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Nothing feels right anymore.
Dezel's even more silent lately, or so Lafarga says, but he doesn't care enough to notice whether his comment is out of concern or in jest. It's absentmindedly that he dismisses it with the slightest notion of his head, but his dry and aching throat confirms he's right. Dezel spends all his time watching and listening, although he never seems to see or hear anything.
Malevolence taints the air, not only in the city, but the castle as well. It keeps his shoulders tight, his senses jolting awake when that toxic miasma is rich enough to cut through the haze of people and voices and ornate decor. It leaves Lafarga tensing, too; back bent and one hand pinching the brim of his top hat in an instant. Then the moment passes, he relaxes, and gives that everything-is-okay smile, albeit the one plagued with uneasiness. Malevolence comes with human society, but it leaves Dezel longing for open air and a return to the expansive fields of the Perloats Pasture and lands beyond. For travel's companionable silence marked by creaking wagons and footsteps and dotted with laughter. The years have led Pendrago deeper into this poisonous fog, and it's all the more evident when you travel with companions as untainted as his.
Everything's stiff, uptight. Uniforms, guards at every corner, pompous politicians, and Dezel wonders how the Windriders came to be here. Wonders how a group of humans so pure, so free, could ever fit in. They're to be integrated into Rolance's army, bringing an end to their journey together as mercenaries. That's why they're stranded at the capital, why their guardian seraphim are choking on the materialization of human selfishness and pride. Why everything's changing.
It's an incredible honor, and the Windriders deserve all of it and more, but...
Dezel lingers around his comrades, inside or outside the palace. He hardly remembers willing it, his mind both full and empty, so he lets his thoughtless wanderings lead him. Already everyone's talking about their new stations and what they plan on doing. They talk about stability and permanency and what they'll miss. It's talk he'll hear a lot more of and he's already sick of it.
He's tethered to the palace grounds, unwilling to stray too far from his comrades, but that doesn't stop him from making off in an unnoticed gust of wind to another corner of this prison.
In the mindless hours he finds servants honoring Rose with dresses and jewelry, treating her like some sort of princess or noblewoman. Dezel hangs back by the entryway, arms crossed, and watches on as Rose examines herself in the mirror. The servants make adjustments and shower her with empty praise, attention bought by her new position. Their voices don't carry far enough to penetrate his clouded mind most of the time, but for one reason or another, the dressing room door on the other side keeps opening, and out comes Rose with another new, equally extravagant dress.
She'll be the wife to one of the Princes once she comes of age and they fancy her up to look the part. It's jarring. He almost squirms, imagining how Rose must feel in those luxurious gowns, uncomfortably tight at the torso, billowing at the waist, and all silk and frills and ribbons. Except she's smiling, awkwardly. Like somewhere deep down she knows something's off but elation stops her from realizing this isn't her. No, Dezel still sees that little girl who used to throw mud at people. The one who deftly wielded a dagger before she could even properly read. And she's too young to be signing up for marriage. At least let her grow up first.
One of the servants brings cosmetics. Rose's only worn make-up twice in her life: the first was a free sample given by a merchant, a small blush of purple to bring together her eyes and hair. She was nine at the time and it was all in good fun, even if Dezel didn't care for the powder. The second time was a little over a year ago. She'd been gifted a make-up set courtesy of a woman grateful to the Windriders. Rose used it one night in private before wiping it away and never using it again, even handing it off to a random girl in the streets.
Now rouge colors her cheeks a bright pink, she laughs under her breath, but it's not Rose's laugh. It's gauche, not hearty or genuine. Try as she might, she's out of her element, her usual confidence and casual-yet-cordial attitude absent. She's wooden in comparison to the girl who'd spent nearly every day of her life laughing and roughing it alongside a band of mercenaries. She wobbles on those high heels before they're traded out for flats, and a glimpse of the real Rose shines through when she stands with her hip out and a hand behind her head.
A knock at the door and Brad's admitted in. She's quick to greet and approach him, the most Rose-like thing she's done all day. Brad compliments her and her face turns even pinker. In turn, Rose's impressed by his new military uniform despite how formal and uptight it is. Brad says they've come far, but Dezel only sees a step backwards: they've been relegated to a wildflower in a porcelain vase and a mustang decorated in shining banners and he almost can't recognize them. They're only three feet away, yet the distance is immeasurable.
"We've been blessed," Brad says, but Dezel's feeling anything but as he slips back out into the hall.
He finds Lafarga in the courtyard, shoulders loose despite the crossing of his arms, his back lax against a pillar. It's such a familiar sight it's out of place. The court is busy with people, but even uniforms can't stop Dezel from picking out each of the Windriders. Surely, Lafarga's doing the same. Some pass by, others stand off to the side, conversing or waiting on a bench. The mood is light regardless of the solemn palace structure, and a few of the particularly affable members are already socializing with a group of knights. Cheer and laughter carries well across the grounds, and Lafarga waits for the noise to settle down before speaking.
"They look so happy." His voice is gentle and followed by an equally soft motion when he turns to his comrade. "Don't they?" He's smiling, but Dezel's own mouth doesn't so much as twitch. Lafarga's vigilance over the mercenaries exceeds the length of Dezel's years with them, yet it's as though he's saying goodbye to an old friend while Dezel's letting go of his lifeline. The boisterous court nearly drowns out Lafarga's quiet words, a remark to himself more than anyone. "Guess I'll have to let go of that old dream, huh?" It isn't bitter; he's not that type.
"Everyone has dreams," he'd said once, years ago, the tilt of his head and his smile beckoning a response, but a scoff was all he'd received in turn. Dezel had given up on things like dreams and wishes, still burned by old unrealized ones he'd clung to back when he was young and naive. He'd preferred things like goals and ambitions, things that relied solely on his own power. Didn't save him from decade-long lulls where he didn't have those either, though.
They were perched at the top of a hill, over soft grass and under star-painted skies, watching the flicking orange light and rising embers of the campsite down below. Savory smells filled the air, dishes clinked, voices spoke and joked and laughed. Dezel wasn't one for human nonsense, but the background noise somehow warmed the night. It was comfortable.
He was content with the silence, but he caught the gleam in Lafarga's eye and his idle smile. Dezel may not have humored his not-quite-a-question about dreams, but it felt right to return it. Voice soft against the merrymaking below, he tried rather plainly. "Do you?"
Lafarga paused, eyes growing distant for a second, grasping for the thread of their last conversation, most likely. But the following smile was nothing if not sentimental, the glint returning as he turned back to the campsite, his voice gentle. "They're a rowdy bunch, but they have the most heart you'll find in humans these days."
Dezel followed his line of sight down into the group. They were lively for sure; jesting and shouting across the way, shoving and bumping shoulders even amid their evening meal. Some were crowded around the fire while others were off to the side in their own little groups, but they were all smiling and laughing, and no one was left out. Even late returners and lookouts were given food and company.
Heart. That was a good word for them. From the outside, the Windriders didn't look like much, but they weren't like other humans. They were genuine in words and actions. They were bold. Free-spirited. Happy to be alive. A lot like Lafarga himself.
They really were special, weren't they?
"I want to keep traveling with them," Lafarga continued, an unusual depth of seriousness in his quiet voice. "And eventually with their children, and then theirs."
Dezel's response came unbidden, barely above a whisper. "Yeah, I know what you mean."
Mercenaries thrive by putting their lives on the line, and the same could be said for guardian seraphim. The work was never easy, but the mere joy of living and breathing together was worth it. Keeping their company became addictive, their gratitude contagious, and somehow Dezel found himself enjoying life with a grin that could have been left unused for hundreds of years.
Family was always a keyword among them. A human thing, as far as Dezel was concerned, and a concept he never considered too deeply. Seraphim don't have families, and neither do outcasts. Although never to the degree of Dezel himself, he'd always thought Lafarga of that ilk; most don't possess the compassion for humans that he does, nor the willingness to risk their company these days. And even less have the courtesy to extend a hand to a vagabond who gave up on seraphim and humans alike. Lafarga has always been strange, always an outlier, yet he never seemed lonely.
When he casually remarked the Windriders were their family, both statement and sentiment were so new, but Dezel liked the sound of it. And when Brad used that magic keyword with Rose, she grinned a genuine grin, and Dezel knew what she was feeling.
Things like wishes and dreams didn't seem so foolish anymore.
What had he wished for? Somewhere to belong.
Now their journey together is burning fast; a flame at the end of the candle's wick. Soon the Windriders will be divided up into Rolance's military and Rose will become a noblewoman. Lafarga promises they'll drink to their journey's end before setting out; seraphim like them belong on the road, not in a Malevolence-tinged capital.
Atop the castle walls, Dezel sees nothing, no matter how many people move down below. The wind is weak, different; anxiety and change travel on it.
The back of Lafarga's hand taps his shoulder. He doesn't flinch. Dezel knows him well enough to recognize his subdued tone, the one he uses when there's a sadness to his smile. "Let's enjoy the time we have left."
He can't, knowing his world's about to end.