He finds himself standing by the ocean, cool waves lapping at toes as twilight falls over the lilac kingdom, bathing it in shades of indigo and wine. A few feet behind him lay a pile of various seashells of white and turquoise and cream and periwinkle and gold

(what about red, runaway prince?)

The healer tilts his head up to the sky with wine eyes closed, silver moonlight kissing scarred cheeks and haloing silvery locks — hints of tattoos glow, almost silver. (what about red, Angel?). For a moment, Anglachel dreams of colder waters. Of little flowers. Of stargazing. Of hushed whispers and braids of dark hair.

Of gold — BUT WHAT ABOUT RED, ANGLACHEL?

Eyes open and staring back at him are red eyes and red tattoos and for a moment the smell of poppies wash over him. Jaws snap at salty water, rendering his reflection unrecognizable before breaking into a run. It's awkward and clumsy, the waves throwing him off balance the deeper he goes, but Anglachel continues forward until water crashes against his ribs and soaks locks of silver. He continued forward until only the scent of salt remains, ducking his head beneath the waves, once, twice. Three times. He yells beneath waves, muffles his scream beneath the roaring water in his ears and mouth. Until all he can see is dark indigos and specks of starlight.

The healer is coughing and heaving for breath by the time he turns and makes it back to shore. He doesn't feel any better, but the sting in his throat and lungs is a welcome distraction.

It doesn't last long as his wine red gaze falls upon the shells he had collected earlier, now scattered across the beach with some having been reclaimed by the ocean. "Ah." Sighing, Anglachel sits, gently prodding at one of the remaining shells with a blank expression upon his tired features. But something catches his attention, and from the corner of his eye the healer sees his braid of silver and a lock of dark ebony hair coming undone — likely by the rough waves. "Oh no." Dread sinks in, and he reaches to it with a phantom pain slicing through his missing limb — and frustrated tears threaten to fall down ruined cheeks.

"No no no, dammit."

---

The war had almost been a fragment in the forgotten depths of the Queen’s mind.

It had it’s own place there, tucked away in a painful memory of so much tragedy and distress. It felt like eons ago, when many faces she once knew so well were gone. So many needless sacrifices were made; eyes, ears, limbs, lives. Xenia remembered herself as a different person then, more meek and lost; simply a healer who hadn’t unlocked her destiny yet. Was becoming a Queen destiny, or simply happenstance? Xenia tried not to think on it too much. She never wanted to doubt Ghost’s trust in her, nor Haven’s, nor herself. Things were good.

She had a mate, a new family; things were looking up. The war was the bottom of the pit they all climbed out of, and those who didn’t would forever be honoured. At the end of it all she was still a small, foreign girl with a love for healing and helping, somehow finding her life’s path into Inaria and settling into the blessed life she had now. If she had told her young self she’d been Queen one day, she would’ve giggled, as if it were some silly story or a pipe dream.

That some parallel life seemed to be hard to imagine for a Saboran.

Happiness wasn’t hard to achieve in the right places.

In her path of memories she was brought to the beach, recalling the sandy afternoon spent with Ghost and Sage. It was a meeting of friends, but Xenia knew in those playful days that something more had blossomed in her heart. Ghost was more than just a friend, more than just a King, then. Oh, how shy and timid she once was. He helped her grow, he helped her design the shoes of a Queen she now stepped into. The sweet saltiness washed over her nose and she felt at ease.

But the beach wasn’t empty, and another had been cleansing their mind with the healing properties of the sea. At least, trying to.

It was an unfamiliar face, Xenia welcomed the idea of newcomers, nomads who migrated to the land of purple trees— just as she once was. Slowly approaching the stranger, she’d realized the tragedy of his life’s wounds; only seeing three legs now as he become more clear. He had a story to tell, a long one it seemed, as the scars adorned his body like markings, a telling of a hard life.

But he was in a haven now. Ever the optimist, she was.

"No no no, dammit."

Xenia heard the quiet chanting of sadness, approaching closer having not yet seen the marring across the blue man’s face, but the water dripping down his silver locks. “Is everything alright?” Xenia craned her head forward, looking for his face, eyes, something to make a better connection while communicating.

Moving now, she shifted around him, just barely managing to catch a glimpse at his face. Sown between layers of scars was those glaring, painful, red tattoos just like the brutish Saborans who stormed upon their lands. Xenia sucked in the air around her in a gasp. She remained calm, rationalizing with herself as to how and why a Saboran would be standing on Inaria beaches.

Panicking would do no one favours, so instead, she masked her fear with a smile and quietly asked again. “Can I help you?”

---