{ made of gold. }

          Rafaela pondered those words. She wanted to tell him, no, it requires nothing but your faith, your belief.

          But belief was hard to come by, hard to hold on to. Men liked to see proof before they’d put their faith in it ; liked to see the ghost before calling it haunting. And she knew, then, that he may not be easily convinced. She had no proof but her memories ; her own and that of others. She was reminded of Sharon, who didn’t believe, despite all the proof.

                    “Perhaps a broadening of your horizons would do you good, then.”

          Now that—that was interesting. The pirate captain tilted her head just slightly, like a bird on edge, curious as they spotted a shiny object. “And do you believe he is right?” She asked, perhaps a bit greedy for a positive answer. If he could find it within himself to accept a past he didn’t ( yet? ) remember, then so could others.

          His question had her smile, though no joy could be found in the curve of those lips. “A priestess perhaps, bound to my own temple. The time of worship has long since passed, I’m afraid.”

He probably shouldn’t have mentioned it, given how reluctant he was to discuss... how it had gone. Just because the thought of it didn’t cause him pain anymore didn’t mean that he wanted to remember. But they were getting somewhere, so Galen was quiet for a moment before offering an answer. “I suppose I did, for a while. But I was wrong to believe it.” 

He shrugged the subject off as they walked through the town, turning his attention to her own words instead of his. “That sounds... awfully sad,” he said after a moment, hesitant but recognizing her joyless smile. It had been a common expression in the Lion’s Keep. Galen worried his bottom lip for a moment before shaking his head. There was little he could do here, no comfort he could give to the woman. “If there is anything I can do to make your time here better, please tell me. You seem too interesting a person to be so unhappy, if I may be so bold.” 

πρόμοιρος (promoiros) before the destined term, i.e. untimely, of death, of persons, doomed to untimely death | for inspiration, listen here They are not even far into the woods. In the very space where civilization turns wild, the crossroads between here and there, a line of bodies are laid along the main roads. Chance brings both Galen and Tania here (perhaps they were out for a peaceful walk turned sour), and the pair run across each other in the wake of nearly a dozen corpses, each splayed with arms wide and each facing north. Neither have any idea what such a sign could mean, but they seem to mark a barrier — a barrier for what, they could not say. 

@terpsikhore-dreaming

The woods had become more comfortable than they had any right to be, considering nearly half his life had been spent in a castle. And it hadn’t been the easiest transition, nor had it been the most natural, nor had it been the most cheerful, even---but there he was, stepping over leaves on careful feet and collecting dandelions to mix into sleeping draughts and stomach elixirs. 

He stepped out onto the main road, a good number of the cheerful yellow weeds tucked into the small satchel on his side. He figured it was enough for the day; he could follow the road back to the town and pull in a few favors for a new inkwell, which he’d need soon if he wanted to stay sane while constantly surrounded by people. His thoughts drifted for a moment before his eyes caught on a woman’s figure, tall and graceful in the center of the road. She was staring forward, transfixed, and his greeting died on his lips when his gaze flicked to what held her so still. 

              “Miss? Are you alr...”

The smell hit him the same moment his blue eyes fixed on the sight, the sour-sweet tinge of rot in the air. Galen stopped for a moment to stare, dread forming quick and frosting over his stomach with a block of ice. It was a---blockade, a message. They’d come across a few bodies in the woods, sights that’d made bile threaten a trek up his throat, but this---this was---

Galen regained his composure quickly and diverted his attention to the woman. ( Nothing to do for them now; more important to check on the living woman than to grieve their losses and check if they were familiar. ) He strode over, keeping his breaths measured, and addressed her with careful firmness. “Miss? Are you alright?”

                Rafaela only followed because he was the current lead she had. She was sure she could likely find Hades and his wife on her own, but it would require going through a lot more trouble, and time never seemed to be on her hand. She’d been too late, too often, to risk it once more. If he were to try anything ( which she doubted, yet she could never be too sure—he was, after all, capable of condemning a family to death. )

                “Then perhaps your friend and I would get along,” the captain uttered, a tad curious about this friend of his. Did he remember, and if so, who could he have been, once? Or perhaps, if he didn’t, he was capable of remembering, with a gentle nudge in the right direction. Perhaps this person could be persuaded to join her cause ( her mind spun with the possibilities, however obscure they might be, however little she may know—There wasn’t such a thing as too many allies, after all ). “And what would convince you, if not his word?” She turned her head. He had this feeling, this knowledge, that he had known the people in his life long before he actually got to know them in this lifetime, and still doubted? It was one thing to told about such faith, and quite something else to be presented with the truth of it, inside his very soul. “He may be right.”

            Of course, he wanted proof—it was only natural, humans had always been and always would be a wary bunch. She turned her head to face him. “The future—the past. I know why. You ask too big a question to simply give an answer to.” She let out a breath. “I also know that if I were to answer any question, you would hesitate to believe me, as you can’t be sure to believe your friend either.”

“Your answers are just as big as my questions, perhaps beyond my breadth of comprehension,” Galen allowed, getting the distinct feeling that he was speaking with some sort of mystic or priestess---someone who knew worlds beyond their own, who spoke of more than the hypotheticals than Illias and the free folk did. When Illias said he knew his soul, he meant he knew it intimately as a part of his own, however wrong sweetly misguided that may have been; when she said she knew why, she meant  e v e r y t h i n g .

Somehow, Galen did not think that she spoke with the false, reality-disconnected ‘wisdom’ of philosophers who had spent too long smoking at their pipes. 

“My friend thought he knew me in a past life because he fancied me his other half,” he told her, mildly pleased that the thought didn’t sting as it once had. “I think you, however, speak of things that regular human minds cannot comprehend. Are you a priestess, perhaps, my lady?” he inquired, not really expecting her to answer. Her answer didn’t particularly matter, in any case; he knew she hated him for the way he’d thrown his head back and laughed when her son had been dragged from his thron---

                                                                                        ( ---What? )

The thought flickered away as soon as it had showed up in his mind, and Galen couldn’t quite remember what had given him pause. He’d never met this woman before, after all. So why did he feel as though he’d played this game before, talking in circles with her and drawing her attention to the weight of his stolen mortality?

           If anyone should know the power of a sweet face ( or a handsome one, in Galen’s case ) it should be Rafaela. There was nothing about her soft, round features that even remotely whispered of her reputation, if one didn’t look behind the doe eyes and saw the predator lurking. But then, what kind of predator would she be, out in the open instead of preying until the right instance to pounce and snap her jaws around eagerly bared throats?

          “I see not why I would believe that—if the liar says he’s speaking the truth, do you trust him, or his reputation?” A quick raise of an eyebrow, before she tilted her head—followed his nod towards the stable doors, and decidedly made for the entrance. She had half a mind to tell him that he, in fact, may not ask, but there was a certain urge, deep inside her heart, that made it hard for her to deny speaking of the matter. “Do you believe there is more to our stories than what floats upon the surface? The whole underbelly of an ocean, unexplored? The souls of those we meet on our travels, in our lives—perhaps we met them under different circumstances. I… Have a gift, of sorts, which allows me to… know more.”

Galen only smiled serenely at his companion’s pointed look, neither affirming nor denying her words. A liar he was, and he wouldn’t deny it---and yet there she was, following him despite it. A very self-assured lady, then. He wondered, idly, if he should be more wary of her than he was. The free folk’s women ( Olena, particularly ) had taught him well not to doubt how dangerous a woman can be, no matter how small or sweet-faced. 

The lady’s response to his inquiry, however, gave him pause. 

“... You sound like a friend of mine,” Galen replied after a moment, feeling a little bit endeared towards her despite her chilly demeanor. It sounded like something that would have fallen from Illias’s lips. “He’s always referring to people in those terms, is convinced you can know someone by their soul.” He smiled to himself, eyes ahead as they moved through the town. “I cannot say whether or not I find myself convinced, personally. But certain people I’ve known... We’ve just slotted together as though we’ve always known each other. Sometimes even if I would rather not have met them.” 

It seemed funny, now, that he could sometimes think of Zion without any real lingering... feelings. It was difficult to be afraid of someone you’d seen dead twice over, once buried and once burned to ash. It was difficult to truly miss someone whose companion you’d never agreed to be. But there had been moments, he remembered, even early-on, when they had simply... slotted together in understanding. Known what the other wanted or how they felt without a word, communicated with a glance. Known how each other’s minds worked.

( Contrary to Hypatia’s popular belief, they hadn’t spent all their time fucking. ) 

           “Forgive me for doubting your word, master Galen.” Rafaela’s face was hewn from stone ; dark eyes hard as obsidian. She didn’t care what he wished for Hades, or for Persephone. He could wish for them the entire world on a silver platter, handed with crown and richness and wisdom, and she’d not give even a quarter of a damn. Loyalty and trust were so hard to gain and so easy to lose, and he’d lost her trust before he’d even gotten it in the first place, being part of the ones condemning her family to death. “I have been given absolutely no reason to trust it, after all.”

          “I would like that, thank you,” she said, dipping her head in a nod. “I must warn you, though.” Her voice lowered, and she leaned in. Whoever believed she was but what a sweet-faced woman, would dare doubt her authority, given the expression that now crossed her features. “Should you not speak the truth, should you betray me, I shall not fear to retaliate.” She didn’t think she’d have to disclose in what matter.

“Mm.” Galen tilted his head thoughtfully at her lack of trust, a little surprised but unoffended. After all, what right did he have to be offended? ( Still, it would be a lie to say he wasn’t used to people being far more trusting of his blue eyes and easy smile. It was a little humbling. )

     Your majesty. What a STRANGE title. Yet, Naria certainly wasn’t going to offer a complaint. After all, she could be here … brushing a horse after shoveling its’ shit. Narrowing her eyes in thought, her lips pursed. She studied his face searching for a name a flash f familiarity, but there was nothing. “And pray tell, what might your name be, young man? Vance? Or would you prefer a friendlier name?” She asked, smiling pleasantly. Fondly. Such a pretty golden man. Strapping at that! No wonder he was so popular in the Keep. ( and beyond, if gossip was to be trusted. )

    “Oh my,” she replied, playing coy as she chuckled in delight. “You are a sweet one. What ever shall become of you now? I hope to hear of it in the Vanguard, though I suppose that will be very difficult, now won’t it? No thanks to you.” Naria shrugged, batting her comment away with a flick of her hand. She remembered his part in the collapse of the Vitello’s power; how he’d come, bathed in the glow of torchlight like some divine spirit, a welcome sight in the darkness of the dungeons below. A curious young man … “I imagine you’ll do just fine for yourself, little friend. As for my advice: I have none to offer. Perhaps it should be you advising me.” 

“I doubt I have any advice worth hearing, Your Majesty,” Galen replied with a smile, his expression not having shifted even with her delicate nod towards his role in destroying an empire. What was done was done; he could not keep despairing over it. ( Not even when dreams of Alycia clawing her way out of the crypts to wrap her bird-boned hands around his throat woke him in the night. ) 

“All I can suggest is to continue on as you have,” he offered with a shrug, taking the woman’s slim hand in his to incline his head and brush a kiss over her knuckles. “Loved and feared wherever you tread, naught an ill word spoken of you because your composure is legend. Lord Argo is a very lucky man.” He stepped back with an incline of his head, lips quirking. How true the words were, though he wouldn’t be surprised if he one day heard tales of Lor---King Argo falling suddenly ill one day and leaving the Vanguard to his wife. 

           Perhaps Rafaela should have attempted to bother with not only a disguise but a different stance as well. Too late now, she thought, and what did it matter? If this man formed a threat, she would have no problem at all with silencing him—she’d killed men before, and would do it again, for her children. No matter who they’d been in the life before this one.

          “You care for his wellbeing after betraying him?” she asked, incredulous. The whole affair wasn’t particularly doused in secrecy—the taverns and streets had burst with stories of what had gone down that night, of who had been involved, of who had betrayed the Vitellos. “And who was it that murdered them, if I may be so bold as to remind you?” It may as well have been him, for he’d supported the alliance. She shook her head, finally. “Holden has nothing to fear from me—my intentions are in fact  to keep him from ending up like his… His brothers, nephew, and niece-in-law.” When she raised her head to meet Galen’s eyes, her expression was fierce. “I simply wish to see if he is up for a reunion of sorts…”

“... Fair enough,” Galen accepted, surprisingly graceful about it. A protest had been on the tip of his tongue, but what was the point? The woman spoke the truth, laying all of his lies bare. “But he and his wife are genuinely good people, I would never...” ( his mind flicked to Portia’s fruit-red lips and bright, doe-like eyes, ) “ever wish them harm.” 

              He hadn’t wished any harm upon Alycia either, but what had that gotten her? A fat load of nothing. It was hard to watch good people’s deaths, even with voices from everywhere trying to drill into his head that it was ‘for a greater cause’. ( How great could a cause be that left children motherless? )

          So this was Galen Vance, the pirate queen thought as she let her eyes fall past his tall form. She took care to shield much of her own face from view by the wide brim of her hat. Few had seen her, that fateful day she’d gone in to rescue the queen mother and her youngest son from the dungeons, but she didn’t want to risk recognition. There were, after all, quite a few who had probably done the math and knew it was she who had gotten the prisoners out. Ganymede, she thought. He was rather easy to recognize, though she doubted he remembered anything from the life before.

          She drew in a breath and frowned as the tight bodice of her dress constricted her quite a bit. She’d gone as far as to wear a gown in order to keep people from finding out she was in the city still, although she wore trousers underneath and a variety of weapons could be found on her person if anyone searched her. Her small fleet hadn’t really left the bay area of Westedell, though it was far enough out of reach so as to be able to escape, should the need arise. She hadn’t really wanted to go back on land, but there was something she needed to do. 

          “An answer,” she muttered in reply to his question. She knew he used to work for the Vitellos—she also knew he’d betrayed them. She wasn’t overly fond of him, therefore. But he was also one of the few options she had, right now. “I can not help but wonder how the former king is faring—I should like to think their former chamberlain has at least a clue as to where I could find them.”

An answer? Galen’s brow furrowed as the woman addressed him, hands stilling on Bertrand’s harness. He stepped away from the horse after a moment, turning to gaze at the unfamiliar face directly. She was lovely, and her voice told him she wasn’t from anywhere nearby, but the most striking thing about the woman was the way she seemed to hold herself---like she was someone in a position of power, someone others deferred to. He could see it. He didn’t trust it. 

( Illias’s anti-authority overtures had made an effect, it seemed. Too little, too late. )

      Naria pursed her lips in thought — who would she go to for requests now? ( all those servants … she shook her head sadly. what would become of their livelihood now? ) “Nevermind it, I’ll attend to the issue myself. I suppose it will be a pleasant change.” Perhaps one of her own attendants knew how to properly pick the hooves. Naria smiled, grim and tight to the golden-haired boy, a face she recognized easily. “I admit, I’m at a loss for what to call you now. You’ve certainly taken on the look of a commoner —” Her eyes dropped to the simple shirt, a stark change from the doublets and finery she was so accustomed to seeing him in “—yet … you still draw the eye. It’s so difficult to erase years of good grooming, isn’t it?” 

"If you so insist, My L---” Galen paused, tilting his head with a faint smile. He’d forgotten. “Your Majesty.” Lady Argo was an interesting person, undoubtedly; he’d only occasionally spoken to her directly, more because a part of him had always avoided the Argos than anything else. They were a sharp, clever people that had a singular ability to make him feel like they were cats and he was a singularly amusing mouse. The Lord and Lady, now King and Queen, were well-suited for each other if nothing else, and of the two, Lady Naria was far lovelier. “You may call me my name; unless I’m very much mistaken, I believe that hasn’t changed with my shift in station.”

As you watch me wander, curse the powers that be. @illiasrivers

Galen hadn’t been able to resist saving his horse when the Lion’s Keep went up in flame, knowing that Bertrand deserved better than to be stolen by whoever came by him. The creature may have been a gift from Zion, but he was good, with a sweet temperament and a stubborn manner that had endeared him to Galen years ago. They’d been bonding over the past few days, making trips to the surrounding towns and dropping off a few people who needed the help. Soon, they’d be leaving together for good. It was all for the best, Galen figured; traveling by foot all the way to Highmeadow or Esterhaven would have been a feat he wasn’t equipped to attempt. 

                               ( If he did end up leaving, of course. He liked to think that, even after everything, he still had a chance to... )

It seemed everyone was leaving, either to another kingdom or, at the very least, to another city. He didn’t feel too guilty, though he would miss some parts of the home he’d known.

Galen shared a quick nod with the stablehand as he exited the structure, raking a hand through his hair. It was a bright day, blue and terribly happy; even the birds were back, tweeting cheerfully on rooftops and in the far-off trees. ( He didn’t notice how the sweet sound distracted from the scratch-step of booted feet walking down the dirt path leading to the stables. ) Galen figured the blue eyes---blue skies and birdsong should make him feel more lighthearted. He blinked away the sunlight as he stepped out the doors. 

... Of course.

“You know, I generally don’t deal with that sort of thing anymore,” Galen said apologetically, turning from where he was adjusting the saddle of his horse. His appearance was enough proof of the words he spoke; he’d retired all his silk doublets and gold-clasped shirts in favor of a simple, dark shirt and trousers. If it hadn’t been for the way he carried himself after years of working in the Keep, he could have passed for anyone.