Black Knight

Protest built behind his lips, still pressed shut into a tense frown for the moment, as he passed a strained glance between the office further down, then the light of the courtyard pouring in from beyond adjacent archway, and then back again. One time around stiffened his already slow pace; a second tightened the grip on his aunt's arm into a momentary squeeze. Then, rather than having a third...he looked down instead.

It was dizzying to have to do so for his aunt, rather than up from below like he remembered, only to just be thrown again by the sight of her now resting so easily against him. It barely registered as enough weight to pull his attention down in the first place, and yet the smile it wore had been enough to make the realization he had slowed to a stop slip right by.

"..."

It took less time to catch up with it than it felt to Ares, marking the moment with a hiss of breath through his nose as he picked up his feet again.

"If you collapse again," Ares replied, "I'm taking you." His firmness stressed the agreement well, along with the lack of space he was willing to allow for changes, yet it nevertheless made no resistance when changing their course. Carefully, gently, he steered them away from the hall and towards the archway she asked for, and as that better light grazed the first few inches of their faces, Ares began to wonder to himself.

She would not have called it a comfortable sound, tugging dry against her throat, unpracticed in so long, but it was a melody that her body almost remembered as well as she did the sharp planes of the face she looked up into, the bob of the apple in his throat as he spoke, the warm way his arms curled around her-

“Will you indeed? Listen to how stern you’ve become, nephew, and bold enough to threaten me.” The tease came out lightly, less of the force behind it than Lachesis might have known a lifetime ago, and it was all for the better, the emphasis of all that time had changed him, but her as well.

And they both appeared to know it.

The light of the winter sun almost warmed her fingertips as they moved into the courtyard, tables readily available for the sparse amount of people out and about, and out of instinct she flexed her fingers against the warm grip Ares kept on her arm.

“This one, here,” she directed, seating them down with no small amount of relief.

For when he sat opposite her, with the full splendor of the sunkissed halo behind his golden head, Lachesis felt the breath taken from her once more, and her throat tightened.

She smiled, reached a hand across the table to take his into hers.

“Now. From the beginning. Everything that I’ve missed, and leave nothing out. We have all the time in the world, don’t we?”

"A nurse...yes, I'm sure I do look quite..." She shook her head, cut herself off. There was no use in disparaging her current state, irritated though she was at it; he was worried enough, and it was not her job to make him worry further. 

"If it's all the same, Ares, I should like to simply take a walk. A short one, of course, I...find myself rather tired at the moment. But it would do well enough to make for the...I believe there's a courtyard just down this path, isn't there?" His hands were warm and broad, and littered with the callouses that she knew with great familiarity, that told the story of the life he must have led far greater than anything else could – she patted one of them fondly, nevertheless. 

It was the normalcy of the motion, the illusion of simply an aunt and nephew in a situation that any family might have been in – a visit to the academy, to hear about his studies. Her throat tightened, but she smiled up at him, before she dipped her head to rest against his arm. 

Protest built behind his lips, still pressed shut into a tense frown for the moment, as he passed a strained glance between the office further down, then the light of the courtyard pouring in from beyond adjacent archway, and then back again. One time around stiffened his already slow pace; a second tightened the grip on his aunt's arm into a momentary squeeze. Then, rather than having a third...he looked down instead.

It was dizzying to have to do so for his aunt, rather than up from below like he remembered, only to just be thrown again by the sight of her now resting so easily against him. It barely registered as enough weight to pull his attention down in the first place, and yet the smile it wore had been enough to make the realization he had slowed to a stop slip right by.

"..."

It took less time to catch up with it than it felt to Ares, marking the moment with a hiss of breath through his nose as he picked up his feet again.

"If you collapse again," Ares replied, "I'm taking you." His firmness stressed the unspoken agreement within well, along with the lack of space he was willing to allow for changes, yet it nevertheless made no resistance when changing their course. Carefully, gently, he steered them away from the hall and towards the archway she asked for, and as that better light grazed the first few inches of their faces, Ares began to wonder to himself.

"I'm not dying." Ares couldn't have rumbled it out any flatter, and that was his first mistake. His second was repeating himself, in a half dozen differently phrased ways:

"I've already treated the worst of it--" "The bleeding's already stanched--" "…Stop this flailing and listen--!"

Each just made them flail faster past his legs, back and forth for this and that almost straight into a table at worst on her way to the bandages, and not much else. Because as it turned out, when a bloody body spoke so calmly, or lifted its arm to rub at its temple until it began to drag down the eye, what it was saying didn't stand out as much.

So Ares turned to Leif and his staff instead with a small sigh. "Start here," he said, undoing the knots on his cloak and cravat in two swift motions that flowed from one to the other. Those fell easily enough into his arm, then onto one of the chair's while he used both of his to slip the top of his shirt down to either side of his hips.

He fell back into the seat to a fresh round of shrieks as the nurse recoiled upon the sheer number and length of wounds lining his upper body. Then came the mutterings, mostly along the lines of disbelief that he could still move, or hadn't bled out already...or had a "fancy for marking himself."

That last musing marked the turn into much more idle and fragmented ramblings, which for a half second Ares entertained breaking up with a correction about what Brands were, but for the sake of his ears ultimately decided to limit to a small grumble.

"They sound in greater need of this than me," Ares mused dryly to Leif as he offered one torn up arm to bathe in the staff's soft glow.

Destroy him, as he is trying to destroy you. 

As they do, he stumbles backward, covering his eyes from the dust that rises, though it matters little either way. It is not as though they are focused- either on his opponent or the battle, and he pulls his tome tighter to his chest, unwilling to part with it.

Mantle continues to prove itself, time and again, the injuries inflicted causing sting but nothing near what the damage should be without it. Just in case- he raises his hand to send another, weaker blast of magic where the swordsman last stood.

Ares was sure of that now, as well as its impenetrability, thoughts exhaling through his nose as an agitated huff that rode down his dust-veiled shadow. Older ones came to fill their place at the same time, borne from within throbbing muscles that finally recognized the sting of their own strength being bounced back as more familiar than he'd realized.

The lack of a big shield waving in front of his face had kept him too distracted to notice, but amidst the settling dust he saw it clearly now. This mage's frail and slight shadow was identical to the hulking fortresses of armor he faced in Jugdral. Not even Mystletainn ever managed to cut through the glow of their shield... yet he had felled them all the same in the end.

The instant Ares remembered how, at the same time another round of dim balls of magic gathered above the mage's tome, his freshly battered figure settled.

Flashes of their arc reflected off his blade as they traced down the length and closed in on its wielder, then kicked up a fresh plume of rubble upon connecting.

But when the dust cleared again, nothing but the ground would be sporting any new marks. Their target had already lunged from that spot well before they grazed that stone, broad side of his blade locked up in a double handed grip wound far behind his back.

The resulting spin it produced when he stepped back into the mage's space was plenty fierce, and lacking the restraint that had bound his last strike, yet it wasn't meant to obliterate, or cut or stab. Its sole purpose was only to launch.

Colliding with that magic shield again came with a deep 'CLONG!' that reverberated right up into his teeth, but as with the metal ones in Jugdral, nothing was keeping either bolted to the earth. His full and unfettered strength tossed both with ease, working in tandem with gravity to do the brunt of the damage for him.

Ares wasn't looking for any damage on the outside though. He knew, upon crashing back down from any height, that there would be none to see. It was what was inside that he was counting on, breaking into a casual jog in search of a closer look at other various hints the body might offer. Wobbling legs or stumbling gait. Harder breaths or dilated eyes.

Anything that might betray the havoc wrought upon soft flesh slamming against the inside of its own impregnable shell.

Sometimes the armors' shields would falter just enough for an opening. Sometimes they'd simply collapse from the exhaustion before anything else.

Ares simply had to wait for one or the other, although there was also a third this time.

"Are you sane yet?" Ares called after the mage, pace trickling from a jog to a saunter just short of where the mage landed to offer him one chance at proving so before he finished closing the remaining gap. By then, when he still saw none --

-- 'CLONG!'

He had looked down at it, baffled more than anything, aiming a pointed stare at Ares before he replied:

“ ...Alright. ” 

There was no thanks, too prideful for it but not too prideful to see the logic. Up it went, rubbed against his hair—

“ You had a sizeable hunt too though, ”  Leif recalls it now.  “ If you had left me alone, your amount could've covered most of the army if you used it smartly. ”

—and once Leif had gotten it dry enough, he shook the last bit of moisture out that he could messily, but it still wasn't enough. As the time went on to cook, Leif staying true to his word that they ought not to interfere with one another's business, the cold that had taken hold of him had transformed into something different.

Fish mostly done, with all that was left was to wait for it to broil, Leif had begun to clean up, moving forward even to wiping the excess water he had brought in trailing behind him.

But his vision had begun to blur. He had begun to move slower.

The damage had already been done.

He tossed a wave over his shoulder to gesture Leif to follow him down the downhill path, flush with deeper greens than its counterpart, while turning partway to offer Leif a small and slanted frown.

"If anyone made no sense that day, it was you." Elaboration only needed to be kept to the knowing look he exchanged with Leif, who now offered a perfect contrast to his sickly pallor Ares had centered in his mind's eye.

In just the short hours Ares had kept his attention on cooking, followed by cleaning while their combined efforts simmered in a large pot, it had utterly claimed every inch of him. So much so that when Ares finally caught sight of him again as he rounded his makeshift cleaning rag along the corner of the counter, he'd thought a starving soldier had been beckoned in by the scent. Then the familiarity of such sluggish movements had put a different face in his mind, before shorter hair and eyes too childish to belong to so noble a Lady finally put him onto the right name.

"What was in that water to slow you down like that?"

Hindsight only added to how strange it was for even a chill to grip Leif like that had, but Ares already had an inkling of it back then too.

Something that could leave that brat wobbling more than multiple battles' worth of his own vicious blows was always going to stick out to Ares. Whether a boon or bane, he was always going to seize whatever it was. This one had just happened to be with his hand, firmly grasping a fistful of the back of Leif's shirt.

"Get out," Ares had clipped, "Before you deliver your plague upon the entire army." Leif could either hobble away quietly, or take his complaints up with the single hand Ares needed to shove him across the floor. Compared to the force they were both familiar with Ares bearing against him, this would have been light, but still plenty to ignore most kinds of protest Ares estimated Leif could muster before he'd finished herding him to the kitchen threshold in one way or another.

"I'll handle the rest," Ares had said with one final shove to fully thrust him past the opened door, "just keep your distance from the others."

A kitchen door slamming firmly shut punctuated the end of Ares' stern command, yet even as its echo blew past Leif and down the stone halls, it somehow lacked the weight of the usual vitriol they exchanged.

It might be because she agreed to it as a form of favor, so her heart wasn't in it.

Maybe it was the polished and clean-cut way every motion would fall together exactly as they were meant to be.

King of Agustria she should have figured it out earlier; the only reason he is doing any of this is that he is a king.

A king that barely knew what nobility was.

"This might be a strange question."

Her voice is firm, unlike her usual timid shy squeaks.

What is she actually playing at? She wonders as she purposefully messes the steps up not letting go of his hand for a pirouette instead grasping them tighter.

It is naive and arrogant the way she antagonizes a man far above her power one seen by her land as blessed by gods.

She distantly remembers the consequences spurring his hostility could bring upon Freege but how is she supposed to turn back?

"I know those days are long long past and you where very young but-"

She cuts off still hesitates acting frantic is she trying to do him a favour?

Is she sacieting some hard to identify curiosity of hers?

Maybe she is just bitter and trying to hurt them both?

That would be funny.

A single exxadareted breath she lets go of his hands all pretences of dance abandoned on her side.

"When i was little i hated dancing the tutor would had me repeat those boring motions in the air tired of teaching my cousins first and unintrested in my whiny self

lets not even mention actual balls all t

He boys where taller and didnt really want to be there so they would take it out on me by being clumsy stepping on my toes and squeezing my hands too tight."

What is she even babling about?

Tonight is so strange it seems as if her brain no longer knew how to keep subjects straight.

A complete mess.

"But in those moments id always remember how i once tried to get my mother to dance when i heard some party we werent expected to attend above.

Im sorry I think what im trying to say is well it is hard to be a good ruler for that hard to define mass called the citizens of your country or duchy if you help an old lady carry things and she thanks you the happiness at helping her wont be a grand thing at least i think so it would be simply human kindness not a kings duty.

Im not making any sense am I?

It was either that or allowing the bizarre girl's sudden fit to take them both down for a tumble right in the middle, which he was sure would have collected a massive pile-up of other confused dancers for the trouble. The wave of side-eyes and snarky murmurings kicked up in their wake was still a much better alternative, among two that both still chafed him. just as much sand coating him as there were wrinkles in his scowl leveled at her.

It was lucky for him that the crowd cared more about the music than his mishaps. The moment was forgotten quick enough as they moved onto the next song and away from the sidelines, where Ares was now leveling a sharp scowl at his partner.

Such attentiveness must have been born of regret then— an earnest attempt to do right where once one was wrong. To that end, Leif knows he ought to be grateful to Lene.

Would Lene forgive him for encouraging activities like this? He never knew the dancer well and couldn't say one way or another for certain. But on one hand he wondered...

“ You're not wrong. But sometimes people need a lie to make the truth real. ”

With how she behaved, putting on a show for others as her primary job in the army, did she understand this point just as much as he did? Was it her out of anyone in Lord Seliph's army who would know if he were to say such a thing aloud to them?

“ That's the point of stories and heroes, I've been told. We do things to give people hope, and so then they pitch in because of it. We're helped by them as much as they look to us. ”

And if Lene really did understand, would she have wanted Leif to tell Ares this all?

“ That's what the Battle of the Eagle and Lion's point is this year. I feel it, ”  Leif concludes.  “ If you want me to cover for you, I will, Ares. But think on it, alright? ”

Where did Leif get on lecturing Ares? It feels odd to do so, knowing their age difference and how much Leif felt he struggled as a royal still. Perhaps he was the wrong person for this job, and perhaps a bit of this was just a little bit of a lie too.

If Leif had chosen any other word to build his argument on, it might have cast the rest of it in a light that didn't make Ares bristle when repeating it. Instead, it instantly tainted the whole foundation; spread into everything Leif added to it afterwards, and each part only heightened the discomforting feeling sparked from that first initial word, which then came to rest against his chest.

The worst part of it was this deep sense of familiarity in that pressure, but this time there was a sense of...something more. Something in the rest of Leif's logic had triggered it, a ripple of new suggestions and possibilities that brushed against the boundaries of his conscious. Things and places Ares hadn't visited in a long time, let alone never would've thought to string along the same track together, briefly stirred beneath. In the moment, Ares could only feel it as something particularly tender, and driving the reflexive disdain he felt at Leif's idea.

But before Ares could put any voice to a proper refusal, or any questions that might have helped clarify what Leif meant, the foreman's voice was booming over the both of them.

"Was the bell not loud enough for ya?!" He called, waving an arm down for Ares. "Get over here!"

The command forced their conversation to an end on the spot, and Ares' subsequent absence at Gronder Field communicated the answer well enough. All that Leif was left with from Ares for a conclusion was that single question, along with a narrowed and probing stare.

But before he can ask about it, the Black Knight's hand sneaks up on his cousin. Seliph watches the exchange unfold in confused amusement.

For his part, Seliph is willing to believe the black eye was merely a result of some unfortunate accident. He would've accepted the explanation that nothing unusual had happened during Ares' match. If not for an item falling at an inconvenient (or convenient?) time, that is.

It takes him a few seconds to register that the item in question is a frilly parasol. And apparently, it belongs to Ares. While Seliph is far too kind to laugh at his friend's misfortune, that doesn't stop him from raising his eyebrows at the man.

"By all means, explain, Ares." A smile plays on Seliph's lips as he tilts his head ever-so-slightly to the left. He gestures at the parasol, "I'm sure there's a perfectly ordinary tale involving this parasol."

He addresses his cousin next, "Don't you think so, too, prince?"

His tone is light.

And what was this about Diarmuid?! He is truly lost in this conversation now, but what he protests more is the playful mussing up of his hair, and he almost forgets in the moment that Lord Seliph still watches.

When he remembers, however, Leif pouts and shoots a glare towards the Black Knight, only slightly more serious than the man's own lighthearted attack. His pride will recover from this, but...

(He does wish it wasn't in front of Lord Seliph.)

But between them, pride might be the very thing that they cannot keep a hold on, because as Ares tries to move on and sweep aside the matter of what happened to his face, the fates are crueler, and out comes the parasol to force Ares's mouth to backpedal.

Payback time.

“ Ordinary? In the middle of a battle? ”  Leif kicks the parasol up into the air, letting it spin briefly before he catches it with the hand of his that had been wielding the staff, now fitting the two rod-like instruments together against the flat of his palm.  “ From THE Black Knight?? I don't know, Lord Seliph. ”

It's obvious Leif doesn't buy it.

"It's a sword," he huffed as he swung a hand around to snatch the parasol away. Once held above their heads, one thumb pressed against the handle-shaped hilt to flash the blade hidden inside. "All of mine were too high-grade for a mock battle such as this." His only other option was forfeiting, which was also the only thing worse than swinging this thing around.

She moved gently through the greenhouse, fingertips trailing reverently over new shoots—sweetroot, moonvine, anything that had dared to grow after the storm. These were the moments she gave herself: the spaces between the chaos, where peace felt small enough to cup in her hands. Until another kind of storm found her.

The door burst open, wind rushing in with it, dragging water and urgency across the floor. Before she could turn, before she could even think to worry, she felt it—a hand, firm and familiar, catching her shoulder like memory made flesh.

She turned, breath caught mid-word, lips parted on a question she never got to ask. She didn’t need to. Ares was standing in front of her, dark armor soaked and clinging, hair plastered to his brow, but none of it could hide him. She would have known him in a crowd of shadows. His grip was tight at first, then loosened all at once—like a tension finally given permission to fall away.

Nanna—who had spent two months weaving herself together, who had filled the empty spaces with soft words and gentle duties—exhaled.

“I’ve been… watering tomatoes. Teaching students how to bind sprains. Mending banners no one thought needed mending, until they did.” Her voice quivered, and the quiet laugh that followed was light and paper-thin, but real.

She reached for him, both hands rising without hesitation. Her fingers cupped his face gently, thumbs brushing along high cheekbones, as if he were something sacred she had nearly forgotten how to hold. “I should be asking you how you are doing,” she murmured.

“Ares, you look—” The rest didn’t come. Words would never be enough for the storm she saw behind his eyes.

"...Are you okay?"

"...I am here, you know." You needn't look at me like you've lost me.

So instead, she smiled, aching and radiant all at once. “You found me.” And then, softer, almost to herself: “You always do.”

Ares asked himself, despite already knowing the answer, then stiffened as Nanna caressed him in spite of it. To resist it would have been hurting her again, but leaning into it still felt too close to freeloading. Gratitude was best expressed by standing still in this case, even if her smile could not ease his frown.

"You brought yourself here, Nanna," Ares corrected, as firm as its volume was flagging beneath the furious patter of rainsheets on glass, "and you alone, whereas I..."

Pride for his cousin couldn't be stronger, and thus too crushing to hold his gaze on her rather than the floor.

"...I," he trailed, something he was doing a lot of whenever he mustered up the right words to strain through his teeth. "I was nowhere..." And heightening the renewed sputter of vigor behind that erratic cadence was the one unspoken word lodged in the back of his throat.

'Again'.

A word that clarified that it was not just once, not even just twice, but never different. Not just since she was last snatched away in front of him, but as far back as he could trace their relationship, down to the very first meeting. It always was she who found him.

It wouldn't do if he accidentally dropped and lost them to the waves when visibility is growing more and more limited. There are no guarantees whether the staff would even offer him a replacement, and Seliph doubts he could dive in after them.

Besides, getting back on the boat or swimming to the shore would be far too perilous for someone like him. Seliph knows the basics, of course, such as staying afloat in the water—but learning how to swim like a fish? That's been the least of his concerns when he tends to traverse on solid terrains.

"Do you suppose it will rain soon?" Tilting his head back, he observes the darkened sky. Have the clouds turned into an ominous shade of gray? He can't tell whether they are an omen of rainfall or a storm that can rock the vessel.

"It would be a shame if we all ended up soaked," Seliph muses, turning back to Ares with a wry smile tugging at his lips. "You even have a new outfit, Ares." He looks quite dashing in it, too. Seliph made that observation as soon as they found each other in the crowds of merry guests.

"Wearing the same thing twice is improper, apparently." An incredulous edge punctuated the end of that fact, leaving a small pause afterwards to wait and see if that was still a revelation to Seliph as much as it had been to him.

Ares had already guessed not though, since Seliph was wearing something new too. The other guests, now steadily fanning out in an easy single file alongside the ship's rails, were also probably the same, even if he never paid enough attention to ever notice such a thing. Or care.

he understands, but there's a longing; it contributes to both the heartbreak and this all-too-sour taste in his mouth. and because of it, seliph considered what-ifs. perhaps it wouldn't be as terrible if the seeds hadn't been planted, watered and nurtured.

if mother is here, then surely father will one day follow? sigurd of chalphy would not be a phantom on the shore, no, but a human being made of flesh and bone  ——  someone who breathes, someone who is as solid as seliph's mother back at the monastery.

those are the thoughts that lingered in the back of seliph's mind. mother did tell him to hold on to hope, after all.

"of course," he says when ares tells him to keep watch, turning his head in time to watch his friend disappear into the man-made pit.

it affords seliph a much-needed moment, no matter how long or short, to properly gather himself. with his back turned to the source of voices and growing sounds of struggle, he keeps an eye on the woods. though, for a second or two, his eyes flutter shut, accompanied by a deep breath.

seliph knows he will have to face the imposter once ares retrieves him. that's why—

a loud sound startles him as much as it startles some birds into flight. the young man sharply turns around and almost calls out to ask if everything's alright—— then nothing. the silence in the pit is seliph's companion as he takes a step closer.

it breaks into shouts and shrieks. soon enough, seliph witnesses the now-bound man land on the ground with a thud.

he stares at the head of blue hair and dirtied clothes before snapping into action at ares' voice. giving the imposter a wide breadth, grannvale's king stops by the edge and helps his friend back up. "he must've dug this hole himself, then. or... someone might have helped him."

much to his quiet relief, his voice sounds far less strained.

"i'll help you with getting him up on his horse," seliph decides with a look that speaks enough of his resolve. it's not that ares really needs the said assistance, but... he would rather do something to help.

seliph even manages a brief, reassuring smile in his friend's direction before he turns to the imposter.

he isn't rough as he rolls the man onto his stomach.

What he wanted to say could wait until they were alone again, after they were free of the thief's mewlings and pleas that he kept clinging to. He was as bad as he was to the Knights as he was to them on the trip back, no matter what threats were waved in front of his face. The only thing that became clear was that he had a script, and that he was too stupid or stubborn to drift from it, even if it would save his own skin.

It was only after the impostor failed to weasel himself free of the two Knights dragging him away that he said something new.

Ares paid it no mind at first, no matter how loudly and pathetically he whined out "OH PLEASE OH PLEASE GOOD SIRS, WON'T ANYONE HEED A WRONGED MAN'S PLIGHT?" His back remain firmly turned, content to leave that voice to fade behind him in a cell.

Things changed quickly when the man forced his head over the Knights' shoulders to add, at the top of his lungs:

"MY DEAREST FRIEND WILL BE EXPECTING ME SOON!"

Not only did it force Ares to a stop, but it was enough to halt the Knights as well. Ares was the one who seized the impostor's attention first though, using an incredulous glare he'd turned over his shoulder, and paired with a single word that dripped with venomous disdain:

A couple more passing snickers and snorts interrupted Ares' explanation again, grinding it between his teeth to yet another sudden halt that he could do nothing but roll his eyes at.

How many times that made it now he wasn't sure, no more than he was sure about how many more he had to look forward to. He only knew it was going to end up being more than what it would be if Lene's dorm was on the second rather than the first, down where the majority of prying eyes and ears milled past on their way to wherever else in the Monastery they were going. Sitting the whole complex on an elevated slab of stone without a wall in sight, it may as well have been a stage. And the free show of the day was catching glimpses of the man awkwardly shifting his weight between his legs outside a woman's door. Clutching a basket of her laundry under his arm. Flashing the world with his entire bare chest--

Another round of giggles, some distant and some closer, bubbled up just as he opened his mouth to continue, then disappeared again the moment he shot his glance sideways.

"...They're untouched," he finally continued after a fresh breath, which in turn was immediately met with another fresh round of low chuckles.

"I only opened them once, after you'd already left the washroom--"

More chuckles, plus some new whistles as well, which he now just continued talking over as he fought to keep his face straight.

"I'd thought them to be mine...until I looked, and saw your--"

This round of laughter was the loudest and most boisterous yet, and filled with a lot of "OOOH"s amidst all the other hoots and hollers that, unfortunately for the one particular boy making them this time, were too close to Ares' ear to not know exactly where they were coming from. His free hand was instantly over the other's face, without ever having to give him the satisfaction of turning to face him.

"So--" Ares continued, his words this time broken up by surprised gasps mixing with the loud rustle of a body skidding into the bushes nearby. "--I suspect both of us may have traded baskets."

A few actual sentences were swirling in the background now -- mostly surprised remarks, and one "What the hell, man?!" -- and none of which were entertained with a response by Ares in favor of continuing to talk at the door.

"Might you check?"

Ares' whisper still carried plenty of strength when he was just a chair away, side by side on an otherwise quiet afternoon in the library. As did his stare, heavy with expectancy when he pulled it away from his books but content enough to simply idle over her shoulder.

"Do you plan to go?"

"The ball?" Lene asked, a little louder than she expected too, trying her best to lower her voice as they continued to speak. "I did hear something about it. How could I miss something that important?" Lene teased, tapping her pencil against one of the open books.

She glances over at Ares "Why do you ask? Are you planning on asking me out to the ball, is that it?"

"No, I--" Ares blinked back, each time snapshotting the individual phases to a subtle but building waver in his weakened gaze, one that he nevertheless fought to steady. It might have even broken in spite of himself, had Lene's not broken first.

That it did gave Ares' time to resettle again, and if Lene would have looked back now, it would be as if it'd never needed to in the first place.

"...I meant no such thing, though I am going, and you ought to as well." Humor was nowhere to be found -- neither in his tone nor expression nor reply itself -- which ironically created its own brand of it, but the only thing he was aware of was his own earnestness. "I can't keep you as near as I promised otherwise, and it will serve both of us well as training for court besides--"

"--SHH!"