Free At Last!

"So you’re saying that the target hasn’t been hit, at all?” Lewyn studies the professor on the podium, having already exchanged some of his change for his participation in the activity. A toy bow in hand, and its corresponding quiver of arrows over his back, he waves at the to-be victim. “That must be a shame.”

“Hey!” He shouts, cupping his hands around his mouth in a gesture that would be unnecessary if it weren’t for the bustle of the people either waiting for their turn or otherwise the type to find amusement in the misery of another, “You’d better brace yourself, since it’ll be a waste if you sit up there without falling at least once!”

“I don’t… I don’t think I need to be there.” It’s a common excuse, for sure, but Lewyn is fairly certain that in his case it is justified. There shouldn’t be any reason for him to listen to yet another lecture about the importance of passing on his holy blood (or Crests or whatever they call it here- he’s pretty sure he’s heard that term in passing), or on the specifics of the birds and the bees when he has already has had a child.

He is also aware that he isn’t the only student trying to get out of the lecture by talking to the professor beforehand- and, in fairness, normally he would have been fine with simply not showing up and that being the end of it, but, unfortunately, he’s heard that those who didn’t attend were required to have a legitimate reason, or otherwise be hunted down by a professor to sit in a different session.

And whether they could catch him or not, it all sounded like a hassle he didn’t want to deal with. Better to try and get out of it, or otherwise suffer through the thing.

Nothing like the russet garden Lewyn leaves in his wake, full flowers spilling from his lips. Katarina's hands tangle uselessly in front of her, fretful but unsure of what to do. She's never been suited to healing nor tending to others, but she can be aware of her weaknesses and still regret them. In her fluster, one bloom falls closer to her than the others, and she catches it by instinct.

"A-ah..." The innocent phrasing prickles across the back of her neck. Her real name...? "I-it's... Katarina, now," she answers, too ashamed in facing him to lie and insinuate that it had been so always. "But... I was Ms. Meadow-Brook before. W-what about... what about you?"

She knows his name already, truth be told; it was the first thing she'd looked into upon their return from the Baroness' manor. But that isn't the sort of thing an innocent person would do, is it? Her gaze drops, falling instead upon the flower in her hand. Part of her wonders if the flowers in his lungs mean anything, but, well... she wouldn't know, anyway.

But still he manages to meet her eyes, because a nice woman was spending her time worrying about someone like him, wasting away in a garden of his own making.

“Katarina, huh? That’s a nice name. My name is…” And he pauses- and he hates that he does, for he would have had no reason to pause before, the flowers reminding him of everything he tried to forget- and corrects himself, “I am Lewyn.”

I am and no other.

Please.

But she has known no other that went by his name- or so he hopes that if she had it was not another puppetting his body. For a moment, it feels like he can breathe easier, but naturally that it is only a temporary relief. 

When she makes her offer, it doesn't take any time for him to pick his way over to a final contender of his frankly purposeless consideration, making a show of investigating it, before picking it up with a (admittedly clumsy) twirl. He doesn't seem particularly perturbed by this, however, letting out a laugh.

"These terms seem simple enough, even if our skills aren't~" Even if he doesn’t have any thought that he could out fence a swordswoman, he’s never balked at giving his name. After all, he's pretty sure he can wheedle out hers in return. “So very well, I accept your challenge!”

This way, Seliph won't have to worry about accidentally slipping back into old habits.

"Of course," he says quickly, perhaps sounding a little too eager. "That's all right with me." It's a good compromise. However, that leaves Seliph with a different problem: what else can he say now?

"Oh!" Blue eyes light up as Seliph claps his hands together. "Would you share a story with me sometime, Lewyn? I'd like to hear more about my father."

Seliph may not admit it, but he wants to know how he compares to his father. Whether he will ever come close to the kind of man, a Holy Knight, Sigurd of Chalphy was in life.

He laughs, and it is softer than the one he usually displays- no longer bright and theatrical. “Let’s see- I’d need more room to play an instrument, though… Hm. Perhaps we should see what they’ve got setup outside the venue~”

Alright then... here goes nothing. Thrasir summoned up every faint memory that Veronica had of ice skating and stepped onto the ice.

Almost immediately falling over as suddenly her balance was no longer firmly grounded on terra firma. Instinctively, Thrasir threw out her arms to try steady herself, her eyes widening. Veronica had found this past-time fun? A moment later and she had shakily righted herself to standing.

Best not be too rude to her instructor then. Time to summon up every ounce of student like behaviour...

Straightening, he laughs, “No need to apologize~ this is what I’m here for! It’s easier to keep your balance as long as you keep moving. It’s a little like dancing, if you’re familiar.”

Despite its frailty, the petal pinched between Katarina's fingers holds the light as she looks upon it with a distant curiosity. Part of her had wondered if it would turn nearly transparent when caught in a sunbeam, like paper, or cloth stretched thin. It doesn't; all the light does is bring out the russet that stains both flower and fingertip.

So she lets it go. A daffodil, she thinks they were called, although she can't be sure; she's never paid but so much attention to flowers, ironic as that feels now. It rides the wind elsewhere beyond, and as she watches it disappear--

--her heart catches in her throat, a strangled gasp cut short as she reels, briefly, at the sight: a familiar man cast in sunlight, surrounded by petals of all colors as if in mockery. For a moment, she expects him to disappear, just as he had that day.

He doesn't; the world continues without end, but Katarina, at least, is called to action. Feet fly over cobblestone, and she is at his side within moments.

"M-Mister Peach," she frets, forgetting that is one of many names left to a single day far in the past. One of her hands lingers by his side, as if afraid to touch, while the other searches her pockets for a handkerchief or anything sufficient enough. "Are you alright?" No, hadn't she just been reprimanded for asking that recently? "N-no, um... here...!" With nothing better at hand, she offers a corner of her scarf to wipe away the blood.

It’s warm, in the sunlight- and quiet, broken only by his laughs that sound more akin to coughs when he waves off concern. With each lie, piles of colored blossoms grow at his feet, until all he can smell is something sickeningly sweet mixed with the iron of blood.

Is it really a lie, if no one would believe it? But it is enough for others to leave him alone, bouquets building themselves around him. Flowers, in their brilliant beauty spelling out his heart- lies and grief, false smiles and fear, fire and fire.

“You are…” He blinks- memories of a manor and another show, of another member of the cast- quiet, in the background. A hand to push down the scarf, to swallow the taste of blood and smile, to keep smiling, “I’m sorry~ I can’t seem to remember your name.”

That was to say- Lewyn saw it all. He was, after all, nestled in the crook of a tree, mostly intending to be unseen for his own amusement, before the stranger came by. Not one to interrupt fun, he had simply watched- wondering what exactly brought about the whole idea.

“Hm, really~?” He leans forward, such that if she decided to glance up, she would notice him among the branches above. Revealing his presence in a unobtrusive way, first. “I think you were doing pretty well!”

"I believe it's just up ahead," Lachesis called over her shoulder, trudging footsteps crushing dense green undergrowth as she pushed herself ever forward. She could not have been sure how many times they had said that to one another, not merely here in the darkest point of this deep forest, but as a whole, in their time as friends and companions, comrades in Sigurd's army, and comrades in their deep sadness when the need arose to travel north.

That clung to them even then, even here, a veil of it dewy with tears unshed and weighted with the heaviness they refused to allow another to see.

Glancing back to see if he had kept up - as he had for her, some miles back, and vice versa with each second wind - she thought for a moment she saw the shift of light warp around them, squinting for a moment to dismiss it merely as the sun beginning to set.

"It must be," she said, nudging aside a heavy curtain of fern, wrinkling her nose somewhat playfully. "I can feel the moisture. One notices it instantly, living in the mountains, doesn't one? Dreadful."

It was almost said with a laugh, bootheels sinking into the soft loamy earth, growing softer with every step until, very abruptly, it hardened into only slick stone, and that delicate hint of moisture became a great warm rolling fog.

And so they did, and this time, are rewarded for their journey. Waves of fog both promising and veiling the very prize they sought- how dramatic! When mud gives way to hard stone, he takes a few careful steps forward, ahead, no longer leaving an impression on the ground- verdant eyes blink, as if he could peer through the mist any clearer.

“Now, that wasn’t as far as I thought it would be!” With a spin and a laugh, he turns back to face her- as cheerful and energetic as when they had set out. Despite a glance at the mist against, he heads back to set down his supplies and search for what they needed.

"We meet again. I believe I've owed you one of these for a long time, now."

Heart.

Sain's voice sounds so soft it might as well be cashmere. His sight sketches a line from the bard's face down to his hands, briefly--just to slide over a glass of top-shelf noir. It then returns to the lone peridot unobscured by hair. The knight tries to eek out a stare back, his pupil moving in half-crescents as he helps himself to the next nearby seat. Would Lewyn ever look his way? There is as much fondness in his smile as his dialogue, old memories--somewhat painful memories--of this stranger-made-friend appearing as though the past were the present. He himself has a matching beverage. Both quaffs of liquor swirl with reds and blacks and the tiniest tinge of plum. It holds itself together with ease, not bubbling or frothing even if either of them were to give his glass a rattle. But Sain would prefer its quality not be tested in this way. He would also prefer you not inquire as to what portion of last week's pay tonight has already cost him.

"Some say a knight never forgets, but I prefer to claim that it is our duty to remember." Hopefully the irony of this statement is not lost, what with all that Sain has lost, himself. "How do you fare? 'It has been a while' undersells it by a fair margin, doesn't it?"

Green eyes, as flighty as the man they belonged to, turn to greet a returning friend. There is no ill-will in his gaze, just as there hadn’t been before- no harm done, he’d said once, it was just a game. His subsequent disappearance, too, was just a coincidence.

“If knights have a duty to remember, then where does that leave the humble bard?” Lewyn hums, amused. It is knights that he sings stories of, not those in the same profession as him, after all. The songs store the memory of those forgotten otherwise. “It’s been about the same, as you'd know. Apparently I missed a great deal of fuss that happened, traveling the lands~. A shame, really!”

He doesn’t sound particularly beat up about it, carelessly gesturing his empty hand outward. “Oh, but this year’s ball was particularly magnificent! An oceanside retreat sponsored by some wealthy noble or another.”

(What a handful Lord Seliph must deal with...)

Leif maintains his frown as Lewyn keeps to insisting the lack of connection between him and the princess, but it's not Leif's business to push any further. He thinks on the irony of Julia regaining her memories and then the man who looked after her losing his when Lewyn makes a request of him...

“ You want me to hide her from you?? ”  Leif balks. It's not that he doesn't understand the use of a white lie but...  “ ...I can try, but I doubt you'll be able to run from her forever if she really ever appears here. Walk around in public enough, and word will spread about you eventually. You're hard to miss...

“ The only solution would be to hide away completely. But... that gets tiresome eventually too, doesn't it?? ”  Maybe it was projection for Leif to say that though— just the expression of his own opinion.  “ That's your choice though. But I'll keep to it. ”

Charms exchanged, that's about the extent of the information necessary to make but before Leif turns to leave, he remembers one thing and adds:

“ Good luck handling Lord Seliph!!”

“Sure, it’ll get tiresome eventually, but at least I’ll have a chance to think of what to say!” Is his flippant- and a little harried response. He hopes it never comes to that, but honestly, it’ll probably be better to start preparing early. Even if he doesn’t know where to even begin with something like this.

Good luck handling Lord Seliph!!

“Huh?”

Right. Seliph’s around too-! But before he can really react, the kid disappears into the crowd. 

“H-Hold on! You can’t just drop that on me!”

But... I really want to ice-skate, it's been so long and last time was-

Be silent, Veronica!

Still, Thrasir found herself hiring a pair of skates and finding her would be coach. Instructor. Whatever word he wished to apply here. It was of little consequence to her. As long as he didn't blunder his way through his help.

"Alright," she hummed, standing at the edge of the pond, staring at the ice like it might open up and swallow her. "Now what?"

But a beat passes, and another, and Lewyn realizes her question was not rhetorical.