albeinn

[albeinn]

He had promised to find her.

No matter what shadows would bind her, no matter where the world might take her— every fleeting thought was spent tailing after, arms outstretched. If, for every moment, she would be ripped away from him again, his legs would be used to running. Into a stride, right after, knowing she had her hands reaching out to him just the same way. Always, like the moon and a star; reflecting off one another.

It just so happened that the world had given him one night— and that was more than he could ever ask for, really— to see her in the essence of every shining star the sky harboured. One night to see her as no princess or queen, no simple stranger in a dazzling dress but— the love of his life. Celica. And Alm could only hope that he reflected even a speck of that light; vigorous, mighty flame, yet ever gentle, as she were.

In the hours before, he had been as he always was; somehow, still stiff-shouldered in the presence of so many ball-goers. The night was young, a small thing in the making; streaks of orange, hints of a dying day lighting up what was left to outgrow. He had found her, then; watching by the balcony. And it’s almost a nostalgic sight, if not reversed— how they had come to find one another, a reunion long needed, as the sun set. In twirling digits (perhaps in nervousness? It seemed he always found his heart jittering at the bare sight of her) lies a flower; untarnished, white orange blossom. A flower the two of them knew well.

Now, hours later, with the sun evidently replaced by every twinkling star that glimmered in the dark, he finds her again. By the same balcony ledge, gazing upwards. Once blazing grace dimmed by the weariness in her legs; a moment of respite, still, from all those hours spent dancing in front of a watching crowd. And perform they did— they had lost by the bare mark, after all— but it was enough to become a source of exhaustion. Slow steps; Alm moves closer.

“I’ve missed you,” He says, almost as quickly as she turns to face him. As the words leave his lips, his chest empties; like a hollow admittance. Alm never realised how much he had needed to say it until he did. “It didn’t occur to me how much until I saw you again. I’ve—“ the words stop by the hollow of his throat, threatening to spill onto his tongue. For a moment, Alm hesitates, unsure. His hands reach out to hers; he holds it in his palm, preceding a gentle squeeze. “— we’ve changed, haven’t we? I don’t even remember being able to... hold you like this. I mean,” gentle hands come up to cup her face, leaning in to press his cheek against her head. “Yeah. Gods. I’ve missed you, so much.”

“One last dance?” A plead— Alm all but nearly swallows his words. “For tonight?”

As her hand slips into his, he leads her back inside; gaze nothing but loving, spilling onto the features of his face. Pulled into the first steps of their dance, he leads her. Easy, slow— tender as he possibly can be.

“I love you, Celica.” Alm whispers, with a heart that knew no more than her, and her smiling face. “Thank you, for loving me.”

gift for @seraphiia! commission artwork by dewborb_art.

[albeinn]

—round iv; 🌹

seraphiia​:

     They’ve made it this far, but it was not due to a wealth of skill.

     Several times they have erred in their deliberately simple choreography. A missed step here, a misjudged cue there; but what gets them through is the unconditional trust they have for the other; the importance they put not on the competition, but in the time it allows them to share with one another. Ever since the war’s conclusion, when they begun their tentative (and at times, difficult) courtship, Celica can’t remember a time where she’s had a true moment alone with Alm. To truly enjoy the blessing of his company, without the separations of borders, the watchful eyes of servants and courtiers, or the bothersome rumors that flew about.

     She is twirled out, and then pulled back towards her love; chest connects with chest, their noses bumping against one another, leaving the two just a hair breadth’s away from a kiss. And it’s tempting, oh Mila is it tempting, to lose herself in verdant green and flushed cheeks and breathless smiles — but there is an audience, and so she giggles, sways in his arms for a moment (one that she would have last forever, if she could), and lightly pushes away from him. A tease, perhaps, or a measure to help reign in her own self-control. Meanings and reason are lost in the blur of their routine, and even if their dance isn’t the most technical, or flawless…

      It was the most fun she’s had in a very long time.

Style: 8 Choreography: 7 Technique: 1

     But no matter how they lose themselves in the other’s eyes, how the very seam of reality seems to unravel around them… they cannot escape the weight of their own limitations. As time goes on, the ache in Celica’s feet only worsens, her steps growing clumsier as a result. But they endure and fight — for this time together, free of obligation; for a beautiful memory they were sure to look back on when they were old and grey, surrounded by love, and the family they would one day create.

TIEBREAKER: 6

      They finish with perseverance, and grace. And once the music comes to a still, Celica falls out of position, her stiff, aching muscles screaming for relief as she collapses tiredly against her beloved. The scores are announced, and she glances towards their opponent (whom Celica found impressive in his own right, so radiantly defiant as he fought against the burdens of expectation), anxious for the end result.

      Their final score is just a few units shy of Lorenz’s, and Celica can’t help the weary sigh that leaves her as she leans her head against Alm’s shoulder. Solemnly, she smiles. It seems their beautiful memory had finally come to its end.

@albeinn

All fairytales come to an end.

But theirs was, verily, a happily ever after.

Perhaps it didn’t always go as planned. They had certain missteps, that much was true. Alm could see the way all this dancing— and, so competitively, at that— had begun to take a toll on Celica, evident in the way she grew to rely more upon him. It was heartwarming, this; his beloved, so often shouldering her burdens alone, so openly letting herself rest in his arms because she trusted him enough to take care of her. And that, he endeavored to within all of his abilities— even if dancing had never quite been his strong suit. He lets his footwork guide her into easier, fluid motions; playing to his strengths.

It seemed that they both were no longer dancing for the competition; judges and onlookers all but forgotten in their midst. Or, at least, Alm had briefly disregarded their presence; so eagerly did they move with one another that he finds it difficult to understand that they were not alone. Hand in hand— he holds on as she spins outwards; and back into him, just as quickly. Cheeks flushed pink, open-mouthed grin all but closed with a kiss—in the off-beats of the music, he leans in ever so slowly.

His expression falls when Celica playfully shoves him away, just out of reach— before the ends of his lips curve into a grin. Ah, the woman he fell in love with. In the same way they had chased each other in the meadow, perhaps they continued to do so, however different the medium, upon the ballroom’s marble floor.

As the routine plays out and the ensemble follows the score as closely as onlookers watched on, time begins to slip from their hands. It always did, for the both of them; but this time, at least, they had been watching it go, together. This one, he was sure the both would keep in their memories. Alm ensures that their finish is worthy of it’s well-awaited status, shallow breaths and dazed smiles all in accordance. As the applause dies out, Celica comes to fall against his chest, and an arm comes to press against Celica’s back as another wraps around her waist.

As the scores are announced— and he sighs in tandem with his beloved, before laughing— he spares a glance to their competitor; a congratulating thumbs up. Surely, that had been a rather glamorous display, one that deserved to move onto the round next. Still, he gives his beloved a gentle squeeze; a kiss placed upon the top of her head. It was safe, knowing that with satisfaction, he had wanted nothing more than this.

[albeinn]

.  .  the fickle thing  .  .

seraphiia​:

     There have always been stories. Tales of humans with hysterical strength, achieving the improbable all for the sake of a loved one. The mother who would single-handedly lift a wooden beam off her child to rescue them from a collapsing house, or the man who tussled with a bear to save his friend… they sounded outrageous within the realms of reality, like something one would hear in a tale of adventurous fiction. But Celica has long known of the untold strength loving someone can bring. As she walks to the dance floor, hand-in-hand with her betrothed, she wonders if that applies to creative expression, as well.

     She’s winded. Her feet ache. Her eyelids constantly threaten to droop, and do so whenever there aren’t scrutinizing eyes on her. And she knows Alm can see it, can feel how her grip on him tightens whenever they move into a turn that almost sends her stumbling, or how she leans her weight on him a little bit more than she had in the previous dance, bracing against him for much needed support.

     But even through her fatigue, Celica sticks closely to the steps that they’ve practiced, her movements graceful and sweeping. She is energized by the adoration in his eyes, by the smile that has always let her know that everything will be alright. Although her lines and timing aren’t perfect, Alm is there to make up for her slack, to hold her so that she doesn’t fall — and catch her if she does.

     Celica slips out of his hold and twirls about the floor, feeling almost weightless in the bout of lightheadedness that ensues. A pair of strong hands soon come to take her by the waist, and she is lifted into the air, arms extended in graceful arcs as she is spun in a circle. Before long, crystal heels meet the ground once more, and with a soft sigh, she turns and elegantly drapes her arms over her beloved’s shoulders, head rested underneath his as the music comes to a still.

     The scores are announced. The crowd erupts in applause.

     “…We made quite the showing, didn’t we?” She murmurs tiredly against his shoulder, the room filling with cheers. Her hold around him tightens, lips curved into a satisfied smile. “Shame we can’t stay like this a bit longer; I feel so comfortable here with you.”

Style: 10 Choreography: 8 Technique: 6 > @albeinn​

Every moment spent in her company is one Alm feels a little too good for him. The way her very being seemed to draw him to the earth, as a meteorite to the ground in its atmosphere; she allowed him to fall asleep, gently, when the rest of the world needed him awake. Let him be human when people wished for nothing more than to see him as a god. Now, they are able to dance— freely, without restriction of their positions or their time. With her, Alm feels as though all of Rigel’s worst dances have become gifts; each step turned into a guide, eased by his partner and how they twirled with each other. It was as though he looked at all he tired of, and in her hands, was able to question, ‘How did I ever tire of this?’ And with every touch, every little embrace and quiet moment shared— he tells her he is grateful for it. Always. And each time, he promises to support her, in all the same ways. He can feel her grow tired— though she smiled for him, kept the same dazzling look in her eye— he understands by the way her weight shifts, by how she almost misses the place her feet are supposed to land— and he makes up for it. They were never really made for... performing, this way. And yet, somehow every moment like this before had always been for them, for the love they shared— and even when all eyes seemed to trail down their backs, it felt the same way. They weren’t performing for anyone but themselves, weren’t supporting or holding each other with both a gentle grace and fondness only reserved for the other simply because they wanted to win. It was almost a declaration of love to the world, even if modestly.

As they begin to near the finish, strong arms come to reach out towards Celica; hands coming to hold her waist. Three, Four and— lift! And he only smiles at her face as she twirls above him. Alm never lets go, his grip steady as she descends; only relaxing when she is safe upon the floor, heels sounding with an assuring click. His hand comes upwards to support his back as soon as he can feel her touch against his shoulder, letting her rest against him.

“As do I.” Alm laughs, lifting her by the waist and guiding her towards the table as soon as their scores are announced. “Are you tired? Here, let’s get off the stage. I can go and fetch you a glass of water.”

[albeinn]

white heron cup.

style. 7

choreography. 6

technique. 6

They are called to the dance floor soon enough; the first round of competitors moving onto the next. Alm and Celica had been lucky enough to be allocated to the second round, affording them more time to practice— time, that was very much needed on their ends. And although by no means had either of their skills faced the dulling of time (and one could argue that alm’s proficiency with footwork in the setting of a ballroom dance had only improved) they had, after all, not seen each other for much too long a time. There were bound to be changes that would hinder them— even in dancing— if all but their inherent understanding of the other would allow.

One such change is how (and Alm had never really noticed, himself) how much taller he is than Celica. And it certainly hadn’t been that way before— they were much closer in height, as he recalls, after the war. But that had been two years ago, after all. It only serves to remind him of how much has changed between; and how long he has been separated from his beloved. Nevertheless, he pays it no heed; Alm takes Celica’s hand and leads her to the dance floor.

A cordial bow, a hand pressed to his heart. “My fair lady,” a slow grin spreads across his lips; a playful wink. “Will you allow me this dance?”

A firm hand placed on her waist, another hand in hers; just as they had practised. The music begins, a slow beginning— before the other parts of the ensemble pick up the pace. It feels odd, almost, just how used to dancing he was now. Even if he still felt a little stiff around the edges, even if the very activity made him feel restless in nearly all sense of the word— with Celica as a partner, it wasn’t half as bad. No smiles kept up just for the sake of pleasing a guest; just admiring her, the look in her eyes (and how she looks at him, when they dance), and that alone brings a smile wide enough to invoke a soreness in his cheeks that will last the rest of the evening.

They have decent flair, even if their choreography and technique fell a little above average. Certainly, Rigelian and Zofian dances differed quite greatly. Where Celica would turn he would feel the need to alter course, as if a sudden improvisation had occured, despite the fact that this was what they had discussed. Briefly, at least. It was hard to unlearn something drilled so deeply into you. To accomodate, they had made the choreography fairly easy for the both of them to follow— and while they definitely had style, their technique could surely use more polishing.

But that didn’t quite matter. As long as they were enjoying themselves— and Mila knows they needed it. To be there with one another. Alm carefully dips Celica as an end to their dance, and as he helps her up, an arm comes to wrap around her waist. He inhales, breathing deep. Verdant eyes close for a moment, before opening up to the judges’ scores.

7. 6. 6.

A sigh, a hum of contentment. Alm leans his head against Celica’s. “We did well, huh? Honestly, I didn’t know you could dance like that. It feels like you surprise me every other day.”

@seraphiia v. @radiantpriamos & @elegiac-boar !

[albeinn]

[Spaghetti and Meatballs + Water] - "I trust," There's the clink of a plate being placed on the table before him, the scent of cooked meat and tomato sauce wafting delectably from the pasta dish. Accompanying it, a plain glass of water. "You've been practicing your dance steps? We must give a good showing for Valentia, after all." She takes the seat next to her beloved, lips pursed into a nervous smile as she turns to scan the room. "I'd be concerned if we left that to Gray..."

His eyes are kept on the rest of the party, never-endingly full of dancers who seemed to have far more energy in a ballroom than anywhere else. They move with ease to the rhythm of the music that plays, every so often switching up partners, or changing tempos. It was a little enchanting— if not familiar. Perhaps it was the fact that this was an entirely foreign place to him that drew him in, made it interesting. Or maybe it was the fact that Celica was here. A little bit of both.

As the song changes and transitions gracefully into another on the repertoire, emerald gaze averts from the crowd. Instead, he looks towards the serving tables, searching for an orange crown. Not that he’d been able to get his gaze off of his beloved— watching endearingly as she serves herself a plate of spaghetti for the both of them. That had seemed a fairly popular dish tonight; between lovers, supposedly. Alm wonders if Celica knew about that.

Sitting up in his seat as she approaches, both hands full, his lips curve into an affectionate beam. Something to take his mind off the night; he tilts his head towards the seat beside him, pulling it out.

“Well, you’d be right.” A laugh leaves him, round and full from his chest. As Celica sits, he shifts to allow her more room at the table, hand coming around to tuck back his cape. “Rigelian formal events have me dancing more than I thought they would. I remember thinking my feet were about to fall off after the first few weeks— so many dances. They’re practically drilled into my brain.” A low, halfhearted sigh. “Honestly, it’s hard to believe I didn’t step on more than a few toes.”

“But it can’t be helped. Just as the both of us have to represent Valentia now,” he continues, “I needed to be the one that represents Rigel. To... to....” be there in Berkut’s place. Be the heir his father would have wanted him to be.

Alm’s attention strays from his words— his gaze seems to be stuck upon the glass of water Celica had placed upon the table. The reflection. How he’s changed. Grown. Become somebody—

Clink. The water swirls.

Alm shakes himself gently out of it.

“Anyways, hey, cut him some slack. I’m sure he’s doing alright,” Alm demurs, straightening up. Where was Gray, actually? Not philandering the night away, he hopes. “Probably. Maybe. I think. Yeah.”

As his head turns towards the crowd, his gaze catches upon the plate Celica had brought over— or, more particularly, what sat in it’s centre. He leans closer.

“Oh, is this that... the Meatball? The one people have been doing that... that thing...... like....” How did he explain... that? Alm scratches at his cheek, hesitant. The whole ‘offering between lovers’ ordeal? “... Uh, this?”

Alm tucks the serviette into his collar preemptively.

Then his face dives into the plate.

[albeinn]

[ Ethereal Ball 2021 info post ]

ASK MEMES

Give my muse something to eat or drink…

Champagne: Imported from the western shores of the Adrestrian Empire, the school purchases 70 bottles of this stuff well in advanced for this day alone. The bartenders are under strict orders not to offer any student more than one glass.

Sparkling Water: Fresh spring water that has been magically carbonated. Served with a squeeze of lime or a dash of one of the many fruit syrups available at the bartender’s disposal.

Coffee: More specifically, a mocha brewed with Almyran coffee beans and Dagdan chocolate and served with hot milk. A sweeter variation of the drink taking Fódlan by storm.

Tea: Just what it says on the tin! The only teas offered are Mint, Bergamot, Sweet-Apple Blend, Albinean Berry Blend, and Southern Fruit Blend, wrapped in small tea bags. Clever students bring their own tea.

Water: The liquid of life, the quencher of thirst. Served in crystalline glasses. And what’s more dramatic than throwing water at someone’s face!

Spaghetti and meatball: A lovers’ portion of freshly-made spaghetti cooked in the monastery’s famous tomato sauce. The titular, singular meatball sits in the center, waiting for one lucky person to have their lover roll it to them with their nose as an offering.

Sweet Bun Trio: A selection of traditional Faerghus pastries, all small enough to be eaten in one delicious bite! The first bun is filled with sweet cream and topped with icing and a candied cherry. The second is a sweet roll filled with almonds, pecans, and dried cranberries and glazed with honey. The third is a bun sliced in half, filled with almond paste and whipped cream, dusted with powdered sugar on top.

Pomegranate: A newcomer to the Ethereal Ball’s menu, a simple bowl of pomegranate seeds. No one in the staff is quite sure how these are supposed to be served, only that you better not spit the pits out on the floor!

Mint candy: For when your breath isn’t as fresh as newly-fallen snow.

Interact with my muse…

send 💌to invite my muse to the Goddess Tower

send 👀to accidentally find my muse at the Goddess Tower

send 🏃to sneak off and explore the monastery together

send 👗to compliment my muse’s outfit

send 🚨for my muse to call the fashion police on your muse

send 👂to pass along a rumor your muse has heard about someone else

or make up your own!

Dance with my muse…

send 💃to ask my muse for a dance

send 🙇for my muse to ask yours for a dance

send 👯to teach my muse a new dance

send 😃for my muse to make your muse laugh with a silly dance

send 💫for our muses to get paired with each other in the middle of a dance