#regnalastra

It was hard enough that Morgan had to wean any information from Professor Ayra, but harder yet, he couldn’t merely approach her. How could he? She not only was a professor for an entirely different house from his own, but she was also a sword instructor, and she was... kinda scary looking? Definitely not someone one would want to catch someone sneaking up on them.

It wasn’t too difficult to follow her, admittedly. It appeared she wasn’t the type to stop for idle chit-chat; if she set out, it was to go straight to her destination without delay. It lined up with what he knew: she was strict and straightforward. Those simple traits, along with the fact that she was from Isaach and skilled with a blade, were all he had booked about her.

Morgan wondered if any new knowledge would be enough to sate Letizia. How much could anyone know about someone as high-strung as Ayra, really?

The shadows did little to hide him. It wasn’t like Morgan was trying to remain totally unseen, but simply unnoticed. It’d come off a lot worse if he really was slinking around in the shadows behind Ayra like some sort of creep. Instead, he followed her from a distance, a small notebook hidden behind one of his regular novels that he jotted down whatever he could in—which, for now, was nothing. Every time she turned her head, Ayra would merely see another student reading at his leisure. Definitely not following her.

          Their foes thoroughly slain this time, the battlefield merely reconfigures itself with one less task to perform. Armor is whisked away, exchanged for something much lighter, and a different spell takes root in Alfonse’s mind as two new enemies appear — that which he suspects will be for the final time, at last marking the end to an arduously long chain of battles. A war master armed with strange-looking gauntlets and a dog, both cloaked in shadow; the significance of these particular forms unclear but obstacles to be removed nonetheless.

          And then he happens to glimpse his own appearance, taking in the floor-length dress and exposed shoulders; fitted sleeves leaving little to the imagination when worn over the muscular arms of one who is a swordsman first and foremost. Ah. It reminds him of the times where he’s been made to attend some of the festivals of his homeland in costume... He looks ridiculous, he’s certain. All it would take is a single laugh, and his fate would be sealed.

Rolls: 10+4 = 14, 3+4 = 7. Alfonse attacks the Shadow Brute twice for 8 damage! [ Shadow Brute: 32/40 HP ] Alfonse suffers -2HP from recoil damage. [ Alfonse: 8/10 HP ] Alfonse recovers +4HP from Lifetaker. [ Alfonse: 10/10 HP ]

          With magic as his only weapon for the third time since they began fighting these battles however, the Askran prince wastes little time in calling upon its might again. Rather than fire though, it is light that descends from above now, a sizable pillar which soon narrows into a thin, pinpointed ray focused directly on the shadow brute. A single spark travels down the length of it, shining almost innocently as it does... 

          ...and unleashing an explosion of sheer brilliance the instant it finds its way to earth. Bright enough to necessitate shielding one’s eyes from the blast lest they be blinded — but unlike before, such power does not come without cost. A stab of pain in his chest makes itself known in the immediate aftermath of the spell’s detonation, forcing a sharp intake of breath through his lungs; Alfonse is struck then by the realization that he cannot afford to cast it recklessly. Yet even as he thinks that, it does not last long before a strange force relieves him of it, reversing the harm done as if it never happened...

This sinking feeling deep in Shannan’s gut upon being told that she was here. Larcei’s naïveté and optimism that one day Ayra may return was farfetched on a good day, and on bad days, it was impossible for the elder Isaachian to listen to her. Not for anger, but for the deep sorrows that were once again manifesting inside him. Though it hadn’t only been Larcei that’d piqued his interest. 

Overhearing about this black-haired, blunt, incredible swordswoman initially gave Shannan hope, but considering just how many people came and went from the officers academy didn’t really inspire much confidence or drive to seek her out. Hearing of the harsh nature and unforgiving attitude did lean into his interest, but there was still this nagging feeling. Every time before he’d gotten his hopes up, they died quickly. Every. Single. Time. 

Yet here he was, combing through some of the files he’d managed to get access to, checking through names. Nothing. She was supposedly newer here, so maybe it’d make sense that she wasn’t on the list yet. Still, if she is here, somehow, Shannan needs to find her.

He’d carefully check the grounds, choosing to start with the places she’s least likely to be. Checking the guards barracks, the church, the mess hall... it’s pretty quiet this late in the evening. Then, some of the classrooms, glancing around even the Golden Deer and Blue Lions halls. He could try the dorms, but he already knows where she is (probably). Carefully, he approaches the doors to the training grounds, having only put off this area for the sheer fact that he wasn’t ready to see Ayra again. If she was anywhere, it would be here. 

Slowly, the doors creak open to stone courtyard, and he can already hear the clicking of boots against the chiseled squares beneath them. Each passing moment, the sound of his heart beating in his ear gets louder and louder. His breath is hastening, yet as his eyes finally set upon the woman he’d given up finding so long ago, he is perfectly still. There is no scream or cheer, there is no excitement. Only a heavy swallow.

“Ayra,” he calls out, afraid that somehow, this is just some bad dream he’d wake up from any second now. He can’t find the power to lift his feet and move closer, standing by the door in case he needed to remove himself for accidentally confusing her with someone else. “Is that really you?”

Ethlyn is sure that whatever gods are up there must be laughing. She'd begged and prayed and held tightly to the hope that Quan would appear in Fódlan the same way she had. The chance of it happening was so low but she never gave up and now he's really and truly here. It's a miracle beyond anything she could ever deserve.

But hardly even a week after their tearful and heartfelt reunion, another familiar face from that awful day in the Aed Desert joins them. Travant is here alive and thriving and from a time distant from their own. It's some kind of cruel joke. She's sure of it.

Ethlyn finds herself retreating to the kitchens more and more often. She's always found baking bread to be a mindless distraction when something is aggravating her. It's a recipe she's made countless times now and she knows it by heart. There's no need to think about the next step or if she's doing it correctly.

She grunts as she kneads the dough. The physicality of the action normally would be enough to begin to soothe her worries and calm her but this time it is not enough. Kneading eventually becomes more like punching until "Gods damnit!" Ethlyn grabs the overkneaded ball of dough and tosses it aside into a pile of several others that suffered the same fate.

//continued from here

Luckily for Ayra, the grass of the courtyard provides a soft landing.

Larcei had run at her in full sprint, barreling toward what she could only assume was her mother. In many ways they were alike, her and Larcei. They bear ashen eyes, agile figures, raven-toned hair. All her life she had been compared to this image. She heard about how she looked just like her--about how she’d be able to recognize the woman if she ever found her. She felt confident that this was Ayra.

Hearing her words is a wash of relief, confirming everything in her mind.

Tears stream down the scion’s face as she looks down at her parent. In an instant, the emotional dam barring off all the sadness and agony of living parentless breaks. Larcei is a flooding tide--tears boiling on her cheeks, snot welling up in her nostrils. Whatever she said was made to sound ugly and off-key by her relentless bawling.

She is then pushed off. But to her credit, she can’t help it! Ayra is everything to her. She is her ultimate goal, she is what Larcei strives to emulate, she is what Larcei had been searching for her whole life. The Isaachian woman--now an Isaachian girl--had always idolized her parents. Those conversations with Scathach appear in the back of her mind now. He said she was dead, didn’t he? Oh how wrong he had been! If he were here now, what would he have to say about how his sister was right all along? There’s a small amount of aggression Larcei feels as she cries in front of Ayra--hatred for all the times she’d been treated like she was delusional or a helpless child grasping for mommy. Finally, finally, she has her victory. 

But Mother had always been an intangible goal, hadn’t she? Something to chase after and convince herself was truly real. Even now, doubt weighs heavily on her spirit. For but a short moment, she entertains the thought that, maybe, this isn’t real. A freak hallucination or trick of the light. With Ayra standing (or, trying to stand) before her, Larcei doesn’t know what to do with herself; in her mind, this is it. This is what life was leading up to. It’s hard to shake the feeling that this is indeed happening, but she manages.

She was spouting some nonsense earlier, words that barely registered as coherent, and her mom’s command shakes her back in line. “R-right,” she sighs, lips quaking with unfiltered emotion, “I just... I almost can’t believe it’s really you, you know? All my life I knew I’d find you, but seein’ you is... Well, it’s a dream come true!” 

Choked laughter drowns out her sobbing now, and Larcei takes her hands off the princess so she can wipe her eyes. Like ice and fire, they are. In many ways they are similar, but in personality they couldn’t be more different. Larcei is a raging inferno of feeling, unable to control herself as her purpose folds in on itself. Ayra is allowed to stand, but as soon as she does, she’s assaulted by another tight hug from her daughter. 

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring you down back there. I just... I love you, mother.” With her face pressed so deep into the other’s shirt, her voice sounds muffled. She speaks in a much softer tone, too, creating an atmosphere totally different from the screaming excitement from before. Slowly, gently, Ayra’s side starts being rubbed by her kid’s face. Larcei allows herself to be a daughter for the first time in her life, not caring that she just stained her mom’s top with her tears. She’s calm and quiet now, nestled within the warm embrace of her lineage. 

There will come a time for talking, for asking what Ayra’s doing here or why she had been absent from Larcei’s life. But for now, affection is her top priority.

"Yes."

//Just in case once more. Mild gore. Maybe not so mild as I keep writing this--

dead