#anankelotus

Grima's first order of business would be to scour every inch of the Monastery and down below. Any good tactician would map their future battlegrounds in advance, after all. It didn't take long for Grima to discover the strange lower levels of the academy. It seemed to be a place for the unwanted from what Grima could tell. She peered out from under her hood, scanning the terrain and the rooms as she flitted from area to area. Grima had kept her coat among her belongings for moments like this. Even if her uniform was required above the school surely no one would scold her for wearing a concealing cloak and hood down below it. She brushed past other residents of the area as she continued her search, committing every angle and possible escape route to her incredible memory.

It wasn't until a stranger caught her eye that she slowed down, abandoning her task for a moment. Only individuals with something to hide wore hoods, much like herself. This would be the perfect chance to start networking. So she approached carefully, her demeanor was kept unassuming as she did. She carefully removed her hood and allowed her face to be in full view.

"Hello," She began, looking down at him. She gave him a smile as she stood there looming over him. "Forgive me for approaching you so suddenly. I'm getting myself acquainted with everyone I possibly can here at the school. After all, meeting new people is important. Is it not? My name is Robin."

Grima nearly wanted to kick herself for the way she introduced herself. Being polite and cordial was easy to fake. It was the usage of her vessel's name that irked her beyond belief.

"Are you a resident down below here?"

The moment Tharja returned from the mission she locked herself away to regain her strength. Then emerged from her month of solitude to bake up a storm to keep her mind off of everything. It wasn't until she finished that she realized she had no one to really give the pies she made to. Then she had a brilliant idea. Surely Anankos was just as tired and frazzled as she was by everything. So she packed two up in a bandana to carry and started to head down to Abyss. She had found Anankos before simply by chasing after a strange feeling. Surely she could do that again. Off she went, chasing any sense of Anankos that she could.

It wasn't until she finally saw that familiar white coat that she breathed a sigh of relief. She had almost worried that she would never find the old dragon again. Anankos had told her that he was no longer a dragon in a normal sense but she couldn't shake the thought. If Tharja somehow lost herself like that she'd still consider herself human and nothing else. It was definitely more complicated for Anankos.

"Anankos," Tharja said, standing quietly in his view. She didn't want to startle the poor thing after all. They were so twitchy the last time they spoke. "You went on that mission with the rest of us. Have you been gaining your strength back after our bodies lay there for so long?"

Tharja waited a moment before holding up the bandana-tied pies. Her usual ominous way of speaking made her sound so threatening.

"... I baked these. One is Shepherd's pie. The other is Rhubarb. They're... Pies I've baked often. Here. A savory and a sweet one depending on your mood." Tharja continued to hold the pies out. She seemed so stiff and tense. Though that was normal for her. She only hoped Anankos would take them and not deny them.

Leanne feels confident, actually. Sephiran is a better dancer than he thinks, and she's adjusting to his style of movement. Surely, they can synchronize and find their groove in a way that will delight the judges and audience even more!

She takes Sephiran's hand, practically fluttering onto the stage and waving to those surrounding her before the music even starts. Oh, how her heart could burst with joy! Even the creatures composing the orchestra take note of her greeting, and she hopes it helps ease their anxiety at their newfound sentience.

The music they play lends itself well to her and Sephiran's steps. She finds herself leading, and integrates her wings in a way that does not overshadow his lack. She even lifts him into the air at a point that corresponds to the rise and fall of the music, a feat that certainly tires her but wows the judges considerably.

It is an energetic and inspired dance, something that comes more of spirit than of practice, but it shines in a way that takes the audience's breath away and earns the duo raucous applause and impressive scoring from the judge. She knew they could do it!

Style: 9, Choreography: 5, Technique: 9, Total: 23!

   Classes have concluded for the day, and truly, Serra should be in bed with the rest of her house. But there is a rumor, muttered around by students, that has piqued her curiosity. It tells of a staff, hidden deep beneath the monastery in a basement, that will grant immense magical power to its wielder. And though she shouldn’t be so foolish as to follow the whisperings of others, she’s... curious. Besides, it’s not as if she could actually get hurt. She’ll just be rummaging around a basement. The worst thing that could happen is that she gets her clothes dusty, and though that’s horrible, indeed, it’s a slim enough chance that she decides to take it. 

   There’s a door she found on her first day here, behind which are a set of stairs, leading down into the darkness. There’s just enough light from above to guide her path down into the depths, but she’s mostly forgotten to plan ahead, because in a few moments, she’ll be in the dark with no light. She stops at the base of the stairs at this realization — 

   And a strange gust of wind closes the door above with a bang!

   Ha ha! Okay! No, yeah, this was an awful idea! The staff probably isn’t even here — she’ll just get all dirty and waste her time and yes, let’s go back up the stairs now, please! 

   She’s just about to ascend when she feels eyes on her. There’s a movement, like shuffling, like footsteps, and her heart climbs into her throat. She’s frozen, with fear — the floorboards creak in protest as something comes closer, and closer—... 

"Mikoto..." His voice is weak, still tired from the ramifications of the dream that had just been escaped. If she is not real, the shattering of his heart after everything might finally crack irreparably.

"Mikoto, my love... is that really you...? I... I'm sorry... I never should have... left you and Corrin all alone... I missed you..."

the garden echoes his voice as would a catacomb.  mikoto does not hear him at first, her gaze narrow focused on the careful glide of her hands from bag to jar, and jar to basket.  seeds are cupped into her hand before being slid into the confinements of a small container.  hesitant, does her name reach her—   the jar cracks against the gravel stone beneath her.  asteria ties the thrumming of her heart into a knot, one she is forced to let sit in the back of her throat.  there is no denying her body’s tension; anankos is here.  he’s here but he can’t be.  he can’t be.  not now, at least.  the fates are not as cruel to grant him passage to her during the beginnings of her stay.  how awful must the gods of this land be to defy her wishes.

he calls her once more and, like a history that ignores and repeats itself, mikoto dares herself to flee.  mikoto’s hand reaches for asteria as she moves forward, determined to escape whatever trickery of the mind she’s found herself in,

but she stops.

the voice—   anankos’ voice, her lover’s voice—   speaks from behind her.   (   you call him a lover because he is.  because he was.  but there is an ache that you do not want to experience again.  the burden of loving someone already lost.   )   mikoto hesitates to turn, listening fully to the extent of his sorrow.  it is the same notes of melancholy that she followed from the land of askr.  and it is that reminder, the fact that she risked a life to see another, that forces her to turn around.  her lips open to speak, maybe his name or a title or a noise, but nothing leaves her.

the sight of him, hooded and weary, is enough to bring her to tears.  years have separated them and yet here he stands, almost the same as he once was when she had her retainers bring him to her bedchambers.  sick, weary, but alive.

“   anankos,   ”   mikoto whispers, hands shaking against each other.  she steps towards him once, then again, before she’s walking desperately to close the distance.   “   anankos, is this true?  do not make me mourn a ghost, be real.  be here before me.   ”   her hands rise and meet skin.  an eyelid is closed beneath her palm, the bristle of lashes settles a twitch of her fingers.  her opposite hand meets another closed eye and this time, she recoils.  not far, but her hands retract back to her chest and she shudders.

it is not from fear, and she isn’t sure how she feels about the realization.  instead, mikoto peers into anankos’ hood, stares him in the eyes as she speaks.   “   you called me here.  your voice... i heard your dream.  saw your dream.  we...   ”   and if she was there, then it was her death.  over and over and over again until his nightmares became her own.  but this is too much, too soon.  the confessions are stuck in her throat and her willpower refuses to pull them out.  mikoto steps back, narrowed eyes dark with apprehension.   “   corrin is here.  has she... has she seen you?   ”

She wears a vacant frown, but her eyes--unfeeling and unflinching--cast their gaze into his soul.

Idunn doesn’t know when she started feeling them: tremors, deep-noted rumblings. Like something ancient and massive lay sleeping beneath her very feet. For about a week at the academy, it had been something she could ignore (business is easy to distract oneself with). But now? With a slow-rolling stillness in her life, it screams at her. 

Her ankles feel as though they’ve been clawed at.

And so she went digging. Through the cover of nightfall, donning the Dark Priestess’ mantle. With footsteps all hush-hush and an ever-inquisitive nature at her side, it was only a matter of time until she found Abyss. And at its gaping maw, the presence only grew louder and more intense. It’s like smoke and flecking skin. It bears resemblance to that lonesome dream and surrounding void. It’s rotten.

Where any other dragon, full-blooded or otherwise, would’ve turned the other way and saved themselves the trouble, Idunn presses forward. She had once been in that rot. She knows its oozy smell and rancid feel better than anyone. With a soul ripped from a body, her mind was left a decaying husk...

She feels the need to extend it kindness. Just like the kindness she had drunk of, is using to learn to be whole again.

“You,” she announces, with that frown, with that smile, “I know.” 

No effort is made to disclose her identity beyond unveiling her draconic features, and those mismatched irises that tell a story of half-empty, half-full. “I know what you are. And how you feel.”

“Please, allow me to help.” 

"Come now, I won't believe you're having fun without a smile," Lene chimes, taking the gentleman's hand. She's normally wary of strange men, especially those who linger and watch her dance. There's something different about him though. His gaze seems to yearn not for her body but the freedom to dance in kind. Their eyes catch and she's left stunned and confused for a moment. Where they aquamarine or gold? Perhaps blazing red, like a bonfire that longs to burn in the open air. Regardless, they sing a symphony of loneliness, not lust, so Lene offers him her hand and twirls. "Dancing is supposed to be fun. Don't worry, the steps aren't so important."

Her own are of course poised and practiced. Lene is not a hobbyist but a professional, after all. Still, she makes a point of spininng around, skipping over the ground beneath her feet and simply frolicking. This isn't a dance class or a stage performance, merely an opportunity for the people gathered here to let their hair down and enjoy themselves.

Crimson eyes sear the image of Corrin in his mind, how much she can resemble her mother in the oddest of ways. She hardly looks a thing like Mikoto, taking more after Anankos than anything else. (And how he hates that, hates how he's cursed her to be) But he sees Mikoto in her nevertheless, even in those ruby eyes, not dimmed and tired like his, but full of hope and a lingering youth, like her mother's always had been.

He remembers Camilla's words from the dream: "I’m not the one you owe an apology to. Corrin is." Does he deserves to offer one though? After everything he's done?

He trembles, trying to swallow down his nerves. This was only his child, Mikoto's child. A child who had never known him, a regret that continues to fill him through every day. But what is he supposed to say? Perhaps he can just start with... the 'easy' things.

"Corrin... you don't know me... but... er... I knew your mother. For a... brief period of time, she and I were... lovers... she was a lovely woman... you remind me a lot of her, and I'm sorry that you couldn't have inherited only her genes... you don't deserve the weight that mine give you..."

She thinks, in the face of this hooded stranger, that there is familiarity.

It’s in his voice that she finds it the most jarring. It is only a dull echo of that horrifying voice from the corpse of the man she had once called father or the boy she had never been allowed to call brother -- only far smaller than it had been then, far more human. 

But recognition makes her recoil regardless. Her mother, he speaks of, smashing open a carefully sealed box of emotions lost to war. Corrin’s eyes flare wide, searing crimson turning rounded pupils to slits.

Anger, hatred, longing. A father’s love was one that she had only gotten to know from a stranger’s hand through a gilded cage, and a mother’s had been taken just as quickly as it had been given. Were there a world in which she had been allowed either, perhaps things would be different.

Fingers twitch at her sides, but she doesn’t move. It is all she can do to stare, to fight against ever perfectly aligning piece of a story she does not wish to understand. This stranger with the voice of an evil that she had fought a war to end, who dares to imply that they share blood.

“You’re right, I don’t know you,” her voice fights to remain steady. It is a statement, final, whether true or not. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t want this. “And I don’t think I am ready to.”

Hands tremble now, ball into fists as though to stop them. She looks away, sucks in a long breath, and turns on her heel.