each blow that lands, each training dummy that is destroyed—felix thinks, stupidly enough, of the dimitri of old, picturing that oh-so familiar grimace of defeat. you are strong, dimitri would say, lowering his lance while panting. were you always so strong?
the answer, of course, is simple: no. no, felix was not always so strong; no, felix was not always so prepared for a face-off, an impromptu competition between sword and spear: and yet this is what felix finds himself thinking of, time and time again. not hilda's first-hand account; not hilda's shaky recollection of some great number of spears piercing dimitri's back, pinning him to the ground as he'd bled out his last. he deserved a better end, she'd said, and felix ignored the weight of claude's (sideways) gaze? settled, instead, for shaking the blood free of his sword before he'd slipped it back into its scabbard, turned to head back to camp. someone—marianne, maybe—sought to stop himm asking if he was okay; he'd thought nothing of brushing right past them, focusing on some point in the not-so-distant distance. i'm fine, he'd muttered. why wouldn't i be? leave me alone.
and felix is fine. mostly. his sword connects with yet another training dummy; he watches, impassively, as said dummy falls to the ground in two equal parts, and he thinks: ah. he wonders: is this what it was like, for dimitri? he thinks, once again: ah.
(because what could he have done, really, aside from stand beside a shell of a man, biting back critiques while watching the kingdom he was born into—the kingdom he, despite everything, continues to care for—fall into the abyss? a mess, to be sure.)
but felix's confidence in the path he's chosen does not erase the past he's turned his back toward—hence felix's thin-lipped scowl as he sheathes his sword. one is expected to utilize a training weapon, when one steps into the training yard; felix, given the time spent in this particular place, is well aware of this rule, despite his flagrant disobedience of it. perhaps he's hoping for someone to chastise him? perhaps he's hoping for someone to challenge him, especially as he hears familiar footsteps behind him. light, yes, but deceptively so; there is, as ever, the notion—the knowledge—that claude could easily catch him unawares, if claude so chose.]
Well? [a question; a challenge, as felix refuses to turn around (because while he hasn't shed a tear in an hour or more, he doesn't quite trust his eyes to be anything other than red-rimmed).] Do you have something to say?
[he wishes, on some level, for claude to be cruel? cruelty is far, far easier to deal with than sympathy.]
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each blow that lands, each training dummy that is destroyed—felix thinks, stupidly enough, of the dimitri of old, picturing that oh-so familiar grimace of defeat. you are strong, dimitri would say, lowering his lance while panting. were you always so strong?
the answer, of course, is simple: no. no, felix was not always so strong; no, felix was not always so prepared for a face-off, an impromptu competition between sword and spear: and yet this is what felix finds himself thinking of, time and time again. not hilda's first-hand account; not hilda's shaky recollection of some great number of spears piercing dimitri's back, pinning him to the ground as he'd bled out his last. he deserved a better end, she'd said, and felix ignored the weight of claude's (sideways) gaze? settled, instead, for shaking the blood free of his sword before he'd slipped it back into its scabbard, turned to head back to camp. someone—marianne, maybe—sought to stop himm asking if he was okay; he'd thought nothing of brushing right past them, focusing on some point in the not-so-distant distance. i'm fine, he'd muttered. why wouldn't i be? leave me alone.
and felix is fine. mostly. his sword connects with yet another training dummy; he watches, impassively, as said dummy falls to the ground in two equal parts, and he thinks: ah. he wonders: is this what it was like, for dimitri? he thinks, once again: ah.
(because what could he have done, really, aside from stand beside a shell of a man, biting back critiques while watching the kingdom he was born into—the kingdom he, despite everything, continues to care for—fall into the abyss? a mess, to be sure.)
but felix's confidence in the path he's chosen does not erase the past he's turned his back toward—hence felix's thin-lipped scowl as he sheathes his sword. one is expected to utilize a training weapon, when one steps into the training yard; felix, given the time spent in this particular place, is well aware of this rule, despite his flagrant disobedience of it. perhaps he's hoping for someone to chastise him? perhaps he's hoping for someone to challenge him, especially as he hears familiar footsteps behind him. light, yes, but deceptively so; there is, as ever, the notion—the knowledge—that claude could easily catch him unawares, if claude so chose.]
Well? [a question; a challenge, as felix refuses to turn around (because while he hasn't shed a tear in an hour or more, he doesn't quite trust his eyes to be anything other than red-rimmed).] Do you have something to say?
[he wishes, on some level, for claude to be cruel? cruelty is far, far easier to deal with than sympathy.]