#❝Ａ ＮＯＢＬＥ＇Ｓ ＬＩＦＥ ＩＳ ＦＵＬＬ ＯＦ ＲＩＧＩＤ ＥＸＰＥＣＴＡＴＩＯＮ．❞ 【ｄｒａｂｂｌｅｓ．】

[thyrosus]

year one.

THYRSUS IS UNDISTURBED THE ENTIRE RIDE BACK; and, for the rest of the month upon Lorenz’s return, he does not move to touch it, and it takes more space than he’d like, a heavy presence in the middle of his writing desk.

The passing of Gloucester’s relic from father to son was of no note, and he’d forgotten, in the midst of the early winter turmoil and the demanding beast of Leicester politics, to feel a particular way about it at all. He did not earn his right to hold it; Count Gloucester, his esteemed father, simply saw the writing on the wall, and would rather not a repeat of its disappearance. Thyrsus’s case exchanged hands

The Lorenz of just a year prior would have difficulty tempering his profound disappointment.

Other houses sing of their relic as the war-ending weapons they are. Enemy blood is soaked into their blades, all of them pulsing, burning with the stench of death that makes his eyes water—an affront to all senses and sensibilities, to the layman.

Perhaps, now, Lorenz is no different from those who’d shun it. What else is he doing now, if not putting off his destiny by refusing to even acknowledge his birthright as a source of pride?

One year ago, he would not have hesitated to bring Thyrsus to the morning light, stare into its unblinking red core staring him down like the ravenous eye of a beast and proclaim to the heavens: I am Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, and I am the unshakeable paragon I proclaim to be!

He’d thought he’d finally begun to feel the ground underneath his feet, after months of the world at a standstill, the corners of it a blur, body aching as it remembers the flash of a sword, the bone-crunch of carnivore teeth. He thought his conviction had returned to him, that he was no longer languishing and becoming the very antithesis of his beliefs.

And yet, the noble mantle on his shoulders grows heavier, feeble progress reset because he cannot stomach claiming his birthright.

(—Thyrsus is not bathed in blood, it is not a weapon, but a conduit for the talents of its masters—there is enough blood on his hands, his and others, to spare—and yet;

he has been brought back from the dead, as much a relic of a bygone era as his house’s pride, but with a far less storied history—)

Does he want it? Is he worthy?

Does either truth matter, or make him feel any better, if he cannot force himself to walk forward, temper his disenchantment and anger and fear and do something?

The latch opens with a muted click. For a second, Lorenz ponders the consequences of watching the relic splinter in two against the wall.

What steels him is this:  there are things he still does not know, and people that count on his spear and his spellcraft. When he stared up at the maw of the beast that would devour him, he brandished his lance in the feeble hope that the second his life ended would be the difference between life and death for others.

Doing for others, acting as the people’s weapon. That is the duty of nobility. That is what he focuses on when he brings Thyrsus to the light.

YEAR ONE: END.

[thyrosus]

in the shadows of giants.

DERDRIU BECKONS.

Lorenz can already taste the salt in the air, even as he sits perched atop Begonia, shielded from most of the wind by the mountains. He sits astride his mount, in the shadow of the Oghmas, and tips his head towards the sky.

If he closes his eyes, he can see in stark, blinding clarity: the jaws of a beast, poised to clasp around him. Blood trickles down the side of his face, and every breath heavy and wet. He feels more shreds of meat than a noble making a desperate final stand.

Lorenz told himself then, in the final moment of clarity, how at least he’d stood tall and met his demise with his head held high. He had not let House Gloucester down with his own downfall—and he had not, clearly.

—Not to their knowledge. The letter from his father, arriving just after the Garland Moon’s beginning, made no mention of his failures. He spoke as though the world had kept moving, as though the world had not been pulled from underneath his feet. Lorenz cannot remember the words, only the feeling they’d left in their wake.

“You will be spoiled in my absence, no doubt,” he muses to his horse, whose head is bowed in boredom, more interested in the ground and sweet grass under hoof.

He cannot afford to languish in unanswered questions and the lingering thoughts in the back of his mind. If he closes his eyes and sees a monstrosity made flesh, he must be able to open them, and brandish his spear as he did before.

For the Alliance, for House Gloucester… for the bonds that have kept him tethered to the earth—he cannot afford to squander a second chance.

[thyrosus]

3/4. —dancer mastery drabble.

                                   ↳ with a cameo by @flowerofgoneril​.          

                          ( One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three��� )

I.

BEFORE the weight of responsibility bore heavy on their shoulders, their hands were intertwined, respectable distance apart giving way to childish twirls upon the polished wood of the floor beneath their feet. Hilda cannot be bothered to pay her lessons any mind—Lorenz chastised her in turn, chest puffed and all of nine years as he preens under the praise of his tutors while he tries to correct her—but she is light on her feet. He enjoys the rhythm, feels pride when their childish squabbling can unfold into something resembling a dance.

It’s rudimentary, their steps. They are not elegant swans, but young children, learning the movements for the first time, more twirls than necessary. There is no polite distance as they step on each other’s toes, and Lorenz’s rigid posture is not immune to the warmth of Hilda’s laughter.

They will be scrutinized for their graceless forms later. Right now, they are weightless, bathed in sunshine, hands not yet callused from lance and axe. Lorenz could spare a lecture, of course, but there is no more air in his lungs, and he’s too busy bowing—exaggerated in its form—to pay anything much mind other than the blur of color Hilda’s become, letting her skirts fan around her.

“My lady,” he says, offering his hand again. She only laughs in response, arms around his neck. Here, it does not matter if he falters and breaks stride in his failure to catch her. No punishment could reach their ears right now.

II.

HOUSE GLOUCESTER shows deference to the church in gold, and in excess devotion to the Saints’ days. Lorenz will miss the social season, bound for Fhirdiad and its famed sorcery academy—he reminds everyone who will listen of that fact, head held high without a second thought as to appearances—and while his obligations are small, he will still take the taste of Leicester’s society to savor during the months still to come, bathed in snow when the rest of Fódlan welcomes spring.

And he dances, of course. More refined, now, growing into his longer limbs—still growing, too, likely to overshadow both his mother and father at this rate—but Saint Seiros Day is a joyous occasion, and even if he doubts the sincerity to which his parents make their toasts, he will let concerns be for tonight.

Tonight, he claims the attention from the Saint herself, and he bears responsibility as the pride of Gloucester to step perfectly in time with his partners.

Numerous, but uneven; Lorenz completes a turn, hand raised to rest against a newer partner’s, and finds a gentleman instead. Around his age, only a hair shorter, seemingly just as shocked to find him, too. Pleasant, though. Kind eyes, a confident stride to his step, humbled as he dances the lady’s part without complaint.

Stare as they might, soon enough they move on down the line, another painted face to stand across their own. But Lorenz remembers his eyes long after the evening is done, honey-colored and sweet. He might have been a distant Daphnel son; at times, Lorenz is almost tempted to try and seek out a name, combed from somewhere in his memory. But he remembers his equal across him, confident gait, matching his steps, the cusp of young adulthood, paragons of humble gentlemen.

He hadn’t even thought it odd, that they might be worth staring at.

III.

TO THE VICTORS GO THE ROSES. Lorenz accepts his handkerchief with scrutiny. It seems a poor consolation for second place, in lieu of the garlands, but it is still well-made. The gold stitching in candlelight; the silver borders shine like scales aside them. A heron takes flight in the dead of winter, a song from its maw.

Lorenz does not settle for anything less than perfection, and stands nearly victorious, without a dance partner to share in what little glory second place contains.

He stands tall, nonetheless. No sense in making a scene. His fingers fiddle with the signet ring on the other hand, momentarily biting the inside of his lip as he seethes in silence, bowing out of the spotlight with the rest of his competitors when they are dismissed.

He ends the night with his window open, the winter air promising snow in short order. The light of a candle at his bedside is not enough to see the full details of his second place prize, but for his efforts, there are other gifts. A merry saddle, for Begonia; proof that he may carry the pride of the Golden Deer and refresh his comrades with his presence.

Something rankles, still, victory so close and yet so far from his grasp.

The signet ring is folded carefully in silk. Tomorrow, he will bring the saddle blanket to his steed, and he will remind his unruly classmates of his accomplishments. He could seethe, yes, but he will choose to take the judges’ ruling as a warning not to skills other than combat fall to the wayside.

In the privacy of his room, his only partner his reflection, he bows, to begin a dance for one.

He has a good feeling about this year.

[thyrosus]

gallant.—cavalier mastery drabble.

FOR EVERY YARN OF GALLANTRY and birdsong of the heroics of knights of a foregone era, there is an oft-unsung stalwart companion.

A tireless steed, no less elegant than the swordplay of a hero, mane untamed or perfectly bound in intricate ribbons—it depends on the level of theatrics, Lorenz would discern later, upon closer readings, but such details escaped him as a child, captivated by the simplicity of the image itself. A knight upon a horse, the horse’s legs reared and head wild, a weapon pointed to the heavens and striking awe and fear with equal measure, every emotion cutting straight to the eye of the beholder.

Lorenz has never aspired to knighthood, of any kind. His path was set long before his birth, and he has never once considered what it might be like to stray. If he did stray—damning centuries of his ancestors in the process—it certainly wouldn’t be to knighthood.

(He can admire them, of course.

Who wouldn’t?

Strapping ideal of a gentleman; Lorenz can admire from afar and choose to emulate their core values, amplify them beyond, as he must with all things.)

But he aspired, as a child, to ride like them, to sit astride his own companion and be recognized for his glory.

Lessons started young, and as with most things, Lorenz felt as though he took to riding as naturally as breathing. The smells of stables took getting used to, and sensitive as his nose is, he’d learned the hard way he’d never be truly blind of it—but it was hardly a deterrent. 

Neither was the first time he was thrown. Or the third. Never injured beyond repair, mind, but it smarted enough to ground Lorenz to his own minuscule sense of humility. Colloquially, you can break a horse; that was never his goal, at least not after learning with bruised ribs and broken arms.

He sought an equal. A companion. He’s never wished to rule with an iron fist, not in his future endeavors, and not with fists curled into reins.

Stories are embellished, and Lorenz fancies himself a realist. (There is nothing quite so real as a face in the dirt.) But everyone must have their follies. A nobleman must have a noble steed. A noble steed may well not respond to a rider that cannot respect them in turn.

It became a point of pride, then, that he’d go through the ritualistic process of tacking up his horse without the aids of one of the many stablehands under House Gloucester’s employ. Every buckle secured, tight but not constricting; every coat brushed to perfection and hooves cleaned meticulously. Never rushed, so that both rider and steed may relish in the attention.

Begonia was a gift—no, a living apology for time cut short on his own endeavors. Fhirdiad’s chill was still in his bones, and there was still a bitterness in the back of his throat at the platitudes of his father, but he’d known best, and they were tempered. A velvet nose against his palm, a coat that called back to the night sky. Intelligent eyes, despite the shine of youth.

A noble companion, even some three years later.

Neither have any illusions of knighthood; by now, all illusions of Lorenz’s perfection have likely been shattered by Begonia’s judgment. The same ritualistic care still bookends their solo rides together. In Beltanne, an ocean of green flooded their gaze on the gentle slopes of Gloucester county’s hills.

At Garreg Mach, they see the break of clouds, jagged peaks that brush the heavens themselves. Atop Begonia, Lorenz feels as though he sits on the lone still point of a world that turns without them.

This is the last ride of theirs before winter sets in. It’s come early. The cold air still burns the both of their lungs raw. Both horse and rider are bundled to the best of their ability, dead earth underneath hooves. Soon, the world will be awash in flurries of snow, and the distant ache for spring will needle them both until they feel warmth in the air again.

On the peaks, were Begonia to rear, Lorenz’s years would kick in, and his body would move with his steed, heels in the stirrups and compensating for the shift in weight.

They may look gallant. They may simply look like fools, close to slipping from the edge of the world entirely.

“Dreadful,” Lorenz muses of the weather, and the thought, and only Begonia is around to hear him.

The pageantry of knighthood from stories of old has lost a lot of its luster.

The companion remains.

Begonia agrees, he thinks, with a puff of hot air expelled from his nostrils. Lorenz’s breath as he laughs leaves the same cloud in its wake, and they continue on down their path, no gallop of passion but a steady, meandering trot.

It is not noble, but it suits them both just fine.

[thyrosus]

🌹

—LORENZ HAS ALWAYS HELD WITHIN HIM A DISDAIN FOR THE GREAT BRIDGE.

It falls under House Titaneos’ jurisdiction, and they, splintered branch they were from House Gloucester’s thriving gardens, had never let them forget it. Borders in the south have always remained fretfully malleable, Ordelia to the west, Adrestia at their heels, a great chasm of water separating the twin-headed eagle from circling in the stag’s quarry, and it always has, searching for the wounded, for the young, for the carcasses and gaping wounds,

It is the same now, given the disarray, the tumultuous time since Oswald von Riegan’s demise that has sons put down their days of luxury and dawn the armor of their grandfathers and felt the full weight of their name boring down unto their shoulders, yes—and Thyrsus, not quite a weapon, not large enough to be a walking stick, though it could certainly bludgeon someone unarmed if need be. What a terrible, ghastly way to go; to treat a relic this way, too, because no, it does not work the same as its contemporaries. It is a tool of intellect, of magic. A cipher that will let him reach Adrestian soldiers before they ever so much as step foot on Leicestan soil. The flames lick ever closer—

—Thrysus pulses in his hand. Lorenz has not slept in what feels like days, although he has closed his eyes. He dreams of fortresses swallowing him whole when he does, the world tilting with every single step—

—No, it does not tilt. He shifts in his saddle and there is thunder and cobblestone ringing in his ears with the sound of battle; his battalion pushing forth at his back, with Thrysus, and Faerghus is fast advancing, and he must rendezvous with Ferdinand and General Ladislava. There is sunlight breaking through the clouds, and still thunder, thunder, the type that burrows deep into his skull but he cannot afford to recoil. The hushed whispers of the fallen prince brought back from the grave exchanged in hisses has no time to come to fruition and sow seeds of doubt, House Gloucester cannot survive on uncertainty, that is why he is here, on the damned bridge,

and not in Derdriu, no, where he longs to be, but imperial orders demands he keep his head bowed. His father does, too, as not to incur their wrath, but his faith in Claude—it shakes, sometimes, but he has come to understand

that he does not understand, does he? Does he? No, he is getting—turned around, it is not Oswald’s death. No, it is Claude von Riegan they shot from the sky, with the gall to spill Goneril and Ordelia blood on the steps of the Aquatic capital as collateral. And he does not have the guts to even lead the charge himself, to give them the honor of a final duel, does he?

He—

—He is not on the Bridge of Myrddin. There is grass underneath Lorenz’s boots. There is a void to his gaze, staring at those boots. Thrysus is not at his back or in his hands, but his lance and the electrified sword—contraption—blasted, cursed object is.

His hands are shaking enough that the contraption drops to his feet below. Every breath brings about a wince.

The flower at his lapel is stained red.

[thyrosus]

ooc. tag dump!

[thyrosus]

🌹

True to form, the expectations of the last three years hold constant the moment Lorenz opens his eyes: he feels no different at the first shred of dawn through his window, fully cognizant it heralds the day of his birth.

If he’d had to venture a guess, the shift had started when the day had come and gone without fanfare when he’d woken up to the stone and heavy midnight curtains that compromised of his dormitory in Fhirdiad. He’d risen with the sun, as he’d done so every day his father had thought him worthy of shadowing him in his duties, and instead of house staff ensuring every wrinkle laid smooth, it was under his watchful direction he’d dressed to perfection—within constraints, of course, as the chilled city’s School of Sorcery had a uniform of its own, and his day of birth had fallen well within the middle of week, as classes began to truly fall into predictability.

No one, save for the Head Teacher of his year, had given him more than passing well-wishes. A few of his peers murmured their echoed sentiments in turn, but he was still the lone son of Leicester, and very few had been impressed with his prowess when he was among students of equal talent.

A realization, creeping as an awareness he was trapped in a waking dream: a solitude, partially self-imposed (he’d *begged* his father to let him enroll for his own pursuits—even if at the time, he’d felt mature and rational in his presentation) but partially by the hand of his peers. And, yes, there had been letters and a package from home—his mother had deigned to write, and he’d felt particularly grateful for the letter—but something never quite settled.

Gloucester’s ancestral home lies on the beautiful hills that overlook its biggest settlement. Beltanne erupts into celebration for the Garland Moon, the hills erupting into full wildflower bloom with it. His mother’s rose garden even opens to the public for a scant few days, for all their people to see its fragrant glory. Removed from celebration and the scent of roses—his birthday falling square in the middle, of course, and his chest always puffed and proud—he was little more than a faceless young man in a sea of his peers.

Disappointment breeds contempt and loathing in lesser men. For a noble son, it brings resolve.

A bold cut, first, standing in the floor-length mirror. To better accent the points his face came to before he’d yet grown a head above his peers. Lorenz doubled down in his studies, *devouring* book after book until he could recite formulas for spells with perfect recall. He would never again fade into the background, and if his name did not inspire the awe it should, he would wrest the mass’s attention to him by making himself impossible to ignore.

He feels no different, now, looking in the mirror. He’s yet to make peace, although he refuses to dwell. It is *his* day of celebration, and another year to strive for perfection in all he does.

While he wears but an ornament, most days, today the rose he fixes to his breast is very real, and fresh, and a distant echo of the celebration in his memory.

He’d found a rose in the marketplace that weekend, all those years ago—the Garland Moon tradition holds little weight when winter winds blow strong year-round, but the snow-white blooms for lovers’ garlands remained, imported, likely, from within the heart of his own home.

Lorenz did not reach for lovers’ white, but resolute, classic red. It burned against the gold and blue of his school’s colors, almost difficult to stare at in contrast.

He’d loved it immediately.