#ulirblessed

"A-Are—" The woman standing next to her at the fruit stall looks up at the mercenary bemusedly. She was a thin little thing, dressed in a humble blouse and re-stitched skirt. Definitely not a fighter. Housewife, perhaps. The sack of apples she'd been trying to buy sit unsold on the counter, the recent hike in prices from the winter season making them just a bit too expensive for what this lady could manage.

"Are you sure, madame? It's your gold, and..."

Eyvel smiles warmly. "Perfectly. I've got enough to keep me fed and warm. With all those apples, lemme guess—you've got a few mouths to feed, too?"

The woman nods timidly, "My... my children, yes. A boy and girl..."

The mercenary chuckles, her eyes wistful at that. Though she would have given anything to watch Febail and Patty grow up, she would not trade the time she had with Mareeta, Leif and Nanna either. "I know what that's like. So go on, take it. Mother to mother."

After another moment of deliberation, the woman slowly nods, a grateful smile spreading across her lips. "Thank you so much! I'll be sure to repay you someday, Miss...?"

"Eyvel." She responds, "But really, don't worry about it. I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

As she always had. Supporting the people of Fiana, suffering under the tyranny of bandits and South Thracia's limited resources. Even back during her days in the Orgahil—she felt no qualms about joining the captain in demanding fees from the ships seeking passage towards Bragi Tower. The passengers were frivolous and rich, the crew needed to survive, and the money would go to much better use given to the poor of Agustria, left to suffer as the lords played their political games.

She slips a few gold coins onto the counter and pats the woman on her shoulder, turning to leave, when—

Ah. Speaking of Agustria.

Eyvel sees it, with her memory restored. The girl's resemblance to Lachesis, albeit with features softened by youth. But there was a steel in both their eyes; an understanding of loss, the world, and its many hardships. The resilience to fight against them, even then, standing tall in the face of whatever came their way.

The warrior smiles. How she's grown... perhaps a bit too quickly.

"Little Nan..." She starts quietly, then more loudly calls to the girl standing in the middle of the market, "Little Nan! Is that you?"

The voice struck her before the name did.

Little Nan.

For a heartbeat, the marketplace dissolved. The winter air, the merchants, the bustle of strangers moving between stalls—all of it seemed to recede beneath the weight of a single memory. She was small again. Small enough to fit beneath a patched blanket in a fishing village. Small enough that a scraped knee or an empty stomach still felt like the end of the world. Small enough to look up and find Eyvel already there, steady as the sea-beds off of Fiana.

The turn of her head was immediate.

"...Eyvel?"

Nanna had grown taller since those days. Older. Her dresses finer, her posture more practiced, her responsibilities heavier than either of them might have imagined when she was running with hand-me-down boots through Fiana's streets. Yet the sight of Eyvel standing there with that familiar smile made all those years collapse inward at once.

And then she noticed what had drawn Eyvel's attention in the first place.

The apples. The grateful mother. The handful of coins surrendered without hesitation. A laugh escaped her, warm with recognition.

"Of course."

Her smile broadened as she crossed the remaining distance between them. Likened to what, Nanna wondered. Almost a mother, almost a daughter. Almost an aunt, almost a niece. To the great many things they were not, Eyvel was family, most definitely. Family.

"...Some things never change."

The affection in her voice carried no accusation. If anything, it sounded suspiciously like pride. Nanna had spent enough years watching Eyvel empty her own pockets for the sake of others to recognize the pattern immediately. There had always been room at her table for one more person. Always another blanket to spare. Another meal to stretch. Another burden she would quietly shoulder before anyone else thought to ask. Nanna wondered if the woman from the fruit stall realized how fortunate she had been to cross paths with her.

Before she could stop herself, her gaze dropped briefly to Eyvel's hands. Those same hands had taught sword forms in dusty fields, brushed hair from fevered foreheads, and carried children who were not hers by blood but loved all the same. The swell that rose in her chest caught her off guard.

"Hehe..." Her smile softened. "I was beginning to think I might have to follow a trail of charitable deeds to find you. I would not be surprised if every village has a story already brewing about you."

It carried years within it. Homesickness for a place that had never really been a place at all, but rather the people who had filled it.

"I am glad to see you!!!"

Andrei's birthday.

Edain had mentioned it, though Brigid had never truly forgotten it. The protectiveness she once felt over her crybaby brother, the small cries of 'Lady Sishter' as he followed behind Brigid and Edain in the grand halls of Yngvi's manor―though faint, memories of that distant childhood were more prevalent today than any other.

...What a bother.

The thunk of an arrow striking a target echoes in the distance, and she lingers near the training hall's entrance, a hand running through her hair.

The last time she attempted civility, the man damn near tripped over his own feet to run away from her. And it wasn't as if she was willing to simply forget everything that transpired between them, to swallow it all and smile as if they were the family they had been all those years ago.

But she had come to train, and she wouldn't waste her time running or hiding from him―no matter how awkward the ordeal, Brigid would face it with her head held high. She had nothing to be ashamed of.

(Pirates. So many lost years. A stain upon family, upon Ullr's honor―)

Nothing.

She pulls out her bow (not Yewfelle, she wouldn't debase such a holy weapon on simple training drills), and nocks an arrow where she stands, aiming it at the target positioned next to his. With a whir and a satisfying thunk, she strikes the bullseye, announcing her presence in a way only a Yngvi can.

"Don't mind me." Brigid says as she steps deeper into the training hall, prepping her gear for a few more practice shots. "Keep going. I'm just here to train, like anyone else. Not trying to run you off, not here for a fight... not today." She draws an arrow, mumbling. "Even I'm not that cruel."

     Several rounds in, his arm has yet to show signs of pain. The tautness of the new bowstring begins to feel natural after dozens and dozens of shots, and standing in the now torchlit grounds, Andrei allows himself a brief moment of respite.

     Edain’s bow is as well made as it had seemed at a glance, with a steady draw that allows for the arrow’s smooth trajectory. While it is hardly the most powerful bow, there is something almost comfortable, in making use of it. Perhaps it is the natural inclination of a healer’s hands, or perhaps... because it is for him. Andrei doesn’t attempt to make his guesses.

     One more round, he decides, before fingers pause on the bowstring at the sound of footfalls behind him. Today’s impromptu training session is later than his usual plans, and it’s entirely possible those at the monastery who had finished an early dinner might be headed out to make use of the grounds. The internal debate of whether it would be more prudent to depart from the training grounds had barely begun formulating in his mind when an arrow flies past, and his head whirls around at the sudden movement.

     Ah.

     If he already hadn’t expected anything of Edain, it would be an even greater shock if Brigid, of all people, takes note of the date. He moves to gather his things ― surely she would object to his presence ― when her words stop him in his tracks.

     Not today. Did she mean...?

     No, it couldn’t be. Why would she know, or care? The memory of their previous meeting is enough to tempt him to leave anyway. Not that she had followed to see him at his lowest, but the mere act of fleeing the scene like a coward is shaming enough. How much lower can he wear her opinion of him down, before she decides he is better off dead, once more, by her hand?

     (Is that not what you’ve wanted?                                                            No, no―)

                       ‘What I’ve always wanted...’

     She had told him to keep going. Willing his fingers to stop shaking, Andrei plants his feet back into position, nocking the next arrow onto the bow and drawing back with an eye aimed on the target.

     (A pair of hands guide his smaller ones, correcting his stance as he draws back the toy bow with characteristic solemnity. The guiding hands fall away, and he aims, all by himself, under her watchful gaze. He can’t mess this up, not for his Lady Sister!)

     Some part of that sentiment, it seems, has never changed, even with the passing of years and the differing paths that they had taken. Andrei releases his arrow.

     Thunk.

     He lets out the breath he had been holding, lowering the bow as his gaze lingers on the arrow that had flown neatly into the center of the target. Despite himself, he finds himself sneaking a glance in Brigid’s direction.

     ‘I’ve gotten better at the bow again, Lady Sister.’

The scent of unfamiliarity floods Severa’s nostrils. Eruptions ring in dirtied ears as the rumble of rolling thunder makes it impossible to stay lights out any longer. Blinking slowly, arms come to brace for a nonexistent impact. The hard wood beneath her is a poor excuse for a mattress. Dull pains ache throughout that lithe body as finally, she comes to move.

Eyes slowly adjust to the lack of a proper light source, sans whatever flash can shine through those hefty boards mounted upon each window. Swift hands pat around, yet that dingy sword is missing. Shit. Something warm and sticky paints her cheek, and upon further inspection, blood is the only possible answer. A glance over herself deems it most likely not hers. 

She ain’t got time to bleed anyways.

“Where the fuck am I...?” A low grumble escapes a dried throat, before a cough to clear it. Gods above she needs a drink.

“Hello?” Voice ringing out with annoyed tone. “What the hell is happening? Where’s my weapon?” She calls out, pushing up to her feet. Shorter than the equipped woman. It’s only once she’s standing that she manages a look at her own outfit. “And what am I wearing? This is abhorred...” she mumbles to herself. Raggedy and admittedly more comfortable than expected, it’ll do for now. 

Though spotting the other two with her is certain a relief. She recognizes them from Garreg Mach, and one from... Hoshido. What was her name? “Oi, blondie! Princess! Get up, now is not the time for shuteye! As much as I wish it was...” Then, those sharp eyes meet the only other woman conscious now, expecting some kind of order or explanation. 

Just... exhaustion.

"I'm not here to start a fight." After her experience, she wasn't interested in wasting any more time with useless, circular arguments. And yet she could not find it in her heart to completely absolve her brother, either.

But this second chance at life, time spent with family and friends she never thought she would see again... Edain and Midir, Lachesis, Sigurd and Ethlyn... she was terrified of having it all stripped away. (Again and again and again.)

Yet she knew this dream of a monastery couldn't last forever.

Her children flash into her mind, left at that orphanage in Conote. Edain's anguished face. Yewfelle's holy arrow, piercing Andrei's chest—life was too damn short. And dreams? Even shorter. She wouldn't spend this one tearing her family apart again.

Brigid runs a hand through her hair, gaze averted for a moment before she says, "Heard you were part of the mission to rescue the trapped students from those books." Surprising, but an act that rang true of the brother she once knew. "...Good work out there."

     It’s difficult to detach the lingering scent of the sea air from the sight of Brigid, and Andrei can’t help but flinch, even before his sister opens her mouth.

     (It all feels so real, even now. Especially the sensation of being tossed under the currents, of water inundating his very being, every bit of air choked out of him until…)

     No. He tries to focus on Brigid’s words to stave off the memories, even if one provides little more respite than the other. Of course, none of Lord Chalphy’s just and honorable are ever here to start fights unbidden. Somehow, none of that self-righteousness ever stops the fighting from happening anyway. She’s merely—

     ‘Good work out there.’

     Mind stuttering to a halt, Andrei can do nothing but stare, slack-jawed, at his older sister for a long moment. Even then, he waits for the subversion, a mocking follow-up, perhaps, a caveat, a threat, anything… but none comes. Brigid’s statement ends there, as though inviting a response from him.

     “I…”

     A response, it seems, that he is wholly incapable of giving, as everything in his mind pauses until only the echo of those words remain. He takes a step back, then another.

     Without another word, Andrei flees.

     He turns and flees from his sister, from her words, and doesn’t stop until he reaches the edge of the monastery, where he collapses against an outer wall, clutching his old wound from Yewfelle – burning in pain once more – as tears roll, unbidden, down his cheeks. He doesn’t have the strength to hold back the sobs when they come.

     It’s not real. It’s not real. It can’t be. It’s just another torture this purgatory has in store for him. Just as he deserves.

     ‘I’ve never done a single thing worthy of being praised.’

An Extremely Self-Indulgent Meme (no longer accepting!) ❰❰ SHOULDER ❱❱ sender touches receiver on the shoulder

     The grip of all-consuming exhaustion hadn't seen fit to let him go for a moment, even after everything in the monastery had, ostensibly, returned to this land's definition of normal. (The clock turned back with every detail of their previous plights intact in his mind, it warned of an unending cycle from which he would never, ever escape, just as he couldn't escape the first time)

     There seemed to be an implicit understanding that they had returned to the beginning of the year, and that classes were to begin anew. He went to them as he had before, while diligently avoiding those that he knew from another life. There were times, after all, when he could no longer be sure which memories running through his mind were true, and which were the product of the vision dream other worlds he had seen on that shadowed plane.

     A touch on his shoulder, at this time, sent him jerking back, a larger reaction than he normally would've permitted himself, but as he whirled around towards the other, the surprise morphed quickly into shock, then into something more tumultuous still as he stared at the face that was so much more familiar than it should be.

     Outrage, the shining arrow, his blood flowing into the earth, grief (?) and nothingness.

     No, please don't, he silently begged to whatever unrelenting deity might heed his calls, even as he already knew they would go unanswered as they always had. He could handle what happened thus far. He could not handle this.

     He would have to.

𝐌𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨𝐠 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰𝐬 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐲 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐳𝐨𝐧. Petra waits outside a small café next to a bright red building—the only other thing that could be picked out from a thick haze at a glance. 

          She takes out her pocket watch watching as the little thing made a soft clicking before tucking it away for the nth time. She was a little early to her meeting spot, but she hoped it would be done sooner rather than later. Her hands stuffed into the pockets of her coat, and she exhaled to watch her breath condensate. She had sorely wished she had brought a hat today, maybe even gloves.

          Petra was not from here originally; it had only been a year since she had accepted the position and promptly moved as a result. For geographically a small place, she was surprised at how many differences in people there were here. Some accents were more difficult to understand than others, but she was sure that being a foreigner here, the locals could say the same for her.

          The lady she was to meet held the name of her homeland, a bit odd she thinks, but not entirely so. She had met a duchess with the name London after all.

          The case was a bit of an odd one in that she didn’t know much about it at all. Nor did she really know the person she’d be working with. ( She had to pay her rent here and other living commodities didn’t come free even if you are a detective with some weight behind your name. ) So, the only thing she could do now was wait.

          As soon as she decides to sit down at one of the tables perched in front of the café, she stands just as quickly, relieved to see the lady at last. A pleased and warm smile comes across her features despite her frozen hands. She extends one regardless. “Petra Macneary,” she introduces herself but wonders if it was even necessary since they at least knew that much. She nods toward the shop, “Let us sit inside and we can start discussing the case with a warm cup of tea.”

There’s been word of crumbling ruins, remnants of an old town and its gravesite becoming overgrown with strange greenery. Beautiful though its blooms may be, superstition and old maid’s tales have painted it as a beautifully haunting omen for a disaster to come. To that effect, the neighboring villages are too afraid to venture and clear it up, avoiding any and all routes that might cross it, and so have pleaded for aid from every passerby willing to help. As you enter the mouth of the ruins to dispel their needless fears, however, you find that these are no mere ruins. The vines close the entryway from which you came, and, looking ahead, you find that the ruins are, in fact, a huge maze. To make matters worse, the vines that now prevent you from leaving don’t seem to be content to stop there. All around you, the labyrinth shifts and changes; the walls move, the plants snake and snap. You and your companion must hack and cut your way through and find a way out, lest you intend to bury yourselves in a grave that never needs to beg for flowers. [Grants Sword +1]

     He’s passed this hedge at least twice already. The thought rings clear in his mind with the pattern of yellow flowers before him, and Andrei looks around, eyes narrowed as he tries to remember where he’d last turned. Left, perhaps... but he’s not certain, and when he tries to retrace his steps, the next hedge is completely unfamiliar.

     I’m lost.

     It seemed a simple mission, to begin with. Dispel some baseless rumors that the local villagers had made a large enough deal about, to the point that the church had taken notice. Visit the ruins himself to ascertain how much manpower would be needed to clear it out. He barely considered the need for any weaponry besides his bow, and then only in the case of wild animals he might meet along the path.

     The first sign of danger had been when the vines moved to seal the entrance behind him. Andrei had immediately tried to clear them out, of course, but the thick vegetation could not be budged. He’d even tried climbing, but the leaves slipped underfoot until he was forced to abandon the plan. And when he’d moved forward, it was into an endless labyrinth of foliage; one that, even now, seems intent on trapping him within by any means possible.

     It had started with nearly imperceptible movements — the slight curling of a leaf as he drew close, the lazy sway of a vine — ones he could mistake for tricks of the wind. That he could ignore by insisting to himself that the rumors are as baseless as they’ve ever been, and that he is safe.

     Now, several hours later, they grow bold, and he’s long since recognized his fatal mistake for what it was. The vines that reach for him grow stronger still, as though knowing he lacks the proper weaponry to defend himself against their full might. Andrei jerks his arm away from the next creeping tendril, dulled panic bubbling within quickening his pace, even as his destination remains as unclear as ever. All he needs is to find an exit.

     Easier said than done.

     (  🌠  ;  a time they wished upon a falling star,  also asked by @gentlenekomata  )

                A hundred reasons for men to clamor in the daylight and there exists only one terrible, wicked, nigh unthinkable reason to do so in the dead of night. None could blame the Prince of Altea for daring to assume the worst. Ripping fast from his sheets and even faster from the foggy grip of sleep as shouts and hollers sounded outside his cabin. An uproar that implicated danger during the most vulnerable hours of an army floating on foreign waters.

               An oil lantern knocked askew, spilling its rampant flame onto the deck... their lone ship caught in the sights of nocturnal pirates... or... an enemy ambush from traitors unseen? Reasonable as his worries, they are worries that prove for naught. His hurried steps onto the main deck arrive alone and to the sight of other company with surprisingly less perturbed states of mind. A deckhand is the first he sees within reach leaning on the wall outside his door.

     “...Shooting stars, you say?” Marth asks him incredulously.

               The man explains it away as a gathering of the sailors; young men and women who revere the stars and convene to appreciate a rare shower regardless the hour. Marths sighs deeply at that, danger no longer on the mind. With Grust on the horizon and likely to greet their eyes at daybreak, there will be no excusing the lack of wisdom in a sleepless army. But...