forum "I would burn the world for you" (OxO Closed)

Started December 01, 2022 by @ElderGod-yellowqueen

tune

(my brain has not been kind to me at all i am so so so so so sorry)

Bel holds the kitten close to his chest, thankful that it doesn't squirm in his hold. "I'm sorry," he manages one last time before the door shuts behind Nico and Bel's left in the massive room without the warmth of another. He curls in on himself, the kitten a small comfort that he wraps himself around. "I'm sorry," he says only to the still air as he sobs into his pillow… but even doing so, he finds himself lighter than he had the past few days.

-

Down on the ground floor, using a small knife to pick at the dirt beneath his nails, Miran leans against the doorframe connecting the castle to the courtyard. Just through the courtyard and on the other side of the wall lay the makeshift barracks. Miran silently watches their setup, an offered help if they require it but not one to impede on their small community. His hoard of cousins eat their meals behind him, through the hall and in the dining room. Their joyous conversations are always wafting through the air… A luxury he's never quite had at his home in Araniel. It's all… so foreign, so strange. A messenger hawk crosses through the sky, Miran's favorite crimson seal adorning the four letters. Hopefully he'll have insider information of his father's castle soon, and maybe his friends might pay them all a visit. Gods know they'll need all the help they can get.

Miran eventually hears footsteps behind him, a cadence he's memorized from the few short interactions they've had. "How's Bel?" Miran asks as Nico approaches from behind. "Your city has made quite the settlement, if I do say so myself." And it is at least impressive. These people have clearly had far too much experience picking everything up and moving it accordingly.

(You're okay!! Don't worry about it)

Nico walked through the palace, his footsteps heavy and the silence grave. His heart was aching in his chest. The tears had since dried from his cheeks. He wouldn't walk through the halls crying where anyone could see him. He wasn't going to cry. He couldn't. he had to be strong, for himself and for Bel. He wouldn't try. No, he would thrust himself into his work. He would be at the training yard every morning with his men. Then he would spend every waking moment helping plan this war. He would win this war and be rid of Bel's father. Thoughts of how to kill him kept his mind occupied from the pain in his heart. He would kill the king for everything he had done to Bel and his siblings.

His steps didn't falter as he saw Miran leaning against the doorframe connected the palace to the courtyard. Just beyond, he could see his people settling in just beyond. He wondered how this conversation would go. Lunch hadn't gone well, he wondered if this would go any better. Nico deserved anything Miran slung his way. Nico was the reason Bel was hurting. He pressured him and made him feel like he didn't have a choice but to return Nico's affections. He never wanted that. He never wanted any of this. He just wanted Bel to be happy, and if that meant Nico couldn't be in the picture anymore, then so be it.

He came to a stop next to Miran but didn't look at him. He looked at his people, smiling and laughing and enjoying themselves. For the first time in most of their lives, they were safe. They were safe from harm and safe from percussion. Those with magic didn't need to worry about the consequences that would follow with it. They weren't on the run. Death wasn't looming over their shoulders. It was all he ever wanted for them. For them to be safe and happy. The only thing that could make things better was if his people could put their roots down. He would have asked if they could make them here, if only his home, his kingdom, weren't ruled by a tyrant. Nico would never be able to rest as long as his home was liberated from the king.

He finally looked at Miran. "Bel is strong. He can survive this." Because he would. Bel could do this. They both could. "They're adaptable," he motioned towards his people setting up in the yard. "We had to be, or we would have never made it this far."

"Oh I know my brother will survive this," Miran responds, voice lacking any sort of gentle let-down. Blunt. That's always how he's been. It's hard to get things done when everyone just chooses to dance around what they're trying to say. "He's impulsive. He may not think so but this is far from the first time he jumped into anything without thinking about if it was what he truly wanted." Miran's mind goes back to when they were boys, when Bel insisted that he wanted to apprentice beneath the palace archivist. He was offered the position and said yes without thinking. Only a month in did he realize how much he hated it, but couldn't say no because he was already in so deep. "I'm glad that he's learning." But over time, Bel came to appreciate the art after taking long breaks from it. "And he might go back to you." Miran steps away from the doorframe and looks to Nico. "But I'm not able to promise anything of my brother's affections. It's my job to make sure they aren't ill-placed or dangerous."

Miran takes a few steps towards the courtyard, looking off to the covered hallways that lead down sets of stairs and into the underground gyms. There's weapons of all sorts waiting to be used by sparring soldiers. "You're a warrior, correct?" Miran asks, glancing over his shoulder as he takes a few steps towards the staircase. "And a mage? You need a healthy outlet for your emotions and bottling them until they kill you is hardly the way to go about them." Miran levels Nico with a knowing look. There's a lingering emotion in Nico's eyes, and it's hardly one of meager heartbreak. There's exhaustion laced within there. "Come spar. I want to see how you are in action." Miran vaguely waves Nico over as he descends the first half of the staircase. 

Below ground and deep into the mountain, the air is much cooler, much crisper. There's a pair of soldiers practicing on targets with a pair of complex crossbows, chatting idly to each other in Blakkian. They notice Miran's arrival and they set up their bows, sensing that it's about their time to leave. Miran nods to them on their way out. Waiting for Nico to join him, Miran walks carefully beside the rack that holds dozens of artfully crafted swords. Some metal, some wood, some even crafted from sparkling gems. "Would you rather spar with or without magic?" Miran asks as he selects a simple longsword made of polished iron. "I'm good either way." He's grown familiar with his ice, familiar enough to use it as a second instinct in moments of high tension. It's saved him more than once before.

Miran certainly wasn't pulling his punches. His words cut deep into Nico and it stung, yet preferred this as opposed to sugar-coated words and lies. He preferred others to be blunt and straight with him. There was no use dancing around the subject and trying to protect the other person's feelings. It would only cause more pain in the end. "I wouldn't want you to promise your brother's affections. That's something only he can give." And while Nico prayed to whoever would listen that Bel would come back to him, he didn't want to force the prince into his arms. He wanted all of Bel or none of him. And if Bel couldn't give him his true self, they would never be able to make it. They had jumped in head-first, the rings in his pocket attested to that.

He crossed his arms, watching Miran as he pushed off the wall. He nodded his head once. He was a warrior. He had been on all of his life. He had been bred for this. Bred to fight, bred to win this war and take over the crown as a warrior king. Warrior first. He shifted on his feet, slightly uneasy. "I am," he said. His magic had always been a sore spot. His magic was rather weak and exhausted him more than was worth using. He only used it in extreme situations, other than the small little outlets so he didn't let his magic build up to the point of insanity.

He didn't know what prompted him to follow Miran down the stairs. They weren't friends. They weren't even friendly. Miran saw Nico as a threat, against his siblings, especially against Bel, and to his crown. But right now, they had a common enemy and it only made sense for them to align themselves together. But once the king was dead and the throne was left up to grabs, only time would tell what would happen. If it turned into a fight, Nico wasn't sure what would happen. Would Miran die for that crown? Would Bel leave him for fighting his brother? He supposed the latter didn't matter if Bel never came back to him. Nico looked at the weapons, skipping over the wooden or decorated handles. They weren't novices, so wooden would be no use to them when they were both skilled to handle a blade, and to not kill each other while training. The bedazzled and decorated swords were too much for him. He didn't care much for how the sword looked, only that it was balanced and complimented him. "Without," he said without hesitation. "I learned not to rely on magic in a fight a long time ago."

Miran's practiced, smug grin falls away into something far more human, a little lopsided, similar to his younger brother's. He tests the weight of the weapon in his hand, whipping the blade through the air with a twirl of his wrist and a slice of his arm. Tossing it from one hand to the other, Miran determines that it'll be a proper weapon. Nothing to maim or kill, but it'll do more than fine for sparring. Plus, he wants to see how well Nico may fair against a trained opponent instead of a bandit searching to get a pouch of coin. They're sloppy, but they're scrappy. The scar cutting into his cheek is more than enough proof that anyone can get lucky. "You know, you're going to have to learn how to properly channel it one day." Miran sets his sword down to shed his coat and silver jewelry. He removes the cuffs from the helixes of his ears and the rings from his fingers. "It's just going to kill you."

He steps to the center of the ring, the wooden floor slightly pliant. If he shifts his weight, he could almost bounce across the boards. He tests the sword's shine in the light seeping through the narrow windows situated near the ceiling. Occasionally, somebody will walk past, their feet momentarily blocking the sun from the room. Candles and sconces set around the room allow for use in later times of the day when the sun can't stretch around the buildings. "First to lose their weapon?" Miran inquires with a raised eyebrow. Every spar has its different rules and he just wants to ensure he has them right. Fair. Equal, even. With the other man still off guard, Miran has the simplest opportunity to lunge and take out a prominent threat, to both him and his family, but Miran's smarter than that. He knows to pick his battles. He may pick too many, but at least he'll let this one rest. It's not the time. Not the time, not the time. Bel still has to get his mind straight. Nico still has an army to lead.

Their battle may come one day and Miran will have no issue raising his blade against the man, but until then, he's happy being tentative allies. If Bel still decides to continue with his romantic affair, Miran is looking at his future brother-in-law. Well, fratricide wouldn't exactly be a new concept in Miran's jumble off a lineage. Ask his father. Ask his buried uncle. Ask his cremated aunts. Clenching his jaw, Miran takes a slow circle around the room, boots almost silent on the soft floor, and politely beckons Nico to make the first move. His sword is pointed towards the ground, but it could easily be at the other man's neck in a moment.

Nico wouldn't say he was particularly picky when it came to choosing a weapon but he certainly was selective. While he was well-versed in a wide variety of weapons, his preference was a sword and a long bow. And sparring didn't exactly call for a bow so a sword it was. The exact sword he carried in the situation, broadsword, shortsword, longsword. For now, a broadsword would suit his needs. He looked at the various options, testing the weight of a few before deciding on one. He tested it with a small series of swings before coming to the conclusion that this one would do. He would have preferred his own sword but that one was back in his room, well, Bel's room. And going back for it wasn't an option anymore. He was weaponless unless the maids brought it to his tent with his people. He would do Bel the favor of making himself scarce as much as possible until the prince made a decision. And depending on that, might continue to make himself scarce.

He watched as the prince shed his fine clothes, the action reminding him of Bel. Or rather, the clothing reminded him of the prince. Bel had a fondness for fine things that Nico would never understand. But it had been something he would have been happy enough to indulge in for him. He would buy all the finest things the land had to offer if only to make him happy. He placed the tip of the sword in the ground, crossing his hands over the hilt as he waited for the prince to finish. "I know how to use my magic," he said, almost defensive over it, "But I was trained how to fight without it. Sometimes it's not always the viable option." Sometimes he liked to feel his opponent dying beneath his hands, his blade, versus using his magic to suck the air from their lungs. His magic wasn't something that was strong enough to be a strength in battle either, excessive use of it draining him faster than if he was on the front line for hours. not to mention he had also depleted his reservoir of magic in the woods. None of which he planned to tell Miran. There was only so much he was willing to share.

Nico nodded his head. It sounded fair to him. Much less brutal than who could draw blood first or who surrendered. Nico wasn't known to surrender. He would rather die. Which was a bit extreme for sparring but he also rarely ever lost. He was a strong opponent, even if he didn't always look it. He stepped onto the mat, testing the weight and balance of it, almost dancing on his toes for a moment as he got a feel for it. He raised his sword, gripping it with both hands and he circled the prince. The corner of his lip tipped up as the prince beckoned for him to strike first. An unlikely strategy, to allow the enemy to make the first move. But he would not underestimate Miran. The prince was a worthy opponent.

(So how do we wanna do this? Who do we want to win? Or should they draw?)

As soon as the first strike comes, Miran swipes his sword to quickly parry it, wasting no time to whirl and lash for Nico's arm. The first to lose their sword. The first to become vulnerable. An ever present smirk on his face, Miran lunges without abandon. He moves with purpose and power, There's not a single step wasted as he battles. Nico, though slow to begin, picks up quickly. Miran's smirk grows into a smile as he lashes and parries. It's a back and forth game, one that Miran has every intention on winning. They continue to trade blows, back and forth and back again, just a dance across the bouncing floor. The only sound is their feet mixed with the metallic screeches of their blades.

However, Nico's skill proves to be a worthy match for Miran's caliber. If faced in the true battlefield, Miran would question if he would have a chance of escaping with his life–a tactile retreat is something he's never been afraid of, especially with allies that are more than willing to snipe from a distance. A battle stepped away from is hardly a battle lost. The battle is not over until a warrior has died or submitted. Oh well, they said no magic to begin with, but when has Miran ever truly been entirely one for fairness. Pushing back against Nico's pursuit, Miran clashes loudly against his blade with his own. They slide together as Miran steps, the room going frighteningly close as energy rushes from the ball of his foot to the floor around them.

With another shove, Nico trips over a slippery block of ice set right behind his heel, falling straight onto his ass as another tendril of solid ice springs from the source and encases the sword. With a triumphant exhale in the form of steam, Miran stares down at Nico's fallen form. "You lost your weapon," Miran states firmly, lips curling into a smile. Accuse him of cheating all he wants, Miran knows that the laws of war are a courtesy crossed the moment people become frightened. There's no honor in war. There's honor in leading and surviving–but never killing. To kill is to take and to take is to steal, and Miran is many things, but a thief is far from the list. "I won," is the declaration, Miran tipping up his chin as the numbness recedes from his fingertips and warmth once again fills his blood. "You were a worthy match, I have to admit." He shrugs ever so nonchalantly as he offers Nico his hand, surely warm now that he's flexed them.

Miran was a worthy opponent. He knew if any battle were to occur between the two of them, the result would be devastating. A battle for the crown. A deadly battle. Neither would be secure on the throne if the other lived and still desired. A battle that would wage for hours if it must, until the each grew too tired to lift a sword. A battle that would be won only when one's strength gave out before the other. Nico prayed that day would never came. That one or the other would give up the crown. That they could find a compromise or even that one of them would fall in battle and there would be no battle to be had. Nico prayed that they remained allies for Miran was a formidable one.

What happened next, Nico hadn't expected. One moment, he was clashing swords with the prince, and the next, he was on his ass with his sword encased in ice. He looked up at the prince in shock. Ice. Magic? The prince had magic. It was almost laughable. The very king who hated magic and made it his life's mission to rid the world of it, his first son was made of magic. The cool ice was in his veins. Oh, he wondered what that false king would have done if he had known. He likely would have killed his son, leaving Bel to inherit the throne. His precious Bel, well, not his, not anymore. Bel could be a wonderful king, if advised and educated properly. Not by the king, of course. And not even by Nico. Nico knew war and strategy. He knew how to command and keep his people alive. But it wasn't the same as living a fulfilling life. But someone else could teach Bel. Perhaps Miran himself if he stepped down. If Bel decided to come back to Nico, he could make him his king. Too much relied on an unknown future. All Nico could do was focus on the present. And the present was Miran having magic.

He threw his head back and let out a laugh that could reach the gods. "Yes you did." He took the hand that was offered to him and got to his feet. While there was still a shadow in his eyes, the grin on his lips was not forced. "I'm curious, how have you been able to practice your magic? you're obviously well taught but how?" He bent down to retrieve the sword and return it to the rack.

Miran had been expecting a multitude of reactions, but Nico tossing his head back to laugh hadn't been one of them. Able to hide his shock well, Miran returns with his easy smirk, willing the magic within him to disperse the ice into water, then to boil away to nothing but evaporated steam. Magic. Nobody expects the son of a tyrant king to be full of it. That's why he goes to such costs to hide it–such means to ensure his father can't catch wind… not again at least. It's why he disappears on alleged crusades with the same band of merry warriors. They wear the silver and scarlet of their kingdom until they breach the border, swiftly changing to match the regalia of the land. They fight against their own men, hidden with masks and helmets and the witchcraft of Miran's closest friend. Magic has never been Miran's enemy. 

"My mother taught me at first when I was young," Miran explains, smile fading away to a much more somber expression. "It was clear that I had a gift ever since I was a boy, but my mother knew that I would be sentenced to the noose if my father ever discovered it. We tried to hide it when I was little, but my older sister grew ill and then died in her sleep and my mother didn't want another one of her children to be defenseless. We trained in secret, when my father was asleep or away or too busy fussing over his own power to pay his family any mind…. but our Captain of the Guard, Ceveniere, found traces of my ability when doing her rounds." His face grows bitter as he recounts the tale. "I had been careless. My father confronted my mother and she took the blame. Despite not being a witch, she managed to convince my father that it was her magic. Her secret training." Miran clears his throat, unable to tear his eyes from the shine of his blade. "I'm sure you can figure out what happened after that."

Pacing over to the weapons rack, Miran returns his sword. "My mother's side of the family comes from magic. I'm sure you've noticed my littlest cousin, Arlo, has a particular talent for speaking with animals. Marcel has some extent over plants and Sella's able to commune with the mountains. I believe that's how she got you and Bel here so quickly  when his lungs… attacked him." Miran clears his throat and wipes the image of his little brother coughing blood from his mind. "I have friends arriving in Blakkast soon, each of them with some form of their own magic. They work with me within the ranks of the Aranian military to infiltrate and attack. Nobody knows that it's us. Nobody's known for the years we've operated."

(I told myself being out of school, i was gonna be more active, apparently not oop-)

Nico looked at the crown prince of Araniel in a different light. He no longer saw an entitled prince trying to hold onto the crown and its promises, but a man trying to mend and hold his country together. All the mean while, Nico was trying to tear it apart. "I am sorry ab out your mother," he said, "I know what it's like to loose a devoted parent." His own mother had been devoted to him, even if her war took precedent. He was all she had left of her family. The last bit of Callistar blood and rightful heir to the throne. She had loved him, even if she had been consumed with rage and revenge. Even if she had turned him into a fear general and head of the Lisias. She had taught him how to use a blade. She had taught him how to wield his magic and when not to. She had always been there for him, until she wasn't. "You should tell Bel. He deserves to know what really happened to your mother. And your sisters as well." They had a right to know.

He crossed his arms across his chest, nodding his head. "I can send Ambrose your way and he can sort through their magic. Those of us with magic are placed carefully in our ranks so that no side is left too vulnerable. There's always a healer, elemental, and whatever else we have, to equal out the strengths across the ranks. And I would like my people to train with yours. To learn how Araniel fights and how to defend themselves against it." They would need to have a proper war meeting soon, with Blakkast's generals and whatever allies would soon be joining them. Time was not on their side. Every minute counted.

He shifted on his feet, his gaze flickering to the ground. "Will you check on Bel? I don't think he should be alone right now. You don't need to tell me anything." It would be better if he wasn't told anything. If he knew anything at all he would want to rush to his side. "Just because he can handle it doesn't mean he should be alone. And I think he would like his brother with him. He looks up to you, you know. He admires you. I think it would be good to have his brother with him."

(asfklajsd oof I felt that)

"I'd rather not speak of pitites," Miran says gently, but there's a firm undertone in his voice. He's bore first witness to the suffering of his fellow men, forced to watch silently as his comrade is sentenced to the gallows with locked lips. Nobody in his ranks had dared to blame Miran. He's their ally, number on asset stuck deeply undercover beneath the iron fist of his own father. He couldn't speak up when someone was caught and captured. He couldn't do anything but watch with calculated remorse. After all, the second the king knows of the silent uprising is the second Miran loses his head. Or worse, his father would slaughter one of his friends, one of his siblings and force Miran to watch. Torture. He's been living it for years.

"I don't know about telling Bel." Miran studies the weapons layed before him, wondering which he should choose to test. His hands feel anxious, grasping around nothing but empty air and the tension rising in his gut. "The less people know of the resistance, the better. Loose lips destroy ships, I'm sure you know." He only spares Nico a knowing glance before returning his focus to the racks and racks that line the wall. "He's already been through enough in the past through months, has he not? He's… well, far more open-minded than my sisters, but even his understanding has its limits, especially in such trying times." The thought of somehow explaining his magic to his sisters nearly sends a shiver down his spine. Miran suspects Val already knows. It's impossible to hide anything from her for long. Treya, on the other hand, has been left entirely in the dark. At only seventeen she's become Araniel's most genius scientist, one that brews potions and vile concoctions that massacre mages by the thousands. "He'll know eventually, when the time is right."

Finally deciding on another sword, Miran swings it experimentally through the air, scrunching his nose at how it arcs unnaturally in his arm. He immediately trades it for another blade. "As soon as my friends arrive, I'd like to speak with a council of your most powerful warriors–both magical and mundane." Much more satisfied with his second pick, Miran slashes it forward and back, nodding approvingly before he racks it. "But I'll have you know," his voice grows somber with the next sentence. "There are only five magical soldiers left in my army. One of which is myself." On their way, traveling on horseback or a mule in one of their cases, come Mirans quartet: Jensen the powerful ground shaker, Ingrid the crackling witch, her younger brother Lars who seems to hold the very powers of luck in his palm, and finally–the strongest of them all–Isla and her very culpability to manipulate the energy of the world around her. All four of them are mighty, powerful in their own fashions. They're all incredibly capable, which is the reason they have not been caught by Ceveniere yet.

Miran doesn't look back at Nico at the mention of his younger brother. Bel is alone, yes, but he… he can handle himself. After all, Bel spent two decades isolated and alone in the massive palace, finding plenty of hobbies to keep himself occupied. Occasionally, Bel would seek the company of his favorite maid, Mathilde, but that was seemingly a last resort. Miran rarely spent time in the castle, for after his first crusade and twelve and first silent rebellion at thirteen, he tried his damdest to be away from his father's scruntinous sight for as long as possible. It never helped that he conditioned his littlest sister to react to magic, to have her nose bleed and throat swell–an allergic reaction of sorts. "Bel will be fine," Miran says carefully, counting his syllables. "There will be a maid up to check on him in an hour to retrieve him for the festivities." Marcel never skimps when it comes to a festival. There's an entire roster of acts ready to perform, and if there's anything Miran's sure of, it's Bel's love for the arts. "You can see him tonight. Trust me when I say that he does not want you out of his life, he just needs to figure out how he needs you."

(I died, sadly, but I LIVED)

Nicandros did not entirely agree with Miran on the matter. Bel had been kept in the dark all of his life. His brother was a mage, his mother was a mage. His father was cruel and had caused so much damage to all the siblings. He had killed their mother. And yet Miran wanted to keep him in the dark. There was so much that Bel deserved to know. But it was not his place to tell. Not now and not before, when he was still his lover. This was a conversation that needed to happen between siblings. And while he could encourage them to speak, to be honest with one another, he would not betray either of them by telling Bel all that he knew. He simply nodded his head, "The truth always comes out when the time calls for it. I only hope that you are prepared for it if he does not take well to being kept in the dark for so long."

Nico watched quietly as Miran grabbed the hilt of another sword, swinging it before trading it for another. He clasped his hands behind his back, standing in a relaxed position. He ached to have his own sword clasped at his side, to feel the weight in his hand. But that was back in his- well Bel's room. He would have to send for all of his things later. Hopefully at a time where Bel was not present in the room. He did not want to hurt him more by watching servants take out all of Nico's things. His gaze fluttered to the ground for a moment as the prince entered his mind. He needed to stop thinking about him. And the only way to get Bel off of his mind was to push his body until he could not thin of anything anymore. He would find his men later and train with them. Train until he could barely move. Maybe then he would be spared from the torment that he felt.

He nodded his head once. "Yes, we will meet. I am looking forward to meeting these men of yours. It is surprising that you have been able to hide your abilities for so long. " Magic was apart of him, apart of them both. It begged to be used, building and building until it could not be contained any longer. It would not, could not be suppressed. The consequences should one try were deadly at best. And Miran was very clearly alive in front of him, sound of mind. How he used his magic without notice, he was curious to know. But that could be explained at another time. A time where his mind was not so clouded.

Nico did not want to see Bel tonight. He did not think his heart could handle it. Seeing him so close and yet just out of reach. Bel was not his, not anymore. He couldn't hold him, kiss him, tell him he loved him. But he was not a fool to turn down an invitation from the royals that were housing him and his people. He would not insult them when they had done him a favor. When they were offing aid in a war they were not apart of. He was grateful for them and he didn't know if he could ever show them his gratitude. "Then trust me when I say, I don't know how to be his friend. Not right now while everything is so…fresh. If he needs time I will give that to him but I need time also."

"It's been far from easy," Miran grumbles as he flips the sword, catching it cleanly by the hilt. In the smooth action, he can nearly see the dozens of faces that have given their lives to Miran's cause, to ensuring not all hope has been lost within Araniel. "I've lost good men to my father's iron fist because I was unable to speak. My cover and proximity to my father and his plans has always been our greatest advantage." And gods, he loathes it, but every day they grow closer and closer to overthrowing his cruel tyranny. "My friends, the four of them, will be arriving sometime tonight or tomorrow. They can answer any questions you may have regarding our abilities and mission, but be warned they are…" He trails off with an uncertain expression. "A colorful bunch. Don't be put off by the twins' flirtations. It's just in their nature."

Switching topics, Miran purses his lips and tilts his head as he turns to meet Nico's eyes. "I trust that you'll choose what is right," Miran says carefully. checking the gleam of the blade in the lighting of the room before bringing the tip to rest just below Nico's chin. He levels the blond with a grave stare. "If you entirely break Bel, I will have you know that I have killed for far less." He checks the sword back into the rack. "I assume Marcel will have a formal invite to you and your people by the end of the night. There's supposed to be quite the feast through the whole kingdom celebrating your arrival. At least honor their hospitality and show your face." Miran knows far too well that the last person Nico needs to see in such a fragile state is Bel, and part of him could argue the vice versa, but the entire affair they're dealing with is more than messy feelings. Kingdoms are at risk, soldiers and civilians about to be put on the line for the greatest coup in the history of the world.

Somewhere above them, a crowd begins to form, joyous chattering drowning the peace of the training room. Miran checks the position of the sun, sighs, and reaches for the rings he discarded before their spar. As he slips them on, he looks to Nico. "It's been quite a day. I'm going to get ready for the festivities and check in on Bel. He'll be out at some point during the night." He sighs, a protective instinct surging in his chest. "You don't have to speak to him, but do not hide from him. And please accept any gift Sella may give you. She's annoyingly persistent and it's easiest to take what's given the first time." With his pieces of advice given, Miran checks his appearance in the mirror before nodding at Nico and heading up the stairs. He weaves into the crowd and gets lost, a phenomenon especially given his larger-than-life presence.

–

Standing at the railing of his tall balcony, Bel watches the crowds accumulate below. There's a kitten pushing his head against Bel's ankle, mewling occasionally even know Bel had already called for milk and a small plate of fish to feed him. He hasn't yet had a chance to name the kitten, but he appreciates the gentle company. For a room so big within such a lively kingdom, Bel can't help but note how lonely he's become. He aches for a hand around his own, a solid presence at his side, but he isn't sure if that's the genuine part of him speaking or the one that longs for nostalgia. He supposes he'll figure it all out eventually and today is surely not the day.

Knowing his cousins, Bel will have to make an appearance at some point, so he finds himself in front of the enormous vanity rinsing the redness from his face. He's especially paying attention to his eyes, the bags beneath them a telltale sign of his heavy emotion. He changes his clothes to more traditional Blakkian garments, still in his signature royal blue and gold. He fixes his hair and wipes once more at his eyes before grabbing the kitten (complete with a pretty blue bow tied loosely around his neck) and exiting the room. A smile naturally falls into place beside his princely exterior. He tries not to think about how fake it feels. How it makes him want to vomit.