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This power.
How could he describe nor explain any of it? Surely, it was the greater part of his soul extracting this power from him, yet, he was clueless truly on the extend of it but he knew that it would aid him greatly. How? How would it save the prince? How would it save the kingdom to which he, Janus had loyalty to? Or was it loyalty to the prince of which Janus had more for? Yes, though sitting at the campfire with his new companions certainly made up for the days of perilous traveling and arduous missions which only seemed to have started. Which was more than he could handle but who else would able to do it?
Couldn't be anyone but him.
What a strange bedfellow Strohl was, and how his noble heart would ....no ...where there any place for nobility in this world? With these different tribes? What about the book given from the prince to Janus?
What utopia existed in any of it, was not part of his imagination but clinging it to it so tightly; he couldn't help but keep such a world in his mind even as he was fighting that human with the new found power of Archetypes.
Who had been that voice? Who had called out to him? Familiarity wasn't in that voice; yet, drawn out, he could still hear it-- clarity be damned. It gave him the power.
A shiver.
The wind was still tonight and Janus found sleep impossible to obtain, so the book remained half opened on a random page with words illuminated in the darkness which he knew from memory. Gallica was asleep. Everyone was asleep or was ...? Was he the only one awake to not just his power but now?
It wasn't surely so, but it was surely evident in all his doings that he truly loved the prince, but why did it become apparent just now? Why did he hate to reveal himself to these longing sentiments at all? Would they hinder him? Would they hinder him in this new mission?
Would he draw comfort in his new companions or recoil?
"That's the world you wish to create, in which the king, God , rest his majesty, sought and fought so difficulty. Lad, there's uncertainty in this world in which I can only give meaningless comfort in."
Grius.
How did he figure out any of this? No, Janus had to treasure these emotions even if they killed him, right? That's what he often saw in the prince's eyes.
Love.
Regret.
The words, dust now, forgotten but he had to refuse the suffering and the power in which Grius knew of but didn't divulge any further than the morning light which threatened them. Tomorrow, they'd be back in the Capitol and no amount of fragility would be permitted when facing Louis. The murderer of the King and the betrayer of Janus' worst trepidations and the prince's perilous condition which was more dire than the dying embers.
Louis Guiabern.
Who was this demon? Who was this monstrous villain and would tomorrow's events proceed all well as they'd hoped? As well as imagined?
Who would have helped Janus then and there if not for the prince? If the air of melancholy ended, would Janus truly be left alone? If he failed then the world wouldn't just stop the very spinning in all they'd been accustomed to, it would halt and the skies would melt. The skies would melt and tears would be the ash which cascaded forth from the opening in those dying skies.
Those damn skies.
Molecules of his own fragility were that, plenty but Louis was a creature of a tribe that sought to exploit weaknesses; although so, Janus was roused briefly by the spring of determination and will. Was is his? Could it be counted for his? Molecules of his own tears, which he couldn't grasp shedding in this pivotal moment.
Though Grius spoke no more for sleep had overtaken him, and Janus was left swimming in those thoughts and memories of love left slowly suffocating. The love between a prince and him, a cursed tribe-- and an Elda. Would it be enough? The book was flipped over to the middle to the utopia in which Janus and the prince bonded over even after the tragedy that had overwhelmed his village.
He loved the prince.
He'd do anything for the kindness and the sweet nimble voice murmuring that the weight of the world didn't matter to them anymore and that they'd create the utopia from their dreams, from this book as a guideline and succeed.
The weight of the wind hushed and lulled Janus quietly to the melodic happenings around and the memories were just more keener than any purpose possible. Any purpose in saving the love of a frozen prince besieged and strangled by thorns. Thorns, that couldn't forsake a love, a love that didn't think twice in owing any regrets nor holding back from the harsh realities of idealism-- for love never kept Janus quite too serious even if it held up the world for them both.
The weight of the world.
Soon, Janus slept.
Slept in the embrace of that wind....of that love returning.