Fantasy 𝖒𝖔𝖔𝖓 𝖜𝖆𝖑𝖙𝖟 — the dance.

[Uxie]

Moon Waltz

uxie x yizerq

art by

中下游

 

[Yizerq]

mood

-

outfit

link

location

palace ballroom -> garden

tags

-

The ill-lit room was filled with shadowy contours that overlapped, able to render one’s sight useless at the pure and unbounded tenebrosity. A dim lustre of a lamp only served as foil to further darken the umbra, its weak illumination on the verge of being swallowed by the formless tendrils that seemed to spread out in all directions. Just as the war was lost, a low rumble pierced the silent air, accompanying a bright streak of lightning. The sudden radiance was like a flood that crashed into the area, and following this glow was the reveal of an outline that stood near the window. Having its attention grabbed, the figure turned towards the culprit, who in response, flickered once more. This flash immediately divulged the identity of the person, his eyes reflecting the jagged edges of the electrostatic discharge. The loud roar of thunder muffled the raspy voice that happened to sound at the same time, “It’s raining again.”

Siros stared at the parchment clasped between his fingers; rows of neat, cursive handwriting crowded the surface, for the writer probably had too much to share. The contents of the letter jumped out at him, resulting in a slight lift of the edges of his lips which was quickly suppressed as a cloud of gloom overcame him. Such a piece of lifeless paper could already enkindle happiness- how miserable must he be to have felt this way? It seemed that he truly had fallen down into a bottomless pit. A twinge of pain was all Siros needed to redirect his self-pity, while the edges of the parchment curled up as it emitted a smoky scent, and it crumbled into ashes that slipped through his fingers. Glinting amber eyes glared at rugged palms tainted with scars; he could feel the mana coursing through his veins, whirling up a storm of destruction in its wake. The man clenched his hand. It felt empty.

It felt through the darkness, pressing a switch that caused a vivid flicker that lit the expanse aglow. Siros squinted through the change in lighting, whilst the brightness ushered in the sound of rustling as he searched his drawers for his pen. Wild, flowy words that used to match his temperament quickly pervaded the parchment, the sentences oozing with false elation- after all, his tense expression was swift to betray him.

The windows were pushed open, and a strong breeze instantly surged into the room, causing the curtains to flutter wildly and teasingly escorting the water droplets from outside.

“Caramel.”

Words imbued with little mana would allow it to be heard from miles away. Sure enough, a large shadow promptly invited itself into the room. It landed on his arm that had been stretched out, letting out a screech of affection. Upon seeing the falcon, the man’s eyes finally softened, his fingers brushing against the feathers that laid atop its crown. Despite the fact that there was a downpour, and it had just flown in from outdoors, Caramel’s plumage was dry. It grasped the rolled-up parchment with its claws, calling out once more before lifting off. The muted clinking of raindrops that hit a barrier around the bird was the only indication of its presence, but it too, eventually dissipated into the air.

The windows were shut once more, and silence returned to reign over his territory.

-

The air was saturated with an indistinct hubbub of chatter, the palace ballroom crowded with a multitude of people. Chandeliers that illuminated the space hung on top, tables that carried delicacies stood at the sides, and thick, plush carpet that magnified the palace’s grandeur covered the ground. Nobles were scattered throughout, segregated into groups as they seeked connections for their own benefits. However, leaning against a pillar in a secluded corner was Siros. His fingers pinched the thin stem of the wine glass, the claret liquid swirling in hypnotising circles. Having received the letter from Zayn, he decided to take a small glimpse after much contemplation. Initially, there were no plans to partake in this meaningless ball. The news of his friend’s return disrupted his thoughts; to say he didn’t miss Zayn was an understatement, for he hadn’t seen the other in a long time.

However, what Siros had seen over the past year had caused his heart to harden, and he no longer trusted his judgement. What if Zayn was alike the others and coldly turned his back towards him? Siros wasn’t sure that he could take another betrayal. Alas, deep down, he couldn’t resist his instincts, and thus decided to take a peek.

Just a look, and he will leave.

One was returning with glory, and the other, a failed product.

A grimace was etched on his features, until an announcement of the Emperor’s arrival captured his attention. He was still standing alone; no one wanted to associate with a fallen prince, nor someone who was the epitome of death.

Although bathed in splendour and wealth, the white strands hidden in the midst of his hair easily disclosed his current status. A sickly king that was fated to die- on the surface, people were respectful, but beneath, no one knew their thoughts. Nevertheless, Isaac still carried the disposition of a monarch and behaved with utmost propriety.

“I am announcing the beginning of the heir selection. The three sons of mine are all grown up now, all of them fit to take over my rule…”

A solemn silence blanketed the ballroom, calculating thoughts drifting about in the air, scrutinising gazes fixated on three, no, two men. No one felt that the pallid seventh prince would stand a chance against his brothers.

“There are a few rules to obey; first, the heir shall be married.”

It was well known that none of the princes had a partner yet. The fifth prince currently has a fiancee, while the third has naught. As for the tenth prince, it looked like even his father had forgotten of his existence.

While everyone’s attention was distracted by the duo, Siros silently slipped away. The rustle of grass as he walked through the garden sang a soft tune with the sigh of the wind, a soothing whisper that graced his ears. His path was illuminated by the faint moonlight that peeped through the canopy, leading towards a small pond. A lonely bench in which only the breeze accompanied it was at the water’s edge; it was a good spot to view the celestial bodies high above the planet’s exosphere. As it should be. After all, it was built by a husband for his beloved.

The cool wood underneath his palms woke Siros out of his musings of the past. Nothing was left now, for long had this place been forgotten. He leaned backwards, arm propped on the handrail of the bench. The calm surface of the pond was reflected in his orbs; a deathly stillness that would never be disturbed. Even so, his blood was boiling, filled with quelled defiance that occasionally squeezed through the cracks. Nonetheless, even the most raging wildfire could be vanquished with enough time. Raising the wine glass to his lips, the slight bitter-sweet taste lingered on his tongue.

At that moment, a tempest that had been hiding within him started its indiscriminate rampage. The carmine wine that he didn’t manage to swallow leaked out from the edge of his lips, painting an ashen sight. His bloodless face paled further, and his nails dug into his palms. A grit of the teeth, a little more enduring, and the outburst would pass.

Pain was simply a sensory transmission, he always reminded himself, and it haunted him ever since that day. It was akin to the tide that would ebb in due course. And finally, his tensed muscles relaxed, the glass clasped between his lethargic fingers tilting- a stream of sanguine flowed downwards, onto the viridescent blades of grass that bent under its weight. A weary exhale that Siros breathed out stained the air, in the form a white puff of vapour that vanished into the night sky.

siros atticus valha.

© reveriee

 

[Uxie]

isolde anemonas

i hear your sorrowful voice beckon; softly, gently.

location

ballroom -> garden

outfit

link

interactions

siros

A crack of thunder made her jump in her seat, just as the streak of lightning illuminated the dimly-lit room. The book before her was washed in white-blue for a brief moment, before the lines of twirling ink were swallowed once more by the vignette of shadows that tinged the candlelight. Her gaze lifted to the window, listening out as if she might somehow detect the traces of the next strike: Nothing but the furious tapping of the heavy rain.

She blew out a breath, and her eyes lowered back to her journal. Her pen lifted in the air, poised to continue, and then stilled. under her breath, Isolde murmured,

"perhaps i'm dead...?"

But was it possible for the afterlife to have gotten all of the little details right? Details she couldn't even purposefully recall, down to the shard of porcelain that had cut her that morning; Adele's worried words that had come out as smoothly as a practised script; The clumsy little bow marianne had furnished her bandaged hand with.

And, of course, the invitation. Isolde's gaze shifted to it, slender fingers reaching out to graze the linen texture of the envelope. It was difficult to disentangle specific memories from the swath of recollections that remained in her head; Her mind still throbbed inexplicably when she focused too hard on details, but the sense of deja vu that panged when something did happen was unmistakable.

Perhaps it was really all a dream? Even if her bandaged wound still stung?

A soft sigh resonated throughout the dark room — audible for barely a moment before it melted into the ambience of the storm — and then the gentle thud of a book being shut.

It had been many long years since she had set foot on the pristine marble floors of the palace ballroom (in a dress) and many long years since she had had the (dis)pleasure of interacting with her fellow aristocrats.

Isolde found she had missed neither.

She had missed Cecily, of course, and the company of the princess was very much welcome. Still, the moment the bubbly princess had flitted off to carry out her royal obligations, Isolde had found herself relegated to a corner. She nursed a glass of good wine and counted her sips until she had fallen into a long-forgotten routine that returned to her so easily: Sporting her signature deadpan, aloof mien and warding off most who attempted to speak to her. There was no pang, yet Isolde had no doubt her former time at the royal ball had been spent similarly.

Consistent, she supposed.

"Entering the emperor; His Royal Majesty, Isaac Amir Valha." The voice of the herald boomed over the chatter of partygoers, which faded into hushed words as the emperor came into view atop the ballroom's stairs. Isolde peered at him over the edge of her glass, her expression softening as she took in his appearance. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a quiet conservation from a distant memory chimed.

Oh, Isa, how unfortunate.

What is?

The emperor has passed. I suppose that irritable prince will be taking over the throne, then.

Is he that irritable?

You know far too little, Lady Anemonas.

About this, certainly. The emperor was sick for an awfully long time, wasn't he? Since the empress passed, was it?

It's no surprise for a royal. What a tragic love story, isn't it? I'm surprised he lived that many years. I would've given up far earlier.

You could see it as romantic, I suppose.

...Do you think the late emperor wanted to give up earlier too?

Weariness was etched onto the king's features, his every step frail and careful. His figure still held every manner of a monarch, but had become one that garnered sympathy as much as it did respect. Even his voice held an underlying tone of fatigue, if Isolde listened closely enough, buried beneath its otherwise aureate timbre.

"I am announcing the beginning of the heir selection."

Pang.

It swam benignly through her core, and Isolde felt her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass.Her head throbbed as she watched the king with tired eyes, feeling every gesture and word increase her discomfort two-fold. Before he'd completed his next sentence the lady had disappeared, leaving only her glass — still half-full — to share a table with a vase of flowers.

Tension melted from her shoulders as the cool night air brushed against her skin, and Isolde ambled through the palace garden with an aimless but cautious step. A quiet, dark night, where the lights of the party too faded away when she'd fled far enough along the moonlit path. Her eyes wandered as her feet did, studying each flora she passed by with a mild interest in an effort to drown out her careening thoughts. The moonlight glinted sharply across a dash of fluorescent purple-blue, and she paused.

"Ivarian lilacs..."

Her musings came as barely a whisper, and it was with an impressive lack of grace that she hiked up her skirts to bend down for a closer look. Gentle fingers examined each flower with great care as she hobbled forward in a ducklike manner, mind blissfully unaware of her surroundings as she pressed, brushed, tugged at the violet petals. Inch by inch she crawled forwards as the flowers melded from purple to blue to pink, and it was with eased ignorance that she waddled into a beautifully moonlit clearing. It was decorated with a scenic pond and a lovely bench for viewing, and though she could see them out of the corner of her eye, Isolde took notice of neither.

Nor the person, sat carefully with a sharp gaze. Watching every one of her odd movements.

The silent ghost of a laugh finally alerted her to his presence; Isolde turned in a panic and it was with a startled yelp that she fell backwards onto the grass, uprooting a small bundle of colourful flowers in her journey down. a moment's silence fell as their eyes met, and recognition ghosted across her features before she pushed herself to her feet and hurriedly dropped into a curtsy. behind her dress, her hands hid her mistaken spoils.

"greetings, to your highness, the seventh prince..."

what had his name been? her mind wracked for a moment, sifting through her old memories for any semblance of a clue. it came to her in an old, familiar script, always printed so neatly above hers.

"Siros Valha."

Isolde hazarded a glance as she finished, though it was barely a moment before her eyes shrunk back to her dirt-stained shoes. Ah, they were so filthy— Marianne was going to throw a fit, and she probably looked a mess having been poking around the bushes.

Ah... Had he seen?

Her gaze lifted, nervously, and read what was either amusement or contempt on his handsome features. A pink glow spread across her cheeks, and she felt her mouth move, reluctantly spilling out whatever foolish excuse that came to mind first,

"I... I was just... you don't see flowers from Ivaria here often, you see..."

Her words trailed off, swallowed beneath her embarrassment, before she added in a soft mumble,

"I was not expecting anyone to be outside of the party."

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Yizerq]

mood

having fun -> regretting life choices

outfit

link

location

garden

tags

-

Siros knew that someone was approaching. No matter how much he dwelled within his thoughts, his head would’ve been separated from his body and rolling on the ground if he wasn’t attentive. Nevertheless, there was not a bit of reaction from the man; his gaze merely brushed past the green that had been tainted by the rufous liquid. An unsightly picture. In some ways, this depiction was similar to his current situation. A trifling blemish, and all that he was worth went into the deep, dark well. The ravenous pit full of broken bones and irreconcilable souls, housing a faint howl of the iniquitous secrets of the palace. Soon enough, he would be like his predecessors and siblings that never managed to persist in this game of chess.

The rustling was slowly approaching, accompanied by a muffled gait; its owner was sure taking their sweet time. An assassin wouldn’t be so blatant, is what Siros thought. With that said, he had seen his fair share of various people, and some were peculiar, to say the least… When impatience finally got a hold of him, the man tilted his head back. An inverted view of a woman entered his vision, causing him to straighten his posture- it was someone he didn’t recognise. The wine glass that had been clasped loosely between his fingers was tilted upright. Three quarters empty, a quarter full; given enough time, it would all but drain away.

He propped his arm on the backrest of the bench, gaze falling onto the figure that seemed to be crawling through the thin emerald stems. What sort of crazy antics was this lady pulling? Siros had seen many women. Repulsive, uncouth and sickly saccharine voices that dripped with honey, entangling him with their feigned persona. Their motives were laid bare for all, and he had always disregarded them. Fortunately, after that day, gone were the people that used to flock around him. He had initially thought that this one was the same, but a few minutes passed and there she was, blissfully unaware and lost in her own realm. As he watched on, amusement swam in his eyes, for her actions reminded him of the dog he used to keep, happily running through the garden and returning with mud all over. It too, liked to dig around the soil and pull out the poor plants. This comparison elicited a breathy laugh- it was a soft sound, but within the tranquil environment, any noise was akin to the shattering of glass.

When his eyes met hers, he froze. They were both caught in the act; him silently observing her, and her, the lack of etiquette. The fact that she had fallen only served as foil to enhance the embarrassment that spread through the air. No more was the peaceful atmosphere- Siros had returned to his impassive front, shoulders shaking for a moment as he tried to stifle another chuckle whilst scrutinising her appearance. The violet gown that accentuated her slender frame had its edges dancing in the slight breeze that blew past, bringing about the fluttering of leaves that swirled in a whirl and transporting a floral fragrance akin to lavender mixed with a rich scent he couldn’t name. Hazel locks cascaded down her physique; there was a gust of wind, and the strands obscured the flash of large, sable orbs.

“Greetings, to your highness, the seventh prince…” Familiar words, customary sentences… and a pause. It was chilling how one can be so accustomed to something within the span of a year or two. Something that used to be so foreign was now like a buzzing fly near his ear. A reminder of how he had plummeted. How could he be unfazed? The fire was never extinguished, simply tucked away in the depths of his spirit. In that short span of a second, it blazed once more, and the consequence was the sharp cracking of glass that resonated across the garden. The crystalline fragments analogous to that of sand flowed through the gaps of his fingers, onto the land beneath. Curb his expectations, and there would be no discouragement. Siros narrowed his eyes; the barbed words were just at the tip of his tongue, begone, get out of my sigh- "siros valha." An immediate effect of the airy voice was like a hand that had soothed down the bristled fur of a cat.

At least she knew who she was talking to.

Despite being a little pleased, there was no reply to her salutation, though her next actions saved him from trying to clumsily cover up his mistakes, since it seemed that she was more on edge as compared to him. This knowledge was like a light in darkness, boosting his standing. His expression was a facade of solemnity, but unbeknownst to him, the corners of his lips had lifted up in a barely noticeable arc. "I... I was just... you don't see flowers from Ivaria here often, you see..."

The bright rays of moonlight shone a frost blue hue on her rosy cheeks, fading to a pale heather and complementing her attire. At this point in time, Siros had stood up, his footwear further compressing the splintered particles that littered the ground. His figure towered imposingly over the unknown female- or at least he thought so. "I was not expecting anyone to be outside of the party."

“Yeah? It’s palace property.” Both the flowers and the garden, and people can go where they want, especially me. It was a conditioned reflex; the first sentence that he spat out a refutation. Prick. Injure the enemy a hundred times, but damage himself ninety-nine times. Ultimately, there was no place for him here either. But he had nowhere else to go.

“Let’s see, those flowers that you had just pulled out in front of my face…” Acute gaze travelled to the hands that she hid behind, and he leaned sideways as if trying to ascertain a fact.

“One, two, five, six,” Siros was simply making up numbers as he counted since he wasn’t able to see the flora she picked. “that’ll be 36 gold coins, thank you.” It was essentially an exorbitant price. With a crafty smile on his face, his right, gloved palm stretched forward as if beckoning for the other party to pay up.

In the case that she wanted to deny anything, he followed up his previous sentence, and all of it was nonsensical information. “Destroying royal valuables and trespassing into forbidden premises can already get you sitting in prison. 36 gold coins is a good price, no? If you pay this in full, I’ll keep this our secre-”

Just as he was enjoying himself, his words were cut off as a rush of heat surged through his body. Pallid complexion blanched, the numbness travelling from his palm, the source of the outbreak. When he staggered, his hand grasped the bench to stabilise himself. Siros knew he shouldn’t have used mana to protect his palms from the glass shards. One more scar on top of his already-flawed skin would not make a difference. Alas, it was too late to regret his instinctive actions.

Cold sweat dripped down his forehead, leaving a trail of coolness in its wake. It unfortunately did nothing to subdue the raging flames however. Like a tsunami that crashed onto unsuspecting victims, it devoured everything in its way. His heart felt like it was being squeezed, with a sword engraving characters onto it; he could feel the pulsing of his veins, the throbbing of his head, and the pain. Just, simple agony.

His active mind had only one thought: there goes his imposingness.

And although he used the back of his hand to muffle an incoming cough, a raspy huff still escaped. He had the bench in a vice-like grip, the planks producing a creaking sound at the sheer force that he exerted. As time passed, Siros no longer remembered that there was someone else beside him- in this world, he only had himself. Survive and endure alone. None helped during his time of need, and now, he no longer anticipated anything.

Fingers that had travelled down to his waist patted nothing but empty air; his sword was gone, having turned it in before entering this territory. The man could not help but admonish his past self. No matter how much of a ruckus he made, he should’ve still kept it beside him. That, or simply sneak in. Regrettably, it was too late. Thus, all he could do now was to stand silently, breaths coming out in shallow exhales as he waited for the bout of exacerbation to pass. Everything would end one day… Just as life did.

siros atticus valha.

© reveriee

 

[Uxie]

isolde anemonas

i hear your sorrowful voice beckon; softly, gently.

location

garden

outfit

link

interactions

siros

He was guarded in a way she was unaccustomed to. There was a bitter frigidness that surrounded him, though he made a princely figure nonetheless. The ice seemed to thaw, ever so slightly, at her frantic words, but she was inclined to write it off as a pitiful bout of idealistic thinking.

( Isolde wondered, off-handedly, if it was the trace of a smile she saw on his lips? )

He stood, and she felt herself shrink under his gaze; He hadn't looked quite this tall when he was sat. "Yeah? It's palace property." Smooth as silk, but his tone was harsh.

( Perhaps not. )

Her eyes widened as he continued, "Let’s see, those flowers that you had just pulled out in front of my face…" A deer caught in the path of a carriage.

Drop the flowers!

A voice insisted, one that failed to reach her hands. Instead, they moved unconsciously, tucking the buds further behind her figure as she stepped back uneasily.

Of course, somewhere in the back of her mind, Isolde was confident the royals would never prosecute her over something this petty. Surely; But when he scrutinised her as if she were a common thief...

If he was trying to make her nervous, it was working..

"You see—"

Isolde protested, though her voice came out in a mousy whisper that faltered against the night breeze.

"One, two, five, six..." Her eyebrows knitted. had she picked that many? "That’ll be 36 gold coins, thank you."

That gave her pause.

"What?"

Her eyes flicked to his outstretched hand before returning to his face, meeting his gaze with her own hesitant one. A Cheshire grin was plastered across his pale features, and this time, for sure, she spotted the flicker of mischief in his dark eyes. Foxlike smile regardless, there was an almost boyish charm to him when he looked...

Less hostile. Though she'd be much more charmed if he wasn't trying to extort her for gold.

"Destroying royal valuables and trespassing into forbidden premises can already get you sitting in prison. 36 gold coins is a good price, no?" Was he offering a bribe? Isolde didn't think any member of royalty would ever be in a position to be needing bribes, especially of 36 gold coins — even if it was a certain fraud. A distant tidbit of memory tugged at her consciousness, just out of reach. "If you pay this in full, I’ll keep this our secre-”

His words were silenced as he seemed to lose his footing, and she reached forward instinctively.

"Oh—"

It was with a lumbering move that he stumbled towards the bench, and Isolde's hands could only brush against his wrist before his arms fell out of reach. The slightest spark of heat pulsed curiously through her fingertips, but the possibilities that sprouted within her mind were quickly squashed at the rasp of a cough. Isolde's eyes shifted to him and took in his wretched form — knuckles white against the stressed wood, beads of cold sweat dotting his face — and her fingers finally caught hold of the fabric of her memory. Her exclamation came in a gentle murmur, just barely audible over his quiet, ragged breathing.

"You're sick."

Her words hung in the air, before her hand clapped over her mouth at her stumble. She thought she caught a flicker of hurt across his face, quickly replaced by a death glare — Admittedly, Isolde was both impressed and concerned he could manage to look so murderous in his state.

"No, I mean—"

Her mouth opened and closed, searching for words where none were.

"You didn't... I'd forgotten..."

What could she even say?

You see, I've come back in time! And you were dead for an awfully long time then, so pardon me for forgetting that you had died of some terrible, life-eating illness! An honest mistake, really, and you would've had the same problem in my shoes.

If not the burning fury in his eyes forebode her dire fate, that trace of embarrassment she had caught bit at her heart, guilt sharp and condemning. A hand snaked up her chest, fingertips brushing against the underside of her neck.

She'd blundered, fully and truly, and she was probably going to be beheaded for it.

Her head bowed, and once more, Isolde found herself inspecting her shoes.

"I apologise,"

she said finally, voice gentle, paper-thin and threatening to waver at the slightest gust,

"I was being thoughtless."

♡coded by uxie♡

 

[Yizerq]

mood

...

outfit

link

location

garden

tags

-

He initially thought that she was a compassionate person; her figure that flashed forward without hesitation, and the cool, unfamiliar touch that lingered on his skin, traces left behind as evidence of her prior actions. The close proximity brought a nostalgic scent, the one he couldn’t identify earlier: libraries that he only entered during his childhood. This certainly did not pass by unnoticed, and thus when Siros’ mind cleared somewhat, showing his gratitude was the first thing he acted upon; although her aid was futile and unnecessary, his upbringing would not let him ignore her attempt at doing so, no matter how much he had degenerated.

“Than-”

The phrase was forcibly choked back into his throat at her sudden remark. “You’re sick”.

His head jerked up, wide eyes staring at her incredulously, as if unable to comprehend the sentence that had just left her lips. A mellifluous and soothing voice accompanied the words akin to wheels of a carriage running over a wooden plank. Cracking into pieces.

It seemed that he had misjudged. Again. How many times must he be pricked before he learns his lesson? The spark in his brown orbs dulled, a scowl replacing his expression. Nice pointing out the obvious. Yes, I’m a terminally ill patient, my mother died, and my father hates me. The whole world knows- you don’t have to say it out directly. And no one did so. Instead, there were subtle glances filled with pity or scorn, actions screaming disrespect or taunts, and false, probing words laced with sympathy. He didn’t need all these; what he had was the deterioration of his strength and vitality, yet those around him treated him like a crippled porcelain doll. How exasperating.

Siros wasn’t a gentleman that never made a move on women; if she picked up a sword and challenged him to a duel, he would gladly accept. Additionally, her reaction told him that she knew. Knew that she had erred. Gone were her tranquil vocals, replaced by stumbling sentences that were never completed. Sentences that he would kindly help her finish.

"You didn't... I'd forgotten..."

“You’d forgotten that I’m sick… but I would never forget that. You’re. Dead. Meat.”

The last few words were spat out through gritted teeth, harsh enunciation that emphasised their meaning. If not for the fact that his weapon was somewhere with the guards, Siros would now be pointing said sword at this lady- even though he had been more tame lately, a leopard cannot change its spots. His innate personality still existed, buried under layers of deep water. When cornered, he could still bite. Nonetheless, Siros was never a petty person that held grudges. It was only unfortunate that the brew of unpleasant emotions was now spilling over; a little too much and it overflowed entirely. This damsel was simply unlucky.

"I apologise, I was being thoughtless”.

The man paused unnaturally. To him, emotions were as erratic as the wind that comes and goes. If he were to be honest, his anger was half appeased at the words. After all, she had the guts to admit her wrongdoings. But his persona would collapse… At least carry on with the show.

A step forward led to his knees buckling and the strengthening of his grip on the bench.

“Ah…” The soft noise of realisation hit him. There was no way for him to chase her off in such a condition. Siros let out a breath in irritation. Pathetic.

“Scram, don’t let me see you again, or your head will be separated from your body like the Ivarian flowers from the soil.” As guttural his voice was, it came out slightly faint. The lack of energy was taking a toll on his body. Quickly go away, I want to sit down. Glowering at the woman, he straightened his posture as much as possible, giving rise to the levels of intimidation.

Flowers from Ivaria, she had said. Siros could never distinguish the overgrown wild flora apart in his quarters, nor did he ever step out of the country. It was an unfulfilled wish he had as a child to travel the world, and would most likely stay that way. The cruel reality snapped him out of his slight daze.

Shoo. Leave.

Time seemed to crawl past suffocatingly slowly; the other party looked, or at least appeared to Siros, like she was hesitating, as if she wanted to say something. If his glare were to be transformed into daggers, he’d wager she would be pierced full of holes. Regrettably, a paper tiger is what he currently was; if she so decided otherwise, there was nothing else he could do. Some more dawdling led to the deepening of his frown, while the thought of him leaving instead bubbled in his mind. Before he could proceed with it, to his delight, the woman eventually excused herself. He sighed in relief.

Troubles unfortunately, seem to appear beside him as if he were a magnet, shrouding its end with a thick mist. With his gaze fixated on her figure that was getting further away, he caught sight of someone, someone he did not want to meet. Zayn. The brown-haired man seemed to have greeted the lady. It was a short encounter, for when both men’s eyes met accidentally, Zayn probably ended whatever conversation and started walking towards him. Thoughts of escaping unnoticed were squashed, and Siros sullenly returned himself to the bench. His fingers were clenched in a fist; after salutations came gossip. The ongoing ball meant mingling between factions, and the nobles would have revealed everything in an attempt to bring the scholar to their side.

“Iros, long time no see.”

Any remaining frost on Zayn melted at those words, and he barely cracked a rare smile. However, what he received in reply was a mere hum, causing him to pause. He was a smart man; grasping hints were akin to reciting his name, simple and natural.

“Don’t worry, I-”

“Zayn.”

The remnants of tacit understanding from their younger years allowed him to understand what Siros implied: actions spoke louder than words. His hand landed on the man’s shoulder in a comforting pat.

“I understand, I will see you another time. Just know I’m on your side”

It was back to the icy Zayn, a high-achieving intellectual. After giving a short bow, he left, and Siros was then accompanied by the moon above. He had let Zayn down. Trust was such a fragile thing; if his friend had returned earlier, things might be drastically different. Yet he had changed, no longer the optimistic man who had no care in the world. Happiness was short and should be cherished- he appreciated that the other party tried to reassure him. Like always, his insecurities were easily caught and identified by his dear friend, though as compared to the past, it was now a ball of tangled yarn with dead knots.

The lingering warmth through the layers of cloth was similar to a pacifying lullaby. Mistakes were made and lessons were learnt. Putting his beliefs in others was a foolish choice, his current situation an attestation to the point. But with Zayn… there might still be a faint hope.

siros atticus valha.

© reveriee

 

[Uxie]

isolde anemonas

i hear your sorrowful voice beckon; softly, gently.

location

garden

outfit

link

interactions

siros

He attempted a step forward, radiating murderous intent enough to make her blood run cold, but she watched, pitifully, as his knees buckled and his step faltered. She felt her hands reach out once more, though she caught herself this time— They retreated quickly, shamefully, and she could only stare. Tight-white knuckles gripped the bench like a vice, and the softest of dread-filled sighs.

It was replaced almost immediately by his steely, hostile visage, but it was difficult to erase the sight he had shown to her from her mind's eye. The fear that would've quickly overcome her being was muted, mixed instead with faint, misplaced sympathy; Even as he straightened to tower over her, even as he barked out words that dripped with malice, even as he could certainly have her executed if he really wanted (probably)... Isolde thought she could sense the slightest shake within his voice.

"Scram, don’t let me see you again, or your head will be separated from your body like the Ivarian flowers from the soil."

What a funny little analogy, and a clever one. She'd have laughed, normally, but she was certain he'd issue an order for her head if she did that. She'd only been alive again for a week— It was much too soon to lose her head again.

Her eyes met his for a breath of a moment, last words— Was it an apology? More concern? She wasn't sure— hovering briefly in her throat before sinking back to the pit of her stomach. Afraid or sympathetic, he still made her deathly nervous. Her head bowed once more, and agreement came in a docile murmur.

"...Of course."

Isolde could feel his gaze on her even as she vacated the area, drilling a hole into her back, but she felt her shoulders ease as the distance grew between them. The ambience of twilight finally returned as she crossed the patch of flowers she had sullied, and she breathed out a small sigh.

Perhaps she should never accept another invitation ever again. This would be her first and last; It was certainly enough excitement for two lifetimes. Although, that sensation she'd felt had been... unsettling— Her fingers rubbed gently against one another, the memory of some abyss-like touch fading from its tips.

"Oh, Lady Anemonas. Good evening."

She winced, imperceptibly, though her figure dropped into a curtsy.

"Good evening..."

Isolde glanced up at him, eyes wide and searching for recognition in the vague familiarity that tugged at her mind.

"...Sir... Aziel, yes?"

A scholar, and one of the main characters of tonight's event, or so she thought. There was no trace of offence on his features (which delightfully signalled a correct guess), but by the curious look on his face, she supposed she'd considered a second too long.

Clearly, she hadn't studied quite well enough before coming. One more reason to never attend another ball.

"Indeed it is. I don't believe we've spoken." A smile forced itself onto her features. "Were you enjoying..." His voice trailed as his gaze was tugged elsewhere, looking toward from whence she came. There was no need for her to glance to guess where he was looking. His expression seemed to hold meaning — Were they close? She had never been particularly good at reading expressions, and certainly not those of a stoic-like character; But, at the very least, she was not obstinate enough to miss her cue.

She was very glad to take it.

"I did, thank you,"

She said, her feet already in motion,

"But I fear it is time for me to take my leave."

And leave Isolde did; She had no interest in hanging around for whatever conversation, lest the prince had her hanged for eavesdropping.

♡coded by uxie♡