#crestburned

       She’d heard they’d returned, but there is -- apparently -- a visceral difference between knowing and having the physical proof standing not too far off from her, a beacon even in the marginally crowded dining hall. ( it has seen far busier days, she knows, but she is growing familiar with the bustle in fits and start; never as regularly as one builds strength or learns how to hold a blade. ) Seir’s lips twitch just so up at the corner, a ghost of an expression that still manages to glow with a kind of settled joy -- not so much exuberant as reassured, and grounded for it. 

       When she makes her way to his side, it’s with a sharp gaze ( visible, if one looks at her expression the right way ) and a light stride -- and no fear that he doesn’t notice her at least a yard or two before the distance between them is closed. It’s with that safety in recognition ( and the knowledge that settles like a veil -- he is back ) that she pauses for a moment to study his expression. 

       Then, by way of greeting, she tells him, ❛ -- My student wants to fight you. ❜ ( she knows, now, that her way of expressing her thoughts can be -- misunderstood, here. but she can’t imagine that he’d have much trouble interpreting the fact that Caspar has been asking for at least a week to train with him. that she hopes he is well enough, after his mission, to be up for it. ) 

      ❝  you  got  my  message.   i  thank  you  for  meeting  me  out  here,   i  understand  my  instructions  were  rather .  .  .   cryptic.  ❞    he’s  been  thinking  on  this  a  lot  lately.   truthfully,   he  doesn’t  like  to  lie,   and  he  doesn’t  like  to  keep  things  from  the  people  most  important  to  him.   and  this  is  PART  of  him,   something  big  he  feels  he  can’t  keep  hidden  any  longer.   so  here  he  is  with  byleth,   standing  in  a  clearing  in  the  woods  in  the  dead  of  night.

     ❝  i  suppose  i  should  get  right  to  the  point;   i  owe  you  that  much.   you  remember  rhea---   when  she  took  on  the  form  of  a  great  white  beast.   back  before  the  war  of  heroes  there  was  a  specific  word  for  that  form;   such  a  form  was  called  a  dragon.   when  rewriting  history,   i  suppose  she  erased  that  word  so  as  not  to  raise  any  questions  as  to  where  they  all  went.   it  was  not  just  rhea  who  could  become  such,   all  nabateans  were  gifted  the  ability---   that  includes  me.  ❞

     he  sighs,   hand  brought  up  to  his  chin  as  he  holds  his  elbow.   he  closes  his  eyes,   a  pensive  look  on  his  face.   ❝  there  are .  .  .   repercussions  to  holding  such  a  form  for  so  long.   certain  emotions  become  intensified,   sometimes  our  power  dwindles  the  longer  we  hold  on  to  one  form  for  too  long.   we’re  suppose  to  be  fluid  in  being  dragon  and  human.   at  least,   that’s  my  theory.   there  was  never  enough  research  on  the  topic  when  we  were  a  thriving  civilization.   for  the  longest  time  i  had  convinced  myself  that  i  could  not  become  a  dragon  again,   i  suppose  i  was...  afraid  because  of  the  implications.  ❞

     he  pauses,   opening  his  eyes  and  letting  his  arms  fall  to  his  side,   ❝  ah---   i  suppose  i  am  rambling.   it  would  be  easier  to  show  you  than  to  explain.   stay  there  please,   i  require  some  room.  ❞   he  takes  a  few  steps  away  and  closes  his  eyes,   focusing  all  of  his  attention  inwards.   it’s  been  a  long  time  since  he’s  tapped  into  his  power  like  this.   the  divine  magic  pulses  in  his  ears  like  music  and  he  opens  his  eyes,   two  emeralds  shining  in  the  night.   there’s  a  flash  of  light  that  grows  brighter  and  brighter  and---   where  seteth  once  stood  there  is  now  a  dragon.   scales  like  metal,   sharp  horns  lining  his  chin  like  a  beard.   the  crest  of  cichol  visible  upon  his  forehead.   he  stretches,   almost  like a  cat,   then  lays  on  his  stomach  with  his  legs  curled  up,  folding  his  wings  close  to  his  back.   he  lowers  his  head  to  byleth.

     he  supposes  it  makes  sense  that  he  doesn’t  actually  know  how  to  dance.   he  bites  the  inside  of  his  cheek  when  byleth  steps  on  his  foot,   more  grateful  than  ever  for  wearing  boots.   he  smiles  through  it,   adjusting  his  grip  on  byleth’s  hand.   seteth  chuckles  as  he  slows  down  a  little  to  accommodate  byleth’s  novice  approach.

     truthfully,   he’s  rather  surprised  at  himself  for  accepting  the  offer  to  dance.   he  hasn’t  done  so  in  a  while,   not  with  someone  else,   not  like  THIS.   (  the  last  time,   he  thinks,   was  with  his  late  wife.  that  was  very  many  years  ago,   though.  )

     ❝  calm  down,  ❞   he  says  with  a  soft  laugh,   ❝  it  is  simply  dancing.   there’s  not  REALLY  any  correct  way  of  doing  it.   however,  ❞   seteth  adjusts  byleth’s  footing  ever  so  slightly  with  his  own  foot,   ❝  for  ballroom  dancing,   it  is  best  to  follow  your  partner  if  they  seem  to  know  what  they’re  doing.   luckily  for  you---   i  do  have  some  experience  in  this  area.  ❞

     ❝  try  not  to  look  at  your  feet  as  you  dance,   you  will  get  too  focused  on  them  instead  of  what  i’m  doing.  try  and  feel  the  rhythm  of  the  music.   all  we  are  really  doing  is  swaying  from  side  to  side  in  beat.  ❞

Great laughter snarled in the breast of the wolfskin, a great howling joy driving the smile splitting his countenance. Strange though the professor seemed, with a face too stony and heart too silent, words left unsaid on his lips, Shi-Long had easily absorbed his house into his pack, in bond if not in blood. Children were the heart of both pack and Garreg Mach and over this, at least, both the wolf and Byleth had been able to communicate.

“I’m not gonna stop ‘til we’re legends.” The admittance came easily, free in the sense of a set aspiration, a dream rooted in gold as well as stone. Though ‘we’ could easily have referred to both Byleth and himself, it was not for that pair that Shi-Long fought. The dead of the house of Lang, his father driven to an early death, his mother following soon -- it was for family Shi-Long fought, and the lost honour he would return. A thoughtful look came into his eyes, narrowed idly towards the professor. “What do you fight for, really? The Church? Or your kids, tucked underneath your wing?”

[ groom ] your muse adjusting mine’s appearance , such as straightening a tie , fixing their hair , or buttoning their shirt for them , etc .

“That is quite unnecessary,” Hubert says, though he does nothing to stop Byleth from fixing his hair back into place. The meeting isn’t for several minutes, but he had been... rather a mess before Byleth started putting him back together. He only wishes it had been a result of spending rather too much time with the man in question rather than falling asleep at his desk. 

Δ = playing with their hair .

Hubert hadn’t meant to fall asleep. But his office is quite warm with the fire going and the couch he had had brought up is a rather nice spot to do paperwork with Byleth. They had been sitting at each others sides, working through a number of routine matters when Hubert’s eyes had begun to droop. The next thing he knows, he’s slowly blinking up at the ceiling, Byleth’s fingers moving gently through his hair. 

☂ = giving them their jumper to keep warm .

“I’m fine,” Hubert insists, though the words would sound far more convincing if his hands weren’t shaking. The cold rarely bothers him, then again it isn’t often that his jacket catches fire and has to be abandoned. They’re still a day’s ride out from the monastery and apart from the robes he wears in battle, he has little to replace the coat.