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flitswitch) wrote2021-10-11 04:23 pm
flitswitch) wrote2021-10-11 04:23 pm
fe3h - in absentia
"I didn't know you were an artist."
Alec started in his seat, armor clattering with the sudden movement of his body. Byleth tilted his head as the knight's gaze found him, expression sheepish before he cleared his throat and composed himself.
"The title is too generous for me."
Ignatz tended to fluster when Byleth asked to see his art, and Bernadetta would scream before he managed to even finish the request. Alec didn't need to be asked. He tilted his pad without shame, allowing Byleth to view his work.
There was no real sense to what Byleth was presented with. No identifiable shapes, nothing to indicate form. It was really nothing more than a messy splash of color set across the page. His brow furrowed in scrutiny, trying to glean some meaning from the work, but he gave up the effort when Alec chuckled.
"Most of them aren't even fit to be called sketches. Just messes like this one." He pulled the pad back to himself, picking up another pencil to add a few more strokes of color as he spoke. "It's something I use to help center my thoughts."
They fell into silence then, a comfortable thing that had grown between them recently. In the moments they had found to come together, sharing a short talk or a meal or a training session. Alec's eyes remained on his art, the only sound from him being the quiet scratch of pencil over page, the soft click of him putting down one color in favor of another; but Byleth's eyes were on his face, the way the light and shadow of the afternoon sun played off his cheekbones and forehead, warmed his skin and lit up his eyes, and the small, content smile that curled his mouth.
And it was the first time Byleth could recall thinking to himself, I wouldn't mind staying in this moment forever.
*
For the chaos of Edelgard's attack and the weather of the years, the monastery is still in good shape. The important communal and living spaces are still mostly, if not wholly intact, and the defenses can be easily filled in once they've rallied more bodies to the cause. For the moment, the easiest concern to deal with is thankfully simple: cleaning.
Predictably, Byleth's results in getting help for this task are mixed. Dimitri is too caught up in his own mind and the ghosts that haunt him, snarling at anyone who draws close for any reason other than hunting Edelgard; Sylvain is as allergic to chores as ever, and Felix refuses to be removed from the training grounds. Gilbert is wrapped up in talks with Rodrigue. Seteth, Alois, Catherine and Shamir are taking an account of damages; Hanneman and Manuela have retreated to their own spaces when Byleth's back was turned. Annette, Mercedes, Ashe, Ingrid and Flayn are more than amenable to the idea, thankfully, and between the six of them the living spaces that will be going back into use are cleaned up and tidied once more.
The sun is starting to set as Byleth steps out of his bedroom and finds Ashe standing outside his own, wiping sweat from his brow. When he notices Byleth, he perks up, offering a smile. "Whew, I almost forgot how tiring just cleaning can be. It's nice, though. Sprucing this place up again."
Byleth nods, casting a look over the grounds as he approaches Ashe. With the light of the setting sun painting the stone and greenery in soft oranges, it's not hard to think back to all the times Byleth witnessed the same thing when this place was still a lively academy. Hearing distant chatter and laughter floating back to him on the breeze, watching students make their way across the grounds, worrying about nothing more than classes and grades.
Byleth is still getting used to the presence of a heart in his chest, and the lurch it gives at these memories is enough to make him feel faintly sick.
The mood must be contagious. When Ashe speaks again, his voice is more hushed, somber. "But it's sad, too. Knowing how many of these rooms aren't going to be used again... it really drives everything home, huh."
When Byleth looks back, Ashe isn't looking at him. His eyes are over Byleth's shoulder, and even further than that, gaze distant and lost to memories. And when Byleth turns, sees Dedue's door, still closed and undisturbed, he understands. He lets the silence settle between them; the only words he can think to offer would be paltry at best.
Ashe shakes himself from his thoughts soon enough, and with a last sad smile excuses himself back into his own quarters. Leaves Byleth to his own thoughts, of warm and lazy afternoons and the people he would share them with. The ones whose faces he won't be seeing back on the monastery grounds anymore.
He's not aware he'd started walking until he stops, finds himself before a door he doesn't immediately recognize. It takes a quick scan of the area to make sense of where in the grounds he's wandered to, and then the final pieces slide into place, remind him of whose door this one was. He reaches out, gloved fingertips tracing the grain of the wood, before his hand falls upon the knob. Miraculously, there's no resistance when he turns it, no lock to keep it closed, and he pushes into the room without a second thought.
Inside, Alec's room is dark. There's no candle to light the walls, only the sun behind Byleth to stretch his shadow long across the floor. The rush of air from the door opening churns the stale air within, makes the dust motes caught in the sun's rays dance in suddenly energized whirls and turns. Byleth has never been in this room before, never had an occasion to meet Alec in his own quarters; it feels like standing in the threshold to another world.
"I'm coming in," he says to no one at all, and steps inside. Leaves the door open only long enough to locate a light source, a small oil lamp on his desk and a canister to refill it that still has some dregs left within. With it lit, he kicks the door closed and leaves himself alone in the tomb.
It's a modest room, which tracks with what Byleth knew of the knight. There's a homemade patchwork quilt spread across the bed, and small hoops of embroidery lining the wall. Folded, yellowing letters stick out of the books standing on Alec's desk, serving as makeshift bookmarks. Potted plants stand, wilted and brown, on a shelf set above. But what stands out most is the pages scattered across his desk, dusty and worn and curling at the edges.
When Byleth picks them up, there's no real sense to what he's seeing, no identifiable shapes, nothing to indicate form. It's nothing like Ignatz's abandoned paintings, half-finished but beautiful still in their concepts, or Bernadetta's forgotten sketchbooks, full of life and vibrancy it had been so difficult to coax out of the girl herself. They're nothing more than messy splashes of color.
But as he looks closer, by the flickering light of the lamp, Byleth can see the controlled chaos in it. Very rarely do the colors blend into the ugly brown of careless application. Different shades show up in different frequency and use. As Byleth slowly flips through the pages, sense begins to form. He can see the progression of Alec's thoughts; of his confusion, frustration, some burden he was bearing that he'd forced himself to shoulder alone. Something that had bent his shoulders and back with its weight in those final days, before his disappearance.
Byleth had never been able to pry the truth from him. The closest he'd gotten was that night in the cathedral, where they'd both been up far too late and had found each other. The image of Alec's face in the moonlight as he'd turned to the window bearing the crest of Seiros, and Byleth remembers with a painful clarity the part of his mouth, the tremble of his lip, on the verge of something huge - and then the clench of his jaw before he forced a smile and bid Byleth a good night.
Byleth flips to the last page. His chest aches when he's presented with a violent, dark scribble. He can see the white-knuckled pressure of the pencil in the tracks it left, places where it came close to tearing right through the page. It's a dark abyss, threatening to pull Byleth under and into all the agonized emotion that went into creating it. Nothing more than simple and raw pain, reflecting back at him from the page.
Byleth sets the stack down with faintly trembling hands. Stares into the warm light of the lamp until his eyes begin to water, feeling the dull, pounding ache in his chest and the sudden sense of loneliness that's settled over his shoulders like a cloak. With the afterimage of flames on his eyelids when he blinks, Byleth shakes himself back to the present, to the people here and now who need him; he snuffs out the lamp, and leaves the room behind with a final, quiet click of the door.
Alec started in his seat, armor clattering with the sudden movement of his body. Byleth tilted his head as the knight's gaze found him, expression sheepish before he cleared his throat and composed himself.
"The title is too generous for me."
Ignatz tended to fluster when Byleth asked to see his art, and Bernadetta would scream before he managed to even finish the request. Alec didn't need to be asked. He tilted his pad without shame, allowing Byleth to view his work.
There was no real sense to what Byleth was presented with. No identifiable shapes, nothing to indicate form. It was really nothing more than a messy splash of color set across the page. His brow furrowed in scrutiny, trying to glean some meaning from the work, but he gave up the effort when Alec chuckled.
"Most of them aren't even fit to be called sketches. Just messes like this one." He pulled the pad back to himself, picking up another pencil to add a few more strokes of color as he spoke. "It's something I use to help center my thoughts."
They fell into silence then, a comfortable thing that had grown between them recently. In the moments they had found to come together, sharing a short talk or a meal or a training session. Alec's eyes remained on his art, the only sound from him being the quiet scratch of pencil over page, the soft click of him putting down one color in favor of another; but Byleth's eyes were on his face, the way the light and shadow of the afternoon sun played off his cheekbones and forehead, warmed his skin and lit up his eyes, and the small, content smile that curled his mouth.
And it was the first time Byleth could recall thinking to himself, I wouldn't mind staying in this moment forever.
*
For the chaos of Edelgard's attack and the weather of the years, the monastery is still in good shape. The important communal and living spaces are still mostly, if not wholly intact, and the defenses can be easily filled in once they've rallied more bodies to the cause. For the moment, the easiest concern to deal with is thankfully simple: cleaning.
Predictably, Byleth's results in getting help for this task are mixed. Dimitri is too caught up in his own mind and the ghosts that haunt him, snarling at anyone who draws close for any reason other than hunting Edelgard; Sylvain is as allergic to chores as ever, and Felix refuses to be removed from the training grounds. Gilbert is wrapped up in talks with Rodrigue. Seteth, Alois, Catherine and Shamir are taking an account of damages; Hanneman and Manuela have retreated to their own spaces when Byleth's back was turned. Annette, Mercedes, Ashe, Ingrid and Flayn are more than amenable to the idea, thankfully, and between the six of them the living spaces that will be going back into use are cleaned up and tidied once more.
The sun is starting to set as Byleth steps out of his bedroom and finds Ashe standing outside his own, wiping sweat from his brow. When he notices Byleth, he perks up, offering a smile. "Whew, I almost forgot how tiring just cleaning can be. It's nice, though. Sprucing this place up again."
Byleth nods, casting a look over the grounds as he approaches Ashe. With the light of the setting sun painting the stone and greenery in soft oranges, it's not hard to think back to all the times Byleth witnessed the same thing when this place was still a lively academy. Hearing distant chatter and laughter floating back to him on the breeze, watching students make their way across the grounds, worrying about nothing more than classes and grades.
Byleth is still getting used to the presence of a heart in his chest, and the lurch it gives at these memories is enough to make him feel faintly sick.
The mood must be contagious. When Ashe speaks again, his voice is more hushed, somber. "But it's sad, too. Knowing how many of these rooms aren't going to be used again... it really drives everything home, huh."
When Byleth looks back, Ashe isn't looking at him. His eyes are over Byleth's shoulder, and even further than that, gaze distant and lost to memories. And when Byleth turns, sees Dedue's door, still closed and undisturbed, he understands. He lets the silence settle between them; the only words he can think to offer would be paltry at best.
Ashe shakes himself from his thoughts soon enough, and with a last sad smile excuses himself back into his own quarters. Leaves Byleth to his own thoughts, of warm and lazy afternoons and the people he would share them with. The ones whose faces he won't be seeing back on the monastery grounds anymore.
He's not aware he'd started walking until he stops, finds himself before a door he doesn't immediately recognize. It takes a quick scan of the area to make sense of where in the grounds he's wandered to, and then the final pieces slide into place, remind him of whose door this one was. He reaches out, gloved fingertips tracing the grain of the wood, before his hand falls upon the knob. Miraculously, there's no resistance when he turns it, no lock to keep it closed, and he pushes into the room without a second thought.
Inside, Alec's room is dark. There's no candle to light the walls, only the sun behind Byleth to stretch his shadow long across the floor. The rush of air from the door opening churns the stale air within, makes the dust motes caught in the sun's rays dance in suddenly energized whirls and turns. Byleth has never been in this room before, never had an occasion to meet Alec in his own quarters; it feels like standing in the threshold to another world.
"I'm coming in," he says to no one at all, and steps inside. Leaves the door open only long enough to locate a light source, a small oil lamp on his desk and a canister to refill it that still has some dregs left within. With it lit, he kicks the door closed and leaves himself alone in the tomb.
It's a modest room, which tracks with what Byleth knew of the knight. There's a homemade patchwork quilt spread across the bed, and small hoops of embroidery lining the wall. Folded, yellowing letters stick out of the books standing on Alec's desk, serving as makeshift bookmarks. Potted plants stand, wilted and brown, on a shelf set above. But what stands out most is the pages scattered across his desk, dusty and worn and curling at the edges.
When Byleth picks them up, there's no real sense to what he's seeing, no identifiable shapes, nothing to indicate form. It's nothing like Ignatz's abandoned paintings, half-finished but beautiful still in their concepts, or Bernadetta's forgotten sketchbooks, full of life and vibrancy it had been so difficult to coax out of the girl herself. They're nothing more than messy splashes of color.
But as he looks closer, by the flickering light of the lamp, Byleth can see the controlled chaos in it. Very rarely do the colors blend into the ugly brown of careless application. Different shades show up in different frequency and use. As Byleth slowly flips through the pages, sense begins to form. He can see the progression of Alec's thoughts; of his confusion, frustration, some burden he was bearing that he'd forced himself to shoulder alone. Something that had bent his shoulders and back with its weight in those final days, before his disappearance.
Byleth had never been able to pry the truth from him. The closest he'd gotten was that night in the cathedral, where they'd both been up far too late and had found each other. The image of Alec's face in the moonlight as he'd turned to the window bearing the crest of Seiros, and Byleth remembers with a painful clarity the part of his mouth, the tremble of his lip, on the verge of something huge - and then the clench of his jaw before he forced a smile and bid Byleth a good night.
Byleth flips to the last page. His chest aches when he's presented with a violent, dark scribble. He can see the white-knuckled pressure of the pencil in the tracks it left, places where it came close to tearing right through the page. It's a dark abyss, threatening to pull Byleth under and into all the agonized emotion that went into creating it. Nothing more than simple and raw pain, reflecting back at him from the page.
Byleth sets the stack down with faintly trembling hands. Stares into the warm light of the lamp until his eyes begin to water, feeling the dull, pounding ache in his chest and the sudden sense of loneliness that's settled over his shoulders like a cloak. With the afterimage of flames on his eyelids when he blinks, Byleth shakes himself back to the present, to the people here and now who need him; he snuffs out the lamp, and leaves the room behind with a final, quiet click of the door.