Work Text:
“A man playing a tune in the Sillesian blizzard? How absurd!”
People hurry past a mess of green hair peeking through white cloth and thick blue wools to protect himself from the freezing snowstorm. He pays their thoughts no mind, as he focuses on working nimble frost-tipped fingers against thin strings of his wonderfully crafted lute, the snow creeping itself into the hull of the wood, melting on contact from the heat of movement above it. With a furrowed brow and a gentle sigh, he starts to find a melody, a rhythm he can work with, and opens his mouth in song.
He hopes his song is carried by the Sillesian winds, even beyond, further, deep into the depths of Belhalla. He wishes to reach the crimson-haired phoenixes of Velthomer, the noble porcelain steeds of Chalphy, the dark-haired ravens of Isaach, the golden lions of Nordion, so that he can feel as if he provides warmth to these noble regions with a simple harmonic tune, as heavy whirlwinds of ice and snow blanket the region.
The warmth that fills his own soul the most in times like these, however, is playing for nobles in front of an audience. With a particularly playful emerald-haired dancer by his side, he thinks of her illustrious dancing, and the taps of her feet to a beat as her anklets twinkle and rattle. Jolly tunes of Lewyn’s voice fill the castle walls, bouncing off the marble in pure jubilation, and the noises of the audience after the final curtain leave chatter and a racket reverberating within the walls.
He feels warmth again when she pinches his cheeks because of one crude remark too many.
Or unnecessarily icy criticism from the sharp-tongued bard, or when he comments on her terrible methods of flirting with many noblemen. The laughter around lights a small fire within, burning brightly, and staying steady with each shrill noise he hears from this companion of his.
Warmth also comes from drinking heavy liquor from the many taverns he’s encountered across his travels, tasting Belhalla’s finest beers, with heaving chests and flushed pink cheeks as he smiles and raises jugs of malt and strong smells to the sky with strangers he would’ve never even imagined of seeing in his childhood.
The thought of his childhood ignites a different kind of fire on that internal campfire, one that lets out too many dangerous sparks, flickering close enough to him to scald his pale skin. The heat it gives feels pleasant at first, but the burns it leaves behind char him, leaving him to ruminate in the ashes.
He wishes to go back to his hometown one day, to see the sweet Pegasus Knights of Sillesse, one of whom left a brand on his heart - but he would never admit it.
He remembers sneaking a certain shy girl with long green hair into the castle grounds.
Ruining her hair with snowballs, making flower chains out of the finest flowers in the royal gardens, and even braiding them through grassy reeds in his scalp into the most beautiful patterns, eyes burning brightly with a soft enthusiasm. Mostly, he longs to see the face of his mother again, her dark hair a stark contrast against her face, but looking elegant all the same, her eyes filled with a soft sternness that could only represent a mother’s love.
Yet those sparks start to hurt him, reminding him of the responsibility of having royal blood, and being of a Crusader’s descent. Forseti’s wind magic only seems to fan the flames, the embers growing larger and larger until he feels they might consume him-
He sighs, almost as if he could blow out the flames with a simple huff.
He slings his lyre across his back, wrapping his neck comfortably tight with a woolen blue scarf so incredibly dear to him, and walks towards a tavern he finds in over the hill, further away from the Sillesian outskirts, and into territory unknown to him.
That same loud heat that he could only get from a bar begins to fill him again, as his cheeks burn brightly, fresh liquor spreading like a wildfire within him, leaving pinkish embers on his face. It quenches his thirst and fills his stomach, and he tries his best to hold it all together, to keep all of his thoughts sealed in his mind with a frosted lock.
When he lies in a particularly cosy inn room to wind down from the events of the day, its dark-oak walls gently dimming the embers of his campfire, his head rests against soft pillows, his slender frame nestling under the duvet, akin to a bird rearranging twigs in its nest.
And yet, those sparks begin to flicker violently within him again, scarring his insides and leaving the taste of ash in his mouth. His heart sinks at the thought, as those memories buried deep beneath the snow seem to melt and makes it’s way up him, stinging his eyes and covering them in dew.
He tries his best to pay them no mind, breathing to the almost melancholy rhythm of his own heart, hoping the melody of his own body would drift him off to a deep sleep, to recover from the biting cold of the Sillesian snowstorm.