Fantasy All's Fair

[Aerynth]

Had she expected her to repeat those words back? Cyreia had no idea. At this point, her mind was free of expectations; mostly because it didn't matter, not really. For all intents and purposes, Remin had said it already. So what if she wasn't comfortable with making it even more explicit? That couldn't stop her smile from getting so wide that her mouth hurt. She must have looked like an idiot, that much was incredibly obvious to her, but that didn't matter, either. Remin loved her despite her foolishness. Remin loved her. The phrase tasted strange on her tongue, foreign and unfamiliar, and yet it fit, it fit so perfectly that it may as well have always been there. Did her wife feel the same? Hopefully. Cyreia wanted her to because it was nothing short of amazing. And if she didn't... well, perhaps she should make her feel amazing in other ways. There had to be some balance, after all. What kind of spouse would hoard all the good things for themselves? Yes, that was her motivation here; trying to keep everything fair. No ulterior intentions were involved, of course. She would never stoop so low.

Remin's kiss may have lacked direction, but the one that followed - the one Cyreia initiated - sure as hell didn't. She kissed her deeply, passionately, and the intervals between their kisses grew shorter and shorter. "Say, my love, just out of curiosity," Cyreia hummed as she undid a few buttons on her shirt, revealing her bare shoulders. Nothing scandalous was happening just yet, though that line could be crossed very easily. "Do many people come here?" If not for the circumstances, the question would have been innocent; now it was anything but that. Wasn't it funny how context changed one's perception? "Because I could think of a few ways to help you relax. I'm sure it would help you with the training, too, since you're so terribly stiff right now. This is no state to fight in." And the greatest thing about it? It wasn't even a lie, or at least not entirely. Training like this, with Remin so obviously tense and distracted, really wouldn't lead anywhere. Giving in to the temptation instead of resisting it could clear her mind. Whether they'd manage to muster the willpower to return to the training afterwards was another problem entirely.

 

[Conifer]

Even if the answer had been yes to Cyeria's question of their probability of being seen, Remin wasn't entirely sure that she would have told her as much. This was all too good and she wasn't going to be the one to pull them out of it. "I sincerely doubt that anyone will come by," Remin says softly, honestly, beaming at Cyeria (she loved her. She was in love with her. It felt, quite honestly, fake and unreal at the moment, but it was also bright and shiny and new. She'd grow into it and grow comfortable with it; for now, it was allowed to feel delightfully strange. It would take some getting used to, but that was okay. All of this would take some getting used to (if the way she was left breathless, anxious, but delighted at Cyeria's own utterings of 'my love' were any indication.) This, at least, was a good thing to get used to. "There's some hunters who frequent the area, but it isn't hunting season," she says; more words that would be innocent if they weren't half-shirtless and flushed in the grass, Remin solidly in Cyeria's lap, and if she weren't continuing the undoing of Cyeria's buttons as she replied. "We're safe." She murmurs, sliding the fabric from her shoulders, before doing the quick work of pulling her own shirt from her body and letting it fall similarly into the grass.

In hindsight, they should have paused for the moment it would take to pull the picnic blanket they'd brought out, and spread it on the ground, but Remin can't really find it in herself to care - especially not now, curled comfortably with Cyeria, feeling too lazy to do anything but rest her head against her and simply lay there, pressing aftershock kisses to wherever she could easily reach (her shoulder, her upper arm, her collarbone.) There's a rock pressing into her hip and grass in her hair, but all of that couldn't matter less.
"My love," Remin says, so softly, the words taking easy place of the I love you she means them to be, but again, there's too much there. Too much meaning, too much honesty, too many children in parks repeating the words they heard from their parents: traitor, traitor, traitor, though no one besides the two of them among these trees can even begin to know the half of it. 'My love' will do. It will more than do, considering Cyeria's reaction from the first time she'd said it. "We should, at least," she continues, betraying them both by proposing the ruin of their laziness. "re-dress. Just in case."

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia must have gone mad. No matter how one looked at it, no other explanation sufficed. What she was proposing was stupid and risky and irresponsible and unnecessary and yet so delicious that she wasn't sure whether she would be able to stop herself even if Remin told her that the forest was a popular meeting spot for tourists. Remin didn't say that, though. Far from it. God, it was so obvious how much she ached for this - for her, really - and Cyreia had never seen anything more captivating in her entire life. That look in her eyes? She could drown in it for years, never seeing anything else, and she'd still ask for more, more, more. "In that case," she smiled at her wife, "I'd say that I'm obligated to help you. As your teacher, I mean." And as your love, too, Cyreia wanted to add, but she bit her tongue before the words left her mouth. Remin still seemed a bit hesitant when it came to voicing her feelings and echoing her confession in such a way would have been... well, insensitive. Almost like breaking an unspoken promise. As with most things, her wife was the one who had to set the tempo here; her role was to follow, not to lead, and she found that strangely soothing. The chance to cast aside the burden of responsibility, if only for a while, was welcome. It felt refreshing. Losing herself in Remin felt like that, too, and Cyreia did so gleefully.

"But I like being with you like this," Cyreia protested. This was how they were meant to exist; lying together, skin against skin, free of the chains of pretense and expectations. Finally honest, or at least as honest as two people could possibly get with one another. They could still craft lies with their words - hell, they could even lie with silence in a way - but the shared warmth of their bodies? That was real, unavoidably so. So painfully, viscerally real that everything else seemed almost intangible in comparison. Were they not allowed to bask in the sensation? To enjoy it for a little longer before they had to put on their masks once again? "Clothes were only invented to prevent us from reaching our true potential, you know. Everyone should just be naked. I'm sure that, as a species, we'd be a lot kinder to other people if we could only interact with one another in such a vulnerable state. Maybe we could pass it as a law. Our popularity would definitely skyrocket." Despite her quips, though, Cyreia still turned around and started collecting her scattered clothes. Of course that they couldn't stay like this; hell, they never should have gotten undressed in the first place. Especially not her. Where had her caution disappeared to? What if someone really had seen them, seen her for what she was? Would it have been worth it then? Terrifyingly, Cyreia was tempted to answer with 'yes'.

"We should really do this more often," she laughed as she put on her tunic, "because apparently my common sense stops working when I get too... deprived of your attention. If the trend continues, I might try to seduce you in the dining room next time." Lovingly, Cyreia leaned towards Remin and kissed her on her cheek. "You have some grass in your hair, too, by the way, except that you don't look foolish at all. It suits you. Perhaps you should start wearing it in the court as well; I bet that other noble ladies would start imitating your style pretty soon."

 

[Conifer]

She lays and laughs for a moment as Cyeria gathers her own clothes, making little effort for the moment to do the same herself. She would, in a moment, but for now she let herself giggle at the thought of ridding the entire kingdom of clothes in the way the king had suggested. No more talk of fashions - what would Lady Everbright do? (Find something else to gossip about nearly instantly.) Gods, what a world that would be. No hidden daggers, no poisons tucked away; nothing but honesty. Naked, naked honesty. A fleeting dream, though, leaving as Remin sits up and reaches for her discarded clothes. "I'm not sure how well that would go. The weather here in the winter would leave us all quite cold." She teases, tugging her tunic back over herself. "And frankly, I would rather see most people clothed, with present company excluded."

"I suppose we'll have to make a point to make more time," Remin laughs softly. "As it would be quite the embarrassment for a husband and wife to be fond of each other, and show that affection." She reluctantly shifted to pull her pants back on as well, "Things might slow, soon." They wouldn't, but she could dream. "We should make good on those wants to sleep beneath the stars, before the season starts to turn. Maybe next week sometime? Or the week after, depending on how busy we find ourselves." Maybe it would help them both get through the slog of responsibility if they had some little thing to look forward to.

 

[Aerynth]

"That's a fair point," she admitted with a hint of laughter in her voice. "I don't think I could handle all the meetings with the advisers if they started showing up naked. I mean, can you imagine?" Cyreia could, and it made her curse her hyperactive imagination instantly. Usually, it was a good trait to have - it enabled her to visualize many of her strategies with striking accuracy - but now it didn't help. That mental image would haunt her for the years to come, that much she was sure of. "Ouch. Alright, you know what? Let's forget about that law. We can always lounge naked in our chambers when we feel like it." And honestly, why not? Their servants had learned quickly that the king and queen didn't like being disturbed in the mornings, so she doubted that any of them would dare to just barge in. Not unless there was fire in the castle, at which point they would have more important things to worry about.

"Maybe we should get embarrassingly touchy feely with each other in public," Cyreia laughed. "I mean, they did want us to get married, so now they have to deal with the consequences. Like me loving you, for example." Oh, if only it could be so simple. If only this marriage could be a regular one where warm feelings were not only normal, but also expected. What they had could never be like that, though, and dreaming of it would only serve to highlight that disparity further. Discarding it was the only reasonable course of action, except that wishes didn't work like that. No matter how many logical arguments she presented, her heart ignored them in favor of '... I want to, though.' Such a treacherous organ.

"We shouldn't miss the opportunity," Cyreia nodded and turned around. By that point, she was fully clothed, but that couldn't prevent her from admiring Remin's naked form. A few weeks ago, such a sight would have caused her to avert her eyes; conversely, nothing could force her to do so now. Her beauty deserved to be admired, full stop. Not paying enough attention to it almost seemed like a blasphemy now, or it would have, had Cyreia been a more religious person. "Do you know of any suitable places? I'm afraid I am still fairly useless when it comes to Athean geography." Well, maybe not geography as such since most of the important maps were engraved in her memory by now, but that didn't mean that she actually knew what those places looked like. Her knowledge was good enough for planning journeys and wars, not trips; that required a much more intimate relationship with the land, which would take her years to acquire. As she spoke, Cyreia spread the blanket and handed one of the sandwiches the cook had prepared for them to Remin. Surely her wife must have gotten hungry, too. "And don't think I've forgotten about the training. I still intend to teach you, my student. Lesson number one: never fight on empty stomach."

 

[Conifer]

"If only you loving me carried the consequences we were worried over," Remin sighs - teasing, but too honest in the situation. Cyeria loving her - Avther loving her and showing it wouldn't be the worst thing. It would be proof, to those she'd lied to, that she was doing her good work at manipulation, at making him trust her and care for her. Gods, wasn't that funny?" That she could live as herself (or some boiled-down and dressed up version of herself, at least,) and yet her affections were something that carried so much risk, and Cyeria lived with every ounce of her identity a lie, and her being open and honest about her feelings would nearly be good strategy? Would they ever live in a world where those two things evened out? Where they could both live honestly, entirely; no assumed identities, no kisses shared only in washrooms or bedrooms or tucked-away clearings? Remin hoped they would. It was a foolish, childish wish, but that couldn't stop her from wishing it. Maybe someday they'd manage it when they were old and grey or when they'd simply stopped caring - or, more wishful thinking, when it would stop mattering. Any of those somedays were a long, long time away.

"And I still intend to learn," Remin assures her. As much as it would be nice to simply fool around the rest of the day, making up for the time they'd lost to books and paperwork, there was an important point to their journey out here and she wasn't going to squander this opportunity.The last thing she wanted, now that the opportunity to avoid it had presented itself, was to be in a position that left her feeling as in over her head as she had with the dagger in her hand at the Marshes. It had provided a modicum of security, sure, but for all the good she could have done with it she might as well have held a dinner knife; at least with that, she had a spotless track record of effective usage. After lunch, she would devote herself to studenthood, especially now that all of that had been worked out of their systems (well enough for now, at least; Remin's nearly entirely sure that she would never have her fill of Cyeria's hands on her, Cyeria's mouth slotted against hers, Cyeria in general.) She takes a bite of her sandwich, delighting in how there really was no graceful way to eat one, and how she must have looked if someone stumbled into their space, with grass in her messy hair and her clothing rumpled and the indents of grass on her cheek. She swallows it down before she continues. "I'll start by committing this first lesson to memory - or stomach?" She teases.

 

[Aerynth]

The rest of the lunch passed pleasantly, in the kind of relaxed atmosphere that could only be born out of mutual affection. Mutual affection and knowing that, at least for now, the two were allowed to shirk their responsibilities. Cyreia couldn't remember the last time she had had such an appetite, too. The sandwiches seemed like a poor meal in comparison to the kind of food they usually served her now, but-- maybe that was a part of the appeal, actually. It would take her some time to get used to all of those delicacies, expensive and strange-tasting and so elaborate that, at times, they reminded her of art rather than just... food. Things to be admired from afar, not unceremoniously eaten. Sandwiches were blessedly simple and she welcomed that.

Once they were done, Cyreia swept away some of the crumbs that had ended up on her clothes and grabbed her sword once again. "Alright, so here's the plan: as I said earlier, I'll show you some of the moves and then we will spar together for a while. I recommend putting on the protective gear because... well. I won't be trying to injure you, of course, but holding back too much would be counterproductive if I am to prepare you for real combat." An enemy wouldn't be gentle with her, after all, and as much as Cyreia wanted her to enjoy it, real training simply had to hurt a bit. Not unbearably so, but just enough to let your student know that what they were doing would not work on the battlefield. Pain could be a powerful didactic tool.

"Watch me closely," she instructed Remin before moving further away from her in order to create some free space. "The type of slash I'm going to demonstrate now is called a draw cut. You can usually recognize it by the way your opponent moves their legs shortly before the strike itself." Cyreia delved into her explanations easily; this was something she knew well, something she understood, and it showed. Only someone who had spent a large portion of their life relying on the sword could speak about it with such insight. It wasn't really just about her being proficient in swordplay, though. On its own, that would have been useless. What mattered was that she did her best to impart that knowledge to Remin, too. Instead of just performing the techniques, Cyreia showed them to her wife in slow motion first, her movements deliberately exaggerated so that the tells would be obvious even to the untrained eye. "Do you see what I'm doing?" she always asked and then, only after receiving the confirmation of that, she performed the same technique again, only faster. "Do you still see it? No? Let me show you again." In this way, they worked their way through four moves and their ideal counters; teaching her more than that at the same time, Cyreia thought, would have been too overwhelming. Hell, it probably overwhelmed her even now. For a complete beginner, her lesson was likely a large bite to swallow.

"Ready to try it in practice now?" she beamed at her wife. "It'll all be very simple. I will attack you and your goal will be to counter my moves. Any questions before we begin?"

 

[Conifer]

Even with this small amount of moves, Remin found it overwhelming. It was all so vastly different than they things she even knew how to learn. She was trying, and gods, she would get the hang of it eventually, but for now it was a seemingly endless process of her having to ask Cyeria to repeat her movements a dozen times, trying to commit it all to memory. Really, it was hardly different than learning to dance, but there was the added issue of not only learning the moves to use for herself, but to learn the moves to anticipate them from someone else when they didn't want those moves to be anticipated. Eventually it would all click (hopefully before she had to use any of this learning,) but for now, it felt tedious and too much. Even though picking up a sword and putting it all into action wasn't going to prove itself to be much easier, Remin was grateful when it all turned from theoretical to practical. That, at least, would be training her muscle memory at the same time as it did her eyes, and her failings would be felt instead of her having to ask Cyeria to go over a move for the fifth time. She donned her protecting gear and wound her hair up into a bun (with grass still in it, she was sure, having not bothered to pick it all out over the course of lunch) to keep it out of the way and to keep from getting in her face. "I don't feel ready at all," Remin says as she picks up the earlier-discarded wooden sword, "But we could talk about it for ten years and I'm not sure I would. So yes, let's just...do this."

it, quite honestly, went better than Remin had expected it too. She wasn't good, and she'd be absolutely littered with bruises for the next while, but she wasn't terrible. If these had been real swords, she might still manage to be clinging to life. In desperate need of a healer, but....the small victories, right? Granted, she knew Cyeria was going easy on her, and anyone she encountered would be much more determined to harm her than Cyeria and her lessons were. She would feel proud of herself all the same. She had, at least, grown more used to the feeling of the sword in her hand and how to hold it, how to expect its weight. That alone would have been progress.

By the time she felt too sore and bruised and out of breath to continue this lesson, it had grown to be mid-afternoon; their work had consumed hours quickly, and had consumed her energy nearly just as quickly. When was the last time she felt this worn out? And more importantly, when was the last time she felt this delightfully worn out? Despite how tired her body was, there was still a complicated energy to it. Not one, though, that she could use to block any more attacks. "I surrender," Remin finally says with a soft, breathless laugh, tossing her sword into the grass and raising her hands. "You've bested me, brave soldier."

 

[Aerynth]

It went rather well, at least in Cyreia's book. Remin was no soldier and her movements betrayed her inexperience to anyone who had the ability to read them, but she wasn't terrible, either. Perhaps her dancing skills really helped in some strange, difficult-to-define way; even if she did receive many of her hits, Remin moved with the kind of airy elegance usually reserved for trained fighters. What impressed her even more was the fact that she just kept pressing on, no matter how hopeless her efforts may have seemed to her at the moment. Some would call it stubbornness, but Cyreia only saw a will of iron. Though honestly, why would that surprise her at this point? Her wife had demonstrated many times by now that she wasn't made of silks and rainbows; that the outward softness hid a durable core. If handled properly, Cyreia thought, the diamond at its center would surely reveal itself. There was no way it wouldn't. Did Remin feel it, the endless amount of possibilities that rested within her frame? The potential that yearned to be awakened? Probably not. From the looks of it, she was too overwhelmed, too focused to truly notice anything but her own body. She also had no real frame of reference. Cyreia, though? Cyreia knew how to recognize the signs of progress, knew what she was looking at, and realized how quickly Remin improved. Incredible. I can't believe she never touched a sword before.

"I did," Cyreia smiled before throwing her own sword away and kissing her on her forehead, "but don't feel too bad about it. It is - or was - my job, and you resisted me valiantly. Like a true queen." It didn't matter that she wouldn't have lasted long on a real battlefield; expecting her to would have been downright foolish. No, it was more than enough that she had managed to keep up with her for as long as she had. While Cyreia hadn't fought with everything she had, she hadn't really held back, either, and Remin had adapted to the deadly tempo without a hint of complaint. How admirable. How... attractive. "For that reason alone, I will spare your life," she teased. "Maybe I'll even grant you the chance to avenge your wounds next time."

For now, though, it only made sense to return back to the castle. Remin was far too tired to continue; forcing her to do so would only result in her being too exhausted to function tomorrow and they couldn't afford to ignore their duties for too long. Besides, Cyreia didn't want to make this unpleasant for her. She couldn't not inflict bruises on her skin, but she could treat her with kindness outside of their swordplay. "Let us go back. We'll return the equipment to the armory and then... then we can go for a walk, I suppose. It would be dangerous to go right back to office work in your current state, you know. Just at it's important to stretch before a physical activity, it is also important to do it after you're done moving." Well, alright, it wouldn't be dangerous per se, but wording it like that made her argument sound stronger. Besides, Cyreia sincerely doubted that Remin was in any mood to work at the moment. Hadn't they resolved to steal this day for themselves?

It didn't take them too long to reach the castle. Nobody dared to approach them when they marched towards the armory, either, so it seemed that they would be allowed to leave once again without obstructions, but that proved to be slightly more complicated in the end. As Cyreia put the weapons and gear back on the shelves, she suddenly felt something brush against the back of her mind. A spark of magic. It wasn't a vision, not a full-blown one, and yet-- yet it was there, unmistakably so. Cyreia frowned as she focused on the here and now, determined to block any magical influences from her mind. She did not need another headache right now. "I didn't know there was something below the armory. Something that has to do with magic. What is it?"

 

[Conifer]

Remin quite sincerely doubted that there would be much danger in her returning to work after all of that, unless the body worked in ways she couldn't fathom, but she made no protest at Cyeria's suggestion that they take a walk when they return. Her body made protest at the idea of that; she really just wanted to collapse into a heap on the bed until she could move without ache, but walking with her wife was a nearly equally good alternative. She really should work when they returned, as well, but...part of her reasoning of allowing Cyeria to drag her from the castle was that she didn't have anything incredibly pressing, wasn't it? It would be a longer day tomorrow as a result, but she would sacrifice that in favor of the king.

Or, she would, if she'd had a choice. Remin slotted her training sword back into place on the rack filled with them as Cyeria spoke, and then turned to her, frowning softly. What was she talking about? There were things beneath some of the other rooms - wine cellars, storage, - but nothing beneath here, and nothing even beneath this wing of the castle. "I...don't know what you're talking about," Remin replies, her confusion drawing that into a puzzled question rather than a statement. "There's nothing below here besides earth and rock." And what did she mean by having to do with magic? There was the library that held a handful of arcane tombs, mostly for show, and an unused alchemical lab near the medical wing, but neither of those were anywhere near here, nor were they...all that significant. "There's not a basement level in this area at all."

 

[Aerynth]

This time, it was her turn to raise her eyebrow in confusion. Nothing? Nothing didn't feel like this. Cyreia had extensive experience with ordinary places and none of them had ever prodded at her mind in this way, almost like a predator evaluating its prey. Actually, no, that wasn't a good comparison. It didn't appear to be actively hostile for some reason; perhaps 'curious' would be a better descriptor here, if one acknowledged that the space beneath the armory had a will of its own in the first place. Was that even possible? At this point, it wouldn't surprise her at all. Stranger things had happened in this country where magic seemed to be as common as rain. Who was she to say that places, particularly old ones, couldn't develop a personality of sorts? Perhaps some of the magic had rubbed off on them; it kind of made sense on an instinctive level. She may have been wrong, of course, but the thought fascinated her. Maybe the royal library could help her confirm or disprove that theory? That could be done later, though. There was a conversation to pay attention to at the moment.

"I'm pretty sure that there is something below, Remin," Cyreia said carefully. "I can sense it. There's a space underneath this room and it is quite intensely magical. I don't know why I didn't feel it before, but now I do. The only reason I'm not having yet another terrible headache is because I'm making a point of focusing on other things very hard." And yet, despite that, the presence lingered on the very edge of her mind. Once you had noticed it, it just couldn't be unnoticed. Even more terrifyingly, it seemed to be a two-way street; it felt as if the energy watched her back, watched her back without eyes and saw her for what she was. To say that Cyreia didn't like it would have been an understatement. It was strange and invasive and unnatural and-- alright, maybe also vaguely interesting. God, her relationship with magic had changed so much. How much of Eupriunia remained within her now? Probably not too much, at least as far as these things were concerned. It pleased her and weirded her out at the same time. "I swear I'm not making this up. Hell, I'm pretty sure that you can sense it, too, if you just focus a bit. It's not exactly trying to stay hidden."

 

[Conifer]

Remin refused to find out if Cyeria's guess at her being able to sense what was buried beneath the armory was true or not. Whatever it was, it wasn't supposed to be there, and so it certainly wasn't supposed to be felt. Was she curious? Yes, though reluctantly. There were, however, better ways to find out what on earth was going on than letting it in her head. Cyeria's head, too. Remin took her arm, perhaps a bit too firmly, and led her back out of the armory. "That doesn't make sense." She protests, shutting the door quite firmly behind them as if it would offer any sort of protection at all. It wouldn't. She pauses there for a moment, dropping Cyeria's arm (it was too much familiarity far too much in the open). "...The original drafts for the construction are in the late king's office. We should have a look at them." They had the added benefit of being at least out of this wing of the castle - hopefully far enough away from whatever it was to allow Cyeria more peace of mind.

Sentimentality nagged at Remin as they entered the space her father used to spend most of his time (as she was doing now, she supposed. What a ghostly mirror.) It was much the same as it had been left; his small knicknacks lined the shelves that held his books, some unimportant papers littered the desktop. There were strange voids where the advisors had swept in and found anything important or sensitive, and others where she'd done the same; some of those said books fell awkwardly where others had been removed around them, a few bundles of documents were missing from their usual place beside the desk. What was important, though, was the large map behind the desk, and so Remin steeled herself against the rest of it. "Here,'' she says, guiding Cyeria over to the framed paper. It was huge, spanning most of the wall, detailing every hallway and room. Even the secret ones were marked - not easily visible, unless you were sure of what you looked for (a smudge of ink, the tiniest dot where a door was,) but they were still there. It was easier, honestly, to find the room and then the indication of it on the map, but maybe something would be apparent about the armory.

 

[Aerynth]

"It makes perfect sense," Cyreia said in response, fire in her eyes. "Or rather, it's not a statement that can be measured by logic. I can feel it, which means that it's there." Was it foolish to believe her newfound instincts so much? Quite possibly, though they hadn't failed her yet. Vestat's betrayal, too, had been discovered thanks to a vision; a vision that hadn't been accepted by Remin in the beginning, either. Wasn't it funny how her wife - a woman born and raised in Athea - tended to be the skeptic in those scenarios? Cyreia supposed it had to do with the revelations contradicting her truth in wildly unpredictable ways, yet the irony still wasn't lost on her. At times, Remin simply acted more Eupriunian than her. "Let's go, then," she nodded. Curiosity was eating her from inside out, but the mysterious space beneath the armory could wait. It could be dangerous, after all, and if more information could be gathered, they had the responsibility to do so. Cyreia didn't particularly want to die while exploring her own castle; few deaths sounded more embarrassing than that, honestly. It wasn't the kind of legacy she would be proud to leave behind, as entertaining as it would be to read about for the future generations.

As they entered the late king's office, it occurred to her that she hadn't actually been there before. Had she been avoiding the place subconsciously out of respect for the dead? Out of respect for Remin's grief? Perhaps. Her wife deserved a place of her own where she could be alone with her thoughts when needed, and a chamber that had belonged to her father only seemed suitable for those purposes. Coming her uninvited would have been... well, it would have been almost as invasive as reading her diary. Truth be told, Cyreia still felt that she didn't really belong here, but she did her best to ignore it. Remin had asked her to come, hadn't she? I should be focusing on the map, not on feeling vaguely guilty for irrational reasons. That would only act as a distraction and Cyreia needed to pay attention, dammit.

It took her a minute or two to find the armory on the map and when she did, there was very obviously nothing below; just a large blank space that validated Remin's narrative. Cyreia took a step back and frowned, unwilling to admit defeat. What she had felt was real, almost painfully so, and no piece of parchment could make her doubt reality. "This doesn't really prove anything. Maybe the architect decided not to include it on the map for some reason, or perhaps it's been there for longer than the castle itself and they built it on top of it more or less accidentally. I know what I-- wait, what is that?" Did her eyes lie to her or was there the tiniest hint of sheen to the apparent nothingness under the armory? Cyreia leaned closer once again, her breath bated, and she saw it clearly this time; there was no mistaking it. "I think I know what this is," she whispered before reaching for one of the torches illuminating the room. "We used it in the army as well when we needed to pass secret messages. Cipher ink. See how it glows ever so slightly when you look at it from the right angle? That's dried milk. All you need to do to reveal it is to heat it a bit." It was so thoroughly mundane that it threw her off for a moment, but it did make sense in a way. Magic left behind traces, after all, and this didn't. Not unless you had the chance to inspect it closely while focused on that particular spot, which most people wouldn't think of doing even if they had access to the map (and, overwhelmingly, they didn't have that access in the first place). Cyreia approached the parchment with the torch in her hand and held it close to the blank spot, yet far enough for the flames not to consume it. The spot continued to be empty for a while, but after a few seconds, black lines emerged on the white background. They formed a corridor, which led... somewhere past the parchment, apparently. Strangely-looking symbols appeared under the picture, too; small black and white pictures, elegant and elaborate. "I... suppose those are words," Cyreia said, apparently deep in thought. "See? The same symbols appear multiple times and the patterns seem fairly regular. They seem to be letters, though I have no idea how to read them."

 

[Conifer]

This felt nearly as magical as proper magic - or perhaps more so, since it wasn't magical? Remin watched the ink color and appear as Cyeria held the heat near it with fascination. What other secrets did this map hold like that? What other things were hidden on other old documents that took up space in the castle? Surely there was so much more of it. That, however, would have to wait for the day when they properly had time to explore; She, at least, didn't have time to hold a candle to every old scrap of slightly-shiny paper and wander down every spider-filled hall that appeared. Remin leaned closer, trying to get a good look at the symbols - words, since it seemed that Cyeria's guess was as good as any other. "...They mean equally nothing to me," Remin admits. "I haven't even seen a language like it." And she'd know; she's sat through language for half a dozen different languages. This looked like absolutely none of them outside of the pattern of it. "Do you think it's a language, though, or a code?" Was there quite honestly much of a difference?

Remin found a quill and a bit of blank parchment, and set about copying them down. Maybe the library would have some forgotten book on either the topic of codes or strange languages, or perhaps if it was a code, she could puzzle it out between bits of paperwork. Whatever it was, it had to have some meaning to it or else it wouldn't be hidden away. "We might research them," Remin suggests, frowning softly as she finishes off one of the strange drawings. "Or..." Foolishly, recklessly, but thrillingly, "I do believe we both have the rest of the evening to ourselves. We could see where this passage goes, and maybe find our answers within?" She was still hesitant of entering this place that apparently held such hidden, powerful magic, but...she was curious. Was that too much of a crime?

 

[Aerynth]

"I have no idea," Cyreia admitted. "It looks like a code to me, but that's probably because I have more experience with codes and-- well. The brain clings to the familiar, you know? It could very well be a language." And if it was, then they were in trouble. Even if they managed to read the text somehow, there was no guarantee that they'd actually understand it. She was no scholar, of course, yet all the traveling with the army had exposed her to quite a few languages, some rather unusual for the Eupriunian (and likely Athean, too) standards. None of them used a writing system even remotely similar to this. Granted, she may have been wrong as she didn't actually speak those languages beyond basic phrases, but surely the symbols would have at least seemed familiar to her had she seen them before? Or at least the general style? Pattern recognition was a thing, after all. The point was, it wasn't at all impossible that the language used in this map couldn't be understood by anyone in the kingdom. It could very well be too obscure or perhaps even extinct; Remin's admission of not recognizing the language only strengthened her suspicions in that regard.

As she thought about it further, however, Remin suggested something daring. Damn. Who would have thought that her oh so responsible wife would come up with something like this? Cyreia had to admit that she, too, was tempted by the secrets the passage hid from them. However... "I don't know. I'd like to go explore, but it could be dangerous. Clearly there's something there. Then again, just leaving it alone would be irresponsible, too, and we may not be able to decipher those symbols anyway." The text was rather short, which meant they didn't have much to work with. Making a sense of it would be a difficult, tedious task with uncertain results. "In that case, there would be no point in waiting. Maybe we really should go take a look. I think, though, that we shouldn't do it alone. It would be a good idea to enlist the help of someone who is actually proficient at magic so that we know when to run and so on. Is there anyone like that?" Anyone besides Maric? Not that he wouldn't suffice, but Cyreia didn't want to mention his name unless it was absolutely necessary. Remin didn't seem to like him very much.

 

[Conifer]

"We don't have any resident magicians, no." Remin sighs, thinking the exact same thing that Cyeria was. Even besides not liking the man, she wasn't sure she trusted him with the information of whatever was lurking beneath the castle. But he'd been willing enough to agree to their terms for his work, which was a decent point in his favor. Not enough of one to make her personal opinion of him change, but at least he was tolerable professionally. That, however, didn't mean she wanted him traversing hidden passageways with them. Gods. But Cyeria was right. Neither of them knew enough to knew the danger they walked into, or how to get out of it, or even to know when to get out. "Besides Maric now, I suppose." Her reluctance to suggest him isn't hidden. If she can't be open with her wife with her opinion of the man, she can't be honest with anyone about it, and then she may go mad. "There's a handful that know magic - Oren, namely, and a handful of other staff, but few whose interests lie so closely to whatever this might be than Maric." For better or worse. She runs a hand through her hair, shaking out a blade of grass onto the floor as she sighs. "Do you think we can trust him with this?" At least then she would be able to, in her mind, place the blame on Cyeria if it all went wrong. (She wouldn't, obviously - but she might indulge herself for just a second in knowing that her hesitations were right.)

 

[Aerynth]

"I would think so," Cyreia said. "He's... not the most pleasant fellow I've ever encountered, but I don't believe that he has any real political ambitions." That, after all, seemed to be a part of Gregor's problem with him. Not just that he didn't know how to wield a sword, but that he simply didn't care about anything that wasn't his precious research. "Whatever is there, he'd likely only be interested in it from the professional point of view. Besides, he doesn't really have any other allies right now, so I doubt he'd turn against us. Not after we saved his life and granted him the freedom to pursue his interests." The way he behaved around them - clumsy and borderline offensive, seemingly without meaning to - also suggested that he wouldn't be able to deceive them even if he wanted to. He had no skill in that department, which made him safe. Safer than most other people at the very least.

Since there really were no better options, the two of them went to find Maric. Locating him wasn't a particularly difficult task, mainly because the man never really left his laboratory. Cyreia didn't think that she had seen him at all since they had struck that deal; he had gone so far in his avoidance of social situations that he had even asked the staff to bring him meals to his office instead of joining them at their table. Not the most polite behavior, she supposed, though it was probably for the best. It wasn't like Remin wanted to engage in conversation with him, so why chastise him for not seeking their company?

"My king, my queen," he greeted them as they entered. "I don't have any reports yet, if that's what this is about."

"It's not," Cyreia shook her head. "Listen, Maric, we have a... situation here, let's say, and we'd like your help." Maric seemed annoyed at the prospect of having to abandon his work, though, to his credit, that changed as soon as they explained what exactly was going on. "Now that is quite fascinating. Give me a moment or two to note down what I've been thinking about so that I don't forget it and then we can go."

A few minutes later, the trio ended up in the armory once again. The place looked... normal, really, simply a space to store one's weapons, and in sense, it was exactly that, but Cyreia could still sense the wild energy below. Like a sleeping bear, she thought. Vaguely threatening despite technically not doing anything.

Maric looked around, perhaps seeking for signs of suspicious activity or traces of magic. Did he find them? "I see what you mean now," he nodded. "Something magical is definitely present. I can tell that it's very old, too, so it's difficult to determine its purpose. Intents of those who cast spells get muddled over time and sometimes even infused with outside influences. It doesn't seem dangerous at the moment, though. Where's the entrance to the hidden passageway?"

"It's supposed to be here, or somewhere around here," Cyreia pointed at what looked like... well, just wall. There was nothing in its vicinity, either, so they couldn't really expect to move around a bookshelf, trigger some hidden mechanism and reveal a secret door.

"Probably some sort of seal," Maric muttered, apparently so engrossed in trying to make a sense of this that he even forgot to act like his usual insolent self. Maybe that was the key to getting along with him; never running out of things for him to do. "Stand aside. I can make it reveal itself." He put his hands on the wall, closed his eyes and then-- Cyreia felt a pulse of something in the air, and the wall was suddenly covered in the same symbols they had found in the late king's office. That made her mildly uncomfortable. "A blood seal," Maric continued, unfazed. "It wants blood, otherwise it won't let us enter." Alright, scratch that, it made her more than just mildly uncomfortable now.

 

[Conifer]

A blood seal. How...dramatic. For what purpose, though? Remin frowned, looking over the wall and all the symbols. They glowed, so faintly, though she wasn't sure if that was because of the nature of them, or if it was because of the magic that Maric had poured into the space. They were utter nonsense to her, but- "You can understand all of this?" She asks Maric, not turning her head to face him as she addressed him. Part of her wanted to simply puzzle it all out herself, but...Even as she compared the scrap of paper she'd folded into her pocket from her father's office to the symbols on the wall, there was nothing that led her to understanding either of them any better. There were some of the same symbols (letters? words?), but it did no good for her. Maric's understanding of them suggested that they were a code, though, or perhaps some sort of arcane communication? It was impossible for her to guess at it. "Here," She frowns, handing him over the paper. "What does this say, then?"

The man takes it from her, looking over the paper. He was so much different like this, really. Or, well, perhaps not different, but at least tolerable. He had purpose, at least, with his graceless attitude, when he had his mind set on a task. "It's-- a portion of a larger phrase, I thinj, but it's saying the same as this wall is. Blood to open, roughly. There's...a signifier that I'm unfamiliar with, though." Maric admits, frowning softly as he looks back up towards the wall. There's not too many more symbols there than there had been on the map, but there were some. Another word or two, perhaps. He squints, more seeming intrigued by his lack of knowledge than frustrated by it. "I'm not sure. I could work it out, with time,"

"I'd rather not leave this to wait." Remin admits. That might be the safer thing - no, it absolutely was the safer thing. To understand all of this before they ventured. However...how long would that take? What if this was time sensitive? What if it would bring the walls down around them tomorrow? (Likely not. This castle had been standing for hundreds of years - it wasn't going to fall tomorrow. But she could worry regardless.) Honestly, she was just...curious. She wanted to know. When was the last time there'd been something this genuinely interesting? "What do you mean by signifier?"

Maric hands the paper back to her, and points out a small line near one of the symbols. "The main symbol translates literally to 'vital', and is meant to mean blood. This line, though, changes that. It's still 'vital', but it's more specific than that."

"What is all this?" Remin frowns.

"Something people don't use much any more. Yintic." Maric explains, letting her take the paper back entirely - she looks at it closer, trying to make sense of it despite nothing changing in the past few moments to let her understand. Well, she knew one symbol now. "It fell out of use under King Tessan's rule, with his reforms around the unification of magical work."

"That was-- two hundred years ago, or so," Remin explains for Cyeria - she knows that she's been reading about the history of Athea, but didn't want to assume what she knew.Not when things seemed important like this. "This is that old, then?"

Maric shrugs, sliding his hands into his pockets. "Older, I'd bet. Some of the phrasing's awkward for the more modern work, but it could have just been done by someone who appreciated the classical. Beyond that, it's hard to tell. It could be four hundred years old, it could be two thousand."

"The castle was only built six ago." She hums softly, shoving the paper back into her pocket. She had an idea. Maybe it was stupid, but it was an idea. Specific blood? She grabbed a nearby knife - ah, the convenience of having a blood seal in an armory - and strode with it to the wall. There's a small discoloration of one of the stones - it's in line with the rest of the text, and if her days wandering around the castle searching for secrets is any indication...
Remin glances at her hand, frowning softly, before bringing the knife to it and bracing herself for the pain of metal into skin. As much as she would have liked to keep a poker face as the dagger did its job, she couldn't help but wince. Well. What's done was done. If Maric was going to think less of her for wincing when harmed, then so be it - she doesn't really need him to think highly of her anyways. She pulled the blade away as blood welled up, and pressed her hand against the discolored stone.

The reaction wasn't as immediate as would be appropriately dramatic. It took a moment or two. Slowly but surely, though,a section of wall beside her hand began to sink into the floor, revealing a dark staircase leading down.

 

[Aerynth]

At times, Cyreia almost felt inclined to think that the gaps in her knowledge weren't that terrible; that, despite not having received the same kind of education Remin had, she could function here in Athea with a semblance of dignity. Moments like this quickly shattered that delusion, though. What were they even talking about? The words they used weren't unfamiliar to her, granted, but the way they connected into statements didn't really tell her much. For all intents and purposes, they may as well have been using a completely different language and it wouldn't have been that different. Still, Cyreia did understand some things. Point number one: the blood seal thing apparently wasn't as sinister as its name made it sound. Neither Maric nor Remin had actually said about it, but the non-reaction served as a rather convincing proof for that conclusion. If it was dangerous, surely they would have mentioned it, right? Well, maybe not Maric since he seemed to be more comfortable with these things than one should be, really, but Remin definitely would not have remained silent. Point number two: bringing Maric along had truly been a good idea because, without him, this little expedition would have ended before it even had the chance to begin. Would they have been able to reveal the seal so easily? Cyreia sincerely doubted it.

"What are the implications of all of this? Of the text being written in Yintic, I mean. Is it connected to-- I don't know, a certain school of magic? Are you able to guess what lies ahead based on its usage?" Cyreia may have been entirely out of her depth here, but god, that didn't mean that she wouldn't at least try to regain the solid ground beneath her feet. Having an idea of what they might face down there could help her immensely in that department.

Maric merely shrugged. "No, nothing like that. It's only really indicative of the spell's age. At one point in history, almost all magic users worth their salt wrote in Yintic. The symbols aren't inherently magical; using them was a matter of prestige more than anything else. Of proving that you were educated enough to work with the strongest magic."

"Alright. I suppose I'll simply have to get used to uncertainty, then," Cyreia said. Honestly, why had she even bothered to ask? It should have been obvious from the very beginning that the answers wouldn't come to them so easily. They never did. No, if they wanted to know anything, they would have to wrestle that knowledge from the jaws of oblivion with their very own hands. Was it foolish of her that she found some amount of comfort in the weight of the sword hanging at her waist? Probably. Steel could only do so much when confronted with magic, after all; it wouldn't protect them from ancient curses and other threats that couldn't be dealt with through, say, good old decapitation. Cyreia understood that, understood that clearly, but-- well, it was difficult for her to believe that she would be entirely defenseless with the weapon at her disposal. There had to be something, anything she could do to make herself at least a little bit useful, right? For all his magical prowess, Vestat had, too, fallen by her blade. Arrogance had blinded her, it must have, yet without it, Cyreia likely wouldn't have been able to continue with this. The vulnerability would have been too heavy of a burden for her to carry.

Meanwhile, Remin proceeded to open the door for them, though not in a way Cyreia would have liked; her eyes widened in horror as she watched her wife stain the knife with her own blood. "Remin! Are you--"

"Yes, she's fine," Maric practically rolled his eyes. Had her voice sounded more panicked than it had in her head? His reaction certainly indicated that. "It's just a scratch. She's not going to die. Well, I suppose it is a distinct possibility, but only if the dagger was contaminated with something lethal. I don't think that this is very likely."

"Thank you for your lesson, Maric," Cyreia said with a hint of annoyance in her voice, "it was very helpful." Apparently she had spoken too early about him being able to act acceptably when distracted, really, because that? That was uncalled for. Worrying about one's spouse while exploring a secret passage soaked in strange magic wasn't that strange, was it? Instead of replying, Maric took Remin's hand, whispered something she couldn't hear very well and the wound closed before her very eyes. "There, now it's all good. Let's go." If that was his idea of apology, it worked, Cyreia supposed. At least there was a tangible result to his actions, which was infinitely better than being offered empty words.

Maric and Cyreia both grabbed torches and the trio descended down the stairs, deeper into the darkness. The flickering flames did very little to dispel it, though they did illuminate the path to some extent. And honestly? If they had expected something exciting, they had been setting themselves up for disappointment. The corridor was so narrow that nothing but webs and dust could exist here comfortably; Cyreia had to bend her neck slightly so that she didn't hit her head, which meant that the much taller Maric had to contort himself even further. Despite that, he didn't seem annoyed by the development. Not in the slightest.

"I think we are about to stumble upon something magnificent," he told to nobody in particular, perhaps more to himself than Cyreia or Remin. "Blood seals were only ever used to guard important things, and they were usually calibrated to accept only one specific type of blood. Or rather, a blood of one specific bloodline. Clearly, this was meant to be discovered by a member of the royal family."

What could that be? Cyreia wondered as she walked forward, mindful of her surroundings. It was hard not to be mindful of them, really, when the walls were so uncomfortably close. God, this place alone would give a claustrophobic years worth of nightmares. That wasn't the only problem they were about to encounter, though, and it also wasn't the most pressing one. The presence that had been watching them silently woke up from its lethargy, curious about its visitors. This time, even Remin could feel it, though it didn't appear to be interested in her. It merely brushed against her, almost as if greeting an old friend, before moving onto Cyreia and Maric. Cyreia attempted to guard her mind reflexively, to prevent its entrance as she had earlier, but it pierced her defenses with shocking ease and she dropped to her knees, gasping in pain. Despite the darkness all around them, the headache made her see white. Maric didn't fare much better; he, too, ended up on the ground, the torch falling from his hand. Whatever its intentions were, it was clear that the thing did not see them in a favorable light.

 

[Conifer]

They'd nearly been getting along for a moment, and then Maric had to -- do that, whatever that was. She was fine, she really was, especially after Maric healed her, but he didn't need to react like that to Cyeria. It wasn't called for. There wasn't much time to linger on rudeness, though - with the passageway open before them, they could only press on. Even if turning back around was still technically an option, it hardly felt like one. As soon as the door was opened...Remin wasn't quite sure that what she felt was what Maric and Cyeria were tuned into, but there was definitely something. An unyeilding draw, into the dark depths beneath the castle, insistent and strange. It didn't feel malicious. If anything, it felt uncertain. Shy, maybe, if strange old magics could be shy. Whether or not the other two came with her, Remin was descending and seeking it out.

Thankfully, she didn't have to make her way through the tight halls alone. She, too, grabbed a torch from the wall, and kept hold of the dagger she'd cut her hand on. Both of them better protection than nothing, at least. It didn't make her feel all that much better; perhaps she should have fetched the more-familiar wooden training sword. She could maybe bruise someone with that if she were lucky. Or, luckier still, she wouldn't have to attempt to hit anything at all; these halls were too old and closed off and - frankly, she noted as they walked, too filled with signs of absolutely no one walking in them for ages - for anyone to be living in them, and so that luckier option reigned true.

Maric struck out ahead, and she wasn't going to be the one to stop him. It was safer than she or Cyeria leading the pack, and if he wanted to see whatever 'magnificent' thing they were going to stumble across (or be eaten by,) first, then that was fine. Especially if it was eaten by. It would cause a lot of paperwork and a difficult letter to Gregor, but with the attempt he'd already made on his son's life, she doubted that he would really care. It did mean, though, that when the magic reached for them (gentle, warm, in Remin's mind, in a way that should truly be more unsettling than it was in its lack of apparent danger,) she saw Maric go down before she saw Cyeria. Even when she heard the thud of her wife hitting against the floor, she wasn't quick enough to see her before the torches lost their light. Even hers still in her hand went dark, without even the smallest ember still burning. "--Cyeria!" she calls (foolishly, proper names for the company being lost to her sudden panic. Hopefully Maric was too bothered with the pain to notice, or hopefully he focused more on her tone which but Cyeria's earlier panic to shame.)

She falters. There's little she can do for them and their near-tangible agony, but-- perhaps? Her gut had proven her right with the blood, and perhaps it would again. "--They're friends." Remin calls into the darkness, her voice unsteady and unsure that she's not just talking to ancient walls. Friends might be an exaggeration for Maric, but it's the first thing that spills from her mouth, and it's true enough in this specific context. "Whatever you're doing to them," She steps forward, reaching out for one of the stone walls. Her hand finds rough, cold, solidness, and she feels a bit more steady with it. "Whatever you're doing," She starts again, her voice a bit more commanding. "You don't need to. They're escorting me to you." She really, really will feel foolish if she's only talking to a cave.

 

[Aerynth]

Had Cyreia been able to think in that moment, she would have found her earlier hopes of being able to defeat the dangers that lurked in the depths with her sword funny. Perhaps she would have considered this to be a punishment for her arrogance, too. Even if spirituality wasn't exactly her thing, experience had led her to believe that some higher force existed, if only to take overconfident people down a peg from time to time. The pain was rather effective at intercepting thought processes, though, and so she didn't think anything, except maybe for let it stop, let it stop, let it stop. How long had she been writhing on the floor? It was difficult to tell, really, because seconds felt like hours with that thing burrowing itself into her head like a ravenous worm. All those previous headaches? Oh, they had been nothing in comparison to this. Cyreia almost missed them. If nothing else, those had come from within her, fueled by a lack of energy and balance. This, on the other hand, felt as if some foreign force was feeding on her brain, sating centuries old hunger.

Remin said something, though the words didn't make sense to her. Nothing did at the moment. Wait, Remin. She's here with us. Was she alright? Had the thing gotten her as well? God, she had to do something about this. Hadn't she vowed to protect her? Cyreia tried to get up, tried to look around to evaluate the situation, though the attempt was doomed from the very beginning. Her knees buckled under her once again, sending her back on the floor. Alright, if walking wasn't going to work, Cyreia would crawl. It had to look pathetic, the sight of her trying to regain at least some of the control over her body, but she was beyond caring. Whatever that sinister force was, she would not allow it to hurt her wife. She would-- alright, Cyreia had no idea as to what she would actually do, but locating Remin in the darkness seemed like a good start. Yes. Yes, focus on that. Just find her.

And then, suddenly-- suddenly the pain was gone, retreating as quickly as it had appeared. It may as well have never happened at all, though it definitely had; Cyreia could still feel the waves of it echoing in her mind, could feel her limbs trembling. More importantly, she could also sense the presence that had caused them in the first place. It hadn't vanished, god, no. Instead of that, it simply stepped aside, finally letting them exist in peace. The thing now watched them with... What was it? Curiosity? Perhaps even regret? It really must have eaten her brain, Cyreia thought, if she genuinely tried to analyze its emotions. "Remin, Maric," she asked into the all-consuming darkness as she stood up. Her legs were still dangerously shaky, but it seemed that they could carry her weight for now. "Are you alright? What happened?"

"I wouldn't say I'm alright," Maric responded, his voice strangely muffled. Judging by the way it sounded, he must have been somewhere close to her. On second thought, considering how narrow the corridor was, he couldn't be anywhere but close. "I'll live, though. Just... give me a moment. I need to... need to catch my breath. What's a Cyreia, by the way?"

 

[Conifer]

The world hung in unsteady unbalance for a moment as Remin waited to see if that would do anything - one heartbeat, two, three, too loud in her chest. And then Maric and Cyeria's pained sounds tapered off into ragged but steadier breaths, and Remin herself felt like she could breathe easily again. "Thank you," She says - quietly, this time, not knowing if she really needed to be loud for the magic to hear. (The magic to hear? It was magic. It didn't have ears. Gods, they should have left a note, or told someone where they were going. This wasn't going to go well, despite Maric's determination that they'd find something incredible."

"I'm okay." Remin agrees softly, reaching out for where she can hear Cyeria fumbling. She finds, blindly, the side of her face, and then her chest, and then finally her shoulder, which she holds loosely too. It was touch, it was comfort, but it wasn't too much familiarity just in case Maric lit the space back up without any warning. "It...didn't affect me. Not like it did you two, at least. But I don't think it will happen again. Are you okay? Any lasting damage?"

She had hoped to be so lucky as to avoid having to come up with some hasty lie about what she'd said, but -- curse Maric. Gods. She should be grateful he was so observant, even when being assaulted by an old magical force, but she really wishes he'd managed not to be for just a moment. "It's silly," she admits. "It's a language I made up when I was a child." Not entirely a lie - she'd done that. Didn't every child, though? (She genuinely had no idea.) "It mostly existed so that I could use what was referred to as 'adult language' around my parents, like they had no idea what I was doing. Apparently in my panic, I regressed." This was infinitely more embarrassing, but also, infinitely safer. She didn't want to trust Maric with whatever was down here, but they had no choice. She didn't want to trust Maric with something that wasn't even hers to trust anyone with, and she could avoid that, even if he might have more to annoy her with.

 

[Aerynth]

Somewhere in the darkness, Cyreia flinched. Wasn't it funny how the sound of her own name could send her into panic, possibly panic deeper than the one that had seized her under the magical assault? Probably, though she didn't really find it entertaining at the moment. God, how did he know? More importantly, how much did he know? Was everything over? Remin must have sensed her anxiety, too, because her hand found hers and squeezed it, perhaps a little too much for the touch to be entirely painless. Her mouth suddenly felt very dry, too, but-- honestly, even if it didn't, what was she supposed to say? Was there a magic formula that could make people forget things? Because something like that would come in handy right now. It didn't seem like anything else could fix this mess.

Fortunately, her wife proved her wrong in that regard. Remin rushed to her rescue once again, even if it apparently was her who had gotten her into trouble this time. A slip up, she guessed; it couldn't have been anything else and, with how tense the situation had been, it shouldn't really surprise her. Was it strange for her to call out her name in a time of distress? No, no it in the slightest. There wasn't anything to chastise her for, especially since she proceeded to correct her mistake right away, but... hadn't these things been easier before, when she had relied on nobody but herself? Hadn't it been less risky? It was a shocking, unkind thought and she banished it right away, though that couldn't change the fact that it had existed at some point. That it had resonated with her on some level. It's not her fault that she isn't used to living like this. She will learn. Maybe that was exactly the problem, though. Wasn't imposing such fate on her terribly selfish? Cyreia had, at the very least, chosen this way of life; Remin hadn't, just as she hadn't chosen to marry her or to wear the crown. Despite her earlier resolve to let her wife be herself, she just ended up repeating the old pattern of forcing her into a role. A role she clearly wasn't all that comfortable with. God, what a grim realization.

"... alright," Maric said simply. "We all cope in our own ways, I suppose." He didn't sound too suspicious, probably because he had no real reason to be. To him, 'Cyreia' was just a random conglomeration of syllables. Connecting it to the king, to the famous Avther, would have been quite a reach.

"I think I'll be fine," she said, desperate to change the topic. Chaos reigned in her thoughts and distracting herself from it seemed like a good idea; certainly a better one than having yet another existential crisis, this time in the depths of enchanted ruins. "I should be able to go on once I... well, once I feel a little more stable. Just give me some time. How do you know it won't happen again, though?" The certainty in Remin's voice was more than just slightly weird, but there had to be some logical explanation behind it. Her wife rarely said things for no reason, after all.

 

[Conifer]

Remin hesitated - how much should she say? Had it just been Cyeria, she would have been honest with her guesses, but with Maric also listening in? Although, he may be more eager to believe her than even Cyeria was, with his familiarity with magic. And, anyways, they were going to find whatever they were going to find regardless of what information she shared right now. "I don't," she admits. "I'm not certain at all. About any of this. But it...-well, unless it was perhaps the strangest coincidence, it stopped when I asked." That didn't scare her nearly as much as it should, but she was going to blame the magic for that - the comfortable precence in the back of her mind, gently pulsing - was altering her. That must be it, didn't it? If it could inflict that pain on her companions, it could calm her, surely. She hesitates, leaning closer to Cyeria and whispering, soft as she can, just in case. "Do keep an eye on me in case I start acting strangely?"

 

[Aerynth]

"That doesn't seem like a coincidence to me," Maric said. His voice sounded steadier than before; the fact that he lit his torch again with a flicker of magic also showed that he had recuperated, at least to some extent. Despite her lack of sympathies for the man, she actually found it rather impressive. Weren't researchers and academically minded people supposed to be notoriously fragile? Because the way he acted here was the exact opposite of that. That's gotta be the Marsh blood in him, Cyreia decided. Gregor likely wouldn't have appreciated that line of thinking, but that didn't make it any less true. Strength, after all, manifested in many different ways; one didn't need to swing a sword in order not to be a weakling.

"The magic is clearly connected to the royal family, so it... obeys you, more or less," Maric continued. "That would also explain why it didn't attack you. Do be careful, though. You're not dealing with a person here, which means that you need to be very precise in wording your orders. I've read about instances in which various magical mechanisms ended up hurting the ones they were meant to protect because they followed their commands too literally. In other words, don't ask it to do anything you might regret. In fact, not speaking to it unless it's necessary might be the best approach here."

God, that sounded so complicated. Cyreia couldn't decide whether it was a blessing or a curse, but at least one thing seemed obvious to her even now; she would stand by Remin's side throughout all of this. Throughout everything fate threw at them, really. Ancient magic, no matter how powerful, couldn't hope to keep her away. "I will," she whispered and and caressed her hand, the gesture quick but tender. "I'll be be here for you."

"Are you ready to go now?" Maric asked, clearly impatient. It made no sense to linger here, really, so Cyreia lit her torch and followed his lead. The corridor went on and on; there were so many turns and little detours that it managed to confuse even her. It didn't help, either, that everything looked exactly the same. Had they been walking for two hours or for two days? And what about the directions? Were they heading north or south, west or east? Cyreia didn't know the answers to these questions, though it probably didn't matter. It wasn't like they could get lost in here; not when there was but a single path. Does it even lead somewhere or did the architect build it only as a practical joke?

As if to answer her question, the three of them finally reached the end of the corridor. It lead to some sort of entrance, though it was difficult to see where it lead - or anything about it, really - as there were massive roots in the way. Had nature reclaimed its rule over this place or had someone placed it here deliberately? Could this be yet another seal?

"Stand aside," Maric said, "I'll get us through." Fire consumed his hands - fire that burned so bright the light of their torches looked almost pitiful in comparison - but it went out the second it touched the roots. "Ouch! It gave me a shock!" he complained as he nursed his arm.

... alright, yet another seal, then. There were no conveniently placed symbols to guide them this time, though; it seemed that they had to solve this puzzle on their own. Cyreia frowned and took a step back, observing the whole structure. Clearly they were expected to do something here, weren't they? Surely nobody would have built this passage only for it to amount to absolutely nothing in the end. Nobody wasted that much effort. "Doesn't it kind of look like your - our - coat of arms?" she asked after a while. The Verrants' family crest did have a large tree with tangled roots pictured on it, after all, and the shape in which those roots grew looked very similar to this. Or maybe it was the other way around? "I don't think it's exactly the same, though." Something was missing and Cyreia couldn't put her finger on it, but... maybe Remin would.