midsummer dreams

     Perhaps her enthusiasm is a little too obvious when it comes to events like this, but Yura would never let that deter her. In fact, her stubbornness just keeps her going, especially when faced with such an unwilling prince. Still, she will not let his attitude get to her. Her smile curls and curves upwards and onwards; it would grace her face for the remainder of the night. The only difference between the two is that hers is always genuine. Hardly ever does Yura lie — especially not when she has a choice in the matter.

     “That’s not very fair now, is it? Telling me to practice but not offering to be the teacher.” Isn’t that just avoiding the responsibility of the role? Or maybe he really hates dancing with her that much? ( Would he still be here if he did? ) “And it’s Yura. Haname Yuzuka of Sui-no-Sato, nicknamed Yura. Not Miss Hero. Call me by my name from now on.” Immediately after the words leave her mouth, however, a thought occurs to her. She does not know his name, does she?

     Her pause lasts only for an instant, almost too brief for anyone to catch. Dropping her guard is rare, and she’ll be careful not to do it around him. Her distant dreams of meeting her maker by his hands can only be a warning of some kind, or so she believes; and Yura is not the kind to ignore these anymore. “Me? You misunderstand. I always smile like this.” She does not, though she certainly does her best. “It’d be a shame if you left now, anyway.”

     Without further words, her grip on him tightens, and she spins them around in place. The ice creaks, leaving small marks beneath them; a few among countless others. “Before this moment passes though, I have another request. O my terrible prince who hates having fun, won’t you finally tell me your name? I cannot ever hope to catch you if you remain a nameless pixie boy to me.”

Persistent like unbroken flowers. Persistent like weeds. Was there a difference between the two? Perhaps, but he can’t say ( not the truth, only a lie, and even then he can’t quite say ). Her smile is an oddly infuriating inflection; a curve he wants to straighten out and disappoint. Turn downwards and disappear. But he turns them instead, cuts a casual line through the ice with their blades, and holds her like a prince would ( could and should, though he’s anything but ). 

“Oh, you caught me! My mistake.” He sounds sincere. Sincere and chipper, like he’s been caught out on an obvious mistake, but offers no real way to rectify it. “But you’re right, it isn’t very fair, is it? Despite claiming to be be a good dancer, I haven’t really met the perfect partner for that just yet. Nor am I the best kind of teacher for anything.” His words are light as air, caught on butterfly wings, but they’re heavier than they should be. A mountainous, terrible weight. Yet there’s a tiny ember of truth, tucked somewhere in the twisted words of the crownless king, though by the time anyone’s realised it’ll have become black coal. ( Not to worry, Yura, he dislikes everything. )

“Yura, huh?” A four letter word that falls strange on the tongue. Definitely not the most impressive thing a hero could bear as a name, though it’s been cut and softened for everyone else to use. Haname Yuzuka rings better, rings true, but he dislikes the heaviness of it, so Yura it is. Four letters, like hero, but not quite.

His eyes sparkle with an un-prince-like air of mischief. Oberon may not be able to see lies now, but he can tell when someone’s forcing one between their teeth. Honestly. It took a certain Master how long to call him out on things? Already the word terrible is being thrown in there ( a joke) and hate ( less a joke ) like she knows. And perhaps she does, given their last meeting, tinged in blood and black shadows. Winter sweeps that moment away with a cold breeze.

He’s not much of a drinker, or so he says, but gossip is its own type of currency. Moreso in a place where information can be so scarce. So much so, that he’s almost happy to buy a round or three for those by the bar tonight.

 “--Ah, you’re fine. Consider this round on the house for everyone. I happen to have a running tab at this place.” And not a single cent to pay for it, considering he’s flat broke and unemployed. But no one’s asking about that. “So, feel free to drink up and enjoy the night.” 

Well, she’s alone and enjoying herself, and he has fifteen minutes to spare. So, better make good use of it, right? Cue a 17cm tall, completely natural-for-this-city but otherwise harmless faerie, taking up residence next to the young King of Knights.

“Are you going to eat that?”

     “Persistent’s my second name.” Actually it goes something like Eikon-Slayer, but she omits that part. In fact, she has quite a few of those second names, according to the general public. ( Neither of which she gave herself. She was content being Allthoughts. ) But it is true that she prides herself in that naive persistence, and she will not budge this time either. No matter how silly the situation, how far removed from her usual life & death scenarios, her resolve is the same as always. Perhaps he has yet to learn this about her. ( As her acquaintance, as her enemy, her executioner sans the memories. )

     It is with that naivety of hers that she lets him lead, to fool him into thinking he might just take control back from her. There rests a knowing smile on her face, one he may have trouble wiping from it for quite some time — and an unspoken promise of a dance of deceit. What looks like a pair getting along and having fun on the ice is in truth a competition among enemies, unbeknownst to them. 

     For who is she to trust him, who wears the face of a liar? And who is he to indulge her, who wears the mantle of a hero?

     So her smile takes on a sinister edge, the same way his princely one feels anything but genuine. “Well, truth be told I was not prepared to dance in earnest. You must know that I am not a great dancer, pixie boy. Nor am I a woman who dances often.” Perhaps across the battlefield, a dress of blood, but never as elegantly as a noble. “But if that is your condition, then I will not object — as long as you lead! Now that I have you here, I won’t let you go again.”

“Oh, I can tell.” One doesn’t need Fairy eyes to see that much ( though they’d go a long way in discerning everything else about this woman ). It’s difficult to say if he’s being sarcastic or snide in the way he says it, or if there’s a touch of something genuine to it. He knows persistence; how it burns, how it pushes, how it ruins. He’s seen it again and again; enough to know how tied it is to martyrdom and bloody ends. Even on ice, in a moment that feels surreal, that fact remains.

His touch is real, though. Their hands together are real. This moment, frozen partially in ice, caught in winter, is real. Or as close as a dream can be to real ( as close as a liar can come to speaking the truth ).

“Is that so?” There’s the sarcasm, sounding almost like interest, dressed in a smile that would kill most who saw it. “Well then, my dear Miss Hero, I think you need to get out and practice more. I would offer, but I’m not the best kind of teacher for that sort of thing.” If she expects an invitation to, say, a magic ball, then that’s out of the question. There’ll be none of that -- no midnight dances, no moments before the clock strikes twelve; magic quests and happily ever afters. There’s only monsters and shadows and bad ends here, dressed in princely veneer. But perhaps that’s for the best: she doesn’t seem the type to enjoy soft whites and royal crowns ( certainly not with that kind of smile ). 

His answer eliminated Lancer as a candidate — the two iterations of Arthur were well familiar with one another. The third bearing the name registered was designated the class Caster, and they’d yet to encounter one another. Even in Chaldea, there was something… like it were keeping them apart. The lack of ‘Pendragon’ attached hadn’t gone unnoticed, but she’d never the opportunity to inquire. So he sought this Caster — what relationship he bore with her remained the missing piece of the puzzle — why he fled could be clarified if it would be traced.

“Is there an issue with us meeting now? If a lack of introduction is the issue, we may resolve it here. you’re familiar with my name, however, whether there is overlap between she and I or the degree to which it stretches, I know not”. She might hold her cards out, lend her name, her legend, her class as had become strangely routine — but he remained a mystery and she could hardly entrust such information to an unknown Servant with no transparency on his part.

There’s a time and a place for these things. Move too fast and the pace of the story goes wrong, leading to all sorts of messes and tangentially related arcs. Character development like weeds. The unsung ways of a narrative doesn’t change regardless of where they are, even if the city operated on its own logic. It’s a set standard of unwritten story rules, and he’s a thing of stories in the most wild of ways. 

“Well, it’s not an issue for me, but it might be something else entirely for her.” Nevermind the potential that the other Arturia might not even see this Arturia, but oh, semantics. “And while I’d be happy to see you both together, I won’t push the issue for her. I’m not that type of guy!” Liar.

He’s being vague on purpose. Perhaps more vague than usual. If he slides just so, maybe he can go beyond her reach and make a run for it.

   ❤        “hmm…” ludmila tapped at her lips thoughtfully, although admittedly very little actual thought went into her response, “with excitement, shivers down your spine, or perhaps a spicy taste in your mouth. or i’d take a three-in-one special.♥ ”

“Ahh, it’s like that, huh?” Wow, talk about shameless! Well, no point in acting embarrassed about it then, right? “With that kind of attitude, I’d say you’d hook around seventy-percent of people? Maybe seventy-five, since some love to deny themselves at first.”

    ❤        “oh?? you don’t know me yet?? maybe if you kiss, i’ll tell. ♥ ”

      “ Did I ask your opinion? Does it look like I want to hear your shitty voice? “

“Uwahh, how frightful. Are you the new Queen of this city? Do you intend to spread your iron grip over here too, Morgan?” 

Pomf.

          “It’s… unique— at the very least…“

( Actually it’s all rather friendly, save a particular character taking everyone out for giggles ).

Watch as one snowball arcs perfectly through the air, aimed for an unsuspecting member to the side. Anyone sends someone sprawling. 

( It’s this guy. He’s the culprit. )

“It’s pretty fun, isn’t it?” Oh look, here comes a super fun snowball to the face! Whee!

“Oh no, I’m not too confidant in my artistic ability to try building a snowman or anything remotely snow-y here just yet. Though, I am curious if they really do come to life and carry people’s emotions. Have you tried it yet?”

“Ahh, well, it seems I’m a little out of pocket after all of those wondrous winter goods.” Empty wallets and long tabs, bane of thy existence. Cue a smooth slide up to the most unsuspecting looking person around. “But my friend here would be happy to cover the expense, I’m sure!”

     “Sure is.” she replies, unable to deny the truth behind his statement in regards to the word ‘no’. “However, it’s not one I’m willing to accept right now. Easy enough to understand, yes?” It should be. Why, then, will he not indulge her? Sure, they aren’t exactly companions or anything — and she’s sure she could have loads of fun with literally anyone else on this outing, but he’s here. He’s here and he’s being a party pooper. Obviously she cannot let that slide.

     The smirk on her face turns softer, warmer even. “Really? I’d argue it is quite like dancing on ice. Which is precisely why you should give it a try, actually! Come on!” She does a funky motion with her hands as she says so, as if to cheer him on. It does not appear to be working. Bummer. Which brings her to the next best thing: a step ( a slide ) closer, to be within reach, just barely.

     “I meant I’ll tell all your pixie friends so they could make fun of you better. Is that what you want? I’ll have to stop by there later then.” She reaches out in the same breath, latching onto his arm and pulling him to the ice. “Checkmate. Was that so hard?” Her grin spreads the further she pulls him, a not-quite dance with clumsiness and an annoyed expression for one. “Besides, even if it were true… Why should it matter? Even if I don’t have anyone else, it’s better than being alone.”

‘No’ would have been easier. Would have been simpler, even, but instead she just rolls with it. It’s like watching water slide off a duck’s back, like a strange form of nostalgia for something fake, and he dislikes it as much as he dislikes everything else in this terrarium world, snow soft and strange. “Hmm, I suppose it is.” It isn’t. Not really. Not for him. But he agrees because he’s a liar, and he lies like breathing. 

“Persistent as always, I see.” Not that it’s working in her favour, though. Oh she’s trying, she’ll get a quick applause for that if nothing else, but there’s little for him to do ( or care to do ). It’s better to watch from the side-lines and smile and think of nothing else; a shadow on the wall and nothing more. Still, the mention of friends has him pause for a precarious moment, princely visage twisting oddly for a moment. 

“Ha! What a shame that I don’t have--” But the denial dies on his tongue, spluttering into silence. One moment he’s on the side of the ring, dethatched and happy, and the next he’s here on the ice, hand not-quite in hand. “Haa, what a shame indeed.” There’s no escape, is there? No, for as small as she looks, her grips an iron vice. There’s quiet acceptance on his part, slowly transforming back to that princely, proper smile he offers everyone. 

His resistance was lesser than anticipated, but she presumed he’d already surrendered after her charge. If he were one called of late, his limitations widened the gap, and he’d known clear as day that struggling was a futile endeavour. Despite his height, he wouldn’t break loose, and she wasn’t about to give him the opportunity. not when he had made a dash in the first place. “Denied".

Her voice was firm, but clear of any imposing depth. There was nothing to suggest definitively that he were trouble: in fact, the manner in which he turned tail reminded her of Merlin, and while mischievous (with the potential to be a threat), he was hardly one to dread. “that’s the thing: how mistaken would this case be? You called my name: Artoria. The lengths of your argument would extend to one of the others who bear that name, though I understand there to be quite the ensemble growing among us. Whom was it you sought?” Her face inched closer. Now, she might introduce the stoicism wrapped in suspicion. “And why did you feel the need to run?”

Well, worth a shot ( even a precariously long one ). Alas, it seems the emerald eyes of the fabled King of Knights had found its target. Caught like - oh, ha - a bug in a glass jar. But where there’s a will, there’s a way; or in this case, a lie and a caustic smile. “Alright, alright. It looks like I’ve hit a wall here.” For as sharp and formidable as she is, she shares so much ( and so little ) with the one he was looking for.

“Quite so, in fact. Are you aware of how many Artorias there are in this world? Of course you are. There’s a precarious count of three and growing thus far, actually!” Which really isn’t an answer at all, if you think about it, but that’s how things are with him. Never straight, always curved and tangled and webbed.