[attr="class","elle"]

[attr="class","elle b"]

[attr="class","elle i"]she has half a mind to scowl again, to throw a tantrum and dig her heels in. it's unbecoming, she knows, but does she care? there's a freedom that comes with a lack of royalty, a freedom that allows her to act however she sees fit with no real consequences like slandering the family name.

and of course, she still gives in to the teachings. she still manages to chastise herself, that little voice in the back of her head sounding an awful lot like her mother's. fucking hell.

"why do you want me to get processed so badly?" she questions, as if he owes her any explanation besides the ones he's already stated. maybe she likes being difficult or maybe she simply doesn't understand. the process through the ports hadn't been enough to sate him? she remembers it briefly, as if forcing the memory into place for her to summon at will. they checked her passport, checked her credentials, and let her in.

sue her for thinking that'd be the end of it.

she ignores his pointed stare at her hand, instead curling fingers a little further into fabric. "fine," eventually relenting after a long pause of silence, her hand still remains. instead, her eyes meet his, crimson meeting cobalt, and she flashes a practiced smile. it's sugary, well-bred for royal court.

and part of her almost hopes it strikes a nerve.

Remiel Calcifet

[attr="class","elle"]

[attr="class","elle b"]

[attr="class","elle i"]well, that somehow went both better and worse than she imagined. fuck.

hot anger rises, searing through her veins until her cheeks are flushing a radiant red. and then, she's stepping to him, pretty china twisting into a snarl. "what the fuck, remiel?" a pause, a mild realization, and finally a sneer. "sorry, your highness."

it's probably frowned upon to spit at royalty, right?

"no, honestly," she glares up at him, their height difference serving to further piss her off. she's mindful of the sword in her hands, mindful to keep it tucked close to her hip. the last thing she needs is the galarian army showing up on her doorstep because she sliced and diced the crowned prince. "what the fuck is your problem, huh? you can't just let me go on my merry way? do you enjoy making things difficult or is it just because of who i am?" because of who i was.

realistically, the dismissive wave and him turning his back on her shouldn't work on her. and yet, it does. she scowls and scampers to catch up, little legs working overtime to close the distance. once she's close enough, she's reaching for his arm and tugging. if it's hard, she doesn't notice. it's not like it matters anyway, right? she imagines him ripping out of her grip and leaving her here, a bitter reminder of just how much distance is really between them.

Remiel Calcifet

[attr="class","elle"]

[attr="class","elle b"]

[attr="class","elle i"]she bristles at the choice of words. exiled, as if she were forced out, as if she had no say, as if it wasn't her decision. suddenly her mouth tastes bitter and she's fighting very hard to not reveal her emotions. her features want nothing more than to twist into scorn, contempt, loathing. and quietly, she offers nothing more than a simple "not exiled and not royalty."

she was merely a background character for the royal family. nothing more, nothing less. it's best for him to remember that.

by the time he turns, she's fully scowling now. there's something about him ordering her around that burrows beneath her skin and breeds rage. what is she, a dog? is she supposed to be obedient? she holds surprisingly steady, watching as his figure begins to move. there's a gesture thrown in her direction, a beckoning, and she meets it with the narrowing of hardened eyes.

"no." how well will this go over, exactly?

at least she's equipped for the worst... that's somewhat of a plus.

Remiel Calcifet

[attr="class","elle"]

[attr="class","elle b"]

[attr="class","elle i"]"of course," it's offered without any bite. almost robotic, as if slipping into an old mask. one of ballrooms and gowns, crowns and jewels. familiar yet foreign, a world no longer fitting for her. "or did you forget i cut ties and moved away?"

sometimes, she forgets why. and other times, it's all she can think about. mulled over and over, highlighted and left to analyze.

in the end, it's simple: she refuses to play that part any longer. there's a hunger in her bones, itching for bigger and better things than pretty dresses and carrying on a bloodline. she's more than the doll they crafted her into, more than just a legacy. in some ways, she almost wonders if he feels the same burning in his nerves.

ah, right... she has to justify herself to him. the tight grip on her sword anchors her, sure, but agitation bubbles beneath pale skin.

"i grew bored of kalos," and then, there's the flashing of teeth. some call it aggression, a warning. her? a challenge. "are you implying i need business in order to be here?" somehow, it's expected. people of their lineage don't go places on a whim. they don't have that luxury. it's always business, appearances, schemes. she despises the thought.

Remiel Calcifet

[attr="class","elle"]

[attr="class","elle b"]

[attr="class","elle i"]there's a coldness that begins in the hands, fingers trembling against steel. it bleeds into the nerves, seeping into the spinal cord and spreading until she swears she can see her breath in soft wisps of cool air. a figment of the imagination, perhaps.

or, better yet, the presence of a ghost thought lost to the corridors of a galarian palace.

the fates twist and weave golden strings, pulling tight like purse strings tugging a wound closed. and then, they snip with rusty, chipped scissors until the wound is jagged and bleeding. such is the karmic cycle, such is the story of irazelle and remiel.

"so?" she bites back, as if his place of residence is little concern of hers. she almost scoffs at the thought. why should she care about what he's up to, what he buries himself in? white knuckles give away fractions of her, little insights into a place kept under lock and key.

"forgive me for being surprised," there's a better choice for words here, sure, but she keeps it polite if only to not offend. her duty as a lady might been abandoned but the teachings still cling to her body like cigarette smoke to clothes. "it escaped my mind."

Remiel Calcifet

[attr="class","elle"]

[attr="class","elle b"]

[attr="class","elle i"]haunting the parks of rustboro city feels... strange. the freedom to do so is still an odd sensation, as if she's expecting to turn around and see a guard scurrying behind.

except, there's no one. just a girl and a sword.

sunset bleeds in the background, hues of orange and yellow and pink painting the sky. one could almost call it romantic. she doesn't, however. she calls it inspiring, breathtaking, invigorating.

of course, that was probably before she rounded a particular corner... saw a particular face.

it's almost like seeing a ghost, really. it leaves her still, trembling, cold. a hand tightens around the hilt of a sword, white knuckles bare and tense.

"well," she finally breathes out when it's just him and her and the setting sun. "you're the last person i expected to find out here."

is that bitterness she tastes?

Remiel Calcifet