#fenrena

Sharena has been dropped and is now available!

there’s an odd sensation in linhardt as he walks the streets of fhirdiad; he’d like to call it a guilty conscience. fhirdiad is a shell of itself in the devastation of war, a capital city in prominence but surely no longer in spirit. while it isn’t desolate, it certainly feels as if it should be as civilians are controlled under a scrutinizing eye; laughter becomes nothing more but a distant memory as people hurry past, their head cast downwards as if to avoid the gaze of soldiers.

his father stands for this. senseless bloodshed, the subjugation of a country, and the suffering of innocents. linhardt is unaware of how he clenches his jaw, knuckles blanched as hands ball to instinctive fists, the foreign sensation of ire pulsating through his veins. the entire climate of this war-- truthfully, linhardt can’t understand it. why must sovereign leaders resort to brute force to make others submit to their ideals, why is diplomacy so frequently overlooked, and why does no one cherish the value of a life?

he walks in relative silence , sharena at his right, until they arrive at an entrance to a bakery. it’s only then, when the sweet aroma of freshly baked confections gently appeals to his senses, that linhardt finds himself relaxing. his knuckles crack as he frees his fists, apathy never once deprived from soft features as the hevring heir casts his ‘guard’ a glance.

“princess sharena,” eir greets her, ever monotonous tones of voice slightly lifted into brighter shades at the sight of the princess. her expression falls for a moment, countenance askance— she felt some rendition of guilt at the statement, for she knew that she herself couldn’t tell if this day was, in fact, her ‘birthday’. but she understands very clearly that as a mortal herself, she should have had a moment of time when her lives were first started— so eir nods. “it… is, yes.”

eir watches in minute curiosity as sharena holds out a box to her— a gift, eir supposes, for she had learned that they were a rather common birthday tradition beyond flower-giving— wrapped in a colour akin to her hair. it contrasts with the lack of colour within her nearly bloodless skin, and eir cannot help but feel a little out of place at the thought of it in her hands. she reaches out, tentative grasp around the edges of the gift until it is fully within her hands. both doubt and confusion— and perhaps, the hint of excitement— amalgamate into a look upon eir’s face, and her eyes lift to meet sharena’s; the gold goes well with the emerald of her eyes, she notices. 

but her observations are not confined to the colour of the askran noble’s eyes, and eir swallows a question as sharena watches her with expectancy. ashen hands, shielded by stygian leather pull hesitantly at the ends of the paper; unfurling the gift out of it’s wrap. eir picks it apart as though she is reluctant to ruin it— until the paper falls and reveals the box inside to her. her thoughts stumble to a halt; she almost faces sharena for guidance— but she lifts the lid off. 

                                               ...

“…oh. ” every vowel and consonant of every word catches upon the walls of eir’s throat, reaching far enough to resonate in the furthest caverns of her mouth— but end there. the contents of the golden box reduces her to atlas with the world in her hands— every stitch and hatch a wide sea and wilderness, black thread sewn with white into the gradients of a bright azure. eir thinks it twice the weight of ruling the dead; a tremble growing from the paled veins of her wrist, trailing to her fingertips. she lifts the plushie out of it’s box, setting it aside. her hands run over every part of it, cotton and faux fur nothing in comparison to the real thing— but every bit as comforting and loving to her. 

routinely downcast eyes glances upwards, tempest blue coming to meet mossy green. her half-alive heart races as it has never done in her memories; it sets every drop of blood that courses through her veins aflame— bursting into light as her heart leaps into the fire. that light travels from her chest, centering from her sternum ( as she breathes— neither slow nor measured—for fire hungered for air, ) to her neck; burning with words she had neither the strength nor capability to ply from her throat. it acts as ash upon the walls of her skin, thoughts as fuel— it reaches her face, rosy and burning; from her trembling lips to her eyes— swimming within tears she blinks away. she cannot cry. “i-i’m sorry, this…”

A heavy sigh escapes him as she pats him down, patience tested.No good ever came out of mingling with others. This was proof of it. He should really just fly away somewhere no one can bother him, if only Minerva didn’t enjoy the feel of the water... 

He doesn’t care if it was important to the hyperactive blonde, but he is tempted to agree solely because he wants to give a condition: Only if you say your name.

No, it’s far too late for that. Perhaps he can just declare he’s part of this game too, but that would mean hinting he’s a babe hunter-- no, he’d never say that.

His pride.

His pride....

HIS PRIDE.

“...” Just say it. Just ask. “...let’s get this over with.” Quill grabbed, he writes his name on her arm, grumbling as he does. His pride. His pride...

He returns the quill, but puts up his arm in return.

             +  /    LIFE PHILOSOPHY HC’S.  /  @agneas & @fenrena

in a word — he would prefer for things and people to never change, but is rational enough to ruefully recognize that, of course, they do. and that often what changes can’t be bought back by any means.

felix is a traditionalist and, more importantly, someone who doesn’t take well to change. he’s generally slow to adapt, largely because he finds a lot of safety in routine and familiarity, and therefore change disrupts his sense of personal security. it puts him in a vulnerable position of newness, one where he doesn’t know what’s expected or where to go from here. any ‘uncharted waters’, so to speak, puts him on edge until he finds out what the new normal is.

i think we can see this from a number of his supports; whenever he makes a remark about how someone “never changes”, it’s said approvingly or in relief ( even if exasperated ).

FELIX: You never change. SYLVAIN: Nope. I try to stay on an even keel. FELIX: You’re always…

he doesn’t say it in that moment, but it comes out later, in their A+ support, that it was meant as a compliment:

FELIX: I am… grateful. You’ve been doing this since we were children. Constantly fooling around, but then showing up and helping when we really need you.

likewise, in the byleth S support:

FELIX: Finally, you came. Wars begin and end, but this place never changes. And you don’t change either.

it’s hard to discern through just text, but his tone here is one of palpable contentment as he looks around the training grounds of garreg mach and finds comfort in the fact that it’s remained the same, as has byleth.

that being said, of course, he does realize people change and situations change. he himself is the greatest example of that to himself: as sylvain tells us, felix has become a completely different person from the sweet crybaby child he was before duscur, and dimitri also clues us into this in both their shared group task completion lines and dining hall lines. in each of these instances, felix fires back with dismissal, either deflecting or getting annoyed at the other person for bringing up his past self that’s as good as dead.

he also struggles with the idea that dimitri and ingrid ( at least, as far as he believes ) have changed from the people he knew, and groups them along with the sense of alienation he felt after his brother’s death when it seemed to him that his whole idea of reality and faerghus itself was changing into something he no longer recognized. so just like with faerghus, he pushes them away or tries to conceptualize them to himself in a way that makes it easier for him to digest: in the case of dimitri especially, by ascribing a very black and white view on him because that’s easier than wrestling with the idea that both dimitri and this ‘monster’ exist inside someone he thought he knew so well. ( he comes to this in their A support of course, but that’s not until 5 years and much emotional maturation later ).

the contrast to this is, of course, sylvain, who, felix believes, hasn’t changed since they were kids — a kind of anchor amidst the storm, if you will. and for him, this is definitely a source of solace: the seemingly only familiar thing that remains.

as for whether he believes himself to be capable of changing, we only need to look at the seteth support for that:

FELIX: I’ll consider your advice, but I’m not usually one to change my mind.

The pitter patter of feet... He doesn’t have to lift his head from where he’s sunning to know. He just feels it in his gut. Here comes trouble.

Half-lidded, judging eyes watch as Sharena skids to a stop before him. It seems she has forgotten what she had put him through already...

But. He hasn’t.

Cherry kisses~

     Up next to the booth was the girl with unmistakable pink frosted tips on blonde hair. It always reminded her of a cookie, like the sugar ones that were one degree away from being dough covered in powder and sugar. They had the strangest mouth feel, but they were tasty nonetheless.

    Oh, right. She should be tending to her customers instead of dreaming about cookies. Though, perhaps she could find them when she swaps shifts with Celica.

    "Sharena, I'm glad you could make it!" Mae points to the sign above her. "Lucky for you, they are free and just so happen to be a common greeting in Zofia." She presses a chaste kiss to Sharena’s cheek.

    “Ah, but before you go!” She ducks underneath the booth, returning a moment later with a plump and ripe orange. She extends her arm, offering up the fruit. "Albeit, a little belated, but my apologies... for throwing up on your shoes."