𝑻𝑶 𝑩𝑬 𝑭𝑹𝑬𝑬 ( from grief ).

A sailor to a lighthouse, Rajaion joins the side of his fiancee's grandfather, and doing so finds that the uproar within dissipates without, and a calm settles in his chest —— a white serenity piercing the venin purple of panic.

"Company, yes ..." And he looks about —— to scuffling children and beckoning salesmen, to merchants and haggling shoppers: to twinkling wares and gleaming goods a primal instinct beckons he hoards ( and he thinks it silly —— that dragon-hoarding in Beorc tales. Perhaps there's truth to it. )

He turns again to the White Dragon, frowning, gaze askance. "I would prefer company, but I cannot-will not ask you for coin..." The wealth of royalty had never before been a quality he wondered of, but in its absence he felt the lightness of a coinless pouch —— neither twinkling gold nor gleaming silver, and certainly no precious gems.

But that venin-like dread returns, and his frown deepens, and he casts aside his ruby gaze. Enjoy it ... His method of such now was watching the passersby —— watching the world unfold in its mundane tasks ( for nothing was so reassuring as an event-less life now ).

"I ... don't really recall," He inhales deeply, renting his eyes closed. Opening them, he blinks, and a haziness had settled in his gaze. "-I don't remember what I used to do for fun. I would wander the country but ..." Well, no soul was less fit to journey than he, and Nasir was nothing if not a wanderer.

A presses a hand to his face, wiping under his eyes, and inhales again.

Instead-

It was a fall from grace Goldoa's eldest had never deserved. Not in a thousand years. And it hurt, still, to see him suffering from what Daein's pathetic excuse of a king had done to him. How it affected him to the present day.

Don't cry, boy He doesn't say, because he doesn't dare not allow him to not shed his tears after all that has transpired. Nasir is tired himself, tired of holding it all in. But he has always been stronger, if not for himself than for those around him like Ena. Those who needed him to remain steadfast as an anchor so their sorrow wouldn't pull them under.

(And what of his own pain? It didn't matter. Not now, not when someone else needed him. Had it ever mattered? Nasir didn't know anymore. If it had, he did not remember. It would have been... so long ago.)

“Sailing,” He smiled softly, the ebb of dread ebbing out on calming waves — his grandsire-in-law was ever the gentle one with him. “I should suspect that from you … Nasir.” 

He splays a scarred hand to jingling stalls and glimmering boons, the sun cresting to high noon. “I suspect these all came by mercantile boats. I … find the Beorc interesting.”

The Hawks had their wings to pirate over boats, and the Ravens just as such — few other Laguz dared the seas, save those bold in the Dragon tribe, but they, too, were winged. 

“They are wingless … Did you, hm,” He quiets, rough fingers tugging at his sleeve’s end, biting inside his lip. “Did you ever find yourself more in favor of the boats than your wings?” 

( He knows why the question perturbs him so — that asking it invites a speculation that perhaps his grandfather preferred a Beorc custom to his tribe’s. That perhaps there were Beorc beauties he hadn’t experienced, but only the fell and fey banes were the ones gifted him. And it was something terrible to know a world could give kindness and had given you none. ) 

& ( ELFFIN. )

It had been no terrible task — the seaside shores and underbelly waves recalled of the shoreline of a place once home-called, and no love had he more than for that of his most belovéd kingdom. But there is no strength in weak bones to labor — no seaside, recollecting breeze could cool the fire of fatigue that burned in sore limbs. 

So he lumbers against one soon-hewn tree — bracing, breathing ragged, heart a-thumping ( a miraculous feat that it should beat, but to thunder as it did only yielded an ache and sore lungs … ).  Perhaps the water stand or the record-keeping had been his fated task, but he had traded it for the labor of a hardy Laguz — something he had long fallen from.

( Or, perhaps, it had been the heritage in his bones — that strength uncontended in his bones that should have aided him — that urged him to labor. To be a Black Dragon and not a measly lizard. ) 

He heaves in a breath, departing the tree he’d posted against, and stumbles on uncertain, aching feet into a visage of fair blonde and simple serenity. 

“My apologies,” He mumbles, waving his hand, but his eyes cannot find their recipient. He blinks, unfocused. “I didn’t see you there. Are you an aid here? I … think I might need some.” 

Ah! But if they were a supervisor, he’d have a hassle — no breaks! But the sway in his bones and tremble in his movement warned him a it was a chosen break or an impromptu one, and what damage it’d do to his soiled repute to collapse of exhaustion where all could see! 

& ( FLORA. )

He sits at the frail desk the establishment has provided against one wall in his room ( frail for him perhaps, his father's stature hereditary ) and the chair groans underneath him. Ink and quill await him - fresh parchment, too. But what thoughts?

This was surely a custom for the beorc - the Dragon Tribe had stones to facilitate long-reaching communication! To be resigned to pen and paper and handwriting perhaps indistinguishable to another . . . it was something daunting ( he thinks, in the way his pitiful hand shakes as it takes quill into hand and then dips quill into ink ).

He begins loose thoughts - an introductory: vague, nameless, and terribly illegible. He scraps it and begins again. An introductory- no no! A greeting. Yes, a greeting would do. The stranger didn't need to know him just yet - that was the purpose of all this!

He glances to the idle mask set on his dresser, gleaming at him, catching lanternlight ( for the sun never reached the Abyss ). It wouldn't be too unlike the recent masquerade . . . He had done just fine with that, hadn't he? Perhaps if he approached it the same way . . .

𝓣𝓸 𝓶𝔂 𝓶𝔂𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓲𝓸𝓾𝓼 𝓪𝓬𝓺𝓾𝓪𝓲𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓮 . . . Good morning! Dawn is risen and the sunlight perhaps a bit too bright for my keen eyes, but they say each day brings its own intrigue. Thus far, I've had a lovely early-morning stroll. I've filed my papers - boring, yes, but I find it rather 𝓯𝓪𝓼𝓬𝓲𝓷𝓪𝓽𝓲𝓷𝓰 - and have planned a seminar, so perhaps you could guess that I'm faculty. But I do confess, as a foreigner is oft to, that I'm not sure the workings of this game. Do you? No more of that - the both of us have duties, I'm certain. Either class or lessons or a miscellaneous pursuit. The most bountiful luck to you, friend! I await your response. -???

& ( FORSYTH ).

Deep dread filtered through the walls erected around his heart — those crumbling, falling, rubble-wrought defenses to all things wicked and terror-filling. To see such creatures and to think . . . Oh it was something terrible! — thinking! 

He huffs out a sigh, rubbing exasperatedly at his brow, his eyebrows pinched up in soft anguish. Sleep — a lovely thought! But unattainable — employment required effort. 

He sighs again, rubbing perspire from his temples and redness from tired eyes. He never used to do that — sweat. Goldoa’s aridity had honed him well for heat and blazing sun, but the venin of a madman’s serum had done in what strength would combat natural afflictions ( . . . and had collapsed all prowesses of his heritage ). 

But he erects himself, shrugging off the upper sleeves of his robes, tying them about his waist, and wipes his brow with the back of his hand. Underneath, a simple, sleeve-less shirt — cream-colored — to show stretching scars of pink. He brushes a large, willowy hand down his arms, smiling softly at their healed state, and folds his arms ( and he thinks he mimics his father in that action ). 

It is then he sees a wardsman for the creatures — green of hair and stocky — and he hurries to the stranger’s side. 

“My friend, here,” He softly says, voice a smidgen above a whisper. A slight quaver usurps the confidence he feels a bit more these days. “Allow me to help you carry these crates — utilities for these . . . Ehm.” He clears his throat, blinking. 

The word monster sat sourly on his tongue, but he smiles, waving a hand as if to dismiss the thought from the air. 

He waves his hand flippantly. "Perhaps I don't know anything about you," he says. "Perhaps it's something I've made up in my mind, you know. I feel a certain... familiarity, if I might be so bold. Maybe we've shared a dance before."

A familiarity...hm. How strange! Beyond the masks and concealing magics of the evening, Empress could sense a relation between the both of you? Yes, nothing short of strange! 

And there's that word: beorc. 

"Ah, thank you...I suppose?" You mutter, frowning behind your mask. That sort of pedestal...you don't think you like to see someone put themself on it. It sits heavy in your chest. 

"If you're interested in intrigue, might I be so bold as to remove my mask?"

Naesala doesn't wait for an answer. As he does his whole face becomes visible, and that magic which hid his more defining features (read: black wings) seems to wash over them.

A smile appears on his face — small but growing — and willowy fingers pinch at the chin’s edge of his mask, and he chuckles. 

“A king?” To wear the mantle of one’s nation, yes. He would know. Not his own — no, of course not! But King Kilvas? Yes. He had been there that day, witnessing a husk of a man released from scales by an angelic galdr. “Once. If it is past us, then I shall call you Empress.” 

It would be more fitting, wouldn’t it? 

He lifts the mask, sliding it from his face, and smiles warmly to a soul perhaps not as warm — a member of the Bird Tribe with perhaps the most nefarious repute. 

“But I would rather you not call me ‘Sir Melonman’,” He humors the raven. “Rajaion will do.” 

Because there was no grace more humane than a proper name. 

“Good evening to you, Empress of Cunning.” 

( FE10 spoilers )

      Perhaps to be a King of Daein is to be surrounded by lives that are nothing more than fleeting. This had been the fate of the two kings prior to him, had been his own fate too— the machinations of a curse forged in blood. These lights are not his subjects, never were, but they remind him keenly of how easy it is for one's life to extinguish, of how it felt to be surrounded by this on all sides in grim understanding.

That he ruled not over prosperous cities but instead a country on a cumulative death sentence.

His reflection is interrupted, the light of the lightning bugs fleeing, when a stranger accosts him. Who, he demands, and it is clear he recognizes the mantle that cloaks Pelleas's shoulders.

Who, Pelleas might ask in return, but with features such as that distinctive red mark, that dark verdant hair, that sun-kissed skin, he feels as if he can wager a guess.

“ I presume you are of Goldoa. Specifically... that you must relate to Lady Almedha, if you recognize what it is I'm wearing. But that you weren't present for my coronation... for when she found me. ”

He'd be blind to not notice the discontent in that countenance, bleeding into that wavering voice— accusatory but riddled with emotion just as the woman who called him her son had been.

He had to tell himself to be strong in front of her when their end had come. He tells himself this here now too.

A yearning to refute it — the very notion, the very origin of all disasters to follow thereafter — rises to the tongue, but he bites it, withholds it, cages it like the rabid creatures those words of his have become ( those broken tools of relations, lost to something dreadful as a poison in hardy veins ).

The frail feather lifts on loose wind, and bones aflame snatch it from the air — it is haply his vendetta that he claims what he mustn’t, but the flame of ire and the might of his kin has been stripped from him, and he can but glower upon the hanging words.

‘ Fourteenth king of Daein ‘ …

“That is not for you to know,” He bites, clutching at his beating chest — a miracle that it beats ; a terror that it beats so hastily — so far from his control ( but when last had something been his own to command as fit ? ) “Goddess, you wear his horrid face.”

The navy and the mantle, but none of the tyrant’s strength. But ghosts hid in faces passed on, and the most wretched spirit haunted the beorc’s — that madman’s spawn.

He lets free a feather, and if it should wander into the hands of his enemy’s heir, his eyes would turn blind ( for what more harm could a son do that his father had not already done to Goldoa’s eldest? )

“Stay away from me.”

So he leaves, no words left, and keeps his back guarded with a careful, pinpoint eye.

One champagne he holds together in his hand, its cracked shards all but sealed by the firm grip of the tormented prince, and the other he offers to his found company ( sought, he must confess, for rather much did he appreciate the company of his uplifting colleague ).

"I see you've done a curious thing with your hair," Rajaion muses aloud —— a much more refined look for the beorc, he ponders. "All the scruff gave you the visage of a member of the Beast Tribe." He smiles. "But I must say, customary or not for the beorc, it suits you."

And he sways his head, and long dark tresses —— left free and untied for the evening —— cascade over his shoulder. He smiles, nodding there.

"There's much autonomy in the control of one's hair," He hums. "I've mulled over cutting mine since ... well, some events," And he shines a hopeful, concealing smile ( for none save those there that day need know anything more of those events ). "But I'm rather concerned to —— early balding, it ..." He chuckles, shaking his head. "If you've seen a towering laguz here —— stoic beyond the stony will of any god or goddess —— then you've seen my bald father. I don't think bald would suit me."

He waves his glass, chuckling a quiet sound. "As the beorc say, I'm making my rounds. Enjoy your evening —— I couldn't go without commending a positive change."

Though still very much troubled by previous events, Lambert had been making efforts to at least regain some composure and not concern others about it- not only because he didn’t wish to distress any of the students and his colleagues…but because he also figured it would do him good to try to get his mind somewhere else. Yes, all of it would come crashing down later. It was a given. But for the time being he could afford to focus elsewhere.

Even more with the company of some fellow friends, such as the moment he spotted Rajaion approaching. Lambert received his friend with a smile, grabbing the offered drink and thanking him with a nod. “Beast Tribe and...beorc...I assume those are terms from your homeland, as they are unfamiliar to me…but I am very interested in knowing what those two mean, if you could explain.” He knew Rajaion hailed from a faraway land, and the idea was honestly exciting. Lambert did wish to know what those other continents beyond Fódlan’s borders had to offer.

He did appreciate the compliment, however. “Ahaha, thank you my friend. It was…done on pure impulse, I must admit. I simply did not wish to attend looking ragged, as this is a fine event. I must say that your hair being loose does suit you quite well, too.” He couldn’t help but think that Rajaion seemed a lot more relaxed now. It was reassuring.

But then, a sequence of…rather incredible sentences followed. At Rajaion’s fears of growing bald…Lambert couldn’t hold back a warm laugh. “Well, I do acknowledge that fear! I myself do not think going bald would suit me either…but you have so much hair on your head that I honestly do not think it will ever happen to you.” Then, he widened his eyes slightly, as if shocked for a moment. “Oh.”

His smile dims but persists, the ache in his cheeks fresh and warm, and he glances afar to glimpse the towering, gleaming head of Goldoa's prior king. What a ways they'd come. The both of them.

"He means well," He had always felt such in their bond, no matter how stoic and reserved his father had always held himself — that dragon's gateway perhaps the only one, at times, into the thoughts of his quiet father. "I can't express my gratitude in being his son — the strength he's given, despite, well," His smile dims more. "Other things — Anyways,"

Rajaion looks newly to his beorc friend, tilting his head low to meet his eye. "I'll have to explain the terms someday, but here," He unpins a white feather from his lapel, offering it between rough fingertips. "My brooch - a white feather. I want you to have it."

"It is a bit much -- the festivity," He softly speaks, hands at his back, much resembling the firm countenance of his father ( though he shouldn't know it -- not in the way he can't see himself, nor would he deign to look ). "But while the rose bushes are lovely,"

He draws nigh to the side of Goldoa's esteemed guest, bowing gently, offering a hand ( for he was always the diplomat his stern father was not ).

"--And you no doubt would know the many flowers, one evening like this is precious." He inhales, lips pursing. "One evening for the laguz can be experienced again -- our longevity permits it. But even so, as a dragon that will see many precious moments, I'd like to experience this one for its own uniqueness. Would you join me, Lord Sephiran?"

( Because he thinks his father would do it -- would seek to see a strikingly familiar soul uplifted. So Rajaion will follow as his father's son and do so ).

Ghosts haunt him in the living as well as the dead. A sacrifice he never meant to make, a person he did not manipulate, a tragedy he profited from. He remembers him, when he was more of a boy than a man. How fast time was- and how cruel.

“You are correct, of course.” He had long since lost the right to reject Rajaion, no matter how the other may not know it. He sees in him both the shadow of a child and the shadow of a friend, both irreversibly changed. Such was the nature of his mistakes. 

He hesitates, his hand lifted gently above the offering for a moment too long before he accepts it. “I… can only hope it is what you wish to experience and more.”

Rajaion pricks at the lapel of his attire, unpinning a feather of ivory - that precious hue of the Heron siblings. His saviors, no matter the humility or the strangeness for one Laguz to have so much say over the other. If they asked him to plant the grandest garden, he’s sure he would, for what less could - should - he give them?

“I want you to have this,” He offers firmly. “My brooch - a white feather. As thanks for the lullabies you used to sing Kurthnaga.” Then he splays a gentle hand, smiling a small, fleeting smile so foreign to his healing face. “And may I have yours? As a sign of new beginnings - I don’t want to turn backwards and walk over heel. Forwards sounds infinitely better.”

King Kilvas — he hears that one is the ebony that haunts the sky, or perhaps the ebony found most often with the ivory of the Herons ( for those angelic ones were seldom of a disposition of terrible temperament, and it is said that scoundrels, too, may blend with samaritans ).

But that king is but that: a king, and Rajaion thinks himself diplomatic with such ilk, for his father boasted formerly the crown of his people, and diplomacy had ever been his love ( or perhaps the curiosity of what may occur therein ).

"Ah, King Kilvas," Rajaion greets, and his hand tightens about the chute of his glass. "Your attire," He taps the brooch of his cloak, then the embroidery about his sleeves. "I'm rather fond of the gold. And the ebony," He smiles, but it's curt at its corners and creased against his rough face. "Well, Black Dragon favoritism, you might say."

And that was one more laguz leader spoken to, but that didn't change that there were more, and his vice cracks the glass therein. This was tiring.

...

"Well, I was merely playing the diplomat," He turns, nodding over his shoulder. "Politician to a king. Have a lovely evening."

What a curious sort.

Naesala has met Rajaion before, of course, but it was not under the best of circumstances. The memory of Dheginsea's oldest child in the arms of Nasir's granddaughter... well, it was one that Naesala does not think of often, and it is one that he is sure the dragon prince does not care to be reminded of.

He smiles instead. Does not bring up what has transpired, these two know the history better than most.: the pain inflicted upon them by beorc and their countries, the atrocities waged against them.

Perhaps in another world, they might have commiserated. It does not appear that either wish for that here, however.

"I thank you," he says, and takes the compliment regardless of the sincerity level. That doesn't matter, he does not really care. "It is good to see the king's firstborn son in attendance. I've already spent some time with Kurthnaga, his company is most appreciated. Perhaps you should dance with him, I feel as if he'd like that."

The advice is probably unwanted. Oh well.

He turns over departing heel, glimpsing the raven, and frowns. Ah, the olive branch did not reach, then, and biteful words were returned to him. 

The pride of his father claims him in that moment, and he waves at the raven’s words. 

“I have every care in the world,” He firmly states. “But you’ll have to forgive me if the …” 

Hm. If the what didn’t reach? What wasn’t seeping through the healing cracks? The sincerity? The care that bled in his bones? It was there, but it was caged in bone and blood.

“Well, interaction is … no easy task now,” He utters, pursing his lips, glancing the floor. And he sees it — the white fluff pinned to his lapel. Ah! 

“But forget that,” Rajaion dismisses. He slips the latch of one white feather from his attire, twirls it between large fingers, and joins the company of his fellow Laguz, extending the feather. “If I may show my sincerity in this, take it.” 

"I hope this is in the Heron appetite," He expresses, offering forward a silver plate of delicacies -- he hadn't much the appetite for sweets or confections, but perhaps the jovial young Heron would. "I'm not too sure how different your meals are to mine, but I would imagine the feast of a dragon different than much that the Bird Tribe would consume."

He offers a smile, though it stays hidden behind his mask. "Consider this royal diplomacy, and ... a deep thank you. For everything."

"Oh!" Leanne turns towards the Dragon prince, the company, along with the sweet scent of the pastries, bringing a grin to her lips. Taking one of the trio offered, she bites into it with practiced care. The cream within bursts with delightful sweetness, and Leanne's wings fluff behind her in contentment. "It is... very good!" she chirps.

Thank you, he says, and she knows what he speaks of, the memory of deep pain that casts a somber tone to the tune of his heart, even as he smiles for her. She and Reyson might have helped Rajaion return to this form, but she knows the journey to recovery must be far from over. (Just like with Father.)

It is that thought that draws her to action. Leaning closer, the Heron princess takes her brooch, with the black feather adorning it, and fastens it to the Dragon's clothing. Whether the feather might hold the same significance, might bring forth the same feelings of trust and safety for him as it does for her, is not the most important thing. Leanne's smile turns gentler.

"Promise me you will find joy in this evening, Prince Rajaion?" she asks in the Ancient Tongue, and while she cannot be certain he would understand her words fully, the swirling of Seid Magic around them speaks of her well-wishes in a way that she hopes he can feel all the same.

She has a dark feather — how curious for a white-winged Heron of the Bird Tribe, nothing alike to the wickedness Beroc associated with that tribe's onyx-winged members. It pulls a curious furrow to his brows and a tilted sway to his head, long loose tresses cascading over his shoulder.

"Why then," He hums, unpinning one of the white tufts from his brooch. He offers it to her, bowing softly. "I think white fits you more, Princess Leanne."

"And ... I will." In what power Ashera and Yune haven't stripped from his bones — in what strength yet remains — he will seek enjoyment on this eve. "Thank you. I'm rather curious about these Beorc customs, but I think I'll ... stay a little more alert this time. Have a wonderful evening."

A new roommate meant a potential new friend. The bright eyed dragon boy wanted to make a good first impression, which meant making sure the room looked clean and welcoming. To that end, to the best of his ability he did a little bit of decorating with whatever fabrics he could find, putting down candles with a pleasant scent and potting fresh flowers. He was especially happy about the candles. He didn’t mean to buy one, but the shopkeeper was just a young girl raising money for her chairbound father, how could he not buy one? (Though it was a little strange how it seemed as if his legs moved when Kamui left…)

A shiver spears his spine, and as he fidgets the rest of it from his bones, he erects himself properly —— the hunched posture of an Abyss-dweller subsides, and a sliver of the esteem of the mighty Black Dragons returns within, and he holds himself a smidgen higher as his hand maneuvers the knob.

( How would he do in sharing with another? It had ... been so long since he's quartered with another —— would instinct sieze his heart and will his flesh into dragon scales? Would the icy crystals of fear yield dragon's fire to his throat, and thus warp him again entirely? )

"Is this," He peeks in, smiling a smile that can't quite crinkle the eyes these days. "The room of Kamui?"

( And then, what would — could — the church do in response save for offer his head rightfully to the thralldom of shackles and iron if such were to unfold? It ... isn't a pleasant thought. )

⊱ ( Dheginsea ).

An alumna of The Officers Academy, nostalgic for her final Ethereal Ball two years ago, returns to the monastery with an attempt to recreate the miracle invention that had captured her heart those many seasons ago: the photo-artifex! She has toiled away with her light magic and has at last made a replica of the machine, allowing for her to take “photos,” magical images that capture a scene forever in physical form. She also has brought along her own version of the “artifex-box,” a booth that fits only two people but creates a string of multiple photos. Eager to test it out to see if she might have her devices ready in time for the next Ethereal Ball, she puts out a notice in the monastery’s dining hall for any willing volunteers… She promises those who do will get to keep the photos of their likenesses for free, of course!

And it is in his wait, watching as the alumna tinkers with the front of the booth, that Dheginsea feels a pin prick of a presence. One that should not be possible. And surely it wasn’t. Yet as the seconds stretched into minutes, as Dheginsea tries his best to ignore it, it does not fade away. If anything that presence grows and becomes more.. solid.

So he turns to look, to dispel what clearly cannot be there for he is dead… Dead and buried back home. Yet, as the dragon turns his eyes go wide and a cold chill run through him. Dheginsea hears nothing in that moment. Nothing but the slow and steady rhythm of his own heart beat as the world falls silent to the phantom he sees. 

His eldest son.

His dear Rajaion.

Alive…?

This could not-… How could this be…?

Unblinking and statue like, Dheginsea does not dare move lest he be seeing his eldest son in place of another- a look alike, a mere mirage- Yet, the more he stares the more his senses all but yell at him that it is his eldest. That it is Rajaion, standing there, breathing. Alive... But had Dheginsea not bared witness to his lifeless corpse? And a corpse he surely was when he had arrived home again. His dark hair turned grey and brittle. Skin thin and discolored. Cold and rigid.

Dead…

Perhaps the Goddess had- …no. No, that... She has no reason to… then…had he-

Dheginsea closes his eyes for a moment and takes a deep breath. His face morphing into something more neutral and stone like as he forcefully tries to quell his heart- his damn aching heart and the pain and regret that hid deep within it- A task that he is all too familiar with… for what else was he supposed to do with it…

...

Compelling himself to purely focus on the now. The present. He takes one step forward. Then another. And another. Slow and measured. Reaching the phantom in just a few short strides. With steely eyes squinting down at him, scrutinizing every detail of his appearance. And despite Dheginsea's current composure and appeared.. calm. His throat is locked tight, unyielding to his command. So he reaches out through their bond and echoes but one word as if to test him, to confirm if it’s really him.

But that was not all —— there were old voices: loud ones, soft ones, snake-like ones. Ones that quickened his heartbeat and ones so fractured yet familiar that, for a moment, they calmed it. But the dreadful ones always lingered —— always won; always claimed his ears at twilight and stole his calm at dawn. They kicked him with commands and trod him into the ground with threats of repercussions, but they were wholly unbearable when they were silent.

When there was nothing.

When his mind was reduced to that of livestock —— of a creature for service, a creature of thralldom: a creature thoughtless and fractured.

Teeth clench and his palms collide with his temples, and pressing murderously he winces at the beckon of his name —— it had been so calm, the voices a susurrus and not a cacophony.

Now it hurt. His father's voice —— the one that put him to sleep, the one that woke him for duties: the one that consoled and the one that commended. And it was firm and iron-like and as steadfast as it had always been, but it hurt to hear. And his chest seized as his breath halted, and altogether his eyes reddened and teeth ground together.

"Get out," He hisses, eyes squeezing shut. "Oh Goddess, get out —— it hurts!"

He's breathless and ragged the moment his mind is again his own —— that the only voice therein is his, but it is far away even to himself, and he wonders if the voice he's heard the past months is the voice of a Rajaion that has long been dead. ( Does he even have his own voice anymore? )

Perhaps Ena would like something from this marketplace, like the usual trinkets he had brought back when he was still more or less a permanent member of Goldoa and she had been young enough to still be amazed by spinning baubles. It was often easier for him to show his love through things like that anyway, even when he was so far away from his darling granddaughter.

He doesn't dare bring that idea up, doesn't dare to mention Ena's name. Instead, he folds a hand behind his back, offering his other arm to Rajaion.

"You may always tell me though, if you see something you wish to buy. Whether that be for yourself or... someone else." He keeps his words subtle, not wanting to bring undue pain to the surface. But also... he doesn't wish to see another child who is meant to be close to him slip away out of his grasp again.

(Some part of him still blames himself, for letting that reckless and hateful child of his run straight into danger while he knew that Ena hung in the balance. But that was too far in the past to worry about that now.)

A sailor to a lighthouse, Rajaion joins the side of his fiancee's grandfather, and doing so finds that the uproar within dissipates without, and a calm settles in his chest —— a white serenity piercing the venin purple of panic.

"Company, yes ..." And he looks about —— to scuffling children and beckoning salesmen, to merchants and haggling shoppers: to twinkling wares and gleaming goods a primal instinct beckons he hoards ( and he thinks it silly —— that dragon-hoarding in Beorc tales. Perhaps there's truth to it. )

He turns again to the White Dragon, frowning, gaze askance. "I would prefer company, but I cannot-will not ask you for coin..." The wealth of royalty had never before been a quality he wondered of, but in its absence he felt the lightness of a coinless pouch —— neither twinkling gold nor gleaming silver, and certainly no precious gems.

But that venin-like dread returns, and his frown deepens, and he casts aside his ruby gaze. Enjoy it ... His method of such now was watching the passersby —— watching the world unfold in its mundane tasks ( for nothing was so reassuring as an event-less life now ).

"I ... don't really recall," He inhales deeply, renting his eyes closed. Opening them, he blinks, and a haziness had settled in his gaze. "-I don't remember what I used to do for fun. I would wander the country but ..." Well, no soul was less fit to journey than he, and Nasir was nothing if not a wanderer.

A presses a hand to his face, wiping under his eyes, and inhales again.

Instead-

⊱𝐁𝐄𝐎𝐖𝐎𝐋𝐅.

( Not in the way that bones flared and flame singed his veins, and all these terrible and horrid feelings muffled his ears with the icy crystals of fear in his chest. )

But he tugged the creature along by the reins —— a horse, he thinks it is called, but Goldoa neither boasted nor needed such, and the tongue of the Beorc sat heavy upon his own.

Yet his company seemed the esteemed rider, for haste and nimbleness and all these things learned through the years guided him to mount his creature with a ruffian's grace.