I am on a creative kick as of late, and though I was in a strange mood while writing this, it turned out pretty well. There's no further explanations needed, I believe.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or placenames depicted herein; they belong to Square-Enix and I am deriving no money from this work of fiction.
Alexandria Castle was empty, echoing grey halls filled with portraits and statues of past rulers, the dust gathering in the corners where the brooms couldn't reach them.
In the training grounds, the soldiers marched back and forth, readying themselves for battle with grim expressions; most of them had never seen a war, older than they looked but younger than they should be, and she watched them from the window, lone eye never blinking.
Alexandria Castle was empty, seemingly doubly so since the city's beloved princess was missing, presumed kidnapped. Had this all been in her hands she would be scouring the countryside, hunting for her Queen's daughter, but it was not and so she was stuck in an empty castle where the wind beat uselessly against the windows. It made her feel helpless and weak, both feelings she had never had time to get used to, both feelings that she hated to experience.
"Upset, lady-rose?" a mocking voice, light like feathers, floated down from the staircase behind her. "Such an unbecoming expression on you."
She spun around, hand on her sword in a flash - a habit older than the princess was – and she had sought out her target before she stopped moving. There on the staircase, a vision of white and feathers and oddly out-of-place armour, was her Queen's latest companion; not a friend, nor a courtier, but a weapons-dealer with all the grace of a fallen angel. Whatever his secret was, she felt a creeping uneasiness whenever he stepped into a room, as if he at any moment would snap his strings and go berserk, though she suspected that if he ever did, it would be deaths with the same grace with which he moved.
"If you find the need to address me again, sir, do refer to me with my given title," she said, jaw set and fingers shivering.
The man chuckled – how like a wind-chime he sounded, frail and echoing – taking the last few steps down to the floor of the ballroom. The dust covering the marble tiles, left there by careless servants too tired to sweep it away into the corners, was disturbed by his footfalls. In little, puffing clouds it rose up, dancing in the shafts of sunlight as he put down his feet, the metal producing echoing rings.
Reality had a way of creeping into the most precious of private moments, ending them too soon, perhaps even before they had time to begin, but this man, this mystery, seemed to have his own way of doing things. It was as if reality did not dare come knocking when he was around, and so she stood wishing for an interruption that never came; the first sting of uneasy nervousness came when he first set foot on the floor.
"Ah – I apologise if I were mistaken; certainly I shall never again refer to such a skilled warrior with anything less than her proper title," a sweeping bow followed his words, the feathers in his silver hair shifting, "Do forgive me."
She nodded curtly, accepting his apology in silence. Perhaps, she reasoned, he would go away if she refused to answer him. This stilted moment would pass and she could go back to watching her soldiers train. Yet perhaps even then he would stay; it was, after all, his weapons that they held in their hands as they dispatched the straw-and-wood dolls. Disregarding his presence, she turned back to the window, hand still on the hilt of her sword as she tried her best for ignorance.
He stepped up beside her, a grinning ghost that no god would forgive, as silent as the falling of feathers. Her fingers twitched, itching to save the Queen and damn herself, but something in the way he moved, the way his limbs seemed to be tied together by invisible strings and nothing more, stayed her hand. There was the feeling that there was something more behind that pretty smile, the feeling that he was part of something of greater consequence than she that made her hesitate and stumble.
"Your soldiers are competent, lady-General," he said softly, the reflections in the window-glass mirrored in his eyes, "But I wonder; are they competent enough?"
"They will be," she said, his mocking irking her more than it should, and she straightened up into the stiff-necked pose her years as a soldier has ingrained in her, "they have to be."
The desperation shone through in her voice, cracking it in ways she'd rather not think about, but this time he did not mock her. Ignoring him again, hating herself for having answered, she put one white-knuckled hand on the windowsill, willing herself to calm down. It would not do for a general of her calibre to lose her temper in front of anyone, much less this matchsticks-and-feathers man.
"It is a great General who takes pride in having her troops perform to perfection," the daylight ghost smiled at her now, not mocking but honest – a rarity in him, she had come to understand, "Yet at times, as the wise men know, waiting is perhaps the best one can do. Wouldn't you agree, lady-General?"
She did not answer, knowing that he was right; all she did was nod once again, agreeing with him without words, and turned around. It was time to visit the training grounds to closer inspect the progress of her troops. Perhaps then she would be free of his lingering presence. The dust already disturbed by his arrival shifted again, trailing her way across the floor like transparent shadows, and all the way she felt his eyes burning into her back.
The door beside the staircase was old, rusted and creaky with disuse, screeching in protest as she wrenched it open. Of course she could have ascended the stairs and walked the long hallways, but this was quicker, better way to the outside, away from the white ghost at the window and the uneasiness in her bones. The door was stuck, rusted almost shut with age and wear, her hands coming away with flecks of reddish brown as she attempted yet again to open it.
The hand over hers was unexpected in ways, expected in others; despite the white, the feathers and the disconnected ways, he was still a companion to a Queen and manners was the least that should be expected. Yet she had not been prepared for this, stumbling backwards into him as the door gave way. He caught her with all the grace that could be expected – he smelled of dust and feathers, of metal and of madness – and helped her upright again.
For a moment, she held on to his arm in a cramp-like reaction and – all soldiers are masochistic, after all – steadied herself. It was one brief moment of contact, one brief moment too much, but that much she allowed herself. She did not know whether or not she would live to see her princess return, and this weakness she could indulge if only for the present.
There was not thanks to be said, no apologies to be made, but he seemed to read her mind and bowed mockingly, disappearing up the stairs. In his wake, the dust rose as clouds and in them she could see things that were never there; the emptiness was getting to her, finding its way into her mind with a wicked deviousness that she had not expected. Fear now – an unreasonable terror – was clawing its way up into her mouth, and she wrenched the door the rest of the way open, escaping outside.
The sunlight was her salvation.