ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ ꜰᴏʀ ʙʟᴏᴏᴅ

❝ what? oh – i know all about that. i don’t really care about that. ❞ he can tell there’s conviction in the other’s tone, and while his own background is and shall remain a mystery to his fellow students, he knew deep down that he could not bring himself to act against what he truly believed in. refusing to befriend dedue because he was of duscur would be hypocritical of him.

         ❝ i just wanted to get to know who you are, dedue. the person, not the boy from duscur. other people can worry about useless things like that. ❞

Frown turns to scowl, confusion to distaste.

❛Useless.❜ 

The word leaves his tongue like an unpleasant morsel, mouth angled down in displeasure, brows marred with-- resignation, maybe. Disappointment, certainly. Perhaps it had been foolish of him to expect more from mere appearances, but for each blow, for each fracture, his back grew stronger: sturdier in kind.

❛As useless as it may be, that is who I am.❜ 

What he says is this: I am of Duscur. There is hassle in this. It would be best to stay away.

What he means is this: I am of Duscur. I am proud of my heritage. It will not be taken from me.

    he’s    been    standing    there    for    who    knows    how    long    .    it’s    most    likely    not    much    ,    but   it    feels    like    a    few    hours    .    at    least    .    sylvain    was    never    one    to    frequent    the    greenhouse    ,    unlike    dedue    .    it’s    too    silent    ,    too    still    .    that’s    not    an    energy    he    can    endure    long    without    running    up    a    wall    .    today    ,    however    ,    is    different    .    the    peace    and    quiet    are    gifts    .    respite    from    whatever    was    outside    these    torn    walls    and    shattered    glass    .    completely    zoned    out    ,    far    away    from    his    surroundings    ,    he    almost    doesn’t    notice    dedue    .    almost 

    (    ‘    i    will    not    scold    you    ‘    )    .    it’s    not    much    ,    but    to    him    -    right    now    -    it    comes    like    salvation    .    nevermind    the    underlying    accusation    .    freedom    of    what    he    had    left    behind    at    the    door    .    reassurance    ,    that    these    few    walls    may    actually    bring    him    peace       ❛       ah    ,    right    .    pardon    ❜        even    if    still    cladded    in    armor    ,    his    right    hand    hides    within    the    left    .    by    now    it    has    become    a    reflex    ,    it’s    no    longer    a    mere    movement    of    shame

       ❛       idle    hands    are    the    devil’s    playthings    ,    after    all    ,    right    ?    ❜         the    chuckle    is    forced    ,    a    poor    attempt    to    loosen    the    air    around    him    .    still    ,    he’s    lost    amidst    the    greenery    .    gardening    isn’t    one    of    his    strong    suits    .    sylvain    takes    a    step    aside    to    clear    to    room    he    was    occupying    before       ❛       soooo    …    what    do    you    want    me    to    do    ?    if    there    is    anything    ,    i    mean    ❜         he    drags    the    first    word    with    a    sing    -    song    tone    and    a    smile    .    helping    is    better    than    leaving    ,    better    than    returning    to    where    the    others    are    .    it’s    not    about    them    ,    heavens    no    !    he’d    do    anything    for    those    people    ,    it’s    more    that    he    doesn’t    want    to    be    confronted    with    his    mistakes    .    at    least    not    for    another    hour 

❛There is weeding to be done.❜ 

There is far more than just that. Mindful hands gentle in motion, Dedue weaves the path to an easier earth, a pasture in which plants could grow anew, without fear of strangling roots and suffocating abnormalities. For hands like these, that have been broken and remade into objects of war, to tend to such things work as a balm-- as a healing force that whittles away each and every notion of strain. Slow going, perhaps. Something not obtained even after many a year. Yet a gradual, unyielding force. People may die. Battles may shake the earth, but there is comfort in natures solidarity. No matter what happened to them-- plants would still grow, and flowers would still bloom. 

Isn’t there a certain measure of pleasantry in that? In the notion of being so small? 

Then-- perhaps it will do for Sylvain to enjoy such simplicities as well. Ones worries were just that. Anxieties and concerns would riddle the mind, wear it down, tear it in two-- but find that which always remained constant, and the mind would focus on such, would tether its raging tides to such unyielding shores.

No need to worry, mothers voice wise with age, face worn down with time. Focus on what can be done, not what can’t. 

From his place crouched upon old stone, Dedue motions towards one patch of particularly unfortunate plants-- medicinal herbs, to be precise. Weeds once removed, they would aid a weary army and equally weary healers, overworked and wrecked with fretting hands. In all honesty it was a blasphemy of its own that such a task had not been taken care of in his absence-- but with cobwebs and broken stone still surrounding bed chambers and food scarce, it had likely fallen under greater priorities.

〝  Some Princes don’t become Kings –〞

@moliinar​ ❤ for a starter

Not an inaccurate statement, yet one that held its weight in gold.  As of late, Kingship appeared more a burden than a privilege.

❝   do you know anything about,   um,   carnivorous plants ?   i bought bernadetta this pitcher plant as a gift,   but i think it is dying,   and i do not know anything about them.   i cannot give her a dead plant !   ❞ 

@moliinar​  //  dialogue starter

As much as Dedue tended to be the knowledgeable sort in way of flowers-- this may yet be something of an outlier. Plants of the carnivorous kind rarely grew in the brisk chill of the north, after all.

❛What are you feeding it?❜

A genuine question -- and one with a near baffled remnant in tone. Weren’t plants like these meant to be the hardy sort?

he couldn’t deny that he was a little taken aback by that question, though he doesn’t show any sort of surprise on his face. after all, dedue likely had every reason to question why claude would be taking an interest in him. everyone typically stuck to their houses, after all. 

              ❝ i don’t know anything about you, dedue. ❞ he admitted truthfully. his tone is still rather flippant, though, and his shoulders bounce in a slight shrug. ❝ thought i’d seek to change that. ❞

His frown deepens, riddled with the strain of it. Again, he must go through this motion. Again, he must warn someone of ramifications outside of his control, that hurt him more than it would ever hurt another. To speak this way felt like a betrayal, each and every time-- yet it was a motion well practiced, one required out of necessity than desire. 

❛Then you must not know that I am a man of Duscur.❜   

A pause, and then a stern glance. 

❛And what that might mean for your reputation.❜  

his shoulders sag and he lets out a sigh. ❝ i was worried you were going to say that. ❞ he admits. his hands come to rest at his hips and he arches his chest forward, stretching out his back a bit in the process.

            ❝ i guess i should go check the schedule. goddess, i hope it isn’t flayn – ❞ he picks his emerald gaze back up on the other, lips twitching back into a smile. ❝ what were you on your way to do? ❞

❛--Why do you care?❜   

A genuine question, stoic brows crinkled with the slightest baffled strain. Indeed Flayn was-- a work in progress. And indeed, the evening meal did tend to go over better whenever Dedue was in charge ( although he wondered exactly how many knew such food was made by hands of Duscur ), and while compliments did often make their way forth, they tended to be utterances from a small few within his own house. Dimitri, always. Sylvain, Annette, Mercedes, Ashe-- even the professor, once. 

@moliinar​ :// sc.

eyes scanned over the planters– the unfortunate ones left outside to endure the seasonal elements. unbalanced and unstable weather raged a war on the fickle and sensitive plants. an unfair fight against mother nature herself.

kneeling down, she sifted out weeds that’d find no problems taking up residence. they sought to squeeze the remaining life out of whatever survived… if anything had at least… but a small glimmer of hope emerged at a few late bloomers– they managed to hold out through the raging cold, snow, rain and the dry heat.

eyes moved away if only briefly to glance back at the other tending to the various plants scattered about. rummaging through the chaos for the sole survivors.  alike in mind, they kept quiet as they worked. had someone else come along– they’d surely have left quicker than they came. the silence thicker than a fog for most, but for those with little to say, it was comforting.

‘   they’re a bit small, but they did survive.   ‘

❛--Stubborn.❜

There’s a measure of fondness present within his response, singular word speaking of so much; of a will to live far beyond that of a few mere plants. While it was true that many had not survived, the sparse number that had spoke of something grand-- survival of the fittest, perhaps, or survival of those that had merely been granted aid. A wandering merchant, curious and rifling. A bird eager to dig in within soil and tear out a meal, or a root, or bug. An animal, the digging sort, or a cat curling about in place to rest within hidey-hole. Any natural circumstance could have triggered the smallest of changes-- of advantages needed for victory despite it all. Five years was a long time, and it seemed few had been offered the opportunity to return from the brink. 

But few did not mean none. 

Alike Dedue himself, it seemed the professor had also succeeded in cheating death. How such a thing had come to pass was of course beyond him-- and Dedue realised that perhaps it was beyond all of them. Some method of divinity that had trailed her footsteps since that fated day in the woods - of which he, indeed, had been among those that had witnessed her tear apart the sky and render their enemy limp. 

Far unlike his rather miraculous recovery, as halting and unsure as it’d been. 

Still, different roads taken had nonetheless crossed at this point, meeting ‘neath the glass panes of comforting familiarity. While as a student his response may have been awkward in its quietness, now he holds a new measure of confidence-- and humour besides. 

Indeed, although his time away had been an aching, awful thing; it seemed it had not been entirely at a loss.