#mxlusine

[ SLIP-UP ] - As it turns out, a lot of people at the monastery make for great body doubles in the dark. What do you do when you slap a friend on the back only for you to find out when they turn around that it's not your friend at all?

"What a troublesome child you still are, Marni," she tuts, though not unkindly—not with the vitriol that ought to be there, and not with the apathy that had once settled only to bleed itself dry. Maybe she had lost it, somewhere it Gradlon; maybe it had burned away with the rest of her, too heavy to bring with her overseas. "Did I not tell you that if you were going to attend, you should at least..." ...dance, Zephia thinks, but this is not Marni. In fact, now that she actually looks a little closer, this is certainly a small girl, but not a small enough girl. She is not her girl, dressed ridiculously for a ridiculous event that should have made her ridiculous heart soar. "...Well. You'll accept my apologies, I hope," Zephia says, withdrawing her hand from the girl's shoulder. "In the dark, you looked almost like someone I knew. Perhaps she isn't as special as I'd thought."

Marni?

Nanna turned at once, pale skirts whispering softly around her ankles as lanternlight caught across the pearls threaded through her dress. For a fleeting instant, confusion crossed her features—quick and bright as a bird’s wingbeat—before the woman’s correction followed close behind.

And then, despite herself—

“...Not Citrinne?” she asked lightly, smile blooming with almost dangerous ease, as though they were discussing mistaken identities over tea rather than ghosts of people who lingered too vividly in memory.

Her head tilted just slightly, studying Zephia now with clearer attention. The withdrawal of the woman’s hand did not go unnoticed, nor did the peculiar softness folded into her apology. It sat strangely beside the sharpness of her words, like velvet stitched over a blade.

“…Well,” Nanna continued gently, rescuing the moment before it could sour into embarrassment, “For your troublesome child, do take this.” Orchids, fashioned with endearment.

A soft laugh escaped her then, delicate enough to leave room for retreat if unwanted.

“…I think,” she added after a beat, eyes warm with quiet curiosity, “that people rarely mistake others for those who meant nothing to them.”

The droning of unfamiliar voices that accompany the figures shifting on the screen has long since lost her attention. Long ago, grief painted everything with dull colors-- flower fields that once held her favorite colors eventually faded and crumpled when the soil no longer held enough nutrients for any life to persist. She doesn't need something as trivial as a film to remind her. She doesn't need this pointless poking and prodding from a wretched soul who knows the same unending agony. The same pain that burns, burns, burns until nothing else remains. Until she had to begin picking up the pieces of her fractured world, painstakingly placing each shard back together again. Until that searing hole in her chest became too much to bear, too much to dwell in, and too much to allow herself to succumb to. One day, in the far future... Nel, too, will pass on into the next life. It's a naive wish to believe that maybe, just maybe, she'll be reunited with those she misses-- but one she can't refrain from nonetheless. There will one day be another that joins that list. There will be many. Over the centuries, as nations lose their rulers and are replaced with others, Nel's list will only become longer and longer. Laslow's name will be etched into that. "I know." One day, her hand will extend, only for no one to take it. One day, a half of her bed will be frigid and empty. One day, her smile will resemble a grimace more than it will anything made from happiness. "... I know." "Amongst humans, there are few who will remain in the memory of those like us." Like us. Like those who have lived too long and seen too many tragedies unfold right under their noses. "... You need not concern yourself with my ability to remember. My memory of him will not fade so easily." Sometimes, she thinks she remembers too much. Other times, maybe not enough.

"!!" No force in the world could have stopped Ronan's attention from dropping downward. Away from the serpentine eyes of this viper of a woman, naturally, but he finds no safe place for his gaze to land here along the midnight edge of her elegance either. Shyly, as if he were no more than a boy now (or, more aptly yet, a hare beneath the hawk's shadow), he looks up to her fangless smile and realizes that she has caught his wrist in the manacle of one warm hand.

There is nothing but sweetness from her lips - hypnotic coos to be a dear and play her partner for this dance. Ronan doesn't know why he feels like so strange, or so small within the shadow cast by the ribboned crescent of her horns, but he nods. Slowly at first, as if coming out of a trance.

"O-of course. I wouldn't want you to miss out..."

He feels foolish even before he finishes, like anything he might say to such a woman would be little more than a child's babble, and is thankful that the orchestra begins in triple time. Flayn and Miss Edain may not have realized that their newest dance student would be putting their lessons to use so soon, but Ronan offers his hand with confidence that he would perform passably at least.

That is, until his partner pulls him right into her as if in an embrace and away they whirl across the dance floor, all the confidence Ronan had built up in his ability to lead now dashed into a fluster as he tried simply to keep up. His cheeks burned furiously pink.

"I, um-- wow." Ronan staggers back a step when the dance finally ends and she releases him, his face still as red as ever, but something like exhilaration in his eyes. "You sure know how to dance. I must have looked no better than a foal on its legs for the first time by comparison." Steadying himself with a small, shaky laugh, he turns to collect his bouquet and extracts a hyacinth from the middle of the arrangement.

"Here. This is the only thing I have to thank you for the thrill. And... apologize for maybe not quite being the right dance partner for you."

Although he doubts there is any man in the world who would not shrink before such majesty.

"I hope it makes up for it."

Mercy has been shown to many of their enemies in the past. Queen Ivy and Princess Hortensia. Lady Veyle. Mauvier. Mercy is kindness. It is compassion. Mercy is peace.

When she lays her eyes on this woman, Céline feels anything but.

Where had that mercy been for the people of Florra? As they screamed and wailed, trapped in fire. As they desperately ran from their burning homes, only to be cut down by an Elusian soldier's lance, the rusted blade of a Corrupted, or Zephia and her Hounds?

Men, women, children...

None had been spared. If one did not lose their life, then they lost a relative, a friend, a loved one—they lost their spirit. She cannot count the number of pleas or complaints sent to the castle in the aftermath, either begging for help or cursing the ineptitude of the knights and royalty. The callousness of the Divine Dragon that should have protected all.

(She has never told the Divine One of this.)

Zephia speaks as if it is merely in the past, a memory left to fade and a scar long healed. It is not. For as long as Céline carried this love for her homeland, it would never be.

Firene's princess watches the Mage Dragon with a blank expression, giving her prettied (and obnoxiously emphasized) words nothing but a light scoff in response. Though she takes the orchid, she does not offer her own flower. Zephia could make her gestures, play her games. Céline had no interest in entertaining them.

"That shouldn't be an issue," she twirls the stem between her fingers, turning on her heel, "for there is nothing here to burn." Not a relationship, nor a truce. Certainly not any agreement.

And with that, Céline takes her leave.

[ TXT ] : Are you still alive?

It's a bouquet of orchids, but it's not her bouquet of orchids.

...Which is to say, Zephia's bunch had been just that—a bunch—while this one is elaborately arranged with gold threads and silk ribbons. Whoever it belongs to had clearly intended for this to be a meaningful gift, but she supposes it must not have been that meaningful if it'd found its way into her hands rather than its intended recipient. Regardless, it isn't her duty to find its original owner, and she really is growing rather tired of being assaulted by the scent of numerous blooms everywhere she goes.

So.

"...You look far too lovely to be walking around empty-handed, dear," she says, once she spots a girl that's lovely enough and vaguely familiar besides. Zephia presses the bouquet into her hands. "Take this. We shall say it is a gift from someone who ought to be admiring you."

"oh!" her cheeks flush a light pink. "thank you, professor! that's very kind of you. i don't know if it's fair to say i'm empty-handed, b—"

it's too late for modesty. what else can dorothea do but marvel (albeit with some astonishment) at the unexpected handoff of an entire bouquet, hastily shifting her own bundle to make room for another in her arms. it's quite unlike her own—or any she's seen thus far—and she can't help but admire it quietly, taking in the finer details of the gossamer ribbons and the gorgeous threads that twinkle under candlelight. "—ahem. i appreciate it. would you like one of my tulips as well, professor? i've got a blue one that'd go beautifully with your dress."

as her free hand tries to pluck one of her own flowers, it brushes against the secondary bouquet, fingers catching on something cold and metallic that goes clattering to the floor within seconds.

clingclangclang!

when dorothea's gaze follows the sound to the ground, she stares at what looks suspiciously like an engagement ring that'd been nestled amongst the unsuspecting orchids.

If he expects disappointment, then he's richly rewarded—though, it isn't necessarily with his performance. A mock battle isn't anything impressive; her reaction to it would've been more or less the same had he emerged from it bloodied and victorious. So what is it that displeases her so as she settles a hand atop his wounded leg, gentle and soft? What is it that presses down a little harder, and harder, and harder still, until she can feel the torn muscle spasm and twitch beneath her heated palm?

"To think, you used to be the kind of man who would crawl back on your hands and knees no matter how mangled you were. Is a simple arrow all it takes for you to hide away, now?"

Pain, for him, is both punishment and reward—and so she withdraws her hand, satisfied enough with watching the blood start to seep through his bandages and unsatisfied with everything else.

"What a wretched boy you've become."

"Hehehe-- Hah! Now that's the spot." Zephia had found the point where the pain was enough to finally draw a reaction out of Griss. Not just laughter, but a genuine wince. She'd always been good at that. It's the reason he's quick to give about why he's stuck with her for so long, and for most people, that's enough of an answer. After all, if they can't fathom why he'd want to constantly test the limits of his tolerance for pain, then they don't think they'll get anything else that makes sense out of him either. Like how being a sandbag for Zephia to let her frustrations out on is just another purpose for living. Sometimes his only one.

He stretches his injured leg out as if daring her to keep going - maybe break it in half while she's at it - and leans back on his hands, which still leave dirty and bloody prints across the thin white sheets on his cot. This wretched and wayward boy deserves another strike or two, he says with body language alone. This wretched and wayward boy hasn't yet had his fill.

(--hasn't atoned for the disappointment--)

"If you want me to get back out there to kill all those sweet little brats, just say the word." When he looks back up at Zephia, there's not a single sign of a joke in his eyes; he means what he says, as long as it's an order from her. In fact, there's a note of desperation in his voice. Subtle, but nevertheless different enough for her ears to detect, because he's likewise picked up on her subtleties, too. Whatever's gotten her so upset with him, he wants to make up for it. Always the people pleaser, no matter how twisted.

She will kill him.

She will kill him, and she will ensure that his body is found, strung up throughout the monastery like lights during the winter holidays. His foul blood will water the gardens until all the flowers wither, and his bones will be repurposed to give novice knights something to break their wooden swords on as they practice their swings. He will be used but useless, forgotten in the way that he has always deserved.

Zephia's smile strains. She jabs her elbow into the tender flesh of his side.

"Move. Your. Foot."

Rafal's temperance was that of a monk; so disciplined and sacrificing that it brought to mind the very topic of his atonement. Because this was precisely that: an act of atonement, of goodness far beyond his natural means, and—most of all—of restraint.

"—Sweep that outrageous excuse for hair aside first." A hiss slithered out from between his teeth. Or, thereabouts. A hiss usually came from a mouth, but this hiss sounded as if it could have been from anywhere due to the obfuscating curtain of hair that hung over it. He spat out a tease of a strand that threatened to slip inside with a grimace. "I've not an ounce of desire to ruminate on your taste in my mouth!"

It wasn't the first time Zephia elbowed him or that her hair inched into his mouth, nor the second; and these distinctions Rafal would know because he counted each and every touch the Mage Dragon visited upon him, and dreamed viciously of repaying each and every one. But, as a result, then must come the question: why did he merely dream instead of do? Why was it that a man of such terrible force of will complied with this infantile activity? This insufferable partner?

He stretched out his arm and nevertheless silently spun the wheel. Left foot. Blue.

It was as if the answer went unspoken - conveyed from his knitted look of concentration, to his unquestioning relocation from one quadrant to the next. Victory would be his, in this form, and against this woman. As the Fell Heir was wont to say to his most dreaded enemies: once one should cross him, there was no turning back.