#warwaged

HER GRIEF WAS FAMILIAR— sudden loss of a father that forever altered many lives, the defenselessness that came with it, and the hard-earned ability to rely on one's self above all.

such were the things they shared : a fleeting childhood, a cold bed.

one irrevocable. the other may yet to be redeemed; if only one of them dared to try a tad harder. it appeared today would not be the day they started.

he could feel the eyes on him. misty, & full of quiet sorrow. he knew how they looked without having to turn to meet the gaze. if there was one thing he'd grown accustomed to about her, it was that forlorn look. that, and the crippling inability to lift the mist.

an obstacle, she called him with ease, and he couldn't help but wonder if he was one to her too. it was a thought he was plagued by more often than he'd dare to admit. did a part of her ever resent him ? did she even know that it was not him who orchestrated this union, and that he wasn't any more thrilled than she was ? or how he'd rather not be the first-born son so that he could join the warrior's sons and devote his life to the protection of the faith instead ... ? oh but such things were to stay between him & the gods, for he couldn't bear to look so ungrateful in the eyes of men, too. he knew he possessed things many would kill for ... and yet.

perhaps she wasn't the only one shrouded in an unliftable mist.

"then it must be a blessing that neither of us smiles often," loreon turned to look at her, his pacing having halted momentarily. he did not enjoy discussing politics with her — or anyone, really — but he had come to realize that meditating on subjects related to their common foes was a strangely effective way to build bridges. it appeared that she was aware of the persisting danger; they did not want her to stray too far from their grasp, for she would always be a threat, and they probably would not even let her marry into a powerful house if the said house didn't appear to be loyal enough. little did they know the son did not share the mother's penchant for peace if it came at the cost of one's true beliefs. "you have little reason to mistrust me, i would take honest gloom to feigned joy any day."

not wanting the conversation to become a personal elegy on their loveless marriage, he quickly added, "do you remember the particular people who seemed to have objected to our proposal ? i believe those to be the reason why we might have spies in our midst, they wish to keep an eye on me and make sure we are not ... conspiring against the crown." he paused, hoping she would understand the severity of the situation and would not be too uneased by what he was about to say. "... i'm afraid i suspect one of them to be a handmaiden of yours. i intend to show them no mercy." 

“I wish we could be home.” Tyene was pouting, but she was annoyed. They had left Dorne not on some grand adventure but for a marriage meeting between her cousin and some lordling. Tyene already knew that it would never happen, but apparently politeness dictated that they still had to make an appearance.

Nymeria was their escort, to ensure the girls didn't wander off

' i know you. '

black aly. everyone from woodhedge to honeytree knows the raven maid of house blackwood, famed for her skill with a bow, rather than an embroidery needle. his aunties used to cluck their tongues and mutter about how uncouth a young lady she must have been, to parade around in breeches rather than skirts, and drink with her brother's men in taverns and alehouses. aeron, privately, had thought she sounded like good fun — for a blackwood. unfortunately, his opinion of the young woman stood before him now has changed significantly, and not for the better.

' you put an arrow through my uncle's neck. '

he still remembers it as though it had happened only a day ago, though the battle was weeks past now, if not a moon or more. time is difficult, here. but aeron remembers his uncle's body crumpling to the ground, like a puppet with its strings cut. still remembers the hot spray of blood that had splashed the side of his face, already filthy with grime and the blood of the men who had fallen to the blades of his bracken brothers in arms all around him, and those who had succumb to their blackwood foes. the smell of acrid smoke is still thick in his nose, in the back of his throat, even after so long in this dank, dark cell. he's been a guest of raventree hall since the taking of stone hedge, when the blackwoods had overwhelmed their already - depleted garrison, swarmed through his home like so many rats — aeron had been taken as a way to ensure his cousin, now acting lord of their house, would remain on his best behaviour.

' forgive my bluntness, but i'd rather hoped you'd died during the battle, my lady. '

There is a part of Fourchenault that fears for every moment his father is gone. That fears there will come the day he does not return -he can tell himself he’s made his peace with that, it won’t make it any more true- and fears, even more, than his ideas will take root in Fourchenault’s own children. Particularly Alisaie.

It is hard not to see Louisoix in that stubbornness that her gaze holds -it’s hard not to see himself, decades earlier- and Fourchenault’s own eyes turns colder. Thaliak willing, she’ll see sense and remain in Sharlayan. And when she does, the views she shares, the way she defends them... they will earn her more enemies than opportunities.

Fourchenault would see her safe and he would see her successful and for that, he thinks, he needs to be harsh on occasions.

“The Forum,” he begins, and his voice is a warning, “is comprised by men and women with a much grander vision than you could have at your age.”

He doesn’t expect her to understand it yet, but to respect it would be a beginning. To respect him, and not echo the words of an Archon who insists on helping warring nations that continue to fight each other.

It is not the first furious glare leveled at Azem, and it will not be the last. They have walked their current path for but a moment, in the grand scheme of things, and yet the sting of betrayal accompanies their steps often enough. Most glares, they can shrug off with ease, bolstered by the certainty of their path. Alisaie’s finds the target.

They had known it would come to this. They believe it has to be done. It does not make it any easier, not really, and yet Azem stands before that glare and that anger, and only allows themself the faintest sigh. At the very least, they consider, there are no weapons leveled at them. Not yet.

If something in them mourns what they have lost, then so be it, they think. It is necessary. Even if they had to break a promise they’d once cradled so close to their heart.

“So many things changed in such a short span of time, Alisaie.” The Ascian speaks, after a moment. “I do not think any of us could have predicted what I would learn. But it matters not, not now.”

It matters, when the cold in Alisaie’s tone feels like ashes in Azem’s ribs. It needs to stop mattering.

“I am here to tell you to leave.” They say. “Take the Scions, take those who will listen, and leave. It is too late to do anything else here.”

     Ah, the Blossom Festival.

    How many years has it been since it was moved from Zhyun?

    Navori yabak gelée is frankly tasteless compared to a proper bone broth from outside Kaijn City, but he digresses. There are lanterns everywhere to celebrate the incoming equinox, where many believe the spirits of flowering plants wake from winter’s hibernation to dance and sing and in our world, bloom. The Placidium is aglow tonight, but there are signs of concern amidst the revelry, if you care to look. As though some are bracing for something, but for what?

    Khada Jhin is here.

    “Yagami! Not a sight for sore eyes! Finally decided it’s warm enough to come out of hiding, did you?” exclaims someone who is certain Jhin knows their name and might even consider them a colleague, but on either account doesn’t. “The Blossom Festival is going to be lovely this year.”

    They are correct in that assessment, at least. Jhin says sparingly, “Of that, I have little doubt. No news from the borderlands?”

    “What can I say? The vastaya are hardened. They’ll let me paint them, true, and maybe exchange some clay pots, but that last attack by the Order of Shadows has the whole area on edge. I had arrows pointed at me just last month, you know.”

    Shame, laments Jhin. I wouldn’t have missed.

    Thankfully the not-colleague has their eyes torn away from them by the sight of a rather prodigious woman, to who they then depart from Jhin with a pat on the back—he disguises his disgust at having been touched excellently—to heckle, hopefully for the rest of the evening. He’s left with a bottle of Ionian spirits the label of which he doesn’t care to read before having told a lantern lighter to keep it as he trudges onward to the Meeting of Winds.

    He’s not here for any of these people, after all. He’s here for her. The Captain of the Guard.

    Xan Irelia.

    The Golden Demon appears to have become something of a renewed talking point in peacetime Ionia, much to Jhin’s amusement. His benefactors have helpfully informed him that they have heard that conventions on the matter of himself are now going all the way to the Placidium, the Guard included. Though Ionia has greatly changed since what it was before Noxus, the failings of polite society are eternal—if the Golden Demon won’t work in their image of Ionia, then he must be dealt with. Potentially permanently.

    Oh, but Khada Jhin’s just shaking in his boots.

    That’s the problem with these pompadours and politicians. Jhin accepts his benefactors because they engender chaos, and chaos engenders drama. Art cannot exist without drama. If the Brotherhood had their way, they’d use Jhin as a cudgel against their enemies until he was done with the task, because Jhin never leaves a good work unfinished. Then they’d seek to dispose of him before anyone would know the truth of who might consort with the Golden Demon so willingly. Tripe!

    Then again, they must have rather smart when he had sent their messenger back to them with more heads than legs.

    Jhin is at the Meeting of Winds now and he spots her, speaking to another guardsman before the latter is sent off. If it’s true that the Captain of the Guard has agreed to try and find the Golden Demon for the Placidium court, then far be it from Khada Jhin to not give her the show of a lifetime.

    He smiles.

    “Xan Irelia,” greets Jhin, stopping to the side of her. “Yagami Hiro. You may remember me when the court had me paint the inside murals. You were much to busy for a chat, I recall. Busy work ahead of you still?” He indicates the leaving guardsman, before slipping his hand into his tunic.

    Inside, silver. Rife for a blade. But there’s no need for that, just yet.

    “Dealing with the court on a daily basis must be excruciating. I could never. Had enough trouble dealing with their unwanted ‘suggestions’ behind my back while I was working then. I wasn’t able to ask—did you enjoy the mural?”

    It was all faces.

       BRIGHT SMILE GRACES FULL LIPS — gentle amusement at her friend’s want for answers  (  oh, how she loves making her dearest friends bask in anticipation  ). 

      ❝   oh, hythlodaeus, you know how curiosity prolonged can be as much fun, if not even more so, than the adventure itself. ...at least on my end.   ❞         soft giggle escapes her, at his expense but not in any way that holds malice  (  never malice for him  )  as she continues a moment as if she were meant to ignore his please, then finally stops to turn && look up at him.