I Decide Your Purpose

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He had thought as much.

Boundaries were shattered as she crossed the line of touch. Gray eyes narrowed into dangerous slits as her finger pressed to his temple, though he restrained his natural reaction to such a gesture. None were permitted to touch him within the Dominion. It was not for any form of arrogance, but rather the fear of assassination. Toxins were easy enough to hide upon the fingers, and many were without their teeth until you brought them near the face.

Even still, Cedric felt no animosity from the moon-haired fairy of a woman; only a sense of confusion, and perhaps one of loss. His eyes met her own as she gave a name - one Cedric knew well enough. The moniker of Ophelia had appeared many times in ancient fiction; it was often associated with women of purity and grace in most circles. In others, Ophelia was a murdering power-crazed lunatic that had her husband killed and assumed the throne.

It was an interesting choice, though he had little reason to believe it was a faux name. Then again, he had little reason to believe that it was not either. Her mind was a mystery to him, and the labyrinth that she spoke of was locked away. He could not return even if he wished to.

"My father knew more about many things than most people. He was a very complicated man." A gust of cold air brushed across his chest. The youth grimaced, and his attentions returned to Ophelia. There was no judgement in his gaze, only a quiet wonder as he took in her features.

Had Mephirium sent her?

"It's freezing out here. Come inside," he muttered, waving the girl in before she could offer any kind of opposition. The door would slip shut behind them, leaving the two teenagers alone in the dimly lit chamber that served as Cedric's living quarters.

"Did my father send you to me Ophelia?"

[member="Lysandra"]

 

[Lysandra]

Ophelia.

It had a nice ring to it. As the name tumbled forth from the prince's lips, the waif could not help but stifle a smirk at her little deception. It was a title that held a place in the fog of her childhood memories, one that clung to her lips the sweetest sort of nostalgic sugar. Lysandra knew not where the name arose from or when it had breached the embrace of her mind. It was a sliver of a time long past, a glittering souvenir that granted the porcelain creature a small measure of comfort. Whatever the name represented she knew it was placed somewhere in the annals of her prepubescence.

Unfortunately, for the easily distracted girl, her contemplation was stifled the moment she felt a hand firmly clasp her wrist. It was warm and gentle even when it felt like searing embers, a sensation that instinctively forced the girl to reel back from the surprise of such a thing. Was it custom for a young royal to do as he pleased? Glancing upwards, the dainty vagrant expected a sneer or any other incarnation of ugly emotion to be painting the face of the one known as Cedric.

Instead, the boy simply looked concerned.

Furrowing her brow and offering some measure of resistance to the prince's return the darkness of his chambers, Lysandra kept her soles firmly planted into the earth as she wracked her mind for the voices to begin harassing her. She knew this was not what she wanted. This was what Cyril wanted. Alas, scouring the fractured kaleidoscope of her mind only uncovered silence. It was an emptiness unlike the void that drowned her mind the first time Cyril's phantom visited her. This time there was a wriggling assurance that the prince was not the monster her nightmares screamed about. He was just a boy, nothing more than that.

He'll keep you safe...

An echo rang into her consciousness, a brilliantly deep voice that thrummed like an ancient drum. Lysandra felt compelled to scold the voice, to banish it from the sanctuary of colour and sound...and yet she could do no such thing. Her arm went limp and her lips were pursed into a thin line, devoid of any resistance to her messy haired escort.

With a soft click, the door closed behind her and Lysandra was once more enveloped in the shadow and moonlight of Cedric's bedroom. The scent of incense and the warmth of his chambers quickly embraced her starveling figure, like a spectral mother made of silk and cinnamon.

"Your father is dead." The girl cooed, wriggling her wrist out of the prince's grip and wrinkling her nose in momentary hesitation. Or was he? "I think. I'm not sure, he was made of mist and glass the last time he barged into my garden. Silly man, so nosy. He smelled like metal and leather and salt, did you know that?" Lysandra rambled, her eyes flitting everywhere but on the half naked figure of Cyril's heir. Her words danced with a ebullient rhythm, as if adding a melody would turn them into a song.

"He told me many things. He was a bossy, still is and he...and he...perhaps it was a dream but he said to find you. Perhaps you have a gift for me." The waif murmured, leaning against the wall and ogling the roof of Cedric's bedroom.

[member="Cedric Grayson"]

 

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So many plans made without his consent.

Cedric could only guess as to his father's intent, though he hoped it was benign. He had seen scant little of the elder Grayson during his final days as lord of the Dominion. The conversations they'd shared had been particularly brief, and only plans for containing the Arch Enemy had ever forged conversations of any substance. There wasn't much he could truly tell Ophelia, because he simply did not know. Grumbling, the youth rubbed the sides of his temple with his knuckles and shook his head.

"He's...well, he may as well be dead for all the good he can do." Cedric mumbled, his voice taking on a darker tone. It lowered in cadence, and he found his eyes drooping to the floor. Part of the youth truly did miss the old man, just as he missed his mother. Sometimes that longing became overwhelming, and he was forced to retire to his quarters. Such thoughts addled his mind just as Ophelia's phantoms stalked hers. A quiet sigh fell from his lips.

"The old man comes and goes as he pleases. He claims to have a plan, but I don't really see it for myself." His words were broken by a powerful crack of thunder. Lightning split the sky asunder, and momentarily illuminated Cedric's features in bright white light. As rain began to pitter-patter against the windows, Cedric settled down onto the couch.

"I don't know what gift I could give you," gray eyes flickered upward to meet her own. "Just...sleep on it. If my father sent you, then you're no threat." His brow furrowed. "Maybe you do need me, or maybe I need you. I don't know."

Another shake of the head.

"You can have my bed Ophelia. I prefer the couch."

[member="Lysandra"]

 

[Lysandra]

Lysandra could 'see' the rain before the torrent of water pelted the gurgling city. Powdered blotches cascaded down her vision in fizzy bursts of yellow and violet, colliding and expanding like miniature fireworks. It was a dazzlingly dizzy display and the teenager momentarily found herself staring into the dark void of the prince's room to recapture the focus of her vision. Ripples of orange shattered her peripherals as the booming crescendo of thunder ricocheted through the churning pillars of clouds. Colour and sound came together in a symphonic maelstrom, tearing apart her attention and momentarily leaving her mesmerized.

She heard little of what the prince said, his smokey voice falling sway to the triumphant cackles of the sky and the water that lashed against the city's skin. It wasn't on purpose, Lysandra simply stared at him, unblinking and captivated by the midnight storm. Every so often Cedric's silhouette was captured by a flash of lightning, illuminating the subtle curves and crevices of the young man's form.

Brief flashes and she saw a boy become a man, his tired visage making way for something more fierce and firm. But it was only fleeting, as if the hand of time were twisted her oculars and showing the waif the fractured future of Cyril's heir.

He was his father's son, that much she knew.

"You're playing with Fate." She mused quietly, her voice finding purchase in a pocket of silence before the next tremulous clang of thunder ripped through the sky. Shaking her head and glancing at the offering of silk sheets and fluffed pillows, the girl felt a sickly giddiness lurk in the pit of her belly. Every time she tugged away from the blistering gaze of reality it held her in place, taunting her with luscious luxuries someone of her standing had not experienced in many months. Tonight she would have been cradled in the hollow of an old tree and slept with the little creatures she shared the garden with, that, at the very least, would have felt normal.

Or as normal as it could get with the whimsical waif.

"I don't want your bed, I want to go home." Lysandra murmured, her voice lacking in any sadness such a statement would entail. It was a simple admittance, words clarified by a shard of cognitive understanding and the girl knew that traipsing around her desires was exceptionally impolite to herself. She just wanted things to go back to the way they were, spectral friends and all.

Furrowing her brow, the barely clothed teenager deeply inhaled before scrunching her toes into the chamber's supple carpet. Clenching her jaw, the waif cleared her throat before tip toeing over to the young man's bed and peeling a pillow off of its feathered bosom. "Girls unfurl with lips and pearl, painted toes and fingers twirled...boys...boys something stupid something hurl." The girl recited quietly, her honey kissed voice barely louder than a whisper as she planted herself in the shadows by the window. Streaks of rain streamed down the barrier of glass, pelting the window in desperate attempts to escape the wind and join the perfumed warmth of the prince's room. Ribbons of lightning continued to dance in the murky ether, the clap of thunder painting her vision in auburn and gold.

Somewhere down there, beneath the churning storm, was her garden.

"Keep me not, pretty prince." Lysandra whispered, gazing at him from her perch by the window, her eyes no longer dancing in wild disarray. "For I am mad."

[member="Cedric Grayson"]

 

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"I play with fate everyday Ophelia. That is my right." The words were spoken almost with reverence. Cedric peered out at his erstwhile companion from between his fingertips, his brow furrowing as he beheld her. She was not what he would have expected his father to send him, but then the man had always been a particularly odd one. His purposes were rarely clear to Cedric, and when they were explained things rarely added up in the youth's mind.

Where he'd found this girl the gods only knew.

"Then you can go home. I won't keep you here if this place makes you miserable. I am no jailer." A quiet sigh fell from his lips, but it carried far more than simple exhaustion. Yet another burden was being thrust upon him, but he did not know if this was a burden he should take up. Ophelia clearly did not wish to be here, no matter what his father might have said. In his earlier days, the youth had obeyed his father's wishes without question. As of late, he had begun to question all of them.

"You have a dislike of men?" He asked, his curiosity laced with a tiredness that belied his interest. Gray oculars never shifted from those of Ophelia's, and he found himself enraptured by the glow of the moon upon her platinum tresses. Was this what Mephirium had wished of the girl then? To seduce his son for whatever forlorn purposes the fallen lord desired? Was he off playing matchmaker from beyond the grave, or was Cedric truly to help this girl.

"Then we make a pair," he spoke, his tone quiet and solemn. "Sanity is beyond me. I command a thousand minds with every campaign. I am not who I once was. I take a piece of every person with me when we disconnect. Whatever I was before all this is gone now, and I can only see things in the light of a ruler."

The youth rose from his perch. Despite himself, he found his limbs shaking beneath his feet. His heart thundered in his chest at a rapid tattoo, and his attentions centered around this blond creature. Slowly he approached, like a ghost in his own chambers. "If you wish to leave," he paused a step away from Ophelia. "Then you may go now. If you stay," his shoulders bunched up in a slight shrug. "Then you stay."

And yet, despite his words, Cedric decided that he did not wish her to leave.


[member="Lysandra"]

 

[Lysandra]

"I dislike the little grey bits I find under my nails, the smell of every second day of winter, wearing pants, the sound that worrmps make when they're having babies and -" Lysandra paused, pink lips pursed into a thin line as she scrunched her silvery brow, "I'm not sure I like boys. My mother said touching one would make warts grow in places and..." there was a brief shuffling of material, the peak of a head and the swivel of an abdomen as the girl perused the bare skin that hid just beneath the thin layer of material she wore. "...you haven't given me any. I know girls don't give warts, so don't be afraid pretty princeling, when you find your concumines." The waif grinned, rather giddy at her nugget of wisdom.

If there was a term the girl was unfamiliar with, it was modesty.

Peering at the young man, the porcelain skinned vagrant's gaze narrowed as the stream of words tumbled forth from his lips. She could see the rich velvet leave his lips and dissipate into the air like dyed smoke. His words were heard and seen but not at all listened to. She was caught in the rich cadence of his voice, blue eyes twirling after the sound that remained unseen to all but her. Still, Lysandra held some modicum of respect to blindly nod at whatever it was the young man said.

"Brave and silly." She mused quietly, a light click of her tongue following the feathery kiss of her voice. "Just like Mr. Cyril." Even Mephirium possessed little qualms keeping the impish creature around, perhaps he learned his lesson when he turned into smoke and glass. Wrinkling her nose, Lysandra scraped the image of the phantom from the fractured slate of her mind to focus on the curious young man in front of her.

Persistent. That was the word! The girl nodded slowly to herself, a moment of self congratulations as she ogled the storm shrouded figure of the boy that had so diligently haunted her dreams. He was taller in her dreams.

Curious.

There was a momentary silence, the symphony of the chaos outside scattering globules and webs of bright colour across the starveling's vision. Thoughts and voices chased the remnants of sense that spirited themselves into the aether of Lysandra's mind. She dove into the kaleidoscope, leaving the confused visage of Cedric behind. Deeper and deeper, the waif sunk into the spiraling current of madness and music. She was chasing something, something she knew had a name, a name she'd forgotten. What was it? Why was it? Where was it?

A streak of gold lashed at her vision, chasing the burning trail of thunder that clawed at the heavens.

"It's too wet outside now." She uttered quietly, blinking herself back into the warmth of the prince's chamber. Curling her knees under the tattered embrace of her dress, the girl clutched the borrowed pillow to her chest before pressing herself closer to the glass panel that separated herself from the maelstrom outside.

She was to stay.

[member="Cedric Grayson"]

 

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Gray eyes fell to the silver visage that served as the crown of Ession. It was no crown in the literal sense, but rather a mask of phrik and ceramite. Its beautiful curves had been rendered folly by blaster bolts and blade striks, yet the helm retained a natural sheen to it thatcould boggle the mind. Even wounded and battered as it was, the mask of the Archlord served as a beacon of rule and leadership on an otherwise dark and dreary night. Cedric stared at it far longer than he had meant to, enamored by the way that flashes of yellow reflected off of its immaculate surface with each bolt of lightning.

That was what he was. That helmet was the very essence of whom Cedric had grown to be. It was only here, in this room, when the helmet was off and the cloak was hung that he was himself. It occurred to the youth that Ophelia was the only person to see him in such a state in many weeks.

With a huff, he settled down on the window alongside her. His arms bunched up about his chest, almost as if he were trying to protect himself from the moon-haired child that served as his only companion on the dreadful night. The sound of the storm spattering against the glass drew his mind to places beyond Ession: to a military campaign on Vjun where over a thousand Essonian men had been slaughtered. Each death he had felt intimately, and each victory just as keenly. There was no such feeling here, save for the emptiness of the void.

That, and curiosity toward the angelic creature that now inhabited his quarters.

"Then you may stay as long as you like." He replied quietly, his gaze turning to meet that of Ophelia's. Thin lips pursed as he sought to find the right words to speak, though such things eluded him as soon as he attempted to put them to speech.

"I can assure you that I don't have any diseases to spread," he mused with a quiet huff of a laugh. "And some men do. Your mother wasn't entirely wrong, but those are the dregs of society." He pointed with a pale finger beyond the capital toward, beyond even the inner districts, to the mass of flashing lights that served as the red light sector. "That's where you'd find that sort of man. Women like that too actually, so I'd avoid it."

He offered her a playful wink.

"I went there once when I was younger out of curiosity. It's too loud, the people too rowdy. I like the music, but I don't like the smell. I don't like hearing people driving one another up the cargo ramp in the alleys between buildings," his nose scrunched up in distaste. "I don't like politics much either. I don't like leading the way I do. It makes me tried - I don't feel fit for my position most days." The words just fell from Cedric's lips, but it was really too late to stop himself now.

"I look at all that and I wonder what it must be like to enjoy it. To be a normal person, but then I remember my duties. My purpose," a quiet sigh fell from his lips. "My father may not have explained it to you, but I was named Archlord in his absence. I keep this world safe - many worlds."

A brief silence followed. Cedric found himself listening to the pitter-patter of the rain.

"You're brave too," his voice fell quiet, "Few would have dared to climb up this high. Why did you do it? Because my father told you to?"

[member="Lysandra"]

 

[Lysandra]

In her silence, Lysandra's gaze followed the trajectory of the prince's finger towards the fringe of the city, a faint warm glow marking the infamous red light district. Even in a storm the embers of lust burned bright underneath the shroud of rain and wind. Although the impish creature relegated herself to the emerald bosom of the garden sanctuary, there were times when she wandered the streets of the city and followed whatever sound, smell or sight caught her attention. Figments of leering older men and pretty ladies haunted the rosy remnants of her memory and the wide eyed vagrant knew that she'd already happened upon the place Cedric sneered at.

Alas, any wayward comment that would bloom from her lips was lost the moment the girl's exhausted companion began to talk.

Blue smoke twirled and danced in the canvas of her vision, every word flailing in the empty void of her peripherals. Consonants were punctuated by deep strokes of zaffre, the accented lilt of his tired voice summoning brighter blues that peaked and fell like the gush of rapid water.

Once more, Lysandra found herself taken by the sound, their meaning falling sway to her fickle attention.

She knew she had not come to talk to the young man, that was very far down the list of things the hedonistic teenager wanted. It sat somewhere between watching a stone grow and combing her hair after a rainy day. Still, for all the petty reasons Lysandra held against the pocket of warmth she found herself in, she knew it was far too late to tear herself away. Perhaps, that was all Cyril wanted.

"Too bad you can't keep your own room safe." The girl mumbled, sinking further into the corner of the room as she nestled her silver haired head into the prince's perfumed pillow. "Archlord is a funny word, I'm not going to call you that." Lysandra simpered, coiling the stolen scarf around her diminutive shoulders and sighing. "You don't look too important with no shirt on and sleep in your eyes." She mused, cocking a brow as her eyes flitted from his fatigued features down to his exposed torso.

Boys were so much more rigid than girls. There was a distinct lack of supple curvature on Cedirc's form that the girl ha become so accustomed to during her exploration as a burgeoning teenager.

His query was the one thing that beckoned the girl back into reality from the lingering caresses of sleep. It was an expected question, somethign any sane person would have asked if they found a stranger dallying about in their penthouse chamber.

"Because I wanted to." The girl yawned, wrinkling her nose. "Your father is bossy but he can't boss me around and I wanted to see how important the pretty princeling was. I even gave some of your guards a wreath to celebrate my trip!" The girl beamed, leaving out the fact that the aforementioned wreaths incapacitated the guards on the first four floors.

[member="Cedric Grayson"]

 

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Melancholy fell over the youth like a shroud.

It draped about his shoulders, fell down the length of his back and came to envelop his very being. Such feelings were a common thing for Cedric to experience in the dead of night, though not usually when he had company of any sort, implying he ever had any company this late to begin with. His lips pursed as he fought for the right words to explain himself, though he knew the two of them spoke upon different wavelengths. The girl had come for whatever purposes she deemed fit; purposes he doubted he would truly come to understand in any meaningful way anytime soon.

"Safety is relative. I have my gun," he pointed out, gesturing the tool of brass and steel. Many assassins had tried to take heir's life, yet none had succeeded. His protection could not be afforded to the guardsmen alone - Cedric knew the ways of violence as well as any man. "Good. I don't like the title," he admitted, drawing his arms further about his chest as he peered out at his domain. It was a dark and dreary place, one full of life and yet so very empty.

He found that he did not like it.

"I'm as important as you want me to be," he fired back, his gaze shifting to meet that of his strange companion. Gray met blue, and something of an understanding flickered between the intermingling colors. "Well aren't you kind." He snickered, a bit of understanding dawning on him as he the sound of rain splattering against the window pane picked up ever stronger. His ears perked and he sat up a little straighter, his lips pressing into a thin line.

"Stay as long as you like, though I have a campaign to conduct. This all isn't enough," he gestured toward the city beyond, "It doesn't fit me. I can't find myself in this picture. I need to leave every once in awhile."

He paused, lips pursed. Ophelia was not particularly far - no, in fact she was very near. His eyes fell to the pillow she clung to, but his hand reached out to touch her forearm. Calloused fingers scarred with the touch of training swords and countless sparring bouts trailed along flesh of moonlight. Grays shifted back to blues.

"Am I as you hoped then, Ophelia?"

[member="Lysandra"]

 

[Lysandra]

There was a distinct melancholy that marred the young archlord's words, a cloying band of grey that trailed every sound that escaped the confines of his mouth. He was an oddity, perhaps because he seemed so normal. Lysandra's suspicions, as fantastical as they were, were neutered the more she gazed upon the half naked and gloomy teenager. What gilded figment of royalty that haughtily sauntered in the nether of her imagination would not have taken form of the storm lit boy sitting opposite her. Where was the crown? The glinting sneer, the powdered mask and the glare of his father? Perhaps, such things only lingered in the land of sound and colour.

Furrowing her brow, the silver haired waif slowly inhaled as her gaze flitted towards the rolling ocean of clouds that crackled far and above the city. She was striding the sky, joined only by the creature that had so furiously vexed her conscious.

Push him out the window.

A voice murmured, a dull voice, one that reverberated in the winding halls of her mind. It was an insidious whisper that momentarily coaxed the girl away from the comforting embrace of sleep. Perhaps it was the murmurings of paranoia, the girl did not know nor did she care to answer it's call. With a wrinkled nose and a swift shake of her head, the teenager clawed the shallow remnants of the suggestion from her mind, finally averting her gaze from the window.

He would have been much too heavy to toss out of the window anyways.

Alas, the thought was dashed from her mind the moment a sliver of warmth graced the skin of her arm. Glancing down, Lysandra was met with a particularly odd sight. A hand, one that certainly did not belong to her, was on her. It were rough, calloused, unlike the grip of all the girls she once knew so well.

The girl instinctively pulled away.

"You're shorter than I thought." Lysandra responded with a quick perk of her head, bright eyes blinking in the darkness as the curious voice that haunted her mind vanished into the endless labyrinth. "Do not worry about what I expected of you, Mr Prince. You can't care for the opinions of all your subjects." She mused, pink lips curling into the smallest of simpers as she clutched the pillow closer to her chest.

When was the last time this boy spoke to someone? He was much more talkative than she envisioned, perhaps he was making up for all the silence his father left behind.

"I was expecting maybe some more muscle as well." Lysandra shrugged, narrowing her eyes and scouring the form of the one opposite her. "Perhaps I'll consider this on the third day of next month. For now, leave me to the wind and rain and return to your dreams. I promise I won't kill you." The waif smirked, a soft and wild smirk.

There would be time to talk, time to piece together the riddle that was Cyril's plans and time even...to change them into something the girl actually wanted to follow.

[member="Cedric Grayson"]