LETHAL.

gxldings; an independent multi-muse blog, with muses primarily from league of legends, fire emblem, and genshin impact. features lif from fire emblem heroes.

loved by orokara (or oro)--he/them or they/them, 18+

activity will be sporadic at best, with an emphasis on writing with mutuals. this is not a strictly selective blog, however.

see some muses here,

and some tags here.

sunsinger​:

∘₊✧── “ alfonse… ”

his name, that’s it. it’s all she dares to breathe, the only affection she trusts to fall from her lips and not be swept away by whatever cruel force had so mercilessly snuffed out their hope only moments ago. 

but it is an affection worth more than any flowery words or stolen touches. they have such little left–skin that can hardly feel and hearts that do not beat but only ache. to tell him something so cruel as the fact that she loves him would be to invite more misery upon their already wretched souls.

because to love him plainly is to acknowledge just how much their fates have denied them. it would be unraveling the bandages of a years old wound, revealing a scar they both know is there but refuse to see.

“you need not thank me.”

her arms are drawn together, armor-clad fingers folded around herself as though there might be some warmth to draw from them. this all has been one long funeral procession–one miserable parade towards death, each step fueled by rebellion, by denial. carmine eyes glue themselves to the ground, daring not to watch the other as he works.

a death march, but one made together. at least, when all is finally gone, it will have been lost with her hand in his.

for now, they may continue to cling to their hope. feeble, fickle, hope, but nonetheless. it dulls the blow, to pretend they have some sort of control over this all. to allow themselves to believe that there is a way to defy the hand that death has dealt them, and to throw themselves helplessly towards a cause that will amount to nothing.

but at least there is him.

their gateway is opened in a brilliant flash and, not for the first time, thrasir is reminded that she envies him. her partner in this grave, two steps deeper than she, and yet still capable of creating. something that she had never been graced with, for the life laid before her was always laced with the promise of closure.

of an end.

perhaps she had accursed him to this fate–blown out that spark of hope she had so envied in the boy who had done her nothing but kindness. perhaps it had been his proximity to her, a curse. perhaps-

thrasir blinks, the palm of her other coming into focus.

they have further yet to travel on this path, longer still to pretend that what awaits them may just be something even an ounce less miserable than eternity in bodies that cannot feel the touch of the other.

“this will be it,” fingers slip into his, curl around his palm and squeeze, “and if not…”

witch takes a step forward, lips pursed.

“then we’ll find what is.”

“That we will, surely... Assuredly.” 

Some memories fever fade, some lessons never leave. The difference between surely and assuredly was taught to him long ago, but it lives on in the madman’s heart. And the witch he looks to for comfort. She is living proof that some things are assured: borne of a constant and undying need.

They step through. Together.

And what they see is a sweeping view of the land along the waves. Contrary to Valentia, the sky is pitch-black. Only the glow of the stars, shine of lanterns, and pale reflection of the moon on the water light their way. Fitting, but cursed all the same. It seems destiny has resolved they never emerge with the morning dew or glow of an afternoon sun. No, darkness is their only guide--light must be kindled by their own hands. 

For their own sake, the destination of the gate nestles itself nicely within a back alley left untrodden for years. A nameless place on a nameless street, it may as well be a graveyard in a long-forgotten corner of the bustling city. Speaking of, their surroundings are anything but grave. Passerby will be seen if they walk to the edge of hole, the rambling of vendors can be heard not far away--listen a little more intently, and a gentle melody drifts into their ears. The night air is cool but brisk, kept tempered by the swirling storm of moving bodies and an active nightlife. It nips at their skin--both the feeling and unfeeling parts--in a way not that bites it off, but invites it to delve further. To feel it rush as it roves on by. Lif turns to Thrasir. The flickering of lights and robustness of activity is a lot for his eyes to adjust to. He needs to give himself a break with something familiar, something easy to look at.

“We arrive,” he heaves, before gesturing to the opening of their alley, “though it would seem our answers are not so easily obtainable that we could walk out and take them.” For what would the public eye have to say, about a pair of corpses in their midst? They look like monsters, they throb with an unholy beat. One look at their bodies and anyone sane would flee with fear. Anyone brave would attack them, creating a scene. 

So Lif proposes and alternative route: he turns his head skyward, gazing up at not just the stars, but the sides of the buildings encapsulating them. At the flattened and emerald eaves that would serve as the next stepping stone for their journey. “This city is naturally flat, being built on the water,” a fact anyone can reason out and attest to--one he has no doubt Thrasir already knows, “and it is entertaining enough to keep one’s attention on the ground. Our best bet... Is up.” 

And so the climb begins. His fist cracks through the tan brick that lines most buildings round these parts, digging with brute force a shelf to grab onto. Hoisting himself up, Lif creates another, and another, until he can fit his foot onto a windowsill. Reckless but efficient, he once again leverages the safety of his own flesh for time to further their goals. As the ringing of his gauntlets creates a tingly feeling against his skin, and the crumbling of hardened clay trickles over his hand, he offers the other to his witch. Better that he handle the physical work, putting to use a body cursed by beastly strength--

sunsinger​:

∘₊✧── this song and dance is one they both know well. disappointment, hopelessness, all that comes in its wake.

thrasir watches, expression distant, as her companion wears the same pain she feels. rock crumbles, another casualty amidst the sea they stand in. at least this one is of their own doing. all of this hope, this potential, taken from them by fate.

and yet what they seek now was surrendered by their own hands. the naïve, foolish hands of children, but theirs all the same.

not for the first time, thrasir wonders if this is what they deserve.

more stone crunches, though now to her swordsman’s heavy footfalls. his pain is the storm that it always has been, wrought into anger, each tear accompanied by a thunderclap. he is at his fiercest this way–grieving–and how fortunate it must have been for their master that he never has a chance to stop.

his assumption is correct, as her own feet begin along his path of their own volition. it is natural to follow him, to make sure the distance between their bodies is always measured, intentional–to ensure that he may never wander far, that he may never be forced to add her absence to his list of things to mourn.

witch’s eyes never once leave him as they walk. death has made him a masterpiece, carved a creature as fascinating as this one from the cruelest of marble. he is beautiful in this way, strikingly human despite the silence that has replaced his heartbeat.

in these moments, she thinks she might just catch a glimpse of the boy that started this all. the boy who she hated, the boy who she envied. the boy who ended the world with her, who stood hand in hand at her side as they bled humanity dry.

the boy who wants so desperately for that world back.

he has stopped, and so she has as well. eyes narrow in anticipation, readying for whatever evidence of that boy might surface now.

“a song,” she echoes, voice dull. it is not quite disbelief, not quite consideration. there is no doubt in her eyes, no sign of unwillingness. she would follow him across time, scar every face of every earth at his side, for far less.

eyes shut and arms cross, shoulders rising in a crude mockery of an inhale. she could doubt him, could drag him from this path before they go further. their lives may have ended, their time to haunt this universe unending, but the clock on their salvation ticks ominously.

and if they do not find it before that hour meets its end, there will be nothing left of the both of them. no flesh, no soul, nothing but mindless puppets without a master. two who can find comfort in nothing, not even one another.

“if you believe that this song might truly save us,” through her lashes now she sees him, framed by sunlight and life, by all the things that he once was, “than we will find it. we must.”

A sigh. She believes. She doesn’t stake her hope on the song itself, but the madman’s theory that it could be her cure. Thrasir trusts Lif, willing to very literally throw herself to the edge of the world with him.

“Veronica...” Jump into chaos, and she’d follow. It’s not that she can’t think for herself, but the presence of the other has taken on new meaning: “Having you at my side... Is more important than anything else. I’ll not let myself forget...” 

He can’t bear to look at her now, not when something between wistfulness and dangerous love brews beneath. Keep it down long enough and he can learn to bear the pain, but let even an ounce out, and their fate will smell it. It’s a predator, never stalking far behind--ready to hunt their hearts...

That’s what they’ve always believed, right? 

Firm fingers fiddle with the gate. Its mechanism is barely half as complex as that of Askr’s. Lif has to inch closer and focus when shifting its destination, allowing the task to leave his muscle memory so he can focus on it--so he can push out thoughts that would only bring him harm. Thrasir, naturally, proves hard to shake--evidenced by a brief pause in his work to three-quarters turn his head, “And... Thank you.”

The final slot clicks into place; their destination is set. The shovel buries the last of the wanderer’s thoughts as he presses forward, and from the sky erupts their calling bell. It tolls once; the rift expands. Peering inside reveals little more than a dark corridor, but walk some few feet forward and light would begin to shine. The forgotten backstreet of Cyrkensia would be their rendezvous point, should the inevitability of their plan joining them in the grave catching up to them. It always happens that way. The dead are unceasing, ever-growing: it would take a miracle for the bones to thin. 

Lif steps back, allowing the entire view of the portal to fill his gaze. As he stands next to Thrasir, the silent oath is made. They would go in together, only when the other is ready. An open palm--ready to hold--is the witch’s cue that her swordsman is waiting on her signal.

Perhaps this world would yield more of an answer. Perhaps it would be the one to be worth the time it takes to explore. Doubt and hope pull on Lif in equal measure--his heart swayed in neither direction. 

sunsinger​:

∘₊✧── back home, sacrifice yielded a vigil.

thrasir fights the want to sneer at the word home. she knows no such thing and only betrayal and grief from that which she had once called one. but even now its traditions breathe within her, even as she herself does not.

there is no blood or gore to his wound. only eitr – crystal in the moon’s light and not quite as solid as the rest of him. it will blend seamlessly into the sapphire of his false skin in a mere few hours, another shred of life shaved so easily away.

she considers his words with lips screwed into a frown, not letting go of his arm. it’s irritating when he’s right like this, even more so when she wishes with all of her being that she could be angry with him. sorrow and grief are emotions far harder to handle than wrath, than hatred. 

they do not have time for her silence, for proper mourning. the night is only so long, its hours wasted already by their fight. 

“we should go.”

comfort is found in the thought that this loss could be their last. in the thought that the sooner they are to breathe life back into their askr and embla, the sooner they may be whole again. childish hope nips at witch’s ankles.

and what humanity is left in her allows it to.

her vigil is held in the process of reassembling her partner’s armor, fixing it back over his forearm and murmuring in foreign tongues, coaxing metal to reforge itself. she is silent otherwise, each movement slow and deliberate. an admittance of love in the way that bloodstained hands take such care to be gentle. 

and when she is done, thrasir jerks away from him, back turned and shoulders straight. it’s an offensive kind of defense, covering her hurt with a facade of hate. 

they make decent time, following their formerly cut path with no further distraction. sunrise approaches, warding off the monsters that may have named themselves foe, and so death’s soldiers march uninterrupted. 

thrasir knows something is wrong before she sees it. knows it in the strange stillness that continues as they approach, in the silence that replaces birdsong as morning’s earliest light begins to make itself known. the life that they had seen only so long ago, illuminating the forest with a warmth now so foreign to her, has been sucked away.

this is a graveyard.

the rising sun frames crumbling stone. trees part finally, the forest giving way to their destination. their hopes, precious few as they may be, lay to rest once more in the ruins before them.

witch is silent a moment, cursing herself for having truly thought they may come to face anything different. her teeth clench.

“it would seem that this world too has no shortage of cruel jokes to play.”

“And no less salt to rub in our words.” 

The revenant stands before the tower, hope drained from his eyes. He knew it was foolish--boyish, so much like Alfonse--to cling onto hope. Dead hands cannot grasp the living; cold steel won’t touch the warm sun. The scene before him is grim: rocks forming the foundation of a once-great structure, rubble consisting of what little ‘floors’ are left. It’s enough to get Lif to hiss beneath his mask. To even voice that it is of no use to them would be to mirror Duma Tower’s sorry state of affairs.

Lif steps forward, and rage coils around his fist. His instinct is speaking to him--roaring in his ear and demanding he lurch forward. He wants to lash out, demolishing what little remains with just his gauntlets. And his hand trembles, ready to really do it. But he stops. He could hurt himself. Injuries against a rotting body are permanent; for her sake, he cannot allow himself to be reckless. So instead he draws Sokkvabekkr from his hip, brandishing it as he did against the undead. Using his hilt he delivers a fierce bash to a chunk of still-standing wall. It crumbles beneath his strength, giving in before having a chance to resist. Such is the lethality of the swordsman, such is the brutal strength of this construct built to kill. “Let us go,” he snaps, whirling on his heel--that tattered cape flapping in his wake.

“There is nothing left for us in these lands. We must rethink... Our strategy.” 

Strategy. It spews from his mouth like poison. To say they even have the inkling of a plan would be a poorly constructed lie. There is no strategy, no goal now that Plan A is bust. And Lif knows that. He knows, and yet, the boy comes back to haunt him. Alfonse wants to believe that there’s something more. Maybe a thread he can take hold of: something even zombified hands can stand to grab. 

He begins to walk, trusting Thrasir would follow.

Dragon degeneration isn’t the answer, nor is it something they can even begin to research. Retracing their steps, Lif begins to think; Alfonse browses the shelves of Askr’s great library. He knew so many heroes from so many worlds, some lost within themselves, some learning to heal after dreams of dark and dusk. He could recount every country from every continent they pulled them from, once upon a time. There were the worlds of Blazing and Radiance, of Fate and Genealogy. Most everything is lost to him now: a book with pages torn right out. 

Nothing clicks. Not as they trek past the site of their encounter, not as they head through the forest, not as they sneak through roads less traveled by until finally they reach the gate. During all this time Lif speaks not a word, with the reflection of his past hard at work rummaging through scraps of history. It is only once he sees the swirling tempest in the sky that memories come flooding back: trashed records a graveyard of knowledge, thrumming with new life. He once knew, he once knew...

“The Kingdom...” speaks the boy, his paper-cut hands waving a passage of text dug from a mound of rubble, “...Along the Coast...” 

And Lif says the same.

“Veronica.” He turns to her, mask wedged between thumb and index. He does not look directly her way at first--and his eyes are rife with a kind of scheming fervor--but they refocus onto her carmine when the idea solidifies. He’s found something, “There exists a song capable of removing curses... Our curses. Our time is better spent trying to take that power ourselves, rather than wasting away out here.” 

sunsinger​:

∘₊✧── he leaves, she is obligated to follow. a funeral procession. a joke.

metal knocks against her sternum with a dull thud, falling unceremoniously into the grass between her feet a breath after. it leaves her stunned, heartbeat thrumming in her ears. it was perfectly aimed, her life spared only by the direction of the razor edge.

lux swallows, staring down at it. moonlight glints back up at her, reflecting in perfectly polished steel. her assailant speaks from where he stands, demands something of her.

a fight, her reward a chance. what chances did he truly think she wanted for. a chance to live? to run? she has done more than enough of either, is sick of both.

and he will kill her. bought time expires here, hours before it is due. she cannot wield a weapon, whether sword or dagger, she has never been allowed to try. physical strength is not something she has ever honed, her training limited to the kind of things noble ladies were expected to know. her family valued power, sought to cultivate it.

the idea of her with it scared them.

but what is there to do other than go out fighting? pathetic of an effort it will be, at least it was one at all. lux crouches, taking the dagger between her fingers carefully, studying it as she rights herself. an object that could take her life in a half of a second, hardly larger than the distance from her middle fingertip to her wrist.

eyes flicker towards her captor turned foe. he does not move to attack her, only stands with his own blade raised. he’s anticipating her strike, offering her the first move. gooseflesh crawls over her skin, gaze catching on that sliver of orange that peeks out from the corner of his eye.

she feels clumsy, inching a foot forward, finding some crude imitation of what a fighter’s stance should be. heat creeps to her face, inexperience showing in absolutely every move she makes. is it sad, to find herself embarrassed in a moment like this? where her life is the thing she’s supposedly fighting for? shouldn’t she care more about the objective than the means of getting there, be more desperate?

teeth gritted, lux does as she has been asked. she lunges.

if her movements had felt clumsy a moment ago, they are undeniably so now. her knife hand arcs wide, an awkward motion far more resemblant of a sword than a dagger. it doesn’t connect, sings through empty air.

she knows as soon as she stumbles back that she has failed, signed her life away with one futile attempt to save it. her chest heaves, breaths heavy, as prepared as she knows how to be for what is sure to come.

It is not the bloodless song of Lux’s knife that haunts him, but the ease at which it is played. Her stance is predictable, her approach exposing her weaknesses, her eyes unaware of their surroundings. That much was to be expected: after all, she is no killer. But the swing. The swing lacks bite and purpose, is void of any kind of feeling or ravenous hunger for sweet life.

And as it whizzes past his head, not even demanding his basest instinct to dodge, time slows to a crawl.

Why?

Why isn’t this going as planned? Why do good men up and disappear when they carve out a routine of killing to survive? Why does one begin to value renown over security, allow their heart to be shackled by love and daggers enslaved by an audience? Why isn’t everyone tempted by the same kind of ferocity that claimed Talon as a child? Lux is a cornered animal, and still her beast does not draw out! 

His heel crushes her ankle, tripping the mage’s body effortlessly. On the way down Talon slashes up her cheek and traces a line of crimson onto her porcelain features, but the hand that deals the blow is left shaking as he holds it in the air.

“Pathetic!” he shouts, leaping to her center--hoping and praying that his words could hold any sway over her heart and deny the fact that the killer has always existed within him, “This is the best you can do?!” and his words seethe from his mouth, the knife in his bloodied hand bobbing with each haggard breath, “I gave you the chance for freedom!” 

Raising the shiv for the first time and the last time, he prepares to deal Lux her swift and deadly end. Surely the threat of imminent doom will shatter her psyche the same way his had. Surely the lesson that killing one’s enemies is the only path to walk would manifest in her mind, a mere blink before Talon’s edge pierces her chest. His eyelids squeeze shut, and they envision a future where he begins ripping her apart--drenching his hands in yet another kill--and she raises her knife to try to take him with her.

But he stops.

The lightning bug returns. It flitters just in front of his furious gaze, in the small space between hunter and hunted. Again it flickers twice, but this time Talon traces its movements. Up, then down... It mimics a wave as it moves from his right to his left. And the longer he stares, the more intensely its light starts to shine.

sunsinger​:

∘₊✧── for blindly thrown daggers, they bury themselves in every tender part of her flesh that she had thought guarded. those hawk’s eyes are trained on her again, burning with an emotion she cannot place.

is it hatred? maybe, though something tells her that there is more to it than that. hatred does not come without cause – to everything there must be a reason – and this feels hotter than just a petty distaste for nobility. 

her own are unreadable, swimming with a hundred different thoughts. there is no hurt there, not the fresh kind that he likely seeks. this is not a new wound, does not weep scarlet or mar untouched skin. he digs into old scars, carves away at poorly healed flesh. it will only knit back together again after, only be marginally worse than before. he cannot make the truth any uglier than she already knows it to be.

lux is silent, her jaw clenched. he doesn’t know, she tells herself. and yet the fact that it is so plain, that her home’s indifference towards her life is clear enough that he doesn’t have to, makes her chest ache.

“most people bat eyes at corpses,” she retorts, though the fire behind it has been snuffed out. there’s more to be said, insults to be thrown – not everybody surrounds themself with death the way that you so clearly enjoy – but she finds herself too tired to aim them properly.

you were meant to die here, he had said. laughable, almost, for she had hardly been meant to live at all.

she would like to step forward now, press on, and force an end to this uncomfortable staring contest. such an act would likely have consequences, though idly she wonders if he would prefer that. if giving him an excuse to to cut her throat just to hear her cry would put an end to whatever mental game he’s trying so hard to play.

“i would hope you aren’t foolish enough to believe that this is demacia’s best. not that i can stop you, or that i should bother trying,” it would be funny to let him believe the ease with which he had won her life would be reoccurring. 

fingers twitch at her sides. she has made an error here, finally implied that her life’s worth is different. eyes search his, waiting for that to click and praying silently that it doesn’t. the truth is that they will search for her, but only after however long it takes to realize she is missing, and only for as long as they have the patience for. it would be easy to pronounce her dead and bury an empty casket, to laugh at some noxian heresy should they dare accuse their dear, sweet luxanna of mage’s blood.

it would be that easy to act as though she had never existed at all. a relief, even.

her throat is tight when she speaks again. “what does it matter to you if they care, if they don’t? are all noxians truly so barbaric to play with their kills before they bleed them out? does it make you feel better if they hate the lives you choose to deprive them of?”

A long silence follows. 

She has given him much to think about, and he only hopes she doesn’t mind that he does so. When stalking the kill, when hiding in shadow, Talon has an eternity’s moment at his fingertips. Sometimes it’s there without his say-so, and other times he does not need to wait but he does, contemplating one’s life before it ends--envisioning futures where things were different. 

It’s only now that he begins to contemplate his own life... And hers. 

Most people bat eyes at corpses. As he breaks their shared stare and saunters forward, he reads the subtext of her statement. The Crownguard family is not most people. They’re exceptional, he hears, far different from the rest. Infamous enough in Noxus to have their faces plastered over bounty boards, and likely painted on portraits in Demacia’s vanguard. He was right to bully her about being a black sheep, and now that he’s won, he realizes the victory was always meant to be a hollow one.

He continues through the off-road, and a gnarled tree blocks his path. Its roots twist and arch over the ground like they’re grasping for the surface, the main body less of an original idea, and more the lucky winner of the bunch. Only it gets to grow into the canopy above, stretching leaves like fingers into the warmth of the sun, the cool glow of the moon.

And as he passes it by, a faint light catches his attention. Stuck under a mound of warped bark is a firefly: existing as a light in a place where he saw only darkness. It gives Talon two flashes and flies off, leaving him to turn the other way.

He trusts Lux isn’t far behind. She has no reason to run, after all.

“... What does it matter to you if we do, if we don’t? Death is all the same to you: an escape.” Practiced hands thrum against a belt of well-worn knives. Each has earned its glory in battle, its exalted status as an instrument of Talon’s art from the blood they’ve spilled. They remain sheathed as long as it takes Lux to inch closer. Once Talon’s eye--half turned to spot her--makes out the details of her face, he cuts his finger holding one by its edge. The pain of freezing blood doesn’t bother him.

It flies through the air without a sound, its lethal point shining through the darkness--able to end one’s life before they can gasp. But is does not seek that of the blonde, and for that he will call it Lux. Rather, its handle collides with her chest, having been thrown backwards. It would still hurt on account of the force put into his swing, but leather-bound steel cannot kill. “Fight me,” a hoarse voice demands, “and I’ll give you something you’ve never had before... A chance.” 

One of his own slips between his fingers, and the great blade on his arm retracts to make the fight fair. It’ll be just her, him, and the moon as their witness. Talon wants to believe that his faith in Lux is real; he wants to see her swing with the kind of hatred that he learned as a boy. As his arms cross over themselves and pull the butt of his shiv to his chin, they long for the validation that comes with knowing their skills are common among all raised without love--that they chose the only path they could, that they were made by Noxian streets and nothing more. 

sunsinger​:

∘₊✧── no, it isn’t necessary. she would comply regardless, the thought of running long since abandoned. he will kill her anyway, what is the benefit of speeding that process along?

so she lets him lead her in this silence of his own creation, not bothering to push or shatter it. he had given her the answers she sought, even if vaguely. it will be more than a single night’s effort to understand the rest.

it’s a surprise when his voice finally breaks the night’s quiet. lux’s lips etch a frown into her face, her jaw clenching. now he’s asking questions, ones that prod a dangerous line.

“i was never trained with a blade,” the answer is given matter-of-factly, like he should have known already. “my brother is the captain of our vanguard, of course he is known for his.” 

garen had a purpose, a pedestal, and he took such things in the stride expected of someone with their last name. he had been her best friend, once, when they were younger – had carried her through the streets of high silvermere on his shoulders. there was a time where he was her most trusted confidant.

she had watched that light go out at the introduction of her own, siphoned from his eyes when he had returned home one day and never to be seen again. it was always colder, after that, watching him succeed in all of the places she was told to step away from.

though it isn’t envy that makes her chest ache, it’s the feeling of loneliness that she has been forced to become acquainted with.

“if i had a sword, i’m certain you would know by now. why do you care? me being unarmed and unguarded should be nothing more than a relief to you.”

“I find it odd, nothing more.” 

Lux receives another prod for her insolence, the trained killer spiteful of the way it never falters. No matter how hard he tries, he cannot wrap his head around her mind. Normally he is rather contemplative, and normally he can understand one’s intents for the purpose of fighting them; he’s spent years tracking movements and behaviors, yet hers eludes him.

Maybe it’s best to give up on the chase. It’s clear he won’t get anywhere by trying to reason with the unreasonable. 

“It’s pathetic,” he comments, “that this is the best Demacia can do. No training, no guards... They let you walk out without anything to keep you safe. You were meant to die here.” 

It’s amusing in a way. Talon came to Demacia with the intention of earning a duel, and has come out with enough information to make him head of House Du Couteau. That his country’s enemy equips their VIPs with so little... He wonders what the likes of Noxus’ military would think of that. He could probably earn himself a career off of missions like these: diving into enemy territory and coming out with one of its important figures, again and again until Demacia is a headless chicken. 

He smirks beneath his mask. Not something Lux could see unless she turns around.

“Almost like they don’t care. Nobody will realize you’re gone until your body hits the Noxian gutter.” Her shoulder suddenly jerks back from the force of Talon’s hand pulling on it. He wants her to stop so that he may walk in front, turn to look into her eyes, and drink of the despair he can inflict onto her with daggered words. “I wonder if they’d even bat an eye at your corpse.” 

Just like him.

In truth, Talon doesn’t actually know the situation in Demacia. They could be fighting a battle right now and have no soldiers to spare. They could simply be so trusting of fools that a Crownguard out at night with no means of self-defense is a common occurrence. They could absolutely care. But nobody has ever cared about him. He’s long since forgotten the familiarity of family, the comfort of home. Seeing and knowing that another has an abundance of both twists his heart into a knife. He hates it. Loathes it. Wishes that taking their life could take everything else from them, too. 

Understanding that his wish will never be granted, he settles for kicking her to his level. If she is stripped of her dignity--her privilege--Talon can pretend he is above her. If she begins to actually believe that she is unloved and discarded by her house, some twisted part of him would revel in that misery. Or so he thinks. 

What he disguises as a desire to hunt and take away can crack to reveal the simple truth: Talon wants to be understood. His heart is cold and pulseless, but it is still a heart. And a heart yearns for another. It wants the comfort in knowing that what he has to go through is, in some way or another, felt by those he hates. 

sunsinger​:

∘₊✧── “that is exactly why you should have no issue telling me,” she is firm in this, unflinching at the careless throwing of the word corpse, as though she has already been made one.

“i cannot sell your identity, cannot turn you in. knowing what my life’s purpose is to become will harm nobody but myself.” 

perhaps she wishes to know just in the hopes of it being something better than what it was before her days were numbered. that at the very least her life will have amounted to something. even if that something is cruel. she can accept that, she thinks, for anything at all would be better than the disappointment that she has been so freely named otherwise.

he snarls at her, but it feels empty. she loses nothing by admitting to her fear, does not strive to conceal it for any sincere gain. it is nothing more than for her own self. to look defeat in the eyes and simply accept it for what it is feels leagues better than to do what perhaps she should.

to admit that this fate is better than the one that looms over her head every day in the comfort of her own home – a guillotine waiting for only a single slip up before it drops.

“good,” she turns her head, thrumming impatient fingers against her bicep. “i am sure you are well accustomed, that you enjoy it, even.” 

a huff, breath fogging the night air. “it would serve you well to savor it, seeing as it is likely i’ll only live to provide for half as long as you’d like.” now she looks to him again, clenching her jaw against a shiver. “or is it that you would like something more performative? i thought my instructions were not to scream.”

though her resolve does show wear, even if subtly. in the way that she stiffens as his hackles raise, the way his taunts make her flinch. if he’s prolonging this interaction to get something from her, they will be here until dawn before she cracks.

absently, she wonders if anyone would come for her. if guards would see, if they have orders to pretend that they didn’t. the answer is no, she realizes with a jolt, and it is not because her life matters. 

it is because she is demacia’s best kept secret.

another show of her impatience, this time in the shift of her weight from one foot to the other. “do you intend to keep threatening me here until you are caught? or are you just that incapable of accepting an easy victory?”

It bothers him to no end that poking her back with his blade is a pointless act, but he does so anyways. Fleet-footed boots trudge through the dump they made to take her hostage. She’s been cooperative thus far, not even seeming to carry a weapon on her hip. So Talon trusts she would simply let him do this. He isn’t even on his guard for a second of his walk, though his teeth grit at the idea that control isn’t something to be seized between the two: it usually gives his knives a fair deal of weight.

“I have no name or family,” he confesses, “you’re going to help get them back.” 

When he steps forward, the extension of his arm drives deeper into the skin of her shoulder and acts as her signal to move. Again it is not necessary, and again it enrages Talon to think so. But what other choice does he have? If he waits longer, debates philosophy as a terrorist, the sun will surely rise. And he’ll lose the protective veil of shadow, but more importantly, she will have fled to Noxus. If Talon wants his plan to work, he needs her in a vulnerable state. Lux must die before her very eyes, and the work is to be made to look like hers. 

Talon muses over the specifics now that he has the Demacian in his possession. He dreams of leaving Katarina, the dagger, lodged in her throat. To the unsuspecting eye it’d be just another of Sinister Steel’s many knives, but to her, it’s Talon’s calling card.

He imagines she’d try to pick it up and kill him with it... When he wins, it will come back into his hands, and life will begin anew.

But the longer they walk--slinking just some ways off the traveled path, through brush and thick forest--the more she bugs him. Little details, like her lack of preparedness, strike a chord within his soul. Why haven’t the people of Demacia noticed one of their royals missing? Why hasn’t he heard the sound of a search party, or the swift spokes of a convoy sent to spread the word? And what of counter-assassins, lurking where he would, trying to spy into Noxus because they would do anything to shift the blame onto them? 

Seconds stretch into minutes, and minutes into what feel like hours. He’s not one to deny his own skill, but even Talon expected some kind of alarm to be tripped. That, or a way for Lux to defend herself.

sunsinger​:

∘₊✧── an assassin. helpful, he is, offering the absolute bare minimum. lux’s lips press into a thin line. it’s only a scrap of self preservation that prevents her from rolling her eyes, for demanding he state anything other than the obvious.

her fight is already lost, at least in the physical realm, but the mental is another game entirely. he isn’t after money, and yet her life is still of some sort of worth. he has revealed his hand, there is something personal going on here.

metal sings through crisp midnight air, attesting to the sharpness of his blade and the sincerity of the threat it carries. lux swallows, narrowed gaze darting between silver and searing orange.

a predator’s eyes, sizing her up like prey.

“fine,” plain and simple, said as her eyes settle finally back upon his own. she does not fear death, not really. in a number of moments it feels favorable, though perhaps it is her inexperience with the matter that allows her such a brave attitude.

shoulders roll back, her posture righting. it could appear as an intimidation tactic, perhaps, were such a display being made in the middle of a classroom, but here it only serves to make her feel small. nonetheless, her arms fold over her chest and she makes a great show of tilting her chin upwards.

she has been a noble brat long enough to look it, at least.

“i will come with you, silently, and you can have my life when you’re done with it.” he doesn’t have to know that her family will feel nothing but relief in her absence, that her funeral will be held with false mourning. her parents had spent all twenty odd years of her life mourning the sweet little noble daughter they had hoped her to be, they will have no problem saying goodbye to what she had turned out to be instead.

he also doesn’t need to know that she is a mage. even if money isn’t what he’s after, surely a man like this will know someone who is. 

“in exchange,” she sucks in a deep breath, pausing here, gauging his reaction. it takes a great deal of effort to keep her voice even, knowing the foolishness it takes to make demands of a man so willing to put a knife to her throat.

“you will tell me who you are, and you will tell me what purpose these last days of my life are meant to serve.”

Fine... Fine?! She can’t see the hole his mouth makes from under his mask, but the shadow’s eyes explode at the mention of being fine with this predicament. Anger sets his cloak ablaze in the cold of midnight, warming an otherwise shivering soul. Something is sincerely wrong with this girl. He was either right about her having a death wish, or another matter is brewing beneath the surface.

Whatever the case may be, Talon doesn’t like it.

His blade grows weary--trembling once--at Lux’s speech. He questions whether this is fear he feels, or violence? Hatred? Solace...? The shivs at his hip are strangely forgotten about, though they jingle and play their bladed notes with each breath he takes. He wants to stab her, and he doesn’t. The Crownguard doesn’t know it, but she’s willingly handing over more than just her life. Talon’s chance at freedom and restoration ride on the seizing of her body. If his hands can just sink into that woman’s guts, everything will be alright again, won’t it? Life will return to its simpler era, the General will be found. He can go back to killing for its own sake, not having to worry about living in anyone’s shadow or honed-in sights. Something so grand can’t be coming to him so easily! No, he won’t accept it. Nothing has ever come to him easily, not food nor water, sweet breath nor the voice to cry screaming.

His foot draws a line in the mud as it moves. It’s beginning to curl into a readied stance: a beast, about to strike.

“Corpses don’t have memories,” he replies, letting the lunar glow against his weapon set his face alight, “what good would it do you to know? You’ll die all the same.” 

Nothing about her is likeable. Her attitude and defiance betray her noble appearance, each sliding up her arm until they’re worn over her fine Demancian garb. Surely she can’t be so brash. Yet he is drawn to her. Wants to know more, to study and analyze this behavior while he skewers it to pieces. Would she struggle? Maybe wail? if he lunged for her gut right now? His contemporary understanding of blue blood says yes, but everything in this brief meeting just screams otherwise. He gets the strange feeling he’d be thanked for killing her--for lying, stealing, slaughtering, all to survive. For the ugly way of life he spent years carving from the hands of others in the Noxian underbelly, that all mortal life must otherwise despise. 

But... Not her. Not Luxanna Crownguard, of all people. The woman whose life he intended to dangle from his finger like a common trinket, until one of Katarina’s daggers came flying for its chain.

Hawklike eyes relax some, having thought through their feelings regarding the matter. They cast their pointed glare straight for those of their prey, knowing and perhaps having grown to expect, that hers would glare right back. 

∘₊✧── she longs when it is silent and she is alone, when there is no soul present to bear witness to such pathetic sin.

because she shouldn't. because this magnificent, miserable love was one meant to die along with the knight for which it burns. because this foolish feeling had brought nothing but hurt, but ruin.

and yet she yearns anyway. yearns when she lights another candle in her cottage's cramped foyer, when the sunrise is particularly lovely over foreign hills.

nyna's lips press together, her shoulders resigning themselves only to draw closer. its cold, winter's first earnest breaths whispering through the early morning. her walk into town is a short one, routine, made with a basket of fresh flowers and herbs tucked carefully beneath her arm.

vendors are just beginning to flip their shops' signs to open, the street starting to populate itself. she will not be here long today, intending only to make her daily rounds and retire to the warmth of her home.

only she stops in her tracks, heart lodging itself in her throat. before her -- directly in the path to the little shop that particularly enjoys buying her stock of thyme -- stands the silhouette that has haunted her every moment since last they met.

it isn't him, it couldn't be. and yet that terrible what if gnaws at strings of a heart plucked too thin. nyna trembles, tells herself that it is the cold.

"forgive me," for she has been staring and most certainly caught his attention for it, "i had just... thought i recognized you."

he had not indulged her with his name, were it truly him who had saved her so long ago, but perhaps now...

"if i may ask," cautious is her tone, slow, the barest glint of hope in crystalline eyes. "what is your name?"

✧. ┊ nyna to zeke god forgive me

"You do," he begins, and immediately he hesitates. She knows more than his name. His honor, his loyalty, the way he stands up for what he believes in, the way he loves. Through not one, but two chance encounters, has Nyna encountered it all--drank every last drop of his draught, seen him at points both high and low.

The names Camus and Sirius are familiar on her tongue, but neither are what he is now.

He belongs to another. He should not be speaking with her. Though the memory of her has crawled back to the surface, it must be pushed back down. To break his vow with his beloved would betray the very quality he knows she loves him for; his heart is stone, but she is its sculptor.

"I am Sirius..." he continues, affixing his mask to the bridge of his nose, "the traveler." Knight spins on his heel, the conversation with a street vendor briefly abandoned. His golden locks shimmer in the morning sun, a pale reflection of the queen's own radiance. She is a hall of tarnished gold: beautiful beyond compare, but so easily succumbing to her fate. How long had it been since her husband met his end? She must be lonely, he reasons, for why else would she grasp at the phantom of her past?

As much as it pains him to do so, he hides his smile from her. Never can he allow her to recognize Camus by it--it is now reserved for his lover, just as hers once was.

(How ironic, that fate has them playing each other's part.)

"Though, if I may admit something... I have not been truthful with you." Heartstrings dance to the sound of his voice, feeling all that he once felt from her. Every moment with her is like being pulled into quicksand: one day, he may find himself unable to turn back. "That is not my real name. I..." again Knight pauses. For a moment, he considers a reality where he told her the truth. Where Nyna's suspicions were confirmed, where her smile could be brought to her longing face. Would it be so bad, to run away with her now? Surely he'd have a place in Archanea. Surely the others would understand, that the now-king Marth would grant him pardon for Grust's past.

But it is hardly that simple.

Dreamlike his mind may be, those thoughts are deaf to the cold truth of that reality. That in Valentia, the woman he owes his life to--has pledged his life to--would be expecting him. For days, weeks, months, she'd lie in wait. He does not doubt she would sit by the windowsill, trying to force joy onto her features, convincing herself that he'll just be a day longer, praying to whatever saint or god she believes in that she'd be right. His teeth clench together, the bridge of his mouth ready to pronounce the first 'c' in Camus. But it stops.

"If you wish to know my name, it is Ezekial. I am a knight in service of the Unified Continent of Valentia. My business with you was merely to repay an old debt."

He stabs himself with his own words; takes up the chisel Nyna had used to shape him those years ago, and adds another notch into the firm stone of his heart. There is pain and sadness behind his mask, and yearning too. Were he any other man, had things happened any differently, then perhaps he could have been honest with her.

∘₊✧── blade settles into open palms, the same shade of blue as the ends of her hair. fjorm considers it a mere moment before slipping it into place beside its mirror, cool against her skin.

“thank you,” crystal eyes alight upon her partner, a fond warmth stirring beneath their ice. “it would have been a shame, had i forgotten such an important detail.”

they are both fully dressed now – head to toe in the garb of ninjas. fjorm’s own dress is far from her usual, clinging to her where she isn’t used to, but it is supposedly practical and therefore the princess will excuse the strange fit.

that, and she hasn’t much focused upon her own.

“ah, one last thing.” a smile turns the corners of fjorm’s lips just so, lithe fingers settling upon the red and black of laegjarn’s mask. it jingles a little as it is lifted, beads clicking against one another. princess turns and takes a step towards the thing’s rightful owner.

“may i?”

Her smile is infectious, spreading almost instantly to Laegjarn’s lips. It is like frost advancing from one leaf to another; like the spread of ice crystals across the water’s surface. 

When it is with Fjorm, she cannot help lowering her hard exterior. 

“Please... I would be delighted.” The taller woman has to bend a little, to allow her other to place the final piece of her garb atop her head. But it is a sacrifice she more than willingly makes. Hands come together at her thighs, knees arch, her head is level with Fjorm’s. And for a moment, her heart skips a beat. The two are so close, sharing such joyous intimacy through this small exchange. Does Fjorm know, she wonders, that Laegjarn would do so much more than allowing her to place this silly mask on her head? Does she know of who it means to represent, that Laegjarn would engage even him to keep her safe? Thoughts like these are the trappings of a lovestruck fool, yet even Muspell’s greatest general is prey to their warm sensation.

...

“I trust we are ready to head out, then?” she eventually asks, after the deed has been done. Her eyes leave the sight of Fjorm for a moment to fruitlessly look up at her own head, as if she could actually see the other’s handiwork. But she knows better--knows that it has been placed in a blind spot. Yet her hands do not rise to adjust it. They trust fully that the iceborne has done a perfect job, that however she has tailored her outfit is exactly the way she wishes to wear it. Instead, one wraps its fingers round the grip of her bow, slinging it over her arm--letting it sit propped onto her shoulder. 

As for the other, it finds its way home. 

Digits seek out the comfort of another set. They, as Laegjarn takes a step forward, falter, and reach back for the princess. Palm clasps against those familiar grooves it has held time and time again. Yet it is not wary of holding this weight, and never shall it grow bored of its warmth. Porcelain skin feels like finest velvet as Laegjarn’s thumb smooths over it. It wonders if even the gods have access to something so soft, something so gentle to the touch. Probably not.

Fjorm will forever be home to her--the hand she holds to weather life’s blizzard, the hand she protects from whatever wishes to sear it. The Nifl’s touch is such a small thing, yet to her, has infinite beauty. The general is gifted, to be able to walk onto an event stage with this woman. Taking her hand in hers, ensuring she is armed and safe... Laegjarn will show her she is eternally grateful.  

To Protect Filigree Feelings​

∘₊✧── there is something about hearing a laugh out of ares – about seeing the man smile – that leaves seliph almost dumbfounded. he blinks for a moment, smile only widening as he finally accepts that the image before him is no dream.

his company speaks again, now, and that silly little trance vanishes. chalphy clears his throat, averting his gaze from the other so that he may now finally pay the menu some mind. 

although ares’ next statement does draw his attention back, eyes round with interest. “did they? i suppose it is only right that we do it for them, then. i would be glad to.”

seliph has been around alcohol – been offered it, watched older soldiers indulge it. it’s a relieving kind of thing, to consent to your senses being clouded in such a way, to help ease the weight of the world. he understands its merits, considers them for himself on occasion, even.

but that kind of thing is a luxury for people who do not have tread on eggshells, who do not have the hope of hundreds pinned on their very appearance, so he has never himself accepted.

but there is precious little that seliph would not do in the name of his father.

ares signs for a waiter and the prince’s attention dips quickly back to their options. he skims the print in just enough time to be able to hand the menu to the staff once they have been approached. his partner’s order is announced – voice cold in that natural way of his – and seliph smiles to himself. how strange it is to hear now, knowing that he can call its owner friend. 

“in that case,” he directs his smile towards their third party – a man likely no more than a handful of years older than himself, “the pheasant roast for the both of us.” 

an easy pick, and one difficult to go wrong with. he has faced far more difficult decisions than what to plate in front of ares, but it would be in poor taste to sour this new friendship’s official beginning with a meal only one of them can enjoy.

the waiter is dismissed with a nod and, only moments later, replaced by another. this one bears the requested wine, setting both glasses on either side of the table before proceeding to pour. seliph nods his thanks to this one as well, watching his back as he leaves.

and when he finally faces ares once more, his smile has turned something like sheepish.

“i hope you can excuse my naivety. alcohol has never quite been to my tastes.”

“It has not been to mine, either. Have you truly forgotten that I’ve lived most my life as a mercenary?” 

Said in half jest, Ares believes it important to point out that he is not doing this to sate his own desires. Fancy balls and illustrious wines have been far outside his reach for the greater half of his lived life. Yet he experienced the loss of such luxury, making its absence all the more stressful on his mind. He is a falcon of clipped wings, a lion robbed of its mane: torn down and left to fend for himself in the cold world of Jugdral.

For the longest time, revenge had been the only thing keeping him warm. It was in his very blood, causing his heart to beat. He lived, for so long, to strike down the man before him. When it was just him and his sword, it was possible to forget all that was lost.

But not anymore. Ares’ hands have grown heavy with Seliph’s company. He lives for this man, not against him. And that requires more discretion than he’s used to.

Not that he’ll complain about this new path to tread, for he is no longer walking alone. 

“If it is not something you feel the need to finish,” he continues, “feel free to set your glass aside. This meal is my gift to you, for being as patient with me as you were. You may receive it however you like.” 

With nothing left to say, Ares’ attention is brought to the crystal in front of him. Two shimmering glasses are filled with a dark-red liquid, the color not a far cry from the blood staining his path. Perhaps, once this war is over, the Nordion will be able to enjoy a simple glass of wine without his mind going there. But as things stand--as he picks it up and swirls it once with his fingers--he cannot help but question how many of these glasses he could have filled with the lives he’s taken. Even in times of respite, Ares cannot let himself forget how ugly and monstrous life can be. 

But pushing that image aside, his glass is held in the air. It awaits Seliph’s, so that they may come together and toast to their newfound friendship. Whenever he’s ready, he tells himself, knowing that this is not an easy experience for either of them. They’re both only princes in title alone, bearing little expertise with fine dining. 

do us part .

∘₊✧── thrasir is given moment enough to catch that axe’s arc – wild and without control or precise target as it is, she knows before the sound of screeching metal that it has found the most precious of targets.

a part of lif dies, and so too does a part of her.

witch flares to life once more, anger burning through veins where blood once had. her hand closes around sokkvabekkr’s hilt, not bothering to wince when the weapon rebuts against her. arcane force dislodges it from the dirt, raising it enough so that it may be thrown across the battlefield a second time. thrasir trusts lif will catch it, but for now she has other priorities.

unlike its spectral partner, the titan has little means of evading her. once more, she stalks across the already marred ground of their battlefield, teeth bared and eyes alight with that same green of her magic.

“ won’t you just die? ”

the earth before her splits, rock jutting upwards and outwards in deadly spikes. it carves the space between monster and witch, tears apart everything in its path. jagged rock finds its target now, and thrasir shoves her arm upward, guiding her spell further.

titan groans as it is impaled once and then twice and then a third time, over and over, from every direction. magic carves through it, penetrates and shatters bone, making for quite a gruesome display as the skeletal figure is dismantled and torn apart.

its axe clatters to the ground. their victory is secured.

but there’s no time to bother with relishing in it the way thrasir normally would. witch’s magic extinguishes as quickly as it had come, forgotten entirely as she makes for lif. a whirlwind of emotions clouds her features, her body language. there is something like concern or worry to betray that she cares, but there is anger still too.

“how could you be so careless?” they had only just mourned her own flesh, taken by the natural progression of hel’s eitr, and now he sacrifices his own. foolish. 

thrasir knows that if she could cry for it, she would.

she is painfully aware of how much more worth an inch of his skin has than hers. for him there is less to lose, an inch is a mile. that one mistake will have cost him feeling anything there ever again. 

now she reaches for him, for the broken metal at his wrist. no objections will be heard as thrasir undoes clasps and pulls away the armor to assess the damage, to count their losses.

witch sucks in air through her teeth, feels the phantoms of tears press behind her eyes. “you… alfonse you fool…”

He can feel it: the strength of the Titan receding. It has been hit by one of Thrasir’s spells, which means its end is nigh. Years of fighting by her side have taught him this one inalienable truth, that once you are in her grasp, there is no escape from the Omnicidal Witch. When the axe lets up, he can angle his body and stick out his good hand just in time to catch Sokkvabekkr. That, too, is a feat representative of their perfect synergy. 

During the few moments when Thrasir is eviscerating their foe, Lif allows himself to relax. He pulls his arms back, sheathes his sword--mentally prepares for what she would say to him. 

Yet somehow, her general lack of dialogue is worse.

Alfonse, you fool. So simple, yet so much more painful than a scolding--so much harder than actually losing his flesh. He knows those words cover the agony stirring just below her skin. The despair on her face is easy to read, the impact of his mistake evidently wearing on her body. He can offer her no solace, for the only solace to be had in this scenario is their old flesh back. Lif doesn’t resist as Thrasir pulls his vambrace away, instead turning his head so he does not have to look at it, too. 

Now and forever, he is once inch less of a man. The thought wounds him, racing through his mind even when he closes his eyes. If he could still sleep, he does not doubt he’d have nightmares. Dark dreams of offshoot realities and ‘what ifs’--grim predictions of what will happen to him should he lose all that remains.

Would he wind up like them? The soulless husks in the Cohort of the Dead? The emptied puppets he once commanded? 

“I...” but he cannot speak. Words evade his tongue, deeming it unworthy of their grace after that stupid stunt he pulled. Why didn’t he just dodge? If holding the beast’s attention wasn’t the first thing on his mind... No. He had to make sure Thrasir was left unharmed. Her body isn’t used to physical fighting--it never was. Watching her take the brunt of that blade would have split his soul more than the result of today’s battle, that he knows for a fact. “Veronica... I am... Sorry.”

Lif knows his apologies are meaningless, that they can’t bring back what he--what they--just lost, so he continues, “We should let this be a reminder for us. Time is finite. We must find a way to restore our world... Before all is lost again.” It feels like taboo, saying the word again--admitting that they still have something to lose. But Swordsman believes that it has its place here. He and Thrasir must never forget that they have a goal to chase. They may have their time for mourning, but losses must be overcome if they wish to reclaim anything at all.

To Protect Filigree Feelings​

∘₊✧── chalphy’s mouth falls open – ready to correct the other in that his time is far from wasted in a meeting like this – but his words die on his tongue as ares produces a neatly folded letter.

there is hesitance before seliph allows himself to read the contents of what he is offered. he notices the care with which the parchment is handled, a caution uncharacteristic of the hands that give it. even without knowing its contents, he knows that they are important to ares. it feels like an invasion of privacy, almost, to read them.

but he does — glances down at the page finally and lets his eyes drift over every word. his expression shifts, slowly, from one of passive intrigue to one of something like awe.

so this is what he has been brought here for. not the black knight’s malice, but instead quite the opposite. seliph’s eyes linger on the signature at the letter’s end, considering it for a long moment. it is when ares speaks again that he finally tears his gaze away.

perhaps it is the good news that alters seliph’s perception — the relief and joy of finally knowing that the other may never have to turn his sword against the liberation army, against himself — but his company looks… marginally happier, almost.

“this…” with a caution to mirror the other’s own, he reaches across the table to push the letter back towards its rightful keeper. “thank you, ares, for showing this to me. i can only imagine how greatly you must value such a letter.”

azure head tips to the side once more, a warm smile drawn across pale lips. for all of his company’s impassiveness, seliph’s own expression radiates exactly the emotion he feels. that fondness for the man before him, that hope for what this may mean for their friendship. prince breathes a soft laugh. “perhaps it is.”

hands settle back where they belong, folded atop one another. there is no anxious tapping of fingers, no uncomfortable shifting of a shoulder, no fidgeting to adjust his collar or straighten the front of his shirt. the anxiety of earlier fades, the worry for the other prince’s perception of him waning significantly. for no longer does he have to calculate his every word, tread on eggshells so that the man before him does not get the wrong idea of his intentions. now, seliph can relax back into his seat. he can forget, for a moment, all that is expected of him by the world outside of his closest comrades.

“please, you need not apologize.” seliph shakes his head. “it’s not necessary, there is nothing to forgive. you acted upon what you believed, sought to properly honor your father. i cannot fault you for the hostility that may have bred, only hope that i may have acted the same were our positions swapped.”

his smile does not waver, sapphire eyes warm with sincerity as he continues.

“you have always been my ally, prince ares.” a gloved hand reaches across the table, palm held open for the other to take, should the other so desire. “share this meal with me as more than just that. allow me the honor of calling you my friend.”

Ares never used to believe Seliph to be the man of miracles everyone claims he is, but tonight, he sees what they’re getting at. The Chalphy, in spite of everything he and the blonde have been through, achieves the impossible. He gets a laugh out of Ares. A short one, and something more or less under his breath, but a laugh all the same. Of course, every laugh is also accompanied by a smile.

“Very well. You may call me whatever you wish, so long as it is not ‘foe’ or ‘enemy’.” Arms leave his chest now, quick to notice that Seliph has passed back the letter. They reclaim it, fold it exactly the same way Ares had received it, and return it to his pocket. This chapter of his life has come to a close. Vengeance and wrath can be a thing of the past for the Nordion; his only qualms are now with the Cult of Loptyr. But that is a battle for another day. Here and now, in this candlelit restaurant of Leonster, he owes Seliph his attention. They will unite in merriment, toast to their friendship. For Ares, it will be a story to tell his children.

“Now then,” he continues, tapping the only remaining parchment on the table, “I trust you’ve given your order some thought? The only thing I require of you is that we share a bottle of wine. My mother once told me my father and yours had plans to split one between themselves, but he met his end before they could be fulfilled.” Meaning tonight, he and Seliph would carry that torch for them. If Ares is being honest with himself, he isn’t quite acclimated to the taste. Whiskey and mead were offered to him after completed jobs with Javarro, but he could never find it in himself to accept. Special occasions are different, to him. They demand he step outside his comfort zone, do things for the sake of others.

After all, this whole arrangement is for Seliph, that he might understand how truly remorseful Ares is for their past.

He raises his hand, eyes closed and breath drawing in sharp. That would be the waiter’s cue to find their way to the table and serve them--and Seliph’s to get to thinking. Ares’ own answer has, naturally, been prepared long in advance. He had ample time to browse what this establishment has to offer. The verdict? Whatever Seliph chooses. It is easier to converse over a meal exactly the same as one’s partner: this is one of the few pieces of wisdom Eldigan imparted onto him before his passing. He’ll be doing both his father and new friend justice this way.

It is not long until their server arrives. Of all the places to dine in Munster, this is one of the best--or so Ares is told. It is only natural that customer service sets records here. Greetings are given and the staff turns an expectant face to both of them yet neither in particular, allowing them each the opportunity to speak first. Ares takes that chance. “A bottle of your full-bodied red,” he demands, tone reclining back into that familiar sternness, “but bring two glasses. And I shall have whatever he’s having.” 

do us part .

∘₊✧── they are alike in that way, mutually defiant of the roles forced upon them at birth. veronica and alfonse had died in some skewed kind of suicide, existing now only as names in the mouth of one another.

thrasir and lif. witch and swordsman where princess and prince had once breathed. 

her magic is cataclysmic, an eruption of hatred and anger meant to destroy all that it touches. veronica’s had been no such thing, never backed by the wrath that propels thrasir’s forward. she is a force that intends to kill gods.

lif evades the vestal’s spell, and if thrasir could breathe in relief she would. carmine follows the trajectory of her partner’s blade, watching as steel sings through the air and straight through its target’s midsection. 

there is a cursory glance back towards her swordsman, a moment’s hesitation before claiming her kill. he is weaponless now, and what remains of his life is worth far more than her own gratification.

but he does not need her now, and so thrasir’s lips curl into something of a wicked grin.

each step she takes is pointed, every movement a display. her partner fights dirty, and she does so for show. she needs no audience but the poor soul before her, needs only to show her victim just how pathetic they are in those final moments.

ifingr’s flames burn brighter, more and more with each step towards the vestal’s thrashing form. a laugh rises from thrasir’s throat, all of that pacifism of earlier gone, forgotten in the face of her own killing intent. 

her heel lands, finally, on the phantasmal wrist of her enemy. there’s something particularly satisfying about the way it bends beneath her weight, about how the limb attached to it stills and the creature beneath her shrieks.

witch bends at the waist, leering down at that spectral visage. “ weak. ” 

magic flares to life at her fingertips as thrasir rises back to her full height. she allows herself a moment longer to bask in her triumph before, finally, her spell makes contact.

the vestal cries as it is extinguished, weeps into empty air. it is a hollow sound, like mourning, and thrasir enjoys every anguished note. it’s a shame when the song finally ends, fading away alongside the body beneath her.

carmine flickers back to lif, a hand on his blade’s hilt and its mirror raised with magic once more, ready to strike should he require her to.

As mage finishes mage, the two physical fighters are locked in melee combat. Lif charges his foe, leaving no time for regrouping or bracing against its assault. He has earned momentum with his flashy display of combat prowess, and years of fighting through the mud have taught him that momentum is used to kill. Continuing the onslaught, that is the only thing his bones know now. Self-preservation is a relic of the past, fighting with care the furthest thing from his mind. He’s been remolded into a butcherer’s blade by Hel, raised and trained to slaughter without thought of much else. It is for this reason that he presses ever onward, taking the titan for all it’s worth while the death of its comrade has it to flinch.

Lif soon finds that ripping life from this construct is easier said than done. He is a bullet in sprint, hunting the enemy down like a wolf, yet his attacks lack any sort of meaningful bite or piece. His punches do not so much as stagger the enemy, a left hook into right jab only knocking tiny chunks of stone onto the ground. If anything, his actions are a decent distraction. They put his body between the titan’s and Thrasir’s, enabling her to claim the vestal without interruption. 

But there is only so much he can give without receiving in return. The beast rears up against him, pushing Lif back with all its unholy might. Arm against arm, his steel gauntlet versus the alloyed bone of Duma’s servant. It would be an even match, if not for the fact that the titan is armed. 

Just when it and Lif start to lock for the third time, it brings a one-handed swing down over his head. The mighty axe, large as it is heavy, only flies with the strength of one limb, but it is more than enough to sink into Swordsman’s armor. When he notices the attack, he raises his wrists. 

They do little to stop it. 

Stone tears through steel, ripping his plate apart like teeth dragging into meat. His vambraces are torn, and so too is some of the skin underneath. Indeed, Lif has been struck in the one place that matters: the intersection between eitr and still-living flesh. He knows he’s been hit here, because the pain searing through what nerve and life remains is all very real. It dilates his pupils, it makes him grit his teeth beneath his mask. He knows it was a bad idea to block in this sort of way, but it’s too late to go back and fix things. The damage will have to be assessed later--the lost flesh mourned like another life on the battlefield. 

Even as they try to fight their fate, it has a way of taking more from them still. 

Grunts and gasps are all that he uses to communicate. His voice has been robbed by the shock of it all, the once-proud Alfonse reduced to that of a savage animal in combat. He’s hurt, and he knows it. He’s losing something precious to him, and he can feel it. Nothing can bring out the beast in him like this.

To Protect Filigree Feelings​

∘₊✧── a gloved finger twitches, tapping an anxious staccato against its opposing wrist. 

in the traditional sense, seliph is not nervous. there is no reason to be, for he is meant to meet with a man whose side he has fought at for some time now. they are not strangers in any sense, and while he knows his offered friendship is a one-sided sentiment, they are allies all the same.

except this is an admittedly strange scenario for two “allies” to be meeting in. if ares was in need of something, there is not a doubt in the prince’s mind that he would hesitate to ask. 

which begs the question of why he had invited the other here as opposed to doing just that.

a woman’s voice pulls seliph’s gaze from his own hands. he is greeted with a warm smile, the corners of his own lips turning to offer one of his own in response. distantly, he hopes that it registers as sincere – that she cannot see past it, glimpse at all of the parts of him that feel undeserving of such reverence. 

he tells himself that there is worse than being viewed as a saint when you are only a boy – reminds himself that the people of leonster do not shun him or his army, and therefore he should be grateful.

it doesn’t stop that itch of self doubt, though. does little to quell how small he feels beneath a gaze meant for something so much bigger.

the woman turns, gestures for him to follow. seliph lets out a breath he had not realized he was holding.

he has only just seen ares when the black knight speaks – voice cold, directed towards him as though they are enemies. a part of him would like to speak up, to ask after what may make the other think he would not have shown, but seliph does not speak. he allows the waiter to lead him to his seat and takes it, sending the woman off with an appreciative nod.

“as you have mine.”  sapphire gaze turns properly upon the other, finally. it lingers a moment, studying the way ares sits, the expression upon his face. admittedly, he finds himself bewildered. between tone and body language, seliph has every right to assume that he is being viewed with disdain.

he would not blame ares for that, either. they had been raised on opposite sides of the same story, the other prince’s truth painted for him by a different artist. it is not within seliph’s own right to change that piece, to demand it be remade in the image of his own. the other’s hostility has been and would always be understood, accepted even.

and yet his mirror hesitates, furrows his brow in a way that leads seliph to believe otherwise. prince folds his hands upon the table, head tilting sideways just so. there is something almost romantic to the scene before him – the way candlelight bounces off of the agustrian’s features. 

seliph blinks. amusing, that thought, but perhaps not one to linger on. ares speaks, finally, and for a second time tonight the prince gratefully accepts distraction.

“the point, yes,” his chin dips in a nod, intrigue in his gaze. “i do not imagine you have asked me here over any small matter.”

There is something between a laugh and a scoff from Ares. Good. It’s better this way--easier. Busying himself with smalltalk like ‘how are you doing?’ and ‘has Leonster been treating you well?’ would be out of place with the way things stand between them. Ares is willing to do so now, but given his previous interactions with Seliph, he feels as though it is not expected of him.

Tonight, that changes.

“Very well. I’ll not waste any of your precious time, then.” Firm but gentle, Ares’ tone is slowly losing its bite. The one hand stops flittering about his leg, and the other reaches into his pocket. Finally can his thumb and index clench together to take hold of his father’s note, and bring it up for Seliph to see. He sets it against the table, smooths out the folds on the page, and pushes it toward him. It’s already set in a way where it’d be upside down for him and right-side up for Seliph, so all the Chalphy needs to do is read. Ares gives him a moment of pause to do so. Maybe some of the shock could settle in now, maybe he can guess where this is going.

“I was wrong,” he states, plainly but sincerely, “it seems our fathers never really were enemies. Sigurd has not been my family’s foe... And neither have you.” His lips draw a line across his face when he finishes speaking, and though that may not sound entirely optimistic, it is a ways up from the constant scowl he used to use with this man. Who knows? When Seliph speaks next, he may say something to earn a rare smile of Ares’. But he ought not to count on it; years of life on the run has made Ares a grouch. For now he reclines back into his seat and folds his arms across his chest. Seliph has every opportunity to read and reread the letter as many times as he wishes, quelling any disbelief that Ares has actually come to this realization. “For all this time I’ve had it wrong... It’s almost funny, isn’t it?” 

He wonders now, what his father must be thinking of him. Is Eldigan even watching? Has he gathered Sigurd and Quan in the afterlife to peer down at their next of kin, finally getting along at last, ready to forge the kinds of bonds they had? Now that he thinks about it, Ares remembers Seliph expressing the same sentiment when they first met. He hopes his father can forgive him. His life had been foolishly led for so long, chasing after the reflection of a warped mirror. His ire for Sigurd’s bloodline probably brought dishonor to his own, that much he knows for sure. But he can fix that, here and now.

“In any case, I’d like you to consider this my apology. Order whatever you wish. I’ll help myself to the honor of being called your ally as repayment.” His hands don’t leave his chest, but citrine eyes glance down at the menu set before them. Ares figures this is the least he could offer for all the trouble he’s caused, for all the misplaced hate the other has had to endure. If Agustria is to heal from the scars of war, then so too must its lords--Ares does it no good as a broken sword. 

Grann 777

The Liberation Army has reunited with Prince Leif of Leonster to free the Munster District of Grannvale’s Occupation. A short-lasting peace has been returned to the countryside; birds fly free over its grassy hills.

“So you came.”

Why is there that harshness in his tone, that edge to his words? He has arranged this meeting, set preparations in Leonster to meet over dinner. He, The Black Knight Ares, has donned the guise of a nobleman once more. Well-versed in the art of war, he forced himself to remember the art of diplomacy so he could speak among the people, bidding them reserve a seat in the kingdom’s finest instead of any kind of monetary compensation. 

(You care little for money anyways. When villagers offer their funds for the strength of your sword, you scoff in disgust. You are not a mercenary--not anymore.)

So why is it that his voice still carries hostility? It does not intend to hurt this boy, now that it has learned of the truth. The writing of his own father should have softened it by now, yet even though his heart is willing to accept that Sigurd’s kin is worthy of the breath he draws, his words are not so keen. Perhaps that is why he must have this conversation. It ought to smooth things out in his speech; it should make it clear that no animosity exists on his end. 

Not that any ever existed in Seliph’s, mind you. From the very beginning he was intent on being friends. Looking back now, Ares very nearly cringes at himself. He had been so wrong...

“... You have my thanks.” A bit better. He’ll get there. For now though, he is loathe to watch the other man be guided to his seat at the restaurant. Best in Leonster, he was told. It even has a view of the open plains, though taking a glance out the window now reveals they are inky black in the dead of night. It’s hard to make out any features, the outside world appearing like some infinite expanse of void. But Ares did not come here to stargaze all night. He turns to see the waiter leaving them with a menu--one, for them to share--and now only he and the Chalphy remain.

His forearms prop up against the table, positioned so his fingers can form a bridge at his mouth. Ares is considering his words a tad more carefully, staying his hand from making any kind of threat or tension between the two. He watches Seliph for a second more. Just what is he thinking? Is he surprised? Gladdened? Annoyed that he’s been made to come all the way out here from Mease Castle? The Black Knight opens his mouth to speak, but quickly bites his tongue. I’ll spare you the pleasantries, he wanted to say, to get to business as quickly as possible. But perhaps, it is better--it is friendlier--to let the other set the pace. 

“Now then, shall I get straight to the point?” 

His hands leave the table, one to tap at his leg in anticipation, the other to rest just outside his pocket. Stowed inside is the letter from his father, ready to be produced and set on the table should Seliph wish this to be quick. It should explain everything.

After all, that’s exactly what his cousin had told him.