#shornlight

Through Marika, they are kin; separated by years and ignorance. Was it wilfull, or was he truly that unaware? With him, he carried the horror he witnessed as he traveled through the shadowed lands. A gruesome exhibition of corpses displayed in both warning and conquest; the fires Messmer kindled leaving open wounds across the landscape that oozed hot magma and churned black smoke. Was this truly the intent of Marika, or did Messmer stray from the path?

Realisation creeps into his conscience, but Godwyn is quick to shun its truth. He speaks, near shouting into the vacant room; his voice losing the princely resolve he possessed moments ago, even as Godwyn steps forth as a challenge to his brother. ❝ ' Your Grace.' In the Queen-Mother's absence, I speak to you with her voice! And… I command that you return to the Erdtree Capital forthwith. I deem your service here complete.❞ His breaths are silent, yet heavy; his voice carrying upwards towards the ceiling as if he shouts at no one. Messmer's tone is all-commanding, frightening; and in spite of Godwyn's confidence, the very strength of his own will, he can feel it wilting. Like a plant without sunlight. ❝ Would you disobey me, brother? …Or would you have me burned as well? ❞

He is but a bulb of light. Small, but still glowing; held aloft to the sprawled fingers of the Erdtree's canopy, higher than he might ever be when standing on his own. Godwyn rejects all etiquette, slouching onto the top of Messmer's head, rubbing his cheeks against his hair. Scents unfamiliar fill his nose, as his small hands blindly grasp at his brother's face. Fingers poke, prod and pinch. Not out of malice, but curious affection towards a brother returned.

Under Messmer's chin, he cups his hands; feet swinging in beats of two as he babbles some song he heard… When he tires of his voice, he straightens, arching back to behold the Erdtree as it sways and bends in the wind. The canopy shudders as they walk the streets of Leyndell, dropping its leaves in a dusting of gold. Fruitlessly, he grasps at one here or there, testing Messmer's grip until his hand snatches one from the air.

A marvel, as if never seen countless times. The leaf glows softly in the palm of his hand, his finger tracing the little lines that spread across its surface. Godwyn begins to hum again, brighter than before, and as he slouches again over the crown of Messmer's head, he holds the leaf before his gaze.

❝ Look! Isn't it pretty? ❞ His question is innocently sweet, glad to show off his find of the day.

[ … ]

She is Mother; divested of God-Queen and Conqueror, holding the squirming boy that is her Golden Lineage given form. He is restless; far too big for her arms to hold, but Marika does not relent to the whining and whimpering of Godwyn. He twists one way, then another, as he stretches himself to full length in an attempt to touch his sandals to the ground. She is fluid with her motions, bending and twisting as he does, setting him firm on her knee as she waits for his tutor to take him. Messmer arrives well before the scholar, and instead of sending him away, Marika observes him as he watches Godwyn.

Her sons, together, in one room. One is unwaveringly still, upright, obedient. The other will do anything to be released from her.

Messmer is not shy in how he stares. Always observant, always alert. A protector of his brother's birthright. Loyalty keeps him leashed to her, and his usefulness is a weapon honed into a fine point.

( Things were sweet when it was just the two of them; when expectation did not require Messmer to mantle her violence. )

Godwyn keeps his brother's gaze, then his eyes fall to writhing masses under his cape. ❝ Messmer. ❞ The boyish glee he held in his voice moments before it's replaced with something sterner. A glimpse of his future ❝ Do not treat them so poorly. Not around me. They've been in my life as long as you have, and I do not fear them. They won't hurt me. ❞ Godwyn beams, holding his hand out to coax the serpents from their hiding place. ❝ You should treat them, and yourself, with more kindness. I won't stand for it when you become my knight. Duties can be amended. If I… If I have to talk to mother in your stead, I will; I'll do anything! I don't want you… to leave. ❞ Again. He doesn't speak the word but it weighs profoundly on him. A life led without his dearest brother is a life he no longer wants.

𝑫𝑨𝑾𝑵 - 𝑭𝑳𝑨𝑽𝑶𝑹𝑬𝑫 . accepting. how long are they are going to dance like this? elle, standing in familiar circumstance, and a being, demigod, he can barely understand except the concept of war. they both served, that's for certain. what he learned fron gaius he feels it's not enough to fully speak out. yet. and the snakes. their constant companion of messmer. green eyes steady, surprisingly non-malicious. he's never seen them as large nor sentient. it's enough to get anyone's heart racing a little.

as if sensing it, one of the snakes slide over his shoulder, curling around the back of his neck and downward, just as @shornlight circles behind him. elle stiffens, feeling his own muscles constrict. the elf stifles the curiousity to reach out enough to feel the scales beneath his fingertips. how would messmer react .. with the snake's added weight, elle shifts his footing, reaching out anyway to the cool red scales.

𝑫𝑨𝑾𝑵 - 𝑭𝑳𝑨𝑽𝑶𝑹𝑬𝑫 . accepting. the halls are still dark. enough so that that the elf, for a moment, could not distinguish from the light glimmer of day to the starlight of night. it did not help much either, something robbing him of a good night's rest in recent days. strange dreams, even stranger feelings leaving him cold and sweaty as he awoke with a light gasp. after struggling to get more rest, ellarian finally threw the blanket off of him, replacing the surprisingly well kempt cloth with a cloak of his.

and since then boots have echoed softly as he studied the architecture of messmer's palace. candleberas of endless, yellow light glow and flicker. life in this part of the castle seemingly little save himself. portraits studied. doors left closed. arms wrap around himself to stave the creeping cold. about a turn heel and back to his room, something catches his attention.

a door slight ajar. the familiar scent of paper and ink. a library? blue eyed lets the curiosity get the better ... he knocks first, albiet awkwardly, and when there is no answer, ellarian slips in. he takes a torch from the side and ventures inward. books, scrolls, nearly all in bad shape, litter the shelves and walls and, disappointingly so, the floor in some corners. he can smell the certain must of still-use. wax? the air still as the layer of dust on them. a shame.

a large desk sits in the middle, adjourned with more brown-paper. a few scrolls. fingers reach and touch the wood; some edges are chipped, rotten. painted or varnish long faded. but it's familiar and sets the elf's heart with ease.

❛  how  did  you  sleep ?  ❜ @shornlight

elle startles, twisting to see the red-maned lord in the doorway. lord messmer. and the green-eyed serpents slither in the air. the eerie feeling of being watched from them and not the prince. ellarian, however, visibly relaxes once more. whether in tiredness or some form of comfort in his presence. he settles the torch in a metal grated sheath, again, arms circle around himself.