Burning.
He was burning.
The evening sun beat down on his shoulders, golden beams pressing against his cheek, and a soft breeze tousled his hair. Grass danced at his feet, rolling in slow, lazy waves towards the muddy bank ahead. He could hear the waves gently lapping against the shore. It was so idyllic, an image impossibly pristine.
Too much, it was all too much. His head was swimming as words poured through his mind. He was a child of Nohr, but now Hoshido. His blood belonged to two families separated by a bottomless chasm and generations of war. He was a prince to both sides, a brother both older and younger. But how could that be? What proof was there beyond words? It was a convenient explanation, wasn't it? Tensions were spilling over between the two nations, and just as open war became a very real possibility he is suddenly the lost prince of Hoshido. It was something out of a fairy tale, and a poorly written one at that. How could it be possible? It couldn't. Yet here he was, unharmed, embraced, with tears shed over his "return." It must have been a lie, a clever facade to . . . What? What could they gain from his cooperation? His authority in Nohr was too low to be of any value, well below that of his elder siblings. His skill as a tactician paled in comparison to that of Leo, soldiers would never kneel to him when Xander commanded their loyalty, he could not fight as Camilla did, cleaving through metal and flesh as death itself.
What possible use could he be to Hoshido? Why lie?! What purpose was there in twisting his affection?!
His head ached, his veins pulsed; the numbness in his fingers was chased away as heat pushed into his hands. The stiff collar of his shirt squeezed his throat tighter and tighter. He buried a finger beneath the fabric, tugging at the circle around his neck. His glove came away glistening with sweat. Corrin quickly pulled at each finger, peeling the thin leather off, and repeated the process with his other hand. It wasn't enough. His cape came next, then his boots, and if he had the privacy of a room, his room, his shirt would have followed. Instead he pulled at the collar more, prying it open as best he could. Skin exposed, the sun burned his pale flesh with a sweltering embrace. The wind did nothing to carry the heat away, and his eyes hurt from the glittering reflection on . . .
The lake.
Moving forward in a desperate half-march half-stumble, Corrin dipped his hands into the clear water. He pulled away as it licked his wrists, threatening to soak the sleeves of his shirt, but then he remembered the ugly, brown stains splattered all over the front. It was ruined. He threw his arms into the lake with a splash, fingers curling around disgusting mud and slimy plants. Silt curled around his hands, clouding the water, and as its surface began to settle his reflection became clear, though tainted an ugly brown.
He looked terrible. The restless nights were loudly proclaimed by a bloody purple that pooled beneath his eyes. A shallow cut had scabbed over on one cheek, breaking up the pallor of his complexion with a long, thin line. His hair was growing too long, reaching down to the base of his neck in a shaggy mess. He needed a bath, and it was so tempting to simply dunk his head into the lake. He scoffed at the idea; captive or not, he still had his dignity. Rubbing at a lock of hair that clung to his jaw with a shoulder, his reflection shattered into a series of ripples.
And the first notes of a song reached his ears.
He scoffed at them too, in no mood to hear the ignorant words of a minstrel. But there was no pluck of obnoxious strings, or blare of horns, just a light, lilting voice. He focused on the words, picking them apart as best he could, some slipping through his were words of encouragement, or a blessing perhaps, something hollow to lift the spirits. Flicking water from his hands, he searched the shore to uncover the voice's owner. Finding no one, he peeked through the trees, narrowing his eyes upon catching sight of motion beneath the layers of green. He studied the figure, pulling on his boots with some reluctance, as they cleared the line of trees.
It was a maiden, possibly a priest given the fluttering white cloth that trailed behind her, though he dismissed the notion upon seeing just how little the thin garment covered. An entertainer, a dancer. It would certainly explain her singing.
Curious as her arrival was, it annoyed him more that someone would intrude on his privacy. He stood, spinning in place to collect his cape and gloves when the ground was pulled out beneath him. With one mud-slicked boot in the air, Corrin stumbled back, slipping on wet grass and crashed into the lake. For a brief moment he was stunned, one elbow buried in thick mud with the other tangled in weeds. His shirt was completely soaked, and it clung tightly to his chest; there was no saving the cloth now. The stink of rotting plants was bearable before, but now it filled his nose alongside the sour stench of lakewater. He sat up and shook his hair free of moisture.
"Are you alright?"
Corrin stiffened, hands freezing in his hair, and glanced up to see the singer looking down at him, confusion and concern plainly written on her face. The urge to throw himself completely into the lake was overpowering. He was shocked to see what he had presumed was veil dyed blue was in fact her hair, stretching well past her waist, nearly all the way to her unusually bare feet. No Hoshidan had hair of that color and the discrepancy pushed his eyes to study every inch of her form. The silence lingered and she took a step back. Remembering she had asked a question, Corrin turned away, lifting his dripping arms.
"I feel wretched," he confessed.
"Here," she said, extending a hand.
Despite her unusual appearance, she was clearly a citizen of Hoshido, and coupled with the necessity of physical contact, he hesitated. But it would not do to alienate someone who freely offered help; no potential asset should be turned away. Though the idea of touching someone filled him with distaste, Corrin took her hand.
"Thank you," he muttered.
"You must be Prince Corrin."
His fingers tightened into a fist; that someone knew more about him than he did of them was an unwelcome situation. "It must be terribly obvious."
"Your accent," she noted.
The statement prompted him to raise an eyebrow. Of all the possible details that would mark him as a foreigner, his voice was the least expected.
"It's familiar," she continued. "I know it, yet don't. You mangle your words, make them rough."
Criticism was also unexpected.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to confuse you. There has been a lot of talk about Hoshido's long lost prince, I just didn't . . . have the time to see it myself. I mean you."
Her posture was rigid, hands constantly migrating behind her, then swaying back, as though she couldn't make up her mind on what to do with them. The singer's eyes barely held his own for more than a moment before slipping away to look at a tree, or the lake. She was nervous, and the realization struck Corrin so suddenly he nearly laughed.
"It is quite the tale, almost impossible to believe." And he still didn't.
"But it is true."
Her flippant insistence bothered him more than it should have, and in a moment of brilliant cunning, he opened his mouth. "I suspect your sources are more reliable than the royal family?"
Her eyes softened, mouth twisting into a small, sad smile; it was a look of pity, and a shiver crawled up his spine.
"I should hope so; I am Azura, a former princess of Nohr."
His first instinct was to dismiss it as a lie. He was a prince of Nohr, he could recount every member of the royal family for at least three generations back, and not once had an "Azura" been noted in texts of genealogy.
"I've no memory of your name being mentioned by my siblings, or father."
Her smile fell and guilt tugged at Corrin's mind for stating his thoughts so bluntly.
"I wouldn't expect them to," she whispered. "It was not the name given to me by my mother." Azura turned her eyes, looking directly into his as her smile returned. "We are more alike than you realize. Your family did what they could, but every attempt to rescue you was met with failure. Desperate, they decided on an alternative; I was taken, just as you were. They hoped an agreement could be made, one life for another. Instead we've been raised by the households which stole us. In a sense, we've been hostages all our lives."
He didn't want to believe it. Her story was just another piece in a pointlessly elaborate scheme to skew his loyalty. But the longer he studied her face, saw the roundness of her eyes - golden - and followed the blue waves rolling down her back, hair only removed by a single hue from his dear sister Camilla's, the more difficult it was to deny her words. She did not belong in Hoshido, no more than he belonged in Nohr. They did not fit, like swords pushed into the wrong scabbards. And if it was true . . . An ache bloomed between his shoulders as he searched her hair, looking for maimed ears. He threw a glance downward and found, to his relief and bitter disappointment, feet unblemished by scars. Still, not all suffering leaves a mark on flesh.
"I am sorry," he said, voice low in quiet understanding.
"Don't be."
His head snapped up, meeting her gaze as the smile on her face began to push at the corner of her eyes.
"I may technically be a hostage, but my family has done all that they can to ensure I have a happy life. The people of Hoshido look past my differences and accept me as a daughter of our nation. Moth- Mikoto treats me as one of her own, and I could not ask for better siblings."
She was happy, truly happy. There was no sign of regret in her smile. His jaw slackened and lips parted as something resembling words struggled to crawl out of his throat. She showed no scars because there were none. Her mother - his mother - loved her.
"She loves you," he stated plainly.
"Queen Mikoto? Yes."
Somehow, the affirmation hurt.
Paper wilted in his hand as the crude image of a man, woman, and child stared back at him with lopsided smiles.
They were a family.
The air was stifling, thick with dust and memories, none of them his. His shadow stretched long and thin against the floor, cast by the glow of lanterns. It looked like a stain, something that spoiled the memorial built of faded toys and dry ink. It felt wrong standing in a room that had been empty for years.
No one was mad enough to invest so much time in a deception that relied so heavily on fortune and with so little profit. So how could he explain it away?
The picture crackled as it twirled to the ground, coming to a stop with a hiss against the wooden boards. Why would they let some stranger, an enemy of their nation no less, defile the last traces of a lost child?
The painted face of a dragon watched him half draped in shadows. Its fangs were exposed in a fearsome roar that resounded silently in his mind, and its round, wooden feet squeaked as he pushed it into a corner with a heel. He turned away from the leering beast, silently drifting towards the door. It came to an abrupt halt as he tried to slide it shut. Grunting in annoyance, Corrin gave it a light tug in his direction and the door came loose, slipping over the remaining gap with ease.
His eyes widened as a shock climbed up his back, a breath catching in his throat, and he nearly tripped backing away. Ears ringing and hands wrapped into fists, Corrin left with his feet locked in a steady rhythm. His heart was not nearly so controlled, pounding in his chest to a feverish beat that pulled beads of sweat from his skin. The narrow hallway was pushing inwards, wooden beams creaking closer, threatening to bar him in a tight cage. The lanterns dimmed and shadows crawled out of their darkened corners, reaching for his ankles. He ignored the eyes on his back, focussing on the endless hall and wishing it wasn't so damn hot as a fire settled in his veins.
Corrin pried open the door to the room he had been given as a guest, squirming through the meager gap. His cape caught on something outside and he struggled against its grasp, pulling until it came free with a shrill rip. Twisting around, he slammed the door shut in a single motion. An attendant had left a lamp burning on a shelf, throwing his shadow against the paper barrier still rattling in its frame.
He hated it, all of it. The sliding door, the wooden floors, the round windows, the heavy robes, the sharp voices, the tender smiles, the silent tears. He hated that it might all be true.
He was borne from a woman he had never known, sibling to royalty he had never seen, in a land he had only read of in the journals of scholars.
An angry groan slipped past his teeth while his fingers curled around empty air. His world had been turned on its head and roughly shaken with nothing to grasp but truths he had no interest in holding. Blood thundered in his ears and he grit his teeth. Why could it not have been a lie? Why was he forced to contend with needless complications now? He was a prince of Nohr, on the cusp of an invasion that would would breathe new life into the nation's failing economy, and only at the expense of a family he had been stolen from as a child.
The room seemed to tilt and Corrin lowered himself to the floor, fighting the dizzying pressure in his skull. He thought of the Queen, how tightly she had held him, the tears she left on his collar, and his father, heavy hand patting his back, the broad smile over maps and talks of expansion. He thought of Nohr starving, the ground split in great, dry cracks, and of Hoshido burning, verdant fields aflame as homes sank into ash.
Nothing had changed, yet nothing was the same.
Alone, Corrin stared at nothing, until the oil ran dry and the light died.