#yarnver von tag tbt

[hermidetta]

Mistakes are things Yarne is no stranger to. He's doomed so many past allies, failed to get in time to them before the Risen cut them down, lost his closest of allies to a storm of death and fell energy.

He'd rarely let someone down so personally - he tried to keep the people around him happy, tried to keep them willing to keep him alive, tried to stay alive through his friends. So his actions hurt. But they probably hurt Bernie more.

"…Please say she isn't here…"

Yarne winces - the shouting still somewhat haunting him, echoing with the words of lost allies, a cacophony of his mistakes. But Bernadetta wasn't dead. And Yarne could try again.

"Just…"

He leaves his gift, and a small letter.

-Dear Bernadetta. -

- I am… very sorry. I was trying to help you as I would want to be helped, rather than how you needed aid. -

- I doubt this will make amends - I doubt much would, honestly, but… I hope you at least enjoy this. -

- With remorse and a heavy heart, -

- Yarne. -

- P.S.: even if you don't want to do the survival club anymore, you can always come to me if you're feeling unsafe, and struggling alone. I… may not give the best aid, but I can try. -

He leaves the plushie in front of the door, before, one last time, leaning down to rub it's head. The same texture as his own fur, the excess shedding from his winter coat. But, of course, it wasn't exactly like him, transformed. More… soft. Cute, even. Though Yarne enjoyed making it…

He hoped Bernadetta would enjoy it even more.

And he scurried off, not wanting to make anything worse.

Although he doubted he could, he didn't want to be wrong on that.

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

the promises of peach sorbet and camaraderie from a cherished blue-haired boy was what had lured her out of her room for lunch. it is when bernadetta returns from lunch that she spots an offering at her door. she is not so presumptuous to assume it is a gift for her—and maybe a pinch paranoid as always with how she prods it for explosives—but the gift is benign. it is a gift. another, for her birthday? and bernadetta scoops it up with gentle hands, unfolds the letter, and feels her heart sink.

"oh... ohh, no..."  the other day replays, clear as day in her mind for how furious she had been.

anger is a dangerous thing. bernadetta loathes it—just another ugly part of her ugly self that rears its head at the worst times, exposing the true colors of a wreck. she is already ugly enough, she already hates herself enough without it. she hates that she hurts. (others? herself?) she hates that she hurts.

guilt crawls up her spine like the pinprick of needles to her palms, right in their centers where she'd had to keep them elevated across waltzes and sonatas of cold ivory keys. she hates that she hurts. (she hates that she hurt yarne.)

she hates the violence she has inherited. usually she is better at keeping it to herself. persecution complex, an imaginary voice jeers.

persecution complex. it is not her persecution complex this time when she knows she is wrong.

her hand spreads atop the plushie's head. it spins her: a carousel of rumination, regret, reflection. she is quick to slip back into the safety of her room, and with her, the working draft of an apology.