#f ortuity

FIRE BAD -

`”It’s perfectly safe in here—”

@f-ortuity​ replied to your post 

tobin vc: "Oh, you mean you /don't/ light up the room just by being there?"

“... N-no, Tobin, I’m not a lantern myself!”

    Normally Berkut isn’t one to take the high road. And technically, he doesn’t. He’s certainly said worse to Alm in the past without remorse or apology. And he has half a mind to throw it back in his face,  returning insults in turn.

    But oooh the opportunity to watch Alm forced to say he’s sorry and for Berkut to look better in the eyes of his uncle? Alm’s own father?

   Why, that’s an opportunity he simply can’t pass up. He waves his hand in dismissal.

   “ Water under the bridge, cousin. Consider it forgotten .”

   The sincerity in his tone is juxtaposed against the self-satisfied smirk on his face.

This truly is a test of patience. Duma, give him strength to hold back and not throw a punch at that smug guy’s damn face—!

Surely, Alm knows that his cousin hardly means it and is likely laughing it up now, coming out of the harmless name-calling like a hapless and tormented victim. The one time he starts something, and it’s when his Father is now present and among them. ... A test of patience, Alm. Don’t let it get to you.

A smile falls on his face, familiar and sincere, despite his anger boiling within. Sure, he’s mad at Berkut, and certainly the response was probably faked for whatever gain Berkut saw of this (looking good, probably), but a part of him couldn’t help but childishly grasp at the opportunity that, perhaps, this would lead to them at least getting along more in the future.

“... Thank you, Berkut. I’ll be sure to watch myself in the future.”

He sets his shoulders, lets forth an exhale, and makes sure his posture is firm before finally approaching Rudolf. He had been mostly avoiding the man, but... He stands before the Emperor despite his desire to just run away, then presents him with... a little box. "... To be honest, I don't really know what you'd have liked." He starts, gaze flickering to the ground and back up to his father. "Might as well fix that now. This is... for you."

    It would take an utter fool to not see how tense Alm happens to be. His words are met with the faintest of smiles etching themselves onto aged features, even if it does little to lessen the suffocating air Rudolf has long been aware he carries. It must have taken some courage, the father thinks, for his son to have gone out of his way to do this. His composure, for now, remains, deviating very little from his usual demeanour, and yet his heart cannot help but quicken in pace– to almost lurch uncomfortably at the thought of his son, his only child, deeming him worthy of a gift.     Perhaps just this once, this would be enough to make her smile upon them both, rather than the boy alone.

         “You did not need to give me anything, Alm,”

    The response leave his form with only the intention to give his son a reason to relax– to not fret over whether or not he would like whatever lies within the box–, yet they also happen to be the truth. Although showered with riches, the emperor has never been one to place much importance on gifts– or, at least, not unless they involved his now-deceased wife. To put those thoughts into words, however, would be impossible for the man, lest he wishes to sound unintentionally cold or lacking in gratitude. Rudolf moves to take the box from his child’s grasp slowly, and with a uncharacteristically large amount of care, not yet opening it– or, at least, not until he has made it clear that the gift inside will filly him joy, regardless of what it is.

         “There is no gift that could compare to having the chance to speak with you. Your presence alone is all I could have hoped to ask for.”

Even now he’s not quite sure how to feel about the man who towers over him, other than a sort of shame pooling at his feet from their scant encounters before, and for still feeling wronged for... something he had to accept. 

The man’s slight smile almost makes him shrink away in return, not out of fear, but rather out of feeling undeserving of the man’s good graces. Still, he stands his ground, a nervous wisp of a smile finding itself on his lips, as he opens his mouth to respond that, yeah, he didn’t need to, but he wanted to. What the man says next, however, robs him of the words.

The shame returns fullforce, both from his attitude before and his avoidance of his father. He was here, he was alive, and here he was, avoiding his father and denying him the chance to get to know his son. Didn’t they both deserve this?

“T-then let me give you that chance.” He stammers despite his efforts to keep a steady voice. “If you’ll have me. I... I know I haven’t been... the easiest person to talk to.”

‘Alright, brave face, you faced a God before, you faced your Father before, why should this be any different?’ Steeling his nerves, he tries to pull off an actual smile, a genuine one, although it’s hard to stop himself from getting emotional enough to embarrass himself with a tear or two.

Letter prompt | Accepting

Emperor Rudolf,

I know how pointless this is. You’re already dead, and I’ve seen to your burial weeks ago. Along with Berkut’s, with Rinea’s, with Fernand’s... and so many others who lost their lives to this senseless fight.

I wish I could ask you why you saw it as necessary. I like to think you’d be more forthcoming than Mycen. Thinking about it all fills my throat with vile, but looking back, you told more to me than he ever did. Even after you died, he... everything he says makes less sense than hearing of my parentage from a dying man.

I wish I could talk to you. I wish you would have come to meet for peace and to stop the fighting. I know that you had your reasons to allow the war to continue, to entice us to invade Rigel after liberating Zofia. You had your reasons... I just don’t understand them. If nothing else, I want to. I want to try to understand the man who helped bring me into the world, maybe to try and imagine what life would have been like if you kept me around.

It’s okay. I understand why you didn’t now. I used to think it was because you couldn’t afford to keep me, or because you died, or because you didn’t want me... never had I thought it had been to protect me. I don’t know how to feel about that, and I’ve had a lot of time to think.

Well, not a lot. I have to learn everything I hadn’t been taught, and I have a lot of work to do to put that knowledge in action. There’s so much to do, and sometimes I don’t even know how to do it! I wish Mycen would have taught me, even if I know it’d make me ask questions I shouldn’t have asked. I wish I could have learned it from you, or from my cousin.

I’ve written a lot of wishes, huh?

Well, like this letter, they’ve all turned to ash ever since you died. Yes, I... I intend to set fire to this when I’m done with it, you know? Some say it sends the letter to the spirits beyond, and others say its just cathartic to write what you wish you could have said and burn it after that. I guess you could say I want both. I want this letter to reach you, even if you can’t write me back. I also want to get rid of all these feelings in my chest of regret. I want to move forward along with my mistakes, even if I know you think this wasn’t one. It was what you wanted. 

But what I wanted was to know who I was and where I came from, not to severe that rope before I even knew what was on the other side.

I don’t think I’ll ever learn that about myself. It’s hard to trust the word of anyone who isn’t you after... after... I want to trust Mycen, believe me, but it’s... it’s hard, father dad? pops?? Rudolf.

I don’t know.

I guess I’ll have to wait to find it all out. If there is an afterlife, expect a lot of questions to come your way. You can’t escape if we’re both dead! ... Hah. It’s a bad joke, I know.

I don’t plan to join you soon. When I do, I want to have grown old, I want to have had my own family and learned my own truths and shaped Valentia into something I can be proud in. And... maybe you, too.  

See you around,Your son.

+*. disney lyric starters ( acc. )

     his sister’s words bring great grief to the prince. it is not that they don’t make sense; no, they do and this truth rips his heart to pieces. it is because it is real, that he knows this, that spells out his tragedy. he cannot fight it, he cannot sway it.

altena is the last scrap of family he had been wishing he still had after leonster had gone up in flames. leif is just the boy who had inserted himself into her life, claiming they held a connection deeper than she could ever recall.

even when he pleaded, even when he was at his most desperate, he couldn’t truthfully say he shared memories with her. he never even knew what she looked like when they both shared a home. altena is a name, a role, but it is hard to say with confidence that they are family in any sense other than political. she had grown up with her own brother, her own father — a life with replacements for himself and the man who had died in the desert for her over sixteen years ago.

he clings to her — not with his hands but in his mind, he ties himself to her in thoughts. he takes worried glances over towards her in the castles and the battlefields. he looks at the woman upon that mighty dragon steed and wishes he could will the two of them into being siblings.

yet, nothing he could do would ever be enough. tales of leonster, of growing up with finn, of their castle’s decor: none of it meant anything. he calls them memories, but they are just stories to her.

what is his is not necessarily hers.

“ i see… ” he says, defeat making him quiet but an annoyed fire stays in his eyes. he feels guilty; this ire is not to her. it is not as if she had asked to be raised by their parents’ murderer when she had supposedly cried for their mother to take her to yied. but he still feels the frustration anyhow. the man he’s sworn hatred over for years was this woman’s father. the gáe bolg rested in the hands of someone who felt a stranger to leonster. altena’s path is distinctly not one that overlaps very well with his.

“ i don’t know what to do. ” he turns his gaze away. he’s said that a lot ever since he started fighting on battlefields. he wonders if there will ever come a day where he will stop saying it.

somehow, he doubts it.

It was hailing. Hard. 

Maybe it was normal for Rigel— hell, maybe Rigelian tents were made for it! But clearly! Not! Zofian! Tarps! The cold may not have been bothering him, but the balls of ice pelting them nonstop definitely were, and he was pretty sure something was going to break at one point or another tonight in the camp. Oh Gods, was everything okay over there..?

First order of business tomorrow would be to replace most of their tent material with stuff made in Rigel, maybe the sleep tents would actually last. 

But for tonight, the actual order of business would be for him and Tobin to find their way back. In the dark. With just his now-busted-up lantern for company. Leave it for the weather to hail when it’s their turn to go forage for some extra supplies in the very inhospitable forests of northern Valentia. Thank you very much, Duma. It’s wonderful here.

( @f-ortuity submitted — Rudolf) { ooc. I apologise if this is iffy-}

     They were gracious enough to allow him this—to kneel before his headstone. Not a single word escapes from the emperor’s form, and almost as though the world wishes to grant him one last act of mercy, time slows dangerously close to a halt. Yet it is not peaceful—already, he can feel his form, stripped of all armour, growing numb from the cold. Already, his heart aches in a manner so painful that it cannot be described properly; the sort of pain that festers in the heart, and spreads through every vessel, worsening with each passing second.

     The sky grows dull, with dark clouds looking more like thick layers of smoke, and even as a few, stray drops of water fall from them, Rudolf knows that those nearby shall not grant him the permission to shed a single tear. A father should be allowed to mourn for his son, and yet, when those opposing him cannot believe his words, all rights to do seem to vanish. What cruelty—even now, his son must be looking down upon with confusion and disdain; now never to know the truth. He will not meet him after this—how could a man with his hands stained with blood so many times over ever possibly dream of such a thing–, and those who revered the boy grant him no chance to understand what transpired in his final moments. Growing tears can only be pushed back by tightly squeezing lifeless eyes shut.

     In the brief moments they close, the flashes of painful memories—complete, but also hazy—seize his vision. Abandoning his steed. Falling to the ground. Then, cradling the boy’s form. The look of confusion and anger in his eyes. Apologies that slipped from Rudolf’s, and prayers for his son to rest peacefully. The light fading from eyes that would not close. Then, being torn away from him by opposing soldiers draped in blue.

     The howling of bitter winds forces his attention back to the world before him, each gust sounding more akin to a mournful hymn than their usual, hollow tone. The wrong name is carved upon the gravestone, but he cannot blame them. Cold fingers twitch, wanting to reach out, at place themselves upon the resting place of his child, and yet, he knows that doing so would cut what precious moments he has left so painfully short. The back of his throat clamps shut, and instead, both hands lose what little energy was keeping them resting upon his thighs, falling to his sides—falling and brushing against the petals of flowers.

     Red and white. He knows not the name of the flora instantly, but recalls a tale told to him by a woman much like Alm. A woman, with a smile so warm and gentle. A woman enamoured with all that he brushed aside, but loved with all his heart. Someone who, too, was taken from the world far too soon. Yes, he remembers now—anemones. The tips of his fingers move to grace over red petals, and only then does the man realise now those left untrampled by his kneeling twist and climb up the sides of his legs as though they, themselves, might be aware of the situation at hand. Should he stay here any longer, surely they would grow and drag him to the depths of the darkest hell.

     He looks back—to the soldiers draped in blue standing but a short distance away, hands at the hilts of their swords. Their shadows loom, disfigured by the terrain, with the ends of each projection threatening to touch his form, almost clawing close enough to consume him whole. His gaze lowers—to the anemones, red and white, once again. Should he fall here, they shall all shall match that crimson shade, and the sheer coincidence of it all forces Rudolf to suppress a hollow, miserable laugh. He was never one for the myths and superstitions that plagued the lands of Rigel, but it seems as though fate has a weakness for poetic endings.

      A jagged breath escapes from the emperor’s lips, and his head turns back around so that tired, swollen eyes might look upon the headstone of his only son. If Rudolf could not fall before him then, he can now.

          “…Do what you must.”

He dies confused, angry and regretful — for duties left undone, for a friend he couldn’t even say or see once more (even if he, at least, got to apologize), for a man whom he had to kill that claimed himself his father as he faded from this world to the next.

The Deliverance loses its leader, and in their anger and sorrow the Emperor’s words come as a farce. Some sort of sick joke to have an excuse to take the young man’s corpse as some sort of trophy. Of course they don’t let him.

Yet the wind howls as if in sorrow for the man who could not express it himself, who tried to contain his grief, for he was not allowed to mourn. Not for his son, not for the loss, and not even able to properly say goodbye.

Pat an Almond | Accepting

Air leaves his lungs and his body feels like stone, sinking on a cold riverbed that leaves him feeling cold and empty. He had seen the Empero— Rudolf— his father approach, yes, and it had taken monumental effort to not bolt then and there, but this was—This—

     … He wasn’t sure still if it was what he wanted or dreaded the most.

A part of him screams at him to leave, to walk out, to show that man just how much hurt he feels even now— that this will never fix anything, and he wasn’t about to let himself be conned into a false sense of security by the very man who shipped him off and expected him to be okay with what would come next. And he wasn’t okay with it, not when he broke in cold sweat at something that was supposed to make him happy, not when he dreaded disappointing a man who back home was long since dead but all the same did not know how to feel about being in the same room.

But the other wants this, yearns for it, and wants for more— hungers for what he never had, and hungers for a peace he would never feel if he had never been called to Askr. The peace of burying the hatchet, of getting to know his father, and maybe making up for all that lost time and learning from the man who would never be able to teach him.

Both are selfish, he knows, but he’s let his anger take precedence before.                                                 It hadn’t felt good after that.

And so his lowered, shocked gaze slowly slides closed and, with an exhale, he steps forward once, then again, willing himself to come closer to a man who evoked so many feelings by simply existing regardless of how much it scared him. Leaned forward, letting his forehead press oh so slightly against the armor covering his father’s chest.

Maybe he’d never be granted peace, settle his problems, air it all out and finally feel free from something that would drag him under oh so easily into the depths of fear and despair, but he could at least give himself this. Give Rudolf this. Because, in the end, despite his hurt… he understood.

“Hi.” Is all he can manage to say in response, loaded thick with whatever mess lies inside of his far smaller body.