joyous royal.

A familiar voice gasps behind him, and Alcryst turns to see Céline right behind him. "Princess Céline! Were you here long? I'm sorry, I didn't see you... um, I can get out of your way."

As the prince steps to the side, he notices two knights staring in his direction. Ah... Alcryst recognizes his coworkers. These two don't like him very much, not since the day Garreg Mach fell to the hidden enemy. Separated from his brother and most of his allies, Alcryst found himself among a band of fellow Knights of Seiros. Infighting and deteriorating conditions led to Alcryst ditching them. As difficult as it was to fend for himself and care for a wounded Lapis on his own, it was better than watching the knights tear themselves apart. When the knights notice that Alcryst is looking at him, they turn their heads away and pause their whispering.

Not as tensions with Elusia grew, and Brodia's ambitions hung uncomfortably in the air, her mother working tirelessly to draft a non-aggression plan Morion and his ministers would find agreeable.

But the Divine Dragon had given them a gift, gathering them all under one banner—allowing difficult discussions to be had, understandings to be reached, and lifelong friendships forged.

Alcryst was one such friendship, which is why the abrupt quieting of the knights in his presence does not go beyond her notice. Her smile stretches ever so slightly.

If they wished to listen, then...

"Ah, I see! As attentive and vigilant as ever, my friend." Céline giggles, "And I wouldn't exactly call it exciting... I am far from the weapons buff your brother is, but I do agree."

She lifts her tone. "This upcoming festival is joyous, but I believe any warrior worth their salt would be remiss not to recognize the potential dangers. With so many people trickling in from varying places and lands, security should be of the utmost importance..."

And no matter how it may seem, he has thought about it that way. You could really only ever freely make a decision when you were well and familiar with each path available to you and where it led. He’d bet the coin in his pocket that he’d thought through every same risk that she had. 

He’d just come to a different conclusion on the back of it.

“Let me turn the question back to you:” He invites, though careful to resist the urge to move any closer to her and risk demonstrating any further lack of care for the severity of the situation than she likely already assumes he has. “Imagine you’re sick—maybe it’s just a case of the sniffles, or maybe it’s all you can do to make it through the day.”

He holds the parcel aloft.

As if she were struck, Céline flinches slightly at his words. It had been a simple question, with a plain answer, and yet—

(She thinks of her brother. Short breaths. Clammy skin. A pallid face.)

It hits far too close to home.

"It is obvious the easier path would be the one in which you do not suffer alone." Arms still crossed, Céline tightens her grip on her cloak. "And I could never leave an ailing person to suffer in good conscience."

Her gaze lifts towards the parcel then. "But I am sure you understand this extends beyond just one person, or home? Your attempts to help are very noble, but what about the others yearning for this—"

Medicine, she thinks to say, only to realize she has no idea what it is he intends to deliver.

"You owe me your assistance. You'll be helping me with this curative, now. Congrats, it's an honor. Now get that water pail, assistant."

To be ordered around in such a way—!

But she takes a light breath, and calms herself. This was nothing more than a fleeting annoyance, and the woman had far more right to her ire than Céline. So she simply... 'sucks it up', as Etie would put it, and moves to the water pail.

It seems the dour woman had managed to salvage some of her concoction, though a bit of the spilled moss still floated inside. As the other rolls up her sleeves and begins to scoop it out, Céline watches for a moment before following suit.

"I take it you're expecting me to replace it with fresh water after this, then? Unless you intend to continue using what we already have."

"Lady Veyle is doing well," Mauvier answers. "And...I am, as well. I'm unsure what her plans are for the ball, but I have considered going myself, this year. Perhaps even for the festivities, and not as a knight."

His voice carries as if in a confessional; Princess Céline is perhaps one of only a handful of people he could ever tell such a thing. She's unlikely to see his desire for downtime as a weakness, even if he still struggles to believe it himself.

He's struck by a pang of guilt, watching the young lady struggle with her boxes. He wishes to rush ahead and carry them for her, but he would abandon Princess Céline in the process. If only there were two of him.

Céline can't help her surprised gasp, her hand quickly covering her mouth to stifle such an uncouth gesture. But to hear that Mauvier wished to do something out of his own enjoyment, rather than obligation... it was deeply pleasing to hear.

"Not at all! I believe it's a wonderful thing, that you wish to enjoy yourself." She turns to him then, picnic basket balanced on her arm, as she reaches forward to enclose both of her hands around one of his. "Mauvier, you should enjoy yourself."

Perhaps it sounded odd, coming from her. She still held much hatred in her heart towards Zephia, Griss—towards the Hounds for what they had done to the people of Firene; all the lives taken, and livelihoods uprooted.

Mauvier had been a part of that, as had Veyle.

But they felt regret. They punished themselves, continue to punish themselves, and even now, work tirelessly to atone.

Such service should not be discouraged, or condemned.

"Lady Nilsson," gentle and low, careful to not startle her out of thought, "was her lover a beautiful woman — just like yourself?"

She shook her head, the wrinkle in her brow creasing further at the thought. "No, no... ah, I'm afraid it escapes me... who was it?"

She waits, patient, as Lady Nilsson murmurs under her breath, distress mounting as thought lingered on this sole question. Her hands rest atop her lap, just waiting, waiting — until her mind wanders back to tea. A fundamental joy in this woman's prior life, it seems; a joy that they can at least bring back; and Azura stirs as she places her spotlight fully on Lady Nilsson.

She picks up her teacup and sets it down with a click. Her head tilts as she breaks into pitched giggling, covering her smile with a point of her hand. As the curtains pull back, Azura leans closer to the table and sighs. "Henrietta! These secrets, you must not keep from us." Her voice drops, speech emerging from the side of her lips. "Earlier, I heard... that Dahlia was around the markets with a woman on her arm, though. They were at the florist's — and as you could predict, they left with a lovely bouquet of dahlias."

Eyes flicker back open with an awareness that finally takes hold, and it is not frustration at herself that now clouds them. "Yes, dear." She purses her lips. "You're correct. Lovely young woman on the surface, Eleanor — but for all of the love Dahlia gave, it was not always reciprocated. She held a... dissatisfaction that would occasionally rear its head. That, we could never understand."

And a name. Eleanor. Whether it was the name of who Lady Nilsson had suspected, or even the authorities, of committing the murders remained yet to be seen, but there was a disdain that hung heavy in the air when the lady spoke of it.

Finally, the lady reached for her teacup, took a sip, and made a face. Lachesis could not determine well enough whether it was an expression of dissatisfaction before it had flittered away - regardless of her age, the polish of good breeding remained, and she had set down her teacup once more before raking rheumy eyes over the room, closer now to where Azura sat.

It seemed that she was not quite done airing her grievances, even all these years later.

“Do you know, there was one day - evening, rather, my…curtains were drawn… In any case -” a dismissive wave of her hand, and a rearrangement of skirts as Lady Nilsson uncrossed and recrossed her legs and arranged her skirts around herself to lean forward; “We had all come together for a party that was to be hosted down the avenue, and Eleanor gave one of my servants quite the dressing down for - oh, goodness, what was it, Rupert?”

The young man in the hall stiffened at being addressed, turning to face them all. “Sorry, madam. I’m Robert. Still. I wasn’t alive then,” he said to the other women, almost apologetically. “But I think it was that she spillt some tea?”

And it seemed Céline had already been given her role: this Dahlia, possessed of a deep love of living, and a disposition as bright as her golden hair.

"Why, Eleanor..." She frowns, heightening the pitch of her voice, assuming a girlish affectation as she turns to look at Robert—rather, Rupert, in this tale, "Surely the poor man didn't mean to offend? There is no need to stir up such a fuss..."

Robert stares back at Céline, confusion heavy in the arch of his brow. She only nods, as if to encourage, and though he still seemed unsettled, he slowly begins to play along.

"...I, I truly am sorry, madame, it... this grievous thing I have done... will absolutely not happen... again...?"

Lady Nilsson hums, staring at the fireplace she directed Robert to stand in front of. "Grievous—grievous, yes, it... something was. Lost. No, dropped. Burned, in the fire... an heirloom...?"

"...Ohhh, I've seen her. One of the monastery students? Must be here to get ready for some mission."

"The church doesn't have anything planned except for that festival in Baile, though. Kid should run along and play princess before she hurts herself."

Hushed laughter follows (as if their exchange hadn't been loud enough to hear), and Céline remains unmoved, examining the blacksmith's selection of swords. It wasn't worth her energy to pay mind to the gossip of bored, aimless knights.

The broadsword in her hands was too large—as much as she trained, not even Céline felt she had the strength and stamina to effectively swing around such a hefty weapon. It was much more fitting for someone like King Diamant... or Lapis.

Setting the sword down, she turns to check the display of slimmer blades, when—

"Oh!"

Céline abruptly stops so as not to collide with the man in front of her, taking a hasty step back to restore the distance between them. "Prince Alcryst. Fancy meeting you here... come to get work on your bow done, I imagine?"

In her peripherals, the knights begin to whisper anew.

Back then, Mauvier would have refused outright, without even a second thought. And then he would have feared being rude, turning down an invitation from Divine-blessed royalty. Now, it crosses his mind to politely decline, but...the young Princess is very persuasive, not to mention wonderful company.

A small smile quirks Mauvier's lips. "I would be honored, Princess Céline. As it happens, I already kept watch overnight, so I'm not officially stationed right now." A cup of tea does sound rather lovely, he must admit.

Their walk is a quaint one, the sun bright and the plants well-tended, even if some of her enjoyment was dampened by the brisk chill in the air. Firene's winters were not nearly as merciless as those in Brodia and Elusia, and so Céline was unaccustomed to the cold of the mountains. It was a wonder so many people still had the energy to excitedly mill about, wrapped up in their frenzy towards the upcoming ball.

"It's been quite a while since we've seen one another. Firene's reconstruction efforts have kept me and my brother terribly busy, and I imagine your work with Lady Veyle has, as well—she has proven herself to be quite the altruistic soul, after all."

Another giggle, "I do hope time has treated you kindly, though. You certainly look good."

She finished gathering her own hair into a secure braid, the better to keep it entirely out of the way, and inclined her head in greeting. It certainly was a pleasure, to see so many helping hands to take on the task that those sickly could not, and gather the food that the entire continent needed. The girl had a soft look about her, but there was something there, too, that reminded Lachesis of herself, perhaps a lifetime ago. 

Shaking her head, Lachesis answered, "No, I must admit that I am quite fresh to this particular manner of labor. I...have visited a field or two, in the midst of harvest, but have never taken my hands to it. I welcome the experience; it is, as you say, a time of need," she added, her eyes creasing warmly. 

The sickles waited for them nearby, on the same cart that they were to deposit the fruits of their labor, and Lachesis hefted on in a hand, as though testing its weight and grip, before nodding and reaching for another, handing it to Celine. 

Elegant and noble, yet willing to take initiative and plainly capable in her own right. These are qualities Céline immediately notices in the other woman, and ones to surely respect. Her own sickle in hand, Firene's princess turns it over in her grip—naturally much lighter than the swords she's handled.

"Bless the Divine for that. I would hate for anyone to hurt themselves." Céline begins to walk toward the wheat fields, still speaking as she does so. "Though I've studied healing, so if anything does go awry, I am equipped to take action."

She thinks back to the instruction of the farmers, that each bundle of wheat stalks should be cut about three or four inches from the ground. It was not dissimilar to the way one snipped flower stems...

Bending over to shear the first few stalks, Céline finds that Lachesis's words ring true; it was a fairly simple task. However—

"It may feel simple now, but I can certainly imagine how much the fatigue will build as time goes on. Our farmers are truly amazing to do this day in and day out, though I suppose their bodies have also grown accustomed to the routine."

“Indeed,” she allowed, after a beat. “It does seem particularly excessive - one could merely refuse a gift, I suppose, but to make a public spectacle of attempting to pawn it off onto another is…absurd at best.”

She had other words, far less kind, roiling in her head, still steaming at the interaction with the girl, and worse with the puffed up wyvern who called himself her father. When she wanted to think of Altena, she had wanted to think of Quan, of Ethlyn, of her dear friends who had sacrificed all - or even of little Leif, who had not grown to be so callous.

A sigh, shaking her head. She knew she was being uneasonable, but there seemed no end to the blaze that kindled to think of it all - it wasn’t about the mints, it was everything added to a sum greater than any child should be forced to hold to account.

And yet.

It was so baffling, she had no idea what to think.

Thus, she lets it sit.

Really, he can see the appeal. He can attest to it himself, even—coaxing people into being open with him was about half of his job, and he liked to think he was pretty good at it. And when the opportunity allowed for it, he preferred to be sincere, too.

(to be frank, it's not like his compliments had ever seemed to sway her, so it's not like he had much reason to say anything untrue)

Firene's knighthood exam, and its focus on both domestic skills and martial prowess. Fond sentiments spoken in gifts of flowers and traditional embroidery, the never-ending tea times...

It was simply a part of her culture and education to be in tune with the preferences of others, to be able to read their emotions and moods, to take note of their cues, and to know what they liked and disliked to best satisfy their needs. It was their way of caring, of nurturing the soul, to truly foster friendship and peace with those they interacted with.

(Ulterior motives were not intended, but she would not turn her nose up at what these methods could yield. Not when it served the protection of her country.)

Not to mention, it helps to have such a skilled partner, doesn't it?

Hand brought to his chest, he responds to the young woman's curtsy with a bow of his own. Not too low yet respectful, still somewhat mindful of his own station in a formal setting like this. He wonders if she is a noblewoman.

She accepts the tulip from him, exchanging it with her own lily, as she asks, "Or might there be another title you prefer I call you? And from where do you hail, again?"