#sometimes julia writes

They have been more frequent, yes, but it must be because of stress, or reading too much without breaks, or not drinking water, or eating, or sleeping enough, or a litany of reasons. You have not been well since the tea party. Frankly, you have not been well for longer than that. But since the tea party, it has been so difficult to leave your hive, to do anything beyond visit a handful of places with a handful of people. And now, you have thrown yourself into a project- embroidering gifts for little ones- that harms you as much as it helps. A task that keeps you focused on something that isn't your own life, on the questions you asked so foolishly, on the answers that broke your heart, has been a lifeline. Still, thread is not enough to hold onto forever. You might just run out of thread soon, too.

But the embroidery has been put down, thanks to your ever-present headache, and you decide that water might help. Something has to. It is a quiet descent to the kitchen from the library, dimly lit as you move between rooms and down stairs, lifting your glasses away from your eyes to wipe at your face. A noise of tiredness is pushed out of you, and it joins the tapping of your feet on wood and the hum of the air conditioner as the only sounds in your home. Quiet, as usual. Lonesome, as always.

The only thought you have at the moment is of water, of putting some fluid in your body, and hoping that it will be enough. Grab a glass, open a refrigerator, pour more than you think you need. But before your hand can take the glass for a drink, a voice reaches your ears-

You weren't supposed to be there.

It's quick, the grabbing of a knife from the sink, eyes wide and wild as you look around the room, waiting for someone to appear. No one does, but you wait, still in your motions, on high alert. But there is nothing- no breathing but your own, no shifting of weight on floorboards, no… anything. Lowering the knife, you slowly approach the glass, reaching yet again for your drink.

You aren't supposed to be here.

This time, the voice isn't in your ears, but in your head, and you nearly drop your weapon, almost doubling over the countertop. The voice is loud, the way a chorus is, because it is not just one voice, but many you recognise, and it hits you like a ton of bricks. If you were focused, you would be able to pick out distinct voices, put them to names. But it happens again, and it hurts- pain compounding in your head. It feels like Viktoras' work, where the memories were false but fresh. It feels like Gamzee's meddling, where each thought pulled at others with hooks, sharp and unrelenting. It feels like Mandy's magic, the call you felt the last night in Asidea, the visions that have appeared on occasion since returning to this timeline. It is all of them at once, and you shriek as the pressure builds, eyes shut tight as the deep, dark voices of lovers past dance at the edge of your mind, and faces of loves lost attempt to come into focus behind your eyes.

You have to go back. You have to go back.

It is not a plea for help, but a command, one you cannot stand to listen to. But there are conflicting voices. A woman's voice gave the order to go back, but a man's voice comes through clearer- You're not going anywhere. You can't go anywhere. Another laughs at you, and tells you you won't have to decide because he'll decide for you. Squeezing your eyes shut tighter doesn't help anything. The voices grow louder, more numerous, and you start to see faces more clearly. Your hand drops the knife onto the counter, with a clatter you don't hear, and you claw at what's in front of you, gripping the knife's blade and pushing it into your right palm, with pain you don't feel. The pressure is building, with your name being called out from all sides, building to a din that you cannot out-scream. It feels never-ending, like you will be trapped in this room forever with the sounds of past, present, and future assaulting you until something breaks.

Until you do.

There is an awareness of the knife in your hand now, of the glass on the countertop, of a sink that is still full of water from soaking dishes… if these voices will not stop speaking, you will make them. Enough of your name, enough of demands, enough of whatever this is. There are more voices, new ones trying to come through, to say their piece, something you will not allow. They will not tell you what to do, or how to live. They will not dictate where the knife will be sunk into you. They cannot, but one voice is finally clear enough to make you stop moving.

Mom?

There is, immediately, stillness. The silence is thick, enough to stop every sound, every action. You know your heart is pounding in your chest, you know you are breathing heavily, but you cannot hear any of it. You know who it is. You know exactly who that voice belongs to, and it is so close to you. Feet away- no, inches. Is she really here? Is it really her? Is it-

"Izerti?"

You are afraid to look up, but you do, opening your eyes to find there is no one there, instead that there is blood pouring from your hand, dripping down the counter, staining your nightgown, marking your leg… You do not see your daughter, but you catch, as an electric tingling dances around the edges of your eyes, a flash of brilliant, bright green reflected in the glass of water. Just like the night you left Asidea, with the same pain of every headache you've had since. Another flash across your eyes, and you wince, but this time you see your daughters, Virago and Jagara, deep in conversation. They wear worried expression, speaking quickly about something you can't hear, and you reflexively reach for them, calling their names. What you did not expect is that that would get their attention- there is a quick jolt of their heads towards you, recognition in their eyes, hands outstretched towards you as their mouths form your most important title, but before you connect, you are gone, and so are they.

If you had any energy left, you would be frustrated beyond measure, furious at a cruel joke, but you are exhausted from the whirlwind, breathless and confused. The tempest still has one more trick for you, one more bolt of lightning passing by, a vision of your promised last moments gifted to you, and a woman's voice, unfamiliar to you, speaks again-

You have to make your move.

It is there that your body says it has been enough, and when the kitchen dark again, devoid of green lightning, you go unconscious, hitting your head on the counter and taking both knife and drink with you as you slump to the ground, fainting in a mess of shattered glass, water, and blood.

>Now, though, you feel frenetic, wild, desperate. If doing the one thing you have always been sure of- being a generous lover- cannot help you, then what can? What can?

>You hold your blouse a little closer to you, wishing you could feel sparks in the other hand, wishing you could feel something better than this. Lonely and frustrated and needing something you can't quite figure out. Pacing in your bedroom will not help. Pacing in the forest would be no better...

>A glance, to the flowers you bought, beautiful in a blue vase, a tether to this life for the moment. They should make you happy. You should look at them and think of every wonderful feeling you could have. You should be thrilled with the warmth they bring, the reminder they serve. And yet, you don't.

>The business card you received hasn't been discarded. It needs to be. A step to the desk, a lifting of the card, then a turnover once, twice... You rub it between your fingers, the violet ink refusing to smudge, and you keep thinking to toss it. But you don't. And so it lays on the desk once again, next to the vase, just as it was.

You keep track of the days. You keep track of the hours. You watch the moons shift in their phases, chart the stars as they move across the sky, monitor the shadows a blazing sun casts every day. Things move. Life moves. Planets, oceans, leaves, creatures, people, everything moves. You don't.

You have stayed in the same rooms for perigees, pacing the same hallways, locking eyes with the same photographs, the only changes in your surroundings coming as gifts from others. Tokens of affection from lovers and friends in the forms of food and flowers and fabric… Fine as they are, pieces you are grateful for, but is it enough? It isn't. You wouldn't dream of sounding unappreciative of any of them, but the hive you're holding onto is becoming a museum, full of artifacts of a lost life you're afraid to forget and a new life that you're afraid to live fully.

When you ran into the forest, you thought something would shift. You thought you could ask the the trees your questions, you thought they'd tell you the same things they always had: "you're safe here. this is home. this is where you need to be." They didn't. They offered their embraces, but they stayed silent. You ran to your dad, too, and hoped he'd have something for you. Hoped he'd have wisdom, or at least kindness: "you're safe here. this is home. this is where you need to be." But it didn't happen, not like that. Quiet rumblings, warmth that didn't quite reach your heart, words that didn't match what you thought you needed. What do you need? What are you missing?

You run to the ocean, you wait for something to happen while you stand at the waves' edges, watching the ships in the distance with narrowed eyes. It's dangerous to venture further than this, to test the waters so very literally, but you slip off your shoes, leaving them in the sand, and walk into the water, slow, measured, eyes kept upward even as you slip underneath the surface, listening to what the sea says to you. What do you do? What needs to change? All it says is: "you're safe here. this is home. this is where you need to be." But you know that's a lie. You leave, drenched, angry, frustrated you even asked, and more desperate than ever for an answer.

Nothing changes when you enter your home. The same silence you've become so used to greets you, the same emptiness fills every room and seeps into your lungs. It steals your voice. It steals your breath. It's quiet. You can't stand it.

Messages find you, and they manage to pull you out of the loop of madness you've made for yourself, even if their efforts are short-lived. Your heart softens for their writers, but your mind spends a little too much time with them. You talk of peace. You talk of calm. You talk of quiet, unearned.

"sometimes, peace is welcome. to have the time to be idle. to not have to do anything. it's good, isn't it?" "usually. i can appreciate quiet, but restlessness is usually what i get out of too much of it, yeah." "then we should do something about it."

You decide to do something about it.

You sent a letter, to Asidea, a few days ago. A short one, a frantic flash of words, written through lonely sobs for faces you miss so terribly, on a day where you felt your failures so acutely. There was no response, then. You don't deserve one, you know that. Still, you're trying again. Another letter, longer, with a pair of requests. You send it off, and sit by your transportaliser, waiting for hours. You're giving them three this time. It's terrifying to leave your coordinates unlocked for so long-- what if they come through in person? what if they make demands i can't meet? what if they pull me back before i'm ready to go?-- but you trust your children. You trust that they will not move until all of you are ready.

Before the three hours pass, there's a flash of green, and a box sits atop the transportaliser pad. It's unassuming, a brown box wrapped with a dark red ribbon. You are careful in unwrapping it, nervous that it is a trap laid by someone else, but it is exactly as you had hoped. It's from your children, only, with six letters inside. Your hands are delicate as you hold each sheet of parchment, all held far away from a face wet with tears as you read them. dear mama, they all start, and they all end the very same way. love, forever, always, from the moons and back and beyond. Five letters, written individually, and one penned by Virago with words from all of them. The last letter is heavier. The last letter answers both requests.

Inside the envelope is a stack of photographs, copies of originals kept in albums locked away, pictures of the life you left behind and the people still there. Selfies of your family that you managed to sneak in taking, candids of young people enjoying moments between duties and responsibilities-- Virago and Jagara doubled over and laughing in beautiful ballgowns, Perygl grinning by an arrow in a bullseye, Cyther Kaiser and Haakon smearing frosting on each others' faces, Izerti excitedly pointing to a book with her name printed along the bottom edge. More photos of them posing by statues, reading in nests of pillows, holding onto each other in snow, on shores, in sand, on sofas… And there you are, in some of them, pressing kisses to their cheeks, beaming proudly as you stand behind them… There are a few that you've never seen before: one has you looking out a window in your imperial regalia, another is of you giggling with your ex-husband in plainclothes, a third is one taken of the five remaining royals, all of them smiling warmly and holding each other tightly. The date is written on the back of it; it was taken six days ago. It was prepared for a day they knew mattered to you. It was prepared for their mother.

The photos were the first request, and if that was all they gave you, it would've been more than enough. But the second part was answered, and at the bottom of the envelope sits a ring, golden band with cut alexandrite atop it, exactly the same as it was 67 sweeps ago. You slide it on your finger gingerly, then press one of the gems. Slowly, you stand, and glance at your reflection in the mirror in the hallway. It still works. Your perception disruptor still works. There you are, human, with bright blue eyes surrounded by white, a shock of red hair, freckles and scars smattered across pink skin. This is not who you are, but it's what you asked for. An option. A change. A choice.

Everything that's been sent to you is returned to the box, brought to your room, and placed on your desk between a beautifully wrought dragon in a gardenia, and a tiny pillow with a crisp game-like module resting on it. Paper is pulled out of a desk drawer, and teal ink is drawn across it, letters swirled along with frenetic speed, a simple message dressed in verbosity. i love you. i miss you. please wait a little longer. i need more time. i want to see you soon. i promise, we'll be together again. somewhere, somehow. Folded carefully, sealed with wax, monogrammed on the back, you send it off, and you're quick to lock your coordinates. You fiddle with your necklace for a moment, eyes fixed upon the transportaliser, staring at the numbers you've input from memory.

You think this will be one of the last letters you need to send. You think, as well, this is one of the last times you will do this song and dance of scrambling your coordinates, of locking the doors behind you.

That, however, is speculation. What is important is to acquire a few novels (and a bag of chicken nuggets, per another dear friend's request), and be home as quickly as possible. Less time out, less chance to see a familiar face-- "Well, look at who it is! If it isn't Nettles! Where have YOU been?" Ugh. You can hear your former colleagues' voices already. They'll have you back in your office in seconds if they see you. But that's speculation, too.

You've been in the capital city a few times since leaving Asidea, and you've made sure all your favourites were still in place. Favourite florist, favourite cafe, favourite tailor… And same as ever, favourite bookstore. There's joy in the familiarity, something soothing in knowing that somethings haven't changed. It may not be this way forever, but it is this way for now.

Finding the books is easy enough. Something with a pretty woman in green on the cover, a few romances, a singular historical fiction, a book of poetry selected separately for another… It's quick work, and even quicker work is made of groceries, a few extra ingredients to add to not-quite-Valentine's-Day party treat, and a passing glance at flowers for that same event. Simple tasks, quickly done. And aren't you proud of yourself!

You begin the walk home, brisk in your pace so you are not caught by anyone, eyes focused ahead, distracting yourself with a mental to-do list once you return to your hive. But something catches your ear, and, along with it, your attention.

"What the fuck is THAT thing?!"

The comment isn't directed at you, thankfully, but your hand is quick to flinch towards the dagger on your thigh. Two young trolls are speaking to each other, excited, and when you find where their voices are coming from, you see them, and several others, looking up.

You do the same.

Your heart nearly stops, the commotion on the street fading away from you, the dagger, your tasks, everything else leaving your mind. When you look up, you see the moons, pink shining fully and green slyly smiling, the stars blinking in a inky sky, and great white wings attached to a great white beast nearly blocking the heavens from view. A dragon, you hear someone shout. A dragon back in the city.

Two, you think. Two of us, here. Both of us in the city, together.

You can barely look away from him, eyes kept skyward so you don't lose him, jogging along the pavement, then breaking out into a full run. You can feel every muscle burning, your lungs full of fire, but you have to keep going. You've been tracking him for ages, and now he's so close-- every lonely hour poring over maps and records from sweeps you barely remember, every sobbed frustration over missed opportunities and a lack of understanding, every terror that crept into your mind because of sleepless nights, every day you have spent missing the one entity in any timeline who has always understood you… they're going to be worth it. You watch the clouds, you feel the wind, you wonder where he will land. You have your guess. You'll be fine if you're wrong.

You are a blur in your hive, throwing books on the couch, shoving food into the fridge, grabbing the bag you prepared for this exact event, and exit back out the door before you realise where you are. You check upward again, frantic. He's lower now, but still in view, moving away from the shore, away from the city (idly, you curse Treekat for being right about this, but swear you'll thank him properly, too.), towards the forest. You don't know if you can run again. But if you don't?

That's not even being considered.

A guttural cry leaves your chest, a roar in a language lost to most trolls, one you know will be recognised by who needs it. Again, again, again… the sound of an animal's young, desperate to be found by its parent. Draconian, shouted through tears you didn't know were spilling from you, as loud as you can manage, as loud as your can will your lungs, your throat to be: "Dad! Dad! Dad, can you hear me?" You repeat it, breathlessly, every few footfalls, panting hard as you try to keep him directly above you. The wings turn, and so does he, towards the edge of the woods you both know so well. He outpaces you, though, and he's sinking lower, lower. You cannot keep up. You lose him to the trees.

There is fear, immediately, that that was all you'd see of him. That this begins another hunt for who knows how long. You have kept shed scales and crushed leaves and singed bark, clues and keepsakes both. And here? You will keep trying. You will keep chasing him, however deep into the forest it takes you.

You don't know how long you run for. Could be minutes. Could be hours. The moons still hang above when you think to check the time-- even then, you don't register the numbers you're looking at. You're out of breath, voice hoarse from your continued hollers, sore from tip to toe. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you think you should start running laps as part of your trainings, then feel immediately nauseous at the prospect of ever running again. You hold firm to an oak for support, eyes staring without focus in the direction of a bright red berry bush. But the flora hits something in your mind, and you bring yourself back to your surroundings. You're almost there. These bushes are ones you used to pick little snacks from, the tree you're holding onto has your initials, alongside your ex-moirail's, carved into the bark, and there is a heat you feel underfoot. It's not from the earth. It's radiating from something-- someone-- else.

Carefully, you press on, finally catching your breath, watching your footing and making sure to be noisy as you can manage, peering through leaves as you crawl under branches to an open patch in the woods. There sits your old hive, adorned with all its fairy lights and lanterns, silly wriggler's art on sideboards hidden under ivy, the trees surrounding it bending in gentle embrace. You've seen it recently, spending nights in it, cleaning it up to make it a place to love again.

The enormous dragon resting in front of it, curled up with smoke billowing from his nostrils, eyes bright and focused on you, is a new addition.

You can't move when you see him. You can't breathe, or think, or anything. He speaks to you, though, gently, kindly, warmly as ever, in the tongue that you made sure to never lose, to never forget. "Well, look at who it is. I've been looking for you for many moons, Advoca. Where have you been?"

In an instant, you drop your bag, and run (one more time, one more burst of energy) to him, arms flung across scales and holding tight to his neck as you sob. Claws come up to cradle you closer, gentle as they hold you tight. Just like how you've wanted for sweeps, just like you remember.

>Medical kit, he said. Bloody, he said. I am not afraid of blood, you said.

>You held back But I am terrified of losing you.

>You don't even think about what you look like, only making sure you put your hair up. Blood. He's hurt. Be sterile. Hair out of my eyes. Wash everything. Stitches. I can do that. It's going to hurt him. I have to do that. He's conscious. Was he not? How long? What happened? Does it matter?

>You grab the kit he mentioned from the kitchen, then move to the bathroom, where he said he'd be. You told him not to move. It was a coin toss if he listened. He did. And he was right. He was bloody.

>Memories flash through your vision-- soldiers covered in every colour, violet seeping into your floorboards, your own teal dripping from your shoulder, your waist, your face, teenagers with sour expressions and wounded pride and shallow injuries-- as soon as you see his gold splattered every which way. The wings that he has sprouted are an afterthought; he is bleeding, and you must make it stop. He needs help, and he asked you. You won't fail him.

>It's quiet, how you approach him, soft in your speech, and gentle in your touches to his hair. Everything will be fine, you say. Everything is going to be alright, my love. Your heart is in your throat, and you feel tears burning your eyes. But this is not time for tears, and there is no room for fear, and you will not leave until you have fixed what you can. So you clean your hands, keep them light against such fragile skin, warm water and soft cloth washing away blood and sweat. You wrap the base of his new extremities in gauze, extremely careful in wiping his feathers of viscera, brows furrowed as you listen for any sort of discomfort. There can't be any more. You will not be a source of it.

>You're methodical, checking his back, his arms, every bit of him that you can see. Perhaps, if you focus on the task, and not how it makes you feel, you'll be able to hold it together. Just until he can't see you. In the silence, as you brush his hair away from his forehead, and hold fast to his hand, you wonder how frightened he must've been, how much pain he's faced today, and why, of all people, he contacted you first.

>You've counted the days. 72 of them, and you've been missing the entire time. There was a flash where you weren't, but that wasn't particularly helpful, was it? You knew that they'd hold onto the dust that settled from your appearance, any and every particle they could keep of you. You knew this because you would do the very same. This is your family-- loved across space and time, loved beyond probability and reason. And if any of them were to disappear?

>Well, you don't have to imagine what you would do. You already know what it is like to lose a child. You know what it is like to grieve the loss of love.

>It's because you love them that makes the writing so much more difficult. A letter to the council? Not an issue. That is their job, to clean up after you. You would have all the instructions they would need. To the nobles? Quick, simple. A warning in perfect penmanship. But to the Crown? No, to your children? There is so much to say, and not enough words to say it. All of them feel wrong in your mind. They feel worse on paper.

>But Kanaya had taught you something incredibly valuable, and had reminded you that even if the words are not perfect, they're not really the most important part. To know someone is thinking of you, to know that they're alright… That is peace you can give. And you can give that to them. You have to.

>This time, you think, will be good enough. You can only hope.

--

To my light and loves: Virago, Cyther Kaiser, Haakon, Perygl, and Jagara,

First, let me apologise. I'm sorry I've left you all with such a terrible task. I'm sorry I left at all. I know that you are working hard to hold everything together, and I am sure that you're doing so well. We knew that something like this would happen, but perhaps not like this. Not so soon. And I am sorry that there was no warning. I couldn't have foreseen it; how were any of us to know?

I want you to know that I am safe. I am home. You know where. I can't ask that you do not follow me. I would follow you. But I need time, here. I have things that I need to do, things that I can't accomplish anywhere else but here. It's been so long since I've seen all of these people, this forest, this home. I've missed it. I don't want to miss it right now.

Know I miss you all, terribly. I think of you every day, and I wonder how you are doing. I have old photos of us that I look at constantly, and I wish you could see them, too. The photos aren't really enough, though. I miss my babies! (You will all ALWAYS be my babies. When I am old and my hair is white. When you have babies of your own. For now and forever after.) I want to see you soon. I just don't know when. I just know I miss you all so so SO much. And I will see you, soon.

I don't know if you feel this way, if you keep any sort of guilt, but none of this was your fault. None of you could've done anything to stop this, or me. I had a chance, one. The only one I may have had. I had to take it. And I hope none of you punished the people who gave me the chance. They weren't to blame either. I hope that you did what I would've done, and treated them well. I don't doubt that you did. I raised you to be kind, compassionate people. And you are.

This has gotten away from me, I think. There are so many things I want to say, and some that I can't say quite yet, but I will tell them all to you, soon. We will see each other in person, and while it might not be like before, at least we will be together. Stay strong, be kind, take care of the people, and of each other. You are my greatest achievements, and the loves of my life. I am proud of you, no matter what you have done. I'll see you soon. I miss all of you, and can't wait to hold my darlings in my arms again.

Love, forever, always, from the moons and back and beyond, Mama ♥♥♥♥♥

--

>It's pitiful, with teardrops splattered all over the paper, teal ink running at the edges, but it is the best you can do. You are careful in how you fold it up, once, twice, and place it in its envelope, holding it tightly for a moment. You write your initials-- A.H.N.-- on the back, seal it with red wax, and place it on the transportaliser. You know the coordinates, ones you couldn't forget, and you send it off in a flash of green kneeling next to the pad, watching as it vanishes (just like you did). This time, though, you do not scramble the coordinates. You will wait, but just one hour. This is their chance, to get the information they need, to possibly bring you back. And you know, to wait at all is a risk.

Her Highness, Virago Netrak, First Princess, Promised Future of the Alternian Empire, has not slept a wink since someone broke into the palace. The captain of the palace guards has been trailing her every step for hours, apologizing one moment, offering ideas on how to bolster security the next, and while his intentions are good, his voice is driving her to madness. His attention has been on her the entire time, but so has everyone else's. Soldiers and staff and nobles and every person who has ever stepped foot inside the palace are seeking answers-- They cannot ask her mother, so they must ask her. There are many moments where she would love to raise her voice, and remind all of them that her mother did not choose an heir. There are five siblings, and here, they are a quinquevirate. The empire will not fall if there are ten hands to hold it up.

But it seems that in the commotion, everyone has lost their goddamn minds, as well as the recollection that she is not sole regent. So she is left to guide forces, to console servants who are nervous that there will be another attack very soon, to appease nobles who would love to see the House of Netrak lose their power in a day. Where are her brothers, her sister? Not offering their help, for certain. And there is a flash of irritation directed far beyond the grounds of the castle; because where the fuck is her mom?

She sweeps through the halls, greeting whoever she passes by, head held high and violet eyes kept forward as she hears the prattling behind her, and eventually, it strikes the right nerve, and she spins around, eyes closed with her middle finger pressed firmly between furrowed brows. Virago is not known to express frustration, but there are exceptions to every rule.

"Captain Zaldun, I appreciate your concern, I do." The princess speaks gently, with restraint and all the grace she is known to carry. "But perhaps we should continue this conversation with the entirety of the Crown. My brothers will have more to offer on the matter of guards than I do."

The oliveblooded captain leans forward, his eyes pleading to keep just a second more of her time. "But Your Highness, I just think that--"

Her other hand goes up to stop his speech, and she shakes her head, fins flaring from her cheeks. "Captain, please. I need a moment to compose myself. It's been a frightfully long day, and I am no longer interested in words. We will revisit this conversation tomorrow."

Of course, he wants to say more, but he cannot force her to listen, and with a sharp turn away, he is gone, the only sound he makes coming from his boots rapidly clicking down the hall. And for a moment, there is silence, a break. Good. Thank fucking god. A few more steps down the hall, and she is in front of a large door, that leads into a private, spacious common area for the Crown. A hideaway for a moment. Upon stepping through the door, though, she sees she is not alone.

There, spread out one of the chaises, is a young man dressed in loose, casual garments that sport magenta and gold, tossing a dense glass orb up in the air above his head, a leg lazily draped over the arm of the couch. He doesn't turn to face Virago, only smirks as the ball is launched upward, and caught effortlessly, once more.

"Zaldun finally leave you alone?"

The princess scowls at the young man, stomping over to him to yank his toy from him mid-air. "No thanks to you. No one can seem to find any of the other heirs! So instead of talking to you, they have to speak with me immediately!" She hurls the orb back to the man, glowering as she stands over him. "Where the fuck have YOU been? Where the fuck have any of you been?"

The tyrian troll does not catch his toy well, the wind knocked out of him as it hits his chest. Still, he smiles, infuriatingly. "Well, I can't speak for the other three, but me? I've been hiding. Turns out, I'm pretty good at it."

There's a groan from Virago as she sits on his lounging spot, flopping down but taking care to avoid his head. "Cyther Kaiser, I hate you so much."

"What are you gonna do, kill me about it?"

"No. If you died, Mom would be sad."

"Well…" The boy tosses the orb up once more, then carefully sets it on the low table in front of them. "Mom isn't here, is she?"

There's a glance shared between the two royals, a sorrow that carries through both of their hearts and into their eyes, and Virago sighs, resting a hand on his hair between his horns. "She would know what to do about all of this… We wouldn't even need to do anything ourselves."

"Yeah…" Cyther Kaiser rolls on his side, closing his eyes for a moment in the safety of his sister's presence. "And she'd probably tell Captain Zaldun to shove it up his ass. Which you could do too…"

The violetblooded woman laughs briefly, and her brother joins in. "You know, I just might. I'll get him next time."

There's a moment of silence, of rest for both of them, but it's gone in an instant as there is a knock at the door, with a muffled voice calling for the princess outside of it. And that voice is immediately recognizable to both heirs, earning the bearer double the rolled eyes, and raised hackles from the princess.

"There's your chance, Vira. Tell him to suck your bulge too, for good measure."

The princess whacks the top of her brother's head (which is answered with a loud ow! fuck! from the fuschia prince) and stands up, eyes intently staring down the door as she clicks back into royal mode, opening it without greeting. There's a race to speak first, and the captain wins:"Your Highness, forgive me, but I--"

"Captain Zaldun, unless this palace is in flames, or the moon is crashing into the planet, whatever you have to say can wait until next light. Do not dare to bother me again."

Virago is ready to slam the door in his face, but a smaller voice speaks up, belonging to a fresh-faced blueblooded guard that stands a few paces behind him. "Your Highness, I requested he speak to you. I wanted him to tell you something on my behalf."

Unfortunately, the princess cannot tell a young soldier in her care to evaporate immediately, and so she raises an eyebrow, a prompt for the guard to speak. Cyther Kaiser, brat that he is, has decided to join the conversation, resting his arm against the doorway, peering over his older sister's shoulder.

"Yeah? But now you've got us both here, so tell us what you need to. We don't need to hear Zaldun talk further."

The captain frowns at the prince, who only stupidly smiles back, deeply irritating the princess who is trying to hear the young lady in front of her speak. "Your Highnesses, I was sent into the library to stop the intruder from escaping, where my team and I were not successful…" There is disappointment in the blueblood troll's voice, but she continues on. "I was ordered upstairs, and I was lucky to find the intruder at their escape point, and I saw who they were."

The heirs look at each other for a split second. An identity will make this situation easier, certainly. An assassin will mean sleepless nights, but a spy will mean war. Thieves only matter as much as what they stole, and anyone else will be handled as deemed necessary. One more glance to Cyther Kaiser, and then Virago speaks. "Who was it? We need to start investigating at once."

The blood is not intentional, of course. But there it is, drenching the tiles of the palace hall, coating a freshly sharpened sword, gushing from a poor guard who had just been in the wrong place. She had to stab him, though. He would've heralded her arrival home, and that just won't do. No one can know she's come back. And to that end, he had to be stabbed.

However, Her Majesty, the Empress, Advoca Netrak, Brightest Star of the Alternian Empire, is generous, benevolent, fair. More importantly, she is well prepared, and had nearly known that there would be an injury. It's not his fault, she thinks, that he did his mission so well. A palace guard standing watch for the empress, unwilling to lay a hand on her? He certainly does not deserve to die for that. There are footsteps approaching, as his comrades heard his cries of pain, and so she must be fast. A bandage to his side, an apology in his ear, and a sack of gold tucked under his uniform to buy his silence. It won't last forever, but it must last until she can get what she needs, and get out. Before her soldiers round the corner, she unlocks the room the man on the floor was guarding, and makes sure that it's locked three times over once she's inside.

There's a timer, now that there's more guards. She's rummaging through the bookshelves, opening drawers with reckless abandon, grabbing scrolls of ancient laws, files of notes with yellowed edges, weapons kept in secret compartments, and another key, red thread wound around its handle. The soldiers on the other side of the door hear the commotion in the office, and she knows this is all she can do. Before they break through the door, she slips out through a back door, a window, down rooftops to bolt through the dark towards the library. Alarms have been sounded, swords handed off, and the royal family roused. Exactly what she hadn't hoped would happen, but she knows the protocol. Get the princes and princesses to safety, if necessary. Protect the people inside before pursuing any threat. That buys her enough to time to get inside the library and up the grand stairs to a room further back, chest heaving as she tries to catch her breath, hands holding tightly to the satchel full of treasures stolen from the Empress. In here, there is a transportaliser, the only one she knows that works in the way she needs, the only exit point from this timeline. She is not any sort of skilled scientist, but she's learned how to scramble coordinates, erase data, enough that she won't be followed. At least, not for now.

The front door of the library slams open, the sound echoing alongside voices shouting orders. Faster, faster… The transportaliser crackles with energy around its archway, green and foreboding, but she can't be afraid. Coordinates are input, and she steps onto the platform, giving one last glance behind her.

A young guard has made it up the stairs, as ordered, following the hum of something coming to life, the flash of unnaturally bright green light, and at the end, finding a woman in a black cloak with teal eyes full of worry, a dead ringer for the missing empress. But before any confirmation can be made, Advoca is gone.