THE HOSPITALITY OF KNIVES.

i feel like i should move rina to her own blog so i can send asks but like Dare i reblog all this shit and inconvenience all 43 of us. I just dont know

fuck you mari fuck you mari fuck you m / i love you. give me your hand.

          she’s come to garreg mach on account of ‘broadening her horizons.’ that’s what vicente calls it –– he says fódlan is made up of ambitious, young individuals. it’s the youth at this monastery that will grow up to surprise them, and the arena she now frequents most needs to understand that talent. in other words, he wants her to overcome the strength here by means of understanding it. but so far, the only thing she understands is how much they’re all complete mysteries to her. 

          except for the part where that’s the worst lie of all. 

          catarina knows plenty about the people with their hearts on their sleeves. mercedes’ is a quiet truth, but catarina understands she is kind. felix wants to be strong – to be stronger; she thinks they have some line of thread between them, where fighting someone tells them something about their opponents as much as it tells them something about themselves. there are people who are what they say, and people who are not. she gets the majority of face values. but she drowns under the weight of the many secrets that crop up at every corner. the only complete mystery is claude, who does not simply puzzle her any longer. he doesn’t seem so secretive at first glance. in truth, he has the air of someone so breezy, it almost prompts her guard down. 

          but he makes her chest burn and sting like the first time she ingested the venom of a desert scorpion, all with that look on his face. it’s criminal, she wants to think. it’s criminal and it’s so cruel. she’ll only be here for a few months –– what does she care for someone’s secrets when they’re so adamant on not sharing them? 

          she’s just finished sparring in the weapons arena, having taken to a bench outside to cool off. she’s sweaty, her long hair sticks to the back of her neck. her hands ache with the pummeling she put into her opponent’s jaw, and when claude sits beside her, she thinks –– thank gods, as perhaps she’s run enough adrenaline already. perhaps he won’t rile her up like a cryptic bauble stuck between torture and bliss again this time.  

          “byleth’s what? i didn’t think i was even eligible!” she’s not, strictly speaking, a student, but she’s not not, and vicente’s told rhea that she’s to participate in most of the monastery traditions in order to better get along with the others. 

          “am i? –– like hell i’ll––” 

          it’s not just the nickname that ricochets around in her head, fills her up with that unfamiliar static. it’s the thought of dancing for somebody. that someone might want to see her dance before they’d want to see her brutalize. she thinks of her mama, the twirl of her skirts around the tavern she sometimes performed in. the way the music seemed to move with her, rather than the other way around. had byleth seen her acrobatics and decided it was something like dancing? it’s not an impossible guess, but she goes rigid anyway. 

          when she first set foot into the arena that made her a prize fighter, she stopped thinking about when she’d dance for someone with as much happiness as her mother. it goes without saying that her ears burn, the tip of her nose flushing alongside the apples of her cheeks. she tastes venom in the back of her throat. the more digestible sort; the newer, tamer kind she’s been trying since moving to fódlan. the morfian piercer’s venom that she knows more intimately, she keeps in the vial that hangs low at her throat. 

          “you’re so terrible. are you just saying that?” she takes a handful of his collar into a closed fist and yanks him close. something tells her that he’s serious. well… about the white heron cup, at least. at the rest, she’s never certain. 

          she remembers the breath she took when he showed her how to hold a bow: it takes a moment, but she steels her eyes back to her lap. finally ceases to glare daggers into his face. releases him and goes back to brushing dust off her forearm. “if that’s true, of course i’ll win. arena fights are like dancing. did you know that?” her voice doesn’t necessarily flatten, but she’s somewhat quieter –– a little more comfortable than she was. “if you have to ask at all, then surely you know why i’ll be happy to win this for me.” 

“yes it is,  thank you catarina.”  edelgard takes the ribbon from the other’s hand  &  cradles it against her chest.  she notices the permanent reminders of strife on her hand,  acutely aware of their implications.  “i’m not usually so careless,  but with weapon exams just over the horizon,  my mind is caught someone else.  speaking of exams,  how are you enjoying classes here?  the debate yesterday was a bit too heated than it usually is,  even when it’s between the houses.”

catarina: 

   “  𝗐𝗂𝗍𝗁 𝖺 𝖼𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝖽, 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗍𝖺𝗋𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌,  ”  khalid removes himself from the spot he has been watching from, mental notes already made on her posture; well, there’s potential, certainly. and as a leader, he makes it his business to let her know, polish the craft. behind her, gently, he pushes down her shoulders,  “  relax for me, will you ?  here, let me help you with this arm———  ”  and carefully, he fixes it for her, stepping back with a laugh at the comparison.

   “  his princeliness would beg to differ. now !  think you’re ready to hit that target over there ?  𝗂’𝗆 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖺𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗀 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝖺 𝖻𝗎𝗅𝗅𝗌𝖾𝗒𝖾——— 𝘺𝘦𝘵.  ”

          “my head doesn’t just clear because i want it to. we’re not all so talented, you know.” she bristles, freezing completely as he sidesteps her, gingerly pressing at the tension across her shoulder frame. her cheeks go hot. it makes sense that he’s teaching by demonstration, but... “his princeliness can beg all he likes. i hate those things.” but the thought he draws her to helps catarina find her center: she focuses with a long, slow breath.  

          “hey, edelgard. is this yours?” she extends her hand with the ribbon in question, its silky material impossibly contrasted by the callouses and scars along her open palm. “i thought it looked familiar, is all.”