BISHOP DESPISED THE GIRL'S VOICE BEFORE HER STILL-HEART RECOGNIZED THE LAUGHTER, massaging her temple when the sweetness of youth bit inevitably at her ears and mind. thus, she moved to squash the insult to silence; rising from the comfort of her seat to duck beneath the library's staircase, stalking toward the source of memory with a twitching eye and a polite smile plastered weakly to her lips. how irresponsible, responding to the luxury of a haven's silence with commotion so utterly unnecessary it simply proved the flaw of humanity's youth.

weak. untamed. senseless. left to their free will despite the space around their necks for a leash; how incompetent must one be to miss the opportunity of a lesson? no, not she. not eremiya whom, after turning the curt corner of a bookcase, immediately spoke her dissatisfaction into the air. "pardon yourselves, but the library is━━━"

the back of a waving student caught her eye first until her gaze fell on the girl sitting on the floor, a large tome of fables in her lap. recognition stole her breath, stilling her where she stood, hands on her staff and countenance twisted in a grimace. hair as prettily red as she had been told, whispered into the ear of her lord; bright eyes and bright smile and bright life━━━

eremiya nearly heaved. mage hand twitched, usually unwavering stare blinking rapidly to rid herself of the confused expression. when she patched up her smile, it was as fragile as the skin of a babe, "princess maria." curt; no question in identity. she could be no one else. no one else could be her. and how unfortunate that maria still breathed to this day, seemingly happy within the walls of the monastery, though this would be one of the many settlements, far from home, she must have been to.

unsurprisingly, despite her efforts, the remnants of a grimace remain. "you live... in the monastery? had lord gharnef..."

memory was swiftly replaced by a scalding realization.

the library was nearly empty, save for them. the girl would hardly be able to scream if the beast lunged at her now, stole the very voice that caused it pain. eremiya's eye twitched. surely, gharnef would pay her a kind hand for ridding them of the macedonian's hope. had she not tried to offer him her and, in light of her presence, still owed him that debt? ( no, she was tempted to think. maria was the very Thing she sacrificed love to protect. to maim and break and rebuild. was this not a chance at the inevitable? ) her approach softened until completely emotionless, grimace buried beneath apathy, as if her prior confusion had never been recognized,

"tsk. no matter what you are entertaining yourself with, your voice is too loud." If I hear it again, I will not be able to keep myself from tearing it out. "must you and your friend be reminded of the library's ruling?"

mun's note / / though we threw around the context of maria not knowing exactly who eremiya is, i'd thought it still fair to send her the ask i planned. their dynamic is one i'd love to explore :pleading:

On an ordinary day, at an unassuming hour, a simple, silly, and simply silly happiness sets alight Maria's heart. She laughs, loudly and freely and certainly without meaning to, a hand clapped over a tightly curling smile that runneth over with mischief, surprise, and sheepishness all at once. Fingers shift, then part, that crescent of pearly whites cut into slivers between them, and upon her other hand her digits wiggle merrily in a free-spirited (and pointedly silent!) fare-thee-well.

"Hee hee..." How soft this succedent laughter; she lets it fall between the pages of her book and snaps it gently shut, as if to press her joys between its pages and preserve them.

The advent of footsteps draws her attention upward, the line of her lips already smoothing out into a sweet, yet-to-be-spoken apology. Her eyes are clear; if there is anything to be said of the gaze of the little robin of Macedon, it is that it is unchanging, ever changing -- shifting, vibrant, full of life. So it remains when the sister makes herself known, and so it remains when she is reprimanded, repentant in the face of her discourtesy.

And then comes a whispered name: Lord Gharnef.

Life slows to a trickle, glacial and appraising. Her smile wanes by fractions, and endures by just as much, fingertips hooking over the rough edges of the tome's cover. Lord Gharnef, the woman had murmured, but no one ever set such honor to his name unless... Maria swallows, that familiar stone sitting heavy in her chest. Lips part, drawing a shallow breath, as if the memory of that bitter darkness had coagulated in her nose and throat once more. And this stranger had called her Princess Maria -- had known before any greeting who she was, and whispered that man's name in her next breath.

She recalls, suddenly, what it was like to die by poison -- remembers the numbing senses, the thick, encroaching silence. Lord Gharnef... there is a susur at the edges of clarity, smooth yet frigid as it slips through her hands, until only fear remains. Another breath, and she swallows it.

Oh, it sticks jaggedly in her throat, and it is a struggle to convince her knees not to remain despondently partnered to the floor, but change must always begin somewhere. The girl that wept alone in the tower, who cried for her siblings in the dark, knows she is still only that: a girl. She will still weep, sometimes; she will still cry. But even if it is only the strength to defy the name of a nightmare, to stand on her own two feet, it's a strength that she has fought for, and must continue to fight for in every trial to come.

"I'm sorry," Maria replies, pushing herself to her feet the moment the other begins to move forward -- some small defiance as she smooths her skirt, outwardly unbothered; even her smile waxes warm again, beneath her twinkling eyes. And it is defiance, too, in that she means it, for just as Gharnef had his devoted, so too did he have his victims. They are not mutually exclusive. She may have her suspicions, but what if they're wrong? She would rather waste her kindness than not -- and besides, kindness was never truly wasted.

But she does not ask forgiveness. "My friend said something silly, and... hee hee!" Her head cants, ribbons of crimson tickling her shoulder. Her mind lingers with the pleasanter memory, eyes already sparkling once more with delight... but still they watch the distance between them. It grows smaller with the sister's every step.

Maria keeps her chin level, neither proud nor cowardly, and meets the mother's gaze -- searching it, searching her, for her intentions. Yet she does not know what she finds... or perhaps there is nothing known to find.

"It was an accident," she continues, and her smile skews lopsidedly into a grin. "But I'll be more careful in the future, I promise."

Shifting the tome into the crook of her elbow, she finds old dreams nestled in her arms and old nightmares staring her in the eyes -- eyes that remain shifting, vibrant, full of life... full of curiosity. Maria hums.

TRADITION WAS MERELY A SPECTACLE AMID THE STUDY OF HUMAN NATURE; in which, in all aspects this mage dragon knew itself to be familiar, came the assumed predictability of the bishop's reaction once all was prepared and she had been herded into the tent's corner without struggle, like the very sheep she pretended to wear the flayed skin of. thus, predictability bled into a loose stream of evasiveness and retaliation,

bishop returned its gaze with not a hint of emotion. dragon bared its fangs in the kindest of smiles. bishop stepped right. dragon followed suit. bishop stepped back. dragon closed the distance.

"sister eremiya," it drawled in a low hum, reaching for her when the next retreating step bumped her lower back against the abrupt edge of a table. claws flex above her stomach, a ghost's threat of physicality, and━━━ah, there it was. the twitch of her otherwise stern countenance, curling her lips into the small beginnings of a scowl. it pushed further, tilting its head to the side as it mimicked a purr, "won't you tend to me?"

SUNLIGHT CONTINUED TO IDOLIZE ITS ADVANTAGE OVER HER, even now, with the sky resolute in its emptiness above the monastery, everything the day was not. the bishop worried away at her bottom lip, scratching restlessly at the reddened irritation spreading across sepia skin, stretching over her knuckles and retracing the invisible edges of old, burn scars. if not for her inability to cling to slumber, she would be tucked beneath a duvet, reciting the inked lines of her journal until fatigue took her. but this night was not kind to her.

this revelation was, thus, reiterated by the soft fall of footsteps behind her. eremiya huffed, still scratching at her hand, utterly stuck between returning to her chambers or turning to face the strange without the safety of a veil. Do not, came the utterance of His voice, but she had. turning on her heel, hands joined at her stomach, she mustered a monotone smile, thinly pulled to fit the gap of her countenance. though she opened her lips to speak━━━apathetic heather irises met a gentle cobalt━━━recognition stole the very breath from her throat. her nails dug into blemished skin, marking herself with crescents absent above them.

hero-king stood before the bishop, regal even in the wake of his restlessness; certainly, too, unable to sleep as she had. and the thought of him simply being able to wake and sleep and repeat the torturous process of rest that was once stolen from her, only a fortnight ago, upon death, nearly sent her forward in a lunge. her hands trembled against her stomach, a vulnerability untraceable in her countenance. how unfortunate, it was, that he seemed so at peace, far away from his home in altea; a king so selfish he could not be satisified with just one continent knowing of his fame.

but the marth that stood before her could not be the same marth that wielded against her, the magic of her daughter. the very marth gharnef confessed, to her, a hopeful, similar fate of hypocrisy. Apparations, He suggested, and she took any excuse over the bitter possibility of truth.

when words left her, they were hardly better than a growl, “you,” eremiya seethed, a twitch in her eye and once placid smile, now recognized only as a scowl. He had been your responsibility, and she knew it, forsaken by the memory of a violet-haired disgrace. thus, she clicked her tongue, “i refuse to be taunted by the hospitality of ghosts.”

a pause. eremiya could not bring her gaze from his; untrusting that her eyes would not be led astray by the weight of a weapon at his hip. she had not looked yet, and would not introduce the hostility when her mage hand refused to commit to the magic it once conjured. so, she turned her head and sharpened her inner turmoil into a shield, “join the faint memory of your knight-toy and let me be. archanea is... yours, boy. lord gharnef and i have sought elsewhere... somewhere far from you and your heroic guilt.”

and quieter, she spat, scratching restlessly once again at the burns on her hand, "unlike reese, i will not tame the urge to kill you if you appear before me again."

The stillness of a serene night passes unexpectedly to throes, a rasping and growling voice that shatters the peace with its violating presence. Light and feminine, yet harsh and unforgiving, wickedly hateful above all those things, the disturbing figure it belongs to is as much a force of reprehensibility as a beast in a nursery. Gloved fingers travel to the wrapped hilt of his sword on a quick-second judgment, but standing before the obstacle now elucidated on his path - before the dreg of Gharnef known as Eremiyah - his eyes only widen with surprise.

Uncertain what to think, but known more than certainly of what to say, "Eremiyah? It is I who should be speaking of ghosts. I did not know you survived, much less made your way here as well."

The memories she stirs are unwelcome, of course. The twisted mother Eremiyah who did not care of the fate of her 'children' so long as they served their uses. It is the phantom heat of her Meteor that compels his fingers to stay where they are though his thoughts wander elsewhere. Katarina; aware of Eremiyah's return and fixated on that tumult, or unaware and merely waiting to be caught in the difficult discovery. . .

His eyes narrow, not merely for that line of thought alone. "Lord Gharnef? You speak of him as if he is still. . ." He holds; his tongue, his sword hand, and the very thought that Gharnef yet lives with this woman's word alone as its intimation.

The pious servant before him scratching aimlessly at her own skin is not perfectly stable, he realizes. Or had she been ever? Marth could recall the wicked expulsion of spells and curses in the unlit dungeon thought to prove her sepulcher, the unholy names branding the orphans she'd purposed as assassins and soldiers, the hatred spilled onto Katarina who had yet to die for her. He remembers, too, that such a clash had felt less like a battle - and more like putting out the last piddling flames of Gharnef's servants so they would never catch again.

"Whether or not we cross paths, know I've no desire to disturb you. The time for our battles is far in the past. In fact, I hope you will reach the same conclusion. There is no meaning to conflict any longer. Even if Gharnef is alive there is no way for his ambitions to continue either, and if there is—

The Hero-King's gaze turns steady; unwavering lapis resolve without pollutants of fear or incertitude or even hatred. Every enemy of peace will not know merely his sword, but a hundred, a thousand, a million more, numbering as many as the faces at his side who stand with him for the same dream. That much is not promise but fact.

"—we will stop him again."