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if i look in your eyes (i’ll want you to hold me)
Hilda hasn’t seen Marianne in five years. Not for lack of wanting to, of course, but the war has kept them apart. Well, not apart. They weren’t exactly a pair or anything. But Hilda had to help her brother and Marianne had to...actually, Hilda isn’t sure what Marianne was up to.
All that is to say, it’s nice to see her again. As solemn as Marianne is, Hilda feels a kind of calmness around her that she hasn’t felt since she was called home to Goneril territory.
It’s that feeling of calm Hilda chases when she visits Marianne’s room nightly. It’s nothing much. Marianne was a little confused at first when Hilda said she wanted to catch up, but Marianne’s always been confused that there are people out there who enjoy her company. Plus, Hilda isn’t someone you can really say “no” to. She’s not particularly gifted in anything...except for the art of persuasion. And Marianne? Sweet, delicate Marianne? Never stood a chance. If Hilda wanted to spend time together, they were going to spend time together.
They don’t do or say much. Marianne usually writes extensively in her diary by candlelight and Hilda will busy herself with some piece of jewelry.
Hilda’s not exactly sure what makes tonight different, but she finds herself watching Marianne. Since it’s just the two of them, she’s a little less guarded in just her camisole and petticoat, her arms and delicate collarbones exposed. This isn’t the first time Marianne has felt comfortable enough to strip to her undergarments around her, but for some reason, Hilda’s distracted by it tonight.
Marianne is so...pristine. Almost like a doll. Her skin is clear and smooth, her cheeks rosy, and there’s just one little piece of hair that’s fallen from her elaborate braids over her temple that begs Hilda to reach over and tuck it behind the shell of her ear.
“You’re so pretty,” Hilda says. She hadn’t meant to voice the thought, but oh, well. It’s not like she’s one to hold back her thoughts anyway.
Marianne predictably flinches and stutters in her airy voice. “I—I beg your pardon?”
Hilda giggles. She forgot how easy it is to fluster Marianne, and flustered Marianne is cute.
“I was just thinking how pretty you are!” Hilda says, her voice lilting and bright. She’s gotten herself into this mess, might as well commit.
Marianne’s cheeks and neck go a fantastic shade of red as she waves her hands frantically in front of herself. “N-no, I’m really not—that is—I’m nothing special—“
“Don’t be so modest, Marianne. You were always pretty, but you’ve just gotten even more beautiful since I last saw you. I bet you’ve had loads of proposals since then, huh?”
Marianne shakes her head. “No, nothing like that.”
“Really? Well, I guess nobles can be a little wary of marriages in times of war, but really? You haven’t met anyone special?”
“No, I’m—Hilda, that’s very kind of you but no I haven’t—that hasn’t really been my priority.”
“I know it’s not your priority, but I don’t know, isn’t it pretty common for love to blossom during times of war?” Hilda says.
Marianne sighs. “Maybe for some, but like I said, I haven’t been...made an offer.”
Oddly, this bit of information makes Hilda feel lighter, giddy even. Which...doesn’t really make sense.
“What about you?” Marianne asks.
“Hm?”
“Have you had any...suitors?”
Marianne watches Hilda, her brown eyes set so intensely on her that Hilda has to fight the urge to look away.
“No,” Hilda says, and it comes out like a confession. It feels just as vulnerable to say, though Hilda isn’t ashamed to admit it. “I had a few nobles express interest, but my brother shooed them off. He won’t let just anyone marry me, y’know?”
Marianne nods and picks up her quill again. “Yes, I’m sure he’d only want the best for you.”
Hilda mutters a noncommittal response, too preoccupied with the small smile and blooming blush on Marianne’s face. Something about that smile feels like a well guarded secret, a truth tucked away in a locked box. Hilda very much wants to find the key to it.
—
It’s on the battlefield that Hilda gets it. It’s always on the battlefield with these kinds of things, isn’t it?
Some no-name sniper got her right in the shoulder. Terrible aim really, but it was enough to knock her off her wyvern. It hurt like a—well, it hurt like a word her brother would scold her for using, let’s leave it at that.
Pain bursts in her shoulder but then everywhere as she comes crashing to the ground, her axe by her side. She can barely think anything other than this is it. This is where I die.
Tears sting in her eyes and she’s not sure if it’s from the pain or the frustration or the fact that she has to be a part of a war at all. See? She really isn’t cut out for this stuff.
Some stubborn, dogged part of her turns herself over on her good shoulder. Maybe she can crawl to one of the white mages, maybe they’ll see her. If she dies here, it won’t be on her back, that much she’ll make sure of.
That death might be inevitable as she sees an empire swordmaster lock onto her. Hilda and her crest are well known; he won’t ignore her just because she’s already on the ground. This is it. This is really it and Hilda has so much she hasn’t done yet.
Fall in love, for instance. She really, really wanted to fall in love.
The swordmaster raises his silver sword. Hilda closes her eyes and prays it will be quick.
“Hilda!” calls a voice that is familiar, yet unfamiliar. Hilda opens her eyes and there’s a bright flash of yellow-green that dissipates and allows a horse and horseman to come into view. And a bob of blue hair.
Hilda tries to shout Marianne’s name but it comes out a whisper. Marianne doesn’t hear it, as her focus is completely on the swordmaster, who is catching his breath after a hefty dose of her Aura spell.
He staggers back to a fighting stance and lunges for Marianne and her horse, Dorte. Marianne tries to back Dorte away, but the swordmaster is quicker, and he slashes at Marianne’s arm.
“No,” Hilda shouts but her lungs are still in shock from the fall and it’s barely audible in the din of the fighting. “Mari…”
Marianne seems unaffected as she raises her weapon and pierces it through the swordmaster’s armor. He cries out in pain and crumples to the dirt while Marianne pulls out her lance, the blade slick with blood. She spares the dead swordmaster a small nod of her head as if in prayer before she looks to Hilda and dismounts Dorte.
“Marianne,” Hilda says, her voice gaining some strength.
Marianne kneels to the ground and wraps her arm under Hilda’s shoulder to prop her up. “Oh, Hilda.”
Without another word, Marianne works her white magic and a sweet warmth fills Hilda’s veins that’s so undeniably Marianne it makes tears well in her eyes.
Her hands hold tight to Marianne’s armor. “You could have gotten hurt.”
“You did get hurt,” Marianne says. Hilda wants to fight her, to tell her they both know she’s the hartier one, that Marianne is the fragile one between them, but it doesn’t ring true in the moment. Marianne is the strong one. Marianne’s the one holding Hilda up.
Their eyes meet and Hilda sees the worry there, the fear. And it scares Hilda, more so than any battle she’s been in before. She could die here. She could die here. She almost did. She was so close, Marianne put herself in front of death’s door just to save her, and she’s looking at Hilda like winning the war wouldn’t be worth losing. In truth, that’s how Hilda feels; winning the war wouldn’t be worth it if there’s no Marianne at the end of it.
And Hilda has that oh moment. That little adjustment of the dial moment where everything clicks into place and she gets where all this is coming from.
She wants Marianne. Not as a companion, a confidant, or a friend. She wants Marianne to be hers.
The moment makes her gasp, makes Marianne think she’s in pain again, but she’s not. If anything, she’s sad. Sad that she’s finally in love, but there’s a whole war in the way. And what the hell can she do about it right now, when she can hardly move and they’re about to load her onto a stretcher?
Before they do, Hilda curls herself into Marianne’s middle, desperate to be close to her for one single moment before she goes back to the fighting and who knows what will happen. For a moment, Marianne curls into her too. And then Hilda’s taken away.
They survive that battle, but not everyone does. But that’s always the story, isn’t it? You fight, and you come back smaller. Less whole.
Still, Hilda makes a full recovery.
Except.
Except for the fever that’s consumed her ever since that moment in the mud when she felt Marianne’s magic course through her. It’s like the spell infected her; she can’t glance at Marianne without her whole face heating up, but she also can’t stop glancing. Even Claude (observant little bastard that he is) notices and asks her if Marianne offended her in some way.
“No,” she tells him. “I think she just got me sick.”
And it’s only half a lie. Claude tells her to feel better soon.
She has to stifle her laughter at that.
—
Hilda wanders her way to Marianne’s room again and it’s the fifth night this week. She can’t help it. A part of her is terrified that if Marianne isn’t where she can see her, then something will happen. Hilda figures war does that to a person—you want to hold everything you have as close to you as possible.
The problem is that every night Hilda wants to stay. Going back to her own room feels like tearing her pigtail right off her scalp, except worse. She keeps thinking of that moment on the battlefield when she held Marianne around her middle and felt Marianne’s arms circle her shoulders for less than a second. For that half a second, Hilda felt safe, felt home.
They’re in their usual spots—Marianne writing on one end of her desk and Hilda fiddling with a necklace on the other. Except maybe their chairs are just a little closer. Maybe.
Hilda’s brought her little jewelry making kit, but it’s mostly a bust because she keeps watching Marianne as she scribbles away with a scritch scritch scritch that matches the rhythm of Hilda’s heart. She feels the onset of another fever, a wave of heat flushing her whole body.
When did it get like this? She wonders. Can she really attribute this feeling to a single moment in the throes of war? No, it must have been building. It’s too big a feeling to have blown in on a breeze.
Without thinking, she blurts, “What will you do when the war is over?”
Marianne’s head bobs up. “After the war?”
“When we win. When it’s all over,” Hilda says.
“You’ve been so serious lately, Hilda.”
“Have I?” Hilda asks, but it falls flat. Marianne tilts her head in question. “When you have a close call on the battlefield, I guess it gets you thinking, y’know?”
Marianne puts down her quill and flattens her skirts with the palm of her hands. “Yes, I...suppose it does.”
“So? What will you do after?” Hilda asks again, her throat tight.
Marianne looks down at the table and her shoulders go to her ears. “I’ll go away.”
Hilda’s breath stops and her chest tightens. Her mind sets to two words on repeat: Marianne...away...Marianne...away...Marianne...away…
“What do you mean?” Hilda says, the quiver in her voice explicit.
“I—Hilda, you know about my crest. After the war, I’m going to leave Fódlan to some place...less populated and live my life out there. It’s the right thing to do.”
“You can’t!” Hilda says, slamming her hands down on the desk and rising out of her seat. Tears sting her eyes.
“Hilda—”
“I won’t let you,” Hilda continues. “It’s all nonsense, anyway! Marianne, you’ve never hurt a fly in your life. You’re not a danger to anyone. I thought we proved that.”
“It—it doesn’t matter. I still bear the crest of the beast and I always will. There will always be the chance—“
“Then I’m coming too,” Hilda says, crossing her arms.
“Hilda, please—“
“No. If you’re going out to some boring wasteland, then I’m coming with you.”
Marianne is shocked into silence. She tries to speak but can’t seem to find the words. Instead, she just shakes her head.
“Why…” Marianne starts, her brows pinched so hard they look like they might converge. “Why does it matter so much if I’m gone?”
Hilda nearly winces at the question, but she holds her ground, nose up in the air to keep some semblance of dignity.
“If you can’t figure that out yourself,” she says, voice trembling. “Then you’re more destructive than you think.”
She leaves Marianne’s room and slams the door behind her.
—
There’s more war, more blood, more loss. The worst of it is on Gronder Hill, where Dimitri dies a death far worse than he ever deserved. He was a good man. Maybe a bit unhinged after Edelgard’s betrayal, but nevertheless…
All Hilda can think about is the waste. They’re all so young, smart, and talented. And they’re dying. They’re being phased out in this seemingly never ending war. Hilda just wants it to be over so she can live her life, drink tea with her friends, tease her brother, figure out the whole love thing.
She hasn’t spoken to Marianne in two weeks. They’re not fighting. Not really. It’s just that whenever Hilda sees Marianne she tries to think of something to say, but every line of thought leads to a confession, some version of “I’m sorry I snapped. It’s because I’m in love with you.”
It’s not like Marianne goes out of her way to reach out either, though. Which doesn’t help Hilda’s mood at all. She keeps looking for opportunities for their eyes to meet, but Marianne doesn’t grant her that pleasure. It’s miserable.
Something finally gives when Hilda’s in her own room working on a set of earrings that she accidentally made in a style that would really compliment Marianne eyes. She’s just about to scrap the whole project when there’s a knock on her door.
Curious, Hilda stands to open it and her heart leaps when she sees a familiar shade of blue.
“Marianne?”
“Hello, I—I thought I might come visit you for once, if that’s alright?” Marianne says, meek as ever. Her eyes are downcast and her cheeks pink, like this is the first time they’ve ever met.
“Of course,” Hilda says, opening the door fully and ushering Marianne in. She tries to ignore how loud her blood is pumping in her ears.
“I brought my journal,” Marianne says, taking a seat on the other side of Hilda’s desk. “I don’t want to distract you from your jewelry.”
“No, I—I’m glad you’re here,” Hilda says, taking her seat.
A small smile graces Marianne’s lips and Hilda’s brain goes fuzzy with images of stifling it with her mouth. That’s been a fun development recently: Hilda’s mind has decided that thinking of all the places she’d like to kiss Marianne is priority number one, the ongoing war be damned.
She shoos the thought away (or at least, she tries to) and picks up where she left off on her earrings.
For a while, they sit in silence as the candlestick on the desk flickers and they work on their projects. Hilda’s attention span is nil, however, and she finds herself glancing up at Marianne every couple seconds.
It’s unfair really, how lovely Marianne looks in the candlelight. The light compliments her dewy complexion, she has the posture of the finest dancers, and her eyelashes cast shadows along her cheeks in a way that makes Hilda’s heart tug from her chest. There’s a desperate need to be closer.
“Is there something on my face?” Marianne asks, the blush renewed on her features. Hilda curses herself. Of course her blatant staring would get her caught. She’s not even being careful.
“No, no. I was just thinking I’ve never seen your hair down,” Hilda says and mentally congratulates herself on a cover-up well done. Claude would be proud.
“Oh,” Marianne says, touching the nape of her neck. “Well, it gets in the way when it’s down. I can take my braids out, though.”
“May I?” Hilda asks, and it’s like she’s a child asking if she can be the one to lick the spoon. Still, the idea of combing her fingers through Marianne’s hair is enough for her to forget her shame.
Marianne’s a little flustered, a little confused, but she nods and she’s so precious Hilda might die. Heart in her throat, Hilda goes to her while Marianne faces away to give Hilda access to her hair. It gives Hilda the perfect view of that long, vulnerable neck. Suddenly, her legs feel weak beneath her.
Hilda’s fingers are slow and hesitant to touch at first, but once she does, it’s like touching the finest silk. Marianne’s hair is soft, shiny, and well taken care of, and Hilda’s sure that if she were close enough, it would smell beautiful too. Her pulse pounds and climbs, and she knows she’s close to throwing herself off some metaphorical ledge.
It doesn’t take much to get the braids out; they plump out then fall, the hair cascading down Marianne’s back. Hilda’s breath catches in her throat.
“I didn’t realize it was this long,” she whispers, languidly combing her fingers through the locks.
“I guess it is getting rather long. I should cut it soon,” Marianne says.
“No, don’t.”
Marianne looks up at her, her big brown eyes shining through the tuff of bangs, her face framed by her loose hair. Hilda wants to kiss her so bad it physically hurts.
“Oh, do you think it would look bad short?” Marianne asks.
“No. No, Goddess, no. It’s just,” Hilda says, and she doesn’t know how to answer any other way than honestly. “I’d miss this.”
She punctuates her point with a long drag of her fingers through Marianne’s hair. Marianne goes very silent and very still for a moment and then starts giggling.
“You’ve only ever played with my hair the once, Hilda. How could you miss it?” she says.
“What can I say, I’ve had the taste of the good life and I don’t want to go back. Although, I’d have fun with your hair any length. It’d look nice in a bob. You could braid it around the sides,” Hilda says, fanning out Marianne’s hair along her back and grabbing her comb off her desk. “Ooh, let’s do a bun!”
Marianne waits patiently as Hilda puts her hair in a neat knot atop her head, her neck once again exposed with little wisps of blue baby hairs framing it. Without thinking, Hilda gently touches her fingers to the back of Marianne’s neck.
“Hilda?”
“Sorry. Sorry, I just—Marianne, are you—” Hilda stops herself.
I sound like an idiot.
“It’s pretty. You’re pretty,” she says finally, and it’s not enough. It’s true, but this isn’t what she wants to say.
“Th-thank you,” Marianne says, the blush reaching around to her neck. “You, um, you too. You’re beautiful, Hilda.”
And that does it. Hilda can hardly stand it. Her hands float to Marianne’s shoulders of their own accord and she feels herself leaning over that cliff she’s been on for so long. She leans closer, a puff of air escaping her mouth and her head tilts slightly as she presses her lips lightly to Marianne’s neck.
It sparks a flame in Hilda, that simple touch and she knows, without a doubt, that it’s not a spark for candle, but the kind that could burn down forests—strong, powerful, and dangerous.
“H-Hilda,” Marianne whispers, voice breathy and caught. “What are you doing?”
Hilda is in such a haze, so overwhelmingly tired from keeping this secret that she gives in. No excuses this time. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I just don’t want to die tomorrow knowing I never told you how I feel.”
“I don’t understand,” Marianne says, finally turning to look up at Hilda. “How do you feel?”
Marianne’s eyes are soft but wary, glass shimmering in the moonlight as she waits for an answer. Hilda can feel her heart on the precipice of breaking, can tell Marianne’s about to sweetly tell her she doesn’t feel the same. But they’re past the point of no return and Hilda has to say it.
“Like I want to kiss your neck,” Hilda says. Her hand cups Marianne’s cheek and her thumb just brushes against the corner of her mouth. “And other places.”
Hilda watches Marianne’s lips part and hears her small, shocked intake of breath. Hilda might just collapse from how much she’s shaking, how much she wants Marianne to feel the same. She’s always been dependent, but in an independent way, but she’s never been beholden like this. Marianne holds Hilda’s happiness in her delicate hands.
“What places?” Marianne asks, her voice so small Hilda almost misses it.
And instead of breaking, Hilda’s heart swells. It’s like she’s been hit on her head with the butt of her axe, but it’s all the bleary fuzz of a concussion and none of the pain.
Now is the time to be brave, she thinks.
“I can show you,” Hilda says, still unsure if Marianne understands, if this is all a bittersweet dream of a fitful sleep.
“Okay.”
“Okay?”
Marianne stands—and Goddess, Hilda always forgets she’s taller—and her fingers reach for Hilda’s, weaving them together. “Show me.”
Real, Hilda thinks. It’s real.
Hilda’s fingers curl around Marianne’s and she pulls, walking backward to the bed as Marianne follows. A thousand wyverns fly in Hilda’s stomach as they sit on the comforter, knees touching.
Blood rushes to Hilda’s cheeks as her eyes meet Marianne’s and the air between them grows thick with anticipation. Hilda gently takes the bottom of Marianne’s chin between her thumb and forefinger and moves her head the slightest bit so she has a full view of her cheek.
“Here,” Hilda says and she presses a light kiss to Marianne’s cheek.
Marianne’s eyelids flutter shut. “Oh.”
“And here,” she says, placing another kiss on Marianne’s delicate jawline.
“Mm,” Marianne says, breathless. “Where else?”
“Here,” Hilda says, kissing her neck more deeply this time. “And here.” A kiss to her collarbone.
“Hilda…” Marianne says. It’s a weak plea and it sets fire at the base of Hilda’s stomach.
Hilda raises her head and reaches her hand out to Marianne’s face again, but this time she allows her thumb to brush Marianne’s bottom lip. The thick tension comes back but Hilda is bolder now and she doesn’t hesitate to lean forward, to part her own lips, to let her eyes lid then shut, and just like that, Marianne’s top lip is caught between both of hers.
It’s too much and not enough all at once. One taste of Marianne’s lips break any and all of Hilda’s restraints as she presses herself as close as she can, her hands roaming Marianne’s curves. Marianne’s hands are just as hungry, holding Hilda tight at the hips as they deepen the kiss.
Hilda brushes her tongue along Marianne’s bottom lip and it startles a gasp out of her. Hilda consumes it with another deep, searing kiss before pressing Marianne down onto the bed. Straddling her, Hilda pulls away the tiniest bit so she can look at Marianne and, Goddess, she’s a sight—her face is flushed red, her lips slick and swollen, and her bun already tousled. Hilda takes out the hair tie and lets her hair fall.
“Any—anywhere else?” Marianne asks, her just kissed voice making the fire in Hilda’s stomach turn molten. “Places, I mean.”
Hilda sears forward to kiss her mouth again, their tongues sliding effortlessly together like they’ve done this a hundred times already, but everything is so electric, so frantically good that it can be nothing but the first time.
Hilda’s kisses travel down to Marianne’s jaw, to her neck, to her collar bone while her hands travel even lower to her buttons.
“There’s more,” Hilda says, loosening a button. “A lot more.”
“Show me,” Marianne says, tugging at Hilda’s dress. “Then, I’ll show you.”
There’s no need for words after that.
—
After, they’re quiet, but Hilda feels a sense of happiness and content that she hasn’t felt since before the war started. But more than that, she feels like she can handle anything now.
It’s been true for a long time, but Hilda can’t deny it now: Marianne makes her stronger.
Because there’s no way she’s not going to protect this—Her arms wrapped around Marianne’s waist, her bare chest pressed to Marianne’s back, her nose filled with the sweet, clean smell of Marianne’s shampoo. She won’t let this war take this away from her.
The only one who can take Marianne away from Hilda is Marianne.
“Marianne,” Hilda whispers, her grip tightening. “Are you up?”
Hilda feels a hand land on her hers, gentle and warm. “I’m awake.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“When the war is over...if we get an after, I want to be where you are. If that means we have to live in some wasteland in Sreng, then fine, but just let me come too.” Hilda’s voice doesn’t sound like herself; it’s raw and weak.
Marianne stills and then turns herself on her other side to face Hilda, her eyes filled with some emotion Hilda can’t place. “Hilda...” She takes Hilda’s hand between both of hers and kisses her fingers. “Please, allow me to be by your side from now on. Now, and after.”
Hilda hates it but her eyes fill with tears and they fall before she has a chance to stifle them. Marianne brushes them away with a gentle hand.
“If we get an after,” Hilda says, scared again. What if they don’t both come out the other side?
“We will,” Marianne says, her finger curling around a lock of Hilda’s hair. “I can feel it.”
“Yeah?” Hilda asks, her fear already alleviating by one word from Marianne.
“Yeah,” Marianne says, the softest smile blooming on her face. “For the first time, I have a reason for wanting one. I won’t let that go.”
Hilda laughs. “Wow, I like confident Marianne. She’s cute.” She presses a kiss to her cheek once again. “And me too. Nothing will stop me now.”
And nothing does.