fearlessly | batb part two: electric boogaloo

batb part two: electric boogaloo

[ alisaie is not afraid of the woods.

truthfully, alisaie is not afraid of much at all - not the things that most are afraid of, at least. she does not fear the dark, or wolves, or bandits. she does not fear loud storms or knives in the dark of faerie tale monsters stalking haunted forests. what she fears is being along. grieving. losing those she loves.

and that is why she is here. alisaie has ridden tirelessly through the night, driving baptiste hard over the hard, wintry earth, her breath frozen in her lungs, the frigid wind stinging her cheeks and ears and eyes. alphinaud is her entire world. he is all that she has, all of her family that remains, and the thought of living her life without him, moving forward alone..

she would rather not move forward at all.

and so she will find him, regardless of he consequence, heedless of the potential danger, for without him, she has no life at all.

baptiste remembers the way, and though she can feel the tension and fear in the body of the horse beneath her, still they press on, hooves slamming hard into the earth, empty branches pulling at her hair, whipping over their heads. the forest seems to go on and on, deeper and deeper into darkness and mist, until at long, long last the space opens up, and a dark castle looms ahead, its twisted spires climbing into the gray sky, its gloomy edifice frowning down as she approaches the wrought iron gates choked with decayed vines.

alisaie is not afraid of much, yet still the sight of it sends a chill down her spine.

what is this place? she's heard of no such estate as this - a castle, so close to the village? how have there been no stories? no history? she has ridden less than a day to find her brother, not far from home at all, and yet.. there is nothing in their books about this great castle, no tall tales, nothing at all. it is a phantom. still, somehow it feels familiar to her.. like a memory of a dream's dream.

exhaling a shudder, alisaie slides from baptiste's back, leading him to an icy, overgrown brook for a drink, looping the reins over a strong, bare branch before at last she approaches the castle. it's silent, sinister, but she.. she has no choice. if this is where alphinaud is, then she must press forward. the rusted gates groan, splitting the silence, and alisaie approaches the great doors, the old rotten oak swinging beneath her weight as she slips carefully into the great, dark foyer. ]

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[ it's.. comfortable.

which is a strange thing to think, that she would be comfortable here, with him, but when exposed to something for a long enough time, anything can feel normal. it helps that he's no longer scurrying around her like a mouse in a wall. she's still trapped, she still thinks about her family every day, but the servants are kind, the knight is tolerable, and every day the castle seems better than it was the day before. more things are dusted, repaired, cleaned, rearranged - it seems an entirely different place from the castle she first arrived in, bright and warm and clean where it had once been dark and haunting and cold.

and as suspected, even after many weeks the library still holds her attention, she has barely made it through a single bookcase. alisaie could live a thousand lives and never read them all..

it does not surprise her that he is here; this is not the first time that they have stumbled across one another, but usually he is reading, or examining a map - this time he is moving, bent over something, and she can hear the scratch of quill on paper. with his back to her, she cannot see what he is writing, but she approaches nevertheless with an armful of picture books. ]

Writing something of your own?

[ Absorbed as he is in his work, he does not hear her approach — until she is next to him, speaking, and it nearly makes him jump out of his skin (proverbially speaking). He starts, sitting up quickly and looking wildly over at her, the quill dropping out of his hand. ]

Oh, I, um — n-no, I...

[ In his haste, he hasn't obscured the drawing from her sight, but likely what she'll see won't make a lot of sense, anyway. The scene he is illustrating seems to be...a wedding. A wedding in the throne room of this very castle, if she can pick out the details, unobscured by cobwebs or broken furniture. The day is bright and sunny, the hall filled with guests and attendants, though only a handful of figures have distinguishable features. Those are the ones who stand near the front with the fair-haired bride and the dark-haired groom. They're happy. Everyone is happy, especially those that stand nearest the groom's side. ]

I'm just...oh.

[ He seems to realize then that he's left the drawing out in the open, and self-consciously he shuffles the pieces before him, until a harmless rendering of a chocobo sits on top, obscuring the rest of the pile. ]

Sketching.

[ he hides it too quickly for her to get a critical look at the image he is working on, but she can see, at least, that it was a celebration - a wedding, perhaps? there had been a woman in white, and a dark-haired man beside her.

for the first time, it occurs to her that he, like the others.. was perhaps a man, once. alisaie isn't sure why he'd not considered it (likely because she had spent a lot of time thinking generally unkind things about him, at first, he'd been as relatable to her as a junk heap), but she supposes she had assumed him some sort of.. watchman. they call him the knight, after all, and his body is metal everywhere she can see - if put to question, she might have guessed that he was a clockwork sentinel, built to guard this place, given agency, left behind, perhaps, when whatever befell this castle.. befell it.

but his eyes.. they've always been unsettlingly human. still, she cannot be sure. mayhaps these are people who were around when he was first created, but she does not recall his hulking form in the image..

hm.

setting down her books, she pulls out a chair. ]

You are full of surprises, aren't you?

[ she would not have thought those thick, heavy hands could be capable of such delicate work.. ]

[ Did she see? What had she seen, if she did? There wasn't anything too terribly revealing in that drawing, only...dreams, far off dreams and faces he once knew...including his own. It has been years, so many years...but he has still not forgotten them. He never will, even if his existence should stretch into eternity.

Because if he doesn't remember them, then who will? ]

I...yes. I s-suppose I am. [ A beat, as he recovers slightly. ] What, aren't mechanical beasts allowed to create, too?

[ Were he a wholly mechanical creation, maybe he wouldn't be capable of creativity...but he isn't, and so here he is, the ghastly, hulking automaton, drawing pictures of chocobos and wedding parties. ]

Oh, don't be so defensive.

[ she says, shortly, but with no real sting in her tone. the chair she takes is across from him, and though she stacks her books she does not yet open them, still peering at the chocobo drawing at the top of the stack. ]

It is not about what you are, just who you are. You did not seem the type.

[ he seems more suited for brooding in the rain on the roof like a gargoyle, not drawing cute animals.. ]

[ He's more than a little surprised when she drops her books onto the table across from him, but not necessarily annoyed, either. He won't be able to continue drawing what he has, but there's always other things he can sketch. Other ways he can pour his heart into his pen, and express himself. It's been long enough he has plenty stored up. ]

Well...suppose I needed ways to fill the time between brooding in the shadows and capturing young Elezens.

[ He retorts, though not unkindly. There's a certain dry knowingness in his tone, but soon enough he's bent back over a fresh sheet of paper, beginning an illustration of one of the castle's towers. ]

What are you reading tonight?

[ she's watching his hand move across the paper, not reading anything at all, so when he asks - ]

Oh.

[ well at least he can lampshade himself...

she starts, then glances down at her pile, pulling the first from the top and laying it in front of her. the cover is old, but painted lavishly with the image of a countryside, and three rabbits wearing straw hats. ]

They are.. children's picture books. Some of them are from lands so far off I have only heard of them in passing..

[ and they might have been written for children, but the art styles are varied and fascinating, and there is much that can be learned about strange and distant cultures by reading what they teach to their young ones. ]

[ Prompto is no scholar himself, even if he has had years and years to explore this library, but he has long found children's stories entrancing as well. Maybe it's thanks to the state he is in now, and how enchanted and storybook it all seems on paper. Maybe he expects to find an answer without those simple stories. Or maybe he reads them just to remember that sometimes, things are not so bad, even if they seem that way. There are plenty of lessons to learn from such stories...

He has fallen silent for a long moment, so at last, he speaks again. ]

Would you read one aloud?

[ He might draw some inspiration from what he hears, too. ]

[ oh. that is not a request that she had expected, but.. there's no reason not to indulge him, is there? she'll be reading the stories anyway, she may as well share them with him, though it still feels a bit like performing which, in turn, makes her ears tinge pink, just slightly, at the tips. ]

I don't see why not..

[ alisaie sifts through the books to find something suitable - something not too long, a short story or a poem that won't take her an hour to read. she settles soon on a book of fables, and flips it open to the center, smoothing her palms over the illustrated pages. there is a beautiful watercolor painting there, of a strong oak at the water's edge, hemmed by reeds and cattails and tall sword-leafed fronds.

clearing her throat, she begins, speaking as smoothly and clearly as she can manage: ]

The wind was high, the thunder loud;
The lightning flash’d from cloud to cloud;
When an old oak, whose aged form
Ere now had witness’d many a storm,
Had borne the brunt, and still withstood
The wind, the lightning, and the flood,
Was torn up from his roots at last,
By one tremendous, wintry blast;
Then headlong to the stream descended;
His ancient pride and glory ended.

The ample waters soon convey’d
The oak-tree from his well-known shade.
Then unknown, naked hills were seen,
With rude and dreary wilds between,
And by the river’s oozy edge
Grew weakly reeds and languid sedge.
“Strange!” thought the oak, (permit the fable,)
“That plants so slender should be able
Thus to survive the stormy day,
Which made my stubborn limbs give way.”

A reed, just bending with the storm,
Then to the oak inclined its form;
And thus it whisper’d,—”Aged friend,
I do not break, because I bend;
I find it best, while troubles last,
To bow beneath them till they’re past.”

Thus spoke the trembling reed, and ceased;
For now the windy storm increased;
Then to the earth it bow’d its head,
Proving the truth of what it said.
Meanwhile the oak, with quicken’d sail,
Was hurried onward by the gale;
And scarce had time allow’d to say
“You’re right,” ere he was borne away.

The moral, no doubt, you’ve already found out,
Since the fable has lent its assistance;
For in trouble, ’tis clear, they’ve most reason to fear,
Who make the most stubborn resistance.

[ she wrinkles her nose. ]

[ There's a pleasant smoothness to her voice, to the way the words roll off her tongue, and soon enough Prompto begins to draw once more, illustrating the story as he hears it from her lips. Quickly, his hand flies over the paper, sketching out the reed, the way it bends and moves with the wind, and then the oak, pulled along by the force of the river. It's a curious story, one whose moral he understands but does not necessary subscribe to. Sometimes one must remain stubbornly immovable, because it's what they were tasked to do. Sometimes, time makes one immovable, too, much as the oak tree must have thought.

But even so, from the perspective he draws the picture, the reed appears much bigger, with the oak tree well down the path of the river, smaller and shrinking from view.

He sketches for a few moments longer before glancing up at her, setting his quill down at last. ]

You don't seem pleased with the story's outcome.

[ He remarks, a slight lilt in his voice. ]

[ alisaie mulls over the page for several moments, her eyes bent on the words, before at last she sits back, exhaling. ]

While there is certainly no denying the power and importance of compromise, I feel this sends a message to children to not stand for themselves when it is necessary. Sometimes it is important to fight the storm.

[ as they had so recently done, quite literally, together. ]

I can't help but be reminded..

[ .. of her family, her home, before she left the city with her brother to strike out on her own, to carve her own path. her parents would have loved a fable like this, for all they tried to instill in her the capacity to bow demurely, to stay silent and polite, to not disturb the pristine waters. that is not the sort of life that alisaie wants to live, and she spent so many long years of her youth stifled by an environment that attempted to force her to bend to their rules. she shakes her head. ]

Sometimes, in bending we sacrifice other things. Our self respect, our personal strength.. I would rather stand against the storm, if it meant doing what was right, even if it means I may break.

[ if she had bent to her parents, she would still be living in the city, suffocating, drowning a vital part of who she is. if she had bent to the knight's will, her brother would still be here, rotting in a cold cell, or worse. she will always be the oak. ]

[ She isn't wrong, and given what he's learned about her, he isn't surprised to hear her say as much, either. Prompto has always been impressed by Alisaie's indomitable spirit - gods, the fact that she is living a life of any meaning is a testament to that. Most in her situation would give up in the face of their imprisonment, but not her. She isn't happy, and he knows she does want to be here. Yet she doesn't give up. She still finds reasons to live, and finds meaning in her life.

Even after what he took from her.

Maybe he can learn something from her... ]

Hmm...

[ He hums to himself, beginning to doodle idly on his paper. ]

So when is it right to bend? When do you compromise?

[ he does not rebuke her, which is.. refreshing, really. alisaie is so used to others attempting to repress her, to push down the parts of her that they do not like, that are not becoming of a young lady. her noise, her spirit, her petulance and ferocity, her tendency to question ideas, and people, and in general be everything that a young noble lady should not be - even well-meaning others often attempt to censor her. it's a frustrating reality she has always lived with.

but he does not disparage her for her opinion. there is nothing judgmental in his tone, or posture. ]

.. that is the question, I suppose.

[ she says, after a moment's quiet thought. ]

I suppose it is dependent upon the situation, and the person. Our ideas of compromise and when or where it might be necessary may be very different.

[ Were his mouth one that could smile, his lips might just twitch at that, because they...certainly would have very different ideas about where compromise should happen, he would imagine. He is her captor, after all. The thing between her and her freedom, the one who binds her here, who made her promise to stay forever.

She might compromise on not speaking of this place ever again if it meant he would set her free, but that is just a compromise he cannot make. He cannot take that risk. ]

I see. I...I don't often...

[ He doesn't compromise, because no one questions him. No one before she arrived, anyway. None of the servants challenged him. He was left in charge, even if he never wanted to be, and he's as ill-suited for leadership as he always suspected. But he's always done what he thought was best, and...

Well, he's just done what he can, to keep this castle safe, as he swore he would. ]

Hm. The oak and the reed...

[ It soon becomes clear that what he's adding to his picture is a sketch of her, standing at the edge of the river, watching the oak pulled away in the current. ]

Wonder where he'll end up.

[ .. he does not often compromise. that much is painfully clear. life here has been comfortable enough that they might be able to forget, sometimes, that she is a prisoner and he is her warden, but that does not erase the circumstances. the only compromise he has ever really made was to allow her to take the place of her brother.

but for alisaie, it remains a bitter compromise indeed..

her temper does not flare at the thought, however, because this was her choice. her decision. she knew what she was agreeing to when she volunteered herself, and so she must lift her chin and bear this punishment without complaint. picking a fight with him will only ruin both of their nights. ]

Mm.. well the fable's writers would have you believe that he floats off to die on a muddy riverbank somewhere, I'd wager, as a consequence of his stubborn nature. But I would prefer another ending.

[ closing the book, alisaie folds her arms over its cover and rests her chin upon them, peering down at his work. is that..? ]

...As would I.

[ He murmurs quietly, and maybe he's not just talking about the story of the oak and the reed. But he doesn't elaborate, doesn't admit to more than that, and he shouldn't even have said that much. Keeping himself shrouded in mystery is the only defense he has, because if he tells her about himself, about what happened to him and everyone in the castle, it will expose parts of himself long since dormant. Parts he has done his best to smother and burn out, to numb. And even if he told her, would he receive her compassion in return? Her companionship? Or would she spurn him, and name him the fool that he is?

It isn't worth it.

He follows her gaze then, down to the sketch before him, and the figure he has added to the picture. Oh, that...well. It looks an awful lot like her, doesn't it?

It's fortunate for him he doesn't have the capability to blush, but that doesn't mean he can't stammer. ]

U-um...anyway. It's getting late. I should...retire.

[ well, given the long ears and distinctive braid, she cannot imagine that that silhouette he's sketched could be anyone but her - elezen are quite uncommon here, and it's not as if he gets out often enough to draw inspiration. who else could it be but her?

he might not be able to blush, but she certainly can, and her cheeks and ears dust a faint pink; she's not used to anyone paying her such mind. honestly, it's hardly the first time she's seen herself spelled out in charcoal or ink, her brother is a gifted portrait artist, and he often draws from life, but their relationship is loving, trusting. this is.. something else entirely.

the knight is drawing away again, which is.. not so unusual for him, she's grown used to him scurrying away like a mouse, and while he's been far more comfortable around her than he once was, he nevertheless maintains a distance between them. she does not exactly try to persuade him otherwise, either..

lifting her head, alisaie looks to his face, her brow knitting. ]

.. all right.

[ He doesn't linger, instead rising to his feet and rolling up the sheets of paper to quickly gather them into his arms. It isn't unusual for him to get caught up in his art, but he hadn't even consciously added Alisaie into the picture. He'd done it thoughtlessly, and while it wouldn't be untrue to say she is often in his thoughts —

No, no, he shouldn't head any further down the path of that thought. It's dangerous. Things were so much easier when he was a monster that haunted this castle, and nothing more. ]

Well...good night, Alisaie.

[ He says in a rush, and then he turns to go without another word, making his hasty retreat. ]

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batb part two: electric boogaloo

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