Fantasy All's Fair

[Conifer]

Remin very nearly stopped Maric before he reached out to mess with the door in whatever way he had been intending, but he was too quick for her to stop, and- well, the terrible and unroyally petty part of her had no desire to. If he wants to storm ahead, then let him face the consequences of it. "Roots don't burn well." She chides, that little bit of pettiness seeping into her voice. "Not ones like this. They're too green. They're resilient." Hence (why she'd been told, at least,) their place of honor in the crest. The Verrant familiy was resiliant - or had been, once. Staring at this fraction of the crest, huge before her, made her feel....minuscule. She was all that was left. Cyeria existed, surely, but...Through blood, Remin would perhaps be the last. Blood meant very little in the end, but she couldn't help the small sweeping pain at the thought of the long line of Verrant ancestors (farmers, they'd started out as. Farmers who'd grown lucky with minerals on their land, and who had become miners, and who had become foremen, and who had become very rich very quickly, and then as a result, raised to power. That was so, so long ago, though. A dozen generations at least, perhaps more. She knew the names of each of the heads of family once, but it would be difficult to recall them now,) ending with her. That problem, though, was something for some other time. When Remin and Cyeria could speak more securely about fulfilling their duties. When, for example, they didn't stand in front of another puzzle.

"It isn't," she agrees softly, trying to figure out exactly what wasn't quite right about this scene. The roots aren't...wrong, besides the fact that they're real, and she's ever only seen them stitched or carved or stained in glass. Remin hesitates before she reaches out to them. She readies herself for a shock, but doesn't expect one. She's met with the middle ground; there's definitely an energy pulsing in them, something powerful and would-be painful if it acted against her, but it simply seemed to rush past. Like blood in a vein. Her fingers traced the vines, searching for something familar, proof that this was perhaps the same pattern she was familiar with, or a switch, or button, or anything, really, to lead them on. She curled around a familiar twist in the wood, a near-perfect spiral that she'd trace for its familiarity, and her thoughts drifted similarly to Cyeria's. What came first? This, or the crest? The crest was old, but...how old was this section of the castle? There was something built here before they'd made space for the castle. She'd never learned exactly what. Perhaps whatever all of this belonged to?

She wished bleeding on it would be the answer again, but that wasn't it. What else did the crest contain? What could be added here to make it all more complete? Remin pulled her hand away from the root and took some steps back down the hall to get a more wide view of the door. It was missing the rest of the tree. It was missing the crown that circled the truck, and her thoughts caught on that, but dismissed it quickly. The crown it had been modeled on changed every once in a while. She had no idea which one it should be, and even then, the magic was pushing them on. Not back. Surely they had the tools at their disposal if it was doing so? So what else did it lack? Oh- or not what they lacked. "Resiliency, though," She says, moving back towards the roots, and then, continued to push. Her hands found the sturdy root lengths and pressed; they didn't move naturally, as she'd expect roots to, but they *moved*. Thank god, because once again, it would look terribly foolish if she were wrong. The energy continued to course. It pooled around her palms, like fish biting at feed dropped onto the surface of the water, but she couldn't feel anything too strange. It was fine, she was sure. Whatever it took, she would give. "requires ability to adjust. Otherwise you're simply brittle. Rigid, but doomed to crack at some point." It took a few minutes that seemed to stretch just as long as the hall, but soon enough, the roots had been shifted aside enough to allow them enter through the archway that stood obscured on the other side of the blockage.

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia watched Remin as she worked on the puzzle, astonished at how quickly she understood all of this. Was it real understanding, though, or something else? Perhaps actual knowledge sleeping somewhere in her subconsciousness, received from her mother and all those who had come before her? Cyreia didn't know whether it worked like that, but... it didn't seem implausible, this idea of inherited information. Remin had been acting strangely since they had entered the passageway; almost as if she had been there already, as if she was returning isntead of discovering something unknown. Could that be the case? Of course it couldn't. Nobody had visited this place for centuries if the layers of dust were any indication, and yet-- yet it looked like her wife knew what to do in a way someone unfamiliar with this place simply wouldn't have. Logic, it seemed, had very little power here. Maybe that was fine, though; maybe some things just weren't meant to be understood. Cyreia couldn't decide whether acknowledging that brought her comfort or terrified her. There will be more than enough time to dissect my feelings later, when we don't have a dungeon to explore.

"Good job," she told Remin quietly. For some reason, speaking in a voice louder than whisper seemed wrong. Was she being wary in case an enemy ambushed them? No, that wasn't it, or at least not entirely. Fear didn't motivate her actions here; more than anything, Cyreia just... didn't want to disturb what lay ahead? God, her mind jumped to strange conclusions down here. It must have been the air; it smelled strangely, too, like old memories. Alright, now where had that association come from? Was that thought even hers to begin with? So many questions, so few answers.

The trio continued down the path Remin had opened; soon enough, it widened and they found themselves in a... cavern? It was a cavern, Cyreia supposed, and a large one at that. The walls were covered in crystals the likes of which she had never seen before. They emitted faint, silver light that reminded her of stars. Underground stars. Who would have thought? Certainly not her.

"This is... I don't know what this is, actually," Maric said, sounding more impressed than disgruntled. The way his hand hung limply suggested that it still hurt, though he didn't pay it any attention. "Curses! I should have brought something to write with."

"It's beautiful," Cyreia said, which likely wasn't a very useful analysis, but it was true. Somehow, grass grew on the ground; grass that apparently didn't need either sunlight or soil. Ghostly, almost translucent flowers could be spotted there, too, and if one's gaze lingered on them for a second too long, its silhouettes gradually turned blurry. It almost gave her a headache, so she turned away. How did that old adage go? 'Don't stare into a monster's eyes if you don't want it to stare back'? Yes, Cyreia would follow the advice. In the center of it all, there was a giant tree pulsating with magical energy. Were the roots that had once blocked the entrance a part of that colossus? It made no sense, but nothing here did, really, so the interpretation seemed as valid as anything. All that uncertainty should have unsettled her - her, just being there should have done that - except that Cyreia felt calmer than she had in ages. The rhythm, she decided, that's why. The magic within the tree beat like a heart and, for some reason, it soothed her. Curling up and falling asleep underneath the branches almost looked like a tempting option. Didn't she deserve a few moments of rest?

Meanwhile, the presence crept into Remin's head - gently, like a pleasant summer dream - and spoke in a voice that simultaneously belonged to thousands of people and to no-one at all: 'Why, why, why?'

 

[Conifer]

Whatever they had expected to find, Remin was surprised by this. But perhaps she shouldn't have been, with the roots blocking the way? Or with the fact that everything they'd started to find under here was surprising? It was impossible, really, to even begin to rationalize any of this. Magic only worked so far; it didn't allow flora to grow, unaided, underground, for hundreds of years. Not any magic she knew of at least; Maric may have more thoughts on that, but at the moment, she has little desire to ask. She has little desire to speak at all - the cavern captivates her attention. Cyeria's right - it's beautiful. Perhaps the most beautiful thing she's seen ever.

She presses further into the cave, not noting or caring if Maric and Cyeria follow after her. They're somewhere, she knows that, and that's all that matters. Remin's decently sure that they aren't in danger. Not danger from attackers who might sneak up on her or her companions, at the very least. So wandering off a few feet isn't the most unsafe thing she could possible do.
"Why what?" Remin asks aloud, lost to the pulsing of the voices. If she had not been so enchanted - literally or metaphorically, she couldn't tell you - she might be aware that there was some prefacing to Maric and Cyeria that she should have done before she spoke to the things that definitely weren't there, but that was all lost to the need to know. Answers for them could wait. Answers for her...she really didn't want them to. "What is all this?" She ventures to ask. Is it the magic speaking to her, or something else? Either way, will it tell her what she asks? Is it capable of that, or only this repetition?

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia frowned. Who - or what - was Remin talking to? It couldn't have been her; she didn't remember saying anything that would have warranted such a reaction, and it definitely sounded like a reaction to something rather than a standalone statement. A hint of suspicion seeped through the deep sense of peace that had settled in her chest. That tranquility, too, unnerved her now. Where had it come from? Was it supposed to dull her senses, to make her more pliable for what would follow? Ages ago, Cyreia had read about exotic flowers that used strange pheromones to subdue their prey before eating it alive. What if something like that was happening here? No, she wouldn't allow that. She wouldn't let the tree cloud her judgment with its underhanded tricks. "Remin?" Cyreia asked and grabbed her hand. Perhaps the touch - or anything physical, really - could attract her attention. Whatever consumed her focus now certainly wasn't of this world and maybe, just maybe the contrast between what was real and what was not would bring her back. "Remember how you told me to pay attention in case you started behaving strangely? Because now you're kind of doing that. What are you seeing?"

Maric, too, appeared to be concerned, though for a different reason. "She's... talking to the magic? There's no sense in doing that, really. As I said before, we're not dealing with a person here. Spells don't have a mind of their own, so they're hardly capable of having a conversation with you. The most they could convey would be pre-recorded messages, though I'd be amazed if the message survived throughout the centuries undistorted. You have to feed such mechanisms with energy continually, otherwise they gradually fade away in time. I'm sure her highness just hears... fragments of whatever she was meant to hear."

The magic, however, didn't feel the need to conform to Maric's expectations, because it answered. It hesitated for a few seconds, as if surprised by Remin's attempts to communicate, and then it spoke once again. 'Why are you here?' the voice boomed. As before, it sounded like many voices speaking over one another at the same time, and it was both entirely overwhelming and... comforting? Something about it seemed oddly familiar, too. 'It's not your time. Not yet.'

 

[Conifer]

Cyeria's touch did little to drag her back to the reality she was only hazily a part of right now; she noticed it, of course she did, and she knew that there was something true to what Cyeria was saying, but-- but she simply didn't understand. It was alright. Remin was fine. The concern in her wife's voice was honestly unwarrented. They weren't in danger here, couldn't she tell? Remin stalled, though, when she reached the limit their arms would reach. There was....something that kept her there, holding onto her hand, though her own hold was loose. She could speak just as well from here, anyways.

Maric's voice simply washed over her; It was unimportant rambling - wrong rambling - that didn't understand what stood before them. Remin didn't, either, but she at least understood that whatever it was defied the usual laws that bound magic. Was this magic? Or was it something far more than that? It was magical, yes, but purely magic? Was this godly, perhaps? Some long-forgotten thing that slumbered through the years? It was certainly the most nearly-religious thing that Remin had ever felt. She followed the gods, of course she did, but this was some other level of all of that entirely.

"I- don't know why we're here." Remin admits. "The king sensed you, and we...felt it responsible to investigate." She pauses for a moment, looking around the cave: at the crystals, at the star-like brightnesses high above them, at the flowers that her gaze shifted pass like water off well-oiled leather. "What do you mean, it's not my time?" That phrasing should feel more threatening than it does, but she feels no threat. There's just...alien familiarity.

 

[Aerynth]

Remin may have been fine, but it did not look like that to her. She looked... not entirely present, almost like the flowers that kept flickering in and out of her field of vision, and that terrified her more than she could possibly express. Oh, how Cyreia missed those situations when all her issues could be solved by hitting things with her sword enough times. Not that living like that had been ideal, but-- dammit, at least she knew how to do that, understood all the rules and risks. How to handle this, though? How to make her wife see her instead of whatever she was seeing? Because the empty look in her eyes did suggest that Cyreia may as well have not been here at all. That she was invisible-- invisible or about as unimportant as a worm beneath her feet. God, that wasn't a fun feeling. "Remin. Remin, talk to me?" Still no reaction. What if this is permanent? What if she glanced into another world and can't go back now? Cyreia didn't even want to think about that possibility.

"Maric, what do I do? How do I make her snap out of this?" she asked, panic in her voice. Normally, Cyreia wouldn't have allowed a subordinate of hers to see her in such a state, but honestly, to hell with her reputation. This was far, far more important.

Maric stepped closer to Remin and snapped his fingers in front of her eyes. "I... am not sure. I have personally never witnessed this, though I have read about similar occurrences. It's some kind of trance, most likely, and if that is true, the spell has to run its course. We can do nothing but wait."

"What? Wait? Maric, I swear that I'm going to--"

"I doubt that it's dangerous. The entire place was designed around her bloodline. Whatever is hidden there, it likely means her no harm." That made sense, Cyreia had to admit, though that little 'likely' certainly did not make her feel at ease. God, just how accurate Maric's inferences were? Could she afford to bet her wife's life on them? Dammit, dammit, dammit. How did they always get themselves into such predicaments? They really should have consulted someone more responsible than Maric before heading down here. All the 'should haves' in the world couldn't save them right now, though. Was there anything that could?

The voice fell silent for a second or two; despite the tree not having eyes, Remin could feel it watching her. Watching all of them, in fact. It should have been terrifying by all accounts, but for some reason, the gaze was as warm as a sunny day, as a mother's embrace. In contrast, the words that followed were downright chilling. 'Because you're still alive. This is where you go when your life ends. To become a part of me. To join all the others before you.'

 

[Conifer]

Maric and Cyeria's conversation was a hazy din that she could barely keep track of anymore; her focus was on the voice, layered and all-consuming, and the way it felt nearly physical. It was its own body; she felt like she could reach out and touch it, or almost could. The haziness extended even to the that, though. Her mind felt slow and sluggish - sedated. Forced into compliancy. Was that a bad thing? Should she be worried? Should she be fighting it? No - there was no point to that. There was no danger. There was just things they didn't understand, and she was trying to understand them. It occurred to her, though, when the voice answered her question, that perhaps she didn't want to understand. Perhaps. It was a possibility. Not one that she wanted to entertain, though.

Remin's eyes widened softly as the words finally slid themselves into a world of making sense to her, and then, just as quickly as she'd learned that information, she felt as if she'd known it all along. Remin's hand dropped from Cyeria's and she wandered - so carefully, through the flowers. The flowers that were not simply flowers, were they? They were markers. They were headstones. There had to be...so many generations of Varrents buried here. Were all of them? And if so- what lay in the crypt that she thought was full of these very bodies? Nothing? And what of those that had died while the family ruled from the capital? Had their bodies been transported back here? She can't bring herself to answer any of these, though; her mouth feels cotton-y and clogged at the thought of that. Is that natural? Is it not? Is she perhaps not meant to know the answer to those questions? What she does manage to ask, though, is all the answer she finds herself needing at this moment. "--are my parents buried here?" Had she visited an empty tomb? Had she spoken to a stone box those first few weeks? Who had brought them down here, if so? Who else knew of this place, and why hadn't she known? Had her parents known of this place? Gods, there were so many questions, but none of them allowed themselves to be asked.

 

[Aerynth]

Remin's hand slipped from her reach; in that moment, her wife was so distant so disconnected from everything tangible that she didn't even look like herself. Those eyes, usually so full of life? They were empty, empty to the point they might as well have belonged to a corpse. God, what a thought. Cyreia shivered under its weight, but she couldn't afford to collapse. Not with Remin in this state. If things went awry - or even more awry than they had already gone - she could hardly be expected to be able to defend herself. Cyreia wouldn't know what to do, either, but at least she would try to intervene. Surely that would be better than just... letting the ancient force do whatever it wanted. No, it couldn't have Remin. She wouldn't part with her so shortly after they had found each other.

"Can you at least determine its purpose?" she asked Maric. They had brought him here to make himself useful, dammit, not to stare at Remin while she... while she drifted further and further away from her with each passing second. There had to be something for them to do aside from simply observing. If they could somehow understand what exactly was happening, perhaps they would figure out how to get themselves out of this mess. "Beyond communication, I mean, because it's obviously doing just that." How else was she supposed to interpret Remin's words? It actively talked to her, no matter what Maric had said earlier. "Can we predict its actions somehow based on what it is?"

Maric stepped closer to the tree and, without a trace of fear, touched its trunk. Cyreia almost expected it to retaliate, but the thing remained motionless. It seemed, at the very least, that it intended to follow Remin's orders to leave them alone. "I... well. It's strange. I can read the original intent behind it; a protection spell. That's not what it is anymore, though. Not entirely. Just as I expected, it did get distorted, but not in a way that weakened it. There's... another layer to it now and its difficult to read it." Great, Cyreia thought. Of course that they weren't dealing with anything ordinary here. That would have been way too simple. "But again," Maric continued, "it doesn't seem hostile in its nature."

'No,' the voice whispered. Somehow, it sounded stronger than if it had been shouting. More powerful. 'And yet they're here, in spirit.' As it spoke, Remin could sense something warm wrap around her body, around her mind, around everything she was and ever would be; getting lost in it entirely would be the easiest thing in the world, really. Or had she done that already? 'Do you wish to reunite with them?'

 

[Conifer]

It would have been so easy to simply let herself sink into the feeling. It was -picnics in the garden with her mother, a fraction of time cut into her schedule to eat a slice of pie with Remin among the bright sun and the rosebuds. It was curled up in the chair her father had hauled into his office for her to curl up in, it was her falling asleep there more often than not when she was especially young and it was waking up in her own bed with whatever book she'd been reading set on her nightstand with a bookmark tucked into it when she woke up. It was dinners and it was -- it was breakfasts, lately, tucked into bed with Cyreria still, before the world demanded all the attention that they had to muster, just the two of them and food and warmth. It was the times she'd sneak out from the castle and have some hours simply to herself. The warmth offered so much, and promised so much more. She wouldn't have to deal with all of this work, if she let it consume her. She wouldn't have to return to the world above and read the twentieth letter from some destitute farmer or merchant or father or mother begging for funds to get back on their feet that she couldn't afford to give easily. She wouldn't have to read another lengthy, dull document that the advisors would pass on her way. And what would happen to her kingdom?

Somehow, though, the knowledge she wouldn't have to do all of that was what pulled her away. If not her, then who? Cyeria would have to, and she wasn't prepared, not yet. She had months to learn what had taken Remin the entirety of her life to engrain in herself. She couldn't leave her to that fate. She couldn't leave her. Remin was...at least, to her knowledge, the first person that Cyeria could be Cyeria with in an incredibly long time (and likewise, Remin felt more herself than ever, tucked into their little makeshift hideaways from time and responsibility.) She wasn't going to take that from her simply because rest would come easier. "Someday," She agrees, unable to bring herself to deny it outright, despite her determination. It sounded...far too nice to refuse entirely. "Not now. You said it. It's not my time, yet. I'll wait until it is. There's too much I can't stay here for."

 

[Aerynth]

God, what could that possibly mean? Cyreia would sacrifice her right hand just to get some precious context to all of this. The tree wasn't interested in her and her offers in the slightest, though. It existed in stubborn silence, speaking to nobody but Remin, and she was left to her own thoughts. To her own fears. What would Cyreia do if... if something happened to her? She hadn't really considered that scenario before; not when every conspiracy seemed to be aimed at getting rid of her, not her wife. Besides, in Cyreia's mind, protecting her from bodily harm wasn't complicated. If worse came to worst, then she would simply shield her. It would be... less than ideal, but it would work. How to shield her from something like this, though? How to shield her from an enemy who did not wield a sword? Oh, how she wished for this thing to not be an enemy, as unlikely as it was. Maric thought otherwise, but he had been wrong before and-- well, the way the tree behaved didn't seem friendly to her. If its intentions were pure, why capture her in this state? Why resort to such trickery? No, Cyreia refused to let her guard down.

The voice fell silent once again; the stillness that surrounded them in that moment almost felt meaningful words. It retreated from her mind slightly, too, and Remin found that she could think much more clearly. Did it mean to abandon her? Was it perhaps angry with her rejection? No, the opposite seemed to be true. 'You are not weak,' the voice boomed. Distinguishing the emotions in its tone was difficult - if it even had something like that in the first place - but it sounded... vaguely appreciative. Proud, even. 'Return, then. You should not stay her for long. This place is not good for those who cling to life. But before you go, we have a gift for you.' An invisible force lifted Remin's hand - gently, but resolutely - and the air sparkled with a sudden burst of energy. The smell of burned meat filled the cavern and white hot pain blinded her; pain worst than anything she had experienced so far. It ended quickly, though, and when Remin looked at her palm, there was a faint symbol painted in white lines. In scars that somehow looked years old despite being inflicted on her seconds ago. 'A fraction of our power. Your power, too.'

 

[Conifer]

Remin wouldn't have said herself that it was strength that kept her from giving in to the warmth; if anything, it was weakness that made her remain in the world of the living. She couldn't leave her kingdom now, and she certainly couldn't leave Cyeria. It was a lack of strength that fuelled that. But if this strange, ancient power wanted to think her strong, she certainly wouldn't be the one to change its mind. That seemed like a terrible, terrible plan. No, she would let it believe her a better ruler, a better person, than she was, if it wanted to, and she would find guilty comfort in the pride that she guessed at in its tone.

With the clearing of her head, however slight, all those questions that she wanted to ask rose back to the surface - but before she could even open her mouth to ask them, infinite pain ripped through her. She fell to the ground, her legs simply unable to support her, her body so consumed with the fire that spread through her blood. It burned every inch of her - every nook, every joint, every vein, and she couldn't even think of how much it hurt for all the pain. Her mind went white. Was this what Maric and Cyeria had felt near the entrance of the cave? Gods, she hoped not. She hoped no one ever had to feel this ever again. Was the magic killing her for her refusal? That would be mercy. But then it showed true mercy, and wiped the pain from her entirely.

Remin's breath came in shaking, unsteady bursts, none of it reaching her lungs in any meaningful way, as she lay curled on this strange grass among these strange flowers, like a ragdoll thrown to the ground. She was drenched in sweat and every limb felt hollow, felt unsteady, like it wasn't even hers for the moment. It took so much strength to even move her hand - the source of all the pain - to see it. It took her eyes, blurred with tears, a few moments to blink clear and find focus in the dim light. Eventually she managed it, though, and Remin simply looked at the mark on her hand. Distantly she worried for Cyeria, wondered about Maric, but it was difficult to even move her hand; her head was remaining quite were it was. Cyeria would come to her, surely, if she was alright. If she didn't, then Remin would gather the strength to turn her head to see her, but for now that felt just as insurmountable as climbing a mountain in a sundress.

 

[Aerynth]

"Maric," she turned to the magician once again, "how long is this supposed to take?" The longer it went on, the more uncomfortable with all of this Cyreia felt. Logic dictated that it should have gotten easier, more bearable to see Remin like this. Wasn't it true, after all, that people could get used to anything if given enough time? Apparently not, because her dread only deepened with each glance directed at her wife. Her wife, who seemed to be but a shadow of her former self. God, just observing her almost hurt physically, yet Cyreia couldn't bring herself to avert her eyes. Remin liked the way she looked at her, didn't she?

"I hate to repeat this so much, but I don't know." 'It's your job to know, you useless moron,' Cyreia wanted to say, though she managed to stop herself just in time. As much as it would have been cathartic, Maric didn't deserve to be blamed for... well, for not knowing how ancient, forgotten magic operated. Even if he did, doing that would still do nothing to solve their problem. Would it make her feel a little better? Possibly, though that wasn't the point at all. No, she had to think of Remin. Was there a way to help her? Something even Cyreia could do despite her ignorance? (Bottomless, bottomless ignorance. God, she should have studied magic instead of Athean law during those past few weeks. It wouldn't have changed much, she knew that very well, but maybe, maybe it could have made a difference. Maybe it would have made a bit more sense and-- no, there was no point in dwelling in her fantasies. She had to stick to reality here.)

"Do you think it would be safe to bring other people here? Other magicians? That force considers us to be... non-hostile, let's say, so perhaps it wouldn't attack our companions, either." They might not know how to proceed here, but someone else could, right? If the two of them located the right person, then not all hope was lost.

"I don't think so. It only obeys her highness, so it is very likely it would simply try to kill them and we could do nothing about it." He was right, of course, though Cyreia didn't want to hear that. She opened her mouth to protest, to form a counter-argument, and then Remin collapsed on the ground. Her heart skipped a beat. The relationship between an intent and the resulting action suddenly seemed a little blurry, too, because Cyreia ended up by her side without even thinking about it. What was it? A reflex? Something like that, most likely, though it didn't matter. Only the woman writhing in pain did. "Remin," she whispered before kneeling next to her and putting her arm around her shoulders, "Remin, are you back? What happened? How can I help?" Surely she sounded terrified, there was no way to hide that, but at the same time, resolve rang in her voice. Resolve and-- well, maybe also relief. Relief because, for all intents and purposes, Remin had apparently gotten a hold of herself. At what price, though?

 

[Conifer]

Cyeria's touch was too much sensation; it pricked at her skin where they touched, almost unbearably, but Remin couldn't bring herself to pull away from the concept of the comfort of her love's embrace. That, and moving much still felt like a terribly optimistic goal. But...Cyeria was okay. Cyeria was safe. Maric, likely, too, but that wasn't of so much importance.
It took Remin a few moments to reply, and when she did, even her voice in her throat brought the lingering ghosts of pain along with them. It would fade; she could feel that much. The magic hadn't wanted to hurt her. It was a gift that she was given, whatever it might be, and it didn't come with the strings of chronic pain attached. " 'm fine," Remin mumbles, shifting to rest her head in Cyeria's lap. Maric already knew they were fond of each other - and if he hadn't before now already, he would by the time they rose back up those stairs and journeyed into the world of the light. She didn't care. Let him know. Let him see . They had enough over him that they could ruin his chances of being believed. "I'm fine." She says, a little stronger, trying to convince herself just as much as she was trying to convince Cyeria. "Maric," she calls, a bit louder, reaching out her branded hand. It's too much work to keep it up in the air, but she rests it against Cyeria's shoulder, trying to help him see it. "Do you know what this is?" She could have tried to ask the magic, but...it had left her, as much as it would, it felt. She doubted it would answer anything anymore, until the day she returned here for good.

 

[Aerynth]

Remin decidedly did not look fine, though at least she reacted to her words now. She really had returned to her. Tear-stained and clearly suffering, yes, but her wife was finally present in a way that simply hadn't been true earlier. Did it make her a terrible person to consider her pain to be an acceptable price for that? Perhaps, though it was difficult not to think along these lines. Pain, after all, would fade in time. It just worked like that. Her heart bled for Remin, of course it did, but a different part of her - the cold, pragmatic one - simply looked at her and judged that her wounds weren't all that serious. That she would really be fine, even if she was anything but that at the moment. What Cyreia had said to her during their training still held true; the human body could bounce back from... well, almost anything, as long as vital organs were unaffected. The same couldn't be said about the mind, though. The mind was much more fragile and less easily healed, too. They really should think themselves lucky that her wife seemed unharmed in that regard. "Good," she breathed out softly. "You scared me. I... I feared you wouldn't return. You seemed so... I don't know, it's difficult to describe. Gone?"

Cyreia planted a small kiss into her hair before helping her stand up, supporting her as she did so. So what if Maric could see them? Hiding her love for Remin was just about the last thing on her mind. It wasn't like he of all people would use it against them. Maric owed them too much and stabbing them in the back wouldn't benefit him in any tangible way. And if he saw it appropriate to mock them, then by god, she wouldn't hesitate to strike him. Someone had to teach him some manners eventually and Cyreia wouldn't mind being that person. Not even her patience was endless. To his credit, though, Maric wasn't all that interested in the displays of affection between them. His eyes were entirely fixed on Remin's hand; or, more precisely, on the symbol on her palm.

"I've read about this," he said with barely contained excitement. It was strange, hearing him speak like that when he usually sounded so unfazed by everything that happened around him. "A control seal. They used to carve them into people's flesh in the golden age of magic, but it gradually fell out of practice. The knowledge surrounding the process got lost a few centuries back and now nobody knows how to replicate them. I suppose that this means you have an access to the tree's magical core now. Did it say anything relevant?"

 

[Conifer]

She leaned heavily against Cyeria as she helped her to stand. All of her felt weak and unsteady, and the thought of getting up and of staying up without aid made her feel dizzy. No, Cyeria was strong enough to carry most her weight. She would allow her to help, and she would only feel the tiniest hurt to her pride for doing as such. She'd just been branded by a tree in her ancestral graveyard; her pride meant very little in this moment. "I'm sorry," She murmurs back, shaking her head. "I'm here. I promise. It was all-- strange."

Maric's glee felt entirely wrong, but she didn't have the energy in her to care. Let him be inappropriately excited about her going through the worst pain she possibly could have. He, at least, had answers for her. That was enough. Even if those answers left her feeling only more unsettled - a control seal? His wording made it sound more like she had control over the tree's magic, but...somehow, that didn't feel entirely correct. Well. She'd find out, she supposed. In a way, the tree did have control over her? It had proved it - it was only due to its mercy that she still stood here and that her companions were left at the entrance in agony. Maybe they each controlled each other, like some strange symbiotic passing of power back and forth. "It's a gift," she replies, gently taking her hand back from him to help support her against Cyeria more. "A fraction of its power."

As much as she wanted to understand all of this...this place felt wrong to linger in for longer, and she'd been openly warned against it. Remin took one last glance around the space. It felt no less dangerous than they had when they'd first entered. It felt, equally, no less strange, despite her slight understanding of it. Would it exist in books? Is there research that could be done? "Come on." Remin says, trying a few unsteady steps towards the way they'd come in. Weak, but she can manage it. Gods, the bath that they'd spoken of this morning sounded incredible right now. Maybe she could convince Cyeria to move up their plans from the evening. Or perhaps it was evening? How long had they been down here? "We should leave."

 

[Aerynth]

"You don't need to be," Cyreia murmured softly. Remin felt unexpectedly heavy in her arms - heavy in a way she would have anticipated from a lifeless body rather than a living person - but the sensation wasn't unwelcome. Far from it. The weight only made her seem more tangible, more real, and Cyreia needed that assurance now. "Just try not to make a habit of it." Hadn't Remin said something similar to her, back when she had dispatched those bandits and earned a wound in the process? God, that had been so long ago. It was almost difficult to recall that time, mainly because she had existed in Remin's vicinity and hadn't loved her yet. God, just the idea of it seemed downright absurd.

"A gift? A fraction of its power?" Maric repeated, sounding more and more excited. "You'll have to elaborate on that, I'm afraid." Did he not see her pain? Or did he see it and merely failed to care? Either way, Cyreia's contempt for the man grew by the second. A thirst for knowledge was something she respected, but being so engrossed in it that you overlooked other people's suffering? Unacceptable, especially in any scenario where Remin was the one to suffer. "I'm fairly sure that the queen doesn't have to do anything," she said, her voice uncharacteristically low. The message was clear: zip it. Or maybe not: "Well, she doesn't have to, of course. But she should because this is fascinating. We are perhaps the first people in the last three hundred years to witness such a miracle. It is our duty to record everything we can for the future generations. To prevent that knowledge from being lost again."

At the moment, Cyreia couldn't be bothered to give a damn about the future generations or lost arcane arts. Only the woman in her arms mattered. "Yes, yes, I'm sure that it's all very interesting, but I don't care. You can speak to my wife later, if she is willing to humor you. I won't allow you to interrogate her now, though. And let's go, I have a bad feeling about this place." Remin had no desire to stay either, so why linger here? Nothing good would come of it. Not that Cyreia didn't have her fair share of questions, but they didn't have to be answered here. She would ask later, when they were alone and away from this dreadful place. From this dreadful place that had almost claimed Remin.

Once again, Maric looked like a child that had lost its favorite toy. "Fine. I'd like to stay, though. In fact, it would be ideal if you sent a team of magicians down here to assist me with the research. We've only seen a glimpse of what can be discovered, I'm certain of that. Allow me to study the phenomenon, your highnesses. You don't have to be present if it makes you uneasy."

 

[Conifer]

"Absolutely not." Remin says, the exhaustion and utter lack of will to handle this tactfully more than evident in her tone. She turns on her heel, reaching back out to Cyeria for support - both physically and emotionally, honestly, though mostly the former. Gods, she wanted to curl up somewhere warm and simply sleep. Her previous grace for Maric's enthusiasm had waned the instant he'd opened his mouth again, and had bittered to anger as he'd insisted on studying this place. Wanting to study her was one thing, but wanting to study this sacred place, regardless of its glory? They weren't even supposed to be here. Surely he /knew/ that. "You're returning with us. No one's to know about this place, and you aren't going to even speak of it again, never mind return." Perhaps it's impeding too much on the tree's hospitality, but she shifts her attention, speaking to the room at large. "If this man steps foot here again, or so much as tampers with the entrance, he's no companion of mine any longer. Do what you will with him.'' It's cruel, perhaps, but it's a cruelness he would have brought upon himself - if the magic's listening, anyways. Otherwise it's simply a hopefully convincing threat. "Do you understand, Maric?" She looks back to him.

 

[Aerynth]

"... yes," Maric said after a moment of hesitation. "Yes, I do." Something told her that he wasn't likely to abandon the thought, but Remin's words seemed to scare him into compliance. He had tasted the tree's power before, after all, and was in no rush to get into that position again. Nobody in their right mind would. Had her wife gone too far in holding that over his head? Perhaps, though she couldn't find it in herself to judge her for it. Maric, while a valuable ally in many respects, had been nothing but insufferable and deserved some sort of comeuppance. Besides, a lesser threat probably wouldn't have convinced him. Men consumed by their passions often couldn't see past their own nose. "Good," Cyreia nodded. "Now that we're all on the same page, we can finally return. Let us go. There's nothing for us to do here anymore." This time, Maric didn't dare to protest. The three of them stumbled their way out of the cavern (the roots closed behind them once again, Cyreia noted) and then they headed towards the entrance. They walked in silence, more or less, and the journey took them longer than it had to, mostly because she didn't want to tire Remin even further. Carrying her would have been faster, of course, but not kinder; at least not towards Remin's pride. Perhaps she wouldn't have minded had they been alone, except that they didn't have that luxury. For that reason, Cyreia stuck to merely supporting her. That, too, wasn't a terrible fate. At least she got to touch her, even if the reason behind it was nothing to celebrate.

Finally, finally they reached the armory. They parted their ways with Maric, though not before asking him to disguise the entrance. Predictably, he didn't like the idea, but a single glance at Cyreia's expression made him cast an illusion over the hidden door. ("This will do for now. It's not like anyone will be looking for it anyway, so I'd wager it's fairly safe. I'm tired now, so I can't cast anything more complicated, but I'll return tomorrow to do something more sophisticated about it.") Cyreia assured him that she, too, would visit the armory tomorrow to see whether he made a good job of that, and then they left Maric to his devices. "It's almost evening, it seems," she spoke to Remin as they climbed the stairs together. "I think it's high time I fulfilled my promise. The one about bath. What do you say, my love?" Cyreia had expected Remin to yearn after some sort of release after the training, but god, so much had happened and it was obvious that she needed it more than ever now.

Fortunately, it wasn't difficult to prepare the bath. Unlike in Hadsberry, they had everything at their disposal; hot water, sufficient space, fragrant oils. Cyreia mixed some of the scents (lilac, cherry blossom and something floral she couldn't quite recognize) and, soon enough, the water was ready. She tested it with her finger and it seemed warm enough, but not so hot as to actually burn them. In other words, the perfect temperature. "Come," she smiled at her wife, "there's nothing better than a nice bath just before you go to sleep. I've read somewhere it can bring you good dreams." Cyreia helped Remin remove her clothes before getting naked herself and joining her. That was a part of her promise, wasn't it? And thank god that Remin had made her promise that, too, because the way the water hugged her felt downright amazing. Almost divine, really; all her pent up stress was slowly disappearing along with the steam. "I have to admit," she began, "I didn't think that this day would be so eventful, to put it lightly. Do you want to talk about what happened there? I'm curious, I won't lie, but if you wish to keep it to yourself, I'm not going to push you."

 

[Conifer]

Remin hesitated at the thought of simply leaving the door down to the cavern open, especially as she wasn't sure that Maric wouldn't try to sneak back down there despite her threats. The roots had closed themselves off, but was that enough to protect the space from him? Having the further hinderance of needing her blood again would have left her feeling more secure. Perhaps the door would close itself in the night, though? Or maybe there was a mechanism to close it? Someone had been down there before and the door hadn't simply been left open since then. There was something that could be done. For now, though, she was too worn thin to protest simply leaving it for now. The door was hidden from those that didn't already know it was there, and so that would have to be good enough until she or Cyeria could confirm its closing. So they watched Maric retreat from the room, and for good measure, Remin locked the door to the armory. Anyone who needed in there could unlock it themselves; Maric couldn't. The lock might do little good against his brand of magic, but it was at least protected against simple spells. If he managed to get in, it would be all the more things to prove that he'd gone directly against her word. She hoped he didn't, as then she'd have to come up with some form of punishment for it, but...Well. She'd do what she had to. "A bath sounds incredible," She agrees softly as soon as he's gone from sight.

And, gods, was it. Most of the effects from the magic had long-faded by the time the tub was full of fragrant, warm water, but Remin was still exhausted and bruised from the earlier training. Gods, that felt like so much longer ago than simply a few hours. She allowed Cyeria to help her out of her clothes and into the tub; it was amazing how little she minded Cyeria seeing her weak. Even the walk up the stairs, having to lean on her so much, had felt embarrassing in front of Maric, but here...here, it didn't matter. Cyeria had seen her worse than this already, and her opinion of Remin for it wouldn't change.If anything it would simply bring them closer. She loosened her hair from its beyond-messy bun while she waited, but once Cyeria had joined Remin shifted how she sat in the tub to rest against the warmth of her wife's chest. "It's a graveyard," She murmurs, letting her eyes drift comfortably closed as she began to recount the information she had learned. "I'm - really not sure of who all is buried there, besides the royal family in general, but it seemed to be the place where there spirits gathered regardless of where they were buried. What the magic was, or how it worked...I'm honestly not sure," She admits softly. "Or what I have access to now, I don't know. I wish I could have talked to it more, but chatting didn't really seem like an option. We shouldn't have ventured down there; the living, I think, don't belong."

 

[Aerynth]

A graveyard? God, it was no wonder that Remin had rejected Maric's request so adamantly. Investigating a graveyard of all places sounded blasphemous even to her despite her general lack of reservations. The dead should be left well alone. It seemed to be one of those rules everyone followed regardless of their nationality or status, and those who didn't proved themselves utterly untrustworthy. No, not just untrustworthy; they proved to be less than beasts. "That's... not what I expected, though that probably isn't too surprising. Nothing ever goes according to my expectations here." Not this, not her own magic, not even their relationship. It still amazed how much comfort she found in the other woman's presence. Cyreia grabbed a washcloth and took to cleaning Remin's body, though honestly, it was more of a massage than an actual attempt at washing her. No ulterior motives could be detected in her actions, either; there was a time and place for everything and this just wasn't it. Not when they were talking about graveyards and potentially sinister forces. No, she just... wanted her to feel good, to make her forget her worries for a short while. That would be its own reward.

"Maybe we really shouldn't have done that," Cyreia agreed. God, just the idea of disturbing the rest of the previous generations of the Verrants made her skin crawl. It was no wonder, really, that the magic had guarded the entrance so fiercely. They had had no right to be there. "But perhaps it was meant to happen. I mean, you believe in fate, don't you?" Cyreia still didn't know what to think about that concept. Granted, what the fortune teller had told her had turned out to be (sort of, maybe) true, but did she accept it? Only time would tell. Still, Remin didn't doubt its validity, so her own uncertainty couldn't stop her from using it as an argument. "Maybe we were supposed to find it and you were supposed to receive whatever you received. Clearly, the tree must have seen you as worthy to grant you its powers. I am no expert, but I don't think it would have done that if... if you had been entirely unwelcome." Why exactly was she trying to convince her of that? Well, perhaps because that strange place was the only real connection to her family at this point. It was strange and macabre, yes, but also undeniably meaningful. "And what about your hand?" she proceeded to ask. "Does it hurt or feel strange in any way? Maybe we could have Oren look at it later if it's causing you trouble."

 

[Conifer]

"No, it feels..." She trails off slightly, raising her hand from the water to look at the strange mark that sat, slightly raised and a little pale, against her palm. It was large, taking up most of the space there, stretching across her skin like it had right to be there. Perhaps it did. Was she the first of her line to have this same mark? Somehow, she doubted that. But she did doubt that she would find proof of that in any of the collection of diaries and journals that took up shelves in the library. "...mundane." She hums softly. "Like an old scar. Like it's always been there." She sighs, dropping her hand back beneath the water. Did she want Oren looking at it? It wasn't causing harm, and there was likely little the healer could do. It would probably be best if they didn't show anyone they didn't have to - especially those that might recognize it as the same that Maric had. "I agree, though. I don't think it was wrong of us to be there. We just weren't, according to the rules of that place, suppose to be there. I don't like that Maric knows how to get back down there."

 

[Aerynth]

"Maric won't be a problem," she assured her. "I believe that what you told the tree will make him think twice about doing anything shady." He didn't seem like the type that was willing to risk his life, or at least not to such extent. Cyreia recognized the empty glares of those who would - of those ready to die at any point, for any price - and he just didn't look like that. The young Marsh had something to live for. Who would continue his research if he died in that cavern? "I suppose that we can also ask someone else to place yet another spell on the entrance, just so that you feel more at peace. According to the letter I received three days ago, my tutors from Olyveire are supposed to arrive tomorrow. I'm sure they could help in that regard, too." Maric may have been powerful, but surely he couldn't overcome every barrier in the world. No, his powers were likely much more limited than they imagined. He had needed her assistance to escape his father's influence, after all. Cyreia and Remin probably overestimated him because... well, Cyreia knew next to nothing about magic and Remin, by her own admission, wasn't that proficient in it, either.

Cyreia continued to caress her body with the washcloth, careful not to irritate any of the bruises. God, there were so many of them it almost made her feel guilty, but they had been inflicted on her for a reason. Each of them would serve as a reminder of an imperfect dodge, of a badly calculated move. Thanks to them, Remin would learn. For a few seconds, she just enjoyed the silence. The blessed, blessed silence and the presence of her beloved wife. After everything that had happened today, both of those factors felt like a healing salve. And then: "... did you get to speak to your parents in some capacity?" Alright, perhaps that wasn't the most sensitive of questions, but she couldn't contain her curiosity. The whole idea of spirit was terrifying and strange and unnatural, though it also fascinated her in a way. Was there a person alive who never pondered about the nature of afterlife? Cyreia sincerely doubted it. Remin didn't seem too bothered by the topic, either, which only encouraged her. "I... think I'd enjoy that," she continued, her tone soft. "Visiting my mother's resting place and meeting her spirit. I don't believe she even has a grave, though. I never returned to my former home, but I'd wager that they just left the corpses there as food for crows. That's what usually happens in these cases."

 

[Conifer]

"...No," Remin says softly. Perhaps their voices had been amongst those that the magic had used to speak to her, but-- but no, she hadn't spoken to them, as much as she'd wanted to. Or had she? Would that have helped anything at all, to face them again? Perhaps. She could have told them the truth of their deaths, and how they'd been avenged. What if she'd handled it wrong, though? Could ghosts care of things like that? Remin shifts, tucking her head against Cyeria a bit, as if the presence of her wife could protect her from ghostly disappointment. The movement of the washcloth over her skin is a relaxing distraction, even when she skims over a forming bruise and Remin feels the hit of the practice sword against her arm or side or leg again. "It was probably for the best." What would she have even said to them, besides that? What would they have said to her? It would have been nice, she supposed, to introduce them to Cyeria. To show them that things had worked out, somehow. But...Well. It didn't matter. They were gone, and there was little to be done about it.

She curls an arm around Cyeria, sinking herself deeper into the pleasant-smelling blanket of warmth as she spoke about her own mother. It felt...terrible, to find comfort in the fact that they'd both lost their family so tragically, but she couldn't help it. It made talking about her parents feel less like pity and more like understanding. There'd been enough pity after their deaths, and she didn't want more of it. "I'm sorry." Remin says, so softly, and then, "...we should make a space for her. In the garden, or something. A memorial. If you wanted." Perhaps that was overstepping, and it didn't really solve anything, but...If her parents hadn't had a place to rest, if she hadn't had somewhere to go to be with them, it would have been so much different. A memorial wouldn't solve that, and Cyeria's loss had happened so much longer ago, but perhaps it would still be nice for her.r

 

[Aerynth]

"Perhaps you're right," Cyreia said. Letting the dead sleep sounded like the safer option. What if death had warped their characters? What if, upon speaking to them, Remin had discovered that they weren't the same people she knew and loved? That they had turned into something inhuman? No, it was better to cherish the memories she already had instead of trying to make new ones. There were times when curiosity only led to grief and this seemed to be one of them. Nothing good would come of going against the natural order of things.

Talking about memorials threw her off a bit; that much was apparent in the way her whole body tensed up. Why, though? Remin's suggestion had been nothing but thoughtful. Getting upset over it made little sense. Hell, Cyreia wasn't even upset, not really, but-- she felt uncomfortable. Yes, uncomfortable. Her mother had died a long ago and she had accepted it, more or less, in the same way you could accept an arrow shot through your arm. The wound had healed with the arrow still inside and now Remin tried to remove it. Of course that it hurt on some level; there was no way to do such a thing painlessly. Maybe she really did need something like that, though. Maybe getting a semblance of closure would close that wound for good. It wouldn't happen immediately, but it could be that first step. "I... well. I suppose we could do that," Cyreia finally said after a minute of contemplation. "Nothing fancy, though. She wouldn't have liked that." They also had far more important things to invest in after that disastrous war; spending money on a grand tomb for the invader's dead mother would not have done wonders for their popularity, that much she knew for sure. Was it callous of her to think about finances instead of jumping at the chance to honor her memory? Possibly, but pragmatism had settled so deep under her skin that extracting it just wasn't possible at this point. Not without destroying her in the process. "I should build it myself," she continued. "It would be a good practice for my yearly visits of Hadsberry. I doubt there will always be debris for me to move around, after all. I should learn to do something constructive."

As she spoke, Cyreia reached for the shampoo and massaged it into Remin's hair softly. It reminded her of that evening in the washroom - of the time they had confessed their feelings - and it made her feel weirdly nolstalgic. Perhaps I should do this more often. She worked in silence for a while before a strange idea came to her. "So, I assume that once it is your time to die, you will join them. What about me? Will I go there as well?" They were married, after all. Did it automatically tie her to the Verrant family with everything it apparently entailed? God, Cyreia didn't know whether she wanted it to happen or not. The possibility of becoming a part of that tree was downright terrifying, true, but abandoning Remin to such fate? That didn't please her, either.

 

[Conifer]

"It can be whatever you want it to be," Remin promises softly, leaning up to press a kiss to Cyeria's shoulder. She doesn't want her proposal of a memorial to pressure Cyeria into something that she doesn't want; sometimes it is easiest to let sleeping dogs lie. Perhaps she's done her mourning. Perhaps that's not a time in her life she wants to return to . Remin can't and won't fault her for that. "But if you build it...if you'd like help, my hands are yours." She perhaps wouldn't be the most helpful, but it felt...respectful. She'd never be able to meet the woman who her wife spoke of so fondly, but she'd be able to dedicate respectful time towards her. Hopefully that would be of some comfort to either herself, or Cyeria, or Cyeria's mother's spirit. But she also didn't want to impose. If it was work that her wife wanted to do, and that her wife wanted to do alone, then she wouldn't take offense. She understood.

Remin sank back down deeper into the water as Cyeria worked the soap through her hair. Now that she wasn't running a washcloth over fresh bruises, this bath was all the more relaxing. "I don't quite know." Remin's forced to admit. There had been a good number of flowers down there, but had there been flowers of the entire family, or simply those of the main bloodline? She hadn't spent the time to count them. "I intend to do some research into where the various bodies of nobility have been buried. There's a family crypt that I...suppose I made the assumption that's where they were, but it makes a good deal of sense for it to be a ruse. If we were ever taken over, for example. The bodies wouldn't be found to be disturbed or stolen from." She smiles softly, letting the moment go soft, looking at Cyeria. "For what it's worth, though, I do hope to be buried beside you where ever we end up." She had her hesitations with saying 'I love you', but this declaration felt almost heavier. It was an admission that even when they could some day give up their rule, that this whole relationship wouldn't simply be over. That would be a long time from now, and certainly things could change, but...All Remin could fathom right now was them spending their lives together. It's all she wanted to fathom.