batb part two: electric boogaloo

[fearlessly]

[ 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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[punshots]

[ Visitors are not something that Prompto often entertains. Seldom few have ever found their way through the wildwood to the castle, and those who have were frightened off enough by the ivied gates and whistling wind, the feeling of foreboding in the air that encompasses everything within the courtyard. None have dared to venture beyond the door of the hall, save for one, seeking shelter from a storm that had grown cruel outside.

But this is no problem of his. The foolish Elezen should have accounted for the weather before making such a journey. He should have died out there in the snow for his mistake. He never should have intruded upon this place, upon Prompto's solitude, upon all that remains here, cursed as he is. For once he has encroached upon this enchanted place, Prompto cannot allow the boy to leave again, taking stories to the village of the mystical castle in the wood that would inevitably draw others out once they knew it was actually able to be entered. It's too dangerous. Prompto can't risk the exposure, for himself, and for those who are imprisoned here with him, changed from their original forms for time and eternity.

For what hope do they ever have of this curse being broken? None, none at all. Most of the enchanted servants do not even stir these days; they, like him, have begun to forget what it was ever like to be human in the first place.

So he takes the Elezen to the dungeon to live out the rest of his days, providing little for his needs. What should he care if this foolish boy dies to an empty stomach or a cold night? Yet he can't quite bring himself to be so cruel, and sees to it that he is provided a blanket and a few scant meals a day. Maybe he'll die anyway, or maybe he'll try to escape and Prompto will have to kill him anyway. It doesn't matter, but the sooner the Elezen is out of the picture, the better. Then he can be alone again.

But fate has other plans in mind.

Only a few days later, there is another intruder beyond the gates of the castle, and this time, Prompto is quicker to find the source of the disturbance, ever alert after the arrival of the Elezen. What if there were others in a hunting party with him who have tracked him to this place? Or yet others who missed his presence back in the village and sought to find him in the woods? The reasons do not matter. Another has come to disturb his solace, and he will do what he must to silence this one, as well.

From the hallway high above the entrance hall, Prompto lurks, watching, waiting, until...the intruder appears. She appears. Another young Elezen with pale, white hair, appearing remarkably like the one who came before. His sister, no doubt, who has come to fetch her wayward brother. It's...kind and brave and stupid, the sort of thing he would have once admired, but those days are far behind him, now.

Now, his heart only sinks, a faint whirring echoing down to the foyer as he follows her from above. ]

[punshots]

[ After so many years of quiet and solitude, the castle feels...alive again. But not in a way that encourages Prompto; instead, it is a kind of anxious energy that makes him constantly feel on edge. The castle's inhabitants won't stop talking about her, won't stop chattering with him about her, especially in those first few days. But how can they help it? She has a fire in her eyes, they say. Her spirit is strong, unbroken...could it be she is the one? The one who can lift the spell?

But of course, that's laughable notion, and Prompto makes sure they know it, as he snaps at them before leaving to brood in his quarters, where they know not to encroach upon his solace.

But for all their exasperation with him, they are perfectly happy to approach her, plucky and inquisitive as they ask her questions about the outside world, about her, about how she finds the castle. Though the circumstances for her being here could certainly be better, the fact of the matter is she is here now, and they want to see her taken care of to the best of their ability. The food they bring her is excellent, her sheets are changed regularly, her room swept and organized — in fact, she may find the castle staff a little too helpful at times. But they can't help it. It's been so long since they've had a reason to serve, for the Knight (as they refer to the castle's unsightly steward) asks for little from them these days. It's been so long since they've had a reason to hope.

As to the nature of their curse, however, or the qualifications necessary to lift it, they are strangely tight-lipped. They are always quick to change the subject, or pretend they did not hear. It seems the subject is a bit sensitive, and they would rather not the Knight find that she heard it from them, instead of him. It is his story to tell, after all.

Not that he is telling any stories to her. He barely speaks with her at all, and he never seeks her out, actively avoiding her when he can. It is only when they have a chance passing in the castle that he speaks to her, and even then, they are gruff reminders and commands that do not invite further conversation. He has no need of companionship, and he's certain she seeks none from him, either. The servants keep her company well enough. And he...

He has been alone for such a very, very long time. He has forgotten how not to be.

But sometimes, he cannot avoid encountering her entirely. Not when she has given her escort the slip, and she has taken to exploring on her own. Even that he could ignore, except that...she is veering awfully close to his quarters, to that wing of the castle that no one but himself is allowed to enter, and that he cannot allow.

The clunk and whir of his metal body foretells his approach, but for as cumbersome as his form is, he is upon her quickly, seeping around a corner with otherworldly swiftness to put himself between her and the rest of this corridor. Even now, his hood is pulled tight over his face, obscuring his features, only the sconced firelight flickering off the faint metal patchwork beneath. ]

You will go no further this way.

[ In case she had any lingering ambitions... ]

[fearlessly]

[ since finding access to the library, alisaie's days here have been far easier. she still misses home greatly, of course, she thinks about her brother and her house, and all that she has left behind, that was swept so quickly away from her, but her days and nights here are no longer complete torture. painful, but manageable.

it certainly helps that there are thousands of books at her fingertips, books of all shapes and sizes and genres and ages - there is so much that she has learned even in a short span of weeks, and much, much more to be learned even still ahead of her. every morning she wakes to that excited tug in her gut, ready to rush off to the stacks of tomes, often even before eating - the castle's many staff, at least, are always quick to deliver her a meal when she misses it. it was strange and uncomfortable at first, to be waited on so much, alisaie does not particularly enjoy having things done for her, but it's difficult to deny the joy that it gives them to work. they were so old when she arrived, dusty and despairing, near inanimate for how long they had gone without purpose - if it can give them even some small measure of happiness to serve her, then well, she can suck it up and allow them to.

they were once people, after all. they had lives, loves, ambitions, things they may never entirely have again. she can sacrifice some sliver of her pride to bring them a bit of joy.

sleep, however, is not so easily come by. the books and globes and astrolabes and all number of gadgets interest her so fully that she finds it difficult to pry herself away. more than once she has fallen asleep slumped over a tome cracked open on the table, or attempted to go to bed only to find herself tossing and turning and returning to the library again in the middle of the night when particularly obsessed with a manuscript. it's all right, really, she can rest whensoever she chooses, so if she is up late into the night, what does it matter? it feels good to be joyful about something again.

right now, alisaie has no idea what time it is. the sky beyond the frosted windows is inky black, and has been for many hours now, and she finds her stomach rumbling, interrupting a particularly good read of an astronomy passage. at first she ignores it, but the gnawing soon becomes so distracting that when she finds herself reading the same sentence for the fifth time in order to absorb it, she relents. pulling her dressing robe more tightly around her for warmth, alisaie lifts a (non-animate) candelabra and sneaks off to the kitchens.

they're warm now, clean and welcoming - when first she arrived everything was rusted with disuse, blanketed in a thick layer of dust, but now the woodburning stove is always lit, the stone floor warm beneath her feet, the scent of tonight's dinner still hanging about the air, perfect and savory. the servants sleep, so she moves as quietly as she can to the larder, searching out a fresh loaf of bread and some butter and jam. ]

[punshots]

[ While no storms have had quite the impact on the castle than the one on that fateful night, it is still a long, cold, brutal winter, and while things are...peaceful enough between them, it would be as stretch to say they have established any kind of relationship. Sure, occasionally takes meals at the same time as her, and when he passes her in the hallways of the castle, he no longer dodges out of the way and avoids her. He may not speak much, and there conversations don't carry much weight. After that night, he would rather not...get into a situation like that again, so better just to avoid it all together. To talk about lighthearted things, painless things, meaningless things that do not ask much of them beyond simple, pleasant words.

It's better than the alternative, and probably about as good as they can hope for. It's...enough.

As he begins to feel more at ease around her, he no longer feels he must avoid the library when she is in there, either, and while he doesn't exactly greet her when they are both occupying it at the same time — really, it's large enough that sometimes they might miss each other anyway — he doesn't avoid her. On this particular day, several weeks after the storm incident, he sits hunched over one of the tables, a stack of parchment paper in front of him, several of them with completed or in-progress sketches, and others yet still blank. The pictures range the gamut from chocobos to landscapes to people, their expressions drawn with great detail and warmth, and all of them quite skilled. Lost in his art, Prompto's metal hand flies over the paper — it's something he did before...before he was like this that he is still able to do unhindered, though it has been some time since he has actually made time to draw. It has been some time since he has wanted to try.

But something has stirred within him...

As the evening grows old, he grows more and more engrossed in his work, completely oblivious to the fact that he is no longer alone. ]

[fearlessly]

[ sometimes, alisaie is simply too curious for her own good.

she does not mean to go to the west wing, she does not go there with the express purpose of breaking his rules, but nevertheless, she is here. sometimes she walks without watching where her feet carry her, she wanders, lost in thought, following the winding corridors wherever they might take her, without paying much attention to where she is going, or why. the castle is so large and sprawling that she has found so many things this way, so many little hidden rooms or shrouded passageways, places where feet have not walked for many years, and she has occupied the castle so long now that the servants no longer dog her every step. everyone has fallen into a comfortable routine.

and yet, here she is.

alisaie is carrying a small book open on her palm, a tome filled with old, ancient spells of a bygone era, from a country across the sea, and so absorbed is she in the arcane text that she does not notice the large overturned vase that has fallen across her path in the corridor until she trips on it. with a sharp gasp, she catches herself before she falls, steadying herself with a hand on the wall, and at last lifts her gaze from the book.

where on earth has she found herself..? this hall is dim and dusty, the curtains lank and motheaten, the furniture in a state of rot and disrepair. by now the servants, with her help, have cleaned up the castle quite well - had they missed this hall, somehow? ]

[punshots]

[ In the days following Alisaie's recovery, Prompto remains steadfast at her side through all of it, eager to see her regain her strength, but also...to spend time with her. It's a quiet sort of acknowledgement within himself, that he wants to be around her, and if he thinks about it too much, he begins to grow nervous and uncertain. It still seems too good to be true, that she could possibly want him around her, but she has no reason to deceive him. If she wanted him gone, she need only say the word, and he would give her all the space in the world.

But she doesn't.

Of course, tending to her has meant that he cannot tend to himself, and while he didn't suffer from the storm in the same way that she did, his frame is certainly worse for wear because of it. His joints are either too tight or too loose, creaking and cracking painfully, one of his knees barely holding together. He's never been good about taking care of this body, but it's never gotten quite this bad before. But how can he think to stop and oil his hinges when Alisaie's tea cup might be running low, or her blankets might need refreshing?

He comes second, and in a way,that's nice, too. Prompto has always put the servants' safety and wellbeing ahead of his own, but this is...different, to be someone else's direct caretaker. It puts to use skills gone rusty, talents he forgot he had. Looking after her just feels...right. Natural.

But at last Alisaie is back on her own two feet, though Prompto is there still to make sure she doesn't overdo it. He knows her well enough by now to know that she isn't one to sit still for long, and no doubt she is itching to get back to the library and remain there for all hours of the night. Even so, he's brought her breakfast one more time, knocking on her door and waiting for her to admit him before shouldering it open and setting down the tray on the table in the room, wincing as he pivots on his sore leg. He needs to see to that knee soon...

But it can wait. ]

S-sorry, I mixed it up and put in three sugars instead of two...but I figured you wouldn't mind too much.

[ ...He has also grown familiar with her sweet tooth. ]

How are you feeling today?

[fearlessly]

[ she's nervous, even if she does not necessarily know why.

they've grown together quite a bit, after all - she's comfortable in his presence, and he in hers. they laugh like old friends, spend more and more time together until soon enough they're taking meals at the same times, reading together, telling stories, constantly in one another's presence until at last she must retire for the night, sometimes well past any reasonable bedtime.

this seems.. natural, that he would ask her to something like this, to dinner, to dance, in a fashion unlike their usual quick meals together. this is different. it's formal. it's.. special. she cannot be the only one who feels what she is feeling, can she? he is strange, and different, he is not even a man and yet she is so comfortable with him, affection coming more and more easily with each passing day, her heart drawing nearer to his, and yet still she cannot help but wonder if this is just another way for them to play, if he still sees her as.. a prisoner. a girl. mayhaps even a fun new toy with which to pass the time. it's why her heart beats like a hummingbird against her ribs as she draws nearer to the stairs.

there's no need to be nervous. she knows him. she cares for him. she said yes, for heaven's sake.

and so alisaie inhales deeply, closing her eyes and steadying herself, checking her loose, half-swept curls in the mirror before she's carefully gathering the skirts of her gown and turning to move down the half-stairs to meet him.

it will be fine.

this is what she wants. ]

[punshots]

[ And then she is gone.

Alisaie leaves him with tokens to remember her by, and to be sure, Prompto does not soon forget them. The drawing he did of her is both deeply personal and deeply sensual, a tangible sign of their connection to one another, but the kiss she leaves him with doesn't soon leave his memory, either, even if the warmth of her lips leaves him all too soon. Her warmth leaves all of them far too soon, and Prompto can already hear the castle's denizens murmuring worriedly in the wake of Alisaie's departure. Has she left us? What are we to do? Will we ever be free?

But Prompto can offer them no answers, and so he doesn't. For all she left him to remember her by, it's just that — they're memories. She made no promise to return, and after all, why would she? She is...free now. She no longer need live in the shadow of this castle, haunted by a tin man with an irreparable heart. She can live out her life in the village with her brother. Maybe he can find a way to send some of the books from the library to her, but that's as far as he dares go. He can never go visit her. He can never leave the grounds of this castle. And he cannot expect her to return of her own volition. They may have a bond, she may have bared herself to him, but...but that's...it can't...

...He only hopes that she was not too late. That she was able to help her village, and save any one in danger, keeping herself safe as well. It's just like her, to rush to the aid of others. Gods, how he loves her...

And at least he can hold onto that. That he had the tremendous privilege to meet her, to fall in love with her, to hold that feeling in his heart. Maybe in time it will make him bitter, and for now, it makes him grieve. But he wouldn't give it up for the world.

There isn't much of anything he wants to do after she leaves, and he is, as ever, unable to cry the tears he so desperately wants to cry. So instead, he curls up in his little nest in the west wing and stares out the window, intending to stay like that for a long, long time. ]