The hilt felt solid against his palm, the blade heavy.

[I] He had never wanted to be a warrior, never wanted to fight. Hunting was more than enough for him; one quick snap and a meal was served. Not like dueling, it was long and drawn out. It was loud, the clashing of claws and metal. Every youngling should learn to duel, that was a common sound, but he was more than happy to bury his head against her mother's bosom and listen to her stories, ignoring the sounds of dueling and hiding way from the festivals where a fight was the main entertainment. He never wanted to be a warrior, and it seemed like he never had to, "It does not matter, if you shan't want to be a warrior, we no longer need our swords and teeth to fight, we use words now, Relin, words and out passion to fight. Be you not a warrior, than shall a great diplomat you will make. I assure it."[/I]

  It slices through the air when he swings it experimentally, almost faultlessly. 

[I]"You will be my strong knight," And yet he's never been a warrior, how could he possibly be a knight? It's such a human concept from such a sweet person. He's heard it but once before, the notion of completely dedicating oneself to another. They fought for each their own. To fight for another, it was considered a weakness then to fight for an equal, for someone that was not still a child. And yet beloved be, he thwas nought but a fragil king. And so he swore himself duly to that title. As his knight. He'd protect him, forever.[/I]

  They come undone, one by one. The blade slices through the skin like it is air. Faultless, freely...

[I]Something else, it's what he needs, gazing down at the broken nails, useless. And he gazes upwards at the stained glass held high above them. Silly humans and their need to surround themselves with such quirky notions, but now in such a time, he understands their stories of sudden revelation as his gaze flickers down to the stained glass painting of an ancient warrior, decked in plate armor, hands wrapped around his sublime weapon glittering in the artificial light. It glistens and shines down in colored patterns across the marbled floor, over where he sits contemplating. And his eyes catch upon the glitter peeking out of his pocket. One sublime jewel. He touches his stomach tenderly, remembering briefly. Very briefly, then he forgets and turns to summon one of them. 

  If anything, they can do make what they would of it, if anything he would embrace that title he shunned so long. And the throne would  fall to him[/I]

   They fall easily, like spinning tops losing their energy. Standing where everything falls, he sheaths the blade, his hand trailing across the smooth blade till he reaches the rounded texture of the set orb. Where the ash dances, stained to his hands once before. He doesn't look, but in his mind, he believes, he's a pathetic actor. 
[hr]

  He understands, he knows his brother. He holds onto him tightly and sniffles as he relays his thoughts over to him and reaffirms the sickening notion of their situation. They're alone. And Sleipnir knows his brother is right, they can't wait for a rescue any longer. His tears dry quickly as he pulls back from him and stares into his eyes. It's funny, they both got Daddy's eyes and not Papa's. He can't remember what Papa's eyes look like anymore, even the color now was wrong. Papa is all wrong and Daddy is gone and all he has is his brother to fuel him on. He held onto his brother, nods to him because it's hard to think or do anything else after having being flooded with the typhoon of his brother's thoughts and emotions. They clash for the first time against everything that he's felt, not in sync for the first time, but overwhelming. It overtakes his own thoughts and willingly he allows it because his brother is right, sounds right and god knows he needs something right. 

   They needed the others, Skylark was right. They needed to get out of this beautiful prison that held them. 

  "How?" He managed to gasp, holding tightly onto him. Panting, "How?" He repeated and turned his head up to stare at the endless ceiling above them, eyes searching through the infinite blue to find some flaw, some kink they could slip through. Papa...him, He had escaped in all the commotion. Surely, there was a way out for them. Somehow, they just had to get out, find the others..Could it be that easy?
[hr]

 The talk of machines and endless possibilities, he can't hear it. He just watches, above deck, lets the humans play about and make them believe what they do, they do only because he commands it. His army, he wonders, briefly, if that is all a king has. And his eyes flicker over to the human flapping his gums; he's nothing like him. Even all the scientific jargon he spews fails to sound even similar, without the passion, without the spark. His eyes are completely empty. Nothing like his. Contemplating, he falters, considers. Reaches out and pauses as he watches the machines below start to whir and continue their work, scraping and cutting. He watches them, remembers and pulls back to touch the hilt of his sword. No weaknesses.