#yetsave

chiyo admits to herself that no, that doesn't sound like something any of the scions would do, much less minfilia. in that aspect, chiyo has been in good company; none of the scions are complainers. chiyo'd been up on her feat the very next day after killing ifrit, and thancred had been back to business shortly after his ordeal with lahabrea. it makes sense, that minfilia takes it all in stride the same way; being kidnapped, being tortured, being the scions' leader on top of it. and chiyo's not sure why she cares or how she can justify her concern, frankly. minfilia is the antecedent and the woman who gives her gil. it ends there.

and yet. chiyo folds her arms, noting how large the solar is, how it echoes. imagines minfilia in here, alone after all her trials, ever dedicated to her work. on minfilia's desk, a freshly made cup of ala mhigan soup steams, and chiyo will admit spending some time in the culinarian's guild as of late to get it just right.

     𝐈𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦  –  all  the  frantic  force  and  energy  of  a  whirlwind  contained  within  the  form  of  a  little  girl,  incapable  of  remaining  still  for  overlong.  He’s  come  to  understand  this  about  her,  so  much  so  that  this  was  inevitable,  even  with  the  rueful  smile  that  tugs  at  his  lips  when  he  looks  up  from  his  cards.  Good  riddance,  he  mislikes  such  tedium,  this  play  at  normalcy  when  all  that  surrounds  now  is  aught  but  normal.  For  as  there  is  a  storm  that  sits  across  from  him  is  there  too  another  that  looms  upon  the  horizon,  portentous  in  its  coming  and  too  close  at  hand  to  ignore.  

          ❝ As  I’m  about  to  win,  I  see. ❞  He  snorts  and  throws  down  his  hand  as  well,  the  memory  of  their  shapes  and  colors  scattering  along  with  each  glossy  piece,  already  reaching  for  his  land  with  his  free  hand.  There  exists  a  hundred  different  games  within  this  land  to  match  the  complexity  of  these  peoples  and  their  need  to  overcomplicate  all,  yet  he’d  taken  the  time  to  teach  her  the  ones  he’d  played  in  his  youth.  It  marks  the  difference  between  they  two,  for  however  much  he  detests  the  waiting,  he  knows  how  to  play  that  game  as  well.  The  breaths  held  between  battles,  the  knowledge  that  the  men  and  women  who  sit  beside  him  tossing  cards  about  might  very  well  be  dead  and  buried  come  the  morrow.  

      His  grip  on  his  lance  tightens  as  he  envisions  graves  dug  into  snow,  though  it  wouldn’t  be  as  such  here,  would  it?  Burials  at  sea  mayhap,  he’s  not  the  want  nor  the  energy  to  learn  of  what  funeral  rites  Sharlayans  might  have  ‘pon  their  island.  With  all  his  might,  all  his  power  and  what  Nidhogg  has  given  him,  will  he  see  that  he  will  never  learn  at  all.  

        The  girl  waits  for  him  by  the  door,  only  barely.  When  they’d  first  met  he’d  greeted  her  with  a  hand  to  her  head,  a  gesture  meant  for  someone  else.  The  desire  remains  now  as  she  passes  her  and  she  takes  her  place  at  his  side.  ‘Twas  easy  enough  for  memory  to  muddle  with  the  future,  to  see  echoes  of  a  brother  lost  in  Alphinaud.  He’s  never  had  a  sister  before  and  wonders  at  how  fiercely,  how  earnestly,  this  fire  in  him  burns  to  see  to  her  future  as  much  as  it  does  for  her  twin.  

      He  knows  better  than  to  muss  her  hair  as  though  she  were  no  better  than  a  child,  like  as  not  she’ll  bite  his  hand  off.  Better  yet,  he  resolves  instead  to  take  her  to  the  training  grounds,  to  test  her  mettle  and  in  so  doing,  teach  her  of  skills  of  better  use  than  old  card  games.  There  burns  then,  when  he  stands  across  from  her  with  lance  in  hand,  that  hope  that  she  and  her  brother  and  so  many  of  others  have  lit  within  him.  Oh  Halone,  he  prays,  not  in  vengeance  or  in  hope  of  strength  for  himself,  but  for  her  and  for  all  the  rest.  

    sorrow cocoons her. eleazar watches the way it engulfs ori: slow, at first, and then a tidal wave. he knows the hurt too well and he knows, worse, there is naught he can do to unravel her from it.

    when he finds her, she's looking out the window of their room. her shoulder rests against the frame and she doesn't move when he enters or when he closes the door behind him. he looks about the small space: their belongings are packed, barely touched, ready to be moved at a moment's notice. even soleil has taken to keeping his things together.

    eleazar stops beside her and still, ori doesn't acknowledge him. her sadness is bound so tight about her, it might very well be an armor. he wonders what she thinks about when she's like this, swallowed so deeply by mourning and regret.

    he grabs her shoulder and she starts, jerking away from the motion. her head snaps to him and she frowns for only a brief moment, before a smile is strung upon her lips. eleazar makes no effort to return it. his hand lifts from ori's shoulder to rest against the side of her face, calloused skin warm against her cheek.

    with his other hand, he tucks a yellow flower behind her ear. her sorrow ebbs and her smile softens into something more natural.

@yetsave​ ❝ —  when  Thancred  and  I  went  to  go  visit  Urianger  in  Il  Mheg, ❞   Ryne  begins,  then  hesitates,  blue  eyes  glancing  up  at  Estinien  with  thinly  veiled  uncertainty.  Does  he  even  want  to  hear  about  her  journeys,  if  they're  not  —  important?

     𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝 𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐧, brilliant  and  radiant,  deceptive  strength  coursing  through  the  gentle  fire  within  her  veins.  ‘Tis  what  he  remembers  of  her  first,  what  he  sees  when  he  glimpses  her  for  but  a  moment.  Light  and  strength  both,  tangled  together  in  a  glinting  weave.  And  not  for  the  first  time  does  he  think  it  unfair  for  a  girl  so  young  to  have  to  be  so  strong  so  soon.  The  same  thoughts  he’s  harbored  for  Alphinaud  and  Alisaie  both.  All  three  of  them  having  suffered  through  hardship  he  would  have  readily  borne  himself.  

         No  protector  is  he  with  hands  that  stumble  in  want  for  a  shield.  Still  he’d  have  held  it  all  upon  his  shoulders.  Muscles  and  bones  aching  beneath  each  burden  piled  atop  his  weathered  body  and  smiled  in  relief  for  knowing  each  torment  he  suffers  is  one  less  for  the  children.  Only  he  knows  himself  as  but  a  mortal  man,  no  matter  how  changed  he’s  become  from  his  own  trials,  his  reach  extends  only  so  far.  And  ever  with   the  passage  of  days  do  all  three  continue  to  drift  from  his  grasping  hand.  

     His  fingers  curl  upon  themselves  as  he  listens,  half  an  ear  to  the  soft  fall  of  her  words  that  sound  as  silver  notes  upon  the  air.  Eased  in  his  own  way  by  the  melody  of  her  story  and  wonders  in  his  idleness  if  the  dragons  would  take  a  liking  to  her.  Mayhap  when  all  is  said  and  done  he  would  take  her  Dravania.  ‘Tis  when  lilt  of  her  words  stops  that  he  looks  down,  again  that  glint  of  light  that  has  him  blinking  against  her  brilliance.  

        How  easy  it  is  to  forget  that  for  all  his  hopes  to  safeguard  this  girl  that  she’d  come  into  his  life  too  late.  For  the  gentleness  of  her  soul  and  the  innocence  of  her  gaze,  there  sits  still  the  shadows  of  her  past  carried  with  her  from  a  world  of  light.  Too  late.  For  all  that  he  hopes.  Too  late.  Though  for  all  his  failures,  will  he  continue  to  fight.  For  her.  For  the  twins.  For  all  the  many  families  torn  apart  by  tragedy.  

          ❝ Go  on. ❞  He  urges  and  sits,  making  himself  comfortable  for  what  he  is  certain  to  be  a  long  tale.  For  her  he’ll  make  time  when  time  continues  to  slip  away.   ❝ Il  Mheg  is  the  Kingdom  of  the  Fae,  is  it  not?  Typical  that  Urianger  would  make  his  home  there  of  all  place. ❞    

she has let go of envy, which she might feel if she were still her mortal self. envy that the young girl who prays can choose her own path, if she so wishes. the girl can rise to greatness or allow herself to be forgotten, to abandon her body and her fate to someone else. minfilia of the source never had such a choice, though thancred might wish it otherwise.

(her frustrations with him are endless. she has tried and tried to get him to let go, but he clings to her like a frightened child, determined that he knows better what is best for her, swallowed by grief. minfilia hopes this young girl will have a different fate in thancred's hands, which are capable of great things, but scarred and wounded. she hopes she will make her own destiny, and he will support it, not oppose it.)

minfilia herself is not visible to the child. but a shockingly cold wind blows through the girl's hair (minfilia is hesitant to call her by name, for her own vanity but also in defiance, not willing to sacrifice another girl to the altar of her legacy if it can be helped). it lifts the strands away from the girl's neck, soothing the heat like a mother's cool hands. it brushes her forehead, like a kiss. she wraps the younger woman in love like the newborn child that life never allowed to her, swaddled and protected completely, for the moment.

"my dearest child." a voice on the wind, sweet and comforting. "how heavy this fate must weigh on you; how brave you must be, to make such a sacrifice. how noble your young heart." the wind lifts her blonde hair and lays it down along her shoulders. "there is more to your future, if you would choose it. be not mistaken, your life is your own. there will be those who will seek to influence your path for their own designs, but the only one who may decide its course is you."

“Alphinaud—“  At last she prods him, scooting her elbow to hit him in the back, just enough to jolt him to her attention. In spite of her rough demeanor, she digs her heels into the snow now, free hand clenched into a fist ‘pon her lap.

     “—do you think that grandfather would be proud of what we’re doing?”

HOLDS YOU LIKE A HAMBURGER.