“Why does my father want to kill me?” Naturally, Tyr had declared a request for a trial by combat. Better that than getting strung up or... However they'd like to try killing him. Technically, he had no right to ask for it, but Regar had humored him, the honorable man he was. Laughing and dismounting to pull a magnificent greatsword from the sheathe on his saddle. A beautiful weapon, pristine and silvered with little stripes acid of an unknown forging method frozen inside in an almost crystalline pattern. A weapon of position, large and mostly ceremonial, but it was made to kill first and foremost. Angel wings for a crossguard and the abundant amount decoration. Artistry aside... Strip that all away and it'd be good a blade as any. More so.

“I follow his orders.” Regar shrugged. “I don't want to harm you, cousin, but I will. Stand down and accept the decree.”

Tyr was 'immortal' for all intent and purposes, and his 'uncle' should know this, making Regar's claim that he'd mete death rather strange... The prince, or the boy who'd once been a prince – apparently... He had no idea what was going on. What had he done to earn such ire from his father? He supposed he already knew the answer to that.

I've run out of time. He knew it would happen. Eventually. Haran needed a primus, and his father had a duty, he'd said so allowed on a few occasions. Veiled words for 'show your worth or I'll make another son.'

“Give me your oath that you'll allow my men to go free and without incident toward whatever destination they choose.” Tyr asked of him. Regar was an honorable man and an honest one, he was also family. There had never been bad blood between them, as far as Tyr was aware. By their age, he was less of a cousin and more of an uncle, having been grown while the prince was still a child. Even aiding in his instruction, or bouncing Tyr on his lap at one feast or another.

“You have my oath.” Regar nodded calmly, greatsword resting firmly within the channel in his pauldron designed for it. “The men can go where they please and I'll see to their well-being. As for the beasts... They can go south, but you know I can't just let them into the capital.”

“Understood.” Tyr nodded in acceptance. It was as fair a deal they'd ever get.

“Boy.” Samson stepped forward. “Allow me to fight this man. Myself or Ajax.”

“Beastkin and foreigners have no right to participate in this. You may, as my knight, but you'll lose. I don't fancy myself a greater warrior than you, but Regar will kill you.” He would, too. Of all the kingsguard in service to his father, his cousin was one of the best. As good as Tiber but younger and more able of body than the older man, his skill-set more befitting an open field. In ten matches between the two, Regar would win seven handily, at least in this context. Against Tyr, well... He'd win them all, but the prince was a stubborn and prideful little monster. Unable to die, he had nothing to fear but a beating that would be no worse than the dozens he'd received in recent memory.

“Worry not, I would do no such thing to you, Agoronian. I'm not like my cousin here. Terms?” Regar called out.

“To the death.” Tyr replied coolly and confidently. Maybe a little too 'cool', some poor excuse for a bluff that Regar seemed to find very amusing.

He laughed at the idea, smiling widely. Regar was very handsome, quite a bit of Jartor's masculine features that seemed carved into marble. A hard, well defined jaw, thick black hair worn shoulder length and perfect teeth. His hazel eyes were lightened by the bright sun of day, looking radiant with his tanned skin cutting stark contrast against his white armor. “Rite of continuance, that's my offer, you can't fool me little cousin. They call you the 'one eyed prince' in the villages, have you heard? Half the peasants are convinced Thanatos himself watches over you. Stories of an apostate chopping you up into little pieces and you stitching yourself together and eating his heart. Ridiculousness, of course, though I do like to hear those songs. What say you?”

“That's fine.” Tyr sighed. He couldn't get one past the man, Regar was too clever for that. And before the words of agreement had left his lips – the knight was on him. A wide bodied greatsword beyond what a man of such stature should be able to handle. Regar wielded it effortlessly, starting with a thunderous overhead blow to disrupt Tyr's guard. Despite the boys best efforts, it did, he felt like a mountain was falling down on him as he slid away from the strike with the edge of the greatsword clanging against his much lighter glaive. The only advantage being the balance, blocking with two hands spread wide on a longer haft made it easier.

Regar followed is up with a shoulder charge, throwing Tyr bodily to the ground. He spun away, letting the weight carry him down in a roll. Letting the haft slide its length down his hand as he extended in a swiping lateral cut towards his cousins knees. Regar kicked it away in bemusement, striking the guard with the tip of his boot and pivoting again inside the glaives longer reach.

They connected, the older man using his superior strength to keep the prince off balance. Tyr found the weapon unfamiliar in his hands; It was hard to wield and Regar was clearly aware of his awkward attempts to emulate the motions of a spear. Tyr's weapon was longer, but a polearm required an even hold to keep it all balanced. Regar easily moved within the reach of the glaive again to crack Tyr's skull with his pommel, sending the prince sprawling. Their difference in skill had been apparent from their first moment, but this was beyond Tyr's expectation. He'd never seen Regar fight this way. 'Going for the throat', radiating intent and the joy of battle. Palace style was an inherently defensive form of swordsmanship that relied on composure, counters and clever use of the whole body. While Regar moved similarly, he was playing far more aggressive than a palace practitioner normally would.

The men of the legion cheered their commander on, earning a flourish and a bow from Regar. It was a show, common and noblemen alike loved a good show, and Regar was not the grim pragmatist that Tiber was. He was a shining example of knighthood and victor of a great many tourneys throughout the empire, no stranger to drama and battle observed by others.

“Come, cousin. I've known you to be a talent inferior to mine, but this is embarrassing.” Regar's disappointment reached his eyes, infuriating the prince as he flashed back to all the times his father had given him a similar look. His father, his wives, his teachers and the priests who had once pretended to revere him as a living extension of the divine. “Comments on your... Lacking nature aside, this is a weak showing even for a man. You dishonor me, you dishonor your father, your nation, and all the knights of the dawnguard who trained you.”

Tyr rose in a kip from the ground. He was wearing nothing more than a padded cold weather jerkin and not an inch of chain about him. No plate either, saved the weight of armor from bogging him down after his long walk and the following ride. He'd never much liked armor, especially not the plate the knights wore, it was uncomfortable and restrictive.

He'd dressed lightly most times but began to regret it now, feeling the warm rivulets of blood leaking from the gash in his skull and painting his vision red. Pain and rage, things he stamped down in a bid for the cool control Thom-- No, Varinn. If there had been a direct lesson in any of it, it was that. Berserkers didn't win fights, calm minds did. To resist ones emotion and reach clarity in the mind, making it much easier to act on instinct. Tyr doubted he'd win, but he was looking forward to wiping that disgusting look of Regar's face.

He'd never hated the man. Never, not once, but he felt the hate welling up in him now. The iron tang of blood in his mouth sending him into a near frenzy again before he breathed, allowing the cool air to temper his thoughts. Regar was taunting him, which was very out of character for so proper a man and chivalrous a knight.

Tyr dropped into the panther stance. Stalking forward like the predator the school of martial arts was named for. All while keeping to the smooth steps of the fire dance. If he wanted to win... No, if he wanted to get a single blow off on Regar he'd have to use everything he'd learned. There was no winning here, just trying his best to go out with a good look to him. A primitive blade dance with none of the song, using things he'd learned via Varinn and Jurak. Regar stared at him with a lowered brow, unable to comprehend what was happening. It was a bizarre thing, and Tyr felt himself blushing at the absurdity of it, just as he'd blushed when using it for the first time. Before he'd realized the power. Regar had to know what he was doing as well, humoring Tyr and letting him finish his motions on an approach.

They connected again, smoother this time. A wheeling storm of sparking steel as Tyr erupted into constant motion, flanking Regar and keeping him inside the ideal range of the glaive. Regar was stronger, but Tyr was more dexterous and unencumbered by armor, which helped.

'You stare too much at the weapon of a man, but not the eyes. Watch the eyes, and his essence will be revealed to you. Anything below the shoulders is a waist of your time, everything happens up here.' Varinn had tapped his head and he'd said that.

There was truth in it, truth that Tyr saw for the first time in real time. Regar's eyes would squint near imperceptibly before attacking, they'd move as he moved, flicking left when he rolled his shoulder to meet a blow. Right when he tilted his hips and closed into the reach of the glaive, allowing Tyr to make adjustments to his spinning dance to prevent his momentum from being interrupted. The problem was, the old knight was clearly capable of doing the same, forcing the much more footwork centric of the two into a defensive bearing. Nearly pushing him off balance with the heavy swings of that sword.

To romanticize things, Tyr was like the water. Flowing around Regar in circular patters, whereas the older knight was a mountain, his motions far more shallow and subtle, but of clearer purpose. Only moving when he had to, most times catching the blade on his own in a bid to stop it flat.

A frustration rose up in the prince's gut. He knew that Regar was toying with him, but his defense held no obvious faults. Trained to perfection through years of experience both on and off the field, the gap in their skills was too wide. Tyr had trained himself to kill and main and perfect the art of stalking a man through the dark city streets. In a duel, he was woefully behind the curve when his opponent was prepared for an exchange of steel.

He closed his eyes, cogs of his mind whirring for a solution before he found it. Or at least, the closest thing that would prevent him from being embarrassed. Never once had he stopped in his march, and it was wearing him thin. Ever step moved in concert with the energy in his body, and it cost a little bit every time he moved, an exhausting way to fight. Tyr held no advantage here. Without the almost playful element present in the spar, Tyr was confident he'd have lost in a single combination.

Blade song. What did this even mean? Jurak had been far from helpful, only implanting the most cursory information regarding it in his head. He'd use that as best as he could. Reaching out with his world energy to probe his surroundings, eyes closed and ducking under a swing that would've decapitated him if he'd stood still even a moment longer. He'd not meant to see it, but he had, a truth in the movements of the other man. 'A song not of prose but in the beating of the heart.' Clarity and observance of ones surroundings. Tyr, eyes still shut, lowered his glaive in anticipation of red threads floating on the wind outside of physical sight. A sixth sense, impossible to explain.

He whirled his glaive to allow the sword to glance off the guard, feeling the momentum carrying the weapon around and inside Regar's own. It all happened so fast, like a string snapping or a pane of glass shattering in his mind. Tyr felt the man go off balance after missing his strike and rushed to take advantage of the opening.

The flat rear of the crescent blade, with all of the accumulated momentum of the fire dance struck Regar's barbute like a hammer, sending the man sideways and denting the steel. Tyr heard a hiss and opened his eyes, dropping the weapon and allowing the fists he was much more accustomed to using to rain a series of rage filled blows on the plated face-guard. He could see Regar's shock, his awe at how rapidly it had all fallen apart, and Tyr lapped at it in ecstasy, letting emotion overtake him. Regar tried to resist, flailing his plated mitts around but he could see those too, all chased in scarlet thread and too slow to stop him.

Every blow carried a force just slightly beyond the natural – releasing the energy provided by the dance. Blade song. It wasn't an active ability or spell, it was a technique, one that required effort and an expenditure of world energy to achieve. Tyr was not ready for it, feeling his body alike sag under the pressure. Every punch shattered the bones of his hands but he kept swinging.

Wrenching Regar's helmet free and beating his face with his gloves hands until only a wheezing could escape the mans battered lips. Tyr howled, all of his pent up hatred caught in his cry, drawing his grandfathers knife from its customary place at his hip.

“AHHHHHH!!!”

He plunged it downward, feeling the hunger, the violent curiosity to see how much of that golden energy Regar possessed. He didn't want it, he needed it. He was so hungry.

It's not my fault! Yes, it's his fault. He earned this. He deserves this. My father deserves this!

A crashing sound split the earth and he felt the collar of his shirt jerk violently, sending Tyr wheeling through the air two dozen meters away. He didn't see much, or know much, only that his fight had been interrupted. He made to charge the dark figure standing tall in his perspective until it approached far faster than he'd expected and his vision was dominated by the silhouette of a massive fist. No strings, even the world didn't seem aware that it was coming.

–

He was a wolf. Something of fangs and claws and fur. His body felt light and incorporeal. Hunting the very stars themselves, swallowing them in his maw and feeling the heat dim as they sank into his gullet. He felt no revulsion, only a duty. A duty so primal and sacred that even his animal intelligence knew it. It needed to be done, he needed to break what his brother had made. Twin wolves chasing their own tails through across impossible distances in an eternal struggle toward balance and order.

It was dark. So dark. Everything was dark but for the tiny specks of light that he pursued endlessly. Since before time itself had been made construct. Eternal, the feast continued. No frenzy, no hate or anger, just duty. To shape and break until they reached that impossible terminus where perfection lay.

He was his father, or what he thought was his father. The high one in his chair of roots and mist, the one who had created him. Given him purpose. Though no mind to conscience the concept of life, only teeth to crush and remove. Claws by which to rip away the cancer, no matter how many times he had to do it, he did.

Events long observed eyes that were not eyes at all, eyes that were not his own. But they belonged to him, he could feel it, and he followed the song. He wanted to hear it clearer but it refused to come closer. No matter how loud She played it remained elusive. The two brothers, one who ran and one who chased, and the Lady in white who called for the latter. Begging him to stop, but he couldn't, this was his only purpose.

He... Hated it. The only thing he could not destroy was this one, single thing. His eternal prerogative, so he ran. Faster and faster until it was all a blur and Brother could barely keep up with all the making.

A sensation. A dreadful pounding of the flesh. His mind filled with cold anger, a want for violence. He'd come so close now only to be pulled back at the final step. He could taste it. Smell it. Feel it. Hear it. He could hear it so clearly now! Why were they doing this? Why was he bound to this fate while the others danced and played and laughed and spoke? Why were this small pleasure withheld from him? Why. Why. Why. Why. WHY!?

“Why...” Tyr groaned. Hovering not two inches above his face, a streak of pink hair met with a shock of white. Two sisters, though not by blood.

“He's awake.”

“Oi, you weren't breathing there for a moment, thought you really died this time.” A chuckle. Tyr didn't think that was funny.

“Why...?” Tyr repeated with a croak, his throat dry and cracked. He had so many questions, struggling to hold on to the wisp of the recurring dream that refused to remain rooted in his mind. He was so sure that she... She was so close. Right next to him, he could feel Her, even as it all faded from memory he couldn't stop feeling Her. “Who is she?”

“That's an odd way of speaking. Don't mind us, just your pair of lovely wives and all that, here to tell you to wake up and wash yourself. You smell like shit.”

“Mmm... Good morning, then.” Tyr lost it, but he didn't know what he'd lost. Half the time he woke he'd wake feeling this sensation of sublime loss and no small amount of confusion. Stronger now than ever. He hated it, hated waking like this – but most of all, he hated waking at all. Even the nightmares were better than opening his eyes and realizing he was still in this cursed circle of life.

“It's about evening, actually.” Astrid smiled down at him. She had such a radiant smile, so full of life and joy and warmth. It irritated him, he wanted to... Well... He'd never admit these things to himself, he couldn't. For the sake of both of them it'd never happen either. Their bodies were worth more than his entire self and he would not stain them with his filth. He woke like this a lot of the time. Hating himself in a way that didn't continue into the day, always alone. Tyr never allowed the servants to see him so early in the morning.

It was better for their health, both mental and physical, he was not a pleasant riser.

He turned, looking over at a bed where a man with a heavily bandaged face was propped up by a pillow. A buxom servant girl stooped to allow him to sip from a bowl of fragrant soup. “Welcome to the land of the living, cousin.”

“Regar?”

“The very same, big man. You could've gone easier on my face. My wife is beyond cross with you and expects an apology, though I assured her it'd heal with time. As for now...” He chuckled, coughing and groaning in discomfort, before slapping the servant girls rear. “I'll enjoy the fair treatment I'm given, I suppose.”

She chuckled, the girl, despite the disrespect. Regar had and always would be a source of great joy to the women of the kingdom. They all loved him, and if rumor was true, he had his own unique love for them as well. And his wife allowed it for some reason, the pair of which appeared to be very much, and very deeply in love. Regar was a good man, but everyone had faults. He always asked first, and took 'no' for what it was.

“I'll kill you, you fuck.” Tyr rose, or tried to rise. Shakily pushing aside the woman on top of him – unable to muster the strength necessary to dislodge Sigi from her place. She was a bit more able bodied than Astrid and a single stern hand was more than enough to pin him to the bed. And her eyes seemed even heavier, full of something like 'go ahead and try me'. Tyr wasn't in the mood to, and certainly not of the right physical state.

“Oi, oi, oi.” Regar chuckled. “It was all just a joke, kid. Don't take it personal, I was only doing as your father commanded.”

“He's a bastard, and I'll kill him too.” Try as he might, Tyr was in a weakened state, but he changed his mind and slapped the woman's hand away in another attempt. Sigi straddled his waist and pinned his arms to the bed. She was as strong as ever. Beautiful too, it unnerved him though, what with the predatory fierceness of her gaze.

“Be still, my dear husband. Lest you rub against the wrong parts and find me unwilling and uninterested in holding up my end of the bargain. By law, the wife needs no consent from the husband, after all.”

“Alright.” Tyr nodded, leaning up as much as he was able to bring his lips lips within inches of Sigi's own. “Let's get it over with, right here and now in front of my uncle. Astrid can join too. I'm not afraid of you, go ahead and take it if you think you can.”

Sigi's eyes widened, blushing violently before settling back into her characteristic grumpiness. Taking him by the neck and grabbing his neck instead, smashing him into the mattress. “Maybe I will!” Tyr laughed, a laugh cut short by the hand she slapped him with. Enough force to rattle the teeth.

“Wait until I'm gone or use the royal bedchamber, my eyes are bandaged but I care very little to watch my nephew bed his wives. This is a joy for other men, perhaps, but not me. I like to be a participant, and you're all a bit too young for me.” Regar laughed. Princesses they were, they weren't used to the kind of banter that might pass as appropriate among grown men. Frankly, neither was Tyr, he refused to speak about this kind of thing with the blackguard. Astrid blushed, tugging impotently at Sigi in a bid to dislodge her. It wasn't 'proper', she whispered. They were 'princesses', in the audience of others. Sigi didn't care, had never had a care at all what anyone thought of her, let alone men.

“He already belongs to me, it's just a matter of time.” She said, finally hopping off him with a huff. True enough, in terms of the law. It didn't take Tyr long to summon the energy to rise, though Astrid and Sigi both attempted to convince him to stay in bed, a bit more concerned than he was expecting. Banter aside, his father had apparently crushed his throat and shattered his spine. Interrupting his duel with Regar just before Tyr had tried to kill the man in his madness, leaving him a shattered stain on rocky cliff framing the trade road.

“Where is he?” Tyr grunted, barred from attacking his cousin by Sigi. She really was powerful, pushing him away every time he tried.

“Relax.” Regar raised his hands in surrender. “He's in his study, like always. Go visit him if you want, but don't blame his actions on your poor cousin...”

"I have better things to do." Tyr huffed, glaring at his cousin and limping out of the room to find some peace and quiet. If his father wanted something, he could show up himself.

–

His last order from Thomas, or Varinn. It was confusing, Tyr had no idea how to refer to his master even in the sanctity of his own mind. 'Take one of these wives of yours out for a nice dinner and treat her kindly.' The incredulity in Tyr at such a bizarre final request was beyond measure. Yet, as he had with all things thus far in regards to the old freak, he listened. He owed the man a turn or two. Or maybe he was just unwilling to fail even if only in his masters mind after all of that effort, gratitude irrelevant.

“Is it good?”

Royals didn't 'take their wives out to dinner'. Nobility took a woman out to dinner when you were interested in courting them. What was the point of taking a woman out to dinner if you already had their hand in marriage? He was an imperial prince, a very bamboozled one at the moment. But it didn't change the fact that he had hundreds of servants and private chefs who could give them any meal they wanted. Giant Hooksquid from the broken isles? Done. Any food, any music, any setting! Why did he have to do it!?

Tyr wasn't much for convention, but this task did seem like a waste of time. Although... There was food involved, so he supposed he could go along with it for the time being. The place was well built and clean, as one would expect of an eatery within the inner ring. Well populated too, a very popular place among young nobles. Some stared at him with respect, others with fear, and yet more with disgust. It was hard to miss those looks, they weren't exactly subtle with them. A great deal of them seemed almost shocked that Tyr was here, and the queue to enter the restaurant had literally exploded. It felt like a hundred people were staring at him with those mixed reactions. Some had tried to greet him at his table, but a very tuxedo'd Samson ensured there would be no interruptions tonight.

“Hello...? Tyr?”

“Hmm?” He looked up from his meal, making eye contact with Astrid. It hadn't been difficult in the slightest, deciding which 'wife' to take out. There were only two in which the possibility rested, and – well... He'd had no hesitation asking Sigi first, and she'd refused, calling him an idiot and saying that men who wanted to take women out on 'dates' said it 'with their chest'.

Or to elicit the proper imagery, the woman screamed those words. 'SAY IT WITH YOUR CHEST!' Tyr had no idea what that even meant, and she'd demanded that he try again, and he did, five times before giving up. She'd hit him in the back of the head with a shoe and insisted that she go anyway, but then he'd refused, calling her a rude name not to be repeated. She'd punched him in the face, and they'd erupted into an all out brawl right in the middle of the palace art gallery, full of ghastly faced nobles. That ended that, he supposed. Astrid was a bit more accepting of the offer, on the first try.

“I asked you if it was good. Your food, you know, the thing you're eating...?” She tilted her head. Outside of the palace she seemed much more relaxed than normal. She was beyond excited at the idea, too. Going so far as to dress him in 'proper attire' and taking complete control of the whole affair. Maybe he should've brought Sigi after all, she'd have allowed him to wear his cloak and linens and not this stuffy evening suit with its high necked collar and itchy sleeves. The pants were so tight that the 'imprint' on both ends was advertised to the world, clear as day.

“Ah.” Tyr sighed. To treat her kindly. It's not like she didn't deserve it, so he tried his best. “Yes, it's certainly edible. What about yours?”

“It's so good. Here, try it!” She abruptly extended her fork piled high with some kind of pasta. A product of the western successor states that was well famed in the capital. Alfredo, it was called, what a ridiculous name. Still, he did as she asked.

Holy hell. It's so good. The complex flavor of the sauce coating the noodles shot through his hole body, sending his eyes wide in pleasure even at such a small bite. Tyr liked food, it was perhaps his favorite thing, but he was usually more concerned with swallowing it as fast as possible rather than enjoying it.

“Are you going to eat the rest of that?” He asked her, a predatory gleam in his eye.

“...Yes.” She replied, staring at him in concern. “Probably...? Actually, I was wondering what brought this on. Ever since we were children, you've never shown much interest in speaking to me. Why the sudden change?”

“Nothing.” Tyr shrugged, replying honestly. He'd do his best to avoid lying to her, even if his honesty could be called a fault in this regard. “I just...” He sighed inwardly. “I've been remiss in how I've treated you, and I thought we should – perhaps – get to know one another. Is that okay?”

That was a lie. He'd lied. Tyr had little interest in small talk and niceties. In fact, he hated it. He only spoke as much as he had to, most times in the act of getting something for himself. As far as women went... He had no concept of how to approach them. Sigi was easy to speak to, because she acted in a way some people might call masculine. Or whatever conventions modern society manly, Tyr didn't have much interest in that either. People were just people and they could do as they pleased, he didn't care. Let women cut their hair short and go around fighting everyone, living honestly was a basic human right. Hiding the true self behind custom was vile, a twisting of the soul, something he'd be a hypocrite for insisting someone else do.

“Of course.” She smiled again. All lips. She had nice lips, soft and pink and clean around the edges with porcelain skin to set their healthy pink into vivid detail. They made him feel tired and irritated. Always. “And you look very handsome.” She added, giggling.

“I hate it. I'm the prince, you should've just let me wear my training linens as I always do. You know as well as I do none of these idiots would say a damn thing about it.”

“It's not for you. It's for me. You expect me to find myself out on the town with a man who can't dress himself properly?”

“You married that man.”

“It wasn't by choice.” She pursed her lips at that comment, amusement fleeing from her eyes. That was true as well. It hadn't been a choice to either of them, with the blood oath being given before either child had even been born. She'd been groomed into this fate, and had been very vocal in resistance of it not so many years past. She'd said as much in one of the rare arguments they'd had when he'd been forced to sleep on the floor while her duties required her to occupy his bed. They'd never 'conjugated', none of them had. Tyr couldn't bring himself to do it. Even if he wasn't full of pity for the girl, she had been forced to do this. He didn't love her and she most certainly did not love him.

“Sorry.” He replied, simply. He didn't know what else to say.

She laughed again. A bright sound, like the chimes that hung over the lofts of the royal gardens. “I am glad it was you.” To add insult to injury she extended her hand and let it rest on his. At first, he thought to jerk away, and did – before letting her have her way. This wouldn't last forever and her happiness was equally as important as his own. Or... He was supposed to think it was.

Tyr's face darkened, pausing in his attempt to cut the tense atmosphere by burying his face in the flank of beef before him. Glad it was me? He'd never heard her use any words of the sort. Again, the prince found himself unable to reply.

“Don't blush, it's true.” She nodded, releasing his hand and leaning back to straighten her lacy sage dress. It fit her frame well. In all the right places, well tailored and cut in the right places. He would have preferred if she'd come in a less shapely affair. He felt a twitch every time another man looked at her, unwelcome and very jealous thoughts. “It took me a while to realize, but you are kind. I've seen you give bread to the poor and coin to the less fortunate. Fighting for justice. While it's not the way things should be done, you've done it. That's what matters, I enjoyed watching you put those dogs down in the throne room.”

“Lots of people give to charity.” Tyr replied. “My family is so incredibly wealthy that I could feed all the hungry in this kingdom and not notice a thing. I am selfish and...”

“Not so.” She rebuked with a pouting face, cheeks puffed out exaggeratedly. “Well, maybe selfish. I always feared you'd take liberties with my body as is your custom here in the south – but you never have. Why? Not once have you tried to force yourself on me, and not once have you accepted Sigi's many attempts to force herself on you. I've wondered at this, for a long time, but you're always off doing as you do.”

“How am I supposed to answer that?”

Astrid merely shrugged, toying with her hair. It was longer than he remembered, though so was his. Past her shoulder blades now, braided at one temple in the style of Oresund. He could smell the floral scented oils she'd ran through it. Rose and lilac water, some kind of citrus. It gave him a head rush and made his chest warm. A very pleasant aroma, clean and crisp, cutting through the mess of all manner of food prepared in this place.

“It just wouldn't be right. I would never force a woman, or anyone, into anything. Nothing good will come out of an agreement where both sides do not benefit.”

“But I'm ready.”

“Ready...?”

“Yes, silly.” Astrid giggled again. “I'll bear you children. I've said this, and still you will not lay a finger on me. Do I displease you? Am I not to your liking?”

“You're perfectly fine. I doubt there's a more beautiful woman in this entire empire. Besides your sisters, and I'm not afraid to say that you fit my tastes the best.” Sisters meaning his two other wives, both of which had their charm. Charm in looks, not so much in personality. Sigi's redeeming factor being that she was equitable enough, Alex was a demon of a woman and Tyr feared her nearly as much as his own father.

“Then why?”

“It's something I won't speak about in the company of others. Even separated as we are, I can tell you later. But not now. It wouldn't be wise.”

“I understand... Then... Tell me about your adventures and travels! You've been gone for so long, surely you have tales of them?”

“I can do that.” Tyr found her amusing, a very interesting woman to try so hard when he refused to do the same. He'd never taken her for the type to be insecure about anything, always so proper and confident, with her head held so high and back so straight it must be uncomfortable. He was unsure of how to address questions regarding her 'unworthiness' though he knew that she'd accept no pity from him. Like the prince, the princess was proud and hardheaded if she wanted to be. More so than Sigi, even, she just knew when to use it to her advantage. Astrid had struck him before as well, back before she'd settled into things. Knocking him flat over an argument he couldn't remember.

He did though. Told her most everything that had occurred to him with some of the wilder bits left out, as he didn't expect her to believe him. Like becoming the kobold chieftain and speaking to a god. Tyr liked this, a lot, this sharing of things. Not for the first time he realized how sheltered and maladjusted he was to the outside world, especially relationships. He disliked small talk and things like that, but speaking to someone who would listen to what he had to say with no motivator beyond sincere interest? It was nice. All his life he'd either been trapped in the palace or caught in his own blood stained spiders web. Not justice, as she claimed, just revenge. He didn't care for the wrongness of the act, not back then – only that it had taken something from him. Not a single bit of it was for anything approaching 'the greater good'.

Astrid had stars in her eyes when he finished, taking a graceful sip from her fluted glass to wet her throat. Wine, Tyr had never known her to be a drinker but the sultry eyes indicated she was on the cusp of drunkenness. “That's... That all really happened?”

“Of course. If you ever think I'm lying to you, just ask. I'll tell you the truth, most of the time.”

“Honest even in your dishonesty. Like when you pretended not to have asked Sigi first, making me the second choice.” She tutted playfully. “Still, what an adventure you've had. I wish I could've gone with you.”

“You'd be dead.” Tyr snorted at the absurdity of the idea.

“Don't underestimate me.” Astrid purred mischievously. “Maybe I'm more than what meets the eye. Maybe my big strong husband isn't as impressive as he'd like to believe and too afraid of the fact that a woman might be his equal. You know I beat Sigi in a contest of arms as often as she beats me?”

“I don't really care either way.” Tyr waved her off, she'd begun scooting closer to him and he had very little interest in physical contact. Even in the best of times, being touched by another person made him incredibly anxious. “Still... I had no idea. You should be proud of yourself for that.”

–

The sloshing of the drink was loud in the bottle. Both of them were well past tipsy and hurtling toward intoxication, perched on the ledge of the skyway connecting the north and central district of the palace. It really was large, such a massive structure with all manner of rooms and attendant facilities. At this hour, so high on the servants way, they remained unbothered by anyone. Alone, the only thing interrupting their peace and quiet the sloshing of that drink and their hushed voices echoing dully from the sheer face of the mountain.

Large, but beautiful too. Green tufts of trees and plants growing from it's broken sides, falls spewing out of caves and falling down to pools below. And beyond it all was the vast expanse of the sea, framed by the uneven spires of rock.

“Come on...” Astrid giggled, finding it absurd. The prince communicating to her exactly why they had never conjugated. Consummated, apparently that was the right word. Their marriage, that is. Despite sleeping so near each other for years on end – he'd never so much as scratched at her door in the witching hours. It was a strange thing, for a man, she'd thought him fond of boys for a time because of it. That was fine too, love was unnecessary, all they needed to do was make children. “You can't be serious.”

“I am.” Tyr half nodded, half shrugged. He was rapidly approaching his limit for drink. His resistance to death didn't seen to lend itself toward a resistance to the poison. “You hear things as a primus. Things only we know. Rumors. It's happened before, I'm absolutely confident of it. Why else would some of our 'great saviors' take centuries to breed a son to pass their legacy to? No, they have sons, and I think those sons end up failing expectation and are removed from the picture.”

“I see. In that case, I'll protect you.” She joked, finding it all so funny. He didn't though, and never had. At the same time, he wouldn't punish her for her attempt at comedy. Astrid probably didn't even believe him.

“Don't. When and if he comes, just let it happen.” Tyr sighed. No man, nor woman, could stop Jartor. If rumor was true, even the other primus' feared him. The unstoppable force. Astrid would stand no chance, and he didn't want her to die. He found that he liked her, sincerely. “When and if.” He added to soothe any anxiety she might feel behind those sad eyes of hers. “Let me handle it. One day, I will defeat him and take what is mine. Or not. Perhaps I'll be a farmer, I have the hands for it after all.”

Astrid' face gradually changed from obvious pity to an expression of glib amusement. “It doesn't suit you.” She said this, chuckling.

“How would you know?” He asked, elbowing her gently in the ribs. Tyr joked, but it was true. Thomas, or... It was difficult to see him as a 'Varinn', what a strange name that was. The old bastard master of his had expressed the importance of 'friends'. The prince wasn't even sure what a 'friend' was, and had been surprised when so many of his constant companions had indicate they wouldn't qualify as one of those. It made him realize just a bit how weak his understanding of social normalcy was. And why...? He'd always been cooped up in the palace by an overprotective mother that fawned over him. He was spoiled, and when he'd been of an age to leave freely – he'd only had one goal. A dark one. And that goal was done and over with.

Now he felt empty. Lost. Confused. What was he supposed to be doing? Simply 'finding his aspect' wasn't enough, it was too ambiguous, or too grand. He was certain that his father hadn't even found his own. Strength was not an aspect of man, it was a thing or a characteristic but not a defining feature of their race. All living things possessed a 'strength' to some degree – it was too opaque a concept. Like 'endurance' – the aspect of the Varian primus. Boiled down, he supposed that they could be applied to parts of the emotional spectrum. Will and determination, maybe, but that was too vague. He doubted it was that simple, or perhaps it was. He was ignorant in so many ways.

“I have eyes.” She replied seriously, pursing her lips. “I'm always watching...” Astrid let the word hang in a bizarre way. Just for an instant, the gentle curve of her eyes revealed what may very well be her true self. A mask over a calculating mind. He didn't know, but it gave him the creeps the way she said spoke those words.

Their conversation didn't continue for much longer. Both were exhausted, falling asleep leaning against the pillar. First it was Tyr, still exhausted from his injuries while Astrid awkwardly cradled his head, petting his hair before joining him in sound slumber. The man might have his own ideas of how the future would play out, with Astrid wondering if given a choice what he'd choose. What Jartor was about to do to him now, or the alternative.