childhood—
[Perhaps it would be a sore point to know that even at the tender age of 5, he still had that damnable haircut. It sheers cleanly through his bangs like a blade gone awry and ends neatly at a set of bangs framing a young and near ivory pale face. But for little else besides his height and clothes, there is little to mark him different from that of his academy self. An eternally smiling and bright-eyed youth with all the confidence in the world to exude.

The memory itself is seemingly no great thing. A boy poised upon the edge of a chair, too large a book in hand and thumbing through the pages with meticulous care. It is, presumably, no moment of rarity for a young noble heir to while an afternoon away at study.

Save, perhaps, in the minor details.

The longer the memory carries, the more it might strike unsettling. The boy's immaculate, unmoving posture and the unwavering gaze of a woman settled in a seat opposite. Monitoring. A gaze that narrows when Lorenz raises his hand, a befuddled look upon his brow.]

What is this man doing? [His voice betrays his youth, higher and questioning in all the ways indicative of a child as he turns the book towards his teacher, gesturing to the image of a man hard at work at an anvil.]

"Smithery," [Her voice is matter-of-fact in her response.] "He is a blacksmith. One who forges objects from metals, whether they be something as simple as a nail or as important as a blade."

[And it is betrayed on his youthful face- an unguarded interest that a nail could share its origins as a sword. Unbidden, the questions tumble out. Do they handle all metals? Shields? Axes? What of buckles and hinges. Gold? And she answers them dutifully, unbiased and intelligently- weathering a child's curiosity with a cool patience. Then,] Would it not be famous to craft a legendary sword? [Lorenz asks, bright eyes shining.]

[Her response is immediate.] "Is that something a noble should do?" [It is a question posed with no inflection, no shift in tone from her earlier answers save but a subtle arch of a once furrowed brow. And Lorenz, young and unassuming, glances up with no worldly wisdom to guard him against what is being insinuated.]

... I suppose a noble ought to wield it, instead. [He answers after a moment of thought, interest dissipating visibly. The excitement sloughs off him like rainwater, his posture returning to immaculate as the teacher nods at him with approval.]


after the war—
"Count Gloucester, a moment?" [A servant beckons him mid-stride down the hall, a handful of papers in hand. Lorenz, already amidst a gathering of several questing men and women, glances up at the call and, rather than seem harried, nods with a brief smile and returns to his conversation with a soldier.

It is in that smile, however, an indication of agitation. Absent is his usual beaming self and in its place is someone courteous but brief. Someone who is forced to answer questions as quickly and briskly as possible without seeming curt or dismissive and barely managing to succeed. The memory carries on some several minutes, discussions of finances, patrols and various complaints of nobles and commoners alike before Lorenz is able to answer the latest inquiry.]

"Their majesty sent this along. It seems your proposal for a memorial is to go ahead. They-" [The voice trails off as Lorenz takes the papers offered and scans through them, an indescribable expression clouding his face. The smile lingers yet but it is hardly an expression that could be called joyful.] "They said they've given the location some thought."

I suppose Garreg Mach would seem inappropriate. [Lorenz's voice is carefully reserved as he reads the missive, turning a page and seeming resigned.] But given all that has happened, I had thought... [And he trails off, expression turning grim.] ... no, perhaps that is more fitting. [And he is quiet a moment, silent in his thoughts, eyes growing distant as he is reminded of some grim, terrible moment.] ... thank you, [his reply comes after a pause- quietly.] You are dismissed.