If he sounds like Alfonse and speaks like Alfonse, then he's...

"...An Alfonse from another world," Sharena finally says quietly under her breath. Her grasp on his shoulders loosen, until hands slip down his arms and to her sides. Smile remains but with a tinge of poignancy. "You're a different Alfonse than mine, right?" She sighs. She got ahead of herself. That's embarrassing or as Kiran would say... cringey!

"...Well, you're still my brother, even if you were born in a whole different world!" Demeanor brightens, as Sharena clasps his hand in hers. A pause. Her shine dims into the poignancy again, when she gives him another hug, this time brief, even though she hugs him tightly. "It's been kinda lonely without you. Any version of you."

She releases him. "But, like, you gotta tell me everything about your world and your Order. What's it like? What's your Kiran like? Are they even named Kiran?"

Though he knows his sister well enough to sense a slew of feelings concealed thinly beneath her bright expression, he says nothing to pry. His own responsibility arrests him, and his hands remain by his side. Still, when she reaches up to hug him again, and he now knows better than to hesitate by questioning the how or why. Alfonse holds her closely, and lets go a second later than she does. For a long moment, he says nothing. “I’m sorry to get your hopes up.”

They part again. He cannot help but frown, slightly, before his mouth once more disciplines itself into a neutral line. His head tilts as his sister begins to question him again— though his answers are better prepared this time.

“Well, it’s much like yours, I imagine— if not more populated with Heroes.” Alfonse still had questions about that, though he reminds himself to save them for later. Few times had he entertained the possibility of worlds with much smaller armies than his own, with only a handful of Heroes assembled within their Orders. Arms cross as his thoughts venture into memories of home, drawing out fresh memories of the land he had only recently left. “The summoner is… an important ally to us, though I believe you would prefer to call them a close friend.” A hesitant half-smile tugs at the ends of his mouth, a tepid attempt at diffusing the faint tension that yet lingered between them. “They’ve solved many of our problems in ways that couldn’t have crossed my mind. Frankly, they’re the glue that keeps the Order together. The castle’s management has been formally entrusted to the summoner and the commander in my absence, but in that regard, little has changed.”

It feels, admittedly, somewhat strange to speak of them in such a way; introducing a close companion to another iteration of his sister who should know all about them. Alfonse knows nothing of her Summoner, save for the fact that they share a name with his world’s own. Were they kind? Cruel? A mystery to understand, as was his own companion? Curiosity became a ravenous pest that holed into the recesses of his thoughts. With effort, the prince dismisses it— if only temporarily.

At the inquiry after his sister, however, Alfonse pauses. He hesitates.

“Sharon is… my sister. The ‘you’ of my world.” He answers, finally. He is no stranger to other variations of his sister — or himself, for that matter — being summoned to his world, of course; though it had always been in quantifiable situations. Having such an occurrence happen beyond his homeland had been unprecedented—though not entirely difficult to acclimate to. It was quickly proving to be a delicate situation that demanded time; he fixes his gaze upon her. The other iterations of his sister had always been named ‘Sharena’; perhaps the one standing before him now was no different.

The seminar encourages everyone to make their statements bold and be able to properly argue on behalf of them, to try and become the most persuasive type of person they can be. Authority is as much as it is about leading people on the battlefield as it is about swaying today's enemy into tomorrow's friend. About winning not only the clash of blades but also the clash of minds.

He is so much less eloquent than almost everyone else in that room. But beyond his lack of eloquence, Leif knows he is much less warm than them too. Many of them put on a mask of charm and friendliness.

From what he can see, there is a distance and coldness to Alfonse despite how strongly he can hold a debate.

Eventually, one day Leif catches him after their most recent seminar and asks him point-blank,  “ What you said in today's seminar... Did you mean that?? ”

Beyond the Order of Heroes’ bustling halls and depthless libraries, The Officer’s Academy had since proven to be a needed well of erudition. When Leif, one amongst a number of familiar faces, chooses to catch him after their last seminar together, it had come as a pleasant surprise. Though they might be strangers here, Alfonse is not shy to the many contributions the other prince has made in Askr’s times of need. He greets him with a polite nod, and the beginning of their meeting is punctuated with an inquiry that goes well-received.

“Ah.” The prince allows a moment to pass before his mind supplements his reply; recollection of the subject arises, swift. “Of course.

“Learning to accept and peacefully coexist alongside those who challenge our ideals—“ his words halt for a moment as his mind plucks out the necessary parts of speech, not unhesitatingly, “—as well as our patience and understanding, is a vital and necessary skill. Especially for those of us who intend to lead.”

It had been Askr’s vision, and thus the wish of all who carried his blood well into the future. Even if it was the land’s fate to bear witness to an endless war: the scions of the dragon-god were to keep faith in an open world, one that prospered and flourished through the foundational strength of the bonds of its people. Gentleness and grace were their sole offerings to the endless unknown and unchartered; courage and resilience their unwavering defences. Both hands reaching out to the world, open and extended.

“If we refuse to open up the gates to those we believe are enemies just beyond, to us they will forever remain as they are: mere enemies at the gates.” A pause; a consideration of their shared experiences— their unique understandings as princes and kings, each. “The circumstances may always vary. But I consider it among our duties to welcome them in.”

Perhaps what was most devastating about this new life breathed in her was the awareness of her past just out of reach being flung at her moments at a time. A second chance, she had rationalized when she had awoken, but how could she carry on living when the core parts of her had withered?

“I concur.” Eyes devoid of any kind of star or gleam, nothing but smog and dust. Silence hangs between them as she chews on the inside of her cheek. “...Do you think there’s a chance… for reconsideration? A passion lit anew.” 

As the question leaves her, there seemed to be no simple means of answering. There was little passion for him in such things, when his heart was oft allayed by the thoughts of his people— his kingdom. Knowledge was an easy thing to pursue, but dance among the more difficult to rationalise. Alfonse searches Rinea’s face, as though seeking a clue for the response she wished. Only a blank stare greets him in return.

It was not an expression that suited her well, though she wore it almost naturally. He hoped that in time it might fall away. With a swift arc, Alfonse brought up his arm, and gently turned Rinea with a twirl. Their hands parted in the motion, and the ends of the prince’s mouth quirked into a half-smile. The light shone well upon her then.

It's not hard to spot him. Average height — for now, she believes he's gonna hit a growth spurt like their dad did — blue hair, and a face she's seen for her whole 18 years of her life. The second she does spot him though, Sharena leaps over the table in the dining hall, her voice echoing when she chirps: "Alfonse!!!" And then she wraps him in a hug, tighter and bigger than any other hug she's given before.

"Boy, am I glad you found me! I hope Kiran wasn't too worried. I was worried for a second I wouldn't be able to get home. How's Kiran? How's Mom? How's Commander Anna?" The next thing she says is more hushed, like a whisper, "Listen, did Kiran summon another hero while I was gone? Because if they sent them home before I was able to do my interview with them, I'll be angry!" Cheeks puff out when she says that, and eyes focus on him for an answer to whatever shenanigans Kiran has been up to.

Nothing beyond the ear-splitting, though numbingly familiar, call of his name prepares Alfonse for what comes next.

“Sha—“ She knocks all of the wind out of him in one go. “—ron?!”

Alfonse gasps, his ribs leading a fruitless revolt against the only tightening grip of his sister. One after the other, his feet stumble as he frantically searches for purchase; the ground seemed to only get dizzyingly closer. The prince barely manages to keep upright, though his arms come to wrap around his sister. It’s a weak hold, compared to hers. His mind reels; the words his mouth form are a half-step behind his thoughts, and miles behind his sister’s. “Found… have you been stuck—“

Then comes the onslaught of questions— Alfonse should have known to mentally prepare himself for the barrage.

“Kiran is fine— Mother is quite alright—“ (‘You correspond with her more than I…’ he fails to manage,) “— and the Commander fares well with her business…”

A wince. ‘Well’ was perhaps not the most adequate of words to describe Anna’s dealings, as fluctuating as they were. The Ylisse branch of the company had performed its fair share of wonders within Askr, that much was certain; still, the Order’s chronic budget deficiency demanded much more of them. With heroes bound by monetary contracts, and their numbers only increasing in recent times, it was a steadily growing cause for concern. Perhaps he should write a letter to inquire after the state of affairs in his absence… though he suspects it’s not what Sharon wishes to hear in this moment.

As he gathers his thoughts, his sister leans in— her voice is low, almost secretive. What she says next gives the prince pause.

Beyond the windows of the carriage, the verdant expanse of the Adrestian countryside streams past. The sun’s radiance weaves through clear skies overhead, and scattered hamlets pass into view before rolling out of sight. The prince rests his chin upon his hand, gazing out at the scenery. The air is crisp, gentle breeze brushing past as they move along— the scent of wheat and grass is heavy in the air, and leaves its mark.

His mother had often taken him and his sister to the countryside, a fond memory of his youth come to rise at familiar sights. Once, he might have considered such a beautiful day to be a sign of good tidings. He had long since grown out of such naivety.

“… … …”

Alfonse casts a glance towards the papers in his right hand. Gloved fingers airily flip through. He looks back to the window.

“… … …”

There are only so many times he can read the same collection of words. The sentences seem to blur together the more he skims over them, each letter conjoining, becoming the next.

“… … …”

The prince has already begun to memorise the first few lines. In the recesses of Alfonse’s mind begins his wordless recollection: A brief summary of the shared history between Eidelmere and Ashrensschau, as documented by the Adrestian Imperial Registry…

Beneath them, wooden wheels turn, occasionally disrupted by a stray rock or hole. The uniformed monotony of hooves over gravel roads had long since been reduced to an obscure buzz in his ear. It fills the carriage with a sort of ambiance, generously enough; there was little else to supplement its interior as things were. The rustle of paper cuts clean through the silence. The air settles in mere moments, and thus returns the distant hum of the carriage.

Across from him sits the general— Professor, though he is reluctant to address her so— Thrasir, pointedly silent. Their journey had been one without exchanges, a profoundly mutual agreement made for the sake of their own convenience. Within the Order of Heroes, Alfonse might have discarded his reticence; he might have been open, professional— as were the bonds of comrades, bound by the Summoner’s contract. Such things then had been sacrosanct, instrumental; there would be no Order had he not abandoned his fair share of reservations.

In Fódlan, however… no such demands were asked of him. And neither was Alfonse entirely sure of what to make of the current situation. He straightens in his seat.

“… … …”

They would not be long from their destination. Alfonse draws his eyes away from the window, setting his gaze upon the papers in his lap. It would suffice if he never had to read them again, riveting though they were on his first study. The prince inhales, taking a needle to the undisturbed surface of silence. His lips part. To sigh is beneath him.

“The report,” he speaks, finally. The prince holds the parchment up, and knows better than to expect a response. “Have you read it?”

Azure gaze glances upward. His eyes meet with a visage he knows— and one that made itself well-known to all that passed it. He raises his eyebrows. Had she been watching?

“Lady Clair.” He addresses her with the necessary respect she demands— one not unfamiliar to him in the slightest. He had long since grown used to such conduct in Askr, with its diverse roster of Heroes. The prince tilts his head, gesturing to the board before him. “Would you care for a match? My mind has been clouded as of late…”

The seat opposite of him is vacant, having left his hands to govern white’s pieces in the absence of an opponent. It had been a purposeful decision to play solely on black’s side of the board. His realm had never sought conquest; only defended itself from it. Though clad in white were his realm’s soldiers, they had never taken the first move in war.

Before Clair can afford an answer, Alfonse begins to arrange the pieces into their positions; he would have done so regardless. As White’s king and queen slotted into place, the act seemed to say: It is your move.

Though he commands the space and their steps, he does so with an unmistakable gentility and she is sure he has done this before. Of course, dancing is no stranger to her, no matter how unfamiliar the partner is. Yet for how little she knows of him, there is something familiar that pulls at the threads of her heart.  

Or perhaps it is just that. An act of kindness large enough to shatter her to pieces.

Rinea is the one who should be kissing knuckles and asking for forgiveness. As she follows his lead in time with the music, her thoughts flood with memories of her betrothed and visions of what should have been. She feels as transparent as water where the ripples are the only memory left behind.

He does not act as a prince should! Those words had seemed to disavow him. The music around them swelled at the chitter of a spring-loving insect. His ears prickled. A stiffness set in his shoulders. O’ Prince, act your part— heir to the throne, our glorious kingdom…

A murmur, perhaps a mercy, broke him from his thoughts. Alfonse straightened, almost rapt at attention. He regarded her closely, intently; miscreant curiosity warring with the politeness demanded of their fraught partnership. The music felt as though slowing to a halt. Silence sat heavy on his tongue.

“To dance is…” he chose his words slowly, carefully, “… well enough.”

Though, what does she have faith in? Perhaps the only worship she deserves to partake in is the act of kneeling beneath a forgotten deity. If this lonely chapel were to act as the sanctuary, then the distant song she hears must be a hymn, calling her name to act.

As she turns, perhaps to leave initially, her eyes catch Alfonse’s, a name she’s heard in passing only. Rinea has no intention of asking what led him here in the first place, though blue eyes flicker to the extended gloved hand. 

They are strangers in this world, after all. Rinea’s gaze is fickle, glinting like a stone skipped upon waves. There were no faults to be found in such hesitance, a guardedness he often donned himself. Eventually, it sank to his open hand.

When she finally reached for him, Alfonse stilled. Part of him had wondered if she might simply phase through. He felt the weight of her hand like an anchor, and his palm the seabed below. It was small in his own, with a grip carved in the art of dance. The prince’s eyes traced the lines upon her hand, blue-veined and white as porcelain. Her other hand sat upon its perch at his shoulder, and he lowered himself in turn. It is he who should be delicate with her, he thinks, that she might not fracture at his touch.

Rinea gazed up at him, eyes as glassy as the moon. He attempted to offer her a smile in return. Alfonse does not know if his mien wore it well.

Fables made simple tales of ghosts— elegies of the heartbroken, myths of the lingering dead. The wind whistled through half-opened windows. He stood beside her, face carefully blank. Heroes had their affects, brands of emotionality Alfonse observed well. Sapphire-eyed, smiling Rinea, of whom the prince had always kept his respect for at a distance. In Askr's halls she had never quite looked so alone. They stared ahead, eyes fixed upon the statues, though he suspected they each saw something different.

The light drew lines upon his skin, and swept into cobblestone floors. Alfonse turned, and their eyes met. He could not read her face. He did not try to. They were both of the habit to mourn, and both company in keeping secrets.

In the air hung a faint song, the sound of water over rocks. The wind howled, and softened at faith's touch. Perhaps it is pity that possesses him, if not anything more divine. No words formed on Alfonse's tongue.

Instead, the prince extends a hand to her, palm open. The moon sat obediently in his hand.

There had been a melancholy to his arrival.

In winter’s wake, there was a faint sort of despair that lingered; it marked the earth, drawing grooves in patterns of misery. What the eyes did not witness, what the voice did not speak, the land told tales in its stead. To enter another realm was to accept its divine invitation. Measured steps met with the writing of the world, heels a mouth for each unseen letter. He was a prince of a realm marred with eternal war, and he knew its stories well. The earth was warm and ripened by a peace left bleeding.

But even the sky must concede to the heavens above, and snow to the ground beneath it. The world reconciled with its hope, and with trembling hands made peace with its antecedent. An emergence of light, he considered, that tied this world’s sky to that of Askr’s. Spring set its foot upon Fódlanese soil, and it marched with all the practiced discipline of a soldier returning home.

Standing at the mouth of the stables, he is no greater witness. The novelty of new life was one that held Alfonse in abstract fascination, and one he regarded with great fondness. There had once been a time he had seen such beasts as weapons, mounts as extensions of their riders; he was quick to see the folly of that. Over the buzz of barely contained excitement, with ears tuned to the half-formed voices of baby wyverns, his heart grows soft.

Still, Alfonse knows what he is waiting for, and straightens to address the presence now beside him.

“You must be Katarina,” he greets, and present were all the due makings of a prince in his comportment. His gaze is a gentle one, enjoined with a familiarity known only to himself. He nearly lowers his eyes. “I am Alfonse, of the Blue Lions. I believe we were partnered for today’s voluntary work.”

Within the order, they had been comrades; peers in the study of strategy, members of frequent war councils. Katarina had been present in no small number of battles in the Askran cause— and to meet her again, even if so estranged from their previous circumstance, was no small pleasure on his part. His head tilts slightly towards the entrance.

“I must admit,” he begins, and for it he cannot help but feel slightly foolish, “in caring for wyverns, much less those recent from their clutch, I am… rather out of my depth. A fair warning, I suppose, before we begin. Have you any more experience?”