#flcralhaze

"The last time I had this much to drink, I nearly fell head-first into a river in Ethiopia!" She exclaims amidst the guitar and drums, features lit by the bonfire behind the taverna. Within days of their arrival, she caught wind of the soldiers taverna. With its reputation for fun, whilst safely within the Fortress' walls. It is the perfect place to bring Kaito a few nights before his betrothal celebration. "Mind you, there was a whole damn giraffe just twenty feet away." Fortunately, there was no wild life in sight. Only a handful of everyday soldiers, commoners, and disguised Japanese soldiers in their company. "So!" She calls out, moving to the rhythm of the music. "Are you prepared? To be a married man?" Midori mocks playfully.

she  falls  back  into  the  rhythm  with  ease  ;  contrasting  chaos  with  calm  ,  for  others'  benefit  .  in  spite  of  a  continuously  pounding  heart  ,  and  fear  gnawing  at  her  stomach  .  nails  rapping  against  the  table  ,  isra  replays  the  bedlam  in  the  grand  jury  hall  ,  hoping  to  achieve  any  sort  of  understanding  of  the  tangled  mess  left  in  its  wake  .  but  the  memory  ebbs  into  the  background  when  she  hears  approaching  footsteps  .  reflexively  ,  she  sits  up  ,  offering  a  warm  smile  to  @classiqals  @flcralhaze  @umitvar  @verenduss  @monarhrh    @whispcrings  , "  how  can  i  help  ?  don't  be  shy  now  .  "  almost  a  joke  ,  or  ,  rather  ,  an  attempt  at  bringing  levity  .

The fatal blow to their friendship is no longer fresh. Nearly a year since she failed Kaito, the immediate emotion has seized to come. Instead, the ache is quiet and eerily familiar. Unable to look upon her best friend, her Emperor, without knowing the pain she's caused. But a mixture of obstinacy, desperation, and maybe even hope keeps her in his court. Midori waits for him outside of his newly anointed chambers. Polite hands on her lap, silk dresses properly cinched. She could be good, now that the war is over. She could be his confidant, once more. "Your Highness." Midori interrupts, formal where it was once easy. Clearing her throat, she comes to her feet, lowering her head in respect. "The last of the invited nations have settled into their apartments. I believe the Solomon's will start breakfast soon." And though she's ravenous to eat, she waits until polite company allows it. A look in her eye, desperate as she looks at Kaito; see, I can be a good person, too.

Of course, this is where she finds him. Not holed up in his study, running through scenarios and penning correspondence. Not in the library, congregating with allies and enemies alike for a plan. He may be the Emperor, but he is Kaito first. And Kaito is a young man who lost his mother and father. Left with nothing but an image. One that is now displayed in the center of Lal Qila. Where else would he be, but where the ghosts of his parents were? It's well past five in the morning when Midori runs into him, settled on a nearby chair. Sighing, she removes the blanket over her shoulders. Settling it over his chest, tucked carefully until she's sure he's warm. "Kaito." She pulls him awake gently, running a hand over his shoulder. "It is time to rise." Pausing, she adds; "The rest of the Palace will rise soon." And though she empathizes with his grief, it cannot come at the expense of appearing weak. "Come out of your dreams. Come be with me instead."

Despite his own madness, there is a breath of relief that emerges. At least, his bruised cheek and ripped lip are a result of his brother. Rough housing, as it were. Plenty were not so lucky, and Elliott settles into a chair outside of the infirmary. Waiting, or perhaps expecting, terrible news. Gulping, he catches the eye of the person across from him. "Are you waiting for a physician, or for someone else to emerge from within the infirmary?" Elliott asks, morbid curiosity married with a touch of gravitas. He may have been lucky. But could others say the same?

"I thought it could go with your gown." The delicate flower looks small and delicate in his large hands. The petals and greens melded together, forming an intricate pattern. Blair is no artist. Certainly not learned in the intricacies of women's fashion. But chivalry is an art learned from his late father, and careful consideration from his mother. "You don't have to wear it. It's rather corny, I admit." With a sheepish shrug, he reaches for Cora's wrist. The same one studied and known, for all the years they circled each other. Meant to be, he thinks, if only life and politics hadn't gotten in the way. "Just -- I wanted something special, for tonight." God knows the last time they shared anything, without the looming gloom and doom of the reckoning.