➵ set me free

thump. thump.

her heart beats loudly as it stumbles against the ground to nurse its sudden new wounds— a limited window that allows for edain to knock an arrow despite having to fumble with it.

( then let ulir guide mine as well! )

she aims for its neck as it screeches in frustration, her hand following its ascension into the sky.

edain releases the arrow as it descends upon her, arrow embedding deep into its neck. it's a solid strike, but she gasps at the sight it gets her and steps back in shock. it's still going...!? she shuts her eyes tight, covering her head with her arms.

there wasn't anyone here to save her. there wasn't anyone but...

It is certainly hobbled, though, a spray of blood erupting from its throat with its next strangled screech, injured wings splaying out in an agonized threat display. The retaliating strike is swift, but if he could stop it…

The arrow flies off the mark completely, his chance to halt the creature’s approach towards Edain cut off as she screams out for him. His eyes widen, knowing the window for another attack had long closed.

He needs to reach her, to save—

Violet light pours from his fingertips without his conscious direction, and his mind tugs hard against that same resistance that it had always met.

"Andrei!" It was difficult to manoeuvre himself out of his seat, but once he hit the surface of the lake, he was able to push himself downward with strong, easy strokes, swiping impatiently at the boy's hair before hooking an arm around his middle and propelling them both back to the surface.

This was not his area of expertise. He knew how to swim, of course, and understood that the course of the tides could change their favor in a heartbeat, and that every instance in the water's embrace could spell the end - but what to do about it was not something he could have been well practiced in.

At the end of the day, a horse was not a canoe, and a lance was not an oar.

Gently, he tapped fingertips against the lad's cheek, one side, then the other.

"Andrei?" After a moment, he lowered his head to Andrei's chest, seeking a heartbeat, or the sound of water where it ought not be. Experimentally, he pressed a quick rhythm against Andrei's sternum, before shaking his head and tapping his cheeks once more.

(It hadn’t worked, then.)

But… no. Sluggish though his mind may be, it found the little details of his surroundings. Their position at the very edge of the pond, Lord Chalphy’s own drenched clothing. The sound of his own name, an insistent urging.

Sigurd had pulled him from the water.

Eyes widened at the revelation, and Andrei mustered up all the energy he had at the moment to pull himself back, away and out of the other’s reach. His breaths, already labored, became thinner and shallower still.

“Why?” It was little more than a soundless twitch of his lips, throat too waterlogged to make the correct sound, though his expression made up for it in its growing horror at the other’s intentions.

Was he not even content to leave it at this, to take his life once and attain his revenge? Was this going to happen again, and again, and again, until Sigurd of Chalphy deemed his suffering enough?

His eyes stung with the horror of this reality, vision blurring, and perhaps he was fortunate that the water would hide the most damning evidence of his weakness. Andrei pushed himself to his feet, wobbling unsteadily, but he threw out his hand before Sigurd could even think to approach.

“Mercy…” The plea finally came out in a ragged whisper, just as the tears snaked down his face, entwined with the pondwater. Leave me be, if not forever, then at least for now.

(Not for the first time, he wondered whether he would ever pay the price for his crimes in full.)

dorothea reminds herself silently: be useful. ensure he needs her equally, if not more.

with a final regretful look toward the corpse, she cautiously follows him. rather than allow her eyes to readjust to the darkness again, she unfurls her hand to cast soft firelight, illuminating the shadowy corners of the room to reveal andrei's mount, here as he'd said she'd be. dorothea eyes the animal warily, unsure if it might startle at the sight of flames. she opts to linger by the doorway instead, peering out every so often to ensure no one catches them by surprise.

"a way up means we'll have to fight. there's no other way around it." she steps back into the corridor from which they'd come, pressing herself against a stacked barrel to make room for the rider and his mount to pass. "we can't exactly sneak around with…" her chin points at the bird. "...not to mention you have to handle her, so i guess it'll be up to me to take any pirates out. worst case scenario, if we're far outnumbered, i'll use meteor. the only problem is that we'll go down with the ship if you can't get us into the sky in time," she warns. "so it's got to be our last resort—"

"bartholomew! you bastard! said you wouldn't be gone five minutes! almost half an hour later and your sorry ass is nowhere to be found. bet you're gettin' piss drunk down here, you useless pig!"

her heart jumps into her throat, eyes rounding in alarm as heavy footsteps come thumping down the stairs. dorothea tries to back into the room they'd come out of, but in these narrow corridors, there's hardly much room to maneuver, and particularly with a sizable mount bringing up the rear. "back!" she mouths. "go back!" but to no avail. the pirate's bulky physique stiffens when he reaches the landing, taken aback by the sight of their prisoners scampering about.

swiftly, the man brings his thumb and index finger to his mouth, letting out a piercing whistle.

Dorothea's mention of fighting jolts Andrei's awareness, and he briefly glances down at the crowbar still in his hand. While it saves him from being utterly defenseless, as their earlier tussle had shown, he is not nearly as useful with it as with his normal weapon of choice.

(The actual bow itself is not the problem — he is all but certain the monastery will be willing to replace his weapon with a similar one if it is truly lost, given how he'd proven his power to them in the past years. The problem lies in survival, here and now.)

Whatever relief he'd felt from finding his steed evaporates immediately at the sound of the loud voice, and before he could even heed the urging to return to the previous room, the lumbering form appears at the end of the hall, freezing for just a second before the whistle rips through the air.

Distant, answering shouts are quickly followed by the thunder of footsteps, augmented by the wooden planks that make up the ship's floor. Andrei's grip on the crowbar tightens, white-knuckled.

If they manage to get close enough for him to use this, there would be little chance for him to survive, anyhow.

Fumizuki screeches, talons scraping the ground as the pirates converge upon them, bearing torches that throw each figure into sharp relief and stretch the shadows against the wall. Andrei counts at least ten within his immediate field of vision, the sound of footsteps in the distance an ominous promise of more. He grits his teeth, nudging his steed back a few steps. There is nowhere to turn, unless…

His heart pounds as the dangerous thought arises within him. They could be underwater in this part of the ship. A kinshi might not have the power to cut through the depths to reach the sky above. It could be a death sentence for him, for her, for Dorothea. It goes against every fiber of his being, that tiny voice crying out in terror from the depths of his mind.

But to stay would be just as much a death sentence.

Andrei grabs Dorothea by the arm, pushing her back towards the room they had just exited.

“As you like! Ready yourself, Andrei, I am coming for you!”

This time, he put his whole heart into it, oaring himself forward before Andrei had the time to push his boat back into proper position, the instinct of a cavalryman to his core pushing the oar into a true lance that struck forward, firm and true, into Andrei’s center of gravity.

If it had been a tilt, the points would have raised three immediately, opponent unhorsed and unseated from the match.

The canoe buoyed under the force, rocking back and forth with the full might of his Holy Blood, and the inevitable occured, gravity pulling from the locus of the swing and the water tugging the boat along with the crash of waves.

“Ah - !!” Sigurd laughed brightly into the sun, the splash of water reflecting in the air and dotting his face and hair as he rowed carefully to where Andrei’s boat was, reached out a hand to steady the boat and prevent capsize. “Well, there it is, isn’t it! Don’t know my own strength.”

The piece of wood slammed into him with the full might of the Crusader Baldr, a power far beyond Andrei’s grasp. The force thrust him backwards, and the boat was so small, so light—

This was not the first time he’d experienced that moment of terrifying weightlessness before being tossed into the waves, was it? For this, too, was the torment of this land, to trap him in his greatest fear over and over and over, without release.

His eyes squeezed shut against the impact, but not before fixing upon the elder Chalphy’s face for a heartbeat, seeing the beginning of laughter blooming on the other’s expression.

Perhaps he felt triumphant. Vindicated.

(Would this be what set him free, in the end?)

The world abruptly twisted back into focus as the shock of icy waves forced an inhale, senses flooding with panic at the rush of water into his lungs. A hand thrust out blindly, trying to grab onto something — someone, help — but he couldn’t—

His hand slackened, dragged down by the now heavy weight of his clothing around him.

If she really did hit his hands, he would probably scream. He hasn't yet, which meant she hadn't broken any bones yet. Usually for her that would be a bad thing, but today it is the goal.

When the call to stop finally comes, she pauses mid-swing. She is not far enough in with her swing that the momentum carries it forward forcefully, the mallet tapping at the dough lightly.

"It looks... like dough, I think." Marni leans in close to examine the final product with a squint. "It doesn't look like there's blood in it! Which is good."

Because that had been a real threat, to be fair.

Is squishy good?? Truth be told, he had never worked with dough in his life, could hardly tell the difference between this and the kind that made bread, much less discern its quality.

Before he could make a baseless guess, the kitchen hand who had shouted over at them hurries over, picking up the steamer with little more than a quick, appraising nod before bustling towards the counter where the flavors were being added to the finished dough.

“It seems that is our answer,” he inclines his head towards the others who had already started cutting away pieces of the dough to use, “I made the right choice to entrust you with this task.”

It’s a declaration that sends a slight jolt down his own spine; for it had always been his own choices that had made any praise seem out of reach for all his life, hadn’t it?

(And in her, he’d seen an echo of the cries deep in his own heart.)

His lips twitch and turn upwards, hesitant and slightly awkward, but with a fervent intent to be sincere, to be genuine, to impart something onto her that both of them desire to the point of pain.

At the forefront of it all was amazement and intrigue- its power was unlike anything he had ever witnessed. Not even the mightiest archers nor most dedicated mages had displayed something of the same caliber before his eyes, and Lambert couldn’t help but wonder about its construction. The compressed energy into such a small vessel resulting in that piercing explosion- how? How was it made? Was its energy built off magic sigils or perhaps an item similar to a crest stone? Could it be made bigger, or even smaller? The questions were endless, and the blond couldn’t help but look at the weapons with the same wonder a child would reserve for a new shining toy.

But there was also a mild sense of dread within. Something so destructive and yet so small, and apparently so easy to wield, seemed like disaster waiting to happen were it to fall in the hands of someone unprepared or ill intentioned. 

Lambert blinked for a moment, glancing at Andrei.

“You said that you and your teammates were shot with that weapon?” He could imagine what it was able to do to the human body, and to think about Andrei suffering that much damage made his blood freeze. “...considering how you stand before me whole and healthy, I assume whatever damage this weapon causes can be healed away, thankfully. However…what did it do, exactly? To you.”

Finally daring to hold the object, its weight surprised him. For the Crest of Blaiddyd it was the same as a small pebble, but Lambert could acknowledge how it was definitely heavier than he initially expected- and for a moment he wondered what could be done to make its impact even more devastating. “I ask because…personally, I have never had issues with arrows.” The professor adjusts his grip on the weapon, keeping his finger away from the firing mechanism- he wanted to test his grip initially. “Of course, if an archer is lucky enough to score a perfect shot on me, I will fall dead. But in most situations I will still be able to move and fight, even after having an arrow pierce my body. It is not as serious as having an ax digging at your side.”

Satisfied with his grip, Lambert pointed it at the same target Andrei had fired at before. “However, if someone were to aim this at me, I would be admittedly concerned.” He pulled the trigger, and then…

Bang!

He pursed his lips, eyebrow raising slightly while processing the object’s recoil. It functioned just like a small cannon, even smelling like it. At last, Lambert smiled- carefree and bold, looking at Andrei. “This would be perfect to hunt for game in the fields of Itha! And I do wonder if the loud noise that it emits would be successful in getting a reaction out of the Srengi and force them to back off without bloodshed…if I were to fire it at the sky, I mean. And it could also serve as an effective means to convince rebellious nobles to stand down if they refuse to get the memo! Does it work underwater by any chance?” He was...starting to like that thing a bit too much.

“Our enemy had been able to shoot a seemingly unending stream of metal pieces at us in quick succession,” he replies, a hand hovering at his torso where the worst of the attacks had concentrated on him, “The wounds healed, but… they did leave a scar.”

A series of semi-faded, circular spots of discolored skin, a permanent reminder of their encounter in the depths of the mirror.

If an archer is lucky enough to score a perfect shot on me—

His gaze darts up briefly to meet the professor’s, a shaky exhale punching from his lungs at the mere thought, before it travels down to the rest of him.

“Your— your strength far exceeds mine, or any of the allies who had been part of that team, Professor,” he says haltingly, “I had been able to walk a distance after the attack, with the support of my steed, so it will be less improbable still, for you.”

(Such an admittance does not sit nearly as uncomfortably against his heart when it comes to Professor Lambert, compared to his own father or even any of Jugdral’s major blooded heirs. Fódlan is different, after all, their lineages and the political consequences stemming from them too far removed from his current situation.)

“But a sustained assault from this will require a healer’s attention, sooner than later,” he continues, “Even a single wound will cause an immense amount of blood loss.”

He blinks, barely suppressing a flinch, at the second loud bang, more a surprise on his senses when coming from another’s hand. Though, when Lambert next turns to him in excitement, instead of concern, something within him loosens at the shift in focus.

“This is far more maneuverable than a cannon, with more power than an arrow,” he admits, “I hadn’t considered its applications beyond combat, though it is likely to be as you say.”

Falling silent, he looks from their spot to the row of targets, a modest distance even for an arrow’s flight. When he’d tested the capabilities of this weapon out in the open, the metal piece had been capable of clearing several dozens’ time this distance… though the difficulty of aiming also increased alongside the range.

They could just... figure out how to deal with payment at the door, surely?? Or maybe this would just be a crime on their hands— would either intensely mind something at this petty a scale?

Leif 8/10HP moves 3 Down, 2 Right and Waits.

Blows rain down upon him once more, but Andrei could feel himself beginning to grasp the enemy’s rhythm, landing a devastating blow in return. When the Fighter comes towards him, a quick block neutralizes their attack before he is able to make one in return.

(This experience might be thoroughly ridiculous, humiliating even, but it is not meaningless.)

The waiter, having boldly followed them into the same spot, takes this chance to address the other two.

“Hey, you know that you two need to pay as—”

“Grahhhhhhhh!!”

The Grappler lets out a wild shout, grabbing the waiter. In one motion, he lifts the other off the ground, bends over backwards, and slams the waiter against the cold tiled floor.

“IF THERE’S ANYTHING I HATE MORE THAN PRISSY NOBLES, IT’S PAYING FOR MY FOOD!!!”

This is the perfect chance to run, Andrei thinks a moment after witnessing this new absurdity, before the bell at the door lets out a merry ring, signaling the entrance of yet another customer. Unfortunately, it seems this is not a normal one either.

“Startin’ the fun without me, boys?” The newly entered Fighter cracks their knuckles with a sly grin, and Andrei turns his attention rapidly from the door, to the patrons lounging near the music-maker still playing a jauntily incongruous tune to the chaos, to the enemies still close by, to Leif, straggling several steps behind.

If all they do is try to run, they’ll be boxed in by no less than five people, and he makes up his mind.

Before the Grappler could fully straighten up, Andrei lunges, another punch landing squarely against the other’s face.

“HEY!!” Surprised, perhaps, by the sudden attack from someone so resolute in retreating a second earlier, the Grappler only manages two answering blows before Andrei backs out of reach.

The mention of naming his homeland made him tense, just slightly in the shoulders, and he hesitated for the moment long enough to force his lips not to say the name of a castle filled only with ghosts and scorched mud.

“…Elibe. Ah…there’s a march by the name of Araphen, in Lycia, I have…there are people there I stay in touch with. And in Etruria. Caerleon.”

Cranberry hopped atop his head as they approached the flat perches where the other birds stood, unwilling to lose his vantage, and Andrei briefly considered shooing him off before relenting to focus on the task at hand.

“There is a pair from House Caerleon,” Andrei pointed them out for Raven, “It seems they had been recently sent, when the monastery informed them of the program. We have sent them a pair of our trained ones as well.” He placed out a hand for one of the pigeons to hop from its perch, and it did so without hesitance, an indication of a lifetime accustomed to human handling. It seemed that Caerleon expected somewhat regular correspondence from Fódlan. He turned to the others.

“Araphen, however…” The tags for the individual regions are less clearly defined than the noble houses themselves, and Andrei’s gaze swept over the row of placards before turning back towards the other.

Her voice is as edged as the steel she bears at him, "How you, Brother, killed our father in cold blood. How you worked with those Grannvalian snakes, and dragged Yngvi's name through the mud!" There was much Brigid had forgotten over the years—so much, again and again and again—but her eyes were clear now, and so too was her indignation.

And yet a small voice cries out from the back of her mind.

It pleads for her to lower her sword, because he was her brother, because he was scared—didn't she remember? Andrei was always timid, always scared. Not always the man who'd callously murder his own parent, who would throw himself neck deep into conspiracy, and spit venom at the sisters he once loved so dearly.

Remembrance is only ever just that, the image of the dishonorable, patricidal traitor the only one in her mind. Just like it had been with Edain, hadn’t it?

(Rusalka had been the kindest illusion of all, and he’d broken that in his own hands as well.)

“This is an assignment from Garreg Mach,” he bites out, “Ask the pegasus knights why they are sabotaging the monastery’s own missions, instead of me!”

He turns abruptly, drawing back and releasing the nocked arrow still in hand in one swift motion. It whizzes through the air, closer than the previous one from his lack of careful aim, and even from this distance, the scream from the student atop the steed is audible in its alarm.

The sound brings him no satisfaction, whirling back towards his Lady Sister with a wild gaze.

“If all I ever do will only ever be wrong in your eyes, then stop me with your own hands!!”

But that's not to say Leif is deaf to the fury that simmers in Andrei's question. Andrei of House Yngvi is a naturally prickly and disagreeable person, Leif finds, rare in giving praise or straightforward pleasant words even to a daft teen boy's senses, but the barbs with which the blond wields his phrases tended towards little barks.

This feels different.

But to this end, Leif doesn't actually expect Andrei to be forthright in answering what he actually wants to know: why do you react this way? He stops the footage but continues to speak, filling the space swiftly with his voice:

“I am your elder, boy, and you will treat me as such,” he says coldly, drawing himself to his full height to bear down upon the other, “Do not presume us equals, one that you can question the actions of whenever you please.”

He nearly leaves it there, turning his head sharply away, but… his gaze falls back to the empty space where the moving image had shimmered a moment before, an inexplicable sense of longing tugging at him.

When he speaks, he’s careful to keep his tone as tight and cold as before.

so bernadetta flips her hand beneath his. she does this to take hold of it with the gentleness that life may have never afforded them, and she answers for andrei without batting an eye: “of course.”

though she hears the gravity in his tone, there is nothing questionable, confused or even anxious about her expression. should there be? she had already seen him on that cliff. she saw the loathing, the hurt, the violence he directed toward her and himself.

and perhaps unlike that time, she cannot be the one to decide exactly how he is forgiven. she cannot absolve him of sin when not even the goddess above has done a thing for children like them. but weak as she is, bernadetta von varley will be damned to hell and back if she cannot pour everything she is into supporting the few loved ones she has. what she can say she does have permission to, is her own faith in him. she hopes it could be enough.

“i'll always listen to you,” she adds, gaze intent when andrei's own bravely meets it. and she even tries for a small smile, because he had not failed so much at all. isn't it something? they both always think they are failing. bernadetta shakes her head. “so there's no might about it.”

Still, he pauses even despite her soft reassurance, as though searching for the correct way to put it, as though he could seek to preemptively repair the blow such a revelation will doubtlessly have on their relation.

But there is nothing he could (should) say to make the act more palatable, is there?

“…I killed my own father.”

His grip slackens within her hand all at once, waiting for a flinch, a recoil, the horror that comes from a confession such as this.

“His blood w— is better than mine,” he adds, because the fact that he had spilled it with his own hands does not do anything to alter the fact, “I was the one who should have died, and instead— instead I—”

(Because all that was needed was a single sacrifice, a scapegoat to claim the crime Yngvi had wrought against the prince. The thought had come to him some time ago, had always hung over his consciousness like a shadow, until the discussion in the medical tent had brought it to the forefront of his mind once more. Because perhaps, if presented with the choice, his father might have preferred the death of his less worthy heir, than to lose the last of Ullr’s blessings within their family.)

That rancid piece of fruit. He's mocking Innes. He stands there and implies Innes can't train a more difficult bird - with or without Andrei's help. Innes wants to shove him, but the gods know where that aggression usually leads, and he'd sooner gut himself here and now.

No. He doesn't need a simple bird.

“You are aware,” he says, “That caring for a fledgling would require you to respect and follow my instruction.”

And he would have to give it, as this is the duty that had been asked of him when he’d taken up this position for the monastery. He glares at Innes, remembering their less-than-cordial first meeting as his mind refuses to dwell upon the much more confusing ones thereafter.

There was not much planned in the next two weeks, save for his schoolwork and the occasional missive home- certainly none of the monastery missions.

His classwork could easily be managed alongside caring for the animal- he was doing fine, and could miss a few lessons, if that was needed.

Though... there was a chance that he could fall ill, though low- and there was similarly a potential for events beyond his control to befall the monastery. Then again, that was (hopefully) a once in a lifetime occasion.

Judging from the temperament of that one, it might be more patient than Cranberry had been, but there is only so much hunger an infant can take, regardless.

“Other than that, and maintaining the cleanliness of its living area, the most important task is simply to offer it some sense of security,” Andrei’s tone softens despite himself, thumb running absently along Cranberry’s feathered head while his gaze remains fixed on the young bird still eating from Elffin’s hand.

“There is little they can give at this point in their lives, other than the blind trust that they will be nurtured by the only being they truly know of in the world.”

He waits for further explanation but none comes- and perhaps it was some desire to keep some information to be revealed within the duel itself. A valid tactic, if a bit overly pragmatic for a practice bout. But it was not as though the fight would be overly dangerous, with the healers of the church on standby. 

“Then… I’m ready to begin when you are." He tries to hide his inexperience with a calm demeanor, though with what he remembers of the other, perhaps he should have attempted to attack the moment the battle began.

Instead of a verbal response, all Andrei offers is a curt returning nod. Armed with a completely unfamiliar weapon, he attempts to figure out the optimal stance, tome held out before him with arms slightly slackened compared to how he would’ve wielded a bow. It makes him feel oddly exposed, even though a tome would, theoretically, afford him the chance to attack at any range.

The language written on the pages is also wholly unknown to him, though smaller markings had been placed underneath to transcribe the indecipherable words into the Fódlan tongue. And even though he could hardly claim mastery over even that, it is enough for him to attempt an attack.

Elffin’s weak opener gives him the extra few seconds he needs to focus upon the writing. The softly muttered chant is a far cry from the physical way of fighting he is accustomed to, but the tome seems to vibrate under his fingers anyway, a pressure building in the immediate air around it before he finishes the final word, violet light bursting from his hands and flying towards its target.

he calls out her name and edain stops, turning back around to look at him in surprise. she didn't expect him to call out her much less— much less follow after her.

the crest beast lifts to the sky and edain tumbles forward from the mere force of the wind its flapping wings exerts. it flies over her head and edain realizes it's not going for her but for him.

he's going to die if she doesn't do something! she can't.. she won't let happen again!

(The flash of crimson hair in a darkened cave lit only by a stripe of blue. Had that also been an illusion…?)

In that split second of lost focus, the beast bears down upon him, and he’s spared only a moment of alarm before both suddenly turn at Edain’s exclamation.

Is she trying to get herself killed??

The Crest Beast switches target with a screech, tail fanning out, and Andrei’s heart leaps to his throat at the thought of its next attack. Why would a healer like Edain do something so reckless, and without even making use of her limited archery skills?

(It couldn’t be for— no. To even entertain that hope is too dangerous.)

There are ways to manage this. Stretching thin a smaller number of caught bucks or improvising spice wise to make up for missing meat.

His thoughts make him incautious. To begin with, there are prey they shouldn't be killed and work far better as guides to more fruitful targets. Should whatever hunter he happens upon be upset then-

Instinctively he flinches and dips to a lower stance, eyes are on him and though they aren't hostile, they certainly stay and stare in a way he would be utterly ignorant to ignore.

He hears his name and finds a familiar face calling it. "Andrei." Contact has been amicable. Short and sweet - letters can only do so much to tell the stories of what happens in the world.

There is a part of his mind that dwells upon the letters they had exchanged, at the other's question. That the Margrave of Faerghus himself had taken enough personal interest in him to keep up a correspondence, even after returning to his own lands on doubtlessly pressing duties, is a social boon that cannot be understated, and had he still been Duke, regardless of the lands he finds himself in, this would be a duty he could never forgo.

(Here, though, it feels… different. Had he responded to the margrave out of a mere obligation of station, or…?)

“I have been well,” he replies, still, with a light incline of his head, echoing the same dutiful, empty words he’d penned in the returning letters, though those same words clash awkwardly with his still-pale expression, with the way his hand trembles tightly against his bow.

There's a pause, a little too long to feel natural, before he forces his gaze up to meet the other's. Without a clear read on the margrave's expression, he cannot help but feel chastened.

still, there is a bitter tinge to their smile. abyss, their jail; abyss, their repentance—one and the same, but they have never scorned it being the latter because of the former. it was on the surface that yuri surrendered to despair, sold themself again and again to their lies. the physical shackle that sits around their neck now weighs far less than the metaphorical ones they’d once been saddled with.

yuri shakes their head. “what’s the difference between here and the surface, really? the despair’s all the same whether you do it in light or shadow.”

they know, of course, that not everyone plans to stay forever. constance will leave to see her noble house restored to its former glory. balthus will leave once the dust has settled enough that every other person on the street isn’t someone out for his head. hapi won’t leave because she can’t, because abyss is her jail too, but every time she speaks of home they know she must long for it. even yuri will likely leave one day, even if it seems so far in the future still.

no one spends their childhood dreaming of a dusty underground city to one day be their home, but sometimes it is the only one people like them can afford. is it a surrender to despair to want to live, even if it must be here? abyss was here long before they or andrei set foot in it and it will exist for long after they both depart. for those who need it when there is nowhere else to go—is it despair to have a place for that hope?

with an exhale and another irritated clear of their throat, they set the duster aside in favor of crossing the room to meet him. it can wait a little while. “if this is some roundabout way of saying you want to leave abyss, you don’t have to ask permission, you know. most people just go. no one says you have to stay forever. but most people down here just don’t get the luxury of making that choice either.”

“You know there is little place for me in Fódlan, other than here.”

Yuri’s is a face that he could recall clearly still, through the haze that had permeated his entire existence in these lands. Ever since the very beginning, they had been present, a leader that had, in their own way, always shown their care towards the same wayward souls in the wretchedness of the Abyss. And yet, he had never felt the need to broach this subject until today, had allowed himself to sink into a mire of complacency, of familiarity, a feeling that he is only just now realizing is far removed from contentment.

He should drop it, especially given Yuri’s reaction. They had a task to accomplish, and standing around on the cusp of an argument is not going to help matters. He should—

“If there were.”

The next words come out in a rush anyway, those held-back sentiments no longer capable of being restrained once the idea had taken root in his mind.

“If there were— surely there is no one who would not leap at the chance. Either myself, or the others.”

A return to light, a reprieve from despair.

(Is that not equivalent to the freedom that he had wanted?)

The gaze still fixed upon Yuri's face intensifies, posture coiled with tension like a finger along a pulse point.

“Is it not the same for you? Surely your life before is preferable to what can be found here. Would you not rather see these darkened halls cleared, each one free to return to their own lives?”