#adrestians

[light-of-valentia]

[sheknightly]

i can hear go playing fe3h over our call and she just skipped over dimitri’s dialogue

[daphnelight-a]

@adrestians​ said : owowowo youve done edelgard ……….

and said : BUT ALSO may i request …. miss marianne von edmund … for my very in progress blog ghbj

EDDIE AND MARIANNE DONE !!

[knightsdeath]

the snow beneath your feet is cold & unfamiliar , brings a strange chill that seeps through your clothes & gloves . it does not quite go unnoticed , though for now it is ignored ; you have a ' fight ' of some sort to focus on , despite a distinct lack of enthusiasm —— but you've no want for competitive spirit , & it flares when the first wad of snow connects with the back of your head , laughter echoing around you . eyes narrow , & you're ready for a battle .

there is a certain sense of EXHILARATION as the frigid mountain air embraces him and he is dressed in layers and furs and all but stumbling through the snow and THIS IS HIS HOME. this is his place. behind them there dwells the manor that he knows as well as the back of his hand and around them there are piles and piles and piles of snow. pure untouched whiteness for as far as the eye can see / stretching over the ground that are so frequently swathed in snow but it’s different, as it drifts from the sky in its beautiful and marvelous dance.

she’s with him / AND THE CROWN PRINCE IS SOMEWHERE / he cannot remember where and he spares a thought to finding him but his gaze catches on the marvel in her face / the wideness of her eyes / the part of her mouth / and the scatter of snow in her dark hair and an idea takes him !! and he gives into it !! and darts for the ground / picking up freshly fallen snow in hand and she’s turning, slow.

( to think that there’s a place in this land that sees snow so rarely, if ever. the idea is strange and doesn’t FIT / and he’s a winter boy / born in the midst of a BLIZZARD that yearned for him, or so mother dear says / with the wind howling against the windows and the snow piling and piling and piling : nearly as tall as a man !! quite the story, isn’t it? )

a smile ( wide and stretching and MISCHIEVOUS ) pulls at his mouth as he forms the snow into a near perfect sphere as his brother taught him and he hurls it and ———— BULLS EYE !! like an arrow to the center it connects with the back of her head and she shouts and he laughs and they are : children / luxuriating in their merriment.

she darts a look at him and he’s giggling still as the snow falls from her hair / and mixes with the rest / and there is a sense of confusion and wonder about her, still. snow is falling ; and catching on her eyelashes ; and he can’t help but announce, voice clear and ringing through the courtyard / as guards turn their heads so subtly towards THE YOUNG LORD as he bows, grand and rather over dramatic, ❝ my apologies, your majesty, but all’s fair in a snowball fight. ❞

she stares at him for a moment / and then another / before her expression shifts and her eyes narrow and determination overtakes her and it’s GLORIOUS as she dives for the deep snow ( just over halfway to their knees ) and he moves, in sync, accidentally half burying himself in his hurry to gather another handful of snow.

and it’s : an all-out war.

( when his highness joins them they stare at him / and then each other / and launch an ALL OUT OFFENSIVE against him as their laughs and shrieks and shouts reverberate throughout the courtyard / carrying with it the sounds of their childish joy. )

@adrestians // babies…

[hartsgold]

❝ will you love me even more when i’m dead? ❞

that one last tender place to sink his teeth in / closed.

         edelgard is more than a force of nature. she is a pyre made with intent to reincarnate. she means to quell the false idols of this land and she will do whatever it takes to move forward. in some respects, they share an equal conviction, a parallel dedication to shifting the world as they know it on its axis. ( still, edelgard’s dream ends in masses more blood than his. it just so happens that her dream ends with her own blood, just the same. )

        since she confessed to him the corroded truth, claude’s spent tireless hours in the attempt to better understand it. when he isn’t strategizing ( or acting at great lengths ) to minimize edelgard’s damage––not damage, bloodshed, he deems to call it as it is––on the battlefield, he’s working to minimize the bloodshed she’s doomed to. whatever’s left of her lifespan thins with each day; he can’t see the splinters in her resolve, but he can feel the weight of truth imposing itself on her. it isn’t until they’re alone that she yields some of these quiet, morbid ideas. 

          “you’re cruel, emperor.” he only uses the title to lighten the mood. not that it accomplishes anything other than weighing his heart like an anchor to his stomach. “i couldn’t possibly love you more.” her question is a vulnerable one –– claude knows well that few besides himself are privy to this grim truth. that’s what makes seeking answers all the more difficult. but there are too many who would do worse with this information, and he understands her refusal to risk that fact. 

          “but i cannot give love to a gravestone, and you know that.” claude’s never been the sort to relinquish hope, and he certainly doesn’t do so now. “what i feel,” he takes her hand in his, then rests her palm over the uneven beat of his heart. it skips where she touches. “will always be right here. and i daresay, so will you.” 

          so long as he has any say in the future, he refuses to imagine one without her. 

[hartsgold]

❛ the future rushes ceaselessly toward me ... i can't help but feel it moves too fast . ❜

hello my darling, hello ragtime gal

          in claude’s experience, time is equal parts wound and salve.

         time has allowed him to cope. the scrape of years that have stretched out behind him have been taxing ones. when he was young, his heart was so desperate, it would often threat to beat a fury out of his chest. the rush of blood followed him everywhere. when would be the next time someone looked down at him? ( or worse, refused to look at him? alienated him with the draw of their eyes? he couldn’t stand those who’d refuse to face him worst of all. ) his burdens spread their wings across his shoulders like the threat of talons in their blades. 

        and here is the bird of prey herself, terrific threat and unchanging mystery. 

        he can see time through her eyes, too. in many ways, the years have proved uncompromising. their future urges toward them like a violence –– he’ll do what he must to shine a light on it. for all the years he spent in his home kingdom, he’d hoped to find something different in the principals of his mother’s. ( but he’s spent much of his time here vacillating between pleasant surprise and anticipated disappointment. ) their futures are unsure, in moments like these. 

          without a doubt,  could think of something cloying. the saccharine comforts in his arsenal count to the multitudes. claude is good at comforting, even when he doesn’t mean each and every word he says. ( often, he does. he wants to mean what he tells his friends. they’re all such different people… he can’t feel everything they do. he would drown. and no leader, no savior, no changing tide in this world can be submerged. it would not do. ) so is it no wonder that he learned how to extend himself less? 

          but the lashes in edelgard’s eyes are long, thick, pretty. her eyes strike him through, cut him down, attempt to pry him open like the pages of a book he’s latched before her. the truth is this: she’s never confided in him like this before, and the horrors of what happen here lately –– behind the walls of someplace that should offer salvation ( not that he’s ever bought into any of that ) –– maybe there’s more to say. more to be done. 

         “hey, princess. you’ve thought a lot about this, haven’t you?” 

          edelgard’s strength cannot be misinterpreted. and claude does not misinterpret. not this time. rather, his hand falls over the heart-line veins of her wrist. his thumb brushes across the skin, thinner, more delicate than he knows she’s built it to be. “you know, difficult as this may be to believe, you don’t always have to think about it alone.” he decides earnestly, he does not want her to be alone. “and yes, maybe the future is unforgiving. but you’re not the type to ask for forgiveness, now are you?” 

          the wary look in his eyes fades, twisting into conviction. he has more than bravado to offer her, and she knows it. ( otherwise, she wouldn’t be here. ) squeezing her wrist in a sign of assurance, claude lets go, his breath tight. he doesn’t know what to expect from her. the thrill leaves his head lighter than usual. but mostly, he’s just worn by the pang of sadness that attempts to knock him down.

          perhaps it’s lucky that she came to claude. when it comes to the weight of guilt or pity, he’s indomitable. “the future will only come as fast as you let it. say, why don’t we plan to spend a little time slowing it down?” he grins then. “i understand you have things to do. still, i bet i could do a pretty good job of drawing out a few hours. then, the hours will feel like days, and so on.” his fingertips itch; he wants to reach for her again, but he doesn’t. claude angles the last hook of his argument in a way he figures she might like –– what, with her tendency to want so much. “what could you possibly have to lose?” 

[knightsdeath]

‘ you’re not gentle with me & i would never ask you to be. ’

there is an exhaustion about her / and it is mirrored in the pits of his soul dwelling deep within the tangled mire which are his THOUGHTS and his FEELINGS and therefore : his sense of self. they are not perfect reflections of each other / but there is the darkness beneath her eyes and the slope of her shoulders and the mockery of living which she embodies so well.

he would pity her, if he were of a mind.

as it stands : he simply watches over her. guards her. AS HE WAS ASKED TO DO / as he will do with his utter surety that she will dissolve, once more, into the QUEEN OF ASHES AS SHE ONCE WAS. her rage is one which has a body count that amounts to an absolute genocide and he finds himself / wondering / when she will shatter once more.

often they are in silence, as they are wont to be. there is no need for speaking between them and he does not recall the dark haired girl that she once was, anymore. the girl who had laughed with him in another lifetime / before he was reborn / before she was reborn. they are not who they once were : not years ago / not a month ago / not a week ago. they are shapeless. and ever changing. and seething.

that she is drinking tea at this very moment is something HILARIOUS in the utter normalcy that it beholds and he stands in her midst : well within striking distance / with his hand on the pommel of one of his blades / staring off into the far distance. she dwells, as always and as ever, within his periphery. where she has always existed / until she faces him on the battle field / A WALKING PYRE OF HER SINS AND WISHES AND HOPES AND DREAMS.

she is pale and wan in this light and the clink of her teacup on its saucer resonates / and she speaks with a sureness and strength that he would have never once presumed lived still within her : the fallen emperor. his head turns, slow. and she is staring at him / as he is staring at her / and there is both an impossible distance and a terrifyingly finite space that dwells between them.

he could kill her : with one blow.she could kill him : with several more / without her axe.

( he knows, instinctively and horrifyingly, the fall of a maul / an axe / HER WEAPON upon him and how his shoulder gave beneath it. weak. mortal. useless. how it was she who made him feel such a way.

felix doesn’t think that he hates her. no. this is something FAR STRONGER THAN EVEN THAT. yet what is stronger than hate? )

they stare at each other for long and lingering and drawing moments that seem to stretch ETERNALLY and he thinks / for a mere moment / that there is something like understanding which passes between them. an impossible thing. no, an improbable thing. yet of all of the impossible improbable things in the universe there yet remains this : that she yet lives / and he watches over her / viciously.

HE WILL NEVER BE GENTLE WITH HER / AND SHE WILL NEVER ASK HIM TO BE.

her head shifts, imperceptible / and perhaps he imagines it and perhaps he doesn’t / and he holds her gaze for several moments longer.

and he looks away / with a half formed noise neither scoff nor sneer nor neither.

( the balcony doors are open and a wind brushes through so gentle and carrying with it the scent of flowers which intermingle with the tea ———— and the smell of blood / and of ash / and self-immolation. )

@adrestians​ // GRAVE SUGGESTION.

[knightsdeath]

❛ i may see nothing but my grave — ❜ grip tightens on the hilt of her axe , eyes darken , ❛ — but it will /not/ be you who puts me in it . ❜

why does it feel like they’ve been here before.

this place. this raging rampage. this brutal battle. there is death and carnage and cries of war all around and he sinks his blade into / the cavity where a heart once beat / and when he rears back the blade hidden beneath his sleeve unsheathes and / he slashes a throat. blood sprays and life drains and he has no time to wipe his face before there is another. and another. and another.

there is the taste of iron on his tongue and he dodges beneath the swipe of a giant axe and he dives forward / lodges his blade deep / and continues forth : THE LONE WOLF. the sun shines down upon them innocent and beseeching and there is dust in the air and the land beneath them is dry and / barren and / lifeless.

maybe they haven’t been here before.

an arrow misses him by a hair and he sees her. a flash of her. a flash of red too bright to be blood and there she stands : THE QUEEN OF RAGE / and he wrenches his blade from the chest of another with what would be a sickening sound. he starts for her : blood pounding and heart bounding and sees as she mutilates one / fells another / glorious in her rage / a warrior emperor to the last.

when she sees him there is a mere MOMENT where their eyes meet and they acknowledge each other / and another steps into his path, and he twists : another killed. his blades are stained. his hands are stained. blood pool in his mouth and he has been carved at some point and he is bleeding. a steady pulse. in his side. it is not a KILLING WOUND nor is it worth THE TIME OR EFFORT it would take to stop. to find a healer. he is still able to move and therefore he continues forward, determined and he, too, is glorious in his rage.

( they are not two sides of the same coin nor are they one in the same but there are similarities between the pair of them that he acknowledges with the cool distance of a lord in regards to his vassals and he remembers her. young and dark haired and / running with him and / they had been something like ————

how foolish it is, to dwell on something which was so very TRANSIENT. )

she : WILDFIRE crushes someone’s chest, breaking clean through their armor / and then they face each other / and it is not neat nor clean nor the isolation of the pair of them. no : still the battle rages on as he grows nearer and he knows not where the OTHERS are. where the king on high is. where any of them are. there is only her / and him : incandescent in their glory.

he stops, paces away from her. an arrow sinks into the ground so near to the middle space and it would almost be POETIC and he stares at her. jaw set. face stained with blood. she, too, is stained. from head to toe / the beautifulunnatural fall of her white white hair gone RED in places.

they breathe : in synch. her mouth parts and he can hear her over the din of the battle, her hand tightening around her axe and fury has transformed that face that was once soft and lovely into something hard and GLORIOUS. she speaks !! and his hands squeeze around the hilt of his sword / and one departs / to his belt / to the twin hilt.

the draw of his second blade is eternal and inexorable and contained in a finite space of time and he brandishes them both : EXTENSIONS OF THE SELF / and he breathes in dust / and readies himself.

❝ we’ll see about that, ❞ his words fill the space between and his shoulders set and they move / in unison.

( he knows, instinctive : that one of them will fall. knows it the way that he knows the beat of his heart. the way he knows the eyes which gaze back at him in the mirror. the way that he knows ————

the crush of an axe / in his chest. from where? from where? )

@adrestians // ah