Pen in hand

He gave a wry little smile that she couldn’t see at her comment. “That might have defeated the purpose of abandoning it, I think, to have someone come in to let the fresh air in.”

It did not bother him, as such, that the house seemed to be settling in around them, as though adjusting to the addition of them within, not merely their weight but their presence, buoyant in his gut like the rock of a barge on a slow and lazy river.

Stepping into the living area from the foyer flashed a warm light over his eyes, and he heard instead of the steps on the street outside the baying of elk in the distance, the call of forested birdsong and the crackled of a fire in the cold empty hearth. His fingers reached forward, on an instinct he hadn’t been aware he hadn’t let go of, and the door slammed behind them.

Raven’s light spell guttered out as he spun, his more formal instincts reaching a hand to the hilt of his sword, but did not grip it. An exhale, stepping further in.

Dramatic indeed.

“If the stories told have even a grain of truth to them, I can hardly blame them the theatrics. I…don’t think I’d like to be stuck, in a place surrounded by the death of a loved one.”

His voice caught, tightened in his throat, but Raven ignored it.

Darkness fills the room as Raven's spell is extinguished. Not all consuming, but enough that the shadows of furniture become more daunting than they had been previously. Mitama sighs, turning to the window and walking over to to it. "Death comes for everyone, eventually. It is part of the human experience to learn how to handle that."

Throwing the first half of the curtains open kicks up a cloud of dust into the air. Mitama winces and starts to cough, having received a face full of it. While she struggles to recover, she throws the second half open too. The windows are not clean, having been forced to face the years alone. The light that filters in is not as bright as it could be, but it is better.

Mitama coughs one loud, final time as she turns away and shakes the dust for her form. "Whoever it is, they are long past their time upon this earth. It would do them well to learn how to accept their own end and pass on already."

Despite the dramatics, she does not feel anything in this room. She crosses back over to where Raven is and stops by the door frame. A charm is peeled free from the bundle she carries and placed up the wood. She smooths it out with her hand, then rests it atop the center. The ink briefly lights up before fading again. Satisfied, she nods and turns to him.

"Might you take the lead to the next room, this time?" She raises her arms limply. "I am quite a frail thing, you know. Not at all suited for the task of tussling with what the spirits might physically throw our way if we are not careful."

The hurdles to understand each and every person in the world is so very hard, isn't it?

Despite not knowing precisely what it is the shrine maiden said, he can at least figure from her request about it that it must be something very embarrassing or vulnerable indeed. Something she is comfortable with him knowing (perhaps out of his ignorance?) but doesn't wish to risk leaking...

“I don't need to step in front to record myself. If I speak, it'll record my voice even if it can't see me,” Leif informs Mitama. “And... when I return home, they'll paint my portrait more times than I'll even ask for it if I ever want to see myself.”

One reward for liberation is that it allows artists to flourish where in times of strife, they struggle. But as artists come back into business, Leif is sure his duty as a royal shall come into calling.

Once, there were paintings of every crown prince before him in Leonster, all following in the steps of their common ancestor of Njörun. Though the flames may have stolen all of those faces, the people shall wish for Leif's portrait to join that hall of ghosts nevertheless.

“But you're not asking because you're asking what I want, are you, Mitama? You're asking because you don't want to be alone in front of it.” She had said as much herself it was less enjoyable when alone. So, even with his expression of neutrality, he hauls himself in front, joining her at her side.

“...Now that I'm here, I'm not really sure what to do...” He ponders it. Doing one of his acrobatic tricks will look odd if Mitama just stands still beside him. “...I can pick you up??”

So he warns moments before he suddenly acts upon it, lifting her up in his arms— a pretense to show off but also to give her a taste of her own medicine for the photo-artifex:

And in the end, the conclusion he comes to is partially right. She does not want to be alone. They had both confessed to the same wish in different flavours last year. She wants to spend what time she has with those she cares about as often as she can.

But no one will paint Mitama after today, and no one will leave her portrait to find its place in history. If this will be the only evidence years from know that they knew each other and were friends...then it seems shameful to waste that chance.

"If you understood that already, then you should have just done so." And though she continues pouting behind her bouquet, she is not a good enough performer to mask the pleased excitement in her tone.

Not for the first time, Leif gives her no chance to understand what he suggests before picking her up. Mitama squeaks and has to catch herself with a hand braced on his shoulder, but she falls into a fit of laughter soon enough, loud enough that a few curious glances go their way.

"Alright, alright! You have done a wonderful job at showing off!" Boys and their feats of strength... She shakes her head fondly.

It is...so different from last year. She is glad for him. Even if both their wishes are still works in progress, even if they have many years ahead of them to work towards making them come true, it feels like a small step towards that. She may not understand what it is that he says, but that is alright. Maybe one day she will know. For now, she is content with the emotion of it, returned silently in full.

Back straight, pot held at an angle. He proceeds to empty his own mixture into their molds—flawlessly, of course—and reaches for different toppings than Mitama: a jar of salted cashews. Their satisfying crunch will complement his chocolate to complete and utter perfection. Aimed toward a mature and elegant palate; a divine combination of textures that will leave its impression with every bite. Sure to please and beguile. Ah, he is simply too thoughtful of a butler, Jakob thinks! However, he will leave the compliments to Lady Corrin when finally his creation should rest in her hands.

"—And who in the world would resent you?" This is not an attempt at commiseration, nor is it one at empathy - or, worse; bonding. Really, Jakob is only putting words to the plainest of thoughts, the most obvious conundrum on display. His attention remains downcast, fixed upon his own deft fingers. Swiftly delivering a single cashew to each waiting shell like a dutiful stork.

"You are remarkable only in sheer laziness."

Today, less so, but lazy still by Jakob's measure.

"—Foul of mouth and attitude."

Pot call kettle black.

"And dreadfully 'woe is me' over your own circumstances."

Dragons help Jakob if Dwyer should ever wield the same attitude toward the father who has ensured he was never found wanting of a roof over his head, food in his belly, and a proper education.

"But," Jakob continues, slowing ever so slightly with the drop of the last nut, "such awful qualities don't warrant resentment. If that were the case, I would be resented by a number in the hundreds. Mayhap, even thousands."

“It is a unique experience to be grown at the height of your parent’s notoriety, you know. Especially with a father like you or my own.” There is no insult laced into those words. This time, she speaks purely factual. If he is truly self-aware, after all, what she is saying should not come as a surprise. “There are idiots who think the sins of the father can be apologized for with the words of the child. It is exhausting.”

And then there are those who spurn her for her own valor…well, Jakob is not necessarily incorrect, except for his claim of melancholy on her part. She is aware she can be abrasive, with a tongue sharper than she means for it to be. And she too is self-aware enough to know that there are plenty who find her company unbearable.

Such is fate. She is not interested in wasting her time over those who do not matter.

He fires another arrow into the side of the bird's neck, though with such thick, leathery skin, it does little more than agitate it.

The ground shakes as the bird's thrashing gets stronger, the beat of its wings against the earth kicking up dirt and debris. Grimacing, Diamant puts a hand to Mitama's shoulder, "We need to go—" the bird screeches, "Now."

The bird’s thrashing makes the ground unsteady beneath their feet. Mitama’s eyes narrow in irritation, but she holds both her breath and spell as she waits for his arrow to sink past the more solid material of the bird’s feathers. As soon as it finds purchase, her spell follows, seeping through the wound already made by the arrow with great hunks of ice that begin to poke out from the bird’s neck.

The next beat of its wings make her stumble a little. Alright, maybe now it is time to listen.

“Go then!” She shrugs his shoulder off and takes the lead, darting off through the forest growth. So long as they can find a new position to attack again from before the bird spies them, they will be fine.

Though Ophelia is completely disappointed that Rhajat has failed to mention the wondrous work she'd performed for her, she isn't at all surprised.  It lessens the blow, somewhat, in that way.  For the present, though, she has another task to perform, and Ophelia is eager to get started!

Problem: she has a nearly-full cup of tea in her hands.

She can't quite go unfueled for her practice, can she?  So Ophelia finds a solution in blowing thrice across the drink's surface and swallowing the rest of it down in one swing.

It's a little too hot, and it leaves an uncomfortable tingling in her mouth and throat, but maybe that's exactly what she needs!  Discomfort is the impetus of change, and she means to shift Mitama's fates for the better, so it all makes sense to her.

Second problem: she is not entirely certain what to do with the remaining cup.

So she sets it down on the nearest accepting surface and hopes that's sufficient for Mitama and/or Mitama's father.

It is unsettling…it comes and goes in pulses, almost like an angry whisper rising in volume before catching itself. Her shoulders rise instinctively to block her ears from…from what?

Another pulse. It is all fine. Another pulse and it is piercing pain. Her footsteps stumble a little as she follows…

follows…follows who? Who is she following?

Blond hair is a Nohrian trait, no?

Nohrian.

Nohrian like the monsters that killed father that…

No, that is not right…is it?

She had been in her deeprealm and then the monsters appear and then father

had had not arrived too late saved her failed her so she left with him ran from him joined him watched him die

Her head throbs again.

The blond in front of her is gone, covered in misty shadows that tremble and shake like a dragon's breath.

It is good to meet you.

He admires the simple as though it is something special. As though knowing the smallest bit of her father is something worth commending, when Mitama can only see the tragedy in the fact she does not know more. She frowns to herself as she watches him go about the task. And do you know these sorts of things about Caeldori? It would be som simple to ask in turn.

That question is swallowed as she shrugs instead, allowing her gaze to drift away. A yawn overtakes her, which she is quick to hide in the crook of her elbow. "Often enough, not that circumstances permit it." And yet it still does not feel like enough either when she is eventually forced on by her schedule. "…but it is a nice change of pace, after the war."

Silence falls over the kitchen. She is amazed no one has noticed them at work and come to investigate yet. The guards who patrol at this hour must not be particularly good at their jobs. Another yawn escapes her, and this time she is unable to capture it before it flies free.

He is not a parent himself, after all. (But is it wrong to believe that parent and child possess a natural, inherent understanding for one another, one that others cannot define? A bond by blood that cannot be easily broken; a bond by blood that inspires an instinctual affection.)

Spatula parts a sea of anko paste; the two islands do not intersect. Tsubaki glances up from the pot just in time to see Mitama yawn; he becomes aware of time's passage. The individual components of their yokan are finished, but it'll still take a considerable time before the appearance of any beautiful confection.

"You needn't apologize. I had fun." Tsubaki smiles, putting down the spatula. These pleasantries aren't a lie; he truly feels as if he's taken another step forwards in understanding Mitama as an individual. If only for that, then he doesn't mind the hours of sleep he's been deprived of tonight.

"Feel free to head back to your room, I'll handle everything from here~" Tsubaki offers out of courtesy rather than necessity; Mitama's sluggish movements don't give her much an option. "I'll ensure that the yokan is perfectly delivered to your doorstep, so please! Rest, rest~"

Carmine eyes watch as Mitama drowsily leaves the kitchen. Then, Tsubaki begins the yokan's assembly. His eyes continue to dart towards the entrance, ears strained to catch any sounds of stray footfall, before he finally puts away the tray of assorted mizu-yokan to chill. Another moment of silence.

(cw: brief implications of disordered eating habits)

There's a wriggling unease that taunts at the edge of consciousness, where dream and reality overlap, and it warns Azama that he should wake, should stir before it is too late. But you should know:

He is Really comfortable right now. Like. Divine levels of comfy. The world could be ending, and he isn't sure he'd care to wake to see it. He compromises and stretches, and in doing so,

Leaves himself wide open to attack!!

"BWUGH--?!"

Azama jolts, but does not reflexively punt daughter dearest to the heavens by accident, blessed be! Chest rises, falls, rises a little quicker as he breathes a little faster, situating himself in the midst of the shock from his rude (but cute!!) awakening.

"Oh dear," he mumbles, cracking an eye open to better discern Mitama's efforts. "Has it been forever already?" He could have sworn it hadn't, but he is not raising a liar, you know. Aw, she's so cute. Cute as a button.

"Five more minutes," he whines, and then dramatically flops over to bury his face in his pillow, rustling blankets into half a cocoon - a bit easier said than done when there is a child prone to being swept up in the process. "Just five more minutes...!" And he laughs, unable to keep serious about it - though he is at least half serious about it.

Probably he shouldn't be teaching her this but... oh well! Future Azama problem.

...but...

Hm.

The blanket catches behind her when she tries to move at first, but a good tug and its free again to follow her as she does her best to clamber on top of the great cocoon that is Mount Papa. Once she's secure in her place on top, the attack resumes. The cushioning of the blanket gives way to slightly more firmer hits as she does her best.

"No more sleeping!" Maybe if she showed off all her practice, he would wake up again to praise her? A little pout lays claim to her expression as she thinks.

"It is morning time…" Mitama lifts up her hands in front of her and slowly folds each finger as she counts. All of one hand first, like he taught her, then all and two from the other hand. "sleeping is not welcome…now. / Father and daughter time."

Carmine eyes flicker back towards Mitama before Tsubaki breaks away from his task. They find a nearby crate and, ensuring its contents aren't fragile, drag it towards the student before its corners gently hit her shin.

"Stand on this," Tsubaki interrupts briefly, lest they cultivate the prime environment for an accident. He uses the edge of foot to nudge the crate closer to the counter, then deviates from his previous task for a split moment to wash his hands.

"You know your father's preferences; he does not enjoy sweets." The sky knight offers as the sound of chopping fills the kitchen. He's dicing up a small portion of the strawberries brought earlier. "Even I hadn't known that myself. Anyhow, it does pair well with tea."

Diced strawberries find their place inside a magical kitchen contraption, where tablespoons of sugar and lemon juice join it in a blend that soon becomes puree.

"Azama is considered the most unconventional among the royal retainers. Many consider his particular brand of humor quite— impalpable— but his philosophy has found its place among us. Silver-tongued as your father is, incongruous he can be, many turn to him as a beacon of wisdom. Without him and his penchant to challenge beliefs, Castle Shirasagi can become quite monotonous."

Tsubaki lowers the flames of the agar base, then prepares the tray. He hides the blush nipping at his ears.

"That's what I recall others saying, anyhow." The sky knight disclaims, "I only know your father through the lens of a comrade and retainer, I'm afraid. I cannot tell you what Azama is like as an individual— Such as, his favorite foods, his disliked ones, what he does to relax, his habits. I am not close enough to him to be a part of his personal life."

He admires the simple as though it is something special. As though knowing the smallest bit of her father is something worth commending, when Mitama can only see the tragedy in the fact she does not know more. She frowns to herself as she watches him go about the task. And do you know these sorts of things about Caeldori? It would be som simple to ask in turn.

That question is swallowed as she shrugs instead, allowing her gaze to drift away. A yawn overtakes her, which she is quick to hide in the crook of her elbow. "Often enough, not that circumstances permit it." And yet it still does not feel like enough either when she is eventually forced on by her schedule. "…but it is a nice change of pace, after the war."

Silence falls over the kitchen. She is amazed no one has noticed them at work and come to investigate yet. The guards who patrol at this hour must not be particularly good at their jobs. Another yawn escapes her, and this time she is unable to capture it before it flies free.

Not that he finds her imposing! She looks kind of cute when she’s mad, especially since he doesn’t know her very well. Some people (his friends, mostly) find this kind of posture and clipped tone and Sylvain’s immediate instinct is fondness…coupled with the voice that asks to push them further. 

Just to see what they do! It’s a hard-earned routine in some sense. 

“Oh!” An avalanche begins at the twitch of his fingers. One stack falls into another and then another…he steps back to avoid any of the heavier tomes landing on his feet. Papers fly, softly swishing through the air before finding a place to settle. 

When they open once more, the stars are settled back on their trajectory, as cold as ever. She does not move from her spot in the doorway. In fact, she plants her feet more firmly, tilting her head back to stare up at him as though offering a silent challenge. She has played these games before. She has stood where he stands now, facing down her own caretakers in quite a similar manner.

She is not cleaning that entire room by herself, if at all.

"Like I give a crap about that. Do you think me on the job right now? Sorry to say, but I would not dream of dedicating my services to you." Well. Even if not polite, the foul-mouthed butler was most certainly talented. The help of a pre-heated pan expedites his work; the occasional stirring of his ladle ensures that each square of the cacao butter is warmed evenly; his haste and professionalism puts him on the highway to results. A dash of sugar enters the boiling concoction and once more he is right where he started.

The tap of his ladle against the rim of the pan seems as much satisfied as emphatic, a strike of a teacher's dowel against the blackboard with a lesson to follow: "While we're at it, allow me to put it another way. Even if I were inclined to show courtesy, I would only do so while it is reciprocated. Do you think yourself such a shining example, Mitama? I think not. In fact, I am led to wonder what it is that Azama has been teaching you—what in the world are you doing?"

Jakob's speech is cut short by a force he cannot resist. Fueled by irritation and compulsion, he frowns at the sight of Mitama's haphazard pouring - offended by her dreadfully slow place, soulfully insulted by the surrounding area spattered with droplets of a precious mixture. More a crime scene than a counter! Though, no doubt this was Jakob's wild exaggeration as a perfectionist.

He tromps over to take it from her hands with a huff, "—give that here," only to pour the chocolate expertly and neatly and spotlessly into the molds himself.

Pour, pour, pour, down to the very last drop.

Whatever lessons are being imparted, the student is only oh too happy to demonstrate. What a shame, then, that the professor chooses to rudely interrupt with a sharp tone that, so unexpected in its transition, makes Mitama flinch and nearly let the pot slip from her fingers. How fortunate that the infirmary did not allow clumsiness to take root and grow.

The pot is snatched from her hands left outstretched. Rather than argue, she can only watch in silence as he sets about finishing the task for her, chocolate settling nicely into the molds, much better than she would have done, admittedly. All that protesting and bluster about how his assistance was not to be given out freely, and yet he has done just exactly that. Even as he continues to spit and insult as he moves back to his own work, Mitama just watches silently.

…hm.

"Thank you." Mitama pinches the edges of the molds between her fingers and drags it closer. She lifts it and taps it against the edge of the pot so that the extra goes back in before the shells can begin to harden. As she places it down and reaches for her jam, she keeps her eyes lowered when she speaks.

"You would not be the first to resent me. That is fine. I am already used to it." She takes a spoon and begins to carefully scoop out jam into each of the divots. "As for your earlier question, not particularly. I am aware that I am selfish. Such is the case when war leaves you very little to your name in the first place."

Her horse's hooves churned against the soil and stone, shuttling them forward out from the main road surrounding the Alliance's capitol and into the more rugged terrain that connected Leicester with the mountains where Garreg Mach lay. A less skilled rider, or even a less confident one, might have balked at the transition, and slowed to a fairer pace, but Lachesis felt not the need for caution.

The lumenthus, nestled safely in her pack, would wilt with every second that passed. This had been promised.

So, too, had there been indications that others along the way would make themselves available for relay, pegasus and wyvern and horse alike to manage each line of terrain, to ensure the bud survived in proper condition.

A woman on horseback calls out to them. That must be the person they have come to meet. Which means, more importantly that this nightmarish flight can end. Mitama sags with relief, only to feel her stomach lurch as the pegasus dives down.

They settle far enough that by the time the woman on horseback reaches them, Mitama has had time to dismount and recover herself. She lifts a hand to block the sunlight as she looks up at the woman.

…huh. There is something familiar about her.

mitama, please help / they got my oats on whatsapp / my future is dark

At least make it a rumor worth spreading.

His gaze flickers low as he clears his throat, the most he can manage to keep from embarrassing himself.

"Regardless, I anticipate they'll demand a ransom of some sort in exchange for the evidence, but I don't intend on paying a single coin. My conduct was not the best, I admit... but I refuse to let it be used against either that lady or you."

It's just the how that's stumping him. He can't claim to be well practiced in handling scandals; every waking second spent in the Nohrian courts had been carefully managed so as to live up to his station as his father's son. That he would make such a big blunder here, not too long after his arrival...

(...he has so very much to learn.)

Well…she still has some food remaining on her plate, but she could hardly eat at a time like this, with fury clawing its way into her belly. Mitama sighs as she pushes herself up from the table. "We will meet with that person, you mean. You have not done a thing worthy of damanation, and whoever thinks themselves mighty enough to pursue a false retribution is due a terrible surprise."

Of all the people to go for…Siegbert has never proven himself anything but sweet and kind and thoughtful of others. To pursue him in such a manner was reprehensible, even if the perpetrator attempted to claim some sort of innocence, and she would not stand by for it. What has she been studying for, if not to protect those she cares about?

“I don't know what to tell you, Mitama...” he starts out after a breath, trying in his own way to be honest yet considerate of her. Consideration, however, is not a point that can be fully determined by him alone. It is with her that lies the right of judgment— the power to make the verdict where Leif can only be the one put on trial.

“But does it make more sense to you if it's not my getting hurt that's fine but instead my surviving it?”

It's a genuine question, one he doesn't wish to run from, so he stares at her straight on regardless of if she will meet his gaze in return.

“There's a lot of people who leave others behind. But I came back to you, didn't I?” he continues on. “I came back because I'm strong enough and because I had people with me. I'm not happy to be hurt at all—”

It's a sign of weakness. It's a sign that he isn't strong enough in some way, whether that be martial prowess or in the power to sway people's minds and hearts with just words. He hasn't hit his hopes quite yet.

“—but I'm happy this time didn't have to end in anyone dying... Before, that kind of thing wouldn't have been possible for me. Or if it was, it wasn't because I was choosing it to be for an unselfish reason...”

Mercy dealt out not because it is the right thing to do, but because it is the cost-efficient thing to do. Because killing someone might damn him in the future, where one's tools are weighed more than their lives.

But Leif does not know of that, not fully, so he holds her gaze like a challenge instead and presses on, because he is one of the ones who charges forward so others need not. And though she is struck by a sudden but familiar sense of tiredness, she still holds his gaze as he speaks. Because she had not been there, and this is the least of what she owes him.

"...I don't know." Because it's unrealistic. All things will die eventually, no matter how much they may wish it otherwise. Mitama can wish with all her heart and all the magic in the world, but she is only a lonely girl with a lonely heart. She cannot stop fate, and she cannot save everyone.

...how foolish it is then, to believe even a little in the world he dreams of where she could.

"...what I want..." the hand that once worried at the charm he gave her moves to close around his wrist instead, bold and brazen and tired and desperate and this time it is her who meets his gaze with a stubbornness that does not burn quite as brightly, but will not be extinguished either. "...is that the next time you agree to be sent out on one of these ridiculous missions, you make certain that I am there as well. Understood?"

Another might say that it's a trivial thing to focus on; anyone can use any terms they want, and there's nothing to necessarily state their view and interpretation on events is objectively correct. However, if it is what Mitama sees, then Leif wants to know why she sees it that way. There indeed must be something different about him, compared to normal, that warrants that new descriptor, regardless of if it's accurate or not.

No matter the term used, it lets Leif know indeed he is changed in some way. So Leif reflects on what about this Battle of the Eagle and Lion has felt different compared to those in the past, and eventually falls upon...

“If you think so, maybe it's because of Caeldori??” he offers up his best wager, still in deep thought. “She was one of my opponents in my final skirmish. Did you know she laughs like that, Mitama?”

Mitama falls into a fit of laughter before she can stop herself. Of course it would be Caeldori, whose heart beats as quickly as she turns the pages of her books, who would find a way to make such an impression. Likely without intended to either. "She has quite the lovely laugh, yes. I feel fortunate every time I get to hear it."

But no, despite the fondness that bleeds out at the mention of a friend, that is not entirely what she means. Once the laughter has tempered off to something calmer, she shakes her head. "I am not referring to the events of the battle specifically, though if that is indeed what has lifted your spirits I am glad for it. But it seems more of an overall thing this year."

Perhaps this entire conversation was too presumptuous of her. It is too late to turn back now, though. She pulls herself upright again while gesturing to all of him. "Last year, during the battle and the ball and perhaps even before that too, you carried a weight in your soul that seemed to haunt you every where you went, even when not at the forefront of your mind."

It had exploded at least once during the ball, but she does not catch any of that same desperation that bled into his tone then. "You sound…lighter in spirit now. As though you have not carried as many worries into the battlefield."

    “Love, huh.” The word rests on his tongue, lingering long after he's spoken the syllable. Mitama's most likely right. Nanna often thinks things over, careful and deft in such matters of thought far more than Leif himself. She's had a full adolescence to ponder this, and in the times where they could do nothing but remain still, remain in hiding, agonizingly so, Leif wonders if Nanna has considered what it means to stay with Leonster's prince. Had she ever cursed his name like Princess Miranda did? Had she ever mourned the shape of his back like Asbel had?

Nanna had told him she has loved him for so long. When she fell in love, did she make her decision all the way back then too?

(And if their positions were reversed, if it was he who was free to move and her rooted to her home, would he have done this thing Mitama called so 'incredible'?)

But to consider these things feels sillier than his heart feels it to be when Leif hears Mitama laugh like the birds in summer. The messy, unladylike way she wipes the juices off her fingers speaks to a lightness that pierces the heavy thoughts Leif himself feels.

When one sees another carry things like feathers, it makes it humiliating to carry those same things like chains.

“Something to say...” So he forces himself to move on, pushing those thoughts deeper as he remembers just what he has called her here for. The frown remains on his face though, deep in contemplation. “...No one's ever asked me to spare a word for the dead before.”

Ever constantly in movement, there was no time to pull back. He never spared a word for his father, his mother, his grandfather, nor his grandmother. When Dryas passed, he wept instead of forming the words.

But he supposes that's not to say he never had them. Now given the time to slow for Virato...

“...I don't know how to carry their future. But I was it to them,” he confesses, folding his arms across his chest. “I never carried them to what they wanted... but I don't think they were wrong to wish for it either...”

A silence falls upon him as he stares at the box. He knows not how many seconds pass before he breaks it at last.

Leif asked her to help him figure out how to express himself better and though he may not believe it, she still does when she says that she thinks he speaks well as is. It is not the flowery language of someone who has studied the art of crafting words all their life, but it is plain that he means his words and speaks them from the heart.

The same heart that carries the hopes of those who are no longer with them, that bleeds for them even now. He falls to silence and Mitama carries it for him until he speaks again.

"I believe so." She believes they may have already found it, but such passive answers never seem to suit him. "I believe that one day, when you find yourself satisfied body and soul, they will have been quite happy to have guided you there."

And perhaps now it is her words that fail. Perhaps it is her who sets what might be an impossible goal before him. Only time will tell, and she has never spent much time looking to the future in the same way he has.

She does have a task here to complete, however. With all said and done comes the most important part. Her hand slides slowly against the lid of the box before resting there. "Hold your breath, please." If only because she is somewhat nervous about never having done this before.

A brief pause passes, and then a burst of magic fills the room. A small, controlled flame consumes the box and in seconds, only an imprint of ash on the floor indicates that it was there.

Keeping their hands on the arm to hold it steady, they shifted their weight to use their knee to prop the man up against the chair back. Mitama's sigh clued the professor into the healer's disappointment. "Sorry" they muttered "I should have waited for your instruction"

In future they would have to remember that most mortals didn't possess their uncanny ability to block out pain.