#feleth

But Felix is not a tree—there will be blood and bones if she is not careful. Byleth grabs a training lance on the way into the training grounds. Jeralt had insisted she learn how to wield all three weapons that mattered, always knowing that Byleth much preferred a sword. Byleth, on the other hand, only tolerated a lance because she could always see spots on her father’s face light up when she did practice with one, as if he was witnessing a legacy in the making.

Felix stands several yards away, turning the leather sword in his grip. His voice sours when he says, “You know, we can use something that actually cuts.”

“No.” Her voice is firm, as if it’s the first time she sounds more like a professor and less like a friend. Byleth steps towards him, shifting into an offensive stance. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Hurt me,” he replies, like a question and statement in one. “I’d be surprised if you could land a hit on me, let alone hurt me.”

And she does. Time and time again, Byleth has told him to execute in silence, allowing his speed and expertise to catch his enemies off-guard, but he continues to speak before acting. Her lance catches Felix between the ribs with a firm thud, causing him to taking a retreating step back. It doesn’t take him long to react; Felix’s arm snaps, sword grazing over Byleth’s head as if he aimed to wipe it of clean.

He’s good, she thinks, as she always does during their instruction, weapons cutting through the air. He knows he’s good.

Byleth learned very quickly that the nobles operate by some creed of war she was only moderately aware of. Their classes conduct themselves in an area guided by rules, while she was always taught to go for the kill. It’s a very distinct kill shot in it of itself when Byleth sweeps her foot at Felix’s ankle, causing him to crash towards the floor. She’s on top of him in an instant, pinning him with the handle of her lance.

First, there is the anger. Then comes the scream. 

Not high-pitched like a kettle aflame, but blood-curdling and feral. She screams and screams until tears drip from her face once more, because time means nothing if there isn’t enough to save the people that matter.

Byleth regains composure almost as quickly as she loses it, scrambling off of Felix in a tangle of limbs. If he’s frightened by her, he doesn’t show it, simply taking his time to rise and adjust his collar. Byleth waits for the formalities to drop so that he can call her a boar, or some other condescending pet name he can think of on the spot. A boar professor fit to lead the boar prince’s class, or something of the likes.

Instead, Felix takes three careful and calculated strides across the training grounds, approaching Byleth the same way she would approach a wounded animal—always waiting for the next protective strike. When he’s close enough that she can see the faintest wrinkle between his brow, Felix stops, crossing his arms and tilting head.

“I once asked you what motivates you,” he says, voice cool and leveled. “I haven’t forgotten what you said. You said it was the need for survival that kept you going.”

The pause between them only leaves room for their breathing.

“At first I admired you for saying that,” he continues, words adrift as if the memory was slipping from him. “It explained a lot. Why every strike of yours seemed to be your last.”

Byleth opens her mouth to apologize, to explain; Felix raises his palm.