as it must be

eideslanze​:

          He can’t say he had missed experiencing rainfall very much, coming off the heels of Zofia’s years-long drought. As a boy, it often meant staying indoors all day ( to his immense displeasure ), and as an adult it is more of the same, barring circumstances that necessitate otherwise. Suffice to say, it is one of the few things in his life that haven’t changed at all, in spite of the frequency with which he finds his world turned on its head.

          An entire year, undone but not forgotten. Fernand would have thought it utterly absurd if not for the uneasy, haunted looks from students and colleagues alike, if not for the jumble of lives he never lived still impressed into his memory and seeping into his dreams at night. If not for the certainty with which he knows he should not be so alive and whole—but he is, and somehow… life goes on. The sheer simplicity of the statement still takes him by surprise, every now and then.

          But his thoughts are straying. Of more pressing concern is the downpour steadily drenching him from head to toe and souring his mood, having caught him unawares in the midst of a reprieve from tedious desk work. He’d not had the foresight to carry an umbrella with him; by the time someone had taken pity on him and lent one of theirs, it’d hardly made any difference whether he used it or not. Gloved fingers grip the handle a fraction too tightly, only mindful enough to keep the tip of his still-dry umbrella from dragging along the ground in his haste to return to his quarters; only when a glimpse of rain-dampened red draws his notice does Fernand pause in his tracks.

          “Cordelia,” he acknowledges in kind, looking only a little less like the world had personally seen fit to ruin his day. She wields her umbrella as if it were a sword, a hint of humor in her implied challenge, and his instinctive reaction is to say that they’re far too old for children’s games—but he doesn’t. His next thought after is to advise against dawdling in the rain lest one or both of them catch a cold, and that too is reconsidered. Instead, Fernand gives his own umbrella a short swing, as if to shake off the droplets clinging to it before leveling the tip in her direction. They can’t be any more soaked than they already are, anyway. “Is that a challenge I hear, milady? It may not be a lance, but you’ll find I’m quite capable with a sword as well.”

Of all the responses she had thought to get from her fellow professor, acceptance had sat quite comfortably at the bottom of the list. He’d a reputation for sternness that by and far outclassed her own, and though the knight was aware of their some few commonalities-- had Fernand of all people truly just deigned to accept her jovial challenge? 

She blinked... and then she smirked, a light faintly sparkling in her eyes. Though a duel in earnest had been far from her expectation, it could never be said that Cordelia did not prepare for every outcome meticulously-- nor that she did not make her challenges in earnest; unexpected most certainly did not mean unprepared. Her ‘blade’ lifted, water still clinging to it in unsteady drops (a lovely aesthetic, she thought, murmurs of dewdrop swords begging to join the memory of seashell lances). 

“I would never do you the dishonor of thinking otherwise.” Scarlet eyes were soon to narrow, a sharp and smoldering delight in the leveling of her umbrella to match his. She spoke true; not for one moment had she considered him an unworthy opponent, and, though she would not so swiftly admit it, the thought of dueling him even with props was quite intriguing... though she was sure to best him in, ah, ‘having fun.’

Then she lunges. It does sound rather dramatic when she puts it like that, does it not? But her lips curled slightly, mouth parted in a breathless laugh when even dramatics earn her a face swathed with water flung from her own weapon. She stabbed the air to the side of him (’twould be rude to slap her coworker with a polkadot bruise for want of entertainment on a dreary day), twirled her arm and flicked her wrist, and the umbrella (so much nimbler than a steel blade!) stops between them, momentum showering them both in raindrops. ...Not that it made much difference.

Cordelia-- gods help her, she could not help herself-- fought back a fleeting smile, though one corner of her mouth still gave a telltale quirk as she fled back a step. 

“More familiar faces you say? The splendor, the greatness that awaits for me within this walls! Along with a hero’s gauntlet? I, Hero of iron obstinance, will do no faltering in the slightest! I wield the sword of catastrophe that strikes through the soul of vindictive wickedness!”

Oh, he was losing himself in his speech, again. Suddenly stopping, he took another bite with a mumble. “-After more of this delicious food.” His voice was quiet as a mouse.

With the speed he was eating at? It seemed he was going to be almost done, already. Was that bad? It meant he enjoyed the food, but he’d also probably end up sick in the end…

The line of her lips flattened a bit as Ylisse’s very own legendary hero wolfed down his food, the urge to warn him about the risks of eating too quickly summarily stamped down. Mother hen though she undoubtedly was, there was a line to be drawn somewhere, and she was loathe to cross it.

...Well, mostly. “I haven’t the right leaves here, but I’d recommend having some tea when you can.” Ah, gods, but she really couldn’t resist meddling, could she? “It’s quite popular here at the academy. You’ll find no small selection of tins at the market, if you’re looking for somewhere to go after this.” 

With the plate swiftly emptied, she hooked her fingers beneath its rim, rising from her seat in a fluid motion. Already turning to make her way to the kitchen, she paused, flashing a quiet smile at the boy.

dutybounded​:

        The corners of her eyes crinkled, taking with her every last inch of his heart—springtime was in its nature, one of folly and servitude, but if she was so contented he would choose to be a fool each time. She knew not that the nature of both his requests were earnest. There were moments where being apart from her was unbearable, and to ask for more time was a wish ambitious enough to implore for an entire field of ribbons to hang. But, of course, what was a wish to a woman with the moon on her shoulders?

        Her arched brow dashed the last of his hope of getting away with asking for just company (and her company, so just, walked beside him unwavering.). He would see to it then, to come up with a wish fitting for his wife, of whom bubbled in the likeness of a well-loved, well-walked summer. “Drat.” The smile did not match the words, and how he smiled, indeed. “A mistake? In your company? I am beside myself.”

        There is hardly a mistake between the two of them, bestowed with a diligence to the highest regard of life, action, and pursuit of grime. While she whited out the blots in the sky, opponents to His Highness— predators and the likes— he, too, ironed out every slightly demeanor in sight. The nature of her compassion was one steepled in dedication to her craft, and an understanding that acuity secured less casualties and far-spanning lives for those who deserved the world. So to even suggest mistakes was laughable, and almost worth moving to tears. (Of joy? Melancholy? Who was to say?)

        But the smile did not match the thought either.  For as they walked a fresh spring, her cheeks were powdered in rosy thunder, enough to take any means of rapport right from under his wings. She winked and he hardly had a breath to spare. Frederick was slightly taken aback by it all, though in his memories he remembered she loved in ways he hung onto with every word.  Romantic in nature, clear in intention, lost in the ways of the past. He summoned two brooms from the staff stall, contemplating if it was truly the trick of the light.

        “I found you instantly,” He confessed, undisguised to his own desires. Her laughter jingled like bells and he took note that the only wrinkles he would never iron were the ones around her eyes. “Which was a relief, given that I was just about ready to scour the entire grounds to see you.”

        “How have you been? Were the scarves I sent you to your liking?” He had knit plenty while planted in the thought of her crescent moon smile. Strewn to the side were plenty with the wrong knots and worn out edges that were thusly donated to his recruits.

        Frederick encountered many a-question, though he evidently wished to keep the conversation as palpably desirable as possible. So instead, he slowed their stroll, pacing himself in precise sweeps lest he miss even a moment more of her. Of every season, he found that spring matched her longing the most. And because he longed, with ardor, for that longing, he lingered in spring until it consumed him.  Until the sun hit her silhouette and profusely spread over her, like a gossamer halo.

        “…Has there been anything memorable you wish to share of your time spent here?” Can you tell me again how you’ve missed me?

Guilt stuck to her brush in pallid shades, a sickly pigment splashed upon the canvas of her emotion. Every easy and earnest declaration a dab of paint to paper, every stroke a frigid scar struck through the tender warmth of spring and sunset; and yet at the same time each touch grew lighter, as color did naturally fade from the thistles. It yet remained on her easel (she doubted she would ever be free of it), but she wondered: through all his gentle professions, would Frederick grow tired of it? 

It was selfish of her to hope he wouldn’t. Indubitably so. Nevertheless, it was the emotion she hoped he would outgrow-- not her. More than anything, she did not want to wash away the wonder of him beneath some trite lamentation. He was vivid, beautifully so, in ways he did not know, and she would paint the picture of him in gratitude. 

“I would have come to greet you,” she said, the realization striking her partway through and smoothly glossed over. ...On the outside, at least; the gods did not heed her wish and strike her for a fool, so she assumed her cover remained intact. “At the very least, I could have cooked something for you.” A feast, if she got her way-- perhaps a picnic beneath the stars, huddled around a campfire. And they would feed their leftovers to the strays...

Her lips quirked. “They were perfect. You know my favorite colors to the very shade.” As if any other scarf could do! Even her own paled in comparison to his fastidious needlework-- oh, gods, but she would have to hide them away before he entered their room... 

And fastidious he still proved to be in every manner, the pace of his steps curated to a slower tempo. As if he would ever prove so lackadaisical in his work! She hid a giggle behind her hand, fingers smoothly curled o’er her lips in a flawless presentation of thought. 

“Memorable, hmm...?” Strangely enough, she found that there wasn’t. Just as he was the one to whom she wished to tell her stories, so too was he the one she wished to tell stories of; for all the myriad things she had experienced in her time away from him, many of them plenty fascinating in their own right, Cordelia now found herself at a loss. 

“Honestly!” She laughed again, head turned down and away as if to hide the sound. It was the opposite hand that drew up, knuckles brushed gingerly against her cheek, smile hidden behind the turn of her palm toward him. Never mind the odd unease that coiled in her gut-- Frederick was here at last; was it not time to be celebrating? “It’s strange, really. The past months didn’t seem quite so dull when I was living them, but now I can’t think of anything that bears mentioning. Though, I suppose someone interesting did show up recently...” 

So too did the joke end with a laugh, a meaningful chuckle swept away with the dirt and debris as she pulled playfully free of his orbit. Inhale, exhale; the cloying feeling in her throat soon passed, and she returned to her most natural, a quiet smile carried through their work. 

Wow, he got food on a plate? High quality stuff. Grasping the skewer with a gentle hand, he was about to dig in, but then- A raise of his pinky finger. Politeness before his hunger, right? Either way, Owain took a bite, listening to her speak. The flavor of the dish filling his mouth, spreading like a wildfire across his tongue. It was amazing! Not like he was much of a critic, though, but still.

Swallowing, the blonde nodded at Cordelia. “Right, it’s not my intention to slack at anything, here. How else will I prove my mettle?”

He didn’t even need to clean up the dishes? He felt a bit bad for having her do so much work, but… if she says so.

“I’m still a bit amazed to see you, if I’m fully honest. Not to say I’m unhappy. The opposite. Maybe this place can be like… home. If only for a brief moment in time.” His tone got more dramatic near the end there, but he was very serious.

Cordelia’s hand rose to her mouth when he stuck his pinky out, a laugh sealed behind and lips pressed against her thumb. Well, at least he seemed happy. She was a capable chef at the least, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever seen someone eat her food with such gusto. It would be nice if she could fix something Severa enjoyed just as much... 

Her smile briefly waned, though it returned in its subtle splendor after a shake of her head. It was enough right now that she’d been able to prepare something for one of their wayward Shepherds, and she would take solace in that.

no greater calling

This was going far more smoothly than Elincia had anticipated.

Her blow had been swift and solid enough to knock the man unconscious. He was still breathing, thankfully, meaning he could provide useful evidence to the church upon their return. They had to work quickly and leave before his comrades gave chase, but Cordelia has him tied up and over her shoulder within a minute at most. Elincia had to marvel at the knight’s impressive strength as she carried him over her shoulder, as though he was no heavier than her lance.

Speaking of, she scrambled for the lance in the snow and the… oh Ashunera, that thing was pulsating like a beating heart– the mage’s weapon. An axe, heavy and bleeding green. A similar shade to her own hair. Elincia shuddered briefly and decided she would simply have to avoid looking at it, or paying it any mind as they walked. It was the least she could do.

“Got them both,” her whisper disrupted crystals of ice in the air but was soft enough to be muffled by the sounds of nature buffering them from the enemy camp. They had to make haste, lest they end up in close quarter combat with the mage’s allies. Best to leave, now they had what they came for and more. Bringing the man in was going above and beyond their duties. “Lead the way, milady.”

They walked in silence - Elincia would have liked to celebrate a job well done with Lady Cordelia but they couldn’t afford to linger or be caught. To draw anymore attention. Elincia is careful to tread lightly, feet soft and gentle despite their hurried pace. She conjures holy magic to paint the snow behind them to disrupt their footprints. To keep their trail covered for as long as possible.

Until they’re safe and sound.

It occurred to her only after she’d asked that she’d left the more unsettling of the tasks to Elincia, the briefest apologetic glance sent her way before Cordelia adjusted the man’s weight on her shoulder and began trudging forward as briskly and silently as she could. 

“My apologies,” she whispered as they walked, “I didn’t mean to leave you with the mage’s weapon.” She had simply known she could handle his weight and thus taken it, not wanting to waste the time of asking if Elincia could do the same. It was part of her duty as the girl’s professor to take on the more difficult task... but was it not difficult in its own right to handle something so atrocious? 

And she used her magic to sweep their trail as well, all without being asked. Smart, strong girl. She would go far as a warrior if that was what she wished; she’d hardly needed Cordelia at all. There would be time to praise her, once they rejoined the others-- to let her know just how superbly she’d done. It was essential, the little lady genius thought, to honestly let those who looked to her for guidance know when they did well. After all, could she truly call herself an instructor, let alone one day a commander, if she did not raise their spirits along with their skills? 

But for now, they passed quietly through the endless snow, in search of their comrades and safety. How long had passed, she did not know, but in time silhouettes sprung from the darkness of brush on the horizon, and her eyes lit up as she turned to Elincia. 

no greater calling

Elincia raised her head, tawny eyes gazing through a fringe of verdant hair up at Cordelia. The hand on her shoulder feels warm and solid. Comforting and confident. She reads between the lines of the elder’s words and nods solemnly. They couldn’t guarantee the man’s life, that much she understood and accepted. She would never ask Cordelia to risk her own life to protect their foe’s but if possible… he was more use to them alive.

She sneaks backwards, crouched under bushes an between trees. She watched Cordelia closely as she struck the tree and dipped under cover. Their eyes met and they waited patiently for the sound of footsteps crunching through the snow. A couple of minutes later, one of the mages appeared, still hooded in his robes. His back was turned to her and Elincia realised she had an opening. Twisting her sword in her hand, she clasped the hilt and prepared to jump out before he noticed Cordelia’s crimson hair was not holly sprouting in a winter landscape.

One, two, three - she leapt out of the bushes, standing behind the cloaked figure and drove the hilt of her sword into the base of his head. He moved to turn in surprise but dropped to his knees with a hearty grunt.

Elincia’s face coloured immediately - she was supposed to wait for the signal. He seemed to linger a little too long, a little too close to her partner though. Adrenaline had turned to ice in her veins and Elincia had seen a moment of weakness and taken it.

She’ll accept a thorough scolding once they’re done with this man.

Cordelia did not even have time to raise her hand before Elincia seized the moment and struck a single solid blow to the back of the stranger’s skull. Without so much as a sound, he dropped to the ground, a graceless and still heap of limbs and cloth soaked red by the weapon they curled over. Well, she thought, that was surprisingly efficient. 

First things first: to divest this man of his weapon. With quick and purposeful motions, the redhead turned his body away from the-- eugh-- weapon, if it could truly be called that. A sharp kick of her boot sent it some few feet further in the snow, her hand flicked briefly in its direction in silent indication. They had but a few minutes at the most before the man’s comrades came looking for him, and she would make the most of them. 

With a single jab, Cordelia pierced a hole in the man’s cloak, kneeling down to hook her fingers through it and rip a long section of the cloth from the garment. She wasted no time in binding the man’s wrists as securely as she could, double and triple checking it before tearing a second strip away (the poor man’s cloak was mangled now, but the fabric was relatively cheap anyway). Ever conscious of the passage of time, she hastily bound his ankles for good measure, huffed once--

--then slung the man over her shoulders and stood upright.

no greater calling

“That could work, if we act quickly enough,” she murmured softly, looking to the trees behind them. There were a myriad of trees covered in snow but they’d need to pick one that was already straining under the frosty weight. A simple tug on a branch could make just enough noise to draw the interest of a lone guard. “We may only need to knock one unconscious and steal his weapon but I’d wager it might help with the analysis if we bring back it’s wielder as well.”

That would be the best case scenario - in and out like a flash, carrying away one of those repugnant looking weapons and its owner before the others even noticed he was gone. By the time they realised, she and Cordelia could be well on their way back to the monastery. On the other hand… they may end up fighting all three guards to the death. Spilling crimson blood and staining the pure ivory snow around them. Elincia would rather avoid needless death. So little is known about these people that she’d like to presume their innocence, until proven otherwise. She isn’t naive enough to ignore how suspiciously they behave, how their weapons make her want to weep just looking at them, so violent and twisted they are. Even if they were indeed wicked men indulging in wicked dreams, that did not make them irredeemable.

She’d rather not extinguish their lives if at all possible. Whether that would be necessary though was out of her hands.

Elincia began taking careful, slow steps backwards through the snow. It came past her ankles and she had always been a touch clumsy on solid ground. Her eyes had to focus on the canopy above them, searching for their perfect target. 

“I think your idea is perfect. Unless you can whinny like a pegasus convincingly,” she giggled quietly, coming to a pause underneath a large, snowcapped pine, It was far enough away they couldn’t be seen at least. It seemed an ideal location to set their plan into motion. (Well, Cordelia’s plan. Elincia was just here to help things go smoothly.) “I can’t. I sound more like a crying cat. I think we should stick with your idea.”

“Indeed.” They were on similar pages, it seemed, though on this point Elincia was likely the more sensible of the two. Just one captive was enough, if they could manage it; though capturing all three would be ideal, it was infeasible-- let alone transporting three unconscious bodies afterward! Temperance, she reminded herself. If they strove to accomplish more than they were able, they might very well lose it all. “Whether they talk or not, there’s plenty of information to be gained.” 

An odd silence fell upon them, and the elder knight watched her student’s face change. Was she worried about the mages, perhaps? Opposed to violence as she was, it would only make sense. Her expression softened.

“...Elincia.” She placed a hand upon her shoulder, the guise of comfort awkwardly fit upon her expression, but no less earnest for it. “I’ll do what I can to see that this passes without incident.” Not as direct as saying ‘to make sure he doesn’t die,’ but ten times more graceful, at least. Having said her piece, the Ylissean forged ahead, scanning the boughs for any that were heavy with snow. 

“Heh... No, I’m afraid I haven’t practiced my animal calls lately. If only.” Shifting the weight of her lance in her hands, she pointed toward a tree whose branches looked particularly weighty. “There. See? I’ll knock the snow from that one. Get in position.” 

True to her word, she lashed out at the branch with a quick strike of her lance, the tip of it dragged down by the immediate flurry of snow that collapsed upon the ground. It met their expectations handily, the sound of it carried across the still of winter, and Cordelia ducked into the cover of the scant foliage remaining. Holding a finger to her lips, she whispered: 

no greater calling

Hidden beneath branches and bushes, Elincia let out a resigned sigh. It seemed that any attempts to avoid bloodshed would be foolhardy, putting her and her partner at greater risk than necessary. She could not, in good conscience, ask Cordelia to put both their lives at risk just because of her own aversion to violence. There were times it was necessary to raise one’s blade, to stand defiant against wrongdoers and villains. Even if the world was not nearly as black and white as the fairytales she read as a child.

“I understand. I doubt these mages would just let us take their weapons so easily,” she whispered softly, not wishing to draw attention to them. They needed the advantage of surprise to be on their side if they wished to pull off the feat they came here for. Charging in recklessly was also too dangerous. They’d be swamped within seconds under the tide of raging foes. “I think we should try to lure them out. It seems the safest option we have.”

Without thinking, her hand found the hilt of the sword resting at her hip. Elincia would steel herself for battle, no matter how gruesome. No matter how much she wished to look away. This was their mission and come hell or high water, it would be completed.

“I’m sure the church would like to question them but… I don’t think we have the means to bring them in with us.” Unfortunate but the had been asked to retrieve the weaponry, not bring these people in peacefully. It seemed whatever they were made of… whatever it was that was pulsing and bleeding in their hands, was something the church desired more than those wielding them.

How to draw them out though?

“Do you have any plans, Lady Cordelia? I expect we’ll need to grab their attention but only so much as would warrant a single soldier to investigate.”

At Elincia’s concession, Cordelia let out a silent breath, relieved and regretful in equal measure. Of course, it would be ideal if they could apprehend the ‘mages’ without violence, but she suspected ideals had been lost the moment those vile weapons had been created. 

“...Not so fast,” the redhead murmured, eyes narrowing. “If we can render them unconscious... It’s a bit unorthodox, but we could tear strips of cloth from their cloaks to bind their hands until we bring them back to the others. From there, it will be much easier to deal with them.” Though there was still the matter of getting them there, but... it was better for whoever had sent them to think them dead than for any of them to make it back to wherever they reported to. 

Faced with the group’s backs once more, Cordelia silently rose, lance in hand. “Sound is our safest option. We need something loud enough to catch their attention, but innocuous enough that they’ll doubt it’s anything important. And just far enough away to draw them out of sight of their comrades, too. It’s a tall order, but even if they see us, we can probably take one of them down before the other two make it to us, if we’re quick.” 

A furtive glance cast to their surroundings, a piercing flame spread across a snowy landscape. “Hmm...

Truth be told, Nohrian rivers were often polluted with unsavory remains and dirt, so that is where his sudden craving came from.

Turning the corner along with her, he gazed at these old walls, before facing his companion once more.

“I shall await your finely-tuned cuisine, then.” They arrived soon enough, Leading Owain to take the seat closest by the kitchen.

“Thank you, again..!” His words left him, unpolluted by words of grandeur. He was simply grateful.

“These long tables must have housed so many potential heroes, and I am sitting by their astral remains..!”

He was mostly chatting to himself, but wow..! He was brimming with excitement, He might be tapping his foot against the floor because of it, fingers moving idly.

It was a surprisingly easy thing, procuring the supplies she needed; with the abundance of supplies the monastery could boast of, even decent skewers were not so difficult to find in its kitchen-- and with such a simple request, it was not long until she had it on a plate (yes, a plate; skewers or no, she would not have him lack for a clean place to set them down) set neatly in front of him.

“There we are,” she announced with little bravado, though the corners of her lips did curl faintly. “And there’s no need to thank me, really. It’s good to see another familiar face. Although...” 

Making her way to the other side, she sat across from him, elbow propped upon the table and her chin upon her knuckles as she waited for him to eat. “If you must pay me back, you could always do so by getting good grades and plenty of rest.” A pause. “Er, astral...?” 

no greater calling

Elincia pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders to guard from the cold. Her breath danced in the air, sparkling and glittering. Beautiful but ultimately deadly - a hint she was there in hiding. She took tentative steps in the snow, following Cordelia’s lead and tried not to worry that no matter how lightly she tread, she was leaving a trail behind her. It was so quiet - those strange mages silent as the dead that she was scared to speak. Jumped even when Cordelia’s whispers reached her ear.

Bleeding? Weapons don’t bleed.

She craned her neck, trying to get a better look and cursed her distinct lack of stature. Trees and bushes hampered her vision but if she squinted she could just about see from where she stood. Bloodstains on cloaks. Sinew and tendons, connecting what looked like ancient bones to poles. Seeping scarlet, leaking from the bones slowly like tar. Drip by drip. It was even in the snow! Elincia had to stifle a gasp with her hands, horrified at the sight before. Those odd, misshapen weapons seemed to stretch and contract, like they were one alive, as though they still were!

She feels sickened and needs to take a moment to right her breathing. Quietly, she whispers a prayer to Ashunera for the souls of whatever had been cleaved apart so cruelly by these eerie ‘mages’.

“Lady Cordelia, what should we do?” Elincia whispered, barely audible above the howling winds. She knew of course that the church would want to examine these weapons, needed intelligence on their foes. In her heart, she feels that they cannot allow these people to keep something so dangerous and twisted. Cannot allow them to use these weapons to terrorise Fodlan. “I know we should try and retrieve them but… would it be possible to avoid a fight?” She was unsure, didn’t want to resort to violence unless necessary but… how would they pry them from their cloaked adversaries without a fight?

“To avoid a fight...” Cordelia repeated, half to herself. It was neither question nor confirmation, her tone gently even as she kept her eyes forward; she did not believe it was possible, but there were less blunt ways to tell someone so clearly wished to avoid a conflict. 

“It would be very difficult,” she warned, sinking into the brush as their quarry paused a moment and turned. She was quite proud of her hair, but in this specific moment she rued its florid shade. For a blessing, their eyes did not seem to catch upon it, but she lingered low among the leaves and branches a few beats longer until the mages once again continued their procession through the snow. “Even if we only wished to subdue them--” And they, to her knowledge, did not have rope. ...Did they? “--we would still have to confront them to do it. And something tells me that a group of cloaked figures skulking through the snow would not give up such... unique weapons without a fight.” 

Who knew how many had been killed to make weapons of flesh and bone-- or how many they would kill to keep them. A pause; a sigh. Who knew as well how many yet retained that hopefulness and peace Elincia seemed to bear? She was stronger than she appeared, of that Cordelia was certain, but...

It was never said that the little lady genius of a fallen knighthood was possessed of so soft a heart, but it was true. Her gaze cast down, fingertips pressed lightly against the knot of her brow in thought. How best to strip them of their ill-gotten weapons with as little violence...

ostianshadow​:

Would Cordelia leave him hanging like that? She would, it seemed, albeit not mercilessly overlong. “Onward, aheh.” A small chuckle of bemusement preceded arm looped in arm, and off they went. She led, and Matthew let himself be led, falling into a comfortable step alongside her.

He made a show of humming in thought at her question -

but his blink of surprise as she readily pinned his answer before he’d even opened his mouth to answer held not a shadow of make-believe. Shoulders relaxed as he laughed and shook his head not in denial but in wonder. 

“My oh my, however did you know?” It couldn’t be that he was getting predictable, could it? Nah. Certainly not… “Well, even supposing that were true,” he cleared his throat half sheepishly, “everyone knows half ‘em games are rigged in the vendors’ favour.”

He spoke mostly in jest. (Mostly. Definitely there were some good number of carnival games you absolutely weren’t meant to win. If he was wrong, he’d eat his own sock.)

“You’re not wrong on the ‘wander and watch’ front either though. It so happens it’s one of my favourite past-times, boring as that may sound. Look,” he pointed ahead with his free hand, “see how that little girl’s eyes brim with tears? She does this to her mum every festival without fail when she doesn’t get the sweet treat she wants. Never fails! And that man over there who’s touting the quality of his wares, he doesn’t even wear his own stock outside of when he’s set up shop. Kinda strange, don’t you think?”

He grinned. He’d always enjoyed studying the ebb and flow of a crowd, even as a kid. No two ways about it.

“Since you were so on the nose though, I guess it’s me buying. See anythin’ ya like?”

So she was right! The line of her lips pushed upward in a celebratory quirk, caught on the cusps of a smirk and a grin-- halfway to both and yet neither in earnest. Cocky, some might think, but they would be the ones to miss that smallest of youthful glints in the scarlet wellsprings of her eyes. 

“Yes,” she replied easily, ceding his point to him... somewhat. “But are they the same half you don’t win?” A sparkling of mirth. “I would offer you the answer if you won a game, but it really isn’t that interesting; I simply have good intuition.”

It was the truth, or half of it, at least. But there was something else to it, too; he felt familiar, the way a season did when one looked up to realize it had long since begun, as though she’d known him from a time far before (set adrift from?) when he’d put down a mimicry of roots at Garreg Mach. A tree would die without them, she half thought to tell him, but some part of her suspected he knew that already-- that they had been withering since a time further still, when there was but a man, and that man had stopped making promises. 

He seemed more lively, at least, as he directed her attention to various passers-by. A quip here and a catch there, and he had been the one to marvel at her acuity? “Never mind me; your observations are much more interesting. However did you know?

windsheedme​:​

The world seems to blur out of existence around them; as though all the problems of the universe disappear, and there is only him, Celica, Cordelia, Thyrsus and the infernal hell around them. He focuses on that and that only, for nothing else matters right now, nothing else exists right now. He must see this crisis through, together with his allies, before anything else can be.

There is a shift in the vile energy filling the air, and through the flame, smoke and aura full of screaming spirits he sees Cordelia’s silhouette charging at the staff, bringing it to the ground and holding it down. It feels like furious whistles clash with the shrill screams as the fires around them grow weaker, strangled by Cordelia’s strength, Celica’s power and his magic - the fire spirits clashing against each other and the wind spirits capturing the hostile, twisted wisps one after another and silencing them.

Eventually, it goes quiet; slowly, uncertainly, Merric lets go and straigtens himself up. He breathes - in, out, in, out - before a shy smile creases his lips as his eyes meet those of the Valentian queen. He nods to her, then to Lady Cordelia, as his fingers subconsciously rub the skin on his hands. It looks like he has sustained a few burns, but nothing major or threatening. A salve and simple heal is all it will take; no need to bother with it right now.

“Whew… Right back at you,” he responds to Celica’s praise, though his faint smile fades away. “I’m glad you assisted me when you did - this thing’s power is truly overwhelming.” Indeed, had she not come to his aid exactly when she did, he likely would have faltered there.

There is concern clear in his expression as she picks up the staff, his eyes not missing the slight tremble of her hands. His brow is furrowed - he cannot deny she makes a good point, there would be little reason for him or Cordelia (as far as he knows at least) to handle Thyrsus any better than her, but still…

“Alright… If you say so,” he says, though he makes no effort to conceal the reluctance he feels. Still, the resolve beaming from her eyes is something he feels that he must relent against. “But do let us know if you need assistance, alright? I’m sure it’ll be fine if we hold it for a short period of time if you need rest.”

> @incursionparagon​

A tremor ran through the young girl’s hand the instant her hands wrapped around the Thyrsus. For a moment, Cordelia hesitated to lift her boot, concerned in equal parts for the sentient relic and for Celica whom it might very well lash out at. There was no cause to doubt her, however-- most especially after that breathtaking display of magic-- and it was with a wary, worried eye that the knight looked on as the Valentian queen rose, Thyrsus in hand. 

She should have been glad for the ceasing of its struggle, and was, to an extent, but its sudden quiet coupled with the earlier shiver sat ill with her. The thing certainly responded well to Celica, and returning it to its former home was indeed a priority, but...

“I agree with Merric,” Cordelia added, supplementing her words with a quiet nod. “If you feel at all that it’s taking a toll on you, let us know. Even if it’s your blood that it’s responding to, there are ways for us to deal with it.” If nothing else, I could trap it under my boot again. “The mission is important, but I don’t want to see you suffer for it.” 

A smile flashed briefly across her face, awkward as it was earnest, gone within the next breath as the knight turned her attention somewhat hastily elsewhere. Too many people (herself admittedly included) would wear themselves down to take something upon themselves and quietly finish their duty. Whether or not Celica was one of them, she did not know, but... the words bore saying, at the very least. 

“Our surroundings...” She began, watchful gaze swept over what remained of the memory of hell. The land was wounded, that much was clear, the feeling of heat still clinging to her skin beneath armor and the cool breeze that tepidly wafted through. “...will be alright. If nothing else, it can be mentioned in the report and dealt with later; our first objective should be bringing the relic back to safety.” A glance thrown over her shoulder, the twist of her lips obscured but the lightness of her eyes shone clear. “Well done, you two. Your magic there was nothing short of incredible.” An understatement, to be sure, but there were better ways to spend their waning energy than flattery. 

“We came from...” How surprising that a hellfire tornado might slightly alter the landscape. “...ah. Over there. Shall we?”

night and shining armor​

There was only one right answer to such things- whatever it took to survive.

They made a good unit, combat-wise. No sooner did the heat from Soren’s spell dissipated did she impale the phantom thief upon her lance, diving in before it had time to regain its bearings.

She drove the lance into the armor again and again- how thorough. Soren could agree with such principles, and let her be. He folded his arms and stared down at it, considering the lifeless, now skewered smoldering body of metal before them.

Cordelia backed away with a huff and Soren stepped forward, kneeling as he examined it.

“Yes, there do seem to be traces of magic. It would take a powerful, ongoing spell to animate it, and for the magic to simulate enough sentience for it to target specific people. Whoever is behind this should have something better to do with their power.”

He straightened up and brushes off his robes. “I suppose we should report this. Whether or not it’s just a fluke, it was a nuisance.”

Soren was a mage, and no matter how good his magic, he could’ve been seriously injured if not for her help.

“Thank you for your assistance. You possibly saved my bones and the medical staff some hassle.”

It was with a stern expression that Cordelia listened to the mage’s analysis, though a brow slowly arched in bemusement as he continued to speak. So it was magic, then, and powerful magic to boot. He was right; whoever was behind it surely had something better to do than accost students for library books and school papers. There had to be something to it she simply wasn’t seeing. The thought grated at her. 

“I see...” Her brow furrowed, equal parts thoughtful and displeased, though it lightened ere she looked to him again. “I can write the report, if you don’t mind, seeing how it’s my job to do so.” An upturn there, faintly amused. “That is, unless you’re dying to do it yourself.” But, just like the mage whose creation they had just dismantled, the knight imagined Soren had better things to do with his time. 

His thanks incurred a straightening of her posture, a humble bow soon offered in return. “No need. You helped me just as much as I helped you, if not more; with your spells, it took considerably less time to bring down than it otherwise would have. You have my thanks.” 

dutybounded​:

        She doesn’t answer him, of course. It’s not her call to give, nor her confession to bleed. It’s his heart that is on the line, and he knew from the very depths of his soul that he was not poor, in love. He was not ‘poor’ in matters of the heart. Having agreed to a convenient matrimony, he had consented to this life he lived without question and with every last shred of dignity he could afford. An ‘I love you’ from him is, nevertheless, sincere. And he’s glad to be able to run his blasted mouth like a man, madly in love—for it would have been so much harder to shroud his secrets and go about his life without ever telling her. 

        He knows when she said her name, in wintry tones so warm, that she was aching in the same waves she was grateful. Such was the paradox of being married to a man of whom she simply did not love like that. At the very least, he was not deserved of pity, and she knew as such. Whatever she could give, he would accept gracefully. And as she ebbed and waned, her voice brought him such comfort… her touch, even more so. He was commanded to stay still, and just as Frederick was loyal, he was most certainly obedient. Clearing his throat, he straightened up like a soldier called to hail his superior. 

        “Ah, yes…” Offering her his hand, Frederick peered curiously as her hands moved to take it. With such grace and affection, she looped her ribbon perfectly around his ring finger. And his heart leapt at the mere implication of it. Surely, she had not forgotten that he had chosen his lot, and he had chosen to walk down this path with him. His ring was on his right for a reason. She had accidentally mixed it up one day (”right instead of left, my sweet?”) and he, against every inch of resistance from his own perfectionism, decided to match her. If that was not a testimony of his love, he didn’t know what was.

        And now, with a ribbon on his real ring finger, he supposed this was a testimony of hers. He’s red, of course, far more flushed than a trained knight ought to be. He heard his heart drum against his ears, as loud as a war march. But what was one to do when smitten? The very prospect and conduct of a husband was to be true. And his expressions often spoke for themselves. “Ah… A wish?”

        “Am I permitted to say I’m quite satisfied seeing you again? That I need not wishes? That you… are the only wish I need?” Frederick never once broke his gaze, as his furrow brow had long vacated. He thought that it wasn’t romantic enough for her. And probably wasn’t enough to satisfy her fanciful offer. “No? Is that too much?”

        Clearing his throat, he continued. “Might I propose then…” 

        He cupped her hand with a persuasion of the highest of lovers, bringing onto it a soft kiss. And tied the ribbon onto her left ring finger, to mirror her own dedication. Raising his face, just so, to catch her expression, Frederick smiled.

        “That we sweep these grounds and catch up?”

Sometimes, Cordelia thought she could watch Frederick for time unending. Amongst the Shepherds, she knew none who could compare, who could rise so easily and thanklessly to every challenge and still come back town to raise them all higher; he was at times, she feared, a silent cog, as essential as he was unpraised. More worrisome still was that he seemed not to mind it. 

He was unlike her, far from the loudly lauded paragon so many proclaimed her to be-- and yet, he saw her more truly than she had been seen since what felt like before the Risen had first marred the fields of Ylisse. Just as he raised all their fellows up, so too did he raise her-- not to the mantle of paragon, but to the praise of diligence, of all the little things so many others thought she had no need of. He had seen her as she was, and she took it upon herself to do the same. 

And see she did; Cordelia saw as he cast a stern gaze that swept across their camp, saw as the vestiges of affection did so quietly soften its edges in moments small and precious... saw as he turned to her, a commander commanded, and bowed his head a man made of swathes of crimson and adoring eyes. How one person forged of steel and standard could blossom as he did to kindness spun of heartstrings and gold, she doubted she would ever understand... but that was half the fun of watching him, was it not? 

The corners of her eyes crinkled slightly as he froze with springtime flush upon his face. If he was this lovely now, then when the day came that he found the one who matched him in all regards (for surely that day would come; knowing him, she could have naught but faith)... 

The light within her eyes dimmed only just, even as the smile playing upon her lips grew wider. If the gods were good, she would see it one day, from however far she might have to stay. In just this moment, however, as he looked to her, very nearly abashed... 

A chuckle fought against the confines of her quiet smile, burbling at the sides and protesting against the weight of the arched brow she levied against her husband. “Frederick...” She began, the lilt of her voice softly swept down, “You’re wonderfully sweet... but no. That doesn’t count. At all.” 

He knew as much when he’d asked, she was certain, though his words suggested he’d wrongly pegged the reason. Did he think, then, that he could distract her from it with tenderness and ribbon rings? 

(She had not remembered the sunlight being so warm. He was almost right. Almost.)

Then she found herself laughing, despite herself, chin tucked down and eyes gently narrowed and a crescent sliver of a smile waking in the moon. She loved him, though the name of it was not as it should have been; if only she could love him better. 

hiraeth {

        He’d have followed her if she’d have allowed him, as her wings never looked the part of broken as they were lonely. In the very course of his existence, he had never thought her broken — just adherent to marks of adoration that could not be returned. And as such, she was a woman of great lonesome, to bear wings that could not melt with the sun. Her hands were calloused, with a remarkable degree of beauty in the way she reached for life in full bloom.

        So when her callouses met the sun and did not melt, when her wings flew close enough to that star for her to land, he prayed she would invite him to come to her. If only for him to remind her that he loved the lick of flame and all it was worth. He loved her fullness and her sights for romance; he loved the way she fought, the way she moved with every decree to fell her enemies, to lift her friends. It’s in her far off look, reserved for another, that he will serve to protect, because he chose to love her for twenty, thirty, one hundred times over. In every life, past, present and future — until she was happy.

        If he reincarnated to serve and to hold, Frederick needn’t look for a life where she loved him, because he knew she did. As she did for every Shepherd and every sheep, she knew of love even more than she knew of loneliness. That was the woman he had married, and the woman with ribbons unfurling around her like she was Spring’s child. She was in full bloom, with half quarter pivots to meet him as the stars would meet the moon.

        His heart stopped the moment his name drops from her lips and she smiled as though they were personally, intimately engaged — surely, she didn’t know how much a single cant of her head would stir him to pieces. And further still, her thumb lingered and her lips granted every inch of greatness that love could serve — his brow loosens for one star in the sky, he supposes. And he’s shaken to his knees as she granted him another, and another; what is a flush if not to match her passion?

        “I… love you.” It fell from his lips too quickly, too easily. He’s red and he’s tiresome. His natural compulsion to stand for her, to stand by her, undone in seconds as he falls. Surely, she knew that he had remained grounded only to fall by her feet, with his heart thundering in a confession loud enough to hear. His whole mind froze over, affording no thoughts besides a loud static. GODS!— He picked one, he picked any. GODS!  She was blushing and he leaned carefully to find any will to return her kisses with his own, too close, too sudden. And instead, he raised her hand to his lips to kiss her ring.

        “Indeed. Morale… a..ahem.” He cleared his throat, as his own eyes crinkled in a bliss incomparable. “Allow me to put aside my tidiness for a moment to assist you then, Cordelia.” Her name is so sweet, he could make wishes on it. And he hurriedly thanked a passing love guide for a ribbon of his own. “At last.”

        At last. “What is it that you’d wish for, love? Should we take your steed to the top to make sure your wish is granted?” He is entirely serious, though in no way correct in his assumption. (Steady is the gaze he lays on her, though he could feel his compulsion to pick up every stray ribbon itching at his chest.) Meticulously, Frederick tied a ribbon about his own index to mimick hers, and reached to meet the tips of her fingers with his own.

        “If you need me, I’d climb to great heights to ensure your happiness.”

If there was anything in Cordelia’s life that could be certain, then it would be her affection for the man before her. Affection, she thinks, because it comes in the comfort of his company, in the realization of the person behind the paragon, in crimson shades of fire and sunset and wind whipped hair and everything except for that which he yearns for most; affection, she thinks, because she does not love him the way he deserves to be loved, nor can she ever be worthy of the way he loves her. 

That was not to say she did not love him! No, she loved him with a warmth she’d never thought she would-- but the truth of it was that she saw him now, better even than she had during the war, for all she’d foolishly thought she understood back then. She saw, and in him saw love as the endlessly warm and gentle thing she’d never known it could be. Love was blind, or so the poets said, but she could never claim to care for him if she did not see the heart so wasted upon her. 

“I... love you.”

Then her fingers stilled, and it was winter, cold and real. She could not love him as he deserved to be loved, as wholly and gently as he loved her-- he kissed the ring she wore without deserving to, and she knew: if she claimed to love him even a fraction as he loved her, she could not keep him. 

“...Frederick,” she murmured softly, for that was all she could say, but through the scarlet of his face and the widening of his eyes and-- my! Did he blush down to his ears?-- a faint smile rose to her lips, fondness glowing in the cavern of her heart. Next to him, she could never claim to be kind, but not here-- not yet-- and most certainly not in public, at the very least. He swept past the confession as he might the stones at her feet, though its truest testament remained there, a ribbon once detested now spun about his finger. He reached for her--

--and she caught his hand, pulling it up again, not in scolding but in mischief, the twinkle returned to her eyes as she allowed her thumb to rest over one of his knuckles. 

“...I know you would,” the pegasus knight replied, the ghost of a laugh swaying in the gentle waves of her voice. “Luckily for you, however, I only need you to stand right here.” 

Her own ribbon easily tugged free, no sooner unwound from her own finger than it was caught again, and she paused for but a moment. A ring on the wrong hand still, a mistake soothed with a pair, something once again suffered to make it theirs-- 

“Ah... Your other hand, please.” There-- there-- she tied the ribbon carefully about his ring finger, eyes fluttering near to closed as she left her wish with him, that he might find the one worthy of his ring, that he might receive all the love he has so silently, so selflessly given and more, that he-- that he will be happy one day, because above all she knew that happiness had been all he’d ever wished for her.  (It never does occur to her that she might have spent her wish on something (someone) else.)