[It's early evening when the message arrives. A time when Edelgard wakes up, and when Bernadetta is probably puttering around her room. Or maybe she's out. Who knows. That's what Edie would like to find out.]
[Sylvain doesn't regret putting as much of himself in to assisting with repairing the leyline as he had. He can't regret it now - what's done is done, and he won't admit it, but starting had been much easier than stopping in the first place. So he'd driven himself to exhaustion, and was still paying the price in the form of blackened hands and forearms (treated, but healing slowly), persistent vertigo, and... well.
Bernadetta had surely noticed the distress the first night. Felix had taken the brunt of the backlash then, and Sylvain had believed it a result of their Bond being stronger because their bond, their friendship before all this, was already strong.
So the day had been a long one, filled with rippling aftereffects and hard work, to the point where even if he didn't want to risk sleeping again, he's out as soon as he drops into his bedroll for the night.
Perhaps he'll be too exhausted for the nightmares to return.
Of course the nightmares return.]
--
[A constant: Miklan never takes him by the hand, unless it's to keep up appearances.
This dream-memory, despite being shifting and nebulous, as dreams are wont to do, is no different, it would seem, even if everything else is inconsistent. The temperature is simultaneously hot and cold. The perspective is somehow both looking on at the scenes and looking through the eyes of the figure which is, clearly, Sylvain himself. The ages of anyone involved seem to change moment to moment, memory to memory.
But there's always a heavy hand somewhere on his arm, gripping tight enough to bruise. At first, when he's young, small, naive, he complains about it, tries to squirm out of his brother's grasp. Those times, those flashes of memory inevitably end in shouting, yes, but also pain - a blackened eye, a broken nose or rib.
Trying to pry fingers off his arm is worse. The grip inevitably tightens. The ensuing pain afterwards is sharper, guaranteed, and prolonged, never limited to just one strike, just one instance of lashing out. More often than not, these times he ends up thrown to the ground afterwards, kicked while he's down, left to shiver from the shock of the pain more than any potential cold.
It's only when he starts to flinch that he gets off easier... occasionally. It's lucky when he's met with laughter, with accusations of being pathetic, a worthless heir, and tossed aside. Other times, shrinking in on himself, bringing up his other arm to shield his face only results in that arm being bruised severely... but no black eyes or broken noses. Usually. And if he's already curled in on himself, when he's thrown to the side, when he inevitably crumples to the ground more often than not, then it's more likely he won't be kicked in the stomach, or the jaw.
Not reacting is neither better nor worse. It stokes the anger higher, gets him a split lip, a bruise on his cheekbone, a punch or knee to the gut. It diffuses anger, sometimes, though - because if there's no reaction, then what's the point in lashing out? And it's those times, when Sylvain's arm is released, that he collapses all on his own, without being thrown to the ground, panic welling up that had taken every scrap of willpower to tamp down.
And as is the nature of nightmares, the memories filter in and out in no particular order, but the pain is consistent, when it comes, whether the viewing is being done through Sylvain's eyes or through a third-party view. Noise is consistent with the sights - shouting, accusations of worthlessness, of life-stealing little wretches, cries of pain, whimpers of fear, the quickened breaths consistent with panic.
And at the end of it all, the glow of red eyes, the swipe of a bestial claw, aimed suspiciously towards his arm, though the sheer size makes determining as much more an instinct than an actual sight.]
--
[At least this time, Sylvain doesn't wake with a scream. Instead, it's a sharp gasp as he sits up quickly, initially disoriented, and in a cold sweat. Slowly, where he is starts coming back to him, but he doesn't lay back down to go back to sleep, despite the fact that he most likely ought to.
Instead, he ends up sitting with his knees drawn to his chest, and his face down on top of them, willing himself to keep his breathing level even as the lingering clutches of panic have him hyper aware of the sound of any movement near him. He didn't grab his lance. Maybe he should have.]
cw: just assume mentions of child abuse this whole thread guys
[She's been working hard to take care of Sylvain. It's not been easy and he's thoroughly exhausted himself. And even she needs to sleep at some point. When she's not repairing her clothes, of course. They keep seeming too big and it's been rough making sure they fit her right.
The problem tonight? Sleep brings nightmares. Nightmares that seem so familiar and yet so unfamiliar. They're not her own. They're not the ones that she sees. But they stir something in her the longer they go on.
When she wakes up, she's kicking her blankets away because they feel too much like rope. Not safe. Constricting. Scary.
And then she finds herself moving. Moving towards where she knows Sylvain is and she's not sure when she gets there. How she gets there so fast. Did she run? Did she crawl fast? She doesn't know or care really. She just sees him and moves over until she can be next to him. Instinct takes over after that and she wraps her arms around him, pushing her fingers through his hair to pet him gently.
No one ever held her like this when she was scared as a child. She knows she wanted them to but no one ever did. The only thing that ever really held her for hours at a time was the rope. She remembers wondering if it would help her to feel better if it had been arms instead.
Bernadetta hopes it helps him now. No questions. No telling him it'll be okay. Just comfort. Just an understanding that it's okay to be broken because he doesn't have to be okay right now.
[Near the tail end of the expedition, one night, Hubert's end of the Bond explodes with an absolutely flurry of emotion. Worry almost to the point of pain, apprehension, determination, agitation, and buried underneath it all, fear. It comes and goes, flickering between those for the next few hours. There's the beginning of a sharp thorn of grief—]
[—before it's all violently locked away, replaced by a numb, mechanical, iron-edged focus, like a metal wire taught with so much tension it's on the verge of snapping.]
[That awful iron tension remains there for nearly the next twenty-four hours, never once dimming with sleep or giving way to another emotion.]
[But, it does give way. Relief, bright and aching, and a terrible exhaustion. That thorn of grief creeps back in, mingling with the relief and the start of something warm before Hubert's presence suddenly goes dark with slumber.]
Hullo Miss Bernadetta! My name is Tataru! I'm a friend of Felix and Sylvain. I asked Sylvain if I might use your ballroom in a few weeks for a celebration of sorts that's near and dear to my heart. He agreed, so long as you and Felix have no opposing thoughts on the matter. I promise it won't be too much of an imposition.
Also I've been told you're quite the seamstress! Me too! It's always nice to meet someone who shares the same passions as myself!
[Petra continues to mutter anxiously to herself as she looks through her few belongings and then starts searching her room. Her dagger, where had she put her dagger? She'd cut her nails, or more accurately the curved claws taking the place of her nails, that morning and they were already growing back, long and wicked looking.
She certainly couldn't use her axe for this kind of thing so she continues to go through all the drawers before moving to the closet, rummaging through the boxes that were there when she'd taken the room days before.]
Okay now that that's out of the way, Bernie kind of looking through the crack of Petra's door wondering what she's talking about. But really, she'd just been hovering by when she heard her. So she's curious!
Seeing her in distress, she knocks politely before poking her head in. Well, more like her antennae in.]
Moving from one cluster of berries to another, Petra realized as her tail ended up getting dragged loudly through a bush that she'd sort of lost track of where her snakey body was.
Trying to stifle a soft, seemingly uncontrollable giggle at the thought of forgetting about where the end of her, now long, body was, she doubled back, coiling over herself in an attempt to sort all of this out.
"Oh! Bernie!" She'd know that particular scent and wing flutter anywhere. She waved a hand to get the fae's attention with a smile, "Bernie. Over here."
The little Fae suddenly had her head pop up over the bushes. Her antennae were looking sort of droopy as she did. She giggled and floated up and over to where Petra was, grabbing her hands.
Bernie hiiiiiiiii its me Gon! I hope you're doing okay! I finally got my faun legs so I was wondering if we could get together for some measurements and stuff! :-D Sorry for not contacting you before this...... :-( I was really distracted with a lot of stuff. i was also down for a long time cuz of my leg changes!
The sound of hooves on the paved street are not totally uncharacteristic for a city like Aefenglom. Unless one knows a thing about horses and can recognize those particular ones belong to an uncommonly large beast.
It's been a while and Iskandar finally got himself to check how his little Fae friend is doing. He just hopes he has the right address. There's only one way to verify this. He gets off the horse and goes to knock on the door.
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Are you busy, Bernadetta?
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[That's the first message she gets. Followed soon by:]
Ummmm sorry. Did you need something, Lady Edelgard? I'm not busy. Definitely not eating sweets instead of sleeping. Nope.
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Mid-Outpost Problems Event - cw: child abuse
Bernadetta had surely noticed the distress the first night. Felix had taken the brunt of the backlash then, and Sylvain had believed it a result of their Bond being stronger because their bond, their friendship before all this, was already strong.
So the day had been a long one, filled with rippling aftereffects and hard work, to the point where even if he didn't want to risk sleeping again, he's out as soon as he drops into his bedroll for the night.
Perhaps he'll be too exhausted for the nightmares to return.
Of course the nightmares return.]
--
[A constant: Miklan never takes him by the hand, unless it's to keep up appearances.
This dream-memory, despite being shifting and nebulous, as dreams are wont to do, is no different, it would seem, even if everything else is inconsistent. The temperature is simultaneously hot and cold. The perspective is somehow both looking on at the scenes and looking through the eyes of the figure which is, clearly, Sylvain himself. The ages of anyone involved seem to change moment to moment, memory to memory.
But there's always a heavy hand somewhere on his arm, gripping tight enough to bruise. At first, when he's young, small, naive, he complains about it, tries to squirm out of his brother's grasp. Those times, those flashes of memory inevitably end in shouting, yes, but also pain - a blackened eye, a broken nose or rib.
Trying to pry fingers off his arm is worse. The grip inevitably tightens. The ensuing pain afterwards is sharper, guaranteed, and prolonged, never limited to just one strike, just one instance of lashing out. More often than not, these times he ends up thrown to the ground afterwards, kicked while he's down, left to shiver from the shock of the pain more than any potential cold.
It's only when he starts to flinch that he gets off easier... occasionally. It's lucky when he's met with laughter, with accusations of being pathetic, a worthless heir, and tossed aside. Other times, shrinking in on himself, bringing up his other arm to shield his face only results in that arm being bruised severely... but no black eyes or broken noses. Usually. And if he's already curled in on himself, when he's thrown to the side, when he inevitably crumples to the ground more often than not, then it's more likely he won't be kicked in the stomach, or the jaw.
Not reacting is neither better nor worse. It stokes the anger higher, gets him a split lip, a bruise on his cheekbone, a punch or knee to the gut. It diffuses anger, sometimes, though - because if there's no reaction, then what's the point in lashing out? And it's those times, when Sylvain's arm is released, that he collapses all on his own, without being thrown to the ground, panic welling up that had taken every scrap of willpower to tamp down.
And as is the nature of nightmares, the memories filter in and out in no particular order, but the pain is consistent, when it comes, whether the viewing is being done through Sylvain's eyes or through a third-party view. Noise is consistent with the sights - shouting, accusations of worthlessness, of life-stealing little wretches, cries of pain, whimpers of fear, the quickened breaths consistent with panic.
And at the end of it all, the glow of red eyes, the swipe of a bestial claw, aimed suspiciously towards his arm, though the sheer size makes determining as much more an instinct than an actual sight.]
--
[At least this time, Sylvain doesn't wake with a scream. Instead, it's a sharp gasp as he sits up quickly, initially disoriented, and in a cold sweat. Slowly, where he is starts coming back to him, but he doesn't lay back down to go back to sleep, despite the fact that he most likely ought to.
Instead, he ends up sitting with his knees drawn to his chest, and his face down on top of them, willing himself to keep his breathing level even as the lingering clutches of panic have him hyper aware of the sound of any movement near him. He didn't grab his lance. Maybe he should have.]
cw: just assume mentions of child abuse this whole thread guys
The problem tonight? Sleep brings nightmares. Nightmares that seem so familiar and yet so unfamiliar. They're not her own. They're not the ones that she sees. But they stir something in her the longer they go on.
When she wakes up, she's kicking her blankets away because they feel too much like rope. Not safe. Constricting. Scary.
And then she finds herself moving. Moving towards where she knows Sylvain is and she's not sure when she gets there. How she gets there so fast. Did she run? Did she crawl fast? She doesn't know or care really. She just sees him and moves over until she can be next to him. Instinct takes over after that and she wraps her arms around him, pushing her fingers through his hair to pet him gently.
No one ever held her like this when she was scared as a child. She knows she wanted them to but no one ever did. The only thing that ever really held her for hours at a time was the rope. She remembers wondering if it would help her to feel better if it had been arms instead.
Bernadetta hopes it helps him now. No questions. No telling him it'll be okay. Just comfort. Just an understanding that it's okay to be broken because he doesn't have to be okay right now.
She's here. As long as he needs her to be.]
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On Edelgard's deathday
[—before it's all violently locked away, replaced by a numb, mechanical, iron-edged focus, like a metal wire taught with so much tension it's on the verge of snapping.]
[That awful iron tension remains there for nearly the next twenty-four hours, never once dimming with sleep or giving way to another emotion.]
[But, it does give way. Relief, bright and aching, and a terrible exhaustion. That thorn of grief creeps back in, mingling with the relief and the start of something warm before Hubert's presence suddenly goes dark with slumber.]
un: taru | text
Also I've been told you're quite the seamstress! Me too! It's always nice to meet someone who shares the same passions as myself!
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[She's so confused. Hers? What? She knows she visits a lot but it's Sylvain's!
Maybe she'll cover that first before she deals with the rest of this.]
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it was nice running into you again
was wondering if you wanted to go on another friend date sometime soon
just let me know :)
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[ So his cloak appears to be missing, and who does he smell all over the scene of the crime, hm? ]
You wouldn't happen to know where my cloak's gone, would you?
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It's DEFINITELY NOT in my room in a pile on my bed where I've been cuddling it because it's soft and warm.
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Blions House
[Petra continues to mutter anxiously to herself as she looks through her few belongings and then starts searching her room. Her dagger, where had she put her dagger? She'd cut her nails, or more accurately the curved claws taking the place of her nails, that morning and they were already growing back, long and wicked looking.
She certainly couldn't use her axe for this kind of thing so she continues to go through all the drawers before moving to the closet, rummaging through the boxes that were there when she'd taken the room days before.]
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Okay now that that's out of the way, Bernie kind of looking through the crack of Petra's door wondering what she's talking about. But really, she'd just been hovering by when she heard her. So she's curious!
Seeing her in distress, she knocks politely before poking her head in. Well, more like her antennae in.]
Petra? What are you looking for?
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day after memshare
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Berry Picking Event
Trying to stifle a soft, seemingly uncontrollable giggle at the thought of forgetting about where the end of her, now long, body was, she doubled back, coiling over herself in an attempt to sort all of this out.
"Oh! Bernie!" She'd know that particular scent and wing flutter anywhere. She waved a hand to get the fae's attention with a smile, "Bernie. Over here."
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Two intoxicated Monsters. What could go wrong?
"Petraaaaa! You look so pretty!"
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the 5th
Will you indulge me? What do you keep, how do you care for them? Were any gifts?
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Uhhhh I have some pitcher plants? A couple were gifts? They eat...bugs?
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hes so worried
it's fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine what could go wrong
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text | un: taru
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definitelynotsneakingdessertinthelibraryofthehouse
um
hi?
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mid-july
i have a question for you when you're free
it's a big one! nothing bad just uh
how would you feel about teaching me archery?
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me?
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text | un: kingkon55 (9/10)
I hope you're doing okay!
I finally got my faun legs so I was wondering if we could get together for some measurements and stuff! :-D
Sorry for not contacting you before this...... :-( I was really distracted with a lot of stuff. i was also down for a long time cuz of my leg changes!
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It's okay!
I don't mind meeting with you to help you with your new shoes!
Are your legs okay now?
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[action]
It's been a while and Iskandar finally got himself to check how his little Fae friend is doing.
He just hopes he has the right address. There's only one way to verify this. He gets off the horse and goes to knock on the door.