a whole quarter of a century since lenore dove had woken in the arms of her tear stained uncle. since she and tam amber had fled the crooked covey house under the cover of darkness, now knowing it was too dangerous for her to stay. oh, how she had begged and pleaded to take her love with her. to save him from the years of nightmares, of being the capitol's plaything, of not knowing that she was something he hadn't lost. her uncle shook his head. haymitch is in too deep. even clerk carmine had pity in his eye. they had seen how victor's never truly leave the games. how surviving can be almost as deadly as dying.

but he's here now. shepherded into the busy cantina with the rest of the rebels who had escaped the games. another quarter quell. lenore dove had watched the reaping, how her haymitch stood straight and strong. like the boy she had known, less like the man she had watched him become. she's not sure if he sees her. if he would even recognise her. there are lines on her features were skin was once smooth. dark hair is peppered with streaks of grey, cut short and straight. as is the fashion in district 13. she's void of the colour and music that she so loved, but she's the same girl inside.

feet carry her forward, the crowd parting as she goes. she pays them little attention. they know her story. the refugee from 12 who the president, personally, wanted dead. they know him, too, and what he means to her. ❝ haymitch. ❞ his name falls from her lips in so soft a whisper that even she isn't sure she spoke. but some heads turn, and she's getting closer and closer until she's stood right in front of him. a smile slowly spreading across her lips. terror and ecstasy mixing in her gut. ❝ and the only word there spoken was the whispered word - ❞ words to her poem. words she hasn't spoken in twenty-five years. gaze finds his, finally, and eyes implore him to finish. say my name. know me again.

shepard goes to him after every mission. it's become a routine at this point, a pointed-out part of her smoothed-down schedule that she can never miss. before recruiting thane, they may have wandered up to their quarters for a time, locked away within the mechanized door, and found solace in the peace and hum of the normandy around them. instead, she goes to life support. she seeks him out. their chats are always heavy with memories (on thane's part, that is — artemis has never been one for reminiscing) and add peaceful, much-needed time to their stressful, mission-heavy days. it's relaxing to talk to him. it's comforting. his gaze is far unlike hers, and yet the commander sees so much of themselves in his expressions, in his speech.

                        a soft chuckle escapes him, with an all familiar smile tugging at the corner of his lips. too often, they find themselves on opposing sides of the same fight; yet, within the comforting embrace of the professor's private study, smelling of aged books and freshly poured whiskey, and heavy oak doors securely locked, they uncover a moment of private seclusion. before them lies a chessboard, its pieces poised in a silent standoff, caught in the midst of an intricate game. it's charles' turn to make the next move, but distractions compel him otherwise.

❝ you never do, yet that has never deterred me before, my friend.   ❞ charles remarks casually, his gaze glancing upwards to erik as he brings the nearly finished whiskey glass to his lips, warm laughter dancing in his voice. ❝ perhaps if you do not want to hear my thoughts, you shouldn't encourage me to share them.   ❞ he drains the last of his drink, leaning forward to place the empty glass beside erik's.

                    the bed of marigolds beneath them cushion his movements, his body rolling onto its side to stare at her as he continues his story. lips parted yet words cease to fall, cobalt hues lost in the beauty of her features. the way her hair fell to the ground, caressing her cheeks as a few strands fall loose. she was beautiful, she was everything, she belonged to him. even if the world stood against their relationship, he would stand against the world for her.

it's been a long time since they crossed paths. too often they're wandering different landscapes and far-away cities of skyrim at the same time (he'll hear stories of her passing through morthal and solitude while he's all the way in whiterun), but now? now din djarin stares gwendolyne cousland in the face, helmeted, hovering, and deathly silent at her offhand remark. she's not wrong about the assumption. there were a few close calls with the giants near riften, and maybe some hunter nearby saw the mandalorian warrior scrambling to get away from an angry mammoth. maybe they told tall tales of his early demise, assuming no one could survive a giant's anger and massive club.

"sorry to disappoint." careful not to disturb the sleeping child hidden in his pouch, din crosses the cobblestone and closes some of their distance. behind his helmet, his eyes explore gwendolyn's face. she's so familiar. she's too beautiful. her frizzy hair whips a little in the mountain wind, loose strands dancing over face in a way din knows all too well. if he had his way, he'd never make mention of their previous "encounters" and just be on his way, pass her by, and ignore her. but he can't. din hears a coo from his pouch and, with a sigh, realizes what he has to do, what he has to ask.

a scoff huffs out of her with a bemused shake of her head. continuing with the clasps & laces of his fine doublet as she goes about dressing him. both of them clad in the theirin colors; crimson & gold, her own idea of course — signaling his royal heritage as a constant reminder to any naysayers of a half - elven bastard sitting the ferelden throne. calenhad's blood pulsed in his veins as strongly as it had in cailan's — and she would always argue that his heroism made him a truer heir to the theirin legacy than cailan's feeble grasps at glory. besides, her pedigree was proud enough for both of them, and had been shield enough against the opposition they had faced thus far. her name older & just as proud, and few could complain about a cousland queen. despite his fretting, he had handled himself quite well as king thus far; though their reign was still in its infancy. whatever he lacked, she made up for — though unlike the "partnership" of anora & cailan, alistair and elethea's was far more evenly balanced. it was not her hand alone that guided all of his actions, or her secretly acting in his name, as it was rumored was true of the prior king & queen. maker knows elethea would not suffer a husband she needed to mother.

it was a rare mistake, catching himself too late ; but the words in his mouth had rattled on in a soft tenor, a passionate one, his enthusiasm contained in the way gentleman were raised to, but even more so  — it came with his learned quietude, not ever the one amongst the throng of people he knew to raise his voice even above a laugh. ( that was determinedly william's domain ). yet if anything were to find him in this predicament, it would be the conglomeration of music in a fine city, a buzzing orchestra, a piercing violin. what wasn't there to appreciate, or to speak of as new sounds were demonstrated?

there he spotted a lyricist from ravka, and a composer from shu han. whether kaz was listening was something he would debate privately to himself later  — for now, he had merely numbed the poor boy's ears with talk of strings and quartets. upon realising, he pulled back from where he had been leaning too heavily on his cane, and looked to kaz, who stood resolute with a dark cane to match too, both their faces momentarily unreadable. all until jem felt the cold, red prick embarrassment in his cheeks. like a hardwired reflex, he smiled politely first.