(no subject)

[starfelled]

A mist settles in over the monastery.

Is it morning? Night? Who can say? Today, the day feels endless. The sun is nowhere to be seen — or had it been at all? Instead, a curious green glow engulfs Garreg Mach, like an eternal twilight settling in. Time seems to be paused almost, though the wildlife in and around the area continues to act as though nothing is wrong. As though this is perfectly normal. As though it is natural for the skies to be dark, with not a single star in sight, and for the sun to be forgotten in the mist that lingers. The paths are at least lit by small orbs of light, fireflies flitting about.

However, should one come into contact with one of those fireflies, a memory of the past will be projected for all in the close vicinity to see. Joyous occasions, tragic events — they don't seem to discern one way or another. Perhaps it would be best to watch your step for now, though.

Of course, after lingering for about a day, the strange ambience will fade into what appears to be a normal night at Garreg Mach. It's as if nothing had happened at all. Did it? Or was it all simply a shared hallucination?

[ ● MEMSHARE POST. Coming into contact with the fireflies will share a memory of your character's with those around them. You can top-level with a memory to start out or have people tag you and determine it then, whatever. I don't make the rules (except I do and I say yolo). Have fun with it!
● Open posts like this one are flipping to a two week schedule instead of a weekly one.
● Because of the above, the last bit is there for people who'd maybe like to play out aftermath threads later on but don't want to wait for a new post or make a new one.
● Settings have been slightly updated. ]

Comments

crimson flower & verdant wind spoilers

[outsideer]

[ ooc: mechanics: one memory half-typed out, other options that will be expanded on should you prefer one of those! ]

[ Well, how about that. Mystery upon mystery, impossibility heaped on top of impossibility. The dead walk and the the sky vanishes. Claude has long been drawn to the riddles of life, Fodlan and Garreg Mach in particular seeming rife with them. And that had been before he'd breathed his last only to breathe again here.

Still, it's frustrating, as so many of Garreg Mach's puzzles had been. At least before, he'd been able to find some book, identify some individual, some path to trace even if it went soon cold. Here? Aside from marking the new boundaries, too little to go on.

Now the sun and stars have been shrouded, and why not? The fireflies are a nice touch. At first. He's at the stables, dilapidated though they are, filling the troughs and noting the easy behavior of the horses.

(Or, he might be returning from the stables, through the entrance hall).

Brushing against a firefly, the memory —

— is it a rowdy feast in a strange hall?
— the warm if raucous laughter of a man and woman as a young boy twists, managing a run while tied to a horse?
— sixteen and surrounded by books on Garreg Mach, Faerghus, the Adrestrian Empire, even the Alliance
— a training session with a certain undefeated general
— (something else? something crimson flower? just not the death part cough)

Or, is it this:

Sun and noise, the active chatter of a marketplace. A memory bright enough that one might near feel the heat, the enthusiasm. He's young, not much more than ten, hair wild in strips of cloth. Looking through the books and scrolls on display at a merchant's booth, bouncing on the balls of his feet and smiling wide. The crowd is thick, thickens, teeming such that he can't at first be sure of who. It's luck— sheer luck that another man elbows his way forward, disruptive.

A flurry of activity, an abrupt shift: his face contorted with fury, with something else, as he scrambles for what fell to the ground and launches himself, small though he is, at the man attempting to weave his way out of the crowd. Why—

Get him off me—

Pulled off by his collar, as though a naughty cub held by the scruff of its neck. The man spits into the dirt, spitting a crude epithet before disappearing into the crowd. Claude wriggles free, runs, but not after him. One hand clutching his side, the other the hilt of a short blade.

Running, though he slows, hand tight around the throbbing of his side. Slows, but finds his mother—familiar in the shape of her eyes, the line of her nose. His eyes are hot, clenched against tears, but she cuts off his beginning— What have we told you? She examines the blade, and only the blade. It isn't poison. Go on.

Understanding her meaning, he goes. Simmering, teeth grit, but strong enough in stride. Disappointed to find Nima in the infirmary, not Ester. Ester might look at him just the same as Nima does now, with disgust thinly veiled in her eyes, but she wouldn't find an excuse to leave the moment he entered. Nima finds that excuse. It's fine. He knows where to find what he needs: alcohol, gauze, scissors. Sitting himself on the edge of a bed, now loosing his hand from his side.

His palm, fingers come away bloody. He's matter-of-fact about peeling up his shirt and tending the gouge in his side. (If he's sniffling, if his cheeks are streaked, it's clear he's fighting it.) It isn't that deep, probably. He doesn't need a healer. It's just a little awkward to wrap the gauze himself.

The memory fades, leaving Claude blinking in the dark, his eyes adjusting. ]

Yeah. That's normal.

[ Conundrum: the temptation to touch another and test whether the same thing happened, battling his wariness of seeing that again.

Or someone else seeing. ]

[axepectations]

[ Her first thought upon seeing Claude — or rather, upon seeing that memory of Claude's youth — is which one?

She immediately dismisses it because does it really matter? Claude is Claude; she'd handle it the same way regardless. Besides, deep down, hadn't she always known? It was the secret she'd turned a blind eye towards again and again. What was one more time?

As Hilda approaches, she makes sure her footsteps are heavy, alerting him to her presence before she even speaks. ]

It's showing people memories, apparently.

[ She tips her head to the side, peering over at him quietly for a moment. Which one, which one . . .

a pause, and then she points up at a firefly passing by. ]

Those little guys.

[outsideer]

[ Sure, the sky has gone out and he might be hallucinating (he knows better than to follow that line of thought for long), but is that really an excuse? Were he the type, he might have been embarrassed— to need the deliberate sound of her steps to notice her. To have been distracted, too much on the cusp of sinking into his mind.

Instead, he appreciates her effort.

Claude turns toward the sound, toward Hilda, his hand finding his hip. ]

Apparently.

[ An amused quirk of his mouth, because he might as well be amused. Even if he finds very little funny in what was shown, what might yet be shown. However little it might matter for him now, for Claude prime, for any other Claude in any of these times— Well. It would be less than ideal.

At least it gives him something to focus on, his eyes following the light rather than lingering on her face. It isn't that he's been avoiding the dining hall, really, it's just— ]

Well, that's not very polite. Hey, Hilda.

[axepectations]

[ Ah. He's that one.

She meets his greeting with an easy smile. It's been a few days, at least. Enough, certainly. ]

Hey, Claude. [ Her gaze drifts over to the light and she shakes her head with a soft chuckle. ] I'm not sure this place is really concerned with politeness, you know?

[ She steps over a bit closer — not quite at his side, but close enough, rocking on her heels a bit. ]

It's like this all over, though.

[outsideer]

Yeah, I suppose dragging us out of how many different times and places, just to dump us into Garreg Mach at its finest, isn't exactly peak etiquette.

[ This sort of easy conversation has its benefits, has its detriments. Maintaining humor keeps frustration at bay, along with whatever dark sentiments may accompany it— despair, anger, fear, resentment. Speaking as though there was a singular force behind it veered too close to attributing it to a god for Claude's liking, just the sort of meddling, fickle deity that Fodlan liked best. And really, given the regular nonsense, it very well could be.

But he'd rather exhaust other options, first.

If only he had any.

Busy though his mind is, he's well aware that she nears. Proximity that still feels familiar, and why shouldn't it? He'd only had so many chaotic minutes to understand a world without her. And here she is, isn't, is.

Now he glances again her way, sidelong. ]

How much have you seen?

[ Er, not of his. Of the others. ]

[axepectations]

[ There's a tension in the air almost, and it isn't from the atmosphere, the strange green glowing fireflies flitting about. It's nearly imperceptible, but she can feel it all the same. Enough that she maintains a small distance, glancing over at him curiously. ]

Not too much. [ a beat. ] It feels kind of rude, you know?

[ To see the memories of others, of course. Not just his.

Though that seems equally rude, given his penchant for secrecy. ]

They're everywhere.

[outsideer]

Kind of.

[ Claude nods. Still with the humor, his echoed quip tinged with amusement, amusement he doesn't feel it.

As intrusive as he can be, as curious as he is about the lives each iteration of his once-classmates lived in their divergent times, not like this. Not given a window directly into their head, prying into the private, pulled from their skulls and broadcast. ]

Hard to avoid, huh?

[ Dark enough that their glow makes them hard to miss, but if there were enough of them, being able to see them coming wouldn't be of much help. ]

I suppose we could hide away from each other, but that isn't a lasting solution. Has anyone tried killing them?

[ You know. He claps his hands, as though smashing an insect between his palms. ]

[axepectations]

[ She could make some kind of remark about "hiding away from each other" or a well-placed observation on how the dead don't seem to stay dead here, but both are a bit too dark and dreary for her liking. Instead, Hilda gives Claude a Look, raising an eyebrow briefly, before she shakes her head. ]

Not that I've heard of, but there's a lot of them, you know? We don't even know where they're coming from.

[ Because they seemed to be coming from everywhere. Hilda lets out a soft sigh of frustration, blowing a few strands of hair away from her face. ]

Dimitri was wondering if maybe we could control what ended up getting shown.

[fashionoble]

[It is a curious thing to stand still and have the world move around you... But that is how the images play out, carrying him from stall to stall in a bustling marketplace.

It is not hard to guess that this is no area in Fodlan. The colors, the language, the peoples... all of it misplaced from what he has come to know. And yet, for a place beyond Fodlan's borders... is it not very much the same? A busy street with the commonfolk plying their trades, families at work to purchase and spend as needed. Soldiers to safeguard the streets and children...

Children...

His eyes lock to the child, seeing in him the familiarity of someone he has watched for nigh a decade. It is in the wild of his hair, the crook of his smile- wider- and the flash of interest in his eyes- brighter- as he spots a tome that grabs his attention.

Ah. It takes a moment, for the unfamiliarity of time and appearance are worthy distractions, but only just before Lorenz is able to say with no small amount of embarrassing certainty that this child is Claude. But goodness did I lack for hobbies, he thinks a bit sheepishly as he glances about the fog, certain by now what has happened for he too has suffered a similar fate. After a moment, the passing glow of the fireflies gives way to the outline of a man obscured in the shifting veil of the mist. And- again- it is not hard to place the posture. The stance in which his feet are set, the broadness of his shoulders and the movement of a cape that catches sunlight on a brilliant day in a rich golden- but goddess, Lorenz, you really must stop.

And he clears his throat, fully intending to call out to the other in an effort to prevent the memory from carrying any further. Intrigued as he is, it is not in his nature to pry into another's secrets. It is honesty he desires as much as the truth and this is by no means any way to obtain it. Only, before he can call out, the scene changes.

In a second cheer turns to confusion and madness, a scuffle- what sort of wretch a man would harm a child?- and then...

Oh.

It is no surprise that attempts should have been made. Even from this short glimpse it was easy to tell Claude was from a family of no small amount of wealth. The state of his clothes, dusted and ruffled as they were, spoke of quality and money. To face danger simply for one's birth is... not unexpected. But for the reaction to the attempt... the callous nature of someone who could only be a mother to the rejection of a healer...

He runs through the motions- shock, disbelief, disgust... then something unexpected. Anger. True anger. Not the contempt of someone failing their duty, not the scorn of someone who has failed in responsibility... but anger. Blinding and white hot, simmering through the veins so heated as to boil. Anger for a friend wronged.]

Claude. [He announces himself, moving forward, more force to his step than needed, more purpose to his stride than appropriate. There is frustration welled within him and it lacks an out.]

[outsideer]

[ As though the unwelcome memory wasn't enough.

Foolish, to say the least, to have allowed it to occupy so much of his attention while exposing what it does. To have been less attuned to the dark, the trailing of the mist. After all, in addition another set of eyes seeing too much, more than nosy fireflies might have arrived with this dark.

Claude might have preferred that danger, that unknown. Another set of eyes proves more alarming, especially when they belong to this man. A man known and unknown, and certainly one of the very last Claude would have chosen, if forced, to see that memory.

He hasn't yet heard or encountered any other Gloucester, and so assumes the one who speak his name and approaches to be the same he's spoken to now and again during their imprisonment, largely to compare notes. Claude hadn't yet gotten full-used to the manner with which this Lorenz addressed him, which makes this, strangely, more comfortable.

The heaviness of his step, the edge with which he addressed him. Lorenz is angry, Claude's sure of it, and he can understand only one explanation for it. And once I expose you for the fraud you are—

Well, it's been awhile, but given the nature of his last communication with the Lorenz of his time, Claude's able to turn without the grimace the he feels. Without tension tightening his features. He cannot regulate his eyes so well as to keep wariness from them, but he's practiced in his smile.

Bracing himself, he nonetheless raises his hand, a partial wave of greeting turning into caution. All but his index finger bending, a finger that he wags. ]

Ah-ah, Lorenz. I'm not your Claude.

[ That turn of phrase probably shouldn't amuse him in quite the way that it does. Meanwhile— maybe he should shave his head. Ha.

Not that he means to fob this off onto that Claude, if Claude prime is his Claude. Whichever Claude. He doubts he'd be able to avoid whatever's coming even if he did intend that. ]

And that—

[ Can he explain it away? He'd have liked more time to craft an explanation. Prepared as he's been for some manner of discovery, he'd been unable to prepare for that. Here's a thought: why should it be a given that the fireflies reveal only the truth, the past as it happened? Why couldn't they be agents of confusion and deceit?

He'll pretend not to have recognized it. Worth a shot, anyway.

Claude shrugs. ]

Quite a story, isn't it?

[fashionoble]

You-! [Goddess, he knew he'd regret saying that. The sigh that gusts out of Lorenz as he comes to a stop before Claude is world-weary, pulling from him a good sum of his fury.] There is no need to refer to yourself in that manner, I know perfectly well who you are.

[And, inexplicably, he does.

It is in the wariness of Claude's eyes and the guarded nature of his smile. The tightness of his shoulders that anticipates an argument and the shift of his footing- ever ready to make an escape as though it is a chore to linger.

There is nothing of this Claude that speaks of familiarity- of friendship- and it is... disheartening, though Lorenz would be loathe to admit it. More and more as they interact, he is finding himself regretting some of the harsher words shared between them in their youth. Regretting the harshness that must have been shared between them in Claude's world even though it is not his to regret in the least. And it swells within, that ever present guilt and fear. Could not more have been done? Was it folly or limit? Mistake or impossibility?

This is not the time.]

Claude. [He repeats the name instead, more severely this time. Don't play games with me.] What was that?

[outsideer]

Do you? Thanks for that.

[ Smiling as his mind races. Is he so obvious? It's different with Hilda, but that might not be a fair comparison. After everything, it could only be Hilda. But it is different: that with Hilda, he accepts that she might look at him and understand. That her deceptively sharp eyes would see more than he'd intended, more than he crafted in the practiced swoop of his smile.

With Lorenz, even with their occasional discussion, he's less comfortable with the notion. It should not be very surprising, and it isn't, because once he'd been all too aware of the close attention Lorenz paid him. But then Lorenz had been drawn to the Black Eagles by that irresistible, uncanny magnetism Teach had. But then war.

It's been awhile.

Despite kneejerk discomfort, it isn't as though it's a bad thing. He has no desire to be confused with any other Claude, no intention of fostering that confusion. But in a moment such as this, put just that much on edge by the memory and its exposure, for Lorenz to approach in anger and recognition—

Well, he almost feels young again, so acute is the impetus to run. Energy stirs in his hands, his fingers, nervous. Claude's got too much self-control to fist them or to yield to crossing his arms.

That would only make him look as defensive as he feels.

And once again with this Lorenz, Claude wonders for how long he can maintain a deceit. at least this is one he knows. Likely not very.

But he'll stall for time, anyway, repeating himself neatly from their first meeting here. ]

As ever, Lorenz, you'll need to be more specific. What part of it? If you mean the entire,

[ Hand waved wide, gesturing to the space once occupied by the moving images ]

then I'd like to know, myself.

[fashionoble]

[A deflection. He can not even feign surprise nor disdain, though the sigh that echoes from his lips is softer and more exasperated.]

I am referring, of course, to the contents of your memory. [A pause, then a faint look of irritation as he realizes he might yet have a need to explain what just occurred.] That is what these are, I mean. Each time a firefly comes into contact with an individual, a memory is chosen at random and displayed upon the mists for all to see. And, while I admit it was an egregious breach of privacy, it was hardly intentional and is not the primary concern I have.

[And he gestures, once more, to Claude. More specifically to his side where the blade had been buried.] Well? If you won't care to explain yourself, I suspect I can come up with a guesses of my own. Certainly I've had practice over the years we've known each other.

[outsideer]

[ It would be both easier and more difficult if Lorenz was only angry, only irritated, and unmistakably at him, with him.

Easier, too, if Lorenz had no understanding of what the fireflies had produced. Of course, he'd recognized his own memory, though hadn't the opportunity to experiment in earnest. Having so recognized, he cannot yet say as much to Lorenz, or indicate that he'd gathered as much from the display. Not while he maintains hope of convincing him that he hadn't seen an actual event from Claude's childhood.

Dwindling though that hope. ]

Is that so... Are you certain that they only show memories?

[ Playing dumb, perhaps. Deflection, maybe. But it's a fair question, isn't it? It's at least possible that some project fiction.

If only Lorenz would humor it. Claude senses that he's delaying the inevitable, and not well. And it's... frustrating. The egregious violation of privacy may not be Lorenz's primary concern, but in the moment, it sure is Claude's. He could pretend the images were fiction, that he had no recollection of such an event. But from the way Lorenz speaks, of the ability and intention to make his guesses, Claude suspects that wouldn't get him far.

For once, Claude, too, sighs. ]

Lorenz... I don't care to explain myself. I can't.

[ Because the display had been invented -- or, because he'd promised his parents those years ago. ]

Honestly, I'd like it if you wouldn't guess.

[fashionoble]

[And it is inexplicable, in its own way, that Claude’s words- his rejection should sting Lorenz so. It is one thing to be deflected- distracted. To be waylaid and set awry by a few clever words and a handful of his own failings. But this?

This feels… defeated.

And it reflects on his face- the surprise, the momentary flicker of hurt, and then the determination that can only be considered customary. Lorenz is, as ever, one to wear his heart on his sleeve. And, perhaps, if this Claude had been his own, damned as such a differentiation may be, he might have relented. Would have held enough faith to believe

But it is not and therefore he cannot.]

And I suppose I am just to accept this? [He waves at the fog around them, at the fireflies which flitter this way and that.] Claude, whatever you think of me, you cannot expect I would simply let this go. Certainly not while- [-I don’t know where you are.

And it drags at his emotions, an unfortunate possibility. Certainly he has harbored his suspicions even since Claude took to riding his wyvern, but he had never given it proper consideration. Whether from lack of time or because it… simply hadn’t mattered anymore. But after, once the war was over, once Claude…]

… Was that Almyra? [Is that what you returned to.]

[crestfalls]

[As strange as the monastery feels to her, the stables will always be a familiar and comforting place for Marianne. Dorte is here, after all -- a single constant, familiar figure that reminds Marianne to work harder a little every day, if only for his sake. Is it the same Dorte as the one back home? Does it matter? They're all the same to her, all very much deserving of some extra love and care.

And then, it gets dark. And then, there are fireflies. She has no idea what's going on, but she at least quickens her steps before bursting into the stables -- looking around quickly to see if the horses are alright and -- ]

Oh -- Claude...!

[She sounds so surprised to see him, and honestly, should she be? It's been days and she can't remember if she's run into him anytime before this -- but she's known that he's been around, Hilda had said. The sight of him does fill her with fervent relief, and she puts a hand to her chest to calm herself down a little.]

How are the horses...?

[she's just got horses on her mind!!! give her a second here]

as promised... i am slower!!!

[outsideer]

[ Left with the horses and the darkness, Claude's spent a thoughtful five, nearing ten minutes in such company. As though each beat of his inexplicable heart pushed curiosity with his blood, and surely it is in his blood, he's on the brink of yielding. Listening to footsteps, looking for enough of a stall to further remove himself, determined to touch another and examine the repetition—

Her steps are so light that it's as though the dark further muffles them, but she enters loudly enough. Claude jumps, jerks his hand back from a firefly, and spins. Relaxing to see Marianne, who ask a question so predictable, so very Marianne, that he can't help but smile and mean it.

They've spoken a little, enough for Claude to be satisfied that she was well and knew a different time, a different Claude. Simple enough thereafter to mind his own. However like or unlike him. ]

Hey, Marianne. You know? They're just the same. I'm not sure whether I should be relieved or disturbed.

[ But sure enough, they loll about with perfect ease. ]

I'll admit I'm a liiittle disappointed.

[ Hand propping to hip as his other gestures. ]

I'd have like to see what these little guys would produce from a horse.

[ But he's watched fireflies perch on ears and tails, hind legs and flanks, without result. ]

casts my glove to the ground... it's a duel of the late tags!!!

[crestfalls]

[In Marianne's case, she's very clearly relieved by Claude's answer. The horses acting exactly the same is great news, surely, even if the circumstances around them are very strange. After looking around the stable as if to confirm Claude's answer, she moves a little closer, exhaling softly.]

That would be fun to see, when you put it that way.

[fun...... is one way to put it, but Marianne is definitely the type who'd just watch animal planet for the rest of her days. Still, she likes the idea of it so much that she smiles a little... imagining... Then Dorte shoves his whole head out of one of the stalls to greet her, possibly stirring up some of the fireflies braiding his mane, but they settle back down on him soon enough.]

Oh, hello, Dorte! Were you enjoying yourself with Claude? [Dorte whickers, possibly something along the lines of 'claude did NOT have any apples on his person, so i'm giving him a solid 6 out of 10'.] Hehe. Maybe next time he'll have a treat for you.

[when they're being ambushed by memory fireflies... Marianne reaches out to pet Dorte, pausing at the sight of fireflies, but it's fine because you know what... Dorte will take his little firefly passengers and move his head towards Claude instead, intent on getting whatever goodies he can. Come through!!! Where's his lump of sugar!!!

ooc: ILL PICK THE SAD CHILDHOOD ALMYRAN MEMORY unless u wanna throw a random CF memory at me. im good with anything]

grimly tosses mine down as well, knowing i won... 😬😬😬

[outsideer]

[ At least once, who wouldn't want to watch a horse's memory? Claude truly cannot fathom someone having no interest whatsoever. Deprived of such, Marianne's relief proves an acceptable replacement.

And he'd suspected she would understand, smiling back. Though they hadn't been close before she left to join Teach's class, she'd changed classes relatively late in the year -- something Claude had attributed more to Hilda then himself. And they hadn't needed to share a house to have spoken at the stables, where Claude had observed her greater comfort with the beasts, particularly Dorte.

Dorte, who now makes himself known. As Marianne greets her old friend, Claude wonders, idly: could there be more than one Dorte? Is this the Dorte she'd known? Would she be able to discern otherwise?

Tactful as always, Claude's about to initiate that line of questioning, before allowing himself to be distracted by his impugned honor. Gathering from her response what the horse may or may not have said, Claude makes his assumption and frowns at him. ]

Hey now, Dorte, you never asked! I'll have you know, I did bring you something.

[ Reaching to his pocket, maintaining his pout of indignation. Foolish, really, both to be so distracted and to invite the attention of an animal covered in fireflies. Dorte moves, quick to lip the noa fruit out of his hand the moment it pops free of pocket, and the fireflies --

Huh, same memory. He forgets to be concerned about what it exposes for the first few seconds of it, instead taking mental note that the first test, this second encounter with a firefly, had produced the same result.

But as the boy's enthusiasm for the books at the stall begins to show in that broad smile, as the crowd thickens around him, as a man approaches in the bustle -- Claude remembers Marianne. Claude's eyes flick to her. She's certainly one of the least objectionable people, but "least objectionable" is a far, far cry from welcome. Gods, not much makes him self-conscious or awkward anymore, and he's got enough practice with self-control, but this. This.

Waving a hand, dismissive and hopefully attention-drawing, through the air. ]

This might be a long one. It's -- not that interesting.

[ Hard sell, with the fight breaking out in the memory. The boy's fury, the man's spat disdain. ]

yeah just going for the angsty memory two months later

[azuremoon]

[Claude's childhood couldn't be further away from Dimitri's. Though being put up on a pedestal as the crown prince was a little lonely at times, for the most part, he was surrounded by warmth and love and security. Honestly, the scrappy child Claude used to be is such a far cry from the man he became that Dimitri doesn't realize what he's looking at when he turns the corner. He watches for a few moments to take in the foreign scenery before he realizes how incredibly invasive it is, and he forces himself to look away when the child runs to a woman — presumably his mother — and is rebuffed.

Then he sees Claude, and he realizes who the memory belongs to. Dimitri steps forward, his back to the rest of the scene, an attempt to show that he wasn't trying to intrude.]

My apologies. I did not intend to spy on you.

[Hesitantly, a moment later:]

Is that the land you went back to?

as we do

[outsideer]

[ Not his favorite memory, no. It isn't one he spends much time with, a truth that holds for most of his memories from childhood. What lingers, what keeps, are what they cut and shaped, habits and reflex and a certain perspective.

Claude prefers to think that it is the the phenomenon of the memory that distracts him, more than the content. That holds his attention against the dark, against the mist, and against Dimitri's approach that (no offense) is rarely quiet.

Because it's rarely quiet and because Dimitri makes such a show of his unnatural approach, Claude at least isn't startled. He appreciates it, however little he appreciates needing the consideration.

Which isn't Dimitri's fault, and even if it was, Claude's response wouldn't have been any different: this easy smile, this dismissive wave of his hand, as though swatting away the glowing culprit. ]

Dimitri, if you're going to start apologizing for the actions of creepy magic bugs, we might need to have a talk.

[ Come on, your Kingliness.

What is Dimitri's fault: the follow-up. The question. More of paint in his smile now, more of shutters in his eyes. His mind, as always, racing.

In the world where Teach had chosen him, he'd left after the war -- gleaned from Hilda and Lorenz. Apparently, in the world where Teach chose Dimitri, he'd also left.

How badly he must have misread, how poor his choices, that in his world alone he would never again walk the Almyran prairies, palm skimming the tall grasses. ]

Maybe, maybe not. It's an awfully big world outside of Fodlan.

[azuremoon]

[But he feels guilty, let him apologize! Dimitri just lets that gentle dismissal go without comment, looking slightly amused at Claude's refusal to confirm things. Honestly, so unnecessarily secretive...]

That it is. I fear I shall never see most of it, unfortunately. I had hoped to continue my father's work in reaching outside the borders, but rebuilding and repairing relations within Fodlan will have to take priority.

[If he doesn't, he risks being assassinated too. Which is already a risk, but he doesn't need to raise that risk just to go exploring.]

[outsideer]

[ Far be it for him to speak for himself who isn't himself. Even if, barring a significant change of heart and head, it was very, very unlikely he'd have gone anywhere else. An interesting question, sure enough, but unable to puzzle farther than the theoretical.

Much more concrete: Dimitri's interest, however certain to be disappointed, in the world beyond. That his father had made effort Claude knew, but it's encouraging to hear it from Dimitri. Whatever his own successes, whatever his own fate, his dream might yet be realized in each world. ]

Right. I guess the king himself can't go gallivanting off on a world tour, even once things are in order at home.

[ Not the king of Fodlan, anyway. Claude reaches overhead, stretching his arms before crossing them loosely behind. ]

But, who knows? Maybe someday. Hah, maybe your Claude will invite you wherever he went.

[ ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ]

[azuremoon]

[He's never going to get used to that wording. Dimitri laughs, slightly flustered.]

An interesting way to put it. I cannot picture you belonging to anyone. What was it Marianne said... ah, you are like the wind.

[One can hardly own wind, nor can it be grasped and held by force. It truly is a shame that Claude left, though. If he'd stayed, would he have been able to find a way to convince Edelgard to lay down her axe? Probably not, but that clever mind stands a better chance than Dimitri.

Still, thinking of him making contact again someday is nice.]

[outsideer]

The wind? That was generous of her.

[ The timid, gloomy girl he'd known at Garreg Mach had eventually followed the rest to Teach, if roughly a month before Edelgard's unveiling, likely owing to Hilda's attempts to include her. She'd never accompanied Margrave Edmund to the Roundtable, and for obvious reasons he hadn't the opportunity to speak with her at the battle of Derdriu.

But the woman he'd met here had matured considerably, possessed of a fragile but determined confidence. He'd been glad to find her so, to know her now. And he does appreciate the comparison. ]

Of course,

[ Dropping one arm to gesture. ]

just as wind belongs to the sky, so too people to the earth. Your world's Claude, then.

[ The faith that he has, to the extent he has faith, is reserved for the land, the sky, the oceans. Aaand that's about as close as he'll get to speaking of it. ]

Anyway, I recommend you try to find the time.