Tempest King

"No, but he's attractive. Why is it that I can't admit as much, yet you can openly claim you'd sleep with my father if given the opportunity? Tell me Claude, which of us is truly more deplorable?" He lifts his voice ever so slightly, more incredulous than upset.

But worst was the thought of Shahid laying a hand on Dimitri. It makes his skin crawl.

And then he remembers one thing.

They weren't even married.

He reaches out for Dimitri's hand, trying to slip one of his father's heirlooms on it. A gold ring with copper finished, Almyran pines encircling the ruby gems embedded on it.

And yet, as the band slides into place, he already knows Claude is about to say something completely ridiculous, something guaranteed to test his patience.

Finding the pantry empty first thing in the morning was an ill-omen.

"Shahid is your type?" He doesn't even know if he wants to see his face in the mirror right now. First, Judith calling Nader handsome, and now... he has to deal with Dimitri.

"Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, I don't care if you're King of Faerghus or Unified Fodlan....

"No, but he's attractive. Why is it that I can't admit as much, yet you can openly claim you'd sleep with my father if given the opportunity? Tell me Claude, which of us is truly more deplorable?" He lifts his voice ever so slightly, more incredulous than upset.

Claude slips his arm around Felix's neck. He tries to get up on his good leg, knowing that he's heavier than he looks, all bundled up in thick cloth and cotton paddings. If he had to admit it to himself, he was surprised that Felix didn't just leave him there and left to fetch for help. That didn't sound like a completely unreasonable thing to do either, it'd just delay getting back. But still, he's amused to find that the swordsman didn't habour an iceberg as large as his reputation professed.

-

If Claude was asked who he'd considered his childhood friend, he would only say one name: Farangis, the name of his wyern. She's his pride and joy, his closest kin. He takes pleasure in showing her off to others. And so the instant Farangis descends from the skie with Leonie on her back, Claude's eyes brightens at the sight of his beloved daughter and member of the Golden Deer.

"Leonie! You're here." He beams, as if he's just returned from a vacation rather than a death's claws. "Well, that saves us the trouble of looking for you. You see, I'm almost out of commission." It's the most light-hearted joke he could muster right now, though Sylvain's healing magic had done some small miracles on his injuries. He doubts Felix would consent to pack-muling him if he was bleeding all over the place. "And, of course, " he adds in Almyran: "My beloved Farangis, you found me, of course you did. I am wounded, sadly, cannot walk so good right now… but do not worry, this friend of mine, he is taking me back to camp. You will give us a lift, yes? I knew I could count on you."

Farangis grunts, which seem frightening for whoever doesn't know her, but it's a friendly sound. She lowers herself and allows Leonie to hop off of her back to help Felix with Claude, but then Farangis leans in again, forwards, her large emerald eyes fixated on the raven-haired stranger.

Hmph.

A long, pink tongue slithers out of her jaws as she licks the stranger on his face.

"I like my feet firmly on the ground. Leonie can go with you. His tone leaves no room for negotiation. It wasn’t merely firm, but carried the unmistakable finality of someone who has already made up their mind. No amount of pleading, persuasion, or ridicule was going to convince Felix to willingly climb onto the back of that overgrown lizard.

…

Before long, the group resumed their journey toward the heart of Derdriu. With Claude astride Farangis and Felix mounted on Leonie's horse, they covered far more ground than they ever could have on foot.

As they left the outskirts of the blast zone behind, the city slowly began to emerge from the haze. Buildings that had escaped the Javelin of Light still stood, their foundations untouched, though nearly every rooftop and windowsill had been dusted in ash and soot carried on the wind. Save for their smoke blackened facades, they remained remarkably intact, a stark contrast to the devastation they'd left behind.

The distant rumble of armored boots and pounding hooves echoed through the streets, causing the group to instinctively slow their pace. Hands drifted closer to weapons, every shadow suddenly worthy of suspicion.

Then, all at once, a flash of pink burst into view.

A soldier followed in toe, hurtling toward them atop a galloping steed. As the distance closed, Felix recognised Hilda in the lead with Ashe riding alongside her. The pair called out their names almost in unison, their voices carrying equal measures of panic and overwhelming relief.

Dimitri halted a few paces away from the group, his battalion coming to a stop behind him as he observed the scene unfolding before him. Hilda immediately rushed toward Claude, throwing herself at him with a mixture of relief and lingering worry, while Ashe exchanged hurried words with Sylvain and Felix. It was only as reassurances were heard that the three were all unharmed and free of any serious injuries did the tension gradually begin to leave Hilda and Ashe’s shoulders.

Dimitri’s attention eventually drifted toward Leonie, and noticed the unusual care she was taking while assisting Claude. His gaze followed her movements before settling on the exposed section of Claude's tibia where fabric had been torn away. His brow furrowed, lips pressing into a thin line of concern.

the subject of their discussion that day seemed rather innocuous at first - but there seemed to be a kind of uncertainty and hope that lingered underneath the surface of dimitri's question. the topic? did fenris ever find it difficult when dealing with their female classmates?

it was tactfully worded, mindful not to include a question of like or dislike - but rather, if the boy had a difficulty with it. it wasn't a matter of want then, or there lack of, but perhaps a question of some innate feeling that wasn't so logically explained away. an ineptitude, whether real or imagined; by one's measure or by society's. in the sparring ring, sweat finally upon their brows after many rows of training together, fenris slowed his assault. finally, he stood at rest and lowered his weapon. now seemed a good time for a break, so with a head tilt towards the benches, fenris led his "friend" away. with the noise of others still practicing, the distance of their chosen seat, and the intimidation factor of the both of them combined - there was little worry of anyone eavesdropping.

nevertheless, as fenris began the task of rewrapping the bandages around his arms, he picked at the question with a thoughtful seriousness. his verdict was a slow and quiet confirmation, his voice coming out raspy from disuse.

The words had escaped on impulse, but the impulse itself had not been without purpose. Somewhere beneath the uncertainty he already knew what he had been searching for. Reassurance. Validation. The faint hope that someone else might understand, that there existed another person cut from the same cloth, burdened by the same inclinations that so often left him feeling isolated. Even as the words left his mouth, he knew he'd handled the subject poorly. Rather than tossing it aside as an inconsequential curiosity, he'd hovered over it with an almost guilty forewarming, his voice lowered as though he were confessing some shameful secret instead of asking a simple question. It was a habit he could never quite shake. No matter how carefully he cultivated an air of indifference, no matter how diligently he flattened the telltale inflections from his voice or schooled his expression into practiced composure, something always seemed to betray him. Those gifted with keen perception inevitably would notice the hesitation lingering beneath his words. He had yet to determine whether he'd drawn enough attention to himself to betray the true complexity of his intentions. If he were to judge the situation honestly, however, he suspected Fernis had gleaned at least something. The man had always been far too perceptive to miss the weight hidden beneath an otherwise ordinary question. Still, there was no coaxing, no baited hook meant to draw the truth from him. There was no need. Dimitri had already been prepared to offer it of his own accord. His hands curled into tight fists where they rested, sweat beading along his brow as he sat in tense silence, willing himself to gather the courage to speak. When the answer finally came, it was exactly what he had expected. Measured, concise, and frustratingly vague. Not dishonest, merely careful. It was a pattern he had grown accustomed to over time, one he knew better than to resent, yet he couldn't quite keep the flicker of disappointment from crossing his features. The corners of his mouth dipped almost imperceptibly as uncertainty crept back into his thoughts. If Fernis intended to remain behind carefully chosen words, perhaps Dimitri had been mistaken to believe he could entrust him with what weighed upon his own mind after all. Yet it wasn't fear that settled in his chest, either. If anything, it was something quieter, more difficult to name. Loneliness, perhaps. The hollow ache that came from realising he might have mistaken someone he assumed to be like-minded, who he had hoped could become a confidant. "I feel much the same," he begins softly, his gaze fixed on the students still crossing blades in the training grounds. Steel rings against steel in the distance while his hands fidget idly in his lap, betraying the composure his voice attempts to maintain. "However…" He pauses, swallowing around the words before forcing them out. "I don't think that's something that will ever come to pass." The admission hangs heavily between them, spoken with quiet resignation.

Dorothea is nothing short of curious. One says it must kill the cat, disembowel it until there is but a warm cavity, but she thinks otherwise: why, if the cat is so nimble – an escape artist that weaves through the nooks and crannies of its obstacles – must it meet such an untimely demise? Curiosity, in fact, can benefit the cat, much like how it benefits Dorothea: a particular insight into the minds of those around her, revealing information as the layers peel away. And so, here she is, eyeing the heir to the dukedom of Fraldarius from the training grounds, mindlessly interrupting her own practice. From her two-minute observations, he seems guarded and tense; quite the wail from his body language, a tell of a jewel worth looking into. Besides, what harm could it do to keep him company?

“So,” a melodic note in the midst of a silence near-impenetrable, “I much like to experiment with rapiers and broadswords–” she prances to him, a sweet bit of honey to the step of her boots, and raises her head to meet what stare he prepares: disinterest, indifference, it only fuels her desire for something more. She holds the latter aforementioned sword in her hand, decorated with a thin blade that sparks minute gleams in the light and an artistic twist in the smooth bronze of its hilt, allowing for the enrapture of delicate fingers. It rests a heavy weight on her wrist, adorned with golden bangles that clang into one another with every movement, but it becomes a sort-of comfort. Emerald irises flit from the weapon to the dark-haired boy before her, all cantankerous with a focus a thousand miles away from Dorothea’s voice. How rude: the utmost thought in her conscience. “Felix, is it? What do you think?”

She, however, is an exception to the rule: counterfeit emotions are just rickety fences, worn cherrywood and barbed wire – to fold would be to admit defeat, and Dorothea wants to bear the weight of the crown, even if it pierces her skull with precious jewels. She maneuvers, lowering her sword until the blade scrapes against stone, but does not change her stance. If it’s a spar he wants, she will not falter.

“How about we turn it into a bit of a game?” And there, she starts. Featherlight steps taking turns into creating a circle around him, inquisitive eyes brushing over the golden details of his uniform: simple yet refined, long ivory sleeves to obscure and an open collar to exhibit. “We can spar, as you wish, but if I win, you owe me a conversation.”

Her lips curl into an impish smile, gaze nearly obscured by the shadow of her hat’s brim – is it foolish confidence, or is she truly intrigued by his character enough to risk it? Easy to define, complex to determine. “My skirt doesn’t hinder me from taking you on.”

Her legs cross as she reappears in front of him, and she reaches to remove her hat; it’s tossed to a wooden bench behind them, a haphazard landing that does less to humiliate her than being met with such resistance from another. Returning to an adequate distance from Felix, boots planted shoulder-width apart, body turned sideways as she raises her sword again, extending her wrist to point it toward him.

His grip on the hilt slackens for the briefest moment before tightening once more, his attention caught by the dissonance, a mellifluous voice paired with the way she circles him like a shark sizing up its prey. The sway of her long, diaphanous curls and the rhythmic swish of her skirt draw his eye, leaving him to wonder how she intends to fight with such encumbrances.

Perhaps they would hinder her less than he imagined—the skirt, at least. The hair, however, he felt certain would prove troublesome. He'd taken his own hair across the face often enough after a loose tie unraveled mid battle, and it had never been anything short of infuriating.

The vivid emerald of her eyes reminds him unbiddenly of a certain scheming house leader. The resemblance is striking enough to give him pause, yet the likeness ends there. To him, her sheen is softer, more candid, more forthcoming, imbued with an easy whimsy that doesn't feel manufactured. They’re also bright, almost disarmingly so while also being unconcealed, as though she had little interest in masking what passes through her mind. It's a quality he finds unexpectedly refreshing.

"You'd better hope that's the case," he says, his smile sharpening ever so slightly. "Because I'm not going easy on you."

Every step she takes is anticipated. His body tenses and relaxes in measured intervals as he lowers his stance, knees bending while his sword remains poised for either a sudden strike or an immediate defense. His gaze stays fixed beyond the point of her blade rather than on the weapon itself, reading her posture, her movement, the subtle shifts that might betray her intent.

His mind works through the possibilities in silence. Should he seize the initiative and strike first, or allow her to make the opening move? Either choice carried its own merit. Even if she proved to be little more than a novice, it mattered little. If he could still place his blade at a vital point with speed and precision, then he could at least be assured his instincts had not dulled. And if the exchange lasted beyond that and she forced him to adapt and truly engage, then it would prove enlightening in its own right.

Though there would be a small sting to his pride if she managed it. "Luck is for fools, if you wish to have any chance of beating me, then don't neglect your blade."