Fantasy All's Fair

[Aerynth]

"Thank you," Cyreia said, her voice sounding just a little bit strained. Few people would have noticed that slight shift, but Remin surely had; her wife knew her too well. Amazingly enough, that didn't unnerve her. Not in the slightest. Being known to such extent? Observing and, in turn, being seen? That was a beautiful thing and it didn't matter at all that what Remin saw right now could be interpreted as weakness. With her wife, she didn't have to be strong all the time. There were no enemies who would take advantage of the situation, no secrets to be hidden; just them, the warm water and naked honesty. What a refreshing concept. "For everything. And... yes. I, too, hope that we will be able to stay together." To stay together throughout eternity. That had been to dramatic to say aloud, too grand of a statement, but-- the intent was there, even in the toned down version. The way she looked at Remin - soft and fond and so infinitely loving - made it obvious, too.

The two remained in the water, enjoying the brief moments of peace and talking about things that simultaneously didn't matter and yet somehow meant the world. They moved past conspiracies, past ancient magic, past politics; these discussions were necessary, but not right now. Not when the events of this day had drained their energy reserves so thoroughly. Instead, Cyreia talked about the small aspects of her new existence; about the way certain books confused her endlessly ("The author was too busy trying to sound sophisticated that I have no idea what she meant") and the seemingly endless stream of faux pases that happened to her here ("I got lost yesterday and somehow ended up in some poor servant's personal chambers while she was dressing herself.") The conversation flowed easily and they only got out of the water once it turned cold. After that, both of them were tired, so they headed straight to bed. That night, sleep claimed her easily and brought her no dreams.

As magister Tyforth had promised, the delegation from Olyveire arrived the next morning; two women and one man, all of them eager to get acquainted with the king and his apparent magical gifts. The enthusiasm cooled off rather quickly, though, when nothing they advised her seemed to work. The traditional methods of grasping one's magic did nothing for her. Meditating? Focusing her inner eye? Breath exercises? Cyreia followed all those instructions as well as she could, she honestly did, but the force that rested within her didn't answer. It just continued to sleep, and her mentors grew more and more frustrated. "Are you sure, my king," one of them even asked, "that you truly possess magical abilities?" "Quite sure," Cyreia answered. "I mean, there's no other explanation for some of the things that happened around me."

Meanwhile, Remin also wasn't very successful in connecting with her new gift. The scar simply acted just like all the other scars in the world, which meant it did exactly nothing. At times, her senses felt sharper - sharper to the point it seemed as if the walls of the castle whispered something to her at night when everything else was drowning in silence - but aside from that? Nothing. Nothing out of ordinary. Not even Maric and his books were especially helpful. He had managed to find some texts that mentioned that particular type of seal, true, but most of them contained depictions of heroic deeds by those who had borne it. Nothing about it was especially instructive. "What exactly have you tried so far?" Cyreia asked Remin after she had returned from yet another fruitless training. "I'm sort of becoming an expert at these things. Too bad that none of them seem to work for me, but maybe some of it could help you."

 

[Conifer]

The bath was a much needed respite from the world; funny how their day of intended relaxing had turned into all of...this. It was a mess, truly. A strange mess, but a mess, that left Remin absolutely exhausted. The training alone would have been enough to have her dozing off in the warmth of the tub and of her love's embrace, but with the whole magical mystery on top of that...it's Cyeria that reasons that they should finally get out of the tub and head to bed, and she's nearly forced to carry Remin there. It's simply too much comfort for her to easily give it up. But Cyeria's had to do enough carrying of her today, and so Remin forces herself out. She doesn't bother with pajamas after she's haphazardly dried herself off, simply collapsing into the bed and then curling up against Cyeria when her wife's joined her in the bed.

The next day through them immediately back into the thick of it, though - titles existed once more. Duties existed once more. Responsibility. They couldn't just wander off into the woods again, or down into mysterious caverns beneath the castle. They had books to read, papers to sign, laws to study, people to meet - and now, apparently, magic to train in. Those scraped-together hours were a welcome break from the usual, though, by the time that Remin got around to them. Even if they ended simply in frustration. Maric was frustratingly fascinated with the whole thing still, but if Remin could simply cut it off her body and place it onto his at this point, she would. Let him have the useless scar. Gods, but, no. The magic had gifted it to her for a reason. Perhaps that reason wasn't just meant to be known to her yet. That didn't mean she wasn't going to try, but...but it made a convenient excuse when all she managed was a standard bit of magic, unaided by whatever it was that took residence on her skin now.

"Everything, I think." Remin sighs, reaching out to Cyeria as she joins her in their room. She'd taken to working on her own magic there; there were plenty of other, reasonable places to train, but this one...it was private. Comfortable. Had the benefit of Cyeria occasionally stopping by. Remin pulls the woman close, pressing a kiss to her cheek and mentally declaring her training for the evening to be over. "We've gone through half a dozen books at this point. Granted, half of them are fairy tales for children, but..." She sighs. "Even fairy tales are rooted in fact. So it must do something. Perhaps." She's starting to sincerely doubt that. "But if you have suggestions, I won't turn them away." The list of things she'd tried was long, but not yet extensive; it's easy enough to rattle it quickly off to Cyeria, ti better answer the question she'd asked instead of just worn-down complaining.

 

[Aerynth]

"Everything is not a very descriptive word," Cyreia chuckled and returned the kiss. It did give her a good idea of what it entailed, though; more than likely, Remin and Maric had already tried all of the more traditional approaches. Well, alright, they couldn't really be called 'traditional' when all the tradition surrounding control seals had apparently been lost, but-- surely they had attempted to somehow capitalize on the existing methods. That only made sense. The underlying structure of Remin's new magic should, after all, resemble the magic they were all familiar with to some extent. Or maybe it didn't? Perhaps thad had been their first mistake; going too far with their assumptions and treating it like any other brand of magic instead of seeing it as its own thing. As something completely different. Clearly, a fresh line of thought was needed here. Cyreia grabbed her chin and plunged on the bed, chasing after a half-formed theory hiding somewhere in the back of her mind. It didn't take too long for her to start speaking again.

"I assume, then, that you mainly tried to extract power from the mark on your palm?" Cyreia took her hand in hers and turned her around to look at it. Even if Remin had insisted earlier that it didn't hurt, she still did so gently, carefully, almost as the touch could shatter it. The memory of Remin writhing in pain was still too recent, too fresh for her to act differently. "Maybe that's not what you're supposed to do. I mean, it's not really your magic. Well, it is now, but the source isn't yours, is it?" If they really had been focusing on the standard ways of practicing magic, then Remin had been looking inwards to draw on the power. What if that wasn't the right place to examine, though? "Maybe this is completely off the mark, but have you tried... I don't know, connecting with the tree spirit somehow? Or establishing a link with your late relatives?" Cyreia had no idea whether this actually could be done, but intuitively, it made sense to try and reach the source somehow. And even if it wouldn't work-- well, perhaps a new perspective could help Remin anyway. A suggestion didn't necessarily have to be good to serve as an inspiration. It just needed to be free of the usual preconceptions.

 

[Conifer]

Remin examined the mark on her hand as Cyeria thought, as if she hadn't memorized every smooth curve and line of it by now. She could draw it in her sleep. She could picture it as vividly in her mind as she could see it with her eyes. Maric hadn't yet been able to translate it - which meant that it was likely something much older or stranger than the writing that had led them down to the tree, if it even truly was writing. Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just a design the magic had thought attractive, and held no ulterior meaning. That...didn't seem likely, but it was a possibility. One that Remin would have to grow comfortable with, since it didn't seem like any meaning was going to rise out of this mystery any time soon. Though, perhaps her mistake was Maric. They'd followed the traditional methods, but...what of this was normally traditional? Remin had an uncomfortable lack of knowledge about that. Had her mother had this mark somewhere, tucked away beneath fabric, or disguised with cosmetics or magic? Had her grandfather? Had her great-grandfather? Was she the first? The only? Surely not. If only ghosts could speak to her. (Ghostspeaking was...a complicated science that existed somewhere in the realm of honesty and ruse. Seers who didn't have quite enough talent at seeing the future took to it; reading the past was an easier stretch. It was not truly speaking to ghosts, as much as they claimed it or others believed it. That wasn't how it worked. Remin was a skeptic in that regard. She knew, though, that no seer could give her much information on this brand.

"From the mark, yes," She lets her hand comfortably settle in Cyeria's, letting the other woman manipulate it how she would. "And from how I've usually cast magic, but that equally does no good." They'd had to keep the lessons to the evening, post dinner and post reasonable hour, really, so she could sleep off the magical strain without losing too much time that was devoted to the good of the kingdom. That, too, was leaving her tired. Maybe Cyeria had a point, though. This wasn't really her own magic. So what does she draw it from? Remin's soft frown of concentration deepened as she watched Cyeria's fingers against her hand, tracing out the symbol. What was the thing of the most importance that they'd found down there? What was the magic that had spoken to her, really?
Or - maybe that was too narrow. Maybe she didn't need to specify that far. The whole cavern had been filled to the brim; perhaps she could just...draw from that entirely. The concept of the caverns. "That may..." She murmurs, trailing off, partially an idea she doesn't finish voicing, and partially an acknowledgement of the possibility of Cyeria's suggestions. In place of her aborted words is an attempt: she looks across the room, towards the unlit fireplace, and focuses there. Simple enough magic, but not something she was really capable of, especially not at the distance of most of a room. Would it catch light, if she followed the trail of power out her feet, into the floor, under the doorways, down the hall -- would the magic be receptive? Remin focused, trying to visiualize the path her reaching took. She remembered every detail that she could, and drew upon that to attempt to light the tinder in the fireplace.

 

[Aerynth]

Was that a flash of concentration she saw in Remin's eyes? It had to be. Clearly, her wife was attempting to call upon the power that rested somewhere underneath the castle. To be perfectly frank, it made her a bit nervous. They didn't know what it was going to do - judging by their visit of that graveyard, they couldn't even begin to imagine - and yet Remin tried anyway, and without any qualified supervision. This could easily end in catastrophe. Despite that, though, Cyreia said nothing. Instead of chastising her, she just squeezed her hand harder. It just wasn't her place to criticize her; not when Cyreia herself knew very little about how any of this worked. That would have been terribly patronizing. No, the only thing she could really do here was to support her the other woman. Presumably, everything would go better with her mind at ease and-- well, she could contribute to that. If nothing else, Cyreia would prevent her own uncertainty from rubbing off on her. That was helpful in its own way, wasn't it?

She watched the fireplace in complete silence; for a while, nothing happened. Had her theory been wrong? Quite possibly. It was nothing but a conjecture, after all, and one with less than solid basis at that. Even voicing that idea had been sort of presumptuous. If Maric couldn't make it work, what gave her the confidence to think that she could? And then, when all the hope had faded already, there was a familiar spark. It filled the air with energy that made her hairs stand on end, and before she could even comment upon that, the wood in the fireplace caught fire. It wasn't a regular fire, though; that much seemed obvious even at first glance. Cyreia could sense... something strangely otherworldly about it? Yes, otherworldly was the fitting word here. The flames moved in a peculiar manner, almost as if responding to a wind that just wasn't there, and if one looked closely enough, a green-ish tinge could be spotted within. Something about it reminded her of the ghostly flowers. Why? She couldn't tell, not with any degree of certainty at the very least, but it kind of felt... self-evident? A nose, too, could recognize different smells after getting familiar with them, and this was similar.

"Well, I suppose that this is the way to do it," Cyreia smiled softly. Not able to resist her curiosity, she rose from the bed and approached the fire. "It... doesn't give off any heat," she noted after a few moments. Upon closer inspection, it seemed that the fire didn't really consume the wood, either. What kind of magic was that? An illusion? Cyreia touched the flames only to retreat her hand immediately with a pained 'tsssk'. Alright, not an illusion, then. Or was it? Even if it hurt, her skin still appeared spotless. Blisters should have been forming on her fingers by now, but they just weren't there. "This is weird. It acts like fire in some respects, but it's... something else, probably." A spiritual representation of fire, perhaps?

 

[Conifer]

Remin watched the strange fire, for a moment. She watched the flames flicker to light and watched them dance, she watched the way they twisted as if they weren't contained in the safety of a fireplace. They faltered down as they were blown by a particularly strong gust of nonexistent wind, and she took a step towards them as Cyeria did the same. "How stran- Cyeria!" She's interrupted by her wife sticking her hand into the flames. Gods, this woman. This reckless, curious woman. She loved her. Remin crossed the rest of the distance of the room, taking Cyeria's hand into hers and inspecting the untouched skin there. Satisfied that she's left unharmed, she presses a kiss to her palm with a quiet "Don't do that again," before she releases her hold on it and peers back into the flames. Would it catch something alight? Remin glanced about the room, finding a scrap of paper to feed into the flames, but much like its effect on the wood, it hardly seemed to do anything to the scribbled-on scrap. This was...little more than a poorly-controlled weapon, then.

"It's curious." Remin says softly, watching the bit of paper lie still against the wood amidst the chaotic fire. "I wonder--" It will sound ridiculous if she's wrong, but it's Cyeria, and this is a time for ideas. She likely won't voice it in front of Maric unless she's sure, but here is safe enough. "The magic...it seemed to draw on the strength of the spirits to lend it a voice. And this is, as far as we can guess, just an extension of that magic. An arm. Or a finger. Loaned out to me." Remin takes a seat in one of the armchairs beside the fire, her eyes still securely there, as if answers would spring forward. There's no smoke that rises from the flames. "What if this is just...another ghost? The ghost of a fire that's been here before, perhaps, or the ghost of a fire that one of my ancestors made. Maybe I didn't create anything- I just drew forward the voices of the past, as it had done?"

 

[Aerynth]

"All I can say is that it seemed like a good idea at that time," Cyreia chuckled. It would have been oh so easy to claim that she had done it to help Remin learn more about the phenomenon, to risk her own skin so that she didn't have to, but it just wasn't true. In that moment, her curiosity had simply gotten the better of her. The same kind of curiosity had pushed her forward when others would have taken a step back (sometimes at her own peril), though ultimately, it had brought her here. It had brought her to her love, as convoluted as the road leading up to it had been. Cyreia decided that she liked the trait after all. "But don't worry, I learn from my mistakes. For the most part, at the very least." Her self-control tended to fail her when temptation was involved - when Remin was involved, really - though that wouldn't exactly be an issue here. Unlike her wife's touch, the sensation of having her hand burned wasn't something she wanted to experience over and over again.

Cyreia listened to Remin in silence, carefully weighing each word. "That... does sound logical, I suppose, if logic can even be applied to something like this." Despite her earlier skepticism, she now believed that yes, that was exactly the case. Magic had scared her primarily because it had - and still did - seemed so incomprehensible, but wasn't the existence of Olyveire and people like Maric a convincing proof that it could be understood? Surely there would have been nothing to research if no laws had governed it. Her untrained eye couldn't even begin to see patterns in the apparent chaos, though-- it had been the same with her sword, really. At the beginning, Cyreia hadn't been able to distinguish two types of slashes from one another to save her life. And now? They were as different as day and night, as black and white. Perhaps, if she studied diligently enough, magic would also reveal its secrets to her. That was something to look forward to.

"I wonder whether there are any limitations to this," she said as she watched the flames. "I mean, since the magic isn't really yours, magic strain shouldn't be a problem, but is there something else that bothers you? Do you feel strange in any way?" Cyreia looked back at the fire, its reflection mirroring in her eyes. "I also wonder what kinds of things you can bring back from the past and to what extent they can interact with our world. It obviously hurt when I stuck my hand into the fire, but was the pain real or was it just... an idea of pain, I suppose? Is there some invisible damage or did my body only react to what it thought was happening?" In direct contrast with her earlier statement, she almost seemed tempted to touch the flame again, this time for longer, if only to see what it would do to her.

 

[Conifer]

"I feel..." Remin faltered, taking accessment of her body. Nothing felt particularily strange, besides the lack of magical strain, but that didn't mean much of anything. All she'd done was light a fire. Perhaps with something more strenuous, or after more use, she might feel differently. It wasn't something she wanted to test, but it was probably something that they eventually should. Not knowing your limits in the middle of needing to push yourself would be...dangerous at best, and deadly at worst. That was a task better suited to a controlled environment, though. "Fine?" She finally decides, frowning softly at that reply. It felt far too convenient. No, there had to be some catch.

Remin stretched out her magic again, focusing on the flow of herself to the source - perhaps unnecessary now that she'd made that initial link, but now wasn't the time to go changing variables - and she forced the fire to flicker out. It died as a fire did once doused in water, the the usual plumes of steam made no appearance. Would they have, if she'd used water? Unlikely, after its effect on Cyeria's hand and on the paper. "There's only one way to find out that, I suppose." And fire would do the trick, but there were things that carried less risk. "Wait here a moment," She pressed a kiss to Cyeria's cheek and slipped out of the room.

It was quick enough to find what she searched for; a dip into her office turned up an empty inkwell that she'd used up the day before. Again, no point in adjusting variables. Just as fire had once existed in the fireplace, ink had once existed here, and so if they were on the right track with the magic at all, then surely it would fill with ink again when she tried to make it. Remin made it back to the room before focusing just as she had on the fire on the inkwell. Slowly, but surely, it began to rise with ink - dark black, as it had been. Much as with the fire, though, there was something unnatural about it. The way it met the light was strange, almost oil-slick like with uneasy swirls of greenish tinge drifting through the liquid as it filled. Once it had, Remin found a quill, and attempted to write with it.

 

[Aerynth]

"Good," Cyreia said with a smile. They were playing with fire here, both literally and metaphorically, but if Remin felt fine, they had one less thing to worry about. Would the tree ask something of her in exchange? Quite possibly. Balance had a curious way of reinstating itself and she doubted that it would be any different in this case. At the same time, though, it didn't seem that the entity wished to hurt her. Not when it had gone out of its way to protect her. With a healthy distance between her and the mental torture the spirit had subjected her to, Cyreia could see it for what it was; a safety measure. They were Remin's companions, of course, and born no ill will towards her, though the tree couldn't have known that. What if they had been power-hungry usurpers who had kidnapped Remin in order to unlock all those seals guarding the entrance? That scenario didn't seem too far-fetched. Who knew, perhaps it had even encountered a similar threat in the past and acted based on its past experiences. The point was, surely the tree wouldn't endanger her, now would it? The symbol on her palm was meant to be a gift, not a curse.

Cyreia observed Remin as she worked, the smile on her face only growing wider. It was nice, really, to see her wife so fascinated. Duties drained the light from her eyes more often than she would have liked, but now? Now as they were testing new and exciting hypotheses, Remin seemed to be entirely in her element. Perhaps - in another life - she would have been a researcher. Kind of like Maric, except infinitely more charming. Yeah, I should probably keep quiet about that particular comparison. Instead of sharing those thoughts, Cyreia leaned over her shoulder to get a better look at the result of her efforts. The quill danced across the parchment and filled the room with the sounds of writing. Like any other ink, this one, too, left behind black marks. It also did things other inks very much didn't, though. The words seemed to shake in front of their eyes, almost as if they weren't anchored to the reality with the same kind of vehemency everything else was, and within a few moments, they faded. Cyreia could still read it, though the writing seemed centuries old. Would anyone believe them that Remin had produced it mere seconds ago? It didn't seem very likely. Hell, had she not witnessed it, Cyreia would not have bought it, either.

"This is... fascinating, though I have no idea what implications it holds for other uses." Practically against her will, her thoughts turned to combat. For example, if Remin summoned ancient warriors that had fought for her family before, would they be able to raise their swords against living targets? God, it probably made her a terrible person, but-- it was a legitimate concern. The war didn't leave them with much to defend themselves with and nobody could predict what would happen in the future. Not when the tides of politics turned so rapidly that old alliances often got swept up in the mess. Only one thing appeared to be certain; if there was another large conflict within the next few years, Athea wouldn't stand a chance. Was it that callous of her to look for solutions even before the problems came knocking on their door?

"I wonder what all of this means," Cyreia said, clearly deeply in thought, and took the parchment in her hand to look at it from a different angle. The touch seemed to awaken something within her, though. Suddenly, there was a familiar weight in the back of her head - weight so heavy it almost pushed her brain through her ears - and the words came to life, bright against the white background. Cyreia had to grab the chair just to avoid collapsing on the ground; her legs felt like jelly. All that effort also felt exceedingly pointless because the letters promptly faded once again, as if to mock her. "Alright. All those days of trying to get my magic to work and now I do something without even meaning to? Why can't this make a smidgen of sense?"

 

[Conifer]

Remin watched with barely hidden fascination as the text seemed to age just moments after she wrote it. The paper was still crisp and clean, as bright and tidy as new, but the words...they looked utterly ancient. They looked older than most the people in the castle - if not older than the castle itself. It was baffling, truly, but in such an exciting way. She continued to write, just to watch the letters crackle and fade, until she'd written out a whole line of utter nonsense. There was little practical use for this particular parlor trick, but what else did she have in her power now?
Remin had given up having any skill at magic a long time ago, but that didn't mean that she didn't want for it - and now, those silly idle thoughts had been made real. She had to be careful, though; this wasn't normal magic. There weren't lessons when playing with this, when learning it. She'd have to study herself to figure out what she could or couldn't use it for.

Remin sat back in her chair, watching Cyeria's face as she studied the paper that she'd lifted from the table, wondering the answer to Cyeria's statement herself. Why had the tree offered it to her? What might she do with it that was worth this? Surely it wasn't just to answer the dreams of a young Remin who could only barely cast. Her thoughts snapped back to this moment, though, as Cyeria half-collapsed. Remin reached out to her arm, trying to grab for her and keep her upright (or at least from crashing painfully to the floor.) "What happened?" She asks, standing and gently taking the paper from Cyeria's hand, just in case prolonged exposure causes another...whatever that was. It gets shoved into her pocket as she helps move Cyeria over to the bed, the two of them sitting on the edge of it.

A hand comes up to cup Cyreia's cheek, keeping her head steady as Remin examines her - do answers lie in the lines of her face? No, but she'll search anyways. "...was it another vision?" she hazards to guess. It feels like a safe hypothesis, with how the magic had manifested previously, and the strange connection to the past that Remin's magic brought into the space. She drops her hand away, though it seeks out Cyeria's hand instead of her face and links their fingers together loosely. "What did you see?"

 

[Aerynth]

One would have guessed that she must have gotten used to the sudden drain of energy that accompanied magic use by now, but that hypothetical person would have been incredibly wrong. There was no way to get comfortable with this-- this ever-expanding feeling of emptiness. Well, that, and also the absolute lack of stability. How was it fair that Remin got to bypass all of this and cast magic that seemed infinitely more useful than whatever she did? Not that Cyreia wished it on her wife, of course, but still. It almost looked like the magical forces that ruled over Athea had chosen to antagonize her personally. A few days ago, such a conclusion would have seemed utterly bizarre to her; it still did, actually, but a small part of her was now willing to admit that it could be a real possibility. From what she had learned so far, magic appeared to be concentrated willpower. Who was to say that that it also did not have a will of its own?

"I'm... honestly not sure," Cyreia said, thankful for Remin's assistance. Would she have been able to get back to their bed without it? Possibly, though it wouldn't have been nearly as elegant. Something told her that it likely would have involved crawling on all fours and exhausting her extensive repertoire of swearwords in the process. How did Maric and people like him manage to cast many different spells in quick succession without getting completely wiped out? The obvious answer was that Cyreia failed at something quite fundamental here, though that notion wasn't really new. Her relationship with magic had been defined by failure so far. Failure to contain it, failure to call upon it, failure to even begin to understand it; there had been so many failures that recalling all of them would have taken her an entire day. It would have helped immensely if she had been able to determine what exactly had gone wrong, but Cyreia somehow failed at that, too. From a certain angle, it was almost impressive.

"I don't think it was a vision, though. At least not like the one I had before," she smiled at her wife and kissed her on her forehead. As silly as it was, touching Remin grounded her; it was easy to draw strength from her presence, from her warmth. "I... well. I think I made the letters look more fresh for a moment? I was pondering over whether something could be done about the way they looked, and then I apparently did just that," Cyreia shrugged. "It feels silly that I wasted so much energy on something as pointless." Was it really so pointless, though? Perhaps not entirely, since it had given her an idea. "I'm starting to think that my magic is somehow connected to time," she confessed. "I mean, remember the first thing I did? I slowed down our fall. What happened next? I had a vision of the past. When I saved Maric, I slowed down the bolt that was meant to kill him, and now this. I still don't know much about any of this, but I'm starting to sense a theme here. What I don't get is why I'm not able to do anything else. I thought that people's talents weren't supposed to be this specific."

 

[Conifer]

"They aren't, generally." Remin reluctantly agrees. "It's not unheard of, but..you're right. They usually aren't." Remin wished she understood even half of what was going on with Cyeria, if only to provide some amount of comfort for her in this whole mess. She frowns softly, inspecting the hand that Cyeria had plunged into the flames. Would it have hurt someone else? Or was it just Cyeria, with her strangeness, that would have felt the harm? It seemed more likely to be that it would hurt anyone who touched it, but the question still lingered. Perhaps something to test with Maric, later - not that she wanted to hurt him, she didn't dislike the man to that extent, but she certainly was more willing to let him entertain himself with her magic than she was anyone else in this castle. If he got a little hurt in the process, it was likely his own fault. "But for what it's worth, I think you're right. It all makes too much sense for it to be anything otherwise." she runs her fingers over Cyeria's fingertips, trailing to her palm, contemplating as she does so. How much magic was there, ready for the using, just under her skin?

"At least that gives you a place to begin with at least understanding it, if not controlling it." Remin hums softly. "It's all...reactionary so far, though. This is an exception if there is one, with the letters. You were thinking about it, which is at least a bit different than reacting to outside forces out of your control." There was half a dozen things that sprang to mind to test this whole mess out, but...Cyeria looked utterly worn from what she'd done, and Remin certainly wasn't going to be the one to push it further. That could wait. "I wonder if it's because of your magic, or because of all of your training? If your magic's trying to suppliment what you already know, I mean, instead of being a new addition entirely."

 

[Aerynth]

"Is it really reactionary, though?" Cyreia asked with a slight frown. "It's indisputable with that vision, I agree with that, but the rest of it? I wished for it. I didn't think of using magic because... well, everything happened so fast that I didn't have the time to think, really, but I distinctly remember wanting to do something about it." Was desperation the key to claiming what rightly belonged to her? No, that didn't seem right. The dance incident, while unpleasant, hadn't been nearly dramatic enough to make her feel anything even close to that. If not desperation, though, then what? What had been there? What connected all three instances of her reaching after her magic somehow? Shock? Almost, but not quite. It rang a little more true than her previous conclusion - the imminent fall really had shocked her, as had Gregor's assassination attempt - except that there had been no surprises in their room today and two out of three wasn't enough to form a solid hypothesis. Ugh. Why does this feel as if all the pieces of the puzzle are in front of me and yet I can't solve it? The answer was somewhere in the back of her head, just waiting for her to grasp it, but whenever she tried to do so, it slipped out of her reach. To hell with her exhaustion! If not for that, Cyreia surely would have been able to see it by now.

In the end, it was Remin's remark that managed to push her theorizing a little bit further. "I don't know about that," she said, her eyes lighting up, "but you might be onto something with my training. There's a large mental component to it and... well. I've just noticed what all those instances in which I used magic had in common; my mind was unguarded, so to speak. Either I was shocked and let my guard down or I was too distracted to care about keeping it up. I made a wish in that state and boom-- magic." That couldn't be just a coincidence, could it? Alright, maybe it could because Cyreia was desperate to find some sort of pattern in the chaos at this point, but it did make sense. It would also explain some other things. "You know, when I talked to magister Tyforth, he told me that all people are capable of using magic. Why, then, is this particular gift so rare in Eupriunia? This may be stupid, but perhaps our minds are shaped to block it." Did they deprive them of magic on purpose or was it a mere byproduct of their training? Something nobody really knew about because even learning about arcane arts constituted heresy in the eyes of the law? Both options seemed equally likely. "If it's true, though," Cyreia's smile gained a tinge of sadness, "I wouldn't know how to counter it. I mean, how do I unlearn to think in a particular way? That would be like-- like suddenly deciding that you're no longer right-handed. It just doesn't work like that."

 

[Conifer]

"No," she agrees softly. "But-- you can learn to write with both, theoretically. With enough work." Maybe it would never be quite as good as if Cyeria had grown up here and had learned magic from the beginning, but Remin refused to allow either of them to think that it was a helpless case. Cyeria was clever and stubborn and determined -- surely she could apply some of the same intensity she had show shown while teaching Remin to fight with a sword (the lessons of which had been admittedly sparse since the first session a few days ago, what with everything going on, but they'd snuck in a few rounds in the armory just to keep Remin from, at the very least, sliding backwards. Remin sighed softly. "I do believe that you can learn, my love. If you want to." That's what it depended on, wasn't it? Want? If Cyeria didn't commit herself to it, then there was no chance. Remin certainly wouldn't fault her for it - it wasn't only learning magic which was difficult enough alone, especially when you didn't grow up with it, but it was going against everything that she had been raised and formed in. Cyeria was doing wonderfully, really, adjusting to living in Athea, but perhaps this was the straw that would break the camel's back. Maybe this was just a step too far. That was more than fine; Cyeria didn't need magic to be a formidable threat or a useful ally. She'd gotten this far in life without a lick of it. She speaks her thoughts aloud: "Really, though," she says gently. "There's no need for it. You've learned what might trigger it...if you're careful to avoid that," which would be easier said than done, but still, it could be done, "Then I can't forsee too many more issues with the magic. If your theory is right."

 

[Aerynth]

"I don't need it per se," she agreed after a moment of contemplation. "But since I have it, not learning how to use it effectively seems kind of irresponsible, you know?" What if, one day, a situation arose where her powers would come in handy? Where they could mean the difference between life and death? God, Cyreia wouldn't be able to look at herself in the mirror if her reluctance to learn new things led to... well, something happening to Remin. No, her wife was right. What had once been learned could also be unlearned. Maybe not as easily because habit bound one's hands tighter than chains, but it wasn't impossible. And if it really was within the realm of possibility-- well, she had no excuse not to at least try. That much she owed to both Remin and herself. "I'll work on it." Along with million other things her duties required of her now. How did that old saying go? 'You can rest when they put you in your grave?' Oh, how true it rang now! "I'll talk to my mentors about it. Perhaps they'll actually be able to help me when I tell them what exactly my problem is." Cyreia couldn't blame them for not knowing how to approach this, really, when everything about the situation was so unusual. It would be a learning experience for all of them, it seemed.

The following weeks were rather... intense, so to speak. Arguing with advisers on a daily basis, teaching Remin new sword techniques and training in magic usage consumed most of Cyreia's energy. The magical training was the worst offender in that department; it almost caused her to wish she hadn't figured out the reason why her magic had refused to work, really, because even military drills paled next to what her mentors did to combat the Eupriunian practices. ("Your focus is too narrow and sharp, my king, and so it makes sense that you push the magic into background. We're going to widen it, which is similar to breaking a badly healed bone and letting it heal properly. The breaking part will hurt, but ultimately, it will be good for you.") And hurt it did. It felt like they stretched her mind, stretched it so far that the boundaries between her and the outside world got blurry, and more often than not, Cyreia left the session with yet another headache. "I hope that this will at least bear fruit," she told Remin after a particularly terrible experience, "because I can't guarantee I will be to control myself if it turns out they were just having fun at my expense." To their credit, though, Cyreia's grip on her magic did seem stronger; she could sense it in the back of her mind, simultaneously foreign and deeply hers. The things it accomplished when called upon were laughable, but it was a start and that was all that mattered. It also didn't exhaust her as much for some reason. Perhaps controlled magic was gentler than wild outbursts? Cyreia supposed that she would have all the time in the world to discover how exactly it worked. There was still much to do, much to learn, but she had finally found a rhythm. It was fast-paced and chaotic, almost break neck at times, and she wouldn't have chosen it for herself undet normal circumstances, though it worked despite all of that. Hell, Cyreia even managed to find some time for Remin. Honestly? They could only hope that it would last.

Obviously, it didn't. One day, as they were eating their lunch in the main hall, the door opened and a middle-aged woman half-walked, half-limped inside. Cyreia didn't recognize her, but that meant very little. The others in the castle likely did, otherwise they wouldn't have let her through.

"I bear news, your highnesses," she said and extented her hand with a sealed letter. Before any of them could accept it, though, the woman collapsed on the ground, seemingly lifeless.

 

[Conifer]

It was hard to watch Cyeria be worn down like this, and Remin did what she could to soothe her exhaustion when they were both finally free of their responsibilities for the evenings; baths and excuses to take dinners in their room, or some idle activity if either of them don't immediately want to slip off to sleep. Thankfully Remin's own load lightens as she catches up on the things that had been abandoned while they had travelled, so her own days lend her more time to experimenting with her new magics and practicing with a wooden sword, among simply taking a few moments to relax. She wasn't not busy, of course, but this was a more familiar - and manageable - place to be in. The occasional night still ran late, and sometimes she wasn't able to tear herself from her work to retire to bed with Cyeria, but she tried. They both did. They still, at least, had their breakfasts together, and most evenings their dinners, and more often than not their lunches. They were nice times to check in with each other, even if their breakfasts in their bed were the only among those that they could be truly open without fear of being overheard. Everything fell into a form of uneasy peace, and Remin dreaded when that would eventually fade, but welcomed what they were able to have now with open, needy arms.

That all changed so quickly, though, as it often did. Remin rose quickly to her feet and made her way to the door that had been left open by the woman's entering, shouting for Oren - or for anyone who could help, really - as soon as she reached the hall. It's in equally a hurry that she returns to the woman, kneeling beside her (falling to the stone ground hard enough to bruise her knees, but she doesn't feel it now,) and checking for any sign that the woman was still alive. She also grabs the letter from the woman's hand, passing it up to Cyeria. "What does it say?" She asks, not even fully glancing at her, too focused on finding the woman's pulse (frighteningly light, but somewhat reassuringly there,) against her neck. She kept her mind from wandering elsewhere, but it tried valiantly to force her thoughts to panic that they didn't have time for - what had happened? Was there danger? Were they in danger? Was everyone else in the castle alright? Were they all accounted for? Who had sent the letter?

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia, too, leapt from her chair the moment she noticed the other woman's state. Who was she? Why had she come? What kind of message had she brought? All of those questions seemed irrelevant now in the light of... well, her possibly dying in their main hall. God, what a mess. It had been obvious to her that the fragile calm they had enjoyed for the past few weeks couldn't last forever, but to have it broken in such a way? She had not expected that. Similarly to Remin, Cyreia knelt down to examine her. The woman looked oh so pale, almost ashen, and when she put her hand on her forehead, it burned. A fever, then, possibly rooted in infection? There were no wounds, though, at least as far as she could tell, and at this distance, surely Cyreia would have noticed them. Injuries severe enough to make a person collapse didn't exactly tend to be subtle.

Thankfully, Oren emerged from one of the narrow hallways soon. Had he heard Remin's cries or had someone gone to get him? That didn't matter; what mattered was that he was there, and his arrival put an end to their clumsy attempts to help. "Stand aside, your highnesses. I will take care of her." He proceeded to put his hands on the woman, mutter a few words she couldn't quite make out and close his eyes. Clearly he was doing something with his magic; it wasn't anything flashy, granted, yet Cyreia could still sense the energy coursing through his veins. Would she have been aware of the flow a few days ago? Probably not. The training, as unpleasant as it was, had made her see the world in entirely new colors. "Her injuries aren't physical," Oren concluded, "but don't worry, I know how to heal them. Help me with her," he turned to the servants gathering in the hall. "I need her carried to my office. Hurry!"

Meanwhile, Cyreia picked up the letter. There was nothing else for her to do, after all, and the woman had risked her life to deliver it. It had to be important. Important and terrible because no good news ever arrived in such fashion, so she steeled herself before starting to read. They would handle this, Cyreia told herself. No matter what the message contained, they would find a way to deal with it. She read and read, and her face went blank before she even managed to reach the end of the letter. The parchment suddenly felt unbearably heavy in her hands, but she didn't drop it; instead of that, Cyreia clutched it so hard that her knuckles turned white.

"It looks like we have a war on our hands," she told Remin, her voice strangely calm. She may very well have been talking about the weather. "The region of Werough declared independence, for reasons that should be obvious." Because of her, that was the actual answer, but she couldn't bring herself to say it. Not after pouring so much time and effort into being a decent king only for it to turn into ash within seconds. In this one instance, Cyreia forgave herself that display of weakness. There would be no place for forgiveness later; not towards herself and certainly not towards her enemies. "Some people are still loyal to the crown, but they're being rounded up and arrested as we speak. One of them - lady Beleret - sent this letter. She and a couple of other loyalists barricaded themselves in their mansion, but they require help. My help. Remin," Cyreia sighed, "I... need to go there. Personally."

 

[Conifer]

Remin watched the woman be carted off towards Oren's office, feeling like she was caught moments before an avalanche. If not physical, then.. Then Remin didn't have a wonderful feeling about how the woman had ended up in this situation, or the contents of the letter.

Her mouth went dry as Cyeria spoke. Gods. Gods, this had all been too good to last. It was all-- it was a mess, through and through. A war again. Recovery had been steady enough - some nobility and the like had bought into the idea of playing loanshark/patron for various businesses, farms, and in some cases, very small towns, but funds from that endeavor were just now starting to provide any real support. It would be years before they could handle it all being destroyed again. Yes, it was a war on a much smaller scale that was being threatened, but the thought of any organized disagreement at this point made Remin's stomach twist. On top of that, Werough had always had a complicated relationship with the rest of the kingdom - and thus were already mainly self-reliant. They were an isolated people, not officially part of any kingdom for a long time, that had gone through some incredibly rough dealings a barely a century ago. Athea had offered out support if they wished to align themselves with the kingdom, and they'd taken the offer. They'd remained independant even within this new reign, though, and thus...were likely better equipped to call for all of this than anyone else. If Remin had been paying attention better, if she hadn't been caught up in her new magic and Cyeria's new magic and training with a sword and /Cyeria/, in general, then perhaps she would have been able to anticipate this happening. It wasn't even /about/ Werough, honestly. If they wished to go, she wouldn't stop them. They likely knew that, though. If they went peacefully, the rest of the kingdom would likely pay them little attention. If they went loudly, they may gain themselves other like-minded people and further serve to tear this whole place apart. Was that what Athea was doomed to, now? Constant fighting? A nation once proud, torn asunder by her actions? Remin swallowed hard, turning to Cyeria properly. "Absolutely not. You're not walking into the territory of people who are declaring war because of your existence. We have no proof that this letter isn't a ploy to get you into a vulnerable position. You're remaining here. We'll send people to assist them. People who won't be slaughtered on sight." She was perhaps being a bit too sharp, too stubborn, but -- Cyeria wasn't going there if she had any say.

 

[Aerynth]

Cyreia inhaled sharply, her hands automatically closing into fists. This wasn't going to go smoothly, was it? It had occurred to her that, despite the rough start to their relationship, they hadn't actually had a real argument yet. Sometimes their opinions had differed quite substantially, yes, but it had never devolved into outright hostility. Cyreia tended to yield in such circumstances, mostly because she didn't enjoy conflicts. Conflicts should be contained to battlefields, not to one's home, and seeing her wife's warm smile certainly beat bickering over petty disagreements that would be forgotten in the long run. This was no petty matter, though, and even her tolerance had its limits. This time, she wouldn't retreat; it just wasn't an option.

"What do you expect me to do, then?" she asked, her tone maybe a little too stern. "Hide in this castle and wait until everything solves itself? You said it yourself, Remin. They're declaring war because of me. Whether there actually are people in need of help or not doesn't matter. I am directly responsible for what is happening whether I like it or not and I need to address it. I can't just delegate my duties onto someone else and be done with that. That's not who I am." Cyreia paused for a while; when she spoke again, her tone was softer, more conciliatory, but still as decisive. Her words rang with the same kind of finality. "Look, even if there are no allies to be saved, the situation will be dangerous. I can hardly expect my men to risk their lives for me while I sit on the throne and do nothing. Hell, they're hardly even mine at this point. Yes, officially they do serve me, but what about their hearts? Do you think they'd be happy to fight their own countrymen out of loyalty to a usurper? To a usurper who is such a coward that he can't even face his own problems?" Cyreia couldn't just... ask them to die for her. Not when they barely knew her. Respect wasn't attached to her title; respect had to be earned, and a leader who refused to ride into battle with his subordinates could never hope to achieve it. She did know commanders who stayed holed up in their tents whenever swords were drawn, true, but those men had never risen above mediocrity. From their little nest of relative safety, they failed to adapt to the realities of war, failed to react quickly enough to secure victories consistently. Was she destined to become like them in the end? No, never. For as long as she breathed, Cyreia wouldn't allow that. And her wife... well, she had to understand.

"I won't just charge in there blindly, Remin," she promised quietly and took her hand in her own. Was the gesture too intimate considering the audience they had? Perhaps, though at the moment, she couldn't even begin to care about keeping up appearances. Most of them likely knew about the feelings they held for one another anyway. They had tried to be stealthy, true, but all those quiet breakfasts must have made revealed the nature of their relationship to them weeks ago. People who disliked each other did not make a point of spending so much time together, especially not in the privacy of their bedroom. "I know that it may not look like that at times, but I don't have a death wish. I will learn as much as I can about the situation and then, only then will I act. Do you not trust me to handle this competently?"

 

[Conifer]

A similar process went through Remin's thoughts; she didn't want to argue, she never did, but Cyeria still hadn't adjusted to the realities of kinghood yet, and she'd have to. Remin couldn't simply allow her to do this. Ultimately there was very little she could reasonably do to stop her without destroying this little bit of peace they'd built together, but she could at the very least argue her case, argue the facts from her point of view. "Of course I trust you." Remin agrees, just as stern (really, how much of this is about Cyeria, though, and how much of this is her panic over the burgeoning war?) She pulls her hand away. Touch wouldn't make this better. Touch just made this worse, made it harder. "But this is hardly a matter of trust. It's hardly even a matter of you or a matter of me personally. You're the king now. You can't go wandering off whenever you have the fancy for it." Remin shakes her head slightly, frustrated and not wanting to fight, but-- well. She had to, as established. "Say you do it. Say you go out there, rescuing someone who might just be a trap, and you get killed in the process. What happens to Athea then? King Loran, I'm sure, won't be suspicious at all of your death." What happens to me? she wants to ask, but it's so much better if she doesn't allow this to be personal. They're leaders, right now, and not lovers. There's no need to drag anything but the truth of the matters into this; feelings simply complicated everything. "What happens to the people starting this fight? They've gotten what they want, but gods know they won't stop at that. The kingdom will be in a mess and they'll take advantage of that. They're already taking advantage of that, and it's not nearly as bad as it would be. And what of the people who are - if the letter is to be believed - willing to stand behind you? You don't need to prove yourself, not like this."

She was angry. She was angry, and scared, and tired, and so much was evident in her tone. It wasn't mean, but it was sharp and firm but worn-down, like mountains eroding and breaking and shifting. "You aren't going. You're remaining here. We can do good work from here, I promise you, and as soon as the situation isn't filled with would-be kingslayers anymore, then you can venture out and do cleanup and express thanks and all the things that won't end with you in a tomb. Your men won't think less of you for doing what you're supposed to. You aren't a commander anymore - you're a king, and you need to act like it."

 

[Aerynth]

The way Remin swatted her hand away as if the mere idea of her touch disgusted her? That hurt, and it hurt more than she would have liked to admit, but Cyreia forced herself to focus on other things. Her wounded feelings could wait; the crumbling kingdom, however, could not. Only god knew how far it had already progressed. Was it just Werough or did they have allies spread throughout the country? Ultimately, that mattered very little. Even if they didn't, surely there were sympathizers who watched them with a hopeful gaze. People who would observe how they handled the crisis and acted accordingly. A single misstep could trigger a chain reaction here; if they proved to be incompetent or weak, they could easily find themselves with no kingdom at all. Athea would meet the fate of fractured city states, endlessly at odds with each other and ripe for the taking by anyone more organized than them. This wasn't the time to be arguing with Remin. Now more than ever, they needed to be unified, but-- well. It was hard not to argue when her wife asked such things of her. When she spoke like this.

"Wandering off?" Cyreia repeated after her, disbelief apparent in her tone. "You're making it sound as if I want to go hunt some bandits for my personal amusement. That is not what this is about. Trust me, the idea of dealing with this mess brings me no pleasure, but I have to, and I have to do it precisely because I'm the king. It is my responsibility to keep the realm stable." Some part of her wanted to touch Remin, to try and make this interaction less bitter, but in the end, Cyreia didn't grab her hand again. It could hardly bridge the divide between them right now. What could, though? Maybe compromise would do the trick, if they somehow managed to reach it.

"I'm... not saying that I want to fight on the front lines, Remin," Cyreia sighed. In that moment, her own exhaustion shone through; she was tired of blood and death and the crows feeding on the corpses, had been tired of them for years now, but it seemed that those things would never truly leave her. It had been naive to hope otherwise. War had put her on the throne; it only made sense that, eventually, it would come to collect its debt. She just hadn't expected it so soon. "I also don't wish to sound as if I'm dismissing your concerns. I understand you, I really do, but the fact remains that I am a commander, and a good one. If I was there, I could help end the conflict much faster. I know how to avoid needless bloodshed, too. I could-- I could disguise myself. Nobody would have to know that it's me. I wouldn't even need to fight. Just being close enough to direct my men effectively would suffice." Cyreia couldn't just agree with her, not in this instance, but she could, at the very least, make some concessions here. Even if Remin technically couldn't prevent her from leaving against her will, she didn't want to do that to her. That was no way to treat your loved ones.

 

[Conifer]

It was terrible, really, the way that Cyeria had proposed something so reasonable and how Remin wanted to argue against it all the same just for the sake of disagreeing; it was an outlet for the stress that had been building up - the long nights and days and now this letter and its horrid contents. But she couldn't do that. It wouldn't be noble; it wouldn't be right to take it out on Cyeria. Cyeria was just as stressed of all of this as she was, if not more. Remin's thoughts weren't quite as coherent as this, but it was just as intentional that she pursed her lips and caught herself from saying anything until she fully thought out Cyeria's plan. It wasn't one she wanted. It wasn't what she was comfortable with, it wasn't what was safe. But it was, she recognized, a fair and decent compromise, and sometimes that had to be enough.

"Fine." She says, exhaling slowly. "That's fine." It wasn't, but what it was was close enough. "We won't announce you. At all. No one will know you've left the castle, besides a few guards specifically assigned to keeping you safe. The same that journeyed with us, maybe." They had proven that they were trustable and either entirely uninterested in their personal matters, or exceptionally good at hiding that they were. Remin didn't really care which of the options was true. "You won't fight." She knew that one would fall to the wayside nearly immediately, but she would lay out it as if she expected it to be true all the same; it might keep Cyeria from rushing in even once, and that was one less fight she had a chance to be harmed in. "And you will put your own safety above that of others." That was, given her track record, also unlikely, but again it might prevent her from doing so the one time that might lead to her not coming home. It made Remin feel callous and awful, but it wasn't like that, not really. It wasn't a matter of personal worth; it was a matter of the fragile stability of the kingdom (and, admittedly, the fragile stability of herself, but...again, it was so much simpler to leave the personal behind.)

 

[Aerynth]

For a second, it looked like the argument would drag on and on, that it would swallow them all along with everything they had built so far, but then Remin just... agreed. Did her wife like the plan? God, no, that much was incredibly obvious. Had she had her way, Cyreia guessed, she would have locked her in their bedroom, barricaded the door and threw the key away for good measure. In a way, it felt... sort of nice to have someone who worried about her to this extent, really. Remin hadn't actually said it, but it wasn't difficult to see that panicking over her well-being contributed a lot to the stress weighing on her shoulders. They did love each other, after all. How could she not be dying with fear? Had their roles been reversed, Cyreia would have felt exactly that. Was it selfish of her to cause her such anguish knowingly? Perhaps, but it wasn't like she had lied to Remin about who she was. She had known from the very beginning that she had married a warrior, known the risks associated with it, and still chosen to love her.

"All reasonable conditions," Cyreia said softly and, despite herself, caressed her face. Now that they had come to an agreement of sorts, it only seemed like a fitting thing to do. "Don't worry, Remin. I'll be careful. I don't need to be a hero in every single conflict I find myself in." Muscle memory would drive her to do just that, she knew that very well, but instincts could be suppressed. Remin had been right in that she was a king now, and kings had different priorities than soldiers. Even king Loran, who had often ridden into battle, had always done so surrounded by his personal guard and only when the victory had been all but certain. There was no shame in being a little more cautious than usual. And if her old habits kicked in-- well, Cyreia would remember Remin's face, remember her promise and control herself. With a reminder that she actually had something to live for now, not throwing herself in front of an enemy's sword shouldn't be too difficult.

"We'll also stay in contact. I'm sure that Maric can get us something similar to one of those communication devices we've seen at lady Everbright's party." Uncertainty was by far the worst part about watching your loved one go to war and the chance to talk to one another as if they were both in the same place would reduce it significantly. "I also won't leave immediately. It takes a while to gather a sizable army and take care of all the logistics, so we will use that time to increase our odds of winning. We'll send ahead scouts so that we know what we're getting ourselves into. If there's any trap waiting for us, they're likely to discover it before we even arrive. We can also interrogate the messenger about what she knows." As she spoke about the more practical issues surrounding war, Cyreia's tone grew more steady, more confident. Was it terrible that she found some amount of comfort in the sheer familiarity of the situation? "Do you think that Oren could nurse her to health quickly enough for us to be able to speak to her before I have to leave?"

 

[Conifer]

Remin didn't pull away from Cyeria's touch this time; she wanted it, she wanted to be near her, and now that the argument (had that even really been one? A disagreement, surely, but it wasn't...it wasn't raised voices behind locked doors. It wasn't what she was used to. (Her parents hadn't fought much, but when they had, that was the case; they'd kept it from her in the way that she assumed parents did, but word (and sounds,) travel.) Would they have that, eventually? Gods know it, probably. Things had gone too smoothly so far for that inevitability to happen. But she wasn't going to make that be now. Now, she was going to let this not be a desperate fight, and she was going to just...Remin reaches up, covering Cyeria's hand against her cheek with her own, encouraging the touch. "We'll take all time and precautions to prepare." She agrees softly. Communication devices would be good. She would go too, but -- but it's another precaution. If something did happen? The power vacuum that would create would be just as bad as it would have been on their honeymoon, if not worse, with this added mess of a glorified tantrum.

Interrogating the messenger was an excellent idea, though. If they could get anything from her - even what had felled her - then they'd be a bit more prepared against it. "If she pulls through, then I'm sure he can. He's good at what he does. We'll work on putting everything together for a response, and by the time plans start to move...I'm sure we'll be able speak with her some. Or if we get those devices and you leave before she's able to speak to us about what happened, I can always pass information along." It wouldn't work to physically prepare for it, but at least she'd be able to mentally prepare for whatever she might be walking into.

 

[Aerynth]

"Yes, that will work," Cyreia nodded. For some reason, Remin's resignation stung deeper than her anger had. It hadn't been pleasant to oppose her, certainly, but dealing with her defiant side meant that she hadn't had to face her sorrow. Not fully. That sorrow mostly stayed buried under the surface even now - something she could sense rather than see - but it was there, and Cyreia had caused it. Hadn't she promised to herself back then that she'd always try to make Remin feel valued? Make her feel as if she was the priority and not the throne? God, Cyreia almost wished that their argument had gone on for longer. Had it been a terrible, drawn-out affair full of shouts and insults they couldn't take back, she wouldn't have felt nearly as guilty. It would have been easy to brand Remin as unreasonable and run off to handle the crisis without ever looking back. The consequences would have been disastrous, of course, and she didn't really want that, but-- but. She couldn't very well control that traitorous, cowardly part of hers.

"I'll issue the command for our units to be gathered," Cyreia went on, trying her best to ignore the feelings swelling in her chest. "The sooner this is done, the easier this will be." Thankfully, her studies had paid off; she knew how big Werough was and thus had a rough idea of how many men they needed for the endeavor. How many days would it take to finish all the preparations? If they acted fast, then maybe a little under one week. Hopefully lady Beleret and her allies would last until then. (If they even existed in the first place. Perhaps Remin was right and they really would walk right into their trap, but the matter had to be investigated nonetheless.) "I'll map out the route we will take, too, and contact the local food producers to ask them whether they could help with feeding the army. We will also carry supplies of our own, of course, but we would travel faster if we didn't have to cover all our food-related needs. Weapons and armor, I assume, shouldn't be a problem. We've had a war recently, so everything should be in usable shape. I'll ask our weaponmaster about their state regardless of that, though." More than saying those things to Remin, Cyreia was talking to herself; thinking aloud allowed her to organize her thoughts in a more orderly manner. It didn't seem to work today, though. Not when the guilt prevented her from focusing on her task fully. Cyreia sighed and looked her wife directly in the eyes; something she hadn't done while summarizing her little plan.

"And Remin? I'm... I'm sorry. I'm sorry for abandoning you like that, but I really don't know a better solution." Was she arrogant for believing that an Athean commander wouldn't handle the mess as competently as she could? Most definitely. Experience had taught her that this arrogance was warranted, though. Not many people could measure up to her in this regard and, well, she didn't really know the Athean commanders well enough to pick someone qualified for the job. Going there herself felt like the only responsible approach.