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'Twas the day of Christmas, when all gifts have been posted And so now it brings an end to this event we have hosted! To our gifters and giftees, we applaud you for your good work and the joy and good fun it might have brought to those who simply lurk! Another year, another round, with many a holiday delight— Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night! 🎄 - The Mod Team 🎄

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Heath and Hyperion taking a nap!

From: DewaTo: Pat

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Cafe Chat

It had been a tough couple of months, you thought as you finished wiping down the counter top. The cafe was empty, which was to be sort of expected at this time of night, but keeping the lights on and the place clean to give it a welcoming atmosphere. Anywhere else, having a night coffee shop would be a recipe for business failure, but in the small town which had arisen to serve the community of Garreg Mach Monastery, it was actually profitable. Mercenaries returning from harrowing missions, visitors to the church wanting a late night drink or even students looking for a place to cram in some last minute ‘studying’. 

  Whatever the reason, it worked out well for you. Arriving in this place, looking for work which would suit your unique circumstances. It should have been impossible like in every other town passed though on the way but you had held hope in your heart that if there was anywhere in all of Fodlan accepting then it would be here. Taking a break from reminiscing, your attention is drawn as the small bell over the door tingles, signalling the entrance of the first customer of the night.

  “Welcome” You say, offering a small smile over your shoulder, while waiting for them to take a seat at the counter.There’s no rush, in fact the Boss had been very clear during your training that rushing the customer was a big No-no. Once they’re settled, you turn around asking “Can I get you a drink?” 

  The customer in question smiled back charmingly. He had a roguish look about him, with his walnut skin, curled lock and handsome looks. However, you could see that the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. There was a hardened steeliness lurking there, as though he already knew your weaknesses and how to exploit them. But you take his friendliness at face value, no need to upset the first customer of the night. 

  “Sure, what do you recommend?” He replies smoothly “Ah well it depends on what flavours you like” You say. From his looks, you suspect he’s from somewhere outside of Fodlan or at least was raised there, perhaps one of their more exotic blends would be suitable. “I like tea, and spices. Something flavourful but light” You’re told, confirming your intuition. “I know just the thing. Coming right up”

  As you listen to his idle conversation in the background, you start preparing the tea leaves and spices to make the blend. The light leaves of the oolong, with the warming scents of ginger and ginseng with a touch of fennel to finish it off. “And can you believe it, she didn’t even bat an eyelid or say sorry as she copied my work. Just because she hadn’t finished hers in time.” The young man had just finished telling you all about some antic his classmate had got up to earlier. “Here you go” Placing the cup in front of him, he blows on it gently before taking a sip. 

  “Why, that’s fantastic!” He exclaims “I should come here more often, the names Claude by the way, Of the Leicester Alliance and head of the Golden Deer House” You smile politely but don’t offer your name in return. “Pleasure. I had a feeling you were a student at the school, but I didn’t realise you held such a position of responsibility” As those words hang in the air a wearisome look comes to the previously vibrant eyes. Like one who is trying to hold 1000 plans together where one wrong placement would bring everything down like a house of cards. “Ah…oh”

  Before you can say anything further, the bell goes again as two more customers enter. “Thought we’d find you here” The blond haired one says as they make their way over. Claude looks round and you can see the carefree smile slip back onto his face, the walls coming up. “Edelgard, Dimitri. You didn’t have to come out here looking for me” 

  “I said you’d be in some establishment drinking, though I will admit not one as tame as a cafe” The Lady, who must be Edelgard, said “But Dimitri here insisted. Wanted to talk to you about the upcoming mock battle. So of course I had to come to prevent you two plotting to join forces against me, it is the only way you have a hope of defeating the Black Eagles of course” Claude scoffs at this. “Try the other one Princess, I don’t need help to bring you down” It looks like an argument will break out soon if you don’t do something…

  “Can I get you two a drink?” You butt into the conversation. “We have a fine selection teas and coffees from across the continent of Foldlan and beyond” 

  “I’ll take a coffee” Says Dimitri “Something strong” You nod, noticing the shadows beneath his eyes indicating disturbed nights. “I’ve got a potent blend from Ylisse which I know a certain librarian favours.” You respond, alighting the burner below one of the coffee syphons. “And for you madam” You ask Edelgard who thinks for a moment before responding. “I’ll take a tea please, something traditional” Noting her request and noble bearing, you open the jar of earl grey tea leaves, adding a touch of vanilla. “Just a moment” 

  Once served, the three house leaders take their drinks over to one of the booths at the side of the bar. Conversation starts flowing between them as they appreciate their beverages. The talk must have returned to battle tactics as at one point you notice them pushing pouches of sugar around the table surface in formation. You’re happy to leave them be, in fact it’s a welcome change to the previous quiet from the start of your shift. 

  Customers have a way of attracting more customers so it comes as little surprise when the shop bell rings again and a young lady bounces in. “Oh good, you’re open” they exclaim, a smile gracing their features. “I thought that everywhere would be shut when I arrived as I was delayed on the road”

  “We stay open all night. No-one should be without a place for a rest and hot drink at any time of day.” You tell her, spouting the company line. “Plus, I find people out this late are usually in need of a place to hole up” The number of wandering strays, troubled academics and insomniacs you’ve met in the past few months are a testament to this. 

  “Lucky me then. I’ve come to visit someone at the Officer’s Academy. I do hope he hasn’t been too worried.” She says, a troubled look appearing “He can be a little … how to put it … overprotective of me at times.” 

  “Well if he’s at the Academy, then he should be aware of this cafe. Maybe he will find you here. Would you like a drink before heading to the Monastery?”

  “Yes please. That would be delightful. It’s been a tiring journey. Do you have something fruity? I think it’s a little late for caffeine”

  “Coming right up” You reach up to the top shelf where the ingredients for the herbal blends are kept. Rooibos tea is your go to, and this blend is a calming mix of citrus and flowers. Mixing citrus peel, lavender and rosehip into the rooibos leaves, you steep the tea in hot water before setting a mug in front of the red-haired lady. “Here you are, it’s called Moondrop Dreams”

  “What a pretty name” She says “Perfect for late nights. I’m Priscilla” She takes a mouthful and a serene look of calm passes across her demeanor.  “Just what I need after such a harrowing journey” 

  “Have you come far?” You ask curiously. “There’s so many lands outside of Fodlan” 

  “I come from Etruria in Lycia. That’s where my father rules… well my adoptive father. But I’ve always believed him to be my father. I only found out recently that it was not so. I left to search for my brother and hear about the home I lost so long ago I barely remember it” Priscilla pauses to take another sip. You wait patiently, not wanting to rush her with her tale. “I found him, fought alongside him, but we were soon separated again as he told me he had to leave to study more to become a knight worthy of his heritage and protecting me.” She lets out a sigh, a forlorn look in her eyes. “I wish he would realise that I don’t need him to get stronger, I just want him to be home. We can rebuild Ostia together, learning what we need as we go.” 

  There’s a deep longing in her tone, mixed with melancholy. You recognise it as akin to your own longing for home. Though you’re grateful for this job and place you’ve found, there’s elements of your homeland you miss. “It must be hard, but I’m sure he’s doing what he believes is best. For you and your home. Have you told him how you feel?”

  “No, I don’t want to upset him. Besides, in a way he is right about needing to learn more. I too, should study more to become someone who can be of assistance to his cause.” 

  “Have you considered coming to the Monastery? Then you could learn and be by your brother’s side” A thoughtful expression appears on Priscilla’s face and you notice a new spark in her eye. 

  “That’s an excellent idea. This trip could be a chance to check the place out, see what courses are offered. I’d love to see…”

  Unfortunately you don’t get to hear what she’d love to see as the door opens with a loud bang and a young man bursts in. The commotion causes the trio to look up from their model battlefield. “Priscilla!” He half-shouts rushing over to the lady you’d been chatting with. “I’ve been looking all over town for you. I heard about bandits on the road and thought —”

  Priscilla shushes him with a hand over his mouth. “I’m fine Raven, I just wanted a small break before coming to the Monastery. The roads were problematic but we took care of it and I patched up my companions afterwards.” The man identified to be Raven visibly deflated, the fight leaving his pose and the tension melted away. 

  “I just… I wanted to know you were safe. I’ve been waiting for your arrival” 

  “Well now you’ve found me, I’ve arrived. I just need to finish my drink and pay then we can go” 

“I’ll pay” Raven says immediately, pulling out his coin purse. “You don’t need to do that” Priscilla protests. “I’ve plenty of coin and besides I’m the one who’s drinking this tea” 

  “Is that so” Raven says, a mischievous smile coming to his lips. Quickly, he grabs her mug from the countertop and downs the last of the liquid. “There! Now I’ve drunk this too, so its my drink as well which I can pay for” He slides coins across the table looking triumphant.

  “You’re incorrigible” Priscilla says with a dramatic sigh. “Come on then, accompany me to my dwellings then. Isn’t that custom when a man’s bought a lady a drink” There’s a mocking tone to her voice but you can tell she’s just teasing Raven as siblings who love each other deeply would. You sense these two have a deep bond. 

  “I wish you both a pleasant evening and please do come again” You say retrieving the empty mug. 

  “I’m sure we will. Thank you for listening and I’ll give your advice some serious consideration” Priscilla says, Raven giving you a curious look at her words before holding the door open for her as they both leave.

  “We better be heading off too” You hear Dimitri say “I think we’ve talked enough strategy for now” 

  “You mean you just lost” Edelgard chips in causing Dimitri to huff in annoyance while Claude lounges with a playful smile on his face. A world of difference from the look you got a glimpse off earlier. “But his highness has a point, no good if we sleep through class tomorrow. Imagine what Teach would say” He adds, getting to his feet. The three of them head to the door. 

  “Do come again” You say locking eyes with Claude, an unspoken message passing between the two of you. “I will” He acknowledges before leaving with his friends. With everyone gone, the cafe falls into silence but not an uncomfortable one. You sense there won’t be any further visitors tonight so after cleaning up you retrieve your book from below the counter and await the oncoming dawn.

  [Fin]

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HAPPY HOLIDAYS WILD!!! tis i, leo. someone’s gotta feed your need for old dragon man. he’s slightly less bald here lmao

without further adoooo. here’s three heroes ft. lehran having a ball (?) caroling around

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Vio Submission for Neuro SS

“Wow, Jakob! You look great in your new outfit!” Sharena says as she pokes her head into the Order of Heroes’ dressing room. “I gotta say, I think Niðavellir couture feels very fitting for you!”

Jakob raises an eyebrow at her in the mirror, a small smile on his lips. “Your compliments are much appreciated, Princess Sharena. I find it shares a bit of similarity with Nohrian style, with some color schemes and tailoring methods found in both nations’ clothing.”

There is a meticulousness required when working with seiðjarn constructs, which Jakob can appreciate. Each component must be carefully measured, crafted, forged so as to fit together in a precise manner. Each rune must be carved with deliberation and at the perfect depth, not a single stroke out of place. Each node of power must be filled with the exact amount needed and set in just the right spot. It is a delicate balance the likes of which the dvergar are experts at striking, as surely as their hammers meet their anvils, and it is evidence of a vaunted tradition passed down from generation to generation. Now Jakob is not a blacksmith and would not profess to any skill in the art and science of seiðjarn, but… is not service as a butler so very similar? The silver and dishware must be polished to a spotless gleam, arranged so that each is within reach for use. The rooms must be swept, dusted, and mopped so that even the slightest speck of dust cannot be found. The tea must be steeped with a discerning hand, brewed so that it is neither too strong nor too weak but delivers all its flavors as a delightful and refreshing bouquet. The daggers must be kept oiled and sharp, finding their marks in the enemy’s weak points for the swiftest and most efficient takedown. And of course, the uniform must be worn with nary a wrinkle or stain in sight, perfectly pressed and perfectly fitted, presenting the exemplar of the highest-quality service that could possibly exist. An excellent butler works as smoothly as a well-oiled machine, or so the saying might go.

Jakob adjusts the cravat, fastening the golden gear-embellished pin to it. He tucks the puff sleeves of his white shirt, quilted instead of pleated, into black bracers, his hands covered with sleek black leather gloves. His vest hugs his frame in an elegant dark purple, clean lines accentuated by the gear buttons holding it closed. A matching strap sits atop his slim black trousers, black knee-high boots covered with shin armor trimmed in gold and violet. His sleeveless black outer tailcoat gleams in the light, having been freshly buffed; a golden braid loops over his left bicep, held in place on his breast with an amethyst set in a gear brooch and left to dangle as a tassel. A hair ribbon fastened with a gear pin completes the look, and Jakob scrutinizes his appearance in the mirror once, twice, before he nods in satisfaction. Not a single piece out of place, not a wrinkle in sight. It is spotless, having not yet been worn until now. Like this, he looks the picture of a Niðavellir butler, ready to serve. It will not obstruct his work when serving Lord Corrin, nor will it get in his way in the heat of battle. He has seen to this personally, as no such thing as too much care exists when it comes to his lord and, by extension, his own appearance.

The outfit possesses much in the way of personalization. Jakob slips his daggers into their sheaths and then into a variety of concealed pockets hidden throughout the uniform. When tailoring this outfit, he had ensured that he could draw a dagger from just about any place he could easily reach without harming the clothes or delaying his speed of draw. Thus, the uniform holds a myriad of hidden pockets capable of holding all of his weapons and making him look completely unarmed. It is only acceptable, after all, that a butler be able to defend his liege with any means possible, and what else is he to do but make sure he is armed to the teeth while still presenting himself as the perfect butler, a poised and elegant gentleman? He must say, he is terribly proud of the work that he put into this uniform. All the research that went into it, all of the tests and material searches, all of the late nights spent sewing into the wee hours of the morning just so that he could make certain that every last little detail had been taken care of to perfection. Not that he would deign to brag, but if he were capable of creating art, this would, he believes, qualify as a masterpiece.

… But of course, nothing from him can be a better masterpiece than serving his lord Corrin to his utmost abilities. With one final straighten, Jakob exits the room, curious to see what his lord’s reaction to his new uniform will be.

“Wow, look at Jakob! He’s wearing something new today, or am I seeing that wrong?”

“He looks great! Wonder who his tailor is?”

“If anything, it’s likely that he made it himself. You know how particular he is about details and service. He probably commissioned the armor too, from one of our dvergar friends, no doubt.”

“Commissioned? Nah, if he’s that dedicated, then he probably made it himself! Easiest way to go when you’ve gotta have it to your specifications, right?”

“But can he fight in it?”

“Are you kidding me? Of course he can. Guy’s a nut for being capable in combat and defending his lord and whatnot. Can’t wait to see him in action, to be honest.”

“Well, what are we waiting for?! Let’s go get Corrin so Jakob can show off his fancy new clothes to him!”

Jakob smiles. Ah, what a fashionable way to be a butler in service to his lord and king Corrin.

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As The Ice Thaws

Merry Christmas Sam, my dear birthday twin! You mentioned love, healing from trauma, and Leo and Xander and.. well it had to be done, right? I hope you have a lovely Christmas and New Year 🥺

- Love, Cyan

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It’s a chilly afternoon when Leo decides to visit.

There’s a thin sheet of snow on the ground, though the sheet is ever-thickening with every snowflake that falls. Though he’s wrapped up warm, he’s still cold. It’s a cold from within, an icy chill from the depths of his soul. His steps crunch through the untouched snow, the only sound on this quiet afternoon.

There’s a building off the grounds of the castle, bigger than a mausoleum, that houses the dead kings of Nohr. The closer Leo gets to that building, the lower his body temperature sinks.

Though the man had long ceased to be Leo’s father, and ceased to be Garon, he still received a burial. There was little left to bury; it was a token affair. Garon was laid to rest by his predecessor, a grandfather that Leo had never met. All the graves are ornately decorated, with a bust of each predecessor on top of the tomb. It’s all a little too much for Leo. He’s quite glad he will never be king.

He approaches the bust of his father. The bust’s eyes are closed, making him look as though he’s sleeping. He’s not - he’s dead.

Leo should feel relief. His father won’t hurt him or his siblings again. They’re all safe from his tyranny, and this should be something to celebrate. He looks at the bust, and he doesn’t see Garon, the man who would kill the Hoshidan king and attempt to raze the nation. No, the artist chose not to depict that man. Instead, they chose a younger version of him, back when his hairline wasn’t so far back, and when his wrinkles weren’t so prominent. Certainly, it’s an attempt to make Garon look better, and Leo is aware of that on a conscious level.

Yet in his mind’s eye, he sees Garon, alive and well. He sees his father, when his hair was still blonde, picking up a young Leo and foisting him on his back. He pretended to hate it at the time, but laughed as his father ran off with him. There was a Garon who would play, who would smile without malice, who had loved his children.

This is the man that Leo chooses to mourn now, though he supposes he’s been mourning that man for many years now.

It’s hard to believe there were happier times, before Corrin, before Sumeragi’s murder. It’s fuzzy around the edges, but Leo remembers it. He remembers Xander as well; he remembers what it was like when Xander wasn’t so weighed down by the world. Leo has never voiced this out loud to anyone but Elise, but he knows these things. They’re private memories, untainted by potential harsh truths. If things are not as Leo remembers, then allow him to pretend that they are. Let him, for once, ignore reality.

There are footsteps echoing behind him. Leo doesn’t turn around; he has a feeling he knows who it is without even looking. He lets out a long-suffering breath.

“I thought I might find you here.”

“And I thought you would be too busy to remember, Brother,” Leo says.

Xander says nothing for a moment. He takes a step closer. Leo tucks his arms behind his back, and he stands just a little straighter. Xander stands beside him, and Leo watches him from the corner of his eye. The bust in front of him doesn’t look too dissimilar to Xander, now that he looks. Xander looks tired, too old for his age.

“And the others?” Xander asks.

“I doubt they wanted to come. I don’t blame them.”

Xander nods solemnly. “I am surprised you chose to visit him.”

“It felt strange not to. I considered not bothering, but…”

But he wants to remember their father - not Garon. He wants to remember the good king and man he had been, not the monster he became. He’s sure Xander must feel the same, though he doesn’t ask. As ever, it feels as though there is an inch-thick glass wall between the brothers. Xander stands close enough that, if Leo dared, he could reach. He doesn’t dare.

“But it has been a year, and you wished to commemorate that. I understand,” Xander says.

As if either of them could forget Garon. As if his death is something to be mourned over. As if he was a man worth their heartache. Leo can’t tell what Xander’s thinking, but he’s never been able to tell. His brother’s face is a mask, hiding everything below the surface. Leo is no different. They understand each other completely, yet not at all. He wonders if they’ll ever bridge that gap between them. It would mean acknowledging there’s a problem at all.

“Is that why you’re here?” Leo asks, always watching his brother’s expression.

Xander’s lips tighten. “Not entirely. A part of me still cannot believe that our father could be such a terrible man, and that I had failed to see it. Even looking at this statue, I think only of the good times, rather than what happened.”

Leo raises an eyebrow. Xander shares his thoughts, then.

“What do you suppose changed him? I wonder if what he went through made him more susceptible to possession,” Leo says.

“Leo.” Xander’s voice is dulled with exhaustion. “I would rather not theorise on the topic.”

Leo wants to press on why, but he decides against it. On this day, Leo would rather not antagonise his brother. Not now. Instead, he opts for another tactic.

“Do you remember when we were children?” Leo asks. “Did he ever play with you when you were young?”

Xander blinks. “He did. That feels like a long time ago now, but he wasn’t always like what he turned into.”

“Yes. He was kind. He was a father.”

How surreal it is to think of that, knowing how Garon turned out. It feels like that man left a lifetime ago. Leo’s hands ball into fists.

“And I distinctly remember you insisting that he should be your mount,” Xander says, with the twinge of a smile.

“Brother,” Leo hisses, cheeks burning.

“You insisted you would one day be a great knight upon a great steed,” Xander says.

Though he’s trying to hide his smile, there’s a light in Xander’s eyes that Leo rarely sees. It’s a light that Leo doesn’t want to lose, but he knows it will disappear again.

“Yes, I did say that,” Leo mutters, “but that was because of you.”

They had talked about it before; there was a time Leo really thought he might best Xander in combat. He couldn’t. He found other ways to be strong, to be useful. He found a way to surpass Xander.

“And your faith in me pushed me to become a better prince and, in turn, a better king,” Xander says.

Leo huffs. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“It’s not pointless flattery, it’s true. You are why I am the man that I am today.”

Leo turns his face away. He knows Xander is also why Leo is the man he is today, but he can’t find the words to express that. He’s never been able to find those words.

Leo hums. “Is there a time I will grow out of seeking your approval?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Xander shake his head. “I don’t believe we ever grow out of seeking validation.”

Leo can’t remember when, exactly, he had stopped seeking Garon’s approval and love. He can’t remember when he started seeking Xander’s validation, instead. Xander has always been more than an older brother, more than a role model, and it’s embarrassing that Leo took this long to notice it.

“Well,” he says slowly, carefully, as if moving on the edge of a cliff face, “I believe by the end, you were more of a father to me than him.”

The moment he says it, he wants to take it back. He wants to grab the words from the air and crush them in his hands. He can’t. He can’t stand to look at Xander. He takes a step to leave. Xander’s hand on his shoulder stops him.

“In that case, then it would be fair to say that I am very proud of you,” Xander says.

Something about those words feel like a stab to the heart. It isn’t a painful stab, but it strikes somewhere in him that is so sorely neglected. He shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot. He wants to squirm away, but he wants to stay all the same. He sucks in his breath, and says nothing.

“You’ve grown to be an intelligent young man, and it has been a pleasure to watch you grow,” Xander continues.

“Why are you saying this?”

Xander sighs. “We don’t talk enough, both as a family and as the two of us. I want that to change. I want things to be better between us all. I never wish for things to return as they were.”

Despite its eyes being closed, Leo can feel the bust watching them. He can’t help but ask: would it truly be their father watching, or would it be his wrong self, seething from the darkest pits?

“I know. I never want us to revert to how things ended up becoming.”

Close, yet so far apart. Fractured members of a family desperately clinging to each other, but it was like gripping glass. Leo cannot return to that. He cannot return to feeling ignored and left out. He wants his family back - and he feels like a child for thinking so, but it’s true. He wants to be that little boy again, with his older siblings doting on him, with a new baby sister he adores. He cannot go back.

“Good.” Xander squeezes his shoulder. “Then let us continue to work hard, together, to ensure what happened will never happen again. But, I have one favour to ask of you.”

“What is it?” Leo asks.

“I realise this is asking a lot, and I realise I may still be living in delusion. While I will remember the atrocities he committed, this is not how I choose to remember our father. I would like to remember him as the man we knew as children. I would rather that remain his legacy, at least between us.”

Leo is surprised to realise that’s what he wants, too. He doesn’t want to remember Garon as the monster he became; he wants to remember his gentle, brave and strong father. Perhaps he, too, needs to turn a blind eye.

“If that’s what you want,” Leo says.

“Thank you.” Xander nods. “I think I have had enough reminiscing for one day. How about we return to the castle?”

Leo takes one last look at the bust. For a second, he swears it’s smiling, but it still has the same neutral expression.

“Yes. I’m quite tired of looking at him as well,” he says.

The two brothers leave the mausoleum, though Xander’s hand does not leave Leo’s shoulder until they are back out in the Nohrian cold. Leo shoves his hands into his pockets, and walks back with Xander without a word.

He looks up at the sky as they walk. Through the dark clouds, Leo can see just a peek of sunlight. He’s never been one for superstition. Just this one, however, he’ll allow it.

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young apples --- for kuno

merry christmas kuno! :DDDDD

***

matthias turns to look out his window, toothbrush hanging somewhat solemnly from his mouth. he is not surprised to see a blizzard raging outside and nothing else. that’s all that ever happens these winter days in gautier—snowstorms that rattle the wood of the doors and disturb the faerghus standards posted high outside. he feels no biting cold, thankfully; any building in the holy kingdom comes with the finest insulation, so the fireplace burning in the bedroom mantle is enough. 

today was a day like any other, so mundane that it’s hardly worth looking back on. paperwork, patrols, being forced to read another letter from his majesty king regent rufus. it’s the same as yesterday and the same as the day before that. sylvain had written. matthias is still drafting the response but will hopefully have it sent out tomorrow. the occasional visit to another territory is perhaps the only thing that stops these days from melting together—that and the calendar he’s set on his desk. appointments, meetings, reports, maintenance.

after sufficiently brushing his teeth and washing his mouth out, matthias opens his wardrobe and pulls a clean set of nightclothes from their hanger. inoffensively colored and designed for warmth. practical. usable. there’s nothing exciting about these clothes that he wears, but there’s no need for anything like that. maybe the excitement is how well they do their job. yes, that’s probably it. it’s always a good thing when an object does what it was made for—an axe for swinging, a pen for writing. 

his nightclothes pull on with no issue and he fastens the buttons. from his bed, his wife beckons for him. “join me soon,” she says, voice light and inviting. “it’s cold without you.” matthias obliges, turning out the oil lamp as he slides a leg over the mattress’ top.

as the two settle in, matthias’ arms closing around his wife’s waist, his mind ceases moving for the night. it sits like a stone, waiting to be nudged the next day—all of the things he needs to do will still be there when he wakes, so there’s no use thinking about them now. even the party he needs to organize and send towards the ruska mountain border for reports. and even the return letter he needs to write to his majesty king regent rufus about itha’s upkeep. and even the…

…sigh. so his mind hasn’t slowed. he ought to get to sleep.

***

matthias awakens atop a horse. 

he is fairly sure that the horse he is riding is his, though his foggy mind doesn’t recall when he mounted her. she’s dressed down; wherever they are, it doesn’t require them to bear all of the barding that he’s so accustomed to. he’s able to see that her deep black pelt is well-kept, silky smooth and thoroughly brushed so that not a speck of dirt sits in her mane. he takes care to ensure that his horse is groomed and prepped for any situation, however small—but from the looks of it, there’s hardly a situation to begin with. she’s totally bare without even so much as a faerghus-styled caparison to cover her. could this be a leisurely ride…?

looking up, matthias’ question is confirmed by the scenery: it’s a beautiful evening and the sun is setting behind miles and miles of healthy apple orchards. the sky is painted a warm array of oranges and pinks, and the cirrus clouds occasionally break through with their white-and-cream streaks. below, trees gently shake in the cool breeze, but there is hardly any snow to be found. in fact, the life that blesses this orchard tells matthias that it must be the start of the summer season; though there are no fat, red apples christening their branches, he can see the beginnings hiding plentiful in the trees. it is a far cry from the tempestuous weathers of gautier or blaiddyd, but the novelty has worn itself out after years and years of visiting these territories. 

“isn’t it such a nice day outside?” a voice calls, and matthias turns his head from the young apples in the orchard to see his majesty king lambert on the horse ahead of him.

he can only see his back, but matthias knows that back fondly. there is much less armor on him, likely to match the casual atmosphere, so the margrave sees the broad stretch of his shoulders in a weather-appropriate black jacket. his gauntlets have been traded for thick leather gloves and his pants are durable enough to withstand the light, repetitive chafing against the saddle. it’s lambert’s familiar riding gear; matthias hasn’t seen it worn in a long time.

ah, but he’s ignoring his liege’s question. matthias isn’t sure how he’s here, how he’s in front of him, or how long they’ve been on the trail, but one thing is for certain: it would be undue of him not to reply. “yes,” says he, simple, familiarly flat. “yes it is. and we are in a nice place to view it.”

lambert doesn’t turn around, but his voice is loud enough to compensate. “ahh, ifan! with your trees fair and your sunsets blazing!” his hands sprawl out dramatically, one still clutching the reins, and matthias has to fight back an eyeroll. “it’s tragic that none of the apples are in season yet, though. duke ifan makes quite the cider with her best harvest…”

“surely you are thinking about more than alcohol.” matthias’ brow furrows as he tries to piece together what they are doing in ifan. once a territory of blaiddyd, now something of its own—but not without a little surveillance every once in a while. duke ifan is a tough old fox who needs no help of her own most days. maybe he can fish the answer out. “might i remind you that we are here in ifan for a reason?”

“yes, yes, to check on the duke ifan. this is the fifth time you’ve said this on just this trail ride, my friend.” there’s a dismissive wave of hand. matthias sighs. “but might i remind you that she was the one who suggested we go on a ride? see some sights and get an eye for what the fall will look like, apple-wise.”

“well, it’s certainly shaping up to be a strong harvest. even if half of the apples were to spoil, there would still be an incredible amount left.”

“and what’s not to love about that? the thought of warm cider in the winter makes me antsy to start juicing them myself.”

“don’t do that, your majesty.”

“no fun you are, matthias.”

matthias settles into the rhythm his horse makes, feeling at ease. he can’t help but miss what is right in front of him—this banter, totally unserious but as natural as breathing. that’s how it’s always been. it’s a hard thing to understand for those on the outside looking in, but matthias doesn’t feel like he needs to explain himself. he’ll sit there and chastise his king until the cows come home; that’s his job, both as a margrave and as a friend.

lambert still, curiously, has not looked back. has he ever been this focused on the road during a leisure ride? “a shame rodrigue couldn’t come with,” he says, slightly mournfully. “he’s one of the last people i would expect to get sick at a time like this.” 

ah, so that’s where he was. he would have enjoyed the trail, too. “yes, it is a shame,” matthias concurs. “but it is important he recovers quickly, so it is for the better that he isn’t here.”

“do you think he’d like a souvenir? maybe one of these little apples would do?”

“stop trying to pick the damn apples, your majesty.”

lambert bursts into a fit of barking laughter that matthias smirks at. “gah, and i was so close with that one, too! would that you weren’t so attentive…”

the two fall silent for a stretch. the only sounds matthias hears are hooves on the path and wind rustling the leaves, and he’s half a mind to close his eyes and let everything fall away. here he is at peace, evening riding with his friend and liege, and there is nothing more to it. there are patches in his memory, sure… but what does it matter? he’s here in the moment. if his mind is foggy, then maybe he’ll just go to bed early. everything now is fine as it is.

he opens his eyes and the sky is on fire.

from the horizon to his sides to as far back as the two have come, matthias can only see burning trees. flames lick upwards, sending ash and sizzling leaves into the air to be consumed by the heat. the unripe apples burn at their stems and drop by the hundreds, stirring a soft series of thumps upon crisping grass. somehow, some way, the whole orchard had burst into flames without so much as a sound. his back stiffens—who could have done such a thing? was this organized? how many were there, and where could they be hiding? damn it all, and matthias doesn’t have his axe with him. how come? why has he brought nothing?

and now lambert is looking back at him, at the worst time, and he’s smiling like nothing is happening at all. a brilliant smile at an inappropriate hour. “what a sight, eh, my friend?” he asks, stunning matthias mute. is he joking?

“your majesty, are you seeing this?” matthias keeps patting for his axe. there’s no way they aren’t looking at the same scene. the whole damn place is on fire! “we have to get away from here. it’s likely we’ve been tailed—did you bring your lance with you?”

lambert’s face wrinkles. “what? what makes you say that?” he’s confused, which then confuses matthias. “it’s been pleasant this whole time. you think something’s changed?”

“something—your majesty.” matthias’ voice irons flat and tight, pressuring lambert. now is not the time for jokes.

“i’m serious, matthias. unless you’re reading minds somewhere, i don’t see anything wrong with where we are. we had scouts come through here before we rode, remember? and they didn’t report any enemy troops or traps.”

no, for the goddess’ sake, matthias does not remember sending any scouts. he doesn’t remember how he got on this horse, he doesn’t remember discussing this ride with the duke ifan, and he has no clue how they even got to ifan. all he knows is that they can’t stay in this place anymore. 

if lambert isn’t going to react to any of this, then matthias supposes he’s got to do it for the both of them. he leans forward and grabs a handful of the reins close to the bit and pulls for a quick redirection… only for nothing to happen. she’s very attentive to his commands. this isn’t normal. he pulls again, more urgently, but still his horse doesn’t move. she still keeps on the trail, unbothered as the king in front. matthias tries squeezing her and, now lightly desperate, attempts to use his spurs—only to see that he’s got leather boots on instead. agh, for the love of all that’s holy, why is this happening?! and why is he the only one that seems to care?!

lambert’s still looking at him. why?! the whole ride he had been facing away from him, and only when there’s danger does he bother facing matthias. and he’s still smiling! “anyways,” says that damned man, waving his hand again, dismissively, like matthias’ hysteria was just some weird episode, “duke ifan’s said that we can stay for the night and head out early in the morning. she’s got beds prepared, so we’ll have to race to see who gets to shower first.”

“how can you be talking about that right now?!” matthias can’t even believe himself at how reactive he’s being. “your majesty, the orchard is on fire and someone might be after us. we have to leave!”

“ha ha, i know there are multiple showers,” lambert laughs. he’s not even listening to him anymore. “don’t you think it’d be more well-earned after a wrestle, though?”

“your majesty! stop talking and look ahead of you!” 

“oh, don’t make that face. you know just as well as i do how nice it is to shower after a spar—unless you’re scared i’m going to set a new record in beating you?”

“LAMBERT!” matthias’ voice is a slam in his ribcage, ripping from his throat in a final insolent bid to get his king’s attention. it doesn’t work—lambert’s still smiling and laughing with a matthias that isn’t him, all the while the fire burns brighter and hotter around them. this can’t be how this ends. this can’t be how he loses lambert! he looks around, eyes wild and hands squeezing the reins tight. the trees are still aflame, fallen apples scorched and weeping their juices into the charred dirt below them. their moisture quickly evaporating from them produces thin screams, lighting the disaster with a new disturbance. fire, blood, screams. where has he heard this? where has he seen this?

“matthias?” finally lambert sounds like anything other than serene. he’s concerned, checking in. too little too late, but at least he’s starting to react. matthias’ eyes flick back to his front, only to see that lambert and his horse are both gone.

immediately matthias’ heart rate skyrockets. where has he gone?! damn it all, right when he wasn’t looking—he shouldn’t have taken his eyes off of him. “your majesty, where are you?!” he calls, the roaring of the fires starting to drown his voice out. if he’s not fast enough, he’ll lose his ability to hear him—and then what?! “your majesty! can you hear me?! stay on the path away from the fire! get somewhere the fires aren’t, and i—”

there’s something up ahead. silver, blue. it’s hard to miss in a sea of crimsons and oranges and the gradient darks of the evening new. matthias feels ice. his horse continues forward, quiet, busied with its work.

the closer they get, the easier it is to see. through the smog and through the fire, through the haze of his mind and the air, there’s a steel sabaton with a spur on its back. chausses, steely blues, a waist wrap. 

“matthias?”

a war-dented cuirass, gray-silver-blue with the finest furs blooming along the shoulderline, crest of blaiddyd printed square in its middle, and even through all of the things blocking his way, matthias sees, looking up, that past the shoulders and the fur cape emblazoned with the crest of his majesty, there is

***

“matthias! wake up, dear, please!”

matthias startles awake, drenched in sweat. he was asleep? his heart is pounding and he’s nearly feverish. for how long?

his wife looks at him with a mix of worry and shock. “by the goddess, darling, what kind of dream were you having?” she asks, and her cool hand brushes against the hard ridge of matthias’ cheek. “you were breathing so hard… and you squeezed me so tight that i thought i’d be split in half!” her humor falls short by moons; matthias feels haggard.

“it… well, i can’t remember,” he replies.

“nothing at all? but you were reacting so terribly!”

“nothing at all. just a bad dream as all humans have.”

“but won’t you talk about it with me?” she asks now, taking his head in both hands. “i don’t want you to go through something like that again. at least, not without knowing how i can help you…”

matthias sighs. the ache of his nightmare still eats at his chest, but he can’t find any desire to share it. something like that could only stay with him. “as i’ve said, there’s nothing to discuss. it was a bad dream that i cannot remember—i apologize that i held you so hard. i did not mean to risk hurting you.”

his wife is accustomed to such latchkey behavior from her husband, but she can’t help furrowing her brow. “…if something like this happens again,” she warns, shifting to turn down her oil lamp, “then i’m forcing an answer out of you. even if it means dragging you through the ruska mountains by your feet.”

matthias closes his eyes again, willing some stiffness out of his body. “then i suppose i’ll have to pack a coat,” he replies, making his wife groan. the two of them settle back down into bed, and it isn’t long before he hears her breath level out.

but matthias won’t go back to sleep. he probably won’t sleep for the rest of the night—that dream still nags him persistently, regretful, mourning. how many times will he dream of days before, ruined by his failures? by his wife and child? by lambert? 

…mayhaps he could finish that draft to sylvain tonight. it’s a kinder option than sleep.

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Merry Alcrystmas, Bren!

Carrying two loaded satchels, their contents rustling and clanking with each step, Alcryst jogged his way excitedly up through the halls of Castle Brodia. He had felt the slight nip in the air. Seasons were changing, and he knew well what that meant. The morning air was crisp, even within the insulated walls of the keep. His eyes glanced outside as he passed the courtyard, seeing the faintest hint of the sun beginning to appear on the horizon. There was no time to lose. The wagons were soon to depart, and yet Diamant had been nowhere to be found.

Concern over his brother’s safety had been the first thoughts to enter Alcryst’s mind, but he banished them as quickly as he could manage. He knew Diamant could hold his own. It was unlikely anything would have occurred to him. No, far more probable was that he had simply overslept or forgotten. They had not gone on this trip since before their father had passed, after all. Their ongoing feuding with Elusia had made it difficult for Morion to find time to leave the castle unless it was over a military incursion.

That war was over. Peace had come to all of Elyos, and Brodia and Elusia had finally escaped the bloody cycle that had persisted throughout their history. There was every opportunity for Alcryst and Diamant to take a little trip once again. As he reached Diamant’s door, Alcryst paused, hand raised. For just a moment, he wondered if he ought not to knock at all and let Diamant rest. With so much to worry about now that he had taken the throne, could he afford to take the time to accompany a silly little excursion like this? Their father had managed to, at least until war made it impossible. Diamant may not have the years of experience that Morion did, but Alcryst knew his brother was every bit as capable.

Knuckles rapped on the heavy, oak door, voice sheepishly calling out for his brother. When Diamant answered, it was immediately clear why he had not appeared previously. He had not even dressed himself for the day yet, still wearing his nightgown as he answered the door. His eyes were bleary, as though he had just now been roused from his slumber. Confusion was etched into his brow as he looked at the packs Alcryst carried. A pang of regret struck Alcryst immediately. Waking his brother up for this was so terribly selfish, after all. Diamant needed all of the rest he could get.

“Alcryst?” Diamant mumbled, stopping Alcryst before he had a chance to just apologize and run off. “What’s this all about?”

“Oh… it’s almost winter,” Alcryst explained. “I shouldn’t have awoken you. I just assumed you might have wanted to go down to the Firenese border, since there really isn’t anything pressing going on… not that your duties as king aren’t pressing! Oh, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have made it sound like you didn’t have important things to do. Please, don’t worry yourself over whether or not you ought to go. I can—”

“Ah!” Diamant exclaimed, cutting Alcryst off (a small mercy, really, since Alcryst could have continued to justify why Diamant need not accompany him forever if his brother said nothing to stop it). “It’s that time already? I hadn’t realized—forgive me, Alcryst. I’ll be ready in just a moment.”

As Diamant rushed back into his quarters and slammed the door shut behind him, Alcryst’s frown slowly began to twitch upwards into the ghost of a smile. Some degree of normalcy had finally been returned to them. They could fall back into their old traditions and spend a little time as a family. It had been so long since they had any such time to spend together. It would be bittersweet to go on this trip without their father, certainly, but Alcryst would rather take it without him than not go at all. If nothing else, it offered a nice moment to remember the times they had spent together.

“I’m sorry again,” Alcryst added, speaking through the closed door. “I should have at least asked you in advance instead of just assuming. I didn’t think for even a moment about how busy you must be… I’m so inconsiderate.”

“Nonsense,” came the muffled reply from within Diamant’s room. “I wouldn’t give this trip up for the world. When was the last time we got to just spend a few days together without anything to worry about? Besides, I think it’s important that I go. These sorts of experiences remind me of what a king should be like.”

“Oh… I suppose that’s fair,” Alcryst concurred. “Father always did say that it was important for us to keep foreign relations like that at the front of our mind…”

“…Well, yes, I suppose that’s part of it,” Diamant replied, “but it’s not really anything father said that I associate with this.”

“It… it isn’t? Then… what else could it be?” Alcryst gasped. For a moment, there was no answer from Diamant. It wasn’t until the heavy door swung open, nearly colliding with Alcryst had he not leapt out of the way just before it could. It had been far too long since Diamant had an opportunity to wear his old leather jacket. It had only been regalia and fine clothes since he ascended to the throne, nothing comfortable like what he wore between battles during the war against Sombron.

“You haven’t forgotten the bandits, have you?” Diamant inquired, peering quizzically down at his younger brother.

“Oh, of course not…” Alcryst sighed. He seemed to visibly wilt as realization struck him, hunching over, shoulders sagging, and eyes departing from Diamant’s gaze to stare down at his feet. How could he forget? There was no way Diamant would allow him to accompany the carts by himself after that incident.

———-

Brodian winters were never particularly easy. They lacked the frigid climate of Elusia, but that did not mean the cold was any more pleasant. The lack of arable land made frost more pressing, and without Firenese support, there was little the people of Brodia would be able to do to avoid starvation. Maintaining this alliance and the fruitful trade it enabled was crucial to allowing Brodia to flourish. Morion had told both of his children that many times, but it was not the explanation that made it sink in. He knew of a better way to impart the importance of these imports. Every year as fall turned to winter and the Firenese harvest began to wind down, the Brodian royal family made a trip to the shared border. With them were carts of ore shipments to make the trade for food that would help their citizens survive the winter. It was, after all, the most important duty of royalty to ensure that the people of their nation remained healthy and content.

It wasn’t uncommon to see Morion abandon his thick, fluffy cloak during these trips. Instead, it was his sons who wore it, wrapped in it together like a blanket to protect them against the chill of the winds. The trek was not an easy one for children to take by any means, but Morion knew his sons were strong enough to manage it. Besides, if their legs grew tired, he could always let them sleep on the back of one of the carts… or carry them on his shoulders. Even as much as they had grown, he could still hold the both of them and hike up a mountain just fine.

Besides, it made for excellent strength training.

The trade had gone off without a hitch. Queen Ève of Firene had met them at the border, her own children in tow. Hers was a much easier journey, she had admitted, but she adored the way Morion saw it as a time to bond with his family. Why not do the same herself? The Brodian king, of course, had laughed, suggesting that she take them fishing and hunting on the journey as well. Alcryst remembered watching her smile falter just a moment before she managed to steel herself against the thought. The peaceful queen could never stomach gutting a fish or slaying an animal herself. Father had said that she never needed to, either, with the bountiful harvests that Firene boasted. If Alcryst were born elsewhere, he would likely have been much the same way, Morion had said… but Alcryst was not quite as certain. He could never imagine not admiring his brother and father, even if they had not been his family. Even if he were born elsewhere, Alcryst was certain he would still have strived to be just like them, and being able to gut a fish was just a small step towards that.

One advantage of the long trek was that it meant they could visit a great many locales within Brodia along the journey. At each stop, Morion would personally deliver some of the food they had received, checking in with the leaders of the villages they passed to see if anything was awry. For the most part, things were quite alright. The villagers were grateful and insistent that nothing was wrong. They were flourishing, and they now had food to survive the winter from their gracious king. One village at the foot of the mountain pass that the caravan needed to cross had gone to great lengths to boast how well their mining endeavors were going. Their shipments had only been delayed a moment, they insisted, so there was nothing to worry about at all.

Young Alcryst, however, had noticed the discrepancies. The governor had spoken about how well everyone was doing, but many of the homes were noticeably run down. He had continually directed the royal family away from one specific avenue within the town, eager to show off their mining operation or share some of the town’s specialty alcohol with Morion. Alcryst, easily forgotten by the adults, could slip off and explore that area that the governor wanted to avoid. What he had seen had been unforgettable; even years after the fact, that sight was one that Alcryst recalled anytime he doubted what he was doing. Almost all of the homes in that section were but rubble, burned to the ground. The people who lived there were little more than skin and bone, their sunken eyes staring pleadingly at the young prince as he passed. Why would the governor ever try to hide this? He clearly needed help, and having the king of Brodia there was the perfect time to ask for it.

When Alcryst inquired about it, one of the aides that followed Morion around everywhere had immediately chastised him. He should not have spoken out of turn or interrupted the conversation, the aide had said, especially not when his opinion scarcely mattered anyway. Morion, though, saw differently. He cut off the aide before they could continue to admonish Alcryst. Upon pressing the governor on the issue, it became quickly apparent what had occurred: bandits had struck. They lived within the very mountain pass that the caravan was about to travel through (although, the governor had been quick to insist, there was no risk to a caravan guarded by royal knights). They had taken care of the issue already, or so the governor had said, and there was certainly nothing to worry about.

He was a liar. Alcryst could tell it was all falsehoods. He spoke with the exact same tone he had used when insisting there was nothing wrong at all. Once again, the aide had silenced Alcryst, this time stopping him before he could point that out at all. It was all so bizarre to the young prince. Why lie about something so crucial to a man who had only come to deliver aid? Surely the shipments that had been “delayed” by the bandit attack (or stolen, Alcryst assumed) were of lesser consequence than the lives of the people within the village.

Once they reached the mountain pass, Alcryst was vindicated in the worst way possible. The caravan was set upon by the very same bandits in the night. The guard had set off to scout the area ahead, and only then, with the caravan unguarded, had the bandits descended upon them. It was a terrible mistake on the bandits’ part. They had endangered both Morion’s people and his own children. The fight they put up was a fierce one, but the three brigands were little match for the Brodian king. He had put them to rout well before the royal guard returned.

The chaos had been difficult to observe from the caravan where Morion had hidden his children away, but Alcryst found himself unable to take his eyes off of it. His father’s strength and composure were spellbinding, but the prince’s eyes continually darted to the bandits as well. He could see strength in their forms, but the way they fought… something was wrong. They seemed exhausted from the moment the battle began. Their clothing was little more than rags. It was so easy to see their ribs beneath their skin, and they had the same gaunt eyes as the villagers. They didn’t fight like men at all. They fought like cornered animals.

Alcryst was unsure what possessed him to run from his hiding spot in the caravan. He darted up to the felled bandits, throwing himself in between them and his father, arms spread wide and defiance burning in his eyes. Morion’s blade faltered, held aloft in the air, frozen before it could strike a finishing blow to the bandits. Not one of them, the bandits, Alcryst, or Morion, moved a muscle, all of them seemingly just as shocked as the others.

“Move,” Morion finally growled, “before you get hurt.”

“I won’t!” Alcryst had insisted, his tiny body the only thing in between these bandits and their demise. “You can’t kill them, father! All they wanted was food!”

“Son, they—” Morion began, though his voice died down as he gazed upon Alcryst’s indignant expression. He sighed, finally lowering his arms and returning his sword to its scabbard. His expression, which had remained gentle as he addressed his son, hardened once more as he turned to the brigands. “…Fine. You live only because my son has spared you. Should I hear word that you’ve caused trouble again, you will not find me so merciful a second time.”

“No, father, that’s not good enough!” Alcryst had huffed, filled with the confidence that only a child could muster. “Look at them! They’re starving, and they don’t have anywhere else to go! They don’t have anything else they can do but steal, right?” Of course, the bandits were quick to agree with Alcryst. Their lives were on the line, after all. For how easily he had seen through the governor’s deceit, he had been blinded to the possibility of anything of the sort from these barbarians. Morion could do little but sigh, shaking his head. Arguing with a child was a fruitless endeavor.

“Fine. You lot,” he pointed to the bandits, “are coming with us. You fight well enough. If you want food, you’re going to have to earn it. Besides, there’s no better way to keep an eye on you than by keeping you close.”

And yet the bandits had agreed. Despite everything, they had eagerly leapt to their feet and pledged service to Morion. Maybe they were just that eager to have their lives spared and intended to steal away once darkness fell. Sharing a meal with the caravan was enough to convince them to stay longer. Good food was worth it, after all. By the time the royal family returned to the castle, their party was three men larger than it had been when they left.

———-

“I understand,” Alcryst repeated, “you’re worried I’ll just put myself at risk again, aren’t you? I still can’t believe I did that… what if father hadn’t been able to stop himself in time and he hurt me? Or what if… what if those bandits had taken me captive? All I did was throw myself into danger and worry father…”

“No, not at all!” Diamant protested. “It’s quite the opposite, Alcryst. It’s what you did that day that I think about whenever I question the kind of king I want to be.”

“What—me? How?” Alcryst’s voice held unfettered incredulity, eyes wide and eyebrows disappearing beneath his bangs as shock overtook his expression. “I was just being stupid! Surely you wouldn’t…!”

“No, Alcryst, you weren’t,” Diamant explained. “You saved those men’s lives. Father would certainly have slain them on the spot. That isn’t to say he wouldn’t have been justified in doing so. What they did was a crime, and father was defending his children and his people. But you—you saw them differently. They may have been highwaymen, but they were Brodians all the same. A king cannot go around slaying his own people and claim to be just.”

“Well… no, I suppose not,” Alcryst mewled, “but you can’t just allow dangerous people to run around freely, either…”

“…Do you remember what became of them?” Diamant inquired. Alcryst, after a moment’s thought, shook his head, so the elder Brodian continued. “They died on the same day as father, in the same battle. They stood by his side until the very end. You took men who were willing to throw their lives away for a morsel of food and turned them into some of the most loyal soldiers within father’s retinue. You’re wrong to think that there’s nothing to be admired in someone who can inspire men in that way, Alcryst.”

“I… I didn’t know,” Alcryst sighed, staring down at his feet once more. He had, in one manner of thinking, gotten those brigands killed, since they would not have been at that battle had he not intervened… but at the same time, he had saved their lives, hadn’t he? They had lived as royal Brodian knights, in a way part of the family within the castle. They had been fed and housed and clothed in exchange for their prowess as warriors, and all because Alcryst had stubbornly refused to let starving men be put to death.

“You see, don’t you, brother?” Diamant continued. “I want to be a more compassionate king than father was. Men aren’t typically driven to banditry because they are evil or because they want to do harm. They were desperate. They had been failed by our kingdom. We ought to have ensured they had the food they needed so that such a thing would never have occurred at all. That is what I want to do as king. I wish to see every Brodian able to live the lives they deserve, free of worrying about from where their next meal may come.”

“Diamant…” Alcryst murmured, both his voice and his gaze almost reverent, clearly in awe of his brother. “…I understand. I’m… I’m glad you’re here to take Brodia’s throne. I know you’ll be the greatest king there ever was… and I’m happy to stand by your side and support you however I can.”

“That’s good,” Diamant laughed, clapping a hand on Alcryst’s shoulder. For a moment, it almost seemed as though their father had returned; had he been garbed in Morion’s cloak at the time, the physical resemblance would have been just as uncanny as the similarity in their mannerisms. “Now come. You can start by being at my side on the trip down to Firene. We wouldn’t want to keep Alfred and Céline waiting, would we?”

“Of course not!” Alcryst chirped. “And don’t worry—you remember the beard and hat father wore when he passed out food and toys to the children in the villages we passed, right? I put that in your bag already! I think you’d wear it just as well as he did!”

Diamant grimaced, but he laughed all the same. Their father always had a sense of whimsy to him. He was uncertain whether he could fill that role the same as their father had. A beard would fail to suit his more youthful face, if nothing else… but the spirit of the things would do good, right? The villagers would be more than happy to see that tradition returned. If he was to be king, inspiring his people was of the utmost importance… even if that meant wearing a silly little outfit while doing so.

[toa-secretsanta]

Happy holidays, Birdie! Pat here, and I was absolutely delighted to get you as my giftee. I hope you enjoy your Marks, and this drabble I wrote to go with them. Have a wonderful new year, and thank you for being such a lovely presence in TOA!

–

Mark, for all her tactical prowess, finds that she prefers the quiet moments in camp to the intense discussions in the battle tent. She takes her duties very seriously, but there is a near peacefulness in the distribution and maintenance of supplies, where one could almost pretend that they were not in the middle of a war, not facing constant mortal peril. If one ignored the copious amounts of javelins being hauled, of course.

“Hey, Mark!” The ever-boisterous Sain waves over to her, beckoning her to come near. It’s a wonder Mark can hear him over the loud clatter of the weapons he was carrying tumbling to the ground at his gesture. His constant companion, Kent, seems like he’s ready to facepalm, but both his hands are occupied by swords. Mark can’t help but giggle. “Wait, hang on a second. Am I doing this right?”

That is, at least, what Mark thinks Sain is trying to sign. What he ended up actually signing is something a little more…crude, enough that she bursts into a rare fit of laughter.

“I guess not…” Sain gives an exaggerated shrug, hanging his head in shame. Kent scoffs, but Mark sees the beginnings of a smile on his face.

Mark leaves the knights to their duties, moving onward across camp. This ragtag army works well together, somehow, and it warms her heart to see them going about their everyday tasks. There’s Serra bothering Erk, who complains but is still carrying her things. Lowen takes stock of the rations with Rebecca, the two talented cooks surely considering a reasonable yet hearty dinner for the evening. Lyn and Hector appear ready to solve their latest squabble with some kind of wrestling match, and onlookers are doing a poor job of seeming uninterested.

It is wonderful. It eases Mark’s heart.

It cannot last.

“Something on your mind, Mark?” Even the familiar voice of her good friend Eliwood spooks Mark when it comes unexpectedly and from behind. He seems a little sheepish as she whirls around, shaking his head in apology. “It’s nice to have these little pockets of peace, isn’t it?”

Eliwood’s knowledge of sign from his noble upbringing has been a godsend for Mark, even if things are a little different from what she’s used to. Those she can communicate with so freely are few and far between, and Eliwood himself is a calming presence, a man whose humble charisma is the lynchpin of this army.

“I’m glad we don’t have to leave until the morning. It’s rare we get this kind of free time, nowadays.” Mark’s hands move quickly, thoughts coming one after another. “I guess I was thinking about how much I wish we could all be like this without…everything. Though, I guess we wouldn’t have come together if not for the conflict and tragedy.”

Eliwood mulls her words over, a quiet sadness settling over his face. For a moment, Mark feels terribly insensitive. It is not long ago that her friend lost his father, and here she is pouring her sorrows onto him. Yet he gives her a smile, a balm on her insecurities, another reason why it is he who the army bands together around, his banner they fly under.

(He tells her the army would not function without her tactical prowess, and while she knows this to be true through the weight she bears, it can be difficult to internalize.)

“Some people say everything happens for a reason. And I think that’s true, to an extent…but I also think that our choices have meaning.” It’s just like Eliwood to know exactly what to say. Mark tries to think of some way to respond in kind, but he continues, taking just a little of the burden off her shoulders. “Don’t feel bad about feeling the way you do. I do, too, to an extent. Things will work out. We’ll make sure of it.”

It’s remarkable, the trust that Eliwood holds for his friends. It spills from him, warm and bright like the fire of his hair. Impulsively, Mark moves forward, taking Eliwood’s hand and gripping it tightly.

“I, um.” Words are hard, for Mark. She doesn’t have Eliwood’s charisma, Lyn’s grace, or Hector’s forwardness. But there’s something within her that the others look to, that they follow, follow to victory. And she’s not going to squander that. “I’ll be by your side. We can do this. Together.”

–

link to doc

[toa-secretsanta]

Happy holidays Vivi from Kiki! :] Getting to draw Yunaka with different hairstyles felt like such a treat to be able to do. I hope you enjoy your gift!

[toa-secretsanta]

Etruria's Children

Happy Holidays, Kanoesa! <3 I hope I did your boy justice :) My goal for this was to include some more context (and continuity) in a support chain, as well as see all of that come to a natural conclusion post-game. (Wouldn’t it be super neat if we got post-game supports beyond just character endings? A girl can dream!) Anyway, please enjoy! 

Warnings: Beware, here be FE6 spoilers 

wc: 2,902

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

He knew this confrontation was unavoidable. From the moment Cecilia appeared, it become a matter of when, not if.

Avoiding her is easy enough while she recovers from her wounds; Elffin has no reason to linger around the medical tent. He can boost morale with his songs elsewhere in camp. And it worked well enough, those tense few days the general convalesced. Regardless, he knows nothing lasts forever—the relieved cries making their way through camp a few days later told him all he needed to know of her survival.

Fate arrives the following day. Elffin is weaving his way between the supply tents, eyeing their current stores so he knows how best to prepare the army for upcoming battles. Cecilia must have the same idea. That, or she’d tracked him down.

“P—Prince Myrddin?”

Ah. To hear that name again, from someone who once knew him as such…

Elffin has no immediate reply. In his silence, he stares. Assesses this young general before him, noting how the years have stripped her of the girlish innocence she once possessed. Cecilia has not turned jaded, yet no longer is she ignorant of the world. It would seem life finds a way to impart that lesson on all who are willing enough to learn it, no matter their social standing.

A mostly healed cut streaks a fading red line along her left cheek. She’s lost none of her confidence or determination, though her complete shock softens everything else. Some of that fire that made her Eturia’s youngest general reignites in her eyes.

“This entire time, you’ve been alive? We mourned you for days.” Cecilia says it like an accusation.

Latent guilt stirs in Elffin’s chest. He understands her anger. Part of him wants to reach out and soothe her, offer up an explanation for his actions like a balm. But his throat constricts around the words—odd, how his closest ally now deserts him.

Faint voices jolt him into action. They may be hidden away near the supply tent, but they are far from alone. Elffin offers Cecilia a kind smile. “Have you mistaken me for someone else? My name is Elffin. A bard…from the Western Isles.” He doesn’t like the way he hesitates for a split second, and he’s not dumb enough to believe she didn’t catch it.

Cecilia’s mouth pinches. “You…Prince M…” She trails off, momentarily distracted by footsteps some feet away. “How could it possibly….”

There it is. The beginnings of an escape. Elffin tilts his head, strands of hair falling across his shoulders with the movement. “Pardon me, General?”

“It’s nothing,” she snaps, and now he believes the anger is at herself instead of him.

He must be gracious. Kind. Courtly training kicks in. “Then pardon me.” With light footsteps, he departs, nimbly weaving through barrels and half-open crates. All the while, Cecilia’s iron stare follows him.

Elffin does not look back.

It is almost uncanny, how Douglas always senses when Elffin’s malady flares up. There are never any words exchanged; just a strong hand suddenly placed atop his shoulder. The unscarred one, Elffin notes one day, always with unerring accuracy.

His eyes fail quickly this time. Perhaps due to squinting at cramped lines of handwritten text for hours without a break. One moment, Elffin can see the paper in front of him as he vocalizes strategies for the upcoming battle; the next, everything blurs, then turns dark.

“Ah…”, he murmurs, lowering the page of notes. Douglas, who had been sharpening his axe, looks up sharply. His whetstone screeches across the axeblade one final time, with far less care than he usually possesses.

Elffin winces. Every other sense was unaffected by the failed assassin’s poison. In fact, he swears his hearing is better since the incident. Small wonder he developed such an ear for music upon his recovery. There’s a rustling, followed by a series of dull thunks and clanks as Douglas sets aside the equipment.

Silence, for a moment, and then: “Do you need to rest, my prince?”

Elffin doesn’t bother correcting Douglas this time, not when he knows the title is a force of habit the general cannot break. Here, in the privacy of his tent, one slip-up will not cost him anything. “Just for a while, please.” He sets the paper on the table to his right—he’s grown rather adept at memorizing where things are in a room, for he never knows when his sight will fail him.

The cot creaks. Douglas shuffles around some more, then steps out of the way, his heavy boots thumping into the packed soil. He is too far away to offer a helping hand, and Elffin does not indicate he desires it.

“Thank you, Douglas,” Elffin says softly as he pushes out of the chair. He shuffles a few feet forward, reaching for his cot and carefully lowering himself down. He sighs again, once he’s fully laying down, face hidden in the crook of his elbow.

“Cecilia knows about me.” The confession rings loud in the quiet. Elffin’s not sure why he admits it, now, in such a vulnerable state, but he feels like a weight is off his chest regardless. It is only right his former generals should know, after all.

Douglas shifts in surprise. “You told her?”

“Oh…no. She has only guessed, though I tried dismissing her. I have no doubt she will confront me again.” He removes his arm from his face. There is no telling when his vision will return. Some days, the bout of illness lasts only for a few minutes. Others, it takes hours. He hopes today, it is not the latter.

“Elffin!”

The man in question’s head snaps in the direction of his tent entrance. His vision is beginning to return; vague shapes that appear as if he’s looking at them from underwater. Hesitation radiates off the Douglas-blob in the corner. Elffin can’t put this off any longer. The other general’s presence may help.

“Enter, Cecilia.”

Fabric rustles. A new blob forms. Elffin squints, just a touch, and the blob solidifies into something that could be called Cecilia. More silence drags on. If the two generals are sharing some unintelligible conversation, Elffin is none the wiser.

“Have you spent time in Etruria, Elffin?” The mage general’s question cuts through the quiet. Her voice is even, with a hint of anger shining through at the end. He didn’t want to cause a stir—but avoiding confrontation has made things worse.

No answer comes to mind. His head hurts, and his mouth feels dry, and he wishes she’d put off storming into his tent for another hour.

“I’ve been traversing the Western Isles,” he replies, forcing his spine straight. If he’s going to lie, he can at least do it with dignity. (But is it truly a lie, if Elffin has never set foot in Etruria? He is no longer the boy prince who so arrogantly took his horse for a ride that fateful day.)

It’s the wrong answer despite his internal justifications. He can feel it the moment the words leave his lips, like striking the wrong chord in a melody. Cecilia huffs. Douglas, the lout, remains stoic in the corner.

“For someone with no connection to Etruria, you have quite the friendship with her Great General. My prince was never fond of playing dumb. Nor did his generals let him get away with it. I have an idea, then! If you are but a simple bard, then your long hair is not conveniently hiding an injury on your right shoulder, correct? Say, from a powerful magical attack?” Her boots make a sound against the floor. “May I take a look…?”

Douglas makes a noise of protest. Cecilia’s boots sound again, the dark shadows of her outline growing closer.

He is, admittedly, tired of running. “…Persistent, aren’t you, Cecilia?”

“My prince—” Douglas starts, at the same time Cecilia says, “It is you, Prince Myrddin! What has happened to you? Why did you not let me know you were in the Western Isles, alive?”

“I did not want you becoming mixed up in all of this. Too late, I see…”

“Cecilia, we must let the prince rest.” Douglas says. “His injury hurts him still.”

The air around them grows tense. Elffin wishes he could see their facial expressions. He shifts uncomfortably on the cot, feeling two sets of eyes assess him. Some of the guilt from yesterday flares in his chest again; this is becoming far more of a mess than he’d ever intended.

“Fine,” Cecilia finally proclaims. Perhaps she’d noticed the way Elffin, despite his face tilted in her direction, wasn’t actually looking at her. It is not anger he senses from her now. Disappointment rings in that one syllable, and it stings more than he expects. “But I expect an explanation, Prince.”

“…I understand,” Elffin replies, soft to his own ears.

They sit across from one another, teacups cooling on the table between them. Elffin taps his fingertips on the scarred wood, wishing for his harp instead. Cecilia hasn’t said a word since her arrival a handful of minutes ago. He does not fault her for her anger; he only wishes it wasn’t so scalding.

The dull music of his fingertips against wood ceases. He steels himself. “Cecilia…are you going to stay upset much longer?” It is not only for selfish reasons he inquires—the tactician in him worries her focus on this issue will cause her battlefield concentration to slip. (A silly thing to think, knowing her.)

“I understand why you hid your identity from me, prince,” she replies evenly, reaching for her cup of tea. The way she says prince makes Elffin flinch, just a little. He was not worthy of the title as a boy, even if he didn’t know it then, and after his time in the Isles, he understands now a royal is nothing without caring for their subjects.

“Thank you, Cecli—”

“And yet, Your Majesty, you told Lord Douglas. Did you not have enough trust in me? Am I somehow less trustworthy than him?” She sets the teacup down a touch harshly. Elffin sighs; he had heard of her treatment in the ranks of Etruria’s army before earning their respect. This is personal for her on multiple levels.. He should have considered that.

Elffin shakes his head. “That’s not what I intended…” Once upon a time, he may have known the proper words to soothe her, but he is a statesman no longer. He does trust her, despite his actions to the contrary. Douglas was there from the beginning; it his due to the general’s actions Elffin is sitting here alive.

Cecilia sighs heavily, eyes downcast. “I will let this go for now, Your Majesty.” Elffin bites back the urge to correct her usage of the title. Arguing the point now may only serve to further inflate her irritation. “However, I am looking forward to your explanation once this war is over.”

She’s letting him off easy. Relief floods through him, easing the tense line of his shoulders. “…Scary, as ever.”

“Of course,” Cecilia replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Please consider that you have not only saddened me, but your people as well. Show them—all of us—that you are safe, Your Majesty. Please…”

He thinks she’ll continue, for a moment, but she lets her plea taper off as she meets his eyes. There’s a hint of a challenge there—does she think him a coward, who ran away? And now she is daring him to prove otherwise? Elffin never considered himself cowardly. His actions may be perceived that way, and it never bothered him before. Now, faced with someone willing—a bit unkindly, a distant part of his brain whispers—to hold him accountable, he’s forced to reconsider.

“Yes…I know, Cecilia,” he replies softly, then takes a sip of tea. It offers him enough time to carefully consider his next words. “I promise…once we’ve won the war, I will tell you everything….”

“That’s enough for me, then.”

His fingertips dance idly across the harp strings, plucking out notes with no real intention behind them. Merely a way to bide his time before his meeting with Cecilia—and burn off a few nerves while he’s at it.

Three days ago, Roy’s army claimed victory after a long, arduous battle within the bowels of the Dragon Temple.

It’s an odd feeling, being within an army camp marching homeward. Their deflated numbers are not just the result of a hard battle loss; many allies have begun their own journeys to their respective countries.

And Elffin has reached some difficult decisions of his own. He’s known for years he’s not the ruling type. For Etruria, he’d try, though his wandering spirit chafed at being forced to remain in one place. He still has to speak with his father, and Roy, but there may be a way to help his people without assuming the crown.

Cecilia first. He promised, after all.

Her heavy footsteps sound outside his tent. Elffin sets his harp aside, gliding his fingers through the strings one last time.

“Come in, Cecilia,” he says as the final harp notes fade into nothing. She wastes no time pushing the tent flap aside and sweeping in, standing with her arms crossed while he sits comfortably on his cot. Exhaustion rests heavy on her shoulders. He does not need to see—nor can he, exactly—the purple bruises under her eyes or the hollowness of her cheeks.

“….how are you feeling today, Prince?”

She has not used either of his names since the day she discovered the depth of his deception. A sign of her anger, he supposes, or uncertainty. He does appreciate the concern, however. “I am well today. Thank you for asking.”

A nod. Cecilia unfolds her arms long enough to gesture at him, a motion he can only assume means well, out with it. How easy she makes it seem! Elffin inhales slowly, then exhales, preparing for his unmasking. He can only hope, that by the end, she will let all this go once and for all.

His hands twitch for his harp. He’s telling someone’s history, and every bard knows such tales are best accompanied with music. So he moves his fingers along his thigh, plucking imaginary strings to a melody only he can hear.

The words flow easily enough now that he has help. Elffin tells the story of a naive little prince, ignorant of the people he was meant to serve.

That prince, firm in his belief that no harm could reach him, fell prey to poisonous arrows. Through luck and kindness he did not deserve, the prince was spirited away to the Western Isles. Secrecy was of the utmost importance, you see, for the prince fought valiantly against the poison coursing through his blood. If the assassins knew he lived, they would destroy the peaceful villagers before finishing the job.

So the boy—no longer a prince, but a simple villager—survived. He changed his name and his naive ways, all while privately mourning those he’d left behind. He promised, one day, he would return, until a war arrived on his doorstep. There was yet more for him to learn about the world, and the people within it, and until he’d seen this lesson through, he’d retain his secret.

Elffin swallows thickly when he’s finished. His fingers still. Cecilia, at some point, had relaxed, arms falling loose at her sides. “My prince….”

“Please, Cecilia….there’s no need for formalities. I have upheld my promise.”

“You have,” she acknowledges, reaching up to tuck her hair behind her ear. For the first time, he detects no trace of anger in her voice. “Thank you, my…Elffin. What will you do now?”

A small smile graces his lips at her correction. She doesn’t have to fully understand his reasonings, whatever her reassurances to the contrary. He will happily take her respect over patronization. But the smile flickers; she may not like this next part.

“I…want to return to the Western Isles, first. Ensure the people are finally being treated fairly. After that…I think I will find my way home.”

Her lips part, ready to chastise him, but no sound escapes. She listens, absorbs his words. “While I believe you should return to Etruria immediately, there’s no changing your mind, is there?” A shake of her head. “Have you discussed this with anyone else?”

“No. You’re the first person I’ve told.”

Surprise flits across her face. He senses some semblance of trust being rebuilt between them after this admission. “Oh. I’m glad you told me.”

“I ask that you not tell anyone else. I’ll discuss this with Douglas, as well, but I want to leave without any fanfare.”

Cecilia considers this. Elffin desires a quiet life; that much is clear. If he wants to cling to that fantasy for a little longer, then who is she to deny him? He knows where his ultimate duty lies, and while she cannot fathom resisting it in any fashion, the end result remains the same. Elffin, reinstated as Prince Myrddin of Etruria. “Then I will honor your wishes, Elffin. Only I require one more promise of you.”

Elffin, now holding his harp, warily meets Cecilia’s gaze. His grip tightens around the instrument. “…yes?”

“Will you play a song for me, when we see each other again?”

He loosens his grip. The smile returns, then grows. “I would love to, Cecilia.”

[toa-secretsanta]

merry christmas and happy happy holidays, limit!! i hope it’s a good one, and that you’re staying warm and toasty! 

p.s. – here’s an imgur link with some stocking stuffers, too :] cheers!! 

[toa-secretsanta]

Reddo asked for Chad Maria and flower crowns :)

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gift for mar!

The house is quiet. From another room, music still plays softly, spilling out into the other rooms. A fire crackles in the fireplace, casting dancing light and warmth across the room as it eats away at the last of the logs that had been thrown inside. And still, all alone and waiting, the house feels too quiet, too empty.

Another yawn fights its way out of her. Draped across the couch as she is, Tiki stretches out as far as he can. A hand rubs the sleep out of her eyes before she slumps back into the couch once more. The ticking of the clock never fails to announce the advancing hour. At this time, normally, she would already be asleep. Instead, today, she stubbornly fights it off, trying to remain awake for just another hour, just another more.

Wouldn’t it be sad, after all, to go to bed alone on a night like this?

She remembers her protests, once upon a time. How her beloved had insisted that a life as fleeting as hers would bring only sadness were it to stay at her side. Tiki had reproached her then, telling her that to deprive her of the joy of the moment was one of the cruelest things she might have done. In truth, there had been the smallest lie in her words that day.

Never would she wish to be denied the gift of Say’ri’s presence, but the fleeting moments of separation between them was the sharpest knife that Tiki had ever felt.

A sound echoes out from the empty doorway. Tiki’s ears twitch at the noise. Finally. A smile breaks across her face. Normally, to one such as her, a few hours will pass in the blink of an eye. When waiting for her love, hours seem to stretch out to an eternity in the worst way. Finally, the eternity finds itself coming to a close.

Excitement bubbles within her. Despite this, Tiki dares not move, for those are not the rules of the game she has made for herself. She stays lounging upon the couch and waits. She waits as she listens to the sound of someone entering her home. She waits as she listens to the sounds of things being put away. And she waits as she listens to the sound of heavy footsteps finally, finally, making their way towards her.

There is already a smile on her face. But as Say’ri steps within her line of sight and their eyes meet, the smile only grows wider. “Welcome home.”

Say’ri laughs, softly. A fond shake of her head indicates that she has acknowledged the little game as well, even if it is not really a game at all. She crosses the length of the room. Tiki shifts to make space for her as she sits down on the couch next to Tiki’s side. An arm braced against the couch allows Say’ri to lean over as she smiles down at her. Tiki smiles back still.

“I did not expect to find you still awake at such an hour.” Say’ri admits. The hand that does not support her weight comes forward to gently cup Tiki’s cheek, brushing away the strands of hair that had fallen there.

Tiki leans her face into the warmth, chuckling. “And dare miss the sight of you returning to me? Never. Not on such a cold night as this.”

Outside the window, snow continues to fall slowly in fat, wet clumps. The sight is beautiful, but the sensation is cold and unwelcoming. Tiki simply could not bear to bring herself to a cold and empty bed on a night like this.

Say’ri laughs again. Understanding passes through the two of them, without the need for deeper explanations. It’s Tiki’s turn for hands to find the other. She reaches out and tangles her hands in Say’ri’s hair, claiming a fistful at the back of her neck. A gentle pressure is applied, urging the woman forward to meet her. To Tiki’s great surprise, however, she does not move.

“As much as our reunion sways my heart to song, my lady, I also know better than to tempt fate.” She has been doing that more often as of late. Teasing her. Tiki delights in it each time, even as her smile morphs to a pout and a huff as Say’ri pulls away from her grip. “Let us get you comfortable in our bed first, before you find yourself drifting to sleep on the cold and lonely couch.”

“How cruel.” Tiki replies, even as she allows Say’ri to move. Strong arms move their way under Tiki’s form, gently scooping her up from the couch into a hold far more secure. Tiki’s arms wrap themselves around Say’ri’s neck as her head rests against her shoulder with a pleased sigh. “You would not follow me, wherever I would choose to rest?”

“Without hesitation.” Say’ri replies immediately. The blanket that Say’ri had been using is kicked away before it has a chance to tangle around Say’ri’s legs and claim them both. “But, if my lady is willing, I would prefer to follow her to some place with space for us to lie comfortably, rather than crowded up on the couch.”

Tiki pretends to consider it for a moment before sighing. “Very well.”

“So generous.” Warmth and laughter both fill the home that had previously been so silent and cold. The crackling fireplace is a background track to the soft conversation that flows back and forth between the two of them. The music that filters from the other room is nearly inaudible, lost to the sound of the music of their own making as the two voices rise in harmony.

Both sounds fall away to nothing as the two enter their bedroom. Say’ri places Tiki down carefully as always, as though she is a fragile treasure worth every coin in the world. It does not take long for Say’ri to join her, laying claim to her place at Tiki’s side. She rolls over to face her, smiling softly. “How nice of you to join me.”

Say’ri laughs. “How nice of you to wait for me.” Again, gentle fingers brush the hair away from Tiki’s face. “I believe now is the time I show you my appreciation for your patient vigil.”

Outside the window, snow continues to fall. The world, dark and cold, falls quiet. But inside, lying together, lips and hearts meet as one. And in that world of soft voices and quiet laughter, there is no warmer place to be found.

[toa-secretsanta]

thou shalt not (bear false witness) - for cecil

(tw for descriptions of violence against women)

“You’re a liar.”

“Am not.”

“Lying is a sin. You’ll be punished for it if you’re caught.”

The red rose instantly on Collin’s neck, splotching his cheeks in a way that highlighted his freckles, little dappled stars against the rough patchwork sky of his face. His face was often either red, or scrunched, or both when speaking with Poe - it was now.

“I am not!” he huffed, fingers curling into little fists at his side. “I said I saw a person down in the grotto just the other day, and I meant it!”

Poe sniffed delicately, hands splaying out to adjust the fall of her skirt. “The grown-ups would have known if there was a person down there, and they would have brought that person up to the light,” she replied, reasonably, which seemed to stoke Collin’s ire all the more.

“But what if he’s hurt?”

“Oh, so it isn’t merely a person, but a man?”

“I heard the moaning on the wind, wasn’t no voice I’d heard in the village!” he insisted, gesturing in the direction of the grotto. “I didn’t see him tumble down there, but I did see the flames go down and the stars dim the night before, so it must have been - ”

“Must have been what?” Poe’s eyes flashed as she turned toward him fully, lips tilting in a taunting smile. “You are adding rather a lot of details - ”

“I’m not lying! You go down there, you’ll see him! You’ll see I’m not lying!”

She would. Poe had never been the sort of girl who would simply take another at their word - she had legs that could move, eyes that could see, and the good sense to pick through the information presented to her in a manner that made most logical sense, that aligned with the laws of the universe. She was no fanciful child, not like Collin and his gang, always telling little tales to get the girls of the village to look at them with something amounting to interest - she was a firm hand and a dutiful heart.

What she was not, unfortunately, was any manner of athletic outdoors adventurer. Poe had gone along the paths to the Grotto of Her Gracious Reverie, had dipped her head to her clasped hands and felt the wind ruffle her hair and been told that this was the graciousness, this was the reverie, and that she should cherish and reflect on it until the next time she was taken there, but never had she dared dream that she might travel downward and set foot within.

The railed paths were there for the protection of all in the village. To step out of these bounds was to invite whatever punishment fell upon whoever was foolish enough to make the attempt.

She sighed gently, propping hands on her hips in thought for a moment, eyes seeking about the space for any safe ports of ingress downward into the caverns proper. The paths had not been designed for this, the area to be seen from a distance but not touched, the better to appreciate its holy splendor in the diffused light, but where there was a will…

Poe had oft been described as willful.

“Ah,” she murmured, ducking beneath a partition to move from civilized to wilderness, the earth crunching somewhat beneath her heel as she pressed forward to where the soil became loamy and soft, and for a moment she thought to herself well this is not so bad.

But what was soft would give, as she would learn time and away, and the earth gave way beneath her, shuttling her down past where the green stretched into the forest and to where the stone of the caverns yawned to greet her. She hissed at the scrape of rock against her skin, wiped her abraded hands on the torn white linen of her skirt, and the sound of her voice mingled gently with the wind and the overlapping harmony of another voice.

Squinting into the darkness, Poe saw the shape of him first, decidedly man-shaped, decidedly prone before her eyes adjusted and she was able to pick out the finer details.

He was breathing, for one.

He was looking directly at her, for two.

“Well,” she said primly, straightening as though she were not a right mess, her voice lilting somewhat with the slightest upward curve of her lips. “It seems at least that Collin was not entirely mistruthful.”

A grunt, though she could not have been certain if it was acknowledgement or discomfort. “Who’s Collin?”

“A boy from the village. Though would it not be rather more polite to ask who I am, since I am immediately before you?”

Another grunt, and this one she knew to be discomfort. “All right. Who are you?”

Her smile widened, creased at her eyes. “A girl from the village. But what is more important, I think, is who are you?”

She had drawn closer now, her eyes had adjusted to the oppressive dark of the cavern, and she could see him in his entirety - a ragged scrap of a man, in truth, abrasions and bruises blossoming a bouquet of red and purple and ah! that telltale mottled yellow which let her know that he must have been down here for quite some time.

But the whens were less interesting than the wherefores

The man grunted once more, and shifted, dragged himself to an approximation of upright, back against a stone which appeared to have been dragged there for that purpose. “Just a wanderer. Passing through. Got stranded by a fall - same as you, it seems.”

Poe’s smile widened. “Oh, I don’t believe that is true. You do not seem to have made your presence known - indeed, if Collin had not been spreading such stories, why, I believe none would have found you down here. Could it be that you did not wish to be found?”

There was a beat of silence when the man’s gaze settled on her, a mirror of hers on him - assessing, processing, both noticing in tandem that from where he sat currently, he could not reach her.

“Could be,” he admitted, slowly, now seeming to see her for the first time, the smile growing on his own lips as he spoke. “But what reason would I have for that? No, much more likely that I’m just some unfortunate sod, banged up by his own foolishness.”

“Then shall I tell my mother about you? Our elders? I’m certain they’d love to help a traveler in need.”

It was the same sensation, meeting his eyes, as holding a hand just above a candleflame, snapping one’s fingers to snuff it out before it scalded. She was not entirely certain what game was being played, but she had always been a canny child and a quick learner.

“You could,” he said, tilting his head and leaning forward just slightly. “You could tell everyone about me, could tell them that you’ve found a poor soul bruised and bloody and just in need of help and attention, and they’d come running, because you’re a town of sweet little hearts, aren’t you?”

She did not like the way his lips curled, she realized, did not like the odd timbre that his voice was beginning to take, the strange glint in his eyes in spite of the darkness of the cavern where they sat.

“But they won’t believe you, child.”

“Oh? And why would that be?”

Poe had not even noticed that he’d moved – or, not, he had not, had he? He had remained seated, and by all accounts should not have been able to reach across the space that separated them to brush against her, and yet she found his hand instantly nearer to her face, a single finger extended to press the button of her nose with a sly grin and a strange rush of wind.

When she had blinked, she found herself in exactly the same prim seated posture but once more on the loamy earth above the grotto, for all the world as though she had not taken her tumble and seen the strange figure in the caverns but for the rip of her skirts and the sting of her scraped knees.

Poe stood, hesitant, attempted to pat the cave dust from her shins, and that was when the vertigo hit, dropping her to her knees with a wave of disorientation and nausea.

//

“Look at the state of you!” her mother had cried, hands fluttering, distraught. Poe had not realized the extent of her excursion until she had stepped from the greenery of the forest surrounding the grotto and back onto the paved path back into the village, the warm lamplight in the streets and in her foyer coating her in a softened glow.

The stark contrast of her mother’s gaze shattered the illusion soundly, bringing the sting of her knees and the grit of mud on her hem into sharp relief.

“Apologies,” she demurred, allowing her mother to fret as she would, their waitstaff to hand with a change in shift, a basin of warm water, a soft cloth, a drink of cool spring water. Poe remained silent, eyes flicking over the gloved maid’s hands as they pressed ointment onto her scrapes, to her mother picking grass and leaves out of the weave of her skirt, agrouse of concern and complaint.

“Mother,” she said finally, “there was a man.”

“A what?” Her mother’s brow furrowed, eyes narrowing on the task of assessment, the fine fabric in her hands ruffling gently.

“A man. Down in the Grotto of Her Gracious Reverie.”

That stilled her hands, but only so long as to bring them down into her lap, dragging the lines of her face along with it. Her mother had always been pretty, all curves and light, but there was a dourness there, enhanced by the light and her disappointment as she settled her gaze heavily on Poe.

“No, Poe. There isn’t. And there is no skirt in the world worth you spilling mistruths at my feet.”

It was Poe’s turn to frown, and she pressed, “No, I mean it. I fell into - ”

“That’s enough. There’s no way to get in or out of the Grotto. You know that. I know you think you’ve gotten clever as you’ve grown, and you have, but your cleverness is no virtue in comparison to purity of spirit. Every lie from your lips stains you as badly as this grass on chiffon. Remember that.” A sigh, the sigh her mother had been letting escape more and more lately of things left unsaid for which she had not quilted the words together quite yet, and she shook her head. “Just go get yourself cleaned up for supper.”

It was clear from her mother’s tone that what she wanted to say was to drop the matter, to leave it behind and speak no more of it, and so Poe did just that: she spake of it no more.

However, she did dwell.

She dwelt on the swirling vertigo that had overtaken her, on the pitch in her gut when she instantaneously moved from one place to another with no recourse for her brain to connect the two other than knowing she had been in both. She dwelt on his choice of locale, the sanctuary promised by the innate privacy of such a place. She dwelt on that sly look on his face, the way the light had reflected in his eyes and all of the things that he had not said.

And her wherefores. She hadn’t gotten those yet.

But she was tenacious.

And she was clever.

Like a dog with a bone, she dug – methodically, not approaching that place in the forest for some time while she hunted about, asked the scholars of the village and those talented in arcana until they had given her enough of a trail to sniff out what she wanted to know, and to immerse herself in heartily.

Small things, trinkets, odds and ends moved about in safety, some tumbles nicking the hardwood of her floors, and some smaller still, granular and down to their basest level that had her mother wondering aloud when the blue soap washes had become so effective on such fragile textiles.

She gazed down at the grotto thoughtfully, and took a deep breath.

It wasn’t her first time moving something so large, but it was her first time moving herself, and though Poe had gotten the heady scent of victory in her nose with each successive progression in skill, there was something different when it was this close to her heart.

Ducking under the partition, she held her breath and took a step in -

 - and then out, the shock of the dark causing her to blink once, and for her lips to instantly curl upwards at the glint in the cavern.

“Well, hello again."  She did not immediately seat herself beside him, eyes creasing in a way that might have reflected her smile if it were any other face – her footsteps continued, a gentle half-moon around his form, less prone but still crumpled and scuffed. "I see that you are looking no better than you were before.”

A grunt, neither in discomfort nor dismissal, but amusement. “Been getting by. Crazy thing, haven’t had any other visitors since our chat. Must not have mentioned the strange man to dear mommy, huh?”

Her head cocked, as though shocked to hear it. “Hm. Poor dear. Perhaps I need to emphasize your charming disposition. They’ll come around, fear not. In the meantime, I hope that my company is sufficient, because you see, I had some questions. I’ve brought you tea, even.”

“Oh have you?”

“Indeed,” she confirmed, settling herself in a swirl of petticoats, flicking at the dust as though it made any matter before pouring from a travel flask for the both of them, steam curling upward like a sunbeam. “I don’t suppose that asking directly why you are here would yield results any different than our last conversation, however I did hope that you might perhaps explain why here.”

As though in demonstration, she gestured a delicate hand about the dimly lit space. For all that it was a holy space, revered and respected by all that Poe had ever known, it was quite frankly not an ideal place for convalescence.

Unless one wanted, quite specifically, to hide.

Unruffled in the slightest, he reached for the tea cup that she had placed, just out of his reach, chuffing a little laugh when she tugged it back farther and pinning her with a glance until she acquiesced and nudged it just a bit closer to him.

Blowing on the steam, he seemed to think about the question for a moment as he took as sip, before, with a hum, he said, “These views.”

“Oh! Merely a tourist, then? Come to see the splendor of our fair grotto? It isn’t quite as damp this time of year as it is in autumn, you have missed a real treat.” It was not that Poe disliked her hometown, it was merely that she was a realist in what it had to offer outsiders, and what it did not.

“You know what, though?” He seemed to be in a fair enough mood to humor her, which made it all the easier to seem interested in what he had to say.

It might have simply been her mind, wishing to reach, wishing to fill in gaps where there were none, but the lines of his face once more took on that sly quality, pinched around the eyes as he shifted where he was, turned to face her wholly.

“Prettier girls here than where I’m from. Friendlier, too, it seems.” That smile of his crept upward at an angle that struck Poe as viscerally displeasing, so she imitated it in kind, and he laughed. “Not that there are many left - ”

“Left? Oh, you don’t mean to tell me that yours is a tale of tragedy?” she added, pointed gaze assessing the myriad healing cuts and bruises - and now that she sat closer, there were bumps, his joints at odd angles which might have hinted at fractures, if she were not much mistaken.

“Oh, quite the tragedy,” he agreed, eager now, leaning forward. “Not all in one night, but over the course of, hell, must have been weeks - months! One by one, finding ‘em in the river - the girls, that is. Their pretty faces carved clean off.”

She had thought that she was steeled for whatever response he might have given, or at the very least incredulous, watchful of any nonsense, but she must have had a physical reaction, some reflexive instinct which caused him to bark a cackle at her.

“Oh, not many of them, only a couple dozen, only the best ones, only the ones whose mouths had laughed such pretty laughs.” Here, his eyes flicked down to her mouth, and he cackled again, this time louder.

It was at this point she realized that she was no longer smiling. She lifted the teacup to her mouth, but did not drink.

“Just a joke, of course! You do hear these horror stories, don’t you?”

He brought the cup to his lips and sipped, delicately, sighing in great relief as though it were the only thing he’d drank in days.

//

“Have you heard - ?”

“Shh, not around the children.”

“I know, it’s just - ”

“Poe, darling, I had ordered a few yards of silk and some thread, would you pop down to the shop to pick it up for me? To repair your skirt, from your little expedition. My little girl thinks she’s an adventurer now, did you know?”

If it was meant to chasten her, it fell short, and she simply inclined her head dutifully, not needing to hover long at the door to hear her mother’s friends pick up the thread just where they had left off, now that her tender ears were apparently not within range.

“ - All of them?”

“Not all of them, to hear it, but what was done to them was - ”

“Oh, don’t repeat it, I don’t want to hear. Ghastly! Could you imagine my Dove? Your Poe?”

A sigh, that familiar sigh, soft, as though there were words she wanted to say but had not yet been able to piece together the thought.

//

“You’ve become quite popular, did you know?”

This got his attention - not her entrance, because she had become rather good at simply appearing, had gotten used to the tilt of the world as she passed through it with greater speed, greater precision, greater confidence.

“Over here,” Poe supplied helpfully, crossing her arms across her stomach, near the mouth of the cavern. “My, you are recovering nicely, aren’t you? In no time you’ll have emerged from the dark of this little hovel you’ve created for yourself and walk amongst the living again. Perhaps you might even pay my village a visit. Would you like that?”

Though his lips canted, that sly smirk which was becoming so familiar to her, his eyes narrowed. It was a jab, of course - he was moving about, seated upright, and even coming to stand for moments at a time, but each tentative step forward resulted in a crumple to the ground and the whisper of wind which might have been a laugh if there had been a mouth for it.

“Oh, maybe I will. Maybe you’ll be the first I visit.”

“Wouldn’t that be kind of you,” she replied airily, taking long strides about the space he inhabited - another jab, easier to make. “After all of the time I’ve spent down here with you. Alas, I don’t believe our time is much longer.”

“No?” A sheen glimmered on the whites of his eyes, not quite curiosity, not quite the eagerness of a hound on hunt. “Getting tired of me?”

“I simply think that you might not be long for this world.” Another step, and another, deliberate presses of her heels into the dust of the cavern, a large and hollow circle about the entirety of the cavern - long strides, at first, but increasingly her steps became gentle, lighter, until she felt as though, for a moment, she was walking on the very air.

He did not have time to respond, each of the little portholes that she had left in her wake converging as one, swallowing great gulps of earth and stone hungrily as Poe sought out that face in the swirling of the dust, smile widening as she stepped back, felt the grip and pull of that strange vertigo until she heard birdsong and felt the crunch of loamy soil underneath her feet.

“But I did want to say goodbye, one final time. May the face of God greet you with all the grace you deserve.”

Later, when the village was in an uproar at the loss of their holy site, Poe vaguely heard the ladies at their gossip, some devout and pious and others less so. She heard them chitter and chatter about the scope of the damage, of the shape that it left not merely in the earth but in the paths their daily lives took, and she heard, idly, in passing, someone mention how fortunate it was that so much of the calamity had been contained, had merely sunk inward and compressed in on itself rather than grown like an imploding star.

And she could not deny the little thrill in her heart when she heard her mother say, “It must have been divine intervention.”

“Poe! Poe!” Collin shoved his way through the crowd to reach her, extended his hand until his fingers brushed against her sleeve. Urgency pinched at his face, and the red crept up, splotchy, in a way that highlighted his freckles. “Poe, he must have still been down - !”

“Darling?” her mother turned, flicked eyes from boy’s face to girl’s. “Poe, what is he talking about?”

“Nothing mother.” The reply fell easily from her tongue, and her face lit up brightly. “I don’t believe there’s anything down there. Be careful, Collin. Lying is a sin.”

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