red admiral.

éy

—2. down down.

don't look down!

__

there are no beaches in your country, and you find yourself wanting one anyway—longing for one—you've heard renaì's countless tales of sandy ground and freezing waters in the bordering countries—she's been to kevíviv. you've heard màožyk's endless rambles about the waves lapping at the seawater—you prefer renaì. she says them happily, sparing no detail when you ask—but she doesn't love t talk, you end up asking about it, most of the time. this year, her hair is longer than it should be—she goes to aōvir to get her hair done. she isn't planning on cutting her hair around the summer months this year—she says that the new trend is to have silky long hair in braids, wrapped around into a bun.

she smiles-all teeth, as she always does—and rolls her eyes. the tea in front of her is long forgotten, "bēn gaōžèn, you know that unmannered boy—what's his given? he was there. he implored that the beaches of aōvir were nothing in comparison to xaōyív— the nerve. the only reason he was there was his father's business. that arížēk."

"tírēyk, fortune," you start, "his family is well traveled—" you take the last sip of your tea, "—his father is seeing those žixìn whores and he's along for the ride."

"you've heard that he's the son of one, too?" she hums, smile all sharp. "the only reason he's got such influence, my pāpá says, is because he's feeding the royals information about those aōšuí."

"the court is in a tizzy trying to prepare for a war, they say there will be a draft soon." you say, to nothing in particular. you love doing this; she is the most fun you can have without a sword or a cigarette, she stirs the honey in her tea, "they say that everyone has a shot at being drawn, i wonder what the commoner to noble is? do you think the gap is wide? do you think they know?"

(you get like this, sometimes, you remember things in dark colors: chronic anxiety disorder and requires medication and intensive outpatient therapy. why didn't you say anything? how often would you say that you have these thoughts? i'm not crazy—!)

"oh—i hope my nakàoží doesn't get drafted, she's my best tailor." she smiles, softer this time, like she really is fond of this nakàoží. "it would be tragic."

"hmm? that baōkik—? oh, right, pāpá says that the new year will begin regardless of tensions—i heard that āžesaōvyk-aoxíža is attending this winter." you say, and the prince attending the private academy for téžkì children is an astounding fact in comparison to the long-royal-hailed belief that mingling will dirty the bloodline. you suspect that means the prince is not yet engaged—which is far later than you recall in previous generations. you're surprised that she didn't tell you sooner.

(why didn't she?)

(didn't you already know? the reason the crown prince isn't engaged is because of her—CURLY HAIR AND EYES SO BROWN THEY'RE MOLTEN—)

"you can call him āžesaōvyk without added title, you're practically cousins." she scoffs.

"no, you, renaì, are cousins with āžesaōvyk-aoxíža." you grin, wide eyed, "i'm engaged to his cousin. there are differences within this. a distinction to be made until we are wed."

she makes a polite face that tells you she really, really wants to roll her eyes. you don't know why she doesn't—it's only you here, and politically speaking, her family has more power than yours. the only reason that you're engaged at all is because your father's are living vicariously through you two, and they clearly want to bone. both of you are—in separate ways—aware of this. you'll never love her like your pāpá loves her father, but you think that both of you make friends well enough.