Chapter Text
Byleth eyes their students, notebook in one hand and pointer in the other. "Class." They tap the blackboard and the diagram on it once, twice. "I'd like an answer to how you'd approach this scenario."
It's been a long week. After thwarting a Western Church uprising on Monday, they were right back to class on Friday.
Hilda slides her chin down her palm, occasionally jumping awake. Claude twirls a feather pen between his index finger and thumb, occasionally pretending it's a sword and sparring with Raphael across the room. Lysithea dutifully takes notes, while Lorenz and Leonie quietly bicker next to each other about some petty cultural noble-commoner difference.
The feather tickles Claude's nose and he sneezes. Otherwise, there's only silence.
Marianne fidgets in her chair, squeaking out an apology when it makes a noise. Ignatz rubs at the bruise he earned in the last battle while dipping his pen in ink.
After an excruciatingly long period of Byleth staring awkwardly at their sleep-deprived class, Felix raises his hand.
"The best strategy would be to move through the river. It's still summer, so the temperature should be tolerable, and it's thin enough they can move through it quickly enough with their armor off."
Lorenz scrunches his nose. "And soil their uniforms with polluted river water? I think not."
"Who cares about their uniforms? If they don't have a boat, and there're no materials to make a raft, you have to make do with what you have."
"Surely there's--"
"He has a point," Claude sticks his nose up, "oh Legendary Lorenz Hellman Gloucester. Nice uniforms aside, if we're in a situation like Teach's saying, we should do whatever we must."
He spares a glance at Byleth, who gives him an approving nod. "Felix and Claude are right, Lorenz. Pragmatism is, to an extent, your greatest asset on a campaign. That aside..." They set down their pointer and notebook and clap both hands together. Hilda snaps to attention, mumbling about being awake. The rest of the Golden Deer squirm. "None of you are paying attention. I'm ending class early. Use this time as you'd like."
They slide into their desk as the students begin to rise. "Be back in time for Hanneman's Crest history lesson next period. And there's a test on Monday on alternative strategy, don't forget to study!"
"Ah, Felix."
Halfway out the door, Felix walks back to Byleth's desk. "What do you need?"
"I wanted to welcome you to the Golden Deer. Today marks a week since you joined the class." They give him a small smile, shaking his hand. "You've caught up nicely. Now, I have a special assignment for you. Extra credit, you'll get three points added to the test coming up."
"What do I need to do?"
From a desk drawer, they pull a small notebook, similar to the one they always carry. "Go to the training hall tomorrow. Shamir's holding a small assorted seminar. I want you to observe and take notes."
He stares at the little yellow book. Was everything from the Golden Deer yellow? "And you're giving this assignment to me because...?"
"It'll teach you in a way I can't." They add after he gives them a blank expression, "I can tell you about my mercenary life all you'd like, but you can only learn so much from me. Watching at the training hall will give you a better firsthand experience."
He pockets the journal with pursed lips.
By the time Felix remembered the yellow book rustling in his pants pocket, it was well into Shamir's seminar. He creaks the training hall doors open.
Petra bounces on her heels as both Dedue and Ferdinand circle her. They jab, she dodges. She jumps and slashes down, Ferdinand blocks her as Dedue braces for the next swing.
Three targets, all riddled with arrows, are lined up on the other side of the hall. Shamir displays knocking an arrow and Claude and Ashe mimic her.
Shamir turns to the sound of the door and waves Felix in. "The professor told me you'd be coming. To observe, yes? Sit on the steps there, do as you like. Don't get in the way."
He nods, and she returns to Claude and Ashe, nudging their arms here and there till they have the correct posture.
Within seconds, he's bored. His ill-chosen seat is next to a rack of swords, and his hands itch to grab one and let loose.
Petra screams as she jumps off of Ferdinand's spear to strike Dedue, narrowly missing as he rolls away.
Gears grind as Shamir activates a mechanism for moving targets. Her archers miss one shot after another as they try to fire, the targets quickly picking up speed. Arrows litter the floor, and Claude's mouth is filled with curses. Ashe is no better, chanting "heck, heck!" by the time she shuts the machine down.
Felix writes notes here and there. There's more to learn from the lancers, he thinks, watching as Shamir sweeps her spear at Ferdinand's knees. His legs give out, and he picks himself up with a groan.
Melee was something Felix understood, understood well. The sword was like his third hand. He was never a lance nor ax man, but he still saw the nuances of each blade. What was archery, then?
Thunk. Claude whistles. An arrow is buried in the heart of a target, still spinning from a ceiling fan operated by a cheering Ashe. He had to wonder just how many target machines the training hall had.
It required skill too, of course. Even to have enough strength to pull back a bowstring took effort. Yet, it was not an easy weapon to read.
He flips through the notes he'd taken.
Petra
entire body - loud - flexible
Dedue
uses bulk - prob. better with shield - emphasis on arms
Ferdinand
faith in opponent - knightly - no "low blows"
Shamir
quiet - shots make no sound - a lot of wrist movement
Ashe
stiff - elementary
Claude
Felix runs a finger over the empty section for Claude's name. Every student attending the seminar had obvious quirks to their fighting styles, showing their heritage and background, except Claude. He blamed the archery.
It was obvious, even to Felix, that Ashe was not familiar with the bow. He had a knack for it, but it was not his first weapon. His skills were still rudimentary.
Claude, though. He was more than deft. He twirled his arrows between shots like they were toys. The bow was like an extension of him.
And there was something off about it. He couldn't quite name what, but the way Claude fired his arrows was different.
Shamir snaps her fingers. "Alright, that's all. I'll see you all next week. Stay here till the bell." The students gratefully sit down.
Claude, conveniently, crashes onto the steps next to Felix. He lays flat on his back on the pavement.
"You fight differently."
"Well, hello, Felix." Claude tilts his head up at him. "How do I 'fight differently,' exactly?"
"It's like how Petra fights like she's from Brigid. Shamir and Dagda. You fight like you're foreign."
"Foreign, huh?" Claude sits up, leaning his hands on his knees and bridging his fingers, giving Felix a proper look for the first time all day. "Guess you could say that."
There's something off about Claude suddenly. Like a million gears are turning in his head, trying to calculate the next words Felix will say.
"I don't care where you're from." Claude's eyebrows raise. "We should spar, though."
"Ahah," he laughs, "you had me scared for a second! But sorry, I'm not much of a sword guy. Or a lance guy, for that matter." The low bong of the cathedral bells ring through the monastery. "Maybe some other time. I'll see you later, Felix."
Claude rises, vanishing with the others as they exit the training hall. Felix follows them, shaking his head.
He grabs his plate, a boar stew with a salad. He passes by Claude, sitting with Byleth and Lysithea. They're chatting about spirits. Some nonsense.
Ignoring Raphael calling him over, he takes his seat next to Sylvain, Ingrid across from them, as always. Ingrid and Sylvain exchange a glance as he sits that he chooses to ignore. "Hello, Felix."
Sylvain takes a bite of his salad as he speaks. "My favorite Golden Lion! How are the Deer treating you?"
"Fine."
"You can elaborate a little more, you know. Like, how is the professor's teaching style?"
"They still teach dynamic warfare for your class. Don't act like they haven't."
"Yeah, but how are they up close, eh? I barely see them compared to you, Mr. Golden Lion."
"Stop calling me that."
Ingrid stops eating her soup to ask, "I have to know, how many times have you dueled?"
"Five."
"Jeez, it's barely been a week!" Sylvain twirls his fork and jabs it at Felix. "You need to stop being so training obsessed. Live a little, talk to some girls."
"I changed houses to learn from the professor, not to flirt."
"Yeah, yeah. ... Man, I'd join you if I could."
"What do you mean?"
"Hot teacher! But, alas. They haven't asked me yet, and who am I to force myself upon such a fine person as the professor?"
"You do it all the time," Ingrid snaps, flicking a spoonful of soup at him.
"Gah, hot, hot!"
"Now I wasted my stew. Anyway," Ingrid continues, ignoring Sylvain dying, "has Claude been giving you trouble? I know he was causing such a ruckus last month. Setting the chapel banners on fire 'by accident'? And when he tried to poison us at the mock battle! Honestly."
Felix takes a long minute of slurping his soup and listening to her ramble. "He's strange. I'd like to spar with him, but he refuses to."
"He's a headache, isn't he? Never trains, never tries. As a house leader, he really needs to get his act together."
"He’s hiding something."
Ingrid stops her rant to consider his words. "What do you mean?"
"I was instructed to observe a seminar for an extra assignment. He fights... differently. But it doesn’t show when he’s using a bow." He groans. "It’s why I asked him to spar. If he uses a melee weapon, it’ll be easier to figure out where his fighting style is from."
"Oh. How observant of you.” She smirks are him, quirking an eyebrow. "You’ve always been better with swords than words."
"What does that even mean?"
"You probably said, ‘you, me, duel,’ and scared him off."
"I’m not some caveman."
"Yeah, Ingrid, he’s not some caveman!" Sylvain chips in, apparently finished dying. "He probably said ‘please’ in there somewhere."
"... I didn't, actually."
"Felix, buddy. Get some help. This is why none of the ladies like you."
"Would you quit telling me to harass women?!"
"Anyway, good luck figuring Claude out. I know I never will."
Felix grunts as thanks, musing over his stew as Sylvain pours heaps of trashy pick-up lines in one ear and out the other.
Byleth announced they would be dealing with a skirmish on Friday. Perhaps then he'd see Claude in close-combat. He felt strangely eager for Friday.