#crestbound

         No way. Absolutely not. Not after the last time. 

         He was taken aback by how familiar this fellow was being. With his hands up defensively, Gerome waved the sheer enthusiasm off of him. Was Sylvain always so inherently flippant or had he a series of compensative measures to counterbalance whatever was going on in his head (or his past, or whatever his mother had left for him)? What exactly were they putting in the water for these men to start chasing skirts, anyway?  “If it’s a joke... I think you’ve got the wrong person. I know--” Just the right person for you? Oh, by the bow on Minerva’s tail, he could never allow the two to meet. 

          “I know better than to laugh at a farce like that.” Nice save, Gerome. Nothing wrong with catching your foot on the wrong side of the saddle. And flying upside down by the seat of your pants. 

         “If you’re going to go, leave me out of it, Sylvain.” God’s bread, he couldn’t explain without throwing himself under the carriage. What was he supposed to say? (My apologies, but the last time I did this, I was so badly manhandled that a crowd of women nearly ripped my mask off and the stragglers went back to my tent to serenade me until dawn?)  “Don’t you know I’m just going to sour your plans?”

          Well. He wasn’t lying. 

         “Tell me. What comes of all this anyway? Aren’t you even a bit apprehensive of having someone catch flowery feelings for you?” There was one matter in which, sometimes you could not help eliciting feelings in another, no matter how deeply you drew the lines. (But by the Gods, he surely tried!) And the next was when you flirted with the line so intently that it went crooked. He wondered what happened to the girls that came after.

     All heroes must separate during some point of their quest. Whether it was because of contrasting beliefs, a split in their paths, or an underlying force of nature, no quest allowed for constant support. Trust was important to hold -- it’s what Ophelia reminds herself when Dimitri had opposed the idea of utilizing one of the boats. She blinks. Once. Twice. Her gaze narrows, but she nods at him. He was right, in a way. They couldn’t be too easy with their surroundings. 

     Febail refuses next, then Lysithea.

     Ophelia raises an eyebrow, a question lingering on her tongue if she was the only person who would take the boat and move across the river. It wasn’t that she hated the idea, she actually preferred it. A moment for her to get some private research in her journal -- of their adventure, the companions, try to determine the best areas to search for the locks.

     Sylvain agrees, which makes it final that she’s traveling alone and -- wait. Ophelia tilts her head and glances at him. He winks at her; she gives him a friendly smile in response. So... she is to go with Prince Charming. There’s not much that could go wrong! His confidence would fit perfectly for a mission partner!

     “Sylvain is correct,” she says, “no locks remain in our grasps, so it’s best for us to divide! May our separation bring success and honor. I trust you all to take care of each other -- as we will, too!”

     A dramatic bow and she’s off towards the boat alongside Sylvain. Lysithea’s right, too. The flare in the sky -- glowing and flickering for an utter moment before disappearing -- means that time is running out. They need to quicken their steps and put in more effort. She takes the boy’s hand and steps into the boat, pausing as it sways underneath her weight.

     Sylvain joins her aboard the small boat and with one last, excited wave, the two of them begin their trip. Unfortunately, it’s only for a moment or two, or three, that Ophelia stays silent. Listening to the sound of water hitting the sides of the boat and keeping herself aware of any changes in their surroundings. She has barely any experience in boat maneuvering, but she keeps the rowing simple and short. Hopefully it’s enough for the boat to stay steady ( it proves to be doing just fine ).

     “Aha! Once again, my golden eye is nothing short of exceptional, for I see an island in the distance! Chained by the lake’s hold -- it appears as the very same that Febail saw earlier.”

     Their boat is cast in the shadows of the bridges above them and the fog seems to thin a bit, but she isn’t too sure. What she does know is that the island may be where a lock or two rests. Ophelia turns toward Sylvain with a smile, “Looks as though this boat is quite keen on keeping us above water. Do you see anything, too? Surely, two gazes are better than one!”

"There you are, Mercedes! I've been looking all over for you." Sylvain approaches with a smile and a box. While it isn't wrapped, a delicate, gold-trimmed ribbon curls around it, finishing with a lovely bow on the bottom right corner. "I just wanted to thank you for your help the other day. With..." ...the exceptionally angry girl who had been all of three seconds away from stabbing Sylvain. With a fork. He wouldn't mind dying twice, but by a fork? That's just too much. "...well, you know. Anyway, these are for you—candied fruits, made fresh this morning by one of my favorite confectioneries. I promise they're almost as sweet as their recipient."

"Oh how lovely! Are you really sure I can have these Sylvain?" Mercedes asks softly, not wishing to take advantage of his kindness. She thinks she knows what he's talking about and whilst he could have avoided the situation entirely, it wouldn't have felt right to stand and watch him get hurt. Or to walk away, especially given how upset the poor girl had been too. It hadn't seemed like anything special at the time, just a friend looking out for one of her own.

The ribbon, the gift itself all feels a little selfish, really. She can't quite resist the allure of sweets though. (Perhaps she and Sylvain were alike in that respect, an overindulgence that maybe they should both work on curbing.) It's a kind gift of course but she imagines it can't have been cheap.

comfy/hurty time! - accepting! 

small, very small tw - blood and violence

     She never expected for her legend to end this way.

     Crimson seeps through the fabric of her uniform top, soaking her fingers and the jacket in a color she hates seeing. A color she set upon her name. Crimson Ophelia; always to see a shade of red. That shade of red can’t be the blood spilling from her stomach, right? The wisps of anger pulling at her visions, alongside fleeting glimpses of black. Right?

               She wasn’t to die this way. Not here. Not now.

     Yet the blade that tilts her chin up has nothing but peril in its glint.

               “Finally,” the man hisses out, and Ophelia can only agree.

     She coughs, an incoherent splutter of words falling from her lips, too. “The... wh... child...” Her throat burns, as well the side of her neck where the sword still rests. The man grunts something out, maybe it was a scoff. Ophelia can’t hear him over the... the ringing in her head. Pounding like drums to a festival she’s only dreamed of going to. She wonders--he begins to speak--if this is how others feel when she speaks to them. Powerless. A victim to her endless torture.

     “Child?”

     “There... hah... the boy.” Ophelia coughs and yet again, does more blood spill. Only this time, it’s on the edge of the blade dangling her life from a golden strand. “I--”

     Her words break off into a choke, the man’s boot finding her wound quicker than she could have stopped it. Her fingers fall underneath his foot when it strikes her in the stomach. The blade has been moved back--enough space for the heroine to kneel over the ground she’s bled on. For how long? She can only... wonder...?

     “The runt ran,” he laughs, “but what does that have to do with you?”

     The drumming in her head beats faster, pushing her closer toward the cold, cold embrace she refuses to settle in. Another kick is aimed at her side and her opposite falls against the alley’s stoned ground. The pounding moves from between her eyes and sets in her ears. They’re louder... unfamiliar... she coughs again.

     “If... If he has r-ran then...” she smiles a bloody but bright one, “I can fall now.”

     Except when the sword is raised and she lowers her head, it’s not the heroine that hits the ground. Iron slices through air and strikes iron. Crimson shields over her right eye but her left is all she needs to see a different pair of boots shuffle in front of her. Ophelia’s hand grows feather light against the wound. It doesn’t fall though. Fingers--longer than hers, hard, gauntlets--press over her hand.

     “...ia?” She blinks. “Ophelia? Shit, it’s okay. I got you.”

     The voice pushes past the ringing--no longer a mind accustomed to the sound of beating and drumming. Footsteps, they were. “S...vain?” She can barely speak through the blood swirling on her tongue--the disgusting taste of iron so familiar yet disgraced.

     Ophelia only needs one eye to see that the clock has struck midnight. Prince Charming is here.

     “Yeah, it’s me.” Sylvain’s tone is darker, and whether or not it’s normally that way has disappeared from her memories. “Come on, Ophelia. Stay focused on me. We’ll get you help, I promise.”

     There was a time, she remembers, when she heard those exact words fall from his lips. Except there hadn’t been a sword ripping through her body. There hadn’t been a child to pull away and push deeper into the alley. There hadn’t been anyone but them two... and the orb descending from above. When Sylvain turns her over, the heroine can feel herself descending, too. As if she weighed everything when the blade pierced her skin and weighed nothing when it was yanked out.

     Sylvain doesn’t let her close her eyes for too long. She understands why--she doesn’t want to, though.

     “I’m...” Sorry? Hurt? Dying? “There was--”

               “--a child. Yeah. He’s with the other knights. Deep breaths, Ophelia.”

smooches for lucina

Lucina has heard the rumors, about a certain student of the Blue Lions house.

The rumors range from vague to outlandish, and Lucina doesn't know what to make heads or tails of it. She doesn't much care for rumors, but when it seems that nearly the entire student population has something or another to say about Sylvain Jose Gautier well…

Lucina will reserve her judgment for now, until she is witness to said rumors.

So, it doesn't come as a surprise when Sylvain presses a kiss to the back of her hand, but it is unexpected. While it is a custom greeting to nobles and the like, Lucina has long since discarded the title of princess for herself.

His lips linger for a second, perhaps longer than appropriate, and Lucina has to resist the urge to yank her hand away because of the coy smile he gives her, as he waxes poetic words about how lovely she looks.

"Good day Sylvain." She greets him politely, as she would with any of her classmates, fighting down the heat of embarrassment rising in her cheeks. "Are you here to train as well?"

Elincia greets him with a polite curtsy. His mask, black and gold stands as a stark contrast against his flaming red hair. She's convinced she already knows him, there's just something hauntingly familiar about the way he struts across the ballroom as though he owns the place. Confidence bordering on arrogance. Women whisper and gossip as he passes by, wherever he goes.

It's her ballroom but it might as well be his.

So she had to strike, approach him in all her silks and pearls. Antique finery, a symbol of more than mere wealth. History. Status. She had, at first, assumed him to be just another social climber. New money, desperate to usurp what many believed to be an unstable throne.

After her father's death, many had assumed her to be weak. An ineffectual ruler. An easy target. A man like him didn't even have to pry her from her seat of power, simply had to dance his way gallantly into her heart after wooing her court.

Elincia refuses to be outstaged and outplayed.

Polite as she was, she eyed him closely. A viper's gaze, patient and dangerous on his back all night. As though he'd been marked by the devil himself. He danced across the ballroom floor and she followed every single step before they finally met.

He takes her hand delicately in his own, pressing an agonisingly chaste kiss on the back of her hand. It's more than familiar - it's intimate, devoted in a way that nearly has her legs fall out under her. She knows this man, in a myriad of ways, all stemming from their first meeting at military school. Their eyes meet and he smirks, the same devilish, frustrating grin that has always lingered at the back of her mind.

He had returned her jacket. Such a simple little gesture, really and yet she hadn't expected it. Not because she thought him thoughtless and uncaring, it just didn't seem like a big deal to her. It was a piece of fabric that she'd hoped would keep him warm as he dozed in the library. Elincia had thought she'd made her exit ever so quietly.

It wasn't that she thought him flippant, merely that she thought she'd covered her tracks.

Alas, she had woken up just after dawn to find the garment folded neatly outside of her door, a thank you note hidden inside. Her heart felt warm reading it, sometimes it truly was the little things that made each day shine. She'd gotten herself ready, looking presentable enough to make a trip to the dining hall and spotted Sylvain after piling her tray high with breakfast pastries. (It was the most important meal of the day! Besides, her sweet tooth was truly compelling.)

"Morning, Sylv. Can I sit here?" she greeted him cheerfully. His small act of kindness, of appreciation had really set the tone for her day. He looked... tired which caused her to frown for a moment before dropping three pastries on to his plate. "Eat up! You'll need the energy." They ate together fairly quietly, punctuating the silence with brief snippets of conversation until Elincia sat bolt up right, eyes wide.

"Oh no, I forgot to return that book last night!" Elincia exclaimed, jumping to her feet. "You can finish these if you like. I better run, see you in class, right?" With that, she raced off.

kiss me beneath the milky twilight]

Something was moving her hair.

The library was its quietest in the early morning hours. That brief time after the hard workers or mischief hunters had gone to bed, and before the professors and go-getters rose to prepare for the day. It was easy enough to enter, Mitama just had to be quiet and ensure no trace of her was left there.

She had often wasted time amongst the books when her sleep schedule shifted enough that she could not rest during the dreaming hours. She usually made an effort to slip back to her room before it was too late (early?).

It seems she'd failed this time.

Her eyes drift open to early morning light filtering into the library. They shift to spot Sylvain sitting next to her. Loose strands of her hair are held in his hand. He leans into her space, hand pressed to lips, hair to-

Ah. She supposes this is flattering, to some women.

She lets out a slow breath through her nose before pushing herself upright. Her hair slips from his hold. She will have to fix it before she goes to class...how annoying. She sighs again as she moves to undo the other one.