📩 @likemosaic sent: to become a shinobi, the art of silent, unnoticed observation is the first lesson. thus does the bard watch elinor--she refuses to acknowledge thancred's pert little nickname--and notices it. the slow withdrawal into one's self. the warmth that fades, like an extinguished hearth on a cold night. it requires little thought to imagine why elinor, lovely flower that he is, has begun to wilt. chiyo doesn't flatter herself a great charmer who can send bouquets or chocolates or extravagant poems to cheer the object of their eye. but when elinor returns to his room in the fortemps manor that evening, it's been organized and cleaned thoroughly: the floor clean, the cinders swept out of the fireplace, the bed made. and upon the bed is one perfect, long stemmed pink rose, plucked from house haillenarte's greenhouse after much negotiating and cajoling with francel. she's not brave enough to manage poetry, but there is a small note upon the pillow, next to the flower: /for you. sleep well. chiyo./
the days had become impossibly long lately, and the nights were worse somehow. there seemed no end to the trials, and though ellie knew he didn't weather them alone, the weight on her shoulders had long since begun to take its toll. though she was by no means as hopeless as before - haurchefant had worked some sort of magic with his kindness, bolstering elinor's hope - she knew her mask wasn't nearly good enough. that he held himself with purpose, but the sadness seeped through. she needed to be strong enough for the rest, be someone they could turn to, rely on. they had all lost so much, too much; she envied alphinaud's ability to hold hope, wielded gracefully but still with the poise of a child underneath.
shutting the door to the room that served as his home, the small changes immediately caught her eye. a flicker of fear coarsed through her heart, momentarily back in the waking sands, the idea of an unknown intrusion screaming until sense kicked in. no spy would clear out the fireplace, nor would they tuck away the letters into a desk draw. he did check, though, and upon seeing everything in its place, simply not the place she left it, relaxed. it's only then that the single bloom on the bed caught her eye. paranoia is replaced with curiosity. images of her friends flicked through his mind's eye, caught in wondering so much that the idea of hope of who'd shown this kindness had escaped her.
gentle fingers grasped the rose, bringing the petals to her nose, breathing in it's delicate scent, almost content in the gesture remaining unclaimed, though it would eat him up not to know in the morning. the note shattered the anonymity, reading chiyo's name before the rest of it. she was halfway to the door, stinging tears in her eyes, before stopping abruptly: if chiyo had wanted... if chiyo had wanted to talk about it, this wouldn't have been how she'd do it. so ellie returned to the bed, laid on top of the blanket, petals resting against her lips as he gazed at the ceiling. she could thank her in the morning, quiet and earnest, perhaps weave the rose through a buckle or buttonhole, too, and though she couldn't promise that sleep would be restful, his thoughts drifted to chiyo. of every attempt to connect, every stumble and misstep in the process, and the fire that he had admired from the moment they met had been aimed at him. that she wouldn't dream of taming that fire, but maybe the burns had been for this feeling, this moment. everything hurt, everything ached, and ellie couldn't see a way through, but this felt like the connection he was so desperate to capture. that in itself, was hope, right?
