#contingentce

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        As rude as it is, Seliph’s gaze moves past Ares and beyond his shoulder.  The well-wishes aren’t odd, to him.  Even if Ares is often stand-offish and aloof, the odd part isn’t that he’s here to offer Seliph some kind words, it’s the fact that he’s there at all.  Surely some one informed him of the significance of the day, and it definitely wasn’t Seliph himself.  He’d been doing his utmost to prevent others from learning and even more to prevent his childhood friends from remembering the date and making a fuss out of it.

          So surely some one had informed Ares, and they were waiting for Seliph to lock eyes with them for them to giggle...  But no one was standing behind Ares ( at least no one Seliph could see; the infamous ‘ Black Knight ’ was much taller than he ).

        The smile he turns back to Ares with is a little awkward -- a silent apology for thinking this was some prank or joke on another’s behalf.   In a way, it makes Ares’ words mean more, and that warms Seliph’s heart.

          " Thank you, Ares, ” he replies at last. “ I appreciate it.  ...If it’s not too much trouble, I’d rather not make a big deal of it, so please don’t let any one else know. ”

Send a symbol for your muse to find mine… || Accepting!

🎍- Tending to a shrine/visiting a grave   @contingentce

     He cannot stop his hands from trembling. Even as they brush away the last few dead leaves and dirt from the grave’s surface, the archbishop finds it ever as difficult to keep composed before her. It is only fitting, that he has chosen this forest to be his mother’s place to rest– she did, after all, take him here a few times before everything spiralled out of control. Secluded enough to keep her hidden away from vengeful individuals that might wish to desecrate Aida’s grave, but still somewhere that harbours pleasant memories and is significant for them both. He remains kneeling before his mother, hands raised and clutching onto a rosary worn from use. His head bows so that it might rest against quivering fingers, and for a few moments, he remains silent– to check, one final time, that he is alone before letting his guard down.      Only after that do his eyes fall shut.

     To pray for his beloved mother’s peace – it has never been an uncommon practice for the archbishop. She never had a proper burial, after all, and such an act has long been something Saias has made an effort to do every day since reading a certain passage from a book older than himself at least by tenfold. If he cannot bury her, then the least he can do is pray on Aida’s behalf and hope that she can rest painlessly. The only aspect of it all that he fails at remaining composed throughout each silently ushered line of prayer. Every time, the young man cannot help but descend into a fit of tears– ones that come with no warning, but also do not evoke a single sound. Every time, the quivering that starts at the tips of long fingers gradually engulfs his form. For one so hardened by burdens– for one so used to hiding his emotions– it seems as though this act alone always manages to break the archbishop within a matter of minutes.