"more adorable by the minute!"

Today, though, a problem has arisen: Zelkov has been assigned to teach a class on health.  He's been given a lesson plan and certain points to emphasize, thankfully, but that does not help him feel even remotely prepared for the lecture.

He's not the sort of man that appreciates this kind of spontaneity, but he will make do.

A second problem rises as Zelkov enters the classroom: Hortensia numbers amongst his students.

The topic of discussion is already bound to be uncomfortable for students, but now one of them must be the princess of his homeland and younger sister to his former employer.  Was some one pulling strings?  This should not be possible, and yet it's the reality they find themselves in.

Zelkov has incomplete knowledge of Hortensia.  He knows her through her sister.  He knows the signs her sister has pointed out - when Hortensia is nervous, when she is hiding something - they are not things that Zelkov has needed to remember, but he has.

The princess looks unsettled, and he can't blame her.

Zelkov strolls into the classroom and, as usual, stands before the desk, leaning against it almost casually.  He does not know how to tailor himself to become a professor, but so far his current approach has seemed well-accepted enough amongst the students, so he hasn't seen a need to change it.

“I believe if everyone is seated… we may begin Health Class.  The subject of the integrity of one's body…  It is quite a vast subject, so let us get started…”

His eyes close for a moment.  This will be a long class for him, too, he expects.  He moves to the chalkboard and begins drawing a neutral-looking human being standing straight.

"Chalkboard Chuck," she repeats with a raised hand, voice light and bright before she's even called upon. "He sounds... uh, boring. But fine."

Her stray hand twirls a strand of hair around a finger. In the silence of a classroom that smells faintly of chalk dust and steel polish, her answer borders on performative. Too aware.

"Things that harm your well-being," she echoes, as though testing the phrase for traps. "Easy. Bad posture. Staying up too late. Too much sugar. Frowning-" her tone flickers between jest and sincerity- "that's bad for your skin, you know. It makes wrinkles."

She's quick to flash a grin. Others might note that smiling, too, can cause wrinkles with time- laugh lines are called that for a reason, and anything other than utter neutrality might crack at a picture-perfect skin. But a straight line for a mouth has never been cute.

"Of course, I don't do any of those things. It's practical knowledge, and I'm a practical expert in the practical." She gestures vaguely, the confidence practiced but fragile. "You probably don't even need to grade me on it!"

She whirls on him with the accusation of a joke, and he'd be affronted if he didn't look so relaxed.

"Joking?" he feigns offense anyway. "You know me. When have I ever been anything but deadly serious?"

The laughter that rumbles deep in his chest doesn't make any of this sound like a joke.

"Worms aren't bugs, princess."

Truth be told, he doesn't like bugs either, but he's always been better than most at swallowing his discomfort. To the point of reveling in it, usually. Shoving off from the back of the chair, he rises swiftly to his feet and gestures with his chin for Hortensia to stand up, too.

"Worms aren't bugs- okay, didn't realize you were a nerd," she snaps, arms crossing with a loud huff. "Fine, sure, whatever. I'll stop calling you a Hound and start calling you Bugboy. Clearly I'm the ignorant one here. Clearly you are just the foremost expert in all things disgusting and squirmy. What an honor for me."

She doesn't stand when he gestures. Not immediately, anyway, nor out of defiance- though she does her best to frame it that way. It's more that she's sitting there, staring down at the sad heap of colors in front of her, and getting banged over the head with how much more Griss knows than her.

Brown. Grey. Beige, if she squints and lies to herself. Ugh.

Her lips press into a thin line as she groans, head tipping back dramatically as though she's summoning the will of every past matriarch of Elusia to tolerate this nonsense. "...yes," she mutters sullenly to his last response. "Don't look so happy about it."

She rises, smoothing down her skirt as though this whole indignity is purely his fault and not her own trip into incompetence, chin lifting with a practiced little tilt like she's still the one calling the shots. "Just try and make it as least-gross as possible, okay?" She reaches for her dye tools, tidying up her station slightly in case they don't return.

One might note, then, the combination of certain factors here, when applied to: Health Class. Class means that there are grades, and one who is smart cannot get bad grades. Healing implies an understanding of good health, and who is to do badly at health in a health class? And cute. Well. One's body is cuteness, right?

In the academy, they didn't have this sort of a thing- or at least, it wasn't something Hortensia took. Grades in health, of all things. Not magic, not sword drills, not strategy. There are numbers associated with things that she has simply written herself off as 'being good at', categories that tell her exactly what she must achieve.

Cuteness has never had a grade until today, and suddenly her whole chest is too tight thinking about it.

It's not like she doesn't know how she looks. She's cute- she's always been cute. She's said so enough times to make it true, hasn't she?

But here she is, tapping her nails against a desk long after some other boring math class has ended. It is empty, and yet- she sneaks glances around the room like anyone and everyone could see right through her frilly sleeves and pastel hair, could write down numbers written in ugly ink across her skin.

"I'm overreacting," she mutters to herself. "It's not like I've even failed anything else. I'll pass it with flying colors, same as I always have."

Her hands go towards her chest, her waist. She really should clear out of here, soon. The next class will start and she doesn't want to be answering any sort of lingering questions anyone might have.

Her defensiveness leads to her apologizing. He can't understand that either. After all, wasn't it him that offended her? Even if she understood his intention.

There's so many ways he doesn't understand people. The people who grow angry with him, the people who grow soft on him, and everyone in between. No matter how much he tries, communication breaks, leading to the need for wishes like the ones he holds.

For how long would they remain out of reach?

So close are people and yet so far away in heart. Even the way they exchange their pearls shows that, unable to be the same motion despite being the same intention. This is not to say he begrudges Hortensia for it, would hardly find it worthwhile, but it is in all the ways he is different from others that he is reminded of the truth of his isolation and the differences in humanity that creates it.

If only he truly walked other people's lives, then maybe he'd know their thoughts rather than his own.

But hearing Hortensia fumble her way through trying to communicate feels authentic enough, resonant enough with some part of him that struggles too, that that feeling abates for now.

“ I'm not a very 'professional' prince all the time either, ”  Leif admits in his own attempt at bridging their gap. Looking over the pearl she had handed him, he at last fixes it to his bracelet, adding her color to his wrist.  “ And I don't think our wishes are that different. Is not wanting to let people down and your wanting people to like you not two ways to say the same thing?? ”

It feels the same to him, but then again, he'd messed up being on the same page as her in this very conversation even.

“ There's some things you can't help while you remain in the dark. If I had ruled my home before I tried to get to know other walks of life, I'd have hurt people, not thinking about their sorrows. So I travel the world to fix that. Being here is a part of that journey for me too.

It is, admittedly, not very fair.

He is not as perfect as he is in her mind, even if he does not act all that different from the spectre who had stood by her side. Something about the ethereal sheen of his Emblem had added a level of distance to him that she was comfortable to keep in mind, that now that she knows him without it, is hard to remove entirely. He is, said with utter neutrality, just a guy. She’s even heard rumors of him howling (unless, it was his emblem…? which only proves the point, surely).

And aren’t these feelings that she, herself, has felt awkward over? To be ‘so idealized that perfection overtakes you’- its part of why she’s out here on this boat in the middle of a party, to begin with. It’s a suffocating feeling.

“F-for, for me too!” Hortensia blurts, nearly tripping over herself to answer, as if Leif’s words might vanish if she doesn’t seize them quick enough. Her voice comes out brighter than she expects, more forceful, and it’s tempting to back away from it. She presses both palms against her skirt as if to pin her nerves into place, fingers bunching the damp fabric until she wills herself to relax.

“That’s… that’s how it feels! I don’t want to- I don’t want to let people down either. Not Ivy, not Elusia, not even…” Cheesiness overtakes her, and she skirts. “I just want people to see me and think, ‘wow, she’s someone worth trusting’. Isn’t that silly?” Her laugh comes breathless and quick, like she’s trying to bury the edge of emotion that slips through.

The pearl trade lingers between them, beads glinting against the lantern light, and Hortensia swallows around the sudden knot in her throat. “If you say that’s the right path, then… maybe I’m not as far behind as I think. Maybe I’m walking it already.” A flutter of hesitation still grips her voice, but she squeezes her hands into fists and keeps going. “And if someone as strong as you can walk it, then I’ll try to keep up!”

She bites her lip, then grins with a small, rueful lilt. “But, uh- if I do trip, you won’t laugh, right? Or at least… you’ll help me up first.”

This is probably the longest he's been quiet since he'd come over to torment Hortensia, but he's taken on that vacant, wide-eyed look he usually got before the prospect of battle. Behind his eyes flash fantasies unimaginable to any ordinary person, and he almost looks like he'd stopped listening long ago.

"Forget the makeup," he says suddenly, blinking back to the present. He glances at Hortensia, then the bowl of dye.

"You shoulda gone with the flogging." His smile snakes lazily across his face again as he pulls his chair closer to get a better angle on the princess' workstation. It says that that would have been the easiest, less painful route for her, but now that door has shut.

"I'm gonna hold onto that favor instead. Having a princess of Elusia at my beck and call sounds pretty good." A sidelong glance pre-emptively answers "what if I don't?" with Griss' own brand of threat - a toothy smile that conjures the image of wolves tearing apart felled prey. Then he glances back down at the table to survey the ingredients she'd gathered. She wanted a cute color, she said. He hums thoughtfully, then suddenly laughs.

She should be considering the whole ‘you shoulda gone with the flogging’ bit and all, because it does send the usual unpleasant shiver down her spine, but it is simply wiped away foam from a window. Bugs. Of course, let the shame be on her for even considering a deal with the devil. One doesn’t make it to the top of their class without realizing that, yes, the one who has delighted in your anguish in the past will be likely to do it again. With bugs.

Hortensia doesn’t like bugs. She doesn’t even like butterflies, doesn’t even like pictures of them. There was something about creepy-crawlies that had her skin crawling at the thought of them. Which. Was probably Griss’ point, ughhhh. Given his general perversiveness, it seemed more likely than not that he witnessed some awkward startle she had while he was technically under her service. 

small and glassy, her voice starts to break in a way he doesn't think he's ever heard before, not to his face, and all he can do is just watch as she stumbles through something about her dad. her dad. his heart sinks even lower, eyes dropping to the sheets with a frown.

but whatever it is he feels can't be anything compared to how it hurts hortensia. she's always been someone who could handle anything that came her way, he thought, maybe the toughest person he knew. so to see her lie back down and curl all the way up and her whole body shake while she tried not to wake up anybody else in this hall. . . "hortensia. . . "

she keeps going like she hadn't heard him, through a voice so muffled and tiny that it's hard to make it out, and now he isn't sure if she's talking about the war she'd lost her father in or the war that she'd just been through. trying to keep up, he guesses probably the second one with something about people getting brought back⠀(⠀he stops short at that, thoughts drifting without meaning to. there hadn't been anyone coming back in their war, except maybe as a corrupted. how come everyone got to live this time, and not king hyacinth for hortensia? she missed him so much ; it's not fair. . . maybe that's what she's thinking too.⠀)⠀"hortensia. . . " he tries again, this time tentatively reaching out ; his hand finally decides to settle on a small shoulder, and he gives a gentle squeeze——maybe hoping to stop the shaking, or maybe trying to say that the shaking was okay too ; he's not sure.

weight lowers back onto his heels at the same time now that he's sure she's at least not going anywhere or going to start——he doesn't know——throwing punches? the thought almost brings a smile, even if it's a little sad. what does he say? he's gotten lucky enough to be here, for once, when she's genuine again, maybe for the first time in years, even if it was because she couldn't help it ; he has to do something with it.

mouth opens, then closes again.

opens.

"it's okay." wow, that's the best he had. what's he trying to say is okay? kinda. . . everything. "i mean, sure, i want you to be happy, but. . . " more than anything, in fact. the smiling, confident hortensia——star of the show everywhere she went in school, crowds around her all the time while she showed off the latest new addition to her look. was that really gone for good?

Her face is still buried in the sheets, and she isn't looking at him when he says it- it's okay- but the words still land. They slide under her guard like fog under a doorframe, quiet and difficult to refute.

She doesn't know if it's okay, not really. But hearing it out loud, like that, feels unfairly kind.

There's a rustle, movement. She peeks one eye open just in time to catch Rosado bumping around the dark like a particularly cute ghost, and even through the clogged sinuses and heat of her face, something about it makes her laugh. Barely- a wet, wheezy thing that immediately makes her wince. She squeezes her eyes shut again and groans, muffled.

"Ughhhh, don't look at me like this," she whines. "I'm disgusting. You're gonna ruin your whole aesthetic just be being near me..."

Not that she moves away.

She hears the crinkle of paper before she feels the bed shift again. Her eyes open fully this time, red-rimmed and still glossy, and when she sees what he's holding out, her breath catches all over again. It's stupid. It's stupid, it's one chocolate orange wrapped in parchment, but the shape of it sends something else prickling behind her eyes.

She stares at it for a long moment before sitting up slowly, blanket still wrapped around her like armor. Her fingers are unsteady as they reach out to take it from his hands.

"...'course you'd remember," she says, voice thready. She presses her lips together. It's not even a question. He did remember. Of course he did.

She runs her thumb across the parchment, slow. The edges are an eensy bit crushed- likely from all the jostling in his bag, what with being on the road- but it still holds its shape.

"Let's share it," she says softly. "I- c-cause you're my retainer, can you open it? If I do it, I'll start crying again, and that's just..." She scrunches her nose. "Too many liquids."

Another small laugh. Then, after a pause, quieter: "Thanks. For... not leaving."

She doesn't say "for coming back" again. She's said it too many times already, and if she says it again, she might cry for an entirely different reason. Instead, she nudges her knee against his under the blanket. "You're, like... a really good friend. You know?"

She's not going to kill herself over it- Hortensia knows her life is worth its weight in gold, and it is not hers to spend- but she is going to give it the ol' academy try. Particularly if the Academy itself (or the Church, speaking through it) pushes her towards the idea. Be nice to them! they had more or less cooed, sending her and her classmates on the way. Get to know them! It's the neighborly thing.

Like Hortensia knows how to talk to neighbors. In her experience, neighbors have meant: war, or trade. She came to this place with the sole purpose of learning how to do otherwise, and look where this has gotten her.

But she doesn't mind. Start small, yes, okay. The day-to-day pieces of a village are nice, and even if the cloying crevices and lack of sunlight remind her all too much of the horrid catacombs she had found herself lost within just a few months prior, its still decidedly not that. People are here by at least some choice of their own rather than torturous necessity, and-

"Lapis!" Hortensia swings her arms around the girl's waist for the second time that morning. Yes, the also-pink girl was here, too, and a persistent enough presence that Hortensia has held conversation with her several times during her stay here. In fact, they had helped each other just a few hours prior, tackling a particularly annoying task.

"What'd you have for lunch! I've been sampling the different cuisines here and- okay, maybe cuisine is a strong word. Food. It's regional!" She clasps her hands together, humming as she looks upwards. "They were these lovely little orange scones, and if you haven't tried them yet, I'd really recommend..."

She trails off, taking stock of Lapis' appearance. It is... well. Not any less disheveled than it had been the last time she saw her, to say the very least.

"Lapis," she says in the same sweet tone. "You did have lunch, right?"

So Lapis won't tell the truth. 

“ Oh, yeah! I had a li'l something. Got myself a bit of bread to munch on. Carbs are the best! ”

Sweet tone for sweet tone. No use making the princess worry, and really, she hadn't even noticed how much time had gone by since. There were a few things she'd been curious about as she was passing but—

GRRRRRRRRRRRRROWL...

Her stomach growls. Hortensia frowns.

It isn’t that deep: Hortensia is well aware that she will keep her smile on her face regardless of how it is she actually feels, but it still takes her back a touch to see the same tactic employed back at her. She blinks, looks down at Lapis’ stomach and back again, and pouts deeply.

“Come onnnn Lapis! Everyone knows good meals beget good humors.“ She fans her own face with a sigh. “And if your stomach had growled in front of anyone except for me? Eek! They’d totally get the wrong impression, and think you were an uncute fool that can’t keep track of mealtimes!”

That's the first thing out of her mouth, bright and bold and so overcompensating it might as well have been shouted from the Somniel's rooftops. Her voice has the cadence of daring, as if coaxing Diamant into challenging her claim, even if he just praised her.

But her arms are careful, and her hands are even more so. Rocking gently, repeating that same motion as though her body's picked it up while her mind races to catch up.

"Though," she says, quieter now- casually, like she's trying to downplay something, "I guess it's kinda nice? Not that I'd ever-" want one, is the finished sentence, but she hesitates. Would her wanting matter? If Ivy was too busy for this sort of thing, then continuing the royal bloodline would be delegated to-

The doll's head shifts against her shoulder. She adjusts.

"It's just a lot of responsibility," she continues on without tripping. "You've got to be the person someone trusts first. Like, before they even know what a 'you' is. You're just- there. Like some big, reliable blurry shape that knows how to make the scary noises stop."

Her voice trails into stillness, and Hortensia doesn't quite realize how absentminded her rocking has become until her fingers cramp. She adjusts once more, glancing towards Diamant and trying very hard to look unimpressed. "But not like we need all of that for a grade," she continues on. "Thank goodness! If we were flunked 'cause we didn't get some gooey emotional awakening or whatever I'd know I'd have to leave this place."

She sticks her nose up. As if she hadn't just said all that. Her nose crinkles, like the idea is somehow insulting. Her gaze drifts back to Diamant, weighing his words.

Ivy, too, was a rather excellent woman. Hyacinth... for Diamant's feelings about him, he received nothing but praise for the sort of king he was before falling into Sombron's influence. He supposed excellence ran in the family. In their values.

"Easier, hm? A difficult question..." He hums, "I suppose you could call it 'easy', in the sense that you have a clear path to follow. But what if you can't meet the expectations set for you, or it's a path you don't agree with?"

He glances at the doll, "I know it's something I've had to grapple with. Your sister, as well. It's the same for those who will come after us. It's an inevitability of the life we live, as royals. Rising above and standing out... meeting the expectations put upon you. For all our differences... we aren't so dissimilar, in that regard."

“Of course there are things I don’t agree with…” Hortensia murmurs. “But if I ruled Elusia with an iron fist and did whatever I wanted, when I only know so much of the world… that makes no sense whatsoever! That’s why I came here, right? And other people, too… probably.”

As for what she didn’t agree with: to admit it would be blasphemy, or at the very least treason. Indeed, they’re the sort of thoughts Hortensia is hardly sure if she believes in. To not believe in a country’s god as its royal…? Truly despicable. A thought she will keep close to her chest, and certainly not admit to the leader of a country she holds a gentle ease with.

“So you’re the same…” she hums. “It does make sense. Even if you don’t have the same sort of… selection process as Elusia does, the result is the same, right? Still need to lead a nation to prosperity, or… uhm.”

Another beat of silence.

“Thank you, though,” she answers finally. “If you really mean it… I think you have a good heart, too. Or at least you act like you do.”

”See, you’re getting it. Why waste all your time ruining this cloth with your experiments when we can go outside right now and make it a deep, dark red?” As usual, Griss doesn’t seem fazed by her sarcasm, but for once he doesn’t get excited about its prospects either. A languid smile curls his lips as he settles his chin on the backs of his hands, and his eyes don’t look that much sharper while he watches the princess do everything in her power to ignore him. Or, at the very least, not let him win. That’s alright by him, says his expression. He has all day.

But as it turns out, he doesn’t have to wait that long. His gaze drifts slowly upward toward her two-toned rings of hair when she finally gives up and asks for help, pointing to them as an example of what she means by “cute."

”Gave up your grudge, just like that, huh?” he prods, but nevertheless considers the color of her hair for a moment. Then his eyes drop down to the murky dye she’s mixed and he tilts his head.

"What do you get? What do you get?!" Hortensia's voice threatens to raise above angry whispers before she manages to keep her chest down. Sighing furiously, she pats down her hair. A moment or three passes before she flashes Griss with a winning smile and: "The joy of helping a princess, of course! Consider this a belated request from an employer?"

The stakes really aren't that high here. The correct response to all of this should be: rolling her eyes and walking away. If she can't dye a little piece of cloth, no one has to know. No one here even recognizes her besides the man in front of her. That anyone worthwhile would ever believe the scathing review of 'Hortensia wasn't able to dye some fabric as prettily as she wanted' would have little impact on her life as a whole.

The idea of his nagging smile with absolutely nothing to show for it, however...

"And maybe I'll owe you a favor. Does that kind of fluid response do anything for you?" Hortensia twirls a strand of her hair. "Of equal or lesser value, of course, and nothing that would harm Elusia, but... oh, what is it you even like. Pain, suuure, but I think it'd be uncomfortable for the both of us if I flogged you. Do you put on eyeshadow? I've never been able to tell- I can lend you a tin of Elusia's finest."

but nah, she couldn't. eventually she'd taken one last yawn to end them all, then flopped back and closed her eyes, leaving him to think about what she meant by ' all the time ' like that for a while. but hortensia didn't say anything else about it, and when her eyes hadn't opened again after a whole minute, he knew.

". . . well, that's okay," he'd said to himself softly, and looked down at her curled up, at the bags under her eyes that makeup did most of the job covering but still couldn't totally hide⠀(⠀tired. . . all the time, she said⠀) ,⠀the relaxed expression on her face free of stress for even just a little while. a totally authentic hortensia expression——even if it was just because she was asleep.

it felt like that was even more worth a drawing than usual.

so that's just what he did. he'd pulled out a paper and stick, quiet as he could, and. . . that's the last thing he remembers, too.

outside, the moon rises like a sickle, a sliver thin and white cutting the sky in the arc trajectory of its bonelight. there are no stars tonight, only the wind that plies with fingers, edging its splinters wherever cracks are shown. the pastel-spun fae's breathing has evened out, head slumped to one side against the bedroom wall, lost in a spectral dream amidst this darkness cast in spokes across the lifeless slats of floor——and on his lap, the abandoned stick of charcoal paints a line of star-parallel shadows across the yellowed page, precariously balanced, as though to have stolen those very missing celestial bodies from the living sky and remade them imperfect in photo negative.

whatever his dream is, it's dreamless. and there's no chance of recalling it when he suddenly wakes, sensing something changed around him. a sound, or an uneven movement ; a twitch of the shoulder next to him haloed in taffeta pink hair desaturated reminiscent in a way only an axe to the chest could be. "——'tensia?" how he'd fallen asleep and when ; these questions are forgotten in favor of turning over, unintentionally brushing the hand half-seeking his in doing so, and in doing so tangling with it, fingers clumsily through freshly-lain nails in acrylics, unspeakably relieved——and irrationally——to feel it still warm.

she's awake.

But like everything, Rosado is firm, both in word and in action as she feels his presence besides her. If there was anything that that whole portrait nonsense had taught her- besides the character development she had gotten, of course- it was that Rosado was reluctant to take no for an answer, if he thought it was for the best.

A sigh escapes her as she comes to proper wakefulness, dredging open eyelids caked with dried tears. Another small grossness that came from being sad, yuck. “Ahh… sorry, ‘sado,” she says, and even if there is strain in her voice, she takes the time to bop her head. “S’ just a nightmare. I’m not, like, hurt o-or anything…”

Even as she speaks, a hiccup escapes her, and she’s catching herself. If this was- perhaps, maybe, a scenario where she dozed off at some meeting or other and woke herself up with a startle, this wouldn’t be a problem. To be upright and cute for anyone at notice was a muscle she had trained well, after all. Whether it for an opponent, a citizen- should a princess be seen as unsightly, or unhappy, that destroys their whole point. To be cute and pleasant to look at is to uphold the spirits of those around you.

Of course, that was a theoretical. In public, at meeting. This is the small of her room, with Rosado by her side, and she is without her makeup and very tired. Any attempts to calm herself are squashed by a what’s the point?, and then further by the darkness surrounding her. So it is little wonder what comes next.

It’s a failure of her face, of her chin crumpling and her eyes pinching. She holds two hands to her face and tries to curl up into them, not to hide from Rosado, per se, but rather to keep the appearance in.

“Uhm, sorry,” she mumbles through her teeth for the second time. “I- sorry, ‘sado. I… I thought since it was o-over, I wasn’t upset… it was just a dream. It really was just a dream, and y-you’re here, and he’s- dad’s a-already-”

It’s that train of thought that seems to tip her over the edge, that has her careening into a river of snot and tears that stain the sheet below her. Even in the state she’s in, she’s awareness enough to be embarrassed by it, throwing her face into the mess as if to contain it. Quickly, it is smothered: choked up alongside every other feeling Hortensia has managed to swallow since the catacombs.

“I just don’t want it to end,” she mumbles when she’s caught her breath enough. “So many people died. That lady brought them back, but still- so many died. And then she died. All of this could be lost so easily, so I should cherish it, be happy with what I have- I’m so happy that you came back! And yet…” 

Another pathetic wail.“Isn’t it frustrating? I can put in all the practice I want to smile nicely and think happy thoughts, but I go to sleep and it doesn’t matter. I don’t want to remember things like that. I spent so long looking back and trying to bring him— trying to stay in happy memories again, and now I stop, and for what?” A small hiccup. “I just wanna be happy with y-you, and with Goldmary, and with I-Ivy… why can’t I? Everything else is over. Wh-why can’t I…”

The need to keep up the illusion to those who look to you. The need to play nice with others or risk breaking a fragile peace. The need to look a certain way to appeal to how others feel about you.

The need to be present for others, a need that eventually one day leads to a conflicting need to be alone if one goes too far.

“ You're very cute, ”  he says, figuring it's likely the word she'd want to hear over what he would have reached for (i.e. stylish, pretty, bold) and proving inadvertently the very thing she had been complaining about— the need to serve. But this boat trip has always been more for her than it ever has been for him.

There is a time to be alone, and there are times to hear the people's sorrows. This, to Leif, is the latter.

“ But if I had to pick, I'd rather you show yourself like this. I want to hear people tell me truths. But I feel that way because I know how much we need lies. ”

Him included.

Hortensia's fingers graze over the lanterns scattered across the water nearby, and she seems to find some modicum of peace through it. He watches as she does so, responding to her comments as they come.

“ This is the first time I've been to a ball that's had these kinds of lanterns. Most times, they're indoors, ”  Leif explains.  “ I grew up near the ocean, but we didn't make big plans for festivals using the ocean. There were pirates in our seas, so if you tried to set a date, there wasn't any guarantee that a pirate wouldn't ruin it. ”

Everything was more spontaneous. It was easier to swim or fish and then retreat at the first sign of danger. 

“ We kept our wishes and our treasures hidden close to our hearts. ”  Leif reaches to brush a strand of hair in Hortensia's face, tucking it behind her ear. When he brings his hand back away from it, he reveals a sleight of hand trick, manifesting one of the pearls off of his bracelet and instead pinching it between his index finger and thumb.  “ Anything we had to give, we'd give to each other instead of sending out to be lost. Like this. ”

He hands it to Hortensia then. 

And maybe its just that, too, but- if this Leif is anything like the Emblem she was once acquainted with, then Hortensia knew how reluctant he was to say exactly what she wanted, even when she asked outright. To be told so now, amid worries and frightful awareness that she was sweaty and the bottoms of her skirts sea-stained, was… nice, yes. It was nice.

“I don’t lie to you,” she says suddenly. “I’m very truthfully cute. I-” She thinks of the times she’s asked Emblem Leif of one thing while wanting another, rephrases her thoughts. “I… wouldn’t call it lying anyhow. Just ‘cause I’m purposeful in how I present myself, or polite about how I phrase things, doesn’t mean I’m not being sincere…”

She smoothes out her skirt almost nervously. “I get that’s not what you meant, though,” she mumbles. “Sorry if that came off as strong…”

Her pout softens as Leif talks about his time by the ocean, of the pirates who ruined their seas. “That’s awful,” she gasps. “To have something so beautiful in your backyard, but unable to properly appreciate it… I’d just explode… but we’ve got the present now, ri-”

Any do-good cheery message she’d thought up on the spot to lift the mood is brushed aside with Leif’s hand on her face, tucking her hair behind her ear. She’s so startled by the motion that she’s hardly had the time to register it before the pearl is pulled out in front of her, a sparkling dot in the night. 

Hortensia takes the pearl gently, careful not to let it slip from her moistened fingers. How Leif managed to pull it off seamlessly, she couldn’t tell- but she takes the time to put the bead into her bag nonetheless, to thread onto her bracelet once she’s made it onshore.

She doesn’t respond immediately, instead pulling out her own bangle of beads and shaking one out onto the palm of her hand and giving it to Leif. There is no magic to the motion, as much as she terribly wishes there was, but the lanterns shine off of it prettily nonetheless.

“Wishes… Understanding people…” she repeats once she finally speaks. “I mean, that’s nice and all. I would definitely like that to be my wish. But my wish…” She bites her lip and for a moment, is tempted to claim otherwise. Perhaps she would, had Leif not spouted his infatuation with truthes- no, that was unfair of her.

“Ugh, I’m gonna sound so stupid after something as sweet as that, but I just wanna be liked. And have Elusia be liked, by proxy. And have Elusia flourish,” the last bit comes in a breath as she sighs, the thought escaping her. “Which, y’know. Maybe if I really cared I’d actually be back there assisting with things… but there felt like there was so little I could do. I’m not as experienced in things as I like to think I am, and I…”

She trails off, catching her mouth with her spare hand. “Eh… there I go again. Gosh! Embarrassing. I guess I keep on forgetting you’re not Emblem Leif anym… uhm. That I should be more formal! As a princess. Venting like this is really unprofessional, truthes or whatnot, yeah?”

Griss didn't like the lazy peace of it all though, splinter-like dissatisfaction making him restless ever since the return to the ruins of the monastery, but a job was a job. He'd always get a job done. Fortunately, if the kids felt like they were off on some kind of vacation, then that meant he wouldn't have to babysit them.

Of all the people to "get in good" with the locals, Griss was an odd choice. Friendliness and small talk didn't interest him much, but where he failed in philanthropy, he made up for in his ability to get information by other means. A shrewd little old nun (or former nun, as it would seem) had taken some kind of liking to him, although "like" had to be used in the loosest of ways. She'd whapped him good with her cane when she'd caught him snooping around in her garden, and that'd bought Griss' loyalty for the duration of his stay.

He was still sporting the streak of red across his shoulders from when she'd ordered him out on an errand that morning: her friend was hosting a fabric dyeing workshop and needed an extra hand or two in cleaning up the old courtyard, so naturally, being still fairly young and able-bodied, Griss was to help out on her behalf. He didn't make it easy, of course. She had to hit him three or four times before he was satisfied and agreed.

No one had shown up yet when Griss left the courtyard to hunt down a few more chairs, and he hadn't expected that to change any time soon. One half of the space was still filled with dirt and rubble from a wall that had recently collapsed, and he was trying to calculate the easiest way to clear it with the least amount of effort by the time he came back, dragging a stack of rickety wooden chairs behind him, but to his surprise, the lecture had already begun. Two of the tables on the newly-cleaned side were occupied now by two students. One of them, with candy cane hair, tensed her shoulders and burrowed her head down into the collar of her uniform, because she recognized who'd just come in. And he recognized her, too.

With a grin curling lazily across his lips, he hauled the stack of chairs off to the back wall and plucked two of them from the top. Then he dragged them over to where the princess was trying so hard to be invisible. He threw one underneath the table hard enough to make her workstation rattle when the chair's back collided with its edge, but he only smiled sweetly at her when she looked up.

That he acknowledges her is a worst-case scenario. Curses upon curses for her inability to do anything but stand out in a room- Hortensia couldn't not be cute if it killed her. Perhaps this conversation would, if she let it linger.

"From certain points of view, maybe," Hortensia huffs, her grip on self-control lessened. "I'm sure everything that isn't dyed in blood is awfully depressing to you, huh?"

Her lip juts out and her back straightens as she stares very hard at the teacher at the front of the classroom, hands only shaking a little in intense faux-concentration. Spite is a great motivator, but she much prefers the feeling when there isn't a Griss staring down her neck. Whatever, it just means she has to-

...

...unfortunately he may have a point.

To understand what was a good color seemed to be very different than making it, and putting purple and pink and blue and yellow all together was making a color that was... ugh. Yes. Dark. And depressing. She chokes back a sigh.

"Okay, genius," she tosses her hands up in the air, voice hushed for fear of encouraging him too too much, "How would one make a cute little color?" She spins an empty bowl and clear cloth towards his end of the station, brow raised. "Like, actually cute. Like this." She motions at her hair, at the bow fastened to her chest. "Pink. Or blue, or anything that gets someone with more sanity than you to smile."