Chapter Text
Azelle barely knows anger. He is acquainted with it, his brother its most intimate wielder. He knows of it. He knows Fjalar’s rage. Azelle remembers rushing towards Velthomer Castle’s courtyards as a child, hoping that the cool winter air would erase every trace of Fjalar’s fire in him. He is a bastard, and he clings onto his mother’s blood hoping to temper that ever-looming potential of his.
He wakes on a stone floor in a dark labyrinth, voices flitting in and out of focus. The first thing he experiences is the pain and the sharp taste of metal and dust in his mouth. The girl in front of him is tall and lanky. She’s wearing a smile on her face as she aids him up. Her attire is Silessian, her green hair cropped. He recognises that face. He remembers first seeing it in Agustria, his magic and the face’s original bearer’s colliding to topple Chagall at Mackily. It’s Lewyn’s. Long, thin. Strong jaw.
“Hello, Lord Azelle,” she says cheerfully. “Arthur! He’s awake.”
Azelle’s eyes widen at the mention of his son’s name and his attention flicks upwards to his son, tears threatening to flush from his eyes as he takes his son’s frame in. He’s tall, like his uncle, but he takes after him in every other feature. Atop his head is a shock of long lilac hair, as vibrant and as bright as Azelle remembers when he left for Belhalla Castle to convince his brother. Arthur must be taller than him now and an ache settles in Azelle’s chest as he realises how much time has passed.
“ Petrification ,” Azelle mutters under his breath and his son ( his son! ) gives a small nod.
“Sharp as I remember, Father,” Arthur tells him. “Er- I have to ask. What do you recall last?”
Azelle blinks as he steadies himself. “I enter Belhalla Castle. Your uncle has invited me for tea, and I bring with me a list of records so he rescinds political pressure over Silesse. I remember a dark smoke of sorts, and then a cloaked figure.”
Arthur sighs. “It’s been fifteen years,” and Azelle exhales. “We found you here and, um-” Arthur beckons for a third figure to come into Azelle’s view, “-Julia, why don’t you explain?”
Julia is much shorter than Arthur or his green-haired companion, a sombre look seemingly painted over her thin face. Her features are frail-looking, strength concentrated in the palms holding her staves. Straight white hair falls past her shoulders, a heavy fringe covering her forehead. Azelle finds it difficult not to draw comparisons between Julia and Deirdre- the secondary fixation of their campaign, though he could argue it was Lord Sigurd’s first.
“Naga helped me undo the petrification, Lord Azelle,” she says quietly.
Arthur smiles. “I’d say it was an equal effort,” he says brightly. “Father. This is Julia. She’s a princess of Belhalla. My cousin, on your side.”
“Your father-” Azelle queries, leaving the rest unsaid.
“Is King Arvis, Lord Azelle. My mother…both are dead.”
—
Azelle learns of the Pegasus Knight’s name- Fee, daughter of Lewyn and Erinys, second to the throne of Silesse. He learns of several things from Arthur. One, that he began his riding lessons under Fee and Annand’s supervision. Two, that he’s certain Finn and Lewyn are alive, the latter of which he claims is the reason for Fee’s enthusiasm on his mission. Three, that he was raised in Silesse by an elderly village woman and her wife. Four, that his reasons for travelling away from Silesse were all due to rumours of Lord Blume’s new warmage, Tine of Friege.
A fire crackles in between Arthur and Azelle, Fee and Julia having gone to their own tents to prepare for the day ahead: a meeting with Seliph’s army to discuss tactics before moving to assault Alster.
“I haven’t seen her in fifteen years,” Arthur says softly, hand absentmindedly touching his pendant. Azelle recalls its origin, a gift he bought for Tailtiu during their campaign in Silesse under Queen Rahna’s care. “She and mother…were taken while I was playing by the riverside.”
“Arthur-”
“I waited for you to come home, father . The villagers said you’d be back in three days. That’s how long it would take. I checked. I did the arithmetic. You never came back. One day, I just thought- um. I just accepted that you’d been kidnapped, like mother and Tine were. Or killed.”
Azelle pulls Arthur into a tight embrace.
“Only petrification could stop me from returning to you, Arthur,” Azelle says, voice soft. “I love you, Tailtiu, and Tine more than anything.”
Arthur stares idly at the campfire, lightly using his fingers to make the fire dance momentarily. Azelle recognises the motion, a nervous habit all Velthomers tend to adopt eventually.
—
Tailtiu shivers against the floor, the thin blanket her brother provided a weak shield against the Munster District’s winters. She forces herself to think of Silesse, to retrieve a positive recollection of the cold in her ever shrinking collection of happy memories. She and Azelle were younger, then, and she remembers teasing him about spending a good proportion of his arena money towards the pendants.
She has long accepted that her husband is dead. She hears rumours of Belhalla, how not a single live body was recovered. She knows how ruthless that brother in law of hers is. She doesn’t put the act of Azelle’s murder above him. In the winters past, she would spend her time idly thinking of Azelle, hoping to wake up in their cottage in Silesse one morning. She’d buy Tine and Arthur new toys and tomes for the school year. Azelle would finish his dream of becoming a doctor and Tailtiu would be by his side, documenting all the fascinating forms thunder would take in treatises and other documents.
Instead, she is locked at the highest tower at Alster Castle lying on cold cobblestone. Hilda has long explained that Alster simply had no room for Tailtiu and Tine- any space they could live in was to be cleared for Ishtar and Ishtore’s ever growing needs- and that one thin bed was more than enough for two animals.
Tailtiu looks to her side and checks on Tine, who sleeps fitfully, but enough. Her daughter is fifteen, now at an age her brother and his monster of a wife deem appropriate to be sent onto the battlefield. Tine’s a prodigious mage, Tailtiu thinks, her proficiency in all forms of magic apparent. Tailtiu hopes it’s enough to survive the battle tomorrow morning.