GLORY. * //

  the monotony of only hearing the medical machinery around him has faded from his ears after so long of listening to them. hands rest folded on his lap, eyes shut and breaths soft to feign sleep. it’s not possible in a strange realm like this; it’s as if his consciousness and the IVs that have found home in his arms won’t allow it.

  thus, he rests there, taking his time to examine the surroundings, see how much progress he can make dragging himself off the bed before it hurts when faking sleep is too bothersome. haruka isn’t entirely sure of what crime he committed to deserve this fate, one where his body is stolen before his eyes and he has to remain in the background while… while…

  suddenly, he doesn’t want to think about it. haruka opens his eyes, staring into the expanse that provides nothing for him. if only he had his sketchbook, a single pencil that never ran low on lead, anything to do while he sat here…

  that’s too much to ask from the afterlife though, isn’t it?

  he should be grateful he survived longer than the initial prognosis said, right? winding up in a kinder place, one where he’d be free instead of going through the strange events since the end of his life would be much more enjoyable than any of this. haruka grimaces at the downhill roll his thoughts are doing and adjusts himself, grunting as the lack of movement catches up and his body protests.

  still, that doesn’t stop him from taking note of an unfamiliar presence, a different sound that passes by. haruka’s head lifts and he spots the black and red, the familiar face of his junior that he’s missed dearly, the junior that…

  that…?

  “ … ayano-chan? why’re you here…? ”

       when he looks at her, confused and voice soft, she understands, as if the fog cleared and all that remains is a sky of red. it’s horror. she feels horrified. wasn’t he one of the people she had tried to save ? ( but, ah, she forgets. she tried. not succeeded, only tried ). ayano had never been the best at conveying herself through words, always a child of gestures that carry the warmth she always represented as if the sun. perhaps, in the past, she would have laughed sheepishly, awkwardly attempting to convey what she means, but his sheer existence here, of all places, renders her speechless. 

    ❝ n-no... i... i should be the one to... ❞ i should be the one asking that, ayano attempts to say, but the snake stirs. it twists and coils around her brain, her heart, and she feels herself breathless ( it’s suffocating ). in a wave of heartache, she knows ( remembers ). she knows why he’s here. she inhales, body shuddering and her eyes of red turn away. lips pulled into a tight line, fingers clenching into the fabric of her skirt, her chest tightens as if it weren’t already wound tight. it hurts. how many more times ? how many more times must the wheels of tragedy claim the lives of the innocent ? 

    how many more times must he die young, rendering his soul a cog down wrong paths ? ( but isn’t she the same ? she too is a simple gear in the clock ticking towards the end ). 

    her eyes close, and though her tears have long since dried, her brows furrow as if attempting to keep sadness at bay. she does not step closer to him, does not look at him, gaze once more revealed instead turning to the insistent beeping of the numerous machines. it’s almost laughable, the way she glares, as if her irises glowing red would somehow set it all alight, rendering her upperclassman free. 

he has to instinctively take a step back, not wanting to become a dragon’s next meal, although he knows hilda (probably) wouldn’t allow that to happen. he rubs at the back of his neck, a little shrug rolling off his shoulders. 

❛ aw, it’s not her fault. big beasts like that never seem to like me. maybe it’s my vibe. or they just think i’m a beast myself, ha ! ❜ 

❛ no hard feelings against her. wouldn’t be the first lady to scorn me. this is why i don’t fly. plus i have a hard time believing any dragon could get all this mass off the ground ! ❜

       she lets out a noncommittal hum, clearly troubled at her mount’s sheer dislike for the man. though, upon hearing his assurance, she can’t help but agree. boisterous people did tend to scare animals except... well, she had hoped mora would be an exception. hilda’s friends were rather colorful people ( thinking on it now however, she recalls the wyvern didn’t warm to raphael quickly either ). ❝ aw, still ! mora can handle a lot, trust me. i would’ve loved to take you up, but... ❞ she pats her mount’s snout gently, a rueful smile spread across glossed lips. ❝ well, a little exposure at a time, i suppose... ❞ 

    remnants of her death fade away; a hell she lives in, yet it offers a semblance of kindness in how a hell is never solitary. no, it is for every inhabitant, for each and every lost soul to view, to hear, to etch into already weary minds. and burn it into she does, as suffocating heat catches in her throat when she hears it: beeping. a mechanical, repetitive sound that is so eerily misplaced in a world of heavy silence. she follows the sound, the pounding of her head ceasing as the lost hero focuses on this one thing. 

   and then she sees him. she sees him, and feels frustrated. no, not frustrated. shocked, perhaps ? angry ? she isn’t sure ( because all she’s felt for so long is loneliness and mourning, and so detached is she that she can’t easily place a name to the clench in her chest upon seeing her dear upperclassman ). a mix of spiteful emotions churn in the pits of her stomach because why ? why is he here ? she glances to the left, to the right, sees the IVs hooked to this one, single gentle boy and she can’t help but utter his name, voice hoarse from lack of use.

    ❝ h... haruka-san... ? ❞

       feigned DISAPPOINTMENT dawns upon his features, shaking his head & heaving a sigh at the response, ❝ i would assume not. you haven’t had the decency to speak to me properly for years. ❞ he doesn’t need anything to be said to understand. over the years, he’s grown accustomed to picking up UNSPOKEN cues– even if said cue was just the other stomping his way through the crowd.

       he’s quick to follow, hastily working his way through the people. there were so many things he’s been wanting to ask & to know ever since the first game, & being forced to participate in the second only vastly INCREASED the number of questions ( not in a good way, either ). but finally having half of the two responsible for the renewed experience, mind was drawing blanks; unable to come up with something to say. in midst the silence of their walk, after a couple minutes, the only question he can come up with ( & one of the only ones he TRULY  cared about ) is, ❝ … will you at least tell me– how is your sister faring ? is she alright ? ❞

        he seems to walk with a sense of purpose, back straight, gaze ahead as if he had a destination in mind despite the lack thereof. but that question, that damn question interrupts his step momentarily. he knows light genuinely means it, wants to know if all that suffering was worth it ( and perhaps it’s the similarity of care for their younger sisters that links them together which reminds aoi light does care ). yet, regardless of what reason says, a rage builds up within him. no, that isn’t right. it isn’t rage. it’s the always burning flame within him that flares. the guilty conscience feeds the thought that it’s a roundabout way for light to say all that wasn’t for nothing, right ? and for a moment, just for a moment, aoi is ready to go back to the fighter santa had been but chatter from strangers jogs him from his thoughts. right. people. with a shake of his head, he closes his eyes, inhales deeply, and keeps walking.

    ❝ ... she’s been fine. working like always. ❞ it’s such a plain response, and it almost makes him want to laugh. instead, he licks his lips and says simply: ❝ acts the same as always. ❞ except what light’s ‘as always’ is and aoi’s own is different; aoi’s is workaholic, sometimes distant, not always there, but there. he scoffs at his own words, eyes rolling. ‘course light wouldn’t know. none of them did. ❝ not that you had time to know her like that. we are just a couple’a assholes that don’t know what a proper talk is. ❞ 

She, a tempest of flames, the wildfire that singes, destroys, and trods through the depths of hell. Her axe head is well acquainted with the blood of her former peers – a mercy kill, some call it : mercy by the guillotine, swift, and painless is the thrust of her weapon. The scent of ichor never ceases to disgust her – yet, in waves of saturated pink, her hands falter. As if a rekindling of a former fondness she once held : an ache she long forgotten, as if an old flame flickering in the back of mind – ‘Edelgard, Edelgard, Edelgard’ she remembers the way how Hilda used to call her name… as if it was a song, as if her name has the power to satiate a need for kinship, for friendship, and perhaps, something more. 

Amethyst eyes trained upon the struggling fighter – she watches as she fights to stand, feigning ambivalence. Hilda Valentine Goneril is the locus of complexity – she, the enemy retainer, Claude’s most trusted companion and yet, she was also someone Edelgard cherished deeply. There is no reason for the sharp end of her axe to slow; it is inconceivable how the flickering of the flame that drives her snuffs within Hilda’s presence. As if for a moment she is weak to an old face – as if for a moment she sheds her heavy armour and reveals her skin.

But Edelgard knows this is a mistake. It is a misstep within her plans – how ironic it is for her to be the one to foil her own plans. Yet, perhaps there is mercy she could offer. She stands, grappling with her thoughts – eyes darting from Aymr, to her hands, and finally to meet the bitter gaze of Hilda. 

There is mercy offered to the Alliance. Claude lives. If mercy can be offered to him, then surely, knowing Hilda, subduing her shall be no difficult feat. Lonesome she stands, her eyes meeting the other until her lips unfurl to speak,  “ …I have achieved my goals in the Alliance capital. There is no need for pointless bloodshed. ”

Curtly, she speaks about the situation at hand. Her eyes locking into the vastness of the waters, watching the waters that Claude flown across not long ago – she mourns the classmates she’ve slaughtered, her mind lingers on the devotion Hilda managed to exude… that woman. She knew she was more than she allowed herself to be, she knew she had potential. 

“ You’ve fought well, Hilda. ”

        she listens for the beat of familiar wyvern wings, awaits the familiar calling of her name by the man ( her closest friend ) she had promised to stand by — there is nothing. though the air fills with the clinks of metal armor in the distance, of soldiers moving to and fro to carry out their commanders’ wishes, still there is simply... nothing. a deafening silence of loss fills her ears; the tension suffocates her, the way her chest twist and turns pains her. what is this feeling ? frustration ? over what ? over losing ? how foolish could that be ! hilda trusted claude with her life, but in the face of the empire, had hilda expected to walk away with her still beating heart ? please, even she isn’t so naive. to slaughter and be slaughtered is the way of war.

    and yet, as she gazes at edelgard, traces the curves upon her profile, something else stirs within her. she hadn’t expected to walk away alive sure, but she hadn’t expected it would be edelgard whom would spare her. how is it that she still manages to surprise her ? ( ah, she knows what churns within her — that same fondness and betrayal and hurt hilda had believed to have faded the moment she decided to take arms ). 

    teeth clench as she tears her staring away, instead looking to the waters that seem to hold so much of the emperor’s attention. understanding comes quick and she knows she is alone ( and all there is are cinders that fill the nothingness of a crumbling yet proud alliance ). ❝ please, ❞ she scoffs, a heavy sigh exhaling from her lungs. her body covered in bruises and wounds make it clear she was to be a member of the ‘pointless bloodshed.’ it nearly escapes her, words that render her a mere woman that longs for days of peaceful companionship, but anything she wishes to say remains steeled behind frowning lips.

    ❝ fighting well... it doesn’t matter once you’ve lost. ❞ and she lets loose another sigh, eyes closing again, as if the darkness she curtains her gaze with will wash reality and throbbing pains away. ❝ ... did you... ❞ she thinks of how edelgard stands before her alone, away from the prying eyes. once upon a time it would be welcome, but now it mixes with the iron within her mouth; an unwanted feeling. to what did she owe the pleasure of the emperor’s company ? she doesn’t let her mind travel too far. the daughter of goneril is bruised and bloody and no longer a threat. 

    some may take it as simple sightseeing, but there is more meaning in regards to her visit. letters do little to reassure her on the well-being of her friends ( though, it does comfort her to know they live and breathe all the same ). for claude who had taken mantle of alliance leader... well, perhaps the worry brings her to his side. 

    however, he’s a busy man, and that much hilda can understand. except, amusingly enough, the door clicks open, faster than she had anticipated. the tea cup raised to her lips pauses in its near tilt, porcelain clicking against its matching saucer as she smiles up at him from her seat. how long had it been since they’ve seen each other in person ? she can’t recall, but still hilda offers him a grin laced with familiarity of years past. 

he isn't immune to the holiday; and this isn't garreg mach. pretending with coquettish glances and pursed half-smiles. it's her birthday, and the box smells of fresh flowers, all her favorite kinds laden in a bouquet strewn around her room in vases of fine glass. he knows her, his hilda. somehow he had the fortune he didn't know how to accept to be known by /her/. somewhere along the way he's looping what he can guarantee is the most unique and elegant necklace in fodlan around her neck the sweet smell of rose hair cloying his senses; daringly sweet. a rose with thorns; a rose tender a rose above all others; faithful. he wonders what he'd ever do without her, in moments where those sherry eyes flit to his and a coy but accepting smile graces her face, no more hiding tenderness, no more hiding (love) . he finishes the clasp; he will never not look at her; whispering her birthday with an unheard tenderness; 'hilda -- ' a kiss. 'happy birthday.' and another; soft; slow -- raw. — sent by @goldscheme​​  

       it’s funny, hilda thinks, how they still behave as if juveniles despite being well into adulthood. marks of their youth ( of something she had named a mere attraction ) follow them even now, knowing grins and flirtations simply done in good fun. she doesn’t mind it — never has, never will, for it is this playfulness that makes their relationship theirs and she knows underneath all the teasing and faux fleeing, he is hers just as she is his. and perhaps war has burned modesty within the spoiled daughter of goneril, because she’s grown satisfied with simply his presence ( of the fact they both still live and breathe together, side by side just as she had always dreamed ). 

    yet, even despite her assurance, of how she claimed to not really need anything, silly, he lavishes her with gifts of love regardless. their shared room adorned with her favorite flora and a single necklace upon her neck seems so simple for a woman used to obtaining anything and everything, but still her heart swells as laughter bubbles past lips curved in absolute adoration. it’s the little things that hilda has come to appreciate. things so insignificant and seemingly unfit for her — thoughtfulness is always what wins her over in the end. 

    rough fingertips betraying their dainty appearance trail to seek his own worn hands, a sense of comfort washing over her when they’re finally found ( because they see one another, hold each other with a familiarity and trust she would never offer another ). her senses are filled with all that is him: the scent of the sun. rose sings alongside the aroma, intertwining together; a symbol of their closeness, of lasting effects upon each other, of time spent together allowing their bodies to carry each other ( in action, in mind, in heart ). 

    and when he kisses her, congratulates her, his name leaves her in a breathless giggle. claude. she says it so softly and sweet, against his lips as she cradles his visage. oh, how silly she thinks it is ! to be so taken with someone, to want to devote her entire being to a single man. but she loves him, goodness, does she love him. she isn’t sure when she fell so hard, isn’t sure when she decided he was the one, but to trade him for anyone else ? she would never. 

    her mind’s eye travels to the sight of the emperor, clad in characteristic red, stance and posture as commanding as it was in their youth. at the time, hilda’s hands hadn’t trembled with fear; the turmoil she believed to be rid of simply festered and bubbled as if always there. ‘edelgard,’ hilda had said, almost in casual greeting because the fate of one upon the battlefield was to be stricken down. while soft, roseate irises swam with emotion, acceptance came easy: hilda goneril, only daughter of the goneril household and one of alliance leader claude’s closest companions would die by the emperor’s hand or that of one under her... and yet still, she breathes. she lives and aches and where relief should be, bitterness takes root. 

    she can’t feel her right arm ( is it there ? is it broken ? she doesn’t care, not now ) and her body screams for rest, but hilda forces herself to sit up with a surprising stubbornness. it hurts, god, does it hurt. her abdomen sears with pain, head dizzy with the effort of simply moving and being conscious. they’re marks of the vanquished, and sighing, she finally addresses the victor.

“I assure you I will be fine, Flora. We’ve much to plan for tomorrow’s— “ Accustomed to burning candles late into the night, Leo’s first reaction is to brush off Flora’s concern. Then he catches the hidden message enacted through her gesture and cuts off abruptly. The prince clears his throat, one hand coming up to tug at his collar self-consciously.“ —but I suppose I could use a moment of fresh air to clear my head. Will you deliver these maps to Xander? Inform him I will be in attendance shortly.”

       fingers take hold of parchment, scrolls held closely to her chest as her upper body bows in compliance. ❝ of course, my lord. ❞ it’s here where flora should take her leave, to hurry on her way because only a fool keeps the crowned prince waiting, but it’s clear she wishes to say more. she’s silent for but a moment, mind traveling to her liege; while war is ever so taxing, corrin still finds way to allow the members of the army a moment’s rest. 

       – ❝ just because you like a lot of things, it doesn’t mean it’ll look good when clumped together– a fashion DISASTER is what that’s called ! ❞ the other’s look of pity does nothing but help fuel the fire of irritation inside of him. oh the RUDENESS ! the audacity ! it wasn’t his fault the jail outfits were actually somewhat stylish ( or more stylish than he thought they’d be, given that it was a, well, prison ). ❝ HMPH ! ‘tis not true ! it’s just that a child like you is much too young & ignorant to understand the beauty of stripes. ❞

           … actually, rather than take the drastic way out  ( which, although a fun idea to contemplate, is not very realistic ) , perhaps he can use her own lock on his demise and turn it against her? kotone certainly would not allow him even the slightest chance to slip through her grasp and escape to freedom while she stood stalwart at his door, but perhaps if he enlisted the help of a forceful distraction…? with all hopes on his savior, he snatches up his phone and immediately texts aigis.

minato: aigis can you bring kotone to the meeting room, there’s a new recording that she has to watch now minato: it’s very urgent, please do this now, thanks

           his stare bores into the phone screen as he awaits a reply, counting the seconds that pass. this has to work. he doesn’t want to resign himself to a haircut. please. please.

        kotone is never one for impatience, and she knows he likes to take his time getting out of bed, but isn’t he taking too long ? a hand raises to knock upon his door once again, lips pursed and then she hears it: hurried footsteps. crimson irises turn and it’s aigis approaching her, quick and to her side in a flash. while kotone blinks, she’s quick to process aigis is minato’s savior ( sneaky little thing he was ! ). 

    ❝ an urgent recording ? ❞ she asks, gaze staring at the short exchange between the two. it had only been minutes prior, aigis having replied with a simple i understand. oh, she’s sure to be dragged away, aigis’ grip upon her wrist tight. this could be the end of her reign of terror ! ... except the impish grin that stretches upon her lips tells a different tale. thinking quick on one’s feet ! it’s the aspect of a good leader... it’s also the aspect of a good prankster.