#〞 ☆ 𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐄-𝐀-𝐓𝐄𝐓𝐄 › ASKBOX. ╰

[hycanitho]

@unsungblade sent. ✧ rasque: a moment you instantly wish you could take back, feeling a pulse of dread right after crossing the point of no return.

When Fernand turns and storms out of the Deliverance, it is Clair who runs after him, following closely on his heels. She chases him down the decaying stone halls of the crypt, the clattering of her boot soles against the ground and shouts for him to wait, wait just a moment echoing throughout the corridor.

She catches up to him in the sunlight, feet digging into the soft earth as she skids to a stop, just on the edge of the forest. She finds him preparing to leave, saddling his steed with what little he kept in the hideout alongside rations and supplies for at least a week’s long ride.

“Fernand? …Fernand!”

Her breaths are quick and ragged, and she wobbles on her feet for a moment before her hand shoots out and seizes him by the arm — both to steady herself and to keep him from taking his reins and riding off into the treeline.

“Do not act as though you cannot hear me!”

His sharp glare cuts through her, but he stills. He nudges her, but Clair’s grip remains steadfast. It takes him a moment and several annoyed grunts, each increasing in volume, before he can wrest his arm from her grasp.

Clair flinches, recoiling from the sharpness of his movements. “By the Mother, what on earth has gotten into you, Fernand? If I had known you could react in such a manner, I would have never even dreamed of respecting your authority over me all those years ago. I mean — truly, how can you call me immature while you stamp around so? I was more level-headed on my sixteenth birthday! …And you do remember how I reacted when Lady Augustinne arrived wearing the exact gown I had on.”

Fernand has his back to her, hands busy. Clair comes closer to him, trying to wedge herself between him and his steed.

“Please, Fernand. You cannot be serious about leaving. How could you turn your back on Zofia? On us? On Clive? What happened to the promise of fighting for those who could not fight, of returning Zofia to her rightful people, of avenging those tyranny have stolen from us?”

Silence lay thickly between them. Clair stamps her foot.

“Fernand! I demand you say something!”

He shoulders past her; Clair stumbles back, alarmed, and trips over the soles of her own boots. He mounts his steed and casts a glance down at her, sitting in the dirt. She stares at him, eyes wide and jaw agape. For once, she is speechless.

She sees his jaw tighten as he turns away, the reins of his horse clutched tightly in leather gloved hands. Something sparks within her, and scrabbles her way back to her feet. Her eyes feel hot, and she tries to blink her tears away as quickly as she can manage. A white hot, devastatingly heavy anger weighs on her psyche, but she still does not want him to worry for her. She does not want him to see her cry for him, mourning for him.

“Go, then!” she shouts. There’s a painful, sore hoarseness in her voice. “Go! Go, and do not ever think of us again! I hope I die on the march to Rigel. I hope I am killed in the most horrible and monstrous of ways. I hope all of us are! Then you’ll be truly and terribly alone, with nothing and no one and you’ll mourn for your family for the rest of your sorry, sorry life!”

Clair does not wait to see the ramifications of her words, to see how rigid Fernand had become or how his feet dug into his stirrups.

She turns and she runs. 

Away, this time.

[hycanitho]

@redmessenger sent. "Lady Clair, it's lovely to see you again. You're certainly a sight for sore eyes... Ah," Lukas watches with wide eyes as any army of butlers carry trunk after trunk into the students dorms. "Did another person accompany you here? I'm sorry to say I didn't catch them."

Clair’s first order of business upon her return to Garreg Mach was transforming her Academy-ordained dormitory into a space that resembled something liveable. It looked to be tough work, for the room she had been given is only an eighth of the size of her chambers (maybe even smaller than that, in comparison to the sprawl of her summer estate). How she would ever fit even a quarter of the things needed for her survival into this veritable shoebox of a room is yet to be seen.

She steps out into the hall for a moment while her troupe of maids and manservants rearranges her dormitory to her liking, for overseeing such a task is quite the arduous thing. A familiar sight awaits her right outside her door — those russet tones and deep, dulcet voice could only belong to one lanceman.

“Lu - kas!” she crows, throwing out her arms and wrapping him in the tightest embrace she can muster. “I do say, it is the most delightful of surprises to see you here. Did my brother write to you about my arrival?”

Ladyknight releases him from her vice grip, throwing a glance over her shoulder at her various servants bustling about her room. “Oh, no, I made the journey alone. My father thought it best I come with some help… you know, for all the things that needed to come with me. I couldn’t have possibly carried all my belongings on my own! Why, I must have brought at least four trunks of gowns alone…”

Clair clears her throat. “Well, I doubt you came to see me for an inventory of my belongings — and, honestly, Lukas, between you and me, I scarcely remember half the things I even ended up bringing!” Grinning brightly, she loops an arm through his and rests it at the crook of his elbow.

“Now, I believe I am in the mood for a cup of tea. Or something sweet. Both, perhaps — yes, I think I would like both. We just have to catch up, Lukas. There is simply so much I must know!”