Journey with Sir Alaric Rochefort 02

Scene: Laurel and the Lyre

The stream gurgles softly as the destrier grazes nearby, its reins looped loosely around a branch. The trees sway gently, casting dappled shadows across the clearing. Elara sits in the grass, her journal open beside her, a crown of leaves perched atop her head.

She gazes at the wildflowers, remembering the palace gardens of @Sphaira —where laughter echoed and poetry danced in the air. The garden had been a stage, and she its most devoted performer. Her cousins, her father, the courtiers—they all played parts in the beloved Alendrian comedy, Laurel and the Lyre.

Today, she plays alone.

"Sing me free, Thalos. Not with fire— with foolishness," she says, voice lilting like a dream. She twirls, her leaf crown catching sunlight.

She turns, adopting a deeper tone. "Then I shall be the most foolish man in Alendria. And let every young heart remember: That love like song needs no permission."

She bows to the destrier, who flicks an ear in response.

Then she spots it—Alaric’s @Firebird Cape, folded neatly on a rock. She lifts it reverently, draping it around her shoulders. The sigil of his house gleams faintly in the light.

She becomes Vexor.

Elara, as Vexor, peers into the stream. "Ah, there he is. The dread Vexor. Scourge of the Singing Coast. Thief of beauty. Collector of sighs."

She turns dramatically—and freezes.

Alaric stands at the edge of the clearing, having returned from his scouting. His expression is unreadable: concern, bewilderment, restraint. He says nothing.

Elara hesitates. Her cheeks flush. But she does not retreat.

She lifts her chin and commits to the role.

"But do they ever ask why I stole her?" she says, voice rich with theatrical sorrow. "Do they ever wonder what it is to live in a tower of flame where even your dreams sweat?"

She gestures skyward. "I did not steal Callianeira for power. I stole her for poetry."

Her hand moves to her heart. "For the way she said 'no' like it was a sonnet. For the way her silence made me feel like a question."

She glances at her stick—her makeshift staff. "But if she chooses Thalos, I will not stop her. But I will curse his sandals. And maybe his metaphors."

She closes the red cape around herself like a curtain call.

Alaric steps forward. He does not speak immediately. His eyes linger on the cape, then on her face.

"You know all the lines," he says quietly.

Elara nods. "I played it every summer. My father was always Thalos."

Alaric’s gaze drifts to the stream. "Vexor was always the villain."

Elara shrugs. "He had the best monologues."

A pause. The wind stirs the leaves.

"You wore my cape," Alaric says.

"It was the only villain’s cape available," Elara replies, smiling.

Alaric’s lips twitch—almost a smile. He looks at her for a long moment.

"We’ll reach @Thelidor soon," he says. "There’ll be stages there. Real ones."

Elara beams. "Then I’ll need a new crown. And a better stick."

Alaric turns to the path ahead. "I’ll find you one."

She watches him go, the @Firebird Cape still wrapped around her. The stream sings. The play is over.

Scene: The Firelight Confession

Elara sits wrapped in a blanket, her journal closed beside her. She hums softly, barely audible, a lullaby from Alendria. Alaric does not stop her this time.

He sits across from her, sharpening his blade with slow, deliberate strokes. But his eyes are not on the sword. They flicker to her, then away.

"You didn’t stop me," Elara says, voice gentle.

Alaric doesn’t answer immediately. He sets the blade aside.

"The wind is still," he says. "Sound won’t carry far."

She nods, but watches him. "You always know what the wind is doing."

A pause. The fire pops.

"Are you thinking about what dastardly heroics we’ll get into?" she asks. "In Thelidor, I mean?"

Alaric’s jaw tightens. "I think about getting you there."

"And then?"

He doesn’t answer. His silence is heavy.

Elara shifts, her voice quieter. "You never laugh. Not even when I’m being ridiculous."

Alaric’s eyes meet hers. "You’re not ridiculous."

She smiles. "I wore your cape and cursed metaphors. That’s fairly ridiculous."

His lips twitch. Almost a smile. Then he looks into the fire.

"You remind me of something I buried," he says.

Elara tilts her head. "What did you bury?"

He hesitates. Then, softly:

"Wonder."

The word hangs in the air.

Elara doesn’t speak. She watches him, the firelight painting his face in gold and shadow.

Alaric continues, voice low. "I was taught to silence it. But you... you make it loud again."

She reaches for her journal, but doesn’t open it. "Is that why you saved me?"

He nods. "Partly."

She studies him. "And the other part?"

Alaric looks at her then—really looks. His eyes are stormlight and sorrow.

"Because I couldn’t bear to see you broken."

The fire crackles. The silence is not empty.

Elara whispers, "I’m not broken."

Alaric’s voice is barely audible. "Not yet."

She moves closer to the fire. He does not move away.

They sit in silence, the fire between them. The stars above.

Scene: The Wound and the Whisper

Alaric sits against a tree, his tunic torn and bloodied at the shoulder. The wound is shallow but angry. He insists it’s nothing. Elara kneels beside him with a strip of cloth and a bowl of water.

"You’re bleeding," she says.

"It’s stopped."

"Not enough."

She dabs the cloth against his skin. He flinches, not from pain, but from proximity.

"You’re safe," she says softly. "Even from me."

He exhales. A long breath. She smiles faintly.

"You know," she says, "in Alendrian plays, this is the part where the wounded knight makes a clever joke."

Alaric glances at her. "I don’t know any clever jokes."

"That was one."

A pause. His lips twitch again. She presses the cloth once more, slower this time. Their breathing syncs.

She leans in, her voice barely a whisper.

"I’m falling in love with you."

She doesn’t wait for a reply. She gathers the cloth, stands, and walks toward the stream.

Alaric remains still. The wind moves through the trees. His hand brushes the place where her fingers had been.

He does not speak. But he does not look away.

Scene: The Answer

@Sir Alaric Rochefort sat in silence, the fire casting soft shadows across his face. @Princess Elara of Alendria's words lingered in the air between them, fragile and brave.

He didn’t look at her right away. His eyes traced the flames, as if searching for something older than language. When he spoke, it was not with certainty, but with the weight of something long buried.

"In Hesan, they say the first gods were not lovers," he said. "They were soldiers. Creation was a wound in the sky. We were taught to carve order with violence."

Elara’s gaze didn’t waver. She didn’t interrupt.

"I’ve tried to be more than that," he continued. "But I don’t know what love looks like in a world that made me for war. I thought it might be a kind of loyalty. Or restraint. Or silence."

He turned to her then, slowly. "But when you speak of it, it sounds like music. Like something that holds the world together, not tears it apart."

She reached for his hand, and he let her.

"I want to learn," he said. "Not just how to love you. But how to be something that belongs in your garden. Even if I was born from a wound."

Elara’s fingers curled around his. She didn’t offer answers. Only presence.

The silence that followed was no longer uncertain. It was full of promise.

Scene: The Heavenly City

The sky is a cathedral of blue, streaked with clouds that rise like marble towers. @Princess Elara of Alendria stands atop a crumbling wall of the @Ruins of Dunhallow, her storm-forged nightgown catching the wind, @The Veil in hand. She gazes down at the ruins below, regal and radiant, as if crowned by the heavens.

She lifts her voice and quotes Eremos:

Shall I curse the wheel for turning?
Shall I beg the sky to stay?
Or shall I learn the art of yearning,
And sing what cannot slip away?
So let the wheel grind down my name,
Let banners fall and tyrants fade.
I’ll be forged with truth in ash and flame,
And return again to your loving gaze.

Below, her lone audience: Alaric. His @Zweihander of the Sky's Wound slung over one shoulder, his red iron breastplate replaced by a white padded jerkin. He shields his eyes with a gloved hand, squinting up at her.

"Get down," he calls.

Elara’s shoulders slump. "You said it was safe here."

"I lied. There’s boars and giant cockroaches."

She flinches, barely. Then gives him a look—a mix of theatrical disdain and reluctant obedience. She climbs down.

As she lands beside him, she mutters, "You’re lucky I’m not the kind of monarch who holds grudges."

Alaric places a fist to his heart, stiff but sincere. "Then I shall count myself blessed."

She smirks. He almost smiles.

They walk side by side, the ruins behind them, the road ahead. @Delia awaits—the capital of Thelidor. Civilization. New trials. New truths.

But for now, the sky is a city of gods, and the earth hums with cicadas. And they are together.