#tacticianantics

“Please tell me you haven’t hit your head and lost your memories again, Robin. The answer, of course, is a most emphatic no. All sorts of things can and do go wrong when highly-trained infantrymen attempt to vault over walls and barricades. Why on earth would a cavalryman attempt something so brash when locked into place by their stirrups?” 

“For that matter, why on earth would anyone bother with vaulting? The practice was rendered irrelevant thousands of years ago when people first tamed pegasi and wyvverns! Gods’ breath, Robin, have you forgotten how many fliers we have in our present company?”

  A Miniature Idol of Lord Duma

My Lord Duma...!▾

He is much smaller...... less-detailed than the ones... in His temple.▾

... ... It feels wasteful to have this.Part of making a pilgrimage to Him...is the journey involved to get there.▾

     What do you mean I asked for her to be able to do this—

Maybe it had been all those years finally catching up to her. 

After all, her lord took and took and took and took from her, and from the moment she stepped foot on Askran soil to assist the Summoner, she’d been okay with that. She would call to Him, and His words would fill in the gaps left behind in her mind, wrapping her with immense strength… and she wouldn’t resist. There still remained, however, parts of who she used to be; at this point merely waiting in line to be the next thing she offers to Him— until he who used to be the little boy from the village she could barely recall had answered the Summoner’s call, too.

She hadn’t remembered him when he tried to embrace her. When she nearly decided to burn him alive for doing so. Being around him caused those remnants to rise to the surface, and she’d begun to hate him for it. What else was she supposed to offer to the War Father when flesh and blood wouldn’t do, being so distant from Him?

Her hate grew in propensity when she finally recalls him; no longer directed at him, but at herself for what she’d done. What she didn’t mean to do. The things He whispered to her and wrapped around her with only seemed to strangle her now, and she could do nothing but let it slowly kill her here— and, oh, how cruel it had been for even death to be taken away from her.

… Despite it all, Alm offered to help; to heal. Even if the fault didn’t fall upon his shoulders, he offered her love— and perhaps that is why something so simple as acceptance comes over Celica when her hands pull Alm aside, and her arms trap him against the wall. He yelps in confusion and surprise, but it is not enough to quash the realization of just how much she’d missed him.

… She vaguely recalls a tower bathed in a glowing sunset; of a girl tackling an unsuspecting boy to the floor, embracing him after years of dreaming to see him once more. 

   A Flower Wreath

It's... a flower wreath.▾

The structural integrity of it is decent enough...But it's seen better days.▾

I can vaguely recall... making this for someone...A long time ago, before... everything happened.Just who was it, I wonder...?▾

    “You’re not a monster.”

Alm points at her, follows up with a rough gesture of his thumb and a shake of his head, and ends with his hands clawed and arms arched. 

“not a monster>,” he says, and though they’ve both deemed the sign for the last word as ridiculous to the point where it seemed far more appropriate to finger spell it out, the somber expression he accompanies with using it makes the gesture seem a tad more serious in Celica’s eyes.

“You’re… right. Of course I’m not,” she says, though her tone belies otherwise; after all, she’s seen the glint of terror and apprehension in the eyes of the lesser nobility when they converse with and gaze upon her; she who possesses not just power over them by birthright, but because the power of a god long-since dead might possess her at any given moment— in that very same moment mere minutes ago where the arrogance of a royal subject tried her patience, and how can she not give in?— “but… —Alm, they… don’t see me in the same way you do… They don’t understand.”

And how could they? How can they see through violent bursts of violet flames; how can they hear the decrees of a silent king from the voice of his queen; how can they experience her kindness when all they do is whisper of the supposed monster that lurks beneath the surface mere footsteps from her listening distance? How could she make them understand when they refuse to give her the opportunity?

She intertwines his fingers with hers and brings them close to her cheek. Leaning into the warmth from the back of Alm’s hand like this, Celica can let out the tremble in her grasp through the shaky sigh she focuses on exhaling with closed eyes. Every count in her head, she can hear the tongues of purple flame that surround her ebb and flow, but it will be long until they finally disperse and disappear— when her mood sinks to this depth and lower, it always refuses to dissipate so quickly. 

Headcanons — Accepting

Celica suffers auditory overloads easily, and tries to hum to herself or recite prayers to Duma to drown out the proverbial static in her head.

If one listens carefully, they may recognize that the melodies she often hums are awfully reminiscent of Ram Village folk songs…

Though she is quite proficient in magic, Celica tends to rely more upon her expertise with the sword as well as the power provided to her by Duma.

In the event that someone spurs on her ire, Celica offers a single opportunity to seek restitution; more than often, however, the window of time she affords them to do so isn’t very long…

     “You’re a monster.”

Treating her so kindly, Alm makes it so easy for her to forget what she is. 

Being patient with her as she regained parts of herself that had been slowly devoured by the War Father’s madness; soothing her when that same madness reared its ugly head to take over hers and destroy the things around her; caring for her despite not being the Celica he’s wholly familiar with… 

He makes her forget so effortlessly, yet all it takes is a single encounter on the battlefield for him to make her remember. All it takes is the heat of the moment when she lodges the Beloved Zofia into the spine of an enemy, disarmed and barely crawling to flee, for him to shout words that chills her far quicker than her own aura would— words that remind her of the truth in the face of all the pretty lies he fed her. 

“You’re a monster,” he says, and the way she ponders that— as it echoes in her head louder than His whispers of praise; as she stares at the lifeless form in front of her— precariously teeters between incredulity and resignation, unsure which one would win out over the other. 

She sheathes her bloodied blade, tonelessly repeating the word, “Monster,” and much as she tries to let it echo in place of his voice, his timbre rings much louder than her own shaky rasp… “You’re… right, of course… You… always made much more sense than I… 

“But… I simply don’t… understand…"