Homecoming, part 1
Winter makes the homesickness worse. It hits hardest in the evenings, when the phantom taste of hot chocolate lingers on his tongue and echoes of Mother’s laughter ring in his thoughts. A smile flickers across his face, as fleeting as a snowflake.
He rolls over onto his back with a sigh. Sheets rustle beneath him, the blanket a comforting weight now atop his stomach. Usually he can push the memories aside and fall asleep, but tonight, they are persistent. Cheeks puff out with air, a habit he subconsciously picked up from Cynthia. There’s no space in his tiny room for dancing—Inigo knows he needs to burn off whatever this is. Not restlessness, or anxiety, or even unhappiness. Boredom, perhaps?
Homesick.
An arm drapes over his face, brown eyes hidden in the crook of his elbow. He’d thought he was long since passed it all. Sure, he can endure brief flashes of it here and there. That first winter in Fódlan wasn’t easy, even though he tried comforting himself with the knowledge that the snowfall here is different. Winter itself isn’t the same—everyone else calls him crazy, but it lessened the sting of being away from home.
Groaning, Inigo pushes himself up, hugging his knees to his chest. He remembers Mom teaching him how to pirouette while a blizzard raged beyond the windows of their home. He never got scared when the glass would shake, or when he couldn’t see anything but white. Mother and Father were there, after all, which meant nothing bad could happen. Everything would be fine, in the end, even if a window broke.
Another night, they put on a show for Father. Baby Inigo only stumbled twice during the simple routine, doing his best to remember all the steps.
The winter before he lost everything, he began learning the first half of Olivia’s dance. He showed that off, too, proud smile on his face the entire time. It took him all season long to feel confident enough that he could move on to the second part.
But just as winters in Fódlan are not the same as in Ferox, this worlds Ferox is different from his. A few tears slip down his cheeks. That’s the home he misses so much, the memories of which sneak up on him and leave him winded like a punch to the gut. Someone older, wiser, might say he never fully proceeded, well, everything. How do you do that, anyway?
He swipes at his cheeks. He came to this Academy to learn, yes. To expand his horizons. (To flirt with all the beautiful girls in the world.)
He was also running from the stark reality of watching an alternate, child version of himself grow up with the very same memories now making his chest ache. That’s why he fought so hard, so young, isn’t it? So no one—no one—would grow up like he and his friends did.
Dancer takes a deep breath. He truly believes he’s not the same falsely confident, loud person he was when he first passed through the Academy gates.
Long legs swing over the side of the bed. Inigo burns off his sleeplessness not by dancing, but by packing.
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It is a week before everything is ready. Arranging passage home. Writing a letter in advance to prepare Mother for his arrival. Many goodbyes, most of them tearful.
Inigo will miss Fódlan.
He looks forward to not spending another winter pining for a lost home.