Chapter Text
Askr is mythical, blooming with everything you’ve seen before in fantasy stories.
It still stops your breath—the sudden feeling of high, of momentum, of being aware this is temporary. Anna reassures you they’ll find a way to open a portal as soon as the war is over. Out of courtesy, you don’t ask her to rush, but inwardly, your reason is letting this dream last longer.
You’re not meant to stay.
Fantasies begin as hidden desires and they either end up grim and almost tragic or light-hearted, and it’s still too early to decipher how this will turn out. Being delusional is the most probable reason of wishing to escape reality and embrace this fleeting daydream.
Escapism helps the morale, no matter how brief it is.
Roaming around the castle, checking things out, and walking are part of the every day life. The excitement for the battlefield is nonexistent. You constantly ponder that if you fall under a miscalculation, you’d die in your world or not. A valid question for someone without any ties. Unlike Sharena—she walks into a room with enemies and comes out alive and being looked at with wry amusement from the less than suitable recruits. Instead, you take your time; you put patience into bonding, but revealing anything of yourself is another matter.
The status as Summoner is worthy of a headache.
It’s kind of hypocritical to ask for trust when you’re avoiding giving yours.
Alfonse walks in middle of your session, but you paid no ill-feelings.
You’re familiar with how he announces himself. His steps are unrushed, if a bit apprehensive. It’s only from weeks of shared routine that you catch up his wall. It mirrors your distrust well enough—like a game without need for other players.
“Sharena told me you had left for the library.”
“Guilty as charged,” you admit.
Your eyes remain on the board, before you move a piece against another of opposite color. After placing the fallen pieces aside, you raise your head upwards. To your amusement, Alfonse appears baffled, or as far as the prince shows emotion.
“What are you doing, Kiran?”
You shrug. “Playing against myself.”
Whether it’s engaging or not for Alfonse, you got no clue. You still find his eyes scrutinizing you, probably trying to understand what goes through your brain. From your position, you find him vaguely adorable. His blue hair sticks up, the golden pins shining under the light. It’s the closest to admit he’s pretty.
“May I ask why you would do that?”
Nailed it. “They say the worst adversary is yourself.” Another shrug. “I’m putting that theory into practice.”
It feels right. Somehow.
Losing against others is miscalculation, but your own methods are a rough, calculated assault. Tapping your chin, your glove hovers. Mistakes appear. As you finish your self-match, you count how many pieces you used to achieve it. Guilt settles on your stomach; you knew it would require sacrifices. Practice ends up in perfection, they say. You doubt it applies when it’s a matter of life and death.
Alfonse interrupts. “Allow me.”
He’s close enough to brush against your shoulder. You turn around slightly, aware of the space between you and him. You say nothing as he puts the pieces away. A beat of silence; you can barely handle the curiosity.
“What do you think?”
“We're in capable hands.” His compliment almost throws you off. Almost. “But I must admit I didn't understand your hesitation.”
“A victory is a victory.”
Your eyes linger on the board. Speaking of the heaviness inside of you is out of question. You remember the battlefields—when the bodies fall, what happens after a loss, what happens after a win. That’s why, your remark is soft-spoken.
“If the sacrifices are low, that too is a victory.”
Alfonse acknowledges you with stoic eyes, but his gaze doesn’t leave yours, and you await for anything but nothing never comes.
It’s a simple thought. After he walks away, you wonder if his smile used to reach others.
Heroes are of flesh and blood.
It’s always in the back of your mind, easy to forget after witnessing the might, the brawl, the brain. But in the purest core, they’re still similar to you. When family meets again, lovers get reunited, friends greet each other, you feel cynical for being too used to your pessimism. Welcoming new recruits never gets old; what worries you is the barracks getting smaller.
There’s no end in sight to the war.
Growing up in your world has taught you the illusion of peace is from self-interest. If Embla has remained neutral the past weeks, it means nothing.
Sharena cries against your shoulder after you point out a mother and her son. Her innocence burns but you let her pour her heart out. Out of everyone, you appreciate her cheerfulness since mustering yours is a big lie.
From a corner, Alfonse watches over the reunions. But his gaze is painful, intimate, and you don’t pretend you understand his pain; however, you know of it. Zacharias is no longer in the Order yet he haunts the halls, the library, the whole castle, and his shadow follows those he left behind. The general consensus is to behave like he never existed. You’re careful in that regard when a war council begins, but the last events have planted a seed and you know Alfonse knows.
Hope is a weapon, as lethal as any other.
Despair is more consuming. You’re unsure if Alfonse can separate them.
You hold your breath.
No matter how many times you wander around the halls, it’s an impact. The architecture is magnificent, almost imposing, and the sight is too spectacular to use simple words. Stepping into the library is another reminder. You belong somewhere else. Every part of this dream will cease and disappear. Keep to yourself and stay this way. Your thoughts pile up, scrambling together, and you drown them into a void.
When you come back to your senses, your hand is trembling against a shelf.
The books are lovely, fitting for a museum, and your hands trace every cover with care. A part of you wants to tear off a page and shove it on your pocket, a testimonial of all you’ve seen.
You exist. You breathe. You are.
And still nothing leaves a mark you are here.
“Kiran.”
Your steps halt; the pause is enough to distract you from your way to the gardens.
“Got a moment?”
Nobody sees the faces you pull—you still lift your eyebrows.
Anna’s expression is serious, worthy of being the veteran, and you admire her perseverance. It doesn’t outright explain the sudden interruption, though you have a single clue. Spending some hours with the tactician from the world of Awakening has become fruitful.
“I understand your efforts, but I can’t approve of what you’re doing.”
You pause. “We haven’t lost another battle.”
“Alfonse joined this mission,“ Anna argues, not leaving room for negotiation. “Putting him in the sidelines will decrease his abilities. You can’t favor only Sharena and I.”
Your eyes wander. The movement is caught. Anna has the training to understand your body language as aloof, uncaring, and her face doesn’t harden but looks inquiring, trying to pick up your reasons. Being biased is part of the matter. Sharena has complained, too. You never told her to understand. Being in the same room as Alfonse tires you, keeping the strict line of tactician-soldier is the protocol, and his eyes show enough.
Whenever you see him, it’s never difficult to address him, but it’s never easy to push him from getting close. Working with Alfonse is misfortune. Bad results. You don’t synchronize, one distrusts and the other distrusts harder, and the battlefield is no place for that.
You were polite to keep him at arm’s length.
“Is that a suggestion...” you mutter, your voice soft and serene, “or an order, commander?”
Anna’s mouth falls into a thin line, her tone unwavering. “An order.”
“Kiran,” Alfonse begins.
You nod, humming as you pretend not hear the bewildered tone.
“Why am I sitting in a bench?”
Worth it.
You comply.
It’s the least you can do. The logic is useless towards your need to stay away; acting like this makes you want to laugh. You stifle the need with a cough, Alfonse’s stare makes you self-conscious. Revaluating strategies is an interesting hobby, he proves to compensate for what you're lacking. Underneath your self-deprecation, you're a foreigner. It could be so easily to pretend being a phantom and dictate orders from far away. Maybe Alfonse’s wary for that reason, you pull away, and keep pulling away.
“What’s wrong?” You ask, in middle of the silence.
Instead, Alfonse keeps staring. “Nothing in particular. I’m... doubting Embla will let us rest longer.”
Your answer is blunt. “We’ll be prepared.”
“That’s what worries me,” Alfonse sighs, his shoulders tense. He appears less like the prince, and more a boy of his age, unsure of what he should do. “We’re already asking a lot of our tropes and this war has no end on sight.”
You look at him, really look at him, and your tongue rolls with less-bite. “You’re kind, Alfonse.”
His eyes land on you, wider than usual, only staring, instead of trying to see through you. The air vibrates with something unspoken, lighter. You try to find a middle ground—an anecdote, a joke, anything. The words the words fail you, all you see is Alfonse’s hidden fear. It resembles yours.
Maybe, loneliness is an acquired taste. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and then you go numb.
You turn around, hastily.
The spell breaks. Alfonse says nothing, only walks near and brushes his hand on your shoulder. He keeps silent, retreats, and opens a book. He goes back to reading but when you look again, his eyes are twinkling.
The air in your throat is stuck—along with your frantic heartbeat for what’s left of the afternoon.
Spending time in the hallway is fun. You enjoy how simple and refreshing it is to sit and greet anyone who walks nearby before they disappear into the castle. Sharena swings her legs, sitting next to you in the bench.
“Hey, Kiran?” She wriggles her fingers, playing with her hair. You smile, waiting for her to continue. “Do you like being here? With us, I mean.”
Your chest tightens. The war is a burden but her sincerity is surreal, warm. The smallest of gestures mean a lot.
“I think I’d have gone home already if I didn’t.”
Regardless of being stuck, or not, Zenith had become a synonym of home. It reminded you of how your world could be. Flawed, imperfect, yet beautiful.
“I know, I know. It’s just... You always look after us, and I appreciate it, really! My brother said we shouldn’t overwork you.”
You snort, good-naturedly. “A bit too late. Tell him it’s fine, I’m glad to help.”
Sharena laughs. Her eyes shine, relief in them. “Will do!”
The silence settles swiftly but you catch her hesitating. She looks at you with a plethora of emotions contained in a single glance.
“I got a question.”
“Shoot.”
Sharena peers at you. Her face is apologetic, vulnerable, but her smile betrays her worry.
“Are you in love with my brother?”
Time halts. Everything turns into stasis; it’s like a slow-motion movie, and you swear your heart stops. For a second too long, you reimagine Alfonse and his silhouette in the distance, out of reach, always giving that idea of loneliness, before turning around and facing you. The clear blue eyes, the brows lifted up and the lips changing the whole stoic expression into one of tenderness. You’ve seen the sight too many times, but your mind denies the idea of burning it.
You turn your eyes away. The lump on your throat gets worse.
Then, after an eternity, you nod.
The next morning, when Alfonse greets you, your lips hurt from faking a smile.