last time he'd fallen ill, in Etruria.

"Look," he said finally, gesturing with the dart to Sain. "Some sort of poison, and some kind of enchantment," he added, lifting the connective filament that fluttered rosy between them.

He reached for his lover (hater?) as he left him, but found himself grasping at air. Silly him. He should have known that Raymond would act like this. Once that man made up his mind on something, not even dragons could stand in his way.

An ambient thought crossed his mind, wondering which would come out on top in a battle of stubbornness.

But, dragons aside, his re-entry was stopped by the appearance of the needle. He backed away, shock pulling one leg and fear the other. "So that's what that prick was... B-But Raymond! Are you to say that love is just a poison? Just an enchantment? Something for an apothecary or studied mage to manufacture at their will??"

Unlike the other, he was in full bloom. His white petals spread with the stretching of his arms and chest, an outcry against the winds of fate they had to weather. His scent, too, joined in the mix with the enchantment. Floral and sweet, with a slight zest and creaminess to tie it together. He felt no different from the bush Raymond knelt into, pressed beneath the man's knee. Was this destiny? Would Sain be a trampled just as the whorls of his love began to bear fruit?

"I think not!"

Hope reinvigorated him, drawing the knight closer as if his armor was magnetized to his friend. "What we feel isn't something one can tamper with. Love is what separates us from beasts! So..."

Without missing a beat, he flicked the vial at its center. The loud tink! produced by the glass might have been enough to steal Raymond's attention, so to contest, he set his thumb on his chin and supported his head with an index. Raymond's gaze was his, and he'd let nothing--man, material or otherwise--take it away from him.

His was a gaze of hunger.

“well.” she starts. “i think i’ve said something like this to you before, when we first met and you asked me for advice on how to…. obtain my charisma, or something like that.” she chuckles fondly at that memory now. “ but every single person is different from the next. sure there are some quirks and behaviors that you can predict and shape favorable responses to, but you’re never going to have an answer for everything. there’s always going to be something you say that hurts them.”

a slight frown tugs at her lips as she shuts her eyes, thinking of all the soldiers she’d fought on the battlefield. they were nameless within an army of conscripted soldiers, but they all had friends and family at home that would miss them. that they would never return to…

“it’s something you have to cope with, really. you seem to put me on a considerably high pedestal but even i have people that i cannot get through to. words i cannot take back...” her voice trails off before she leans back again and stretches her arms up high with a quiet grunt.

And it's about time.

"I like your answer, haha," and that he means, by virtue of the fact that he's still smiling, "too often must I choose between unwavering praise and unending rebuke. You offer both, only doing each when necessary."

She's as even-weighted as the lance that both of them carry, perfectly balanced in regards to conversation. That much he's learned by now.

"So... Thank you, Caeda. I believe you, that you aren't perfect and that people are each their own case. I guess for me, that means no more shortcuts!" His eyes flutter shut in reflective though, his back dropping all the pressure it had build up in their prior moments. "Love cannot be rushed. It's like a warm soup--better savored."

With a short bob of his head, his eyes are awake again. But they carry a different sheen, more relaxed than what is contemporary. Like looking into a sea of pine needles instead of a windy plain. And Sain's waters are still.

As is his heart.

Each of his movements were trailed by their sharp, though somewhat skittish in it's haste, gaze. Part of them was truly content to simply watch how he tended to the mess. There was an earnest fondness for the flowers here, then. Arval had found they had never doubted it with vigour, but the act and his efficiency spoke more than his flowery words and idioms ever could. To them, at least.

Sullen moods were akin to murky waters to wade through, and with the hitch passed, Arval had no intention to linger.

"There is no need to make me swear, with the damage so easily mitigated I promise you there will be no further fuss." The urge to tease another on their concern rose with a playful bite to halt on their tongue, it felt displaced when it was their own unsteady hands that stumbled them both into this mess. It was preferable to all of this drift away in it's own current, untouched and left to rest.

Arval wondered if they should thank him, thought they found themself at a loss as to what they would be shedding gratitude for. A lack of temper? His own expertise? Ill fitted and uncertain, they let the beat pass.

"By what you have told me, it is almost as if the greenhouse is a second home to you." Arval had grown curious, they held a natural curiosity to them always as they stumbled through a world so unthoroughly explored to them, but it had always heightened when they found glimpses into another's life.

Active imagination aside, he takes the time to laugh with Arval’s. Giddiness bounces in his chest, warm and sticky like sap fresh-tapped from pine. “A second home, eh?” He clears the clutter of his work. Hands are dusted and tools set aside, the water inside the can now still and reflecting moonlight. “You could say that! Though I’m not quite sure if even I would go as far as to sleep in here…” 

Tongue and cheek, naturally. He punctuates his sentence with a playful grin, adjusting his seating to face the pale fellow. Legs cross, neatly, though almost childishly, and he rests his palms on the space in between. “As for your other question, my love of flowers and women share a root cause. Poetic, no?” He winks, and his wink is like a butterfly’s wing. The shine in his eye is comparable to the iridescent sheen on its scales–made brighter by the darkness that envelops them.

“It’s all in an effort to be a better knight. Wooing women, caring for the earth and her people–it’s just what he of the lance ought to do. Our task is to uphold beauty, be it striking down knaves or delighting the citizenry.” High-flying, these ideals are. They sit above the ground and are almost certainly too detached. They can’t be walked by Sain’s path, for the vision of ‘knight’ is a visionary to him–unattainable, too pristine to be reached. He makes leaps and bounds in his words because he has to soar into the sun for the chance to catch even a glimpse at the definition of that word. “I’m surprised they haven’t taught this to you yet. Some days, it seems only I know these sorts of things.”