Sir Alaric Rochefort 02

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 Hesa, 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 sphere. 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.

Letter To @Sir Otto Rochefort from @Sir Alaric Rochefort (Sent from obscured origins and re-routed channels via @Drachenburg. It is uncertain where the letter originated.)

Father,

If this letter reaches you, it means I’ve found a moment of stillness. Not safety, perhaps, but something close enough to reflection. I write not to justify myself, nor to ask for pardon. I write because silence has become a weight I no longer wish to carry.

You taught me that a man is shaped by the blade he bears and the orders he follows. That loyalty is the highest virtue, and that the Empire, flawed or not, is the vessel through which order is carved from chaos. I believed you. I lived it. Until I saw what that order demanded of me.

I did not turn my back on Empire lightly. I did not abandon my post for romance or rebellion. I left because I could no longer draw my sword without seeing the wound it left behind. I left because I met someone who taught me that there are other ways to hold the world together—ways that do not begin with violence.

You may call it weakness. You may call it betrayal. But I hope, in some quiet part of you, you understand that I am still your son. Still shaped by your discipline, your stories, your fire. I carry them with me, even as I walk a different path.

I do not know if we will speak again. But if we do, let it be as men who have both bled for what they believe. Let it be without armor.

—Alaric