𝙣𝙚𝙬 𝙖𝙜𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙣𝙚

But to say that those echoes of a distant world reflected identically here would not be true. There was difference, of course. Difference manifest in that Rafal was reborn and no longer Nil; that their Gregory too was reborn; or that Nel had perished once and was born again. Different insofar that this time their band of few was not running, and they did not fear the flames drawn tall by any other. Fleeing and fearing? Teeth curtained with passivity behind sealed lips? Far from it.

"Consider it done," he assured his other half on the cross of his arms. Braver and stronger, distanced from Nil's poverty of strength, still he understood the necessity of indirect means. Even welcomed - strangely at that - the comfort of old, ignoble habits that rang less of ineptitude and more of camaraderie. Two twins and one knight, yet ever the same footsteps. . .comfortingly reminiscent with an equivalence the heart sung to accept. His curt nod turned to that knight, offering his own path forward. "A promising avenue. On my end, there exist no shortage of sources that I may investigate as an insider within the academy's body. Those of closest proximity to Pasithee shall be my start. If any secrets exist, they will be found."

With that, one final consideration in order:

Not a trough but a peak underway. Several parts working toward it with only one yet cast in shade, her orders extended outwards and exempting herself by proxy. Nary a thing that Rafal did not miss of his other, or perhaps seeing that which no-one else did, mirror reds gazed upon their twins. Within the neutrality shaped by his sharp eyes, a voluminous if well-concealed density of concern.

"Do not neglect to avail of the same idea, sister. You too are irreplaceable, and need I remind, your life unable to be recouped a second time."

only acknowledge that architecture of absence with a nod. "the arenas, then. i agree." and to rafal, who speaks next on his plans, a similar approval. "take care you do not draw scrutiny. this church seems to be. . . fond of their secrets."

the little emperor edelgard. her skeletal axe. the wariness in her gaze as she coveted her shadows from a compendium of eyes too keen to pry them open. it is not my intention to keep secrets, she had said something once to effect, and it had come to the dragon's realization after that it must be a part of the nature of fódlan itself. it was a different manner of inborn and instinctive conditional untrust than she had been born and raised knowing, though of adjacent tenor.

red eyes shift unconsciously to her twin, as if wondering if he has in their time here perceived the same; but at the same moment, he turns the same cardinal red upon her, bold with the familial authority of concern wearing fortitude's face——and with a statement, brushes thoughts of wariness from her mind for now. she sits up a little straighter: "of course."⠀(⠀they have each their own fell pride's constitution ; on her, appreciation wears acquiescence's face.⠀)⠀a second time. . . the admonishment made into warning does not go unnoticed. her face does not falter, but a subtle gravity creeps behind her eyes, recalling——more than the cold fang of steel——the wild despair of a brother. "it will not occur a second time. i also meant to include myself."

and just as quickly is flown. "then it is decided. for now, we will rest and restore our strength." griss' condition and evident hunger notwithstanding, even the durability of dragons was susceptible to wear and stress.

"and then our work begins." 　

"You speak of her highly. If one such as myself is capable of discerning that, then your efforts to persuade her will not fail. Cling to that regard and remember its importance. The success of your path is certain to be yours."

Wary of the divide between actions good and evil, precious individual centered firmly in the eye of his mind, he could not foresee that the young man would fail; one so reflective over their heart at this juncture was already secured of their place. Another would not fall to the mistakes of Rafal's making. So sure of that potential, steps began to lead him away, deportment as confident as admired, while knowing such was not his outcome alone.

"One day you will—act with that certainty in mind." On the brink of departure, between melding into the togetherness of a crowd and standing apart as one, pallid head tilted over shoulder to impart farewell and final counsel in the same breath: "A ball is not meant to be spent on one stranger. Make the most of your time with those of your favor. We will speak again."

After that, a true egress; through that, an implicit offer; in future stead, a dragon's office would be welcome to Pelleas in all the ways it should be found agreeable.

Door ajar.

...

Without even picking up a weapon, it was a way to attempt to end the lives of those you considered your foes.

“ Have you never experienced a tariff before? You don't look that much older than me... ”  He would assume she had experienced her own fair share of life then if not more than him himself. He cannot in this moment link her to the notion of ignorance or naivete— the very things that had blinded him in years prior.  “ You didn't seem disinterested in the tour today. I'd guessed you had a motive similar to mine. ”

"you are not incorrect. i enjoy seeing the ways your kind grows and changes over time. . . "⠀which, perhaps in itself already spoils his inquiry.⠀"though personally i find your continual advancements in military construction to be of greater interest. to answer your question: i have not experienced a tariff, though i have some understanding of the concept."

when news of it would reach the ears of lythos, far removed. when she had begun, at some point, to mind such news——perhaps because it had impacted the lives of those she knew ; those who would then be gone some short years later ; those who would be followed by others.

(And he would be lying if he said he wasn't curious about testing his skill against hers...)

A faint smile twitches across his features. "I would certainly hope not. It isn't a proper spar if both parties aren't giving their all."

Though he had his own weapon on him (for he was never without it), Diamant felt it most appropriate to level the odds: training weapon against training weapon. It was not an underestimation of her skill, or her prowess as a warrior. It was merely respect for the bout.

Hand reaches for the nearest wooden sword, silence falling as he lowers it to his side, assuming his usual battle stance. Tall, proud, uncompromising—a pillar of unshaken royal confidence, as a true regent of Brodia should be.

she wonders. does he fight, too, differently from the king she had stood beside once in war? fate, if indeed it was the force to be held responsible, was a curious thing: that she might see battle alongside the face of a perished ally again, an impossibility made strangely whole by the force of entire worlds.

angle twists at the last possible instant before impact, and she traces two quick steps back to retain space between herself and his blade ;

roll ,⠀8.

bubbling mire launches from concealed palm at his feet without warning, corrosive fangs seeking their target. a feint, earlier.

"you fear our fell magic. so you will face it."

"Well, I would take Fódlan as a rather poor example of how to move forward. Given how the past is a writhing beast with hands that has grown quite fond of it's attempt to pick apart what has been built here, piece by piece." A tilt of their head, a smile riddled with mirth but slither's of an intent of genuine support snuck into the curl. "Regardless of the duration of your stay in Fódlan, do learn from it's mistakes however that looks for you."

Steps paused, a flick of their wrist to signify a change in direction. Steps resumed, a hum under their breath at her, admittedly, valid line of questioning.

"You could say I am afflicted with a strange sort of amnesia." A start, slow, cautious start of information they had not passed willingly from their lips in years. This much had been earned, for when it fell into her hands to act as judge, jury and executioner she had merely asked after what she had found relevant and left them to their shambles of peace. Respect had been garnered, a rarity, and the benefits made themself apparent under the shroud of nightfall with their loosened lips.

"Whilst there is much I know there is also...much I do not. Far, far more that I do not, if you were to compare." Nonchalant was the admission, devoid of any grievance for what was lost to them. "Whilst I am not overly sure of how much the static affected my perception, there was this sort of instinctual hunch to all things related to him."

A little shrug of their shoulders, a discreet attempt to roll out the tension that gathered hot in their nerves at breathing his being into existence.

and glaringly between it all, a silence of dragons.

a soft puff of air escapes her lips, and she wonders if these questions, like the self-perpetuating serpent, have not already answered themselves. but she has always been a creature of finality, and rested ill at ease until the proof lay etched in stone. if only this world did not guard its secrets so closely——even those inhabitants she felt should have no reason to keep its innards sealed tight did so zealously, as though to open the way to history were to invite ruin, and thus everything best kept quiet.

perhaps that was indeed the case. perhaps it was best kept quiet. for the sake of the others who walked unknowingly and without harm, for the sake of preservation of peace. in such a way, outlanders like them were only a disservice, a disturbance to that peace with their conflicting goals ; hers, foremost, to ensure no other's safety above that of her brother's and her own. she could do this by waiting passively, fending threats only as they came. but that had never been how the children of the haunt ensured their own survival, and laying still with stomach exposed whilst their enemies plot their prey does not come naturally to her still.

looking on arval now as the woodland path bends and the foliage deepens, brush and bracken now skirting her thighs, she wonders if they will be such tenuous allies forever. and knows by the acres' march of time for the answer to be no.

”Didn’t think it was gonna be such a pain in the ass though. They kept sending me from one guy to the next.”

They’d arrived at the villa without a reservation, although they’d been assured by the promoter that they’d get in as long as they could prove they were with Garreg Mach monastery. This was the way House Ordelia had hoped to thank the staff and its students for bringing foreign attention and, along with it, business to the Alliance territories. The only problem was that Griss wasn’t really faculty, and Lady Nel, although she was faculty, taught a house that didn’t technically exist. Each attendant he’d been sent to looked at him like he was crazy, even though he’d dressed up like a stuffy noble and everything, and sent him along to “someone who could help.” They never did.

So instead he’d just claimed one of the white-clothed tables himself. Swiped some signage, scribbled a name, and staked it to hold their place until he could retrieve his plus-one from outside the gates.

Griss wipes the back of his hand across his forehead as he leads her to their placement.

”I’ve been to drinking parties before—“ The fell kind, usually accompanied by some psychotropic compound, prayer, and plenty of bloodletting. “—This one can’t be that different.”

The organizers had even set out all this white. If they weren’t prepared for art, he didn’t know what they were doing it for then.

When they arrive at the table Griss had claimed (stolen? Who’s to stay), he snatches the name card from the center and tosses it aside. Then he circles around to the chair on the other end. If Lady Nel expects him to pull her chair for her, he doesn’t notice, and doesn’t think about it. Instead, he slumps down in his own seat and wastes no time pushing up the sleeves of his jacket to reveal arms as scarred as they are inked.

nevertheless, she's not oblivious to the wide-eyed looks cast their way when they arrive at the designated table. griss makes himself comfortable, and as nel pulls out the chair to take her own place, her attention drifts to two women standing nearby at the pony wall, catching their furtive glances mid-whisper. one of them averts her eyes and draws away, but the other meets her stare with unconcealed apprehension, then flicks to her companion.

with a sigh, she returns to the pressed linen tablecloth and runs a hand absently over it, pleasantly cool and silken in the heat. were it rafal, this would be par for the course, but she wonders if she ought to apologize to griss.

"you are right. enjoying a few refreshments should not be difficult."

so she eases herself into the back of the chair, still keeping a peripheral eye on their surroundings, and beneath the table folds one leg over the other to wait. in the meantime, a change of topic that today's dress brings to mind.

Deeply, through her nose, she breathes.

What a strange command, though—to be told to forget. What use would Poe be if she were permitted to let go of things so easily? Akin to a balance told to forget the weight that it holds, a frivolous and purposeless thing that implied greater purpose than it had. ...was it so unsightly, what she had bore tonight? It could be nothing else, could it? She knew above all else, after all, that devotion without reciprocity had value. That she had always been made to bleed by command of another.

(To forget might very well be impossible. Her body did not so easily forget its pursuit of those mysteries in the dark that drew her like moth to flame.)

Years she has spent honing the skills required to catch, and yet by moonlight tonight, Poe permits escape. Footsteps on stone and distant festivities outside are sounds all but forgotten as she stands stock still on display. Because she has already seized something within her grasp, even if she knows not yet the shape it holds, and were she to lose it in chase she might leave empty-handed entirely.

And so, silently, she holds it close to her chest.

(To covet is to lose what one has never had. In her garden there are seven manners of vine, and she no longer registers her ensnarement, by which ones, by how many. Those above mark the path to beat with white, but that she shambles along it only casts her black in far starker shades. Predator by daylight becomes prey by nightfall.

Will the Gods count tears fallen, or is blood the only sacrifice they take?)

"Such caution doesn't suit me the way it suits you, Nel."

In the reaffirmation of what she knows to be so, Poe re-finds tentative footing, swiftly returning what she has been afforded with a shake of the head. Paradoxically soft, yet firm.

It is only now that she has regained herself enough to take note of the way her heart hammers steadily at the walls of her chest—like prey, staring into its own undoing? Like predator, skin and bones and starved for blood? No, simply like herself. Fight or flight suits her, adrenaline is her home in a way peace never may be. Consider what? Poe is not the sort to think twice upon risk. She seeks danger out for herself; ever and ever again, she is at it at its inception.

"...the way you say it almost makes it seem as though you worry for me. I cannot fathom why—never have you done me wrong. You don't think me so frail as not to be able to keep up with you, do you?" She probes, knit brow betraying perplexity. Indeed, something about it strikes her as obviously the wrong conclusion, and that strikes something unidentifiable in her chest: apprehension? Not quite. Fear? She is not afraid, is she? Worry?

...how odd—she has long since grown used to the polarization of her own presence, but it seems that the capability to care about others' perceptions of her did still slumber somewhere deep within her, for how it stirs here on the sigh her confession elicits. How it has been stirring, as she realizes. These were the instincts others were attuned to, molded themselves by in the moment so as to keep themselves palatable. A craft she is sorely unfamiliar with. She only knows how to act the part of herself.

Even Poe knows that these are matters of reciprocity; what lies in store for her is wholly dependent on what Nel would have her be. And that is not unfamiliar to her. Never has Poe been in control of her own fate, it is only a matter of who she hands the lead to.

(Nel has stated that she is not a leader—is it selfishness, then, that Poe places her fate in Nel's hands anyway, so that she will not become unmoored?)

Another step forward follows the first, eyes subconsciously fix on a target in motion, but hands grasp at themselves for lack of anything better to do. Because normally to give chase is violent, and here it isn't; normally, to give chase is the rising action, and here, it feels drastically close to the precipice of the fall.

She takes a breath, filling in the other obvious conclusion,

"Or is it that you would not have me?"

if there was one who would stand dauntless in the face of a fell dragon's severing fangs, it would be none other.

but love is not a violent battlefield, nor the consummation poe had come here tonight hoping for. long-term companionship was a war of attrition: a murky tension of giving and taking, allowances and forbearances, of gentleness in spite of. or perhaps in inclusion of.

these were not a dragon's to ask of mankind. nor man's to ask of dragonkind. earlier, rafal had claimed, in the absence of choice, there were worse fates he could imagine than to consider the short-lived as partners. yet once again nel fell short of her brother's unwavering conviction. doubt still harbored within her breast, as beating a thing as a heart and in many ways stronger. one short slumber and generations would pass ; and she—— left only with dust and memory to age upon her scales like blight.

another sharp click of heel, and poe draws as close as the cold night will allow her to. an answer demanded: no creature of caution, as she professed, and thus no room for ambiguity. demanding not gentleness, but the fervor, or else the fang, upon either she would sooner be crucified than left to ponder at its pedestal. nel nearly admires her this ; in this way, poe is much like her twin. and the steadiness of her voice fills the remainder of her confidence and returns inert stone to its place.

as she wished.

"perhaps," comes the staid answer, the slide of black steel once more postbellum. the strength of the mage's bearing tells her enough: she is no wilting rose inviting one's misplaced guilt, and would not languish, stripped of all thorns, in the absence of it. nel gives her one more impenetrable look. "you would do best to forget your feelings for me."

and so the serpent returns to her haunt of shadow with sharp and assured stride, this time begetting neither chase nor further question.

knot by knot she unties herself from loss, and lets it rise away from her as the moon, full in its halo. what a small thing it seems to become, what a bright star at the vanishing point, watching in singular orbit until she no longer distinguishes its hue from her own—

"Heh. That is all true, even for the me you speak with today," she speaks with an air of assurance. "I won't deny any of it. I'm impressed how you were able to glean all of that despite the long separation from it, but perhaps I shouldn't be— She is me, Emblem aside." Edelgard is not an open book, closing her pages with tight locks.

Her hands fold into her lap, fingers interlaced: "I expect others not to understand me. If I wavered from that alone, I wouldn't achieve anything." There is a part of her that wonders why she is an Emblem— Despite her grand ambitions and desire to see them through at any cost, history has yet to write itself.

"the divine dragon brought it with them when they came from another world," she replies simply after a measured sip. then amends: "not our divine dragon ; a mirror, in some ways like the one i knew and in other ways not. that is the alear at this academy today."

"regardless, i am still not certain how our bracelet was able to cross worlds. . . perhaps the chaos of the war disrupted a boundary." more soberly: "or perhaps, at times i wondered if the state of our world was enough to drive even the emblems to abandon us."

Part of him wants to deny it outright — of course not — if only for his own peace of mind. For if that truly is an inalterable meaning to the idea of a date, then what does that say about his own intentions with Naesala? Truly, honestly, he hadn't even thought that far when he'd agreed to this. And yet, somehow, a vehement denial would feel like a disservice, almost like a lie. He clears his throat, if only to give himself time to think.

"I— I do believe that answer depends on those involved within the situation, though it does seem an undeniable part of most people's understanding of the word," he says. Slightly more than a hedged response, leaning on acknowledgement, and it is all that Andrei is capable of giving.

she had not even had the chance to reciprocate, she thinks as fingers uncurl around the hard edges of a teardrop-shaped crystal, then adds it with a sigh to her assortment of tokens.

perhaps if she encountered him again, she ought to apologize. her approach had been too sudden, the topic too brusque. but she had not anticipated it to elicit such a reaction ; some surprise, maybe, but such alarm. . . ? and at its conclusion, precious little closer to a clear answer. ' it depends upon those involved ' but also ' that does seem to be the common understanding '. and all she has to compare it to is. . .

eyes close. no use relying on such fraught experiences from so long ago.

should answers from others prove unforthcoming, then it appears her usual tactic is still best.

directly to the source, then. calm steps turn, the click of midnight heel drowned on polished floor by the whirlwind of food and mingle and dance, amidst all of which meandered a single point in velvet red and rose gold. the one she had accompanied to this event, and the only one who could speak truly of her intent. 　

Every word — every explanation of her purpose— is nothing short of accurate. "My intention is not to deceive." Her words are plain; static. The last thing Edelgard desires is to become another mere stain on history. She thinks of her father and the countless emperors before him. How, even as he sits on the Adrestian throne, his power is but a mere fragment of what it once was.

Nel speaks more than she does; holds an openness the budding emperor struggles with. The little girl in her holds glints of envy. There will never be a day when she can so boldly exclaim that she holds no secrets. She is not so trusting, but she cannot seek the answers she deems necessary until she does.

She sighs. ".. My behavior is only this way because it must be." She allows the conversation to flutter back onto herself, for she is the one who ushered them here in the first place. To waste time is not within her agenda even as the pages thrust themselves apart.

"it is difficult to explain. i can call it only an instinct, a pall of recognition that would need to be deliberately obscured to go unnoticed. the dragons of my world all possessed this ability, no matter the race."

or so it had seemed. she distantly recalls the first encounter with the divine dragon they had summoned to their aid in lythos, in many ways a perfect portrait of the one they had lost, yet upon closer attention lacking many of their notable traits — this very sense being one of them. upon her first transformation, the divine one had reacted with alarm. at the time, she had assumed they would have known the instant they met ; there had been no reason to believe otherwise.

"but beyond that, i am afraid i can provide you with few answers. though, i am curious. why the central church of this land collects the remains of dragons. . . " red eyes flick to edelgard's — her own — empty hand, "and fashions them into weapons to be used by man."

"where are those dragons now, if they once existed? these are the answers i seek for my own sake and that of my twin. and i cannot rest secure until i am certain."

“Uh… yeah,” comes a distracted answer. There’s the glass box with its strange, blinking innards. And there are the lonely vapor lamps, the ink-black darkness beyond their sickly rings, and the grimy tile tracked with snowmelt mud. He’s seen these things before, but they’re not things he’d just seen. Turning in a half-circle from Lady Nel, he studies the empty wall as if searching for something, then frowns. Clarity dispels the dream fog from his eyes as he tilts his head, then casts her a confused look.

”Where’s the stage?” he asks, and his rasping voice bounces sharply off the walls of the empty tunnel, breaking apart the last of the haze. “And there were people watching me—“ us? “—too. At least, I think they were people.”

Griss rubs the back of his head, then unconsciously swipes the base of his palm across his cheek to wipe away whatever tickles him there. When it comes away flecked with drying blood, he stares at it for a moment.

She did this. Expectations had sunk claws into flesh. Nothing is ever good enough for her.

With the shake of his head, he wipes it off on his robes without comment.

and what else? for a place she knows they have been traversing for some time now⠀(⠀. . . an hour? several? days? it is impossible to say.⠀)⠀it is strange for memory to be this hazy. but then, of what she does recall, their movement through it had been equally erratic, illogical, perforated with snatches of recollection that did and did not at once belong to her amid the disorientation of coming to constantly in new surroundings and varying states of disarray.

griss' hopeful suggestion brings her back to the dingy corridor, and she frowns before shaking her head. "i suspect we will not find a way out until we resolve whatever it is this place wishes for us to see." or else die in the attempt. though, for all they have been puppeted from place to place, the intent has not seemed malicious.

they are trapped here. but why? not, she guesses, to endanger their lives, but for some other purpose. the surroundings were beginning to repeat ; and, recalling griss' words about the stage and the dragon, the flaming city and the sage. . . the recollections as well.

were they recollections?

Rafal even as he leaned upon logic simultaneously regretted it. Magic had not been this Child's strongest suit. Certain inalienable spells sat within his possession, yes, but nothing so ambitious as those existing outside of of the Fell variety. Of the strains it had taken to master them, no doubt he would need rely upon the same to learn those deemed brand new. He gazed at them both warily, like a student silvered of his hairs by difficult schoolwork, or bemoaning that which lied on the horizon in the form of future, inevitable troubles. This expression did not last long, replaced for another.

'Power like a god'. How nostalgic, absorbing him one foot into an age of distant memories while another remained passably rooted within the present. Godhood was an impressive mantle indeed, but it did not preclude the shoulders beneath from their downfall. The king of an empty throne had not been impervious either. Given the counteractive tools, given enough hands, Pasithee too could be laid low from her greatness just as one certain Great Fell Dragon had once been.

"Inhuman, from what I understood. As much as any of the other creatures in that realm." Kleio; the Mother; these beings immediately came to mind within context of a flimsier reality. The glaze of remembrance that overtook within a second just as quickly passed into oblivion for sharp-eyed focus: "Those who reach power to the height of gods will trade something of equivalence or more to achieve it. For man, their humanity in example; to Fell Dragons, the Emblem bracelets and rings of painstaking collection. For others, perhaps something else."

A neutral glance at Griss. "Whatever the case, the price is great." —a privy glance toward Nel. "And overwhelming power in any scenario does not make one invincible. If Pasithee thinks herself complacent, then we will improve as she stagnates. Then she will fall."

whether or not that remained the case, two thousand years gave her insight to his other well-sought strengths: for even one deemed ❛ failure ❜ was still a child of gradlon, who learned to leverage anything within reach. "if we are fortunate," comes tacit agreement on the tail of a twin's assertion, "then that confidence may remain and serve as our advantage. however, she has already been imprisoned not once, but twice. though she is still young, her hubris has proven imperfect. she will be cautious."

"rafal, as faculty of the black eagles, you are the best equipped among us to gather information. pasithee's identity, the motive for keeping her alive, the extent of her power, and where potential weaknesses may lie." the plan of action is the same as besieging any city, or fighting a war where the enemy boasted greater power, greater numbers, greater morale. these were their inheritance from a dying world, and a method they knew well. "your eyes and ears will serve us well, and i know you to be more than capable."

"griss, our task falls to finding any and all means available. against such an opponent, variety in options will be more useful than devotion to a single strategy. if she traps us again, even the most unlikely tool may be leveraged to grant us an opening."

. . . for an imperceptible moment, authority makes room for silence. once accustomed at least to five, of which now three remain.

but the same order remains:

"do not forget that you are each of you indispensable. loss may be recovered, but lives cannot."

Perhaps a touch too honest, but Leif sees little point in lying about it. The tour had finished, and their tour guide gone along with all the others.

“ I'm interested in farming, ”  he explains.  “ My homeland has always been blessed harvest-wise, and as far as I can tell, that seems to be true. It's what made us the subject of relentless attacks.

“ But the attacks only started because the aggressors lacked the ability to grow the food they needed on their own lands. It's fine, because we can give them food, but... ”  He looks back out to the fields and the animals, to where these farmers and ranchers had made their paradise.  “ I was thinking if I could learn something from here to help them grow their own, then that'd be for the best. I can't guarantee people won't change and tariffs won't go back up again after I'm gone, but if there's a way to increase production as well as House Ordelia has... ”

nevertheless, she takes in the detailed statement, imagination shaping sketches of the situation he must be seeing. the closest she can find is what had become firene in her old world: a prospering breadbasket nation, strong in agriculture and war, uncontested in many respects. but few would have dared to attack them even for a cut of those resources. and she could not have envisioned firene being willing to share.

". . . i see. so you aim to assist another nation, though they have a history of assaulting your own." intrigue and approval slips in to a level tone, brows lifting in consideration of the little one. he looked young, but if what he claimed was true, then he possessed a generous spirit seldom seen.

"… … …"

For each step she takes, Poe watches her. Watches her intently until she disappears from sight into the crowd, a cleric guiding her through swaths of injured students, their teachers, and people come to visit them. A brief meeting between the two ends with Niamh gone and Poe with a mental note to find her again. As it always does.

(Poe would not kill her here anyway—the risk of harm to innocents would be too great. Their battles were best left for private spaces bereft of others to endanger and battlefields in which all consented to death anyway)

As though a spell is broken the girl still in her bed turns to the one who still remains with her. Far more pleasant conversation can be had without interference. She brushes off tensity of mood and questions that still linger in the air. There are more important things.

"Are you alright? Niamh can be rather underhanded—I hope she didn't do anything... untoward."

both, evidently, adept wielders of magic, both curious and withholding in their own ways. their reactions to one another spoke of parallels that could only be shaped by knowledge matched by loved ones.

though they were perhaps not twins as far as she could see, she has seldom witnessed such tells in relationships that were not somehow similar. and even this apology poe offers is the same.

what did it mean to apologize for another, if not that you knew them just as well as yourself? foregoing any shame of presumption to speak for another's actions as one would their own heart, their own hand. "your concern is appreciated, but i am not so easily bested." a faint gleam of distinction within the stony face of neutrality: "in fact, niamh and i appeared to have had the same strategy in mind, so i can find little fault with her approach."

if she is to be named underhanded, the observation seems to imply, then you may well turn your judgment likewise upon me.

"i would hear more of your relationship with her, and how you came to know one another. the two of you nearly caused quite a scene."

In every instance of ill fortune there is a lesson to be learned or an opportunity to be seized. Here, both; Poe had thought she might learn more of herself and her own limits, and instead she is allowed a glimpse into a mystifying unknown. How casually Nel reveals her familiarity with hunting and being hunted. Like it were a fact that she had been so scatterbrained as to forget. Common knowledge or universal truth.

(She could leave that be—she would never)

Already the girl has had a curiosity stoked in meeting another dragon like her, and Nel encourages it. Poe is not, never has been, and likely never would be one to leave well enough alone. Pandora's box in her hands would be opened not for want of what was inside but merely because it is her nature to reveal that which is hidden. Even if what is inside may bite her.

(She could stop her here—but how avaricious to expect reward in the wake of failure)

"...if I allow you to," She responds after a moment, stepping one step back from Nel, then two—not in the way that one makes to escape, in the way that one looks to be followed, "next time, feel free not to hold back from drawing blood, won't you?"

Said so lightly that it could be humor were it coming from anyone else's mouth. It is not. Nor is it an offer—it is an expectation. It is the gentle rubbing away of a line with the heel of a shoe, and its subsequent redrawing more favorably. Law rewritten to incentivize good work. The clear outline of due punishment for the sin of making the same mistake twice.

too late she reflects that this is dangerous. too late she acknowledges that once leaving the doomed land of her birth, she has seldom experienced the hunt since. conflict is not the same ; even ambush is not the same. always, she had nil at her side, and later, the winds, whose grounding light and humanity kept her pulse bloodless.

in spite of this, here, alone, poe had invited her to draw red.

distracted by such errant thoughts and the disquiet of her own earlier suppression without realizing, she rushes through an open grove, an unhesitating instant to taste the air commanding her left through the thick brush in the other woman's direction. shadow melds into shadow again, seamless horizon line between the midnight of the sky and the midnight moving below.

and comes again upon another grove. again, left.

and again, the moonlight spilling free to an open grove three. this time she slows, pauses enough to frown at silver pools seeming at once to congratulate and mock her arrival. this time she marks that the distant height of the canopy has not changed, and the shape of the leftmost path taunts her in mimesis. an illusion?