GOLDOA'S SHAME.

        He quiets like a child scolded, a bit fearful, a bit ashamed, when he hears Almedha's plea. It is difficult, so difficult, to face her; it always has been, to be confronted with a boundless love. Love has been a name he has always sought, always yearned for, but he knew not the depths of it until she had begun to wield it, all-encompassing in its mass.

They say the darkness is deep and enveloping, but compared to love, the dark felt like but a flickering candlelight's flame.

She could burn him, fill his nose and lungs with ash, but at the same time, she has done nothing at all. She speaks, she holds her distance, but she is strong and unwavering— a sturdy rock against the ocean's tumultuous tide. She speaks of the past, tries to sever him from its chains, but this time, she does not chain him to her in return.

She is telling him she shall let him go. A part of him doesn't believe it, but it is difficult to discern fact from fiction. How much of this is belief, and how much of this is the truth? How much of it is him, twisting reality for his own narrative, and how much can he trust his own mind?

It is suffocating, it is true, but he feels his eyes burn. He feels his weakness, feels himself folding in.

His voice is quiet, trembling, weak. He is everything Almedha's former lover wasn't.

(She tells him this is fine.)

“ Give me the choice, and I... It's difficult, ”  he replies.  “ I am frightened of this choice, Lady Almedha. I don't want its burden...! ”

He holds a hand to his face, but there are no tears yet to cry. He fears the thought like he fears this decision now.

He had told Micaiah once that it is difficult to make a decision when it comes to playing with the lives of the people one loves. He considered her kind and adorable for this struggle.

Faced with the same fault, he sees only its pain, awakening.

“ I have lived my life without love... yearning for it... of course I couldn't be strong enough to banish it myself if you make me do it...! ”

she cannot shelter him from his own choices, cannot shelter him at all, if he does not wish for it. the agony of thinking that she is unneeded is nothing compared to the deeper agony that would come with doing him any harm.

"i cannot do this for you, pelleas."

she is stern. it is all she knows how to be. beneath that, though, she is weak-willed and knows that if he does not decide firmly, there will be no decision made at all. she does not have the strength to withdraw again.

to do so the first time had exhausted her will.

not to mention having pulled back from soren... must she truly be all alone?

she will bear that burden, if she must, but she cannot make it easy, to shrink back delicately so that pelleas can go guiltlessly.

her lips press together, and she sighs. her hands once again grip the front of her skirts, just for something to hold. if she lets go, she may reach out for him. that cannot happen. still, her hands twitch. oh, to amputate the phantom limb of memory, the moments spent with pelleas, complex and winding as they were. oh, to stop picking at the scab.

nel seems more at home now, pushing the door to the monastery's grand armory open with one foot and shouldering her way inside with heavy crate laden in arm, than she has since the difficult scarcity brought on by the illusory winter's blizzards. her face is more natural — lines following the paths of old and well-worn furrows. hers is a war-sculpted way of being, and there is relief to be found in vigilance well-placed rather than directionless and wasted.

a subtle movement inside draws her attention from her immediate burden to a dark-cloaked shape moving among the racks of spears and blades; and this distraction alone is enough for the edge of the crate to catch on a displaced table, sending the top front of it pitching forward precariously out of her arms.

"—!!"

with a grunt, she keeps it from spilling over completely, but finds herself caught against the side of the table to maintain her grip. a firm exhale, and nel cranes to peer around the side of the pure oaken slats, weary but unhurried. "i require your assistance," she speaks out staidly in the other individual's rough direction, unable to see and thus only hoping she would be heard. "if you would lift the edge onto the table, i can handle the rest." she only needed the other end stabilized; far be it from her to assume that human capability could support a laden crate of iron and steel.

she has her tenacity. she has the lessons in weaponry she has given herself, through watching others. she has her strength, which has not completely departed her. all of this will likely aid her if there is a battle to come.

she busies herself with counting and inspecting weapons. when the door opens and someone else comes in, she does not notice, save to glance in their direction. a woman, from the look of her. stronger than many beorc, given the size of the crate she carries. there's a distinct scent to her, one almedha does not recognize. but there are many people here that are of species not familiar to her.

when the woman asks for help, almedha immediately sets the axe she had been inspecting back on the weapon rack and rushes to grab the other end of the box, holding it with more ease than perhaps she looked like she could manage, helping her ease it onto the table.

This is not his bedroom. This is not... anyone's bedroom.

Naesala sits up and plants two hands firmly on the desk in front of him. He is wary, his mind is sluggish, and he makes a soft sound.

"Wah...?"

What did he do? He feels uneasy. Unbalanced. Colder, maybe, than he did before. And a whole lot denser; like he's eaten rocks or molded cement to his feet. He must have fallen asleep while working on papers, but this office looks nothing like his own. It's differently organized, and the chair is strangely more comfortable.

He presses his body back and feels a strain in his arms as his gaze settles on... himself. He blinks once, twice, and then he makes a surprised sound at his own slumped over body in front of him, head to the deep wood of the desk. The blue of his hair is out of its ponytail, his hands are splayed out in front of him. Yet, he breathes.

Why?

"Hey!" he says, and his voice does not sound like his own. He blinks. "What?"

no, not just light in the head. all of her feels light, airy almost. that light feeling one gets during a dizzying bout of hiccups, but all through her body. she glances around, then frowns at the reflection she faces.

no, not a reflection. she feels the aghast expression upon her face and it does not mirror the one on the face before her.

her brow furrows and she reaches out a hand to grab at the familiar sleeve of her own dress, not hard, just... making sure this is real.

    “ ...You're right. I was happy. ”  He would concede that point to her. He could not hide it, could not pretend, not when it had been what he had said to her the day they had parted. Not when it was to her his final words were supposed to be aimed towards— to her that he had planned to leave behind his last belongings when he was ready to depart from this plane of existence.

The ring that was going to be hers is on his hand now still, a sign of the life that was his own.

“ But my happiness was built on a lie. Just as everyone who had sworn their loyalty to me, those who had went to fight and die for me in that meaningless war... their loyalty was built on that lie too. ”

He had tried so hard to be King, to wear the crown, to bear the burdens that come of it all... to lead his people well, only to find out they were never his to begin with.

What was that struggle for? What was everything all for?

“ Everyone deserved a better king than me. Like you deserved a life at least trying for your real son. ”  Perhaps she was right. Perhaps it wasn't about him. Perhaps his existence was just an excuse that Pelleas could grapple onto.

Distorted happiness and guilt weave into one, indistinguishable from the other as they stem from the same seed.  “ You say you were happy, but did I not make you miserable so many times too, Lady Almedha? I almost drove you to want to take your own life... If it weren't me, if it was someone else... you could have avoided that misery.

she does not care that it was a lie. the lie had become her truth and she had clung to it with all she had. her hands shaking as she tried to cling to her son even as he pulled away. she wants it back, she is angry now ( not in her memory, in her memory she is smiling, she is angry right now in this living moment ) and she knows she may not have a right to be angry, but she feels it nonetheless.

she thinks of time spent with pelleas. she thinks of watching over him as he read, like one would a child. he isn't a child, she knows that, but all beorc are children to her. they live such short lives. she had already stolen so much of his. a few years are achingly short to her, but to pelleas... she has no right to ask for more than she has.

there was walking. there was the war. there were long, overcast days in nevassa. there are moments she wishes she could grab back and dig her nails into.

"please... stop trying to tell me that the fact that our time was built on a lie that should mean it was meaningless." that is the crux of it, after all. beyond this moment, there is nothing but a vast emptiness. she cannot face it. just like continents, they are drifting. she cannot dig her nails in deep enough. she does not want to hurt him trying.

a sigh escapes her lips. "i considered taking my own life several times before i even met you, pelleas. you are not the cause of my grief. and you are not the cause of daein's either. that man who was never your father left it in such a state... he started something he wasn't man enough to finish. you tried to pick up the pieces, and the task was... never mind. you cannot take responsibility for daein's sorrows. or mine."

she trails off there. the thing about a memory is: there are other people in it, but it remains firmly about its subject. she has more memories of pelleas than she does of soren. this does not bother her, but she wonders... does she have a right to those memories, even? holding onto them feels profoundly selfish.

(That, and it is better to make herself useful than to engage in small talk. The matter of why this woman is interested in dragons is not one to be discussed within the library, and Sitri cannot think of anything else to bring up. If only she were not so terrible at conversation.)

She returns with her arms laden with tomes, the familiar scent of old books a welcome comfort. Never mind curiosity, Sitri finds herself nervous. She cannot help but think that she should have left this woman without the books; that Lady Rhea has done more than well at rewriting history (even for her own daughter); that her attempt to help can only ruin her mother's perfect work. She is, after all, a failure. Her knuckles tighten about her load as they step out into the sunlight.

The change of scenery assuages her worries, at least. Even if this could be discussed inside, she would still prefer to do it outdoors these days. She has so little time to spend under the sun, after all. Momentarily forgetting the weight in her arms, Sitri lifts her face to the warm rays, her eyes half-closing.

Then the woman beside her speaks, and she gasps.

"Ah — Pardon me, I don't go out very much," she murmurs, a light blush creeping over her cheeks. She clears her throat, then adds, "You're welcome. May I ask why the interest in dragons?" Only after speaking does she register the other's words fully. "Oh, I couldn't get in any trouble," she answers honestly.

Saints. Forget about safeguarding lore, she can't even safeguard her own tongue today. Her smile shows no trace of unease, though.

"That is, I am acquainted with the Archbishop. I will mention your interest to Her Grace, but I thought to spare you from the hassle of obtaining permission." She chuckles. "It can take a while to arrange a meeting with her. I would know."

"it's all right," she says, softly, in response to the girl's first comment. she tries to look comforting, summoning an expression that had always made pelleas fall into line.

not quite the same thing, but severity is in her blood, she supposes.

as for her interest in dragons... the matter was fairly simple.

"i understand that the topic of dragons is a... difficult one here. i assure you, i am not planning to use what i learn against anyone. i would not know where to begin in that. i simply... am curious."

a difficult thing to explain. she trips and stumbles over her words. but she sees no reason to hide anything, not from this girl who clearly knows something of this topic herself. almedha scrutinizes her face, as if looking for familiarity there. or a brand. she sees neither.

"my people, the black dragon tribe of the laguz, are surely different from whatever will be described within these books. but i need a place to start. i'm researching a particular... personal topic. and i don't know if this will be any help, but i... am looking to see if any dragons that might have settled here, if there were any, have any similarities to the dragons of my home."

the love that holds families together is said to be inherently good. one can only hope that is true, though sometimes the complexities that make up a family's circumstances can make one doubt even that.

miss almedga...🛐🛐🛐

    “ It can never be what it once was for as long as I know, ”  Pelleas intensifies Almedha's claim.  “ I've never been loved that much in my entire life, Lady Almedha. That's... That love was never meant for me. Even if it had never been my intent, I was deceiving you for so long... That's time you'll never get back, Lady Almedha. Time, tears, energy... all on me. All on one big lie. ”

He's running into circular arguments, he knows. But as much as he has always desired to have logic be what fuels his statements, he, just like her, has always been inclined to his emotions too.

If a battle between heart and mind, he is well aware who shall be the victor no matter how hard he tries. But yet he still does.

“ Before I met you, I couldn't even fathom it... I really couldn't. I had dreamed of it, but to actually experience it... I was scared and excited all the time, sometimes to the point I'd shake. Look at me right now! ”

True to his word, he's trembling. Just being around her, speaking with her, being looked after by her... hearing and seeing her fight to have her place even if only temporarily in his life again...

No matter how much he told himself he didn't deserve it, it still felt good. Sickeningly so.

“ If that's how I felt then, can you imagine how I feel now while knowing I could be stealing your love...? Or worse yet, one day, your feelings for me might wane. You'll see me and remember the truth, and then your love will disappear! You might hate me. You might start lying to me too. I'll become disposable to you... ”

Her words will no longer mean the flood of passion and devotion they once did. If her words of the future lose their luster, will the words of the past too? Will his memories become tainted by this foreseen loss? Will even that borrowed happiness warp into something he will no longer be able to recognize?

“ I'm sorry. I... ”

(I'm afraid, Mother.)

“ I was never your son. We both know this. ”  He tries to gain control of the moment, futile as the attempt might be.  “ ...You've met with him after all, haven't you? ”

There were many things the courts could say of Lady Almedha, but Pelleas had faith in her to be shrewd enough to deduce the destination he had led her to last time they spoke. It is with an accusing heaviness to it that he adds:

she cannot help it. she snaps, like a branch bearing too much weight.

"that's what you're trying to say, isn't it? that i somehow wasted my attention, my efforts, my love on you? but it wasn't..."

she trails off. there's an audible click of her teeth hitting one another as she stops talking. she takes a breath.

"i was happy. you were happy."

his fears are not rational, but rationality is not truly his way. she has known him to be intelligent, of course, but prone to emotion in equal measure. she does not know what to say. she does not think there is anything she can say to correct this. she can promise him that he'll never grow hungry, but she can’t do anything to ensure he will never feel upset.

she takes another breath.

"i have met with him, yes." of course she has. with the safety of distance, she could let it be, could respect soren's space, but with the option for distance removed...

she still tries. she truly does. but there is no way she could have refrained from speaking to him. her hands twist around and around one another, grasping her own wrists and squeezing tightly.

"i am trying to let it be. it is enough to know that he is healthy and strong. this... is not about him, pelleas," she says, soft, almost scolding him. "it's not about that boy i do not know."

oh, she'd like to know soren. but she'd like to know pelleas better, too. her time with him was too short, too late, too rushed along by forces neither of them could control. too late, she'd arrived in his life too late.

Although Ayra is no longer the swordsmaster she once was, in truth. It vexes her to no end that she cannot wield Astra anymore. She used to be the strongest warrior in a country of warriors, a reputation she earned due to her dominion of Od's sword art, but now... Now she is only a ghost. It is death that stands between her and the power of stars that flows in her blood; that ought to flow in her blood.

Yet she would bring even more shame to her family's name if she wasted her time lamenting. Ghost or no, she is a warrior still. Arvis Velthomer stole too much from her already to steal her spirit as well. She will turn her pain into power. She will become worthy of receiving Od's blessing anew, not by blood but by merit. She was once the keenest blade in Isaach, and she will make herself a blade again.

It is the face of her mortal foe that she imagines in her mind's eye as she strikes, the familiar motions set to blazing not by his flames but by her own. He cannot douse the burning fire of her soul. No one can.

What should have been routine practice is instead a show of artistry and skill. It's passion that commands her sword arm, and the feeling of eyes upon her only serves to fan the flames. She goes so far as to attempt Astra again, to think that perhaps now she's overcome the barrier, only to find that the power will not come. She performs three strikes in sucession all the same, pushing her limits. They leave her more breathless than Astra ever did. Without her holiness she is weak, slow, a shade of her old self. No matter. She will reach the heavens sooner or later.

this is something that is of interest to almedha. what's more is the violence in it. these do not seem to be the strikes of someone who is going to hold back in actual battle. though she looks controlled enough that almedha does not take her for a mindless killer, this is someone who is not afraid to take a life for a purpose. whatever that might be... it depends on the individual, after all. for one's self? for one's loved ones? for one's country?

many things can inspire it. to almedha, it's not about the why so much as the what. that's what draws her interest.

many things can motivate one toward violence, but once one is there, that is when the point of fascination arises for her.

she smiles very slightly as she's addressed. she hadn't been sure at first if the other woman was so focused on what she was doing to notice her, but this makes it clear that she was aware, but unwilling to let it interrupt her.

Because their father was already gone. He had been gone. Though it never did seem to sink in fully for him. Like the image of his father's back - shrinking every day as Kurthnaga grew - still haunted him now.

it was to be expected. as the youngest, as the one most taken care of. she had never once begrudged him that, in fact she was happy that he was so adored, even if their father had not been much closer to him than to her. they, neither of them, were ever the favorite, after all.

Seeing no sign of the elderly man she walks further in, the novel she means to return held close to her chest like a shield. Yet she forgets all about her goal when the word "dragons" reaches her ears. Hugging her book tighter, she goes to stand behind the speaker as though she were simply awaiting her turn.

Of course, she is there to eavesdrop. This woman has an interest in dragon lore, evidently, and that is dangerous. Looking at her back like this, Sitri briefly wonders whether she is Nabatean — but no, of course not. There are so few of her people left, and Sitri knows of them all already. She's likely a foreigner, with hair that color.

A fact which complicates her pursuit of knowledge on dragons all the more. The librarian has just finished explaining that such books are in the restricted section and Sitri ought to leave well enough alone, but if the woman were to seek her mother's permission... She does not wish for Lady Rhea to be alarmed, is all. She isn't curious in the slightest. Or so she tells herself before clearing her throat.

"Excuse me... I will be returning this novel," she hands it over with a perfectly polite smile, "and borrowing your volumes on dragons. All of them." Clearly surprised, the librarian looks between the two women and makes to protest. She adds softly, "I do have permission, as I'm sure you recall."

Once he leaves to fetch the books, she turns her smile towards the stranger. "I will give them to you outside, my lady."

her father was an expert at the concealment of knowledge, at letting shorter-lived people just forget, to let history be rewritten according to what he wanted. and though the existence of dragons was never something he'd tried to hide, she was familiar with the concealment of knowledge for the sake of the people.

it was one of many things she and dheginsea had clashed on.

still, this was a different land. she could not act the part of the agitated daughter of the king of dragons here. no, she was the respectable, widowed, former queen of daein. she has a responsibility to maintain some level of dignity.

so her frustration at the librarian's lack of cooperation is... noteworthy, but she does her best to temper it. a short exhale through the nose. a downward twitch of her lips.

she's just about to thank him and go on her way when a young woman intercepts, and almedha's gaze is drawn in that direction. the girl immediately gathers the books, and instructs almedha to meet her outside for them.

she carries goldoa in her heart no matter her own wishes and this foreign land has not yet warmed up quite to the level of homeland. still, she's dressed relatively casually as she makes her way out to the training grounds.

perhaps she will pick up an axe or sword and do some of her own practice. more likely, though, she will watch. she is still getting used to the weight of weapons in her hands, the unfamiliar sensation of holding rather than being a weapon.

still, it is something that will come to her, of this she is certain. she only needs to witness it a bit more.

this is why her eyes are currently on a woman. clearly skilled with the sword. she hasn't seen such magnificently aggressive swordplay in some time. she hopes the woman does not mind an audience. for the moment, she does not speak, just keeps far enough back to be out of the way, but close enough to watch her technique, and watches.