once upon a dream

It seems lonely though, knowing you’re the last of your kind. That short of any surprise survivors—unlikely at this point, he imagines—there well and truly is no one else left.

That said, the Ring Vault certainly does share the same design philosophy as most everywhere else once the guards on duty let him through. Such a massive dome for such small pedestals at its center, and the Emblem Rings set into them even smaller. One would need to practically stand right next to them to get a proper look, but doing so is understandably frowned upon; better safe than sorry no matter how respectful and well-behaved everyone might be. Kris knows that well enough as a knight himself.

The Emblem Rings may be small, intended to be worn on a person’s finger, but glancing up at the statues lining the walls–

“Prince Marth??” he blurts aloud without necessarily meaning to. Forgetting for an instant the sanctity of where he is, the presence of others come for similar reasons.

But, even without Sigurd, she still manages to find him. He is here, sculpted, right before her in this hallowed ring chamber. She could stand for hours staring up at his carved likeness wondering why exactly he was here. Deirdre knows, of course, that her husband is a hero in every sense of the word. If anyone deserves to be immortalized in a work of art, she knows it is Lord Sigurd. But why here.

She stares up at him, pondering his existence here and wanting to return home to ask him about it when she hears a startled voice that she recognizes. It seems she is not alone in her surprise at a familiar face.

A beat passes before the entirety of her words register. Right, of course it’s not just him noticing a familiar face or two here. There are enough of these larger-than-life figures that practically everyone visiting Lythos is bound to recognize at least one, and he’s yet to get a good look at the rest considering whose likeness he’d laid eyes on first thing.

“…He is my liege lord,” Kris answers simply, gaze returning to the statue in question; head tipped back to better study the replicated visage he knows like the back of his hand. “The prince of Altea, hailed by many as the Hero-King for his deeds over the span of two wars. This land is so far removed from our own that I was startled to find a statue of him here, but—”

It makes sense, doesn’t it? A hero among heroes leaving a mark on the pages of history such that he is revered even beyond the shores of his home? “I wonder what he would think if he could see this for himself,” he muses instead.

The Hero King is a grand title. Someone bearing such an epithet certainly would be revered enough to be featured in a place like this. It makes her proud to see her own lord, her beloved, standing so close to him.

As his own chocolates finished chilling, the boy steadily pushed each one out of the mould. The treats were shaped like little hearts, filled with a jam on the inside. They were supposed to be friendship chocolates, something to show his classmates his appreciation for having gotten the chance to learn with them.

However, as the topic of love kept being brought up by both the chocolatier as well as his fellow students naturally his mind began to wander. To a certain person he found himself admiring more and more..

His initial decision to make regular squares changed into hearts. A commonly liked caramel filling became a more specific flavor of Albinean berry jam.

“I wonder if he’d like these….” The boy found himself wondering, before promptly shaking his head to get rid of the thoughts- as well as the slight reddish tint that threatened to blossom on his cheeks.

And this does make a lovely excuse to get to know him. He may not be one of her own Black Eagles students but that hardly matters.

"I have never made anything like this before. Everything I learned to make growing up had to be created with ingredients I grew or foraged myself. It will be exciting to try something new."

Ashe then carefully listened to her speak as she explained her unfamiliarity with the lesson’s topic. “You grew your own food? That’s amazing!” The boy replied delightedly. “My parents used to do the same thing. You can taste the love if you grow em yourself, they always said.” He thought back to those times fondly. Times spent digging in their yard for fresh ingredients.

“But I’d be happy to help with the chocolates! I’m not exactly a master, but I know my way around a kitchen.” None of the equipment given to them had been unfamiliar. At most, their application took some getting used to, here and there.

"Let us help each other then, hm?" The heart shapes he has chosen for his chocolates do not escape her. There were other molds available. Circles, squares, shapes more suited to all of his friends. But she does not judge and she does not tease. "I am hoping to make mine for someone special, too."

“If the chocolates are for someone special, then.. do you have an idea for what kind of flavor you want to give them?” He asked with a slight tilt of his head. Briefly, he wondered who this special person could be. Surely a lady like her would have a husband or wife, right? ….would that be rude to ask?

"I thought that if I tried to make each piece completely identical on the outside, I could fill each one with a different filling. That way, we could eat them together and it would be a surprise for us both." She grins and considers whether or not to try adding liquor to any of them. Lord Sigurd might enjoy it but what if they wanted to share with Seliph? It is still difficult to think of him as old as he is now.

"You do not believe me, do you?" If he did, she does not think it would be so easy for him to laugh. She would miss his laugh.

Deirdre shudders and shrinks into herself when he asks if she has felt them. Reaching out, opening herself up to the Force around her is dangerous. Of course, that does not mean she has never done it. There have been times when the temptation, the need to feel some sort of connection, have been too strong to ignore.

"I have," she admits cautiously, eyes fixed firmly on the hand that rests at the hilt of his light saber. "It was faint once but it has grown stronger."

She grows silent as she considers his offer again, turning away from him to gaze out upon the swampy planet she has called home all eighteen years of her life. She has never known anything else. Looking out at the stars and imagining herself out there among them has only ever been a dream. But so has meeting anyone else and here she is still engaged with this Jedi.

It was that it did not matter. 

If he took a moment, if he allowed the Force to guide him and quieted his every natural instinct, Sigurd could admit that there was a spot of darkness in the middle of the galaxy, an inkstain that soaked and seeped and stained everything around it. He could even, thought it chagrined him, see the outline of that darkness shimmering behind Deirdre, even as the spoke now. 

But it did not matter. 

When he looked through eyes guided by the Force, he saw the light that suffused his every motion, he saw the radiance that seemed to vibrate from his skin, and Sigurd knew without being told - because he would not be told, it would not be acknowledged aloud - that there was something different with his connection to the Force. It was not as practiced or precise, but he felt within him the power of a sun, and when he looked at Deirdre now, there was nothing that he could imagine would not be drowned out by the light within him. 

And that included whatever Sith might come for her. 

When he reached forward this time, it was with his hand, fingers ghosting across hers until there was a tangible anchor between them, the beat of their pulses meeting in each fingertip. 

"I don't think my heart could take knowing that you are afraid – and alone," Sigurd said, and his voice dropped so soft and low that it was nearly drowned out by the croak and buzz of whatever else lived in this swamp. 

The Light shines from him into her like a lamp lit in a dark room. Deirdre wonders if, together, they might be able to chase the darkness within her out like shadows fleeing from the sun.

She looks up at him, his bright eyes twinkling down as he looks at her. He will protect her, he promises, and she believes that he can. She does not want to be alone any longer.

It does help a little knowing that Edain was there with him. As much as her husband worries about keeping her safe, she worries about him too. Edain knows how he is and Deirdre knows there is no other healer better than her dear friend. "I hope you did not need to take care of him too much. But... I do know him."

Her smile is forced but it is a relief to learn that Sigurd and Edain did not need to venture into the Aed. "You did not run into any cultists, then?" Would they have known her had she joined the expedition?

Deirdre looks at Edain's hand holding her own. A simple gesture but one that means the world to her. How many times had they held hands like this before? She has missed it terribly but it is hard to find comfort when Edain continues to speak.

"Of course. I will find something else to busy myself with."

It is not so difficult to find ways to help that pull her out of Lachesis's way. Supplies to replenish and organize, sailors to aid. She should be able to keep plenty clear of Lachesis but something keeps drawing Deirdre back to seek her out as they work.

Something seems to be bothering the Nordion woman. Deirdre knows, of course, that it could simply be her own presence. Things are strained between them at best and have been for some time now. But she still worries what if there is something more.

“Lady Deirdre. I’m quite all right.” She did not turn, but took a moment with her head down to swallow the heat that kept rising in her, and squeezed her eyes shut against the throb against her neck.

Deirdre would continue to ask - Lachesis knew that she would, or at least hoped that she would, not in particular because she wanted to hear it, but because it would have been evidence, at least, that the friend she knew was not entirely eroded down and erased by the flames of history.

Whether Lachesis felt enough herself to answer was a different story.

A groan, delicate, as a cool breeze filtered in through the window, truncated by the calls of another in greater need.

"My lady..." She frowns and stands as firmly as she can in the doorway. She has had practice convincing stubborn individuals to rest but it is far less intimidating when that individual is her own husband.

"These men are indeed ill but so are you." There is a pale pallor to Lachesis's cheeks that worries Deirdre and she did not miss the way the other woman sought out an open window for relief. "If you continue to push yourself, you will only end up joining them on a cot and I will be left to tend to you all on my own. But, if you sit down for a moment, have a glass of water yourself, and tell me what is truly troubling you, perhaps we can have you fully on your feet in no time."

She looks up at her friend, worry creasing the corners of her eyes. Deirdre cares about their charges, of course, but there is something personal about seeing Lachesis in distress. Even if the other woman ends up resenting her even more for it, she cannot simply ignore the signs that something is not right.

It makes her nervous to stand opposite him even though she knows she would never have any reason to worry with him. And it shows clearly in the way she grips so tightly to her lance.

He is kind and gentle and does not scold her mistake, instead striving to help her improve. She thinks he would make a fine professor himself if he could ever step away from his calling to knighthood.

"My instructors have warned me the same thing." Deirdre laughs but obeys, loosening her grip just a bit.

Of course, she does not need to worry about that for long when he offers her her next challenge. It feels strange to hear herself referred to as cavalry but that is something she has been working toward. She imitates his stance again and frowns slightly. The lance is naturally heavier with just one hand to grip it.

In an ideal world, he would not have seen her battle, either. She would never need enter the field of combat in any capacity, and her attentions could be to whatever she pleased: to healing or soothing, if she liked, or to avoiding the mess of it entirely. 

But that hadn't worked in the past, and it had had dire consequences not merely for her, or him, or their son. 

It had affected everyone. 

"I think that you can become more suited if you engage you shoulder," he said, instead of any of the things in his mind at that moment, demonstrating by rolling the shoulder of the arm that cradled his own lance, and the way it moved from there. "You have more strength there than elbow or wrist – those are merely to hold or guide. If you have already begun to train to be a Holy Knight, then I shouldn't see why you would not have the talent for it already." 

A quick step in, breaching the space that a more skilled combatant would have ensured with a swipe of the lance, to press his free palm to her cheek and a peck to her lips, smiling warmly. 

But he quickly returns to guiding and teaching, demonstrating with expert ease what he would like her to try. It has always impressed her how naturally he leads and inspires. She has witnessed it many times within herself but also in the hearts of others. Deirdre stands straighter, and strives to try again.

"I do not know how you do it," she admits as she thrusts her lance forward, this time with more confidence. It is one thing to train as a Holy Knight, to be recognized as such by the monastery. But it is something different entirely to ride into battle, to look her enemy in the eye and see the detail of their face as she engages in combat. No, she would much prefer remaining behind the front line.

The purple shawl, currently bunched up in his arms, give Python a strong enough hint as to the true owner of his current getup. A group of students spot him from afar at the gate for the faculty dorms and burst into laughter. He responds with the beginning of a sloppy curtsy, aborted partway through and swapped for a sarcastic salute. (And if his middle finger sticks out a bit longer than the rest in his gesture, well, he can pretend it’s a slip of the hand.)

Another little blessing he’ll take—Forsyth’s little friendship means he’s fairly sure he knows which door belongs to his target. He raps his knuckles against the wood and leans a hip against the doorframe.

“Hey, Deirdre. Long time no speak,” Python greets dryly, “Y’wouldn’t happen to be missing something, would you?”

"Did you not have anything else to wear?" She has to hold back a laugh as the absurdity of the situation begins to truly sink in. And she remembers their very first meeting. He had been dressed up then, too, the students in his class reenacting one of the worse moments of her life. "Or perhaps you are coming from another acting lesson?"

"Do you think we will see anyone fall in love tonight? I hope so. I think it would be beautiful. Magical even!"

Fall in love?

Sylvain internally scoffs at the soft-spoken words that sound over his shoulder. Sure, it would be a storybook love - something special that only happened within the pages of poetry or performances. People didn't fall in love in these situations. Lust? Absolutely.

But love? That would mean that everyone here was willing to put aside ambition, forget status. Yeah...right.

Lavender eyes grow wide as saucers and Deirdre can hear her heart break in her chest. Not because she loves him, no, quite the opposite. Her heart shatters at the mere thought of having to tell him no. She thinks about her own beloveds and what it would have done to her to be rejected by either of them.

She looks down at her feet for just a moment before raising her head to look back up at him. "I hope you can forgive me," she begins, "but I am already quite spoken for." She reaches for his hands, careful not to crush the hyacinths he holds.