king crimson.

for   a   moment,   a   mere   second   is   gaze   frozen   with   sheer   reluctance   to   believe   an   amphibian   has   been   placed   into   your   hands,   but   what   could   you   truly   expect   from   a   picnic   near   the   river   ?   damn.   for   sure   you   were   one   to   expect   a   pretty   looking   rock,   or   a   mineral   of   sorts   ——   just   to   be   met   with   contact   of   slimy   substance   to   skin,   grossly   icky       (       something   you   assume   innards   &   toads   have   in   common,       )       &   sticky   !!   for   some   reason   you   cannot   stand   the   sight   of   the   latter   more   so.   how   ugly.

@crimsenza, for the playlist / webweaving thing.

war of the foxes. // @crimsenza accepting.

HAD HIS GRIP BEEN ON ANYTHING FRAILER than moralta’s hilt, glenn may have shattered it, blood boiling as hot as it was right then and there. maybe it is better if my opponent wins echoes in his mind & the face of one certain margrave arises in the back of his mind, the ugly, monstrous figure of a pretense of a father, no, rather, of a progenitor [ —ah, but he is not blind: he knows too well had his bloodline not been blessed, rodrigue may not have been as kind; had felix and him both not been crested, perhaps one of them may have suffered a similar fate, but this, this is not the point, not when anger muddles his sight ].

in a quick stride towards the redhead, he finds a hand bunched into his shirt, teeth gritted as he hisses words out, less venomous and more desperate. this is not time for vitriol; one more thread snaps and maybe, maybe he loses a friend for once and all. had he not been shorter, he would have been pulling him upwards, the picture of his indignation painted clear in the scowl on his face. “so you will let his judgement of you win?! you will let the margrave and his ancient, foolish ways win over your talents, miklan? what are you, a man or some sort of sniveling rat?”

[ the words are stuck in his throat, in between his pride and the bile that threatens to rise in his throat: come with me. come with the knights. he does not deserve your tactical sense, nor your terrible sense of humor, nor any part of you, crestless or not. show him you’re more than his name— ]

blue meets hazel. provemewrongprovemewrongprovemwrong. in face of his indifference, of his resignation, something snaps in his chest and he pushes him off, jaw setting into grim disapproval. “fine. give up. suits your nihilism well, you fool.”

when glenn turns his back that afternoon, he tastes most bitter defeat—a taste unfamiliar for a prodigy like himself, certainly, but dreadfully, not nearly unfamiliar enough.

nadja clasps hubert’s hands in her own, grotesquely fascinated by the inky violet that seems to be staining his fingertips; its texture is scar-like, as if he’d touched a hot iron until its impression became permanent.

she’d have been horrified, were these markings not so familiar. she held his father’s hands, she holds her son’s. she’d already asked the important questions: does it hurt when others touch them. will i get hurt if i touch them. are they painful?

“be careful.” she insists, fitting a white glove over his hand as if he’s still a boy, and she’s buttoning his coat. what a pathetic thing to say. she’s certain her son’s off to commit crimes she willingly closes her ears to. careful isn’t on the table. she tries again.

“i love you.” that’s even worse. hubert can’t want to hear that, can he? she doesn’t know if she wants to hear that. she’s his mother, but he’s sworn the emperor’s blade. sentiment is no longer a valid currency, but it doesn’t mean she likes to consider how he’d do her in, if it was ordered. one more try.

“come home soon.” better than nothing.     /     unprompted; @crimsenza​

HANDS ARE WARM AND SOFT WHERE THEY CLASP HIS, the brush of thumbs over rough, magic-scarred skin; sensation dulled, the price paid for a kind of magic that was never meant to be wielded by them. magic gifted to them by the same forces that had imprisoned and tortured lady edelgard, all those years ago, the knowledge of which had been passed from vestra to vestra; ironic, is it not, that they should use their own magic, their own technology to fight them ?

         he watches with rapt attention as she fits a glove over his hand, brow furrowed; he is not a child any longer, has not needed such things from her in more than a decade, yet he cannot bring himself to protest. ( she has always been rather reserved in her affections, but then, he is no different, is he ? he has always been his mother’s son. )

         be careful, she says; does she believe him capable of acting with anything less than the utmost of care ? he has never taken a risk that wasn’t calculated, has never put his own life in danger without the certainty that it was necessary.

         i love you, she says, and his eyes widen at that, a brow arched. [ certainly he knows his mother loves him, but they do not say such things out loud; it simply isn’t their way. ] it’s a strange thing to hear out loud, and there’s no reason it should make something tighten in his chest, but it does all the same.

         “  i know,  ”  he says simply.  “  i love you, too.  ”  insufficient. paltry. years of emotions span between them, the words barely scratching the surface of them; what words could ever suffice ? [ yet the words sound stiff, stilted, faltering in his voice. ]

         come home soon, she says, and that, more than anything, he cannot promise; he has no intention of dying, after all, but nor than he discount the possibility of it, and he has no idea how long the war will continue. months ? years ? only time will tell, he thinks.

         he is no fool. he cannot discount the possibility that this may be the last time he sees her. ( there are provisions in place, in case he were to fall in battle. in case lady edelgard were to fall, too. she is already made a widow, after all; he would see her taken care of, regardless of the outcome of the war. he owes her that much. )