Archive of Our Own

Old creaky wheels turn, leading the ladder that carries him to the near ends of the bookshelf. His skin glides over book spines, their worn exterior already feeling familiar. He’s already read most of the books in this store, most being the emphasis. From the bottom up, over the months he’s spent tackling row after row until finally surmounting to the top. And alas, finally a texture that felt at odds to him. A portion of the spine is peeled, rough texture on the padding of his fingers. 

Claude plucked it out just in time as the ladder whisked him away. Barely hanging from the object, his arm remained outstretched as he held on to the book. The opposing hand held steady to the wood of the ladder as his foot barely supported itself on the step. Curving his arm inward, tucking the book close to his chest, he caught a glance of the cover. A book on botany, designs painted in fake gold, where light shimmers in certain angles. Thin lines make up the stems, and thicker strokes make up the leafs as well as the rest of the bodies of plants. No drawing was filled fully. All outlines, the color that filled in between the lines was the pine green of the hard cover. 

Swinging himself to the other side of the ladder, allowing himself to almost hang from the edge, Claude’s hair moves away from his face when his head droops to stare upon the bookseller pushing him through book filled rows. ”Here’s one I haven’t read yet.” He sounds almost cheeky in finding a new challenge. Wonders how much he’ll be able to take away from these pages. What plants are native to these lands, and how many of them contain toxins, and if so, with what can they be mixed with to create a concoction. It will take time to gather the proper ingredients, figure out the rations, and test them. 

Forcing his finger through the top of the book, wedging in between the pages until he’s able to get the book to open. Supporting the top side with the inferior half of his palm, as he presses the lower half against his chest. He picks up on words, reading on the medicinal benefits of feverfew. Claude gathers enough of an interest in the potential of an elixir. 

He finds himself enthralled in the text, so much so that the hand that holds onto the ladder starts to lose tension. His grip starts to slip, slowly descending until he notices. 

“ Woah .” In a rushed attempt Claude lets the book fall from his hand to grab the ladder. His footing slips, and as his legs are no longer supported, his weight drags him down the ladder. Fast, his palms are grazed with that roughness of the wood, leaving behind the sensation of a burn. 

Against all odds, the young Riegan manages to land on his feet. Unfortunately, the book he once held had no such luck. An ungraceful fall, landing open onto the floor on folded pages. No doubt leaving an indentation, or better said, a crease. Once a book page is curved or folded, can it ever regain its smoothness, its flatness? 

“You unfortunate thing.” Expressing his lament, he kneels to retrieve the book once more. For one he is grateful that Hanneman is on the other side, or else both the book and Claude would have fallen atop him. As comical as it sounds, he rather not risk getting banned on the owner’s bad side. 

“You really ought to be more careful.” Not necessarily scolding him, but the comment came from a place of concern. Claude feels a hand on his shoulder, a comforting touch to the younger man as he tries to unfold the pages. Despite its most recent fall, the book was actually in good condition (discounting the beat up appearance of the cover). Its pages were legible, there is no tear or stain, no pages that come out when he pulls gently. Only a beat up cover and an odd smell, the kind that accumulates over time, hidden away in dark crevices. 

“Young people go around thinking they’re invincible when the truth couldn’t be the exact opposite.” The scant touch lifts from his body as Hanneman moves towards the ladder, wheeling it back to its original place. Turning wheels sound strained against Claude’s ears but it does nothing against his focus. Fingers roam over the pages, they feel cold against his touch as his tips trace the diagrams, and his lips mouth the words. 

“Are you sure you want to spend the best of your days cooped up with a collection of books?” Claude hears, and the question brings out a brief chuckle. 

Closing the book, hands pressed on either end as he stands, Claude answers, “it’s done you well.” Besides, alone and with a good book is where he feels most at ease. With no one to trouble him, pester him with questions or look at him with judgment while he indulges. His taker lacks understanding. Oftentimes stifling his genius at work during experiments. Made to feel childish for pursuing these passions. No one to share these interests with, it doesn’t help that others outside his family view him unfavorably. He’s gathered the reputation of being quite the schemer and all due to how he acts and thinks.  

He was not made to fit in, but he will find his eventual place like all things must. Everything is created with a purpose and his purpose in life is to live it the way he desires. Self-fulfilment first, all else must come second. 

Claude von Riegan is not happy, but he is not miserable either. He managed to wedge himself into this bookstore and became acquainted with its keeper. There’s also this girl who runs a boutique, she can also be regarded as a friend, he thinks. He’s fortunate enough to study abroad under the supervision of his taker, Judith. She opened up her home to him upon his mother’s request but it had not been an easy transition. The life he leads now is more modest, not for lack of wealth, just out of preference. He’s not expected to work for a wage but he is expected to throw his weight around the house. Oftentimes doing the chores that Judith did not want to commit to. Of course she would not claim so outright, she’d embellish her reasons into a lesson. Speaking on behalf of how this is for the betterment of him. He will not always have someone to take care of him, he must first learn to do so himself. As if he didn’t already know how. Yes, he’s broken some dishes here and there but it shouldn't take the credit away of what he’s endured to get here. He’s bandaged his own scraped knees since he could remember. Held his first knife at a young age. He knows how to take care of himself, and his companion horse, it’s just the menial tasks that he struggles with. 

Not a terrible existence by any means, but he’s not at all satisfied with what his life has offered thus far. Something is missing and he’s yet to find out what it is. 

“It has, but life may pass you if you have your nose too deep in your books.” Hanneman’s slow steps guide him towards the front of the store where the main desk is situated. It’s just them inhabiting this place. Has mostly been just them whenever Claude is present. “Take it from personal experience.” Hanneman stops partly by a shelf to adjust his monocle. The gray of his hair hides nothing but his wisdom. Claude believes that he is unwed, and without family- perhaps that is why he made these comments. He may not want the young Riegan to end up alone in this life. 

Most everyone ends up getting wed around his age, to people they barely know. And perhaps that quintessential something is what his life lacks. What he’s potentially missing could be love, but he didn't grow up on fairy tales. Love doesn’t solve everything. 

He’s been alone throughout his childhood already, what difference will a couple of more years make? 

“Here it is.” Hanneman says as he stretches his arm upwards, the tips of his fingers barely graze the top of the book as he pulls it out of its place, leaving only a vacant space where that book once originated. With a hand swiping away at the dust of the blue hardcover, Hanneman makes an attempt to pass Claude the book. With eyes turned wide, Claude rearranges the book already in his hands, tucks it to the curve of his elbow, and after, stacks the new book atop it. 

A fantasy of long ago. This cover displays a grand palace, with stars bordering around it, right where the title should be present. He goes to touch one of the stars and it feels lifted. Moving onto the others, it is the same sensation, the palace, it too feels puffed against his touch. Claude opens the book to flip through the pages, only to find images of royalty. A king and queen, and their son, a cursed prince. If the word cursed is any hint to go by when written in dark lettering and renaissance font. 

Mindlessly flipping through, he now sees a common girl, and the deeper he moves through this book, he’s able to foresee their happy ending. 

This is a story for children, to fill their heads with a reality that will not exist. True love does not break curses. It does not conquer all, and most importantly, it is not the sole cure to live happily ever after as the book suggests.

The drawings were engaging enough, he supposes. “I'm a bit old for these types of books, Hanneman.” Claude says as he lifts it, waving it around for emphasis. Though, he is amused that Hanneman would entertain the thought that Claude favors this genre.

Hanneman asserts, sounding proud of his answer. “This book is older than you.” At this, the younger man blinks dumbfoundedly. A response he never anticipated for he estimated that this book was influenced by the renaissance era, not that it was made in the renaissance era. 

Claude whistles in appraisal looking back at the book again, searching for signs of wear and tear, but he finds none. “It’s one of my favorites.” Hanneman walks to him, arms folded behind his back. “I want you to keep it.” 

“Me?” He sounds more stunned than he should admit. At first he thinks this is a joke, but the setting wrinkles in the corners of Hanneman’s eyes when he closes his eyes and smiles, tells Claude that he stands by his decision. “Are you sure?” He questions again, giving the other man room to backtrack on his careless mistake, but he is only met with an assured nod.

“This book is an antique, you should preserve it.”

“Books are meant to be read. What purpose will it serve long after I'm gone if I'm not there to ‘preserve’ it? Am I to take all these books to the grave?” 

Glancing around the store, the first thought Claude conjures is, “it’d be an awfully big grave.” Spoken lowly into existence, unaware that he had given voice to that impulse. Claude clears his throat, jumbling for a new string of words. His last disheartened attempt, “I’m not going to read it.” 

“You will. I've never seen you pass up on a book, no matter how questionable.”

Ultimately defeated, Claude sags his shoulders before dragging himself to the counter where his book bag laid and stuffs the book prior to clasping the bag shut. Claude swings the bag over his shoulder, tugging at its single strap to ensure it is properly placed. The bag rests lateral to his hip, and feels the outline of the book heavy against him. Claude then collects the other book from the counter, turning to the first page as he walks off with it in tow. “Don’t say I didn't try to stop you.” Juvenile mischief hinted in his voice as he exited the building. As he does, the sun’s presence blaring bright over his eyes causes him to squint. Eventually his eyes focus downwards towards the pages to lessen the burn. 

The question of payment comes as an afterthought. Hanneman never shook him for money, but the expectation was always there. He’ll pay at his follow up visit, is what he normally does, and if not, then let his tab pile up.

Claude von Riegan walks blindly through the streets, catching the peripheral of those around him moving out of his way to avoid him. He supposes he could be more conscientious. To at least attempt to watch where he’s going to avoid incidents, but why bother when what he’s doing works.

There’s murmurs, nothing pleasant being said about him, but nothing he hasn't already heard. Weird is a word he picks out from the crowd; it doesn’t affect him. 

The remainder of the walk comes automatically for him. His legs move on their own accord, down familiar paths. This is a small town where everyone knows each other. In Claude’s case, he only knows their names. He hasn't gotten close enough to know more. Well, except for one person.

“Claude!” The only voice that could veer his focus. Halting in his momentum, he ends up in front of a small opening on the side of a shop where his friend Hilda happens to be visible. Her head pokes out of the opening. A hollow that’s meant to allow all passersby a view of the inside, so they can gauge their own interest before stepping into her store.

Hilda seems happy to see Claude. Her big eyes light up with glee, and her smile, a true reflection of that. She stretches out her arms to push the wooden window well covers further out, allowing more of a view inside. “It’s so good to see you.” She adds with a hint of exaggeration in her voice, ducking in the seconds after, disappearing from his view completely. Here he’s presented with a choice, either walk away or stay. He stays, curious to see what she has up her sleeve. 

Claude rests his book on the stool cap, making a mental note of where he last left off on his book. He shuts it closed, seconds before Hilda reenters the scene with a wig on hand. “You mind trying this out for me? I could reeeaalllyy use your help.” Prior to plopping the wig on the stool cap she notices his book and her nose crinkles in annoyance. “Ugh.” Shoving the book away he was quick to catch it before it met the floor, again .

“Hilda!“ It’s what he was able to scrape together during this quick succession of events. He could have said anything with more heft, but he decides to follow with, “your manners leave much to be desired.” His heart pangs heavily in his chest, the adrenaline slowly subsiding.

“This is my store, therefore, I decide what. Goes. On. It.” Each word towards the end emphasized with her beating her wig into the stool cap. And with each shake a bit of powder flaked off, caking the orris root blend over her hands and window. In having done so, Hilda loosens the already tight curls that surround the cap of the wig. No longer as well groomed, some of the hairs fall out of place, allowing for excess volume to disperse outwardly. The longer curled pieces that shifted to the back lose their formation and become flat and straight. 

“Put that silly book away in favor of doing something more fun, like putting on this wig for example.” Hilda extends the wig out for him to take and put on but when he doesn’t act, she resorts to begging. “Please Claude, I really need to style this wig. What if my store closes because I’m no longer able to afford rent?” 

How exaggerated. Claude places his elbow on what little space he could afford on the stool cap. Cramped to a corner as he rests his cheek over his curled fingers. His sound is monotone when he addresses her. “Your store will not suffer that big a loss if you don't sell one measly wig.” With his other arm, he carries the book Hilda continues to eye suspiciously.

He hears the stomp of her foot in rebuttal, muffled by the wall between them. “It might!” Her voice carries an objection. And then, one last attempt, reminding Claude of his failed efforts with Hanneman. “Come on, do it for a friend. It’ll be fun.” 

Fun? Putting on a wig, sitting for hours as it is fitted and rethreaded severely contradicts his idea of fun. Raising a singular brow he comments. “You and I clearly have different expectations on what fun is.” 

“Clearly! Don’t you get tired from looking at words on a page?“ He’s heard this argument many times over. He is a firm believer that knowing equates to power. Knowledge can be acquired in many ways, through secrets and practice, but his preferred method above all else, will always be reading. To extrapolate the information at his pace. To hear the lesser voices of previous generations, to learn what the truth is in a world that sells lies.

Claude slides his arm off the stool cap, and fills the empty space with the botany book in a vertical placement. He puts his attention on his book bag next, fiddling with the clasp to open the flap and pull out the other book he is carrying. “If you cannot manage to sell your wig, try selling this.” Claude presents it to her with both hands.

Off put at first, her confusion transitions to amazement. Hilda’s fingers roam over the cover, smearing the powder on her hand over the artistry. Hilda abandons the wig in favor of the book, weighing it out with her hands. “It’s heavy.” She muses as she flipped the hard cover open. Pink eyes study the pages, leisurely appreciating the drawings. 

Hilda takes her time reading, invested with each word written. It’s a rare but not unwelcome sight. “I’ve never sold a book. Are you sure you want to give this to me?” As if forced, she tears her eyes away from the page to meet his eyes questioningly. Perching her cheek on her palm, she awaits his answer.

A reminder of Hanneman’s words, books are meant to be read , and by the looks of it, Hilda has quite the interest in love stories. “Certainly.” 

Delighted by his answer, she returns to the book, flipping to the next page at the opportune time. “I suppose I have to thoroughly inspect this item to best appraise it.” She comments, convincing him of her true intention as her lack of awareness fails to notice the falling wig besides her. Slowly, it collapses onto the floor, creating a hushed thud as it lands.

Seeing this as the opportune time for his departure, he takes his book back and begins to take his leave, “I'll be seeing you, Hilda.” As he passed her he saw her blink repeatedly, as if a new thought morphed in her pretty head.

“Oh, wait, Claude! I forgot to tell you something important.” He hears her, but selects to ignore it in favor of his book. Her traveling voice sounded weaker with the distance. Claude waved at her with the back of his hand, aware of her but dismissing her attempt completely.

His steps take him across town, hoping to reach his residence. The distance takes him past residences standing on either side of the path. Their placement sporadic as it fills the empty spaces of the small town. Family owned businesses are near him as well, but not even the aroma of fresh bread is alluring enough to derail his interest in this book. 

Claude halts, but not for the bakery. Temporarily his path is blocked by a group of sheep. Herded in the direction opposite to him. He fights to keep balance, clutching the books close to his chest as he cautiously moves through the herd. A mindful gait keeps him from stepping on any of the animals. Their wool is soft as it rubs against his legs, pushing him, testing his balance with every bump they manage. For a moment his balance is offset when he raises his foot high enough to avoid one of the sheep, but in that same instance, a different sheep nudges against the leg that supported him. He tips to the side until he is able to regain a firm stance on the ground, bending his knees and spreading his legs far enough so that a sheep could fit in between. Despite his struggle the sheep continue onwards obliviously, moving only to where they are led by a grand character. Average height and lean, a pair finds themselves towards the very back of the herd, guiding their course with minimal effort. Claude’s seen them around before, the Eisner twins, the blue of their hair paired with their stoic expressions makes them distinguishable from everyone else. From what he knows they’ve made a living domesticating animals and selling what they managed to produce. And from what he’s heard, they make for excellent hunters too. Protecting their stock from wild beasts, especially during the winter. They’ve earned by selling: pelts, meat, dairy and anything in between. It is a certainty that any household, at one point or another, have bought goods handled by the Eisners. 

The brother waves at Claude, while his sister doesn’t even spare him a look, presently too preoccupied by a sheep that strayed from the group. He wished to return the gesture, alas, his hands were not vacant. Perhaps a verbal greeting would suffice. 

“Hell-ouch!” Claude bites back a swear as there’s a strum of pain on his ankle. Sharp and uniform, as if a bite. He retracts his foot, and hears the animal’s baaaah that follows shortly after. Hopping on one leg, he turns, directing his body to a heaped pile of bricks, layered one after the next, forming the fountain that serves as his sitting stool now. 

Sitting crossed legged he lays the book atop his lap, page opened to where he last left off. Claude begins to rub his ankle, adding pressure with the circled motions of his thumb. He experiences a tingle, pain soon regressing into nothingness. Just then one of the sheep wanders to him, sniffing at the pages, and overall showing interest. Claude thinks it cute, and so he speaks to the animal. He talks to it as if it could understand the ramblings of his mind. Pointing to a picture of a plant and naming it, the sheep is quick to act, opening its jaws to get a mouthful. Claude pulls the book away, his jaw dropping with panic when the sheep's teeth manage to snag the corner of the page. It chews on it, crinkling it as it turns to grayish clumps in its mouth. When Claude pulls away, the page tears jaggedly, and slowly does he witness the remainder of the page recede into the sheep’s orifice. What small tab of paper remained he pulls. Fighting with the wooly beast for scraps. He attempts to retrieve what he could to restore what had been ruined, but the sheep is adamant. It pulls back in defiance, continuing its act until even the scrap rips in two. 

Claude is flung back with the force, falling straight into the tepid body of water. His back becomes soaked. Water rises to the back of his head, too. By luck his lap remains dry, spared by the splashes altogether. He manages to keep his book out of the water's reach, possibly because the fountain wasn’t too deep. 

The view he now holds is that of what is above him. Hand coming into view, holding the laughable size of paper in between his index and thumb. His body continues to slowly submerge deeper into the water. Fluid spills into his clothes, reaching the collar first until it slowly starts taking vacancy over his skin. The sensation urges him to sit up, and as he does, the excess water falling back into the fountain. What Claude finds is people giving him curious looks. Brows raise questioningly while others avert their gazes altogether at his pitiful display. Most choose to carry on their merry day, while he just sits there, in this overgrown puddle.

He almost falls into it, again, once one of the Eisner twins comes by. No act short of wrestling the sheep’s jaws open, attempting to gather the remainder of his read. Her shoulder length hair gets in the way of his view when she adjusts her position. Her hands move aggressively in prying motions as she traps the sheep’s body between her legs to prevent it from escaping. Claude does not witness the moment she succeeds, only the moment in which he is rewarded with a wet lump of paper. Saliva permeates the page, leaving the  ink blotched and turning gray. Gazing upon this limp substance, he determines that it’s impossible to restore the page to how it once was. 

Knowing that the knowledge contained within it is currently being digested is not comforting, but at least it had an interesting conclusion.

“ Thaaannks .” Claude says, his lack of gratitude purposely in place. He should at least be thankful that an attempt was made, but when the result is this unhelpful, he can only pretend to be grateful.

Ignorant to his tone, the woman pats his head with a blank expression before taking her sheep to where the rest awaits. He waits for the moment she left to dismiss the bitten page into the water, where it landed with an underwhelming plop . Well, there’s the matter of removing himself from the fountain. He has to express caution, especially with the book in tow. It would appear that ever since he had claimed ownership of the poor book that had gone through some unfortunate experiences. Perhaps that says a lot about himself, or perhaps he’s just being dramatic. That being said, he places the book upon bricks that had gone untouched by water. Meanwhile he picks himself up, untucking his shirt from his paths to wring out the excess water. He does the same to the sleeves, and pats down his pants, squeezing them dry with downward passes. 

Thankful that his book satchel had been left out from the incident, somehow the straps had tangled on his knee, wrapped an inch above the water. He doesn’t care now. Claude just moves his book from one place to the next, this time keeping it secured inside this bag of his. 

Claude continues his trip home, a few words short of uncomfortable. Whenever the back of his clothes touches his skin it is mildly discomforting. The chill makes him jolt and his gait unsteady. Water travels down his leg, dripping into his socks where it permeates and dampens. Walking with wet socks is not pleasant but being barefoot is not an option. There are many secrets underneath the earth, and he’s not yet willing to blindly walk over them. 

Distancing himself from the town he now enters the more spatially distributed residences. His being one of them. Away from the town’s center and the commotion, the humble residence he shares with Judith resides more in the wilderness. Here the patches beneath their feet are soft and green. It is a quiet place considering there aren’t many neighbors, if one were to discount the animals, that is. At times when he is reading under the shade of a tree a rabbit would hop up to him. He would often offer his finger in curiosity only to have the critter scamper away from his interest. 

Judith’s mentioned seeing some deer before but he’s yet to see one. Shame, he’d really like to bear witness to one in their natural habitat. 

Upon walking Claude notices someone leaving his home. They appear to have been having a conversation with… Judith?  He isn’t near enough to hear what they were discussing, but is near enough to be potentially spotted, so he hides behind a tree, making himself small behind its thick trunk. He moves while they are distracted, keeping his knees bent as he passes through a bush, shuffling the flowers it held in the process. Peeping from inside the foliage, the parting of greenery grants him a scant view of Edelgard. 

“Will you give him that for me?” He overhears but sees not the item that is spoken for. She stands barehanded on the doorstep, and her companion, Hubert, carries nothing with him as well. The tall man looks in his general direction, and Claude, in a panic, closes the gap in the bush, ruffling it full of sound.

“What seems to be the matter, Hubert?”  

“I just heard a sound, Lady Edelgard.” 

“Perhaps it’s a curious animal. How fortunate, they make the best game.” It shouldn't surprise him to hear her claim so, she’s a renowned hunter, the best one. Her skills with an axe are heard miles out, converting skeptics to fans once they witness her talent first hand. Even if she is impressive, he thinks her brutish and a difficult conversationalist. 

Things had gone quiet, until lastly, Judith’s distinct voice reaches out. “It’s a pest, think nothing of it.” Claude takes this moment to scurry to his next hideout, a tree more slender than the last. His back lays against it in rest, exertion causing his breathing to hasten. These loud exhales could give him away, so his hands move to clutch the straps of his book bag, grounding himself until his breaths even out. At the sound of a snapping branch he turns his head to the side and finds that his visibility earns him nothing, just more trees and bushes that offer no view of the house or where its guests lingered. 

Claude waits for a few precious seconds to pass prior to poking his head from the side of the tree. What happens next is a blur of motion, a sudden surprise that urges him to react. He acts quickly, ducking his head fast enough to avoid collision.

Metal wedged in between bark. If he had reacted a second later, he would have been decapitated by none other than Edelgard. 

He’s a hair shorter than what he used to be. A few centimeters had been trimmed off the top of his head by the sharp end of an axe. Stricken with paleness at the realization, his mouth is left agape when gazing up at Edelgard. Both her hands at the base of the pommel, gripping it tight as she meets his stare. Her long white hair hangs behind her, flowing in the wind. 

Flatly, she states, “I was hoping you’d be a deer.” He says no reply to that for his vocal cords are still stunned by the near death experience. He hasn’t responded either as she raises her leg and places her foot against the tree. From this angle he looks up at her menacing form. Watching her muscles flex, her wears tight around her skin as she tries to free her axe from the bark. Each pull barely eases it from the very cleft her iron had created. 

Wood chips land atop his shoulders as she continues her attempt. Her face strains, flushing on the bridge of her nose that spreads to her cheeks. Finally she manages to free the axe and swing it over her shoulder triumphantly. The strands of misplaced hair in front of her chest are swept back with the back of her hand. A graceful action of sorts, the complete opposite to the brutishness she had just displayed. 

“Their antlers make for good décor.” To slay an animal and reduce them to mere décor, as if 

taking its life hadn't been enough. 

“Correct you are, Lady Edelgard.” Crept up like a shadow, the words of Hubert reached his ears. Stale, like the complexion he exhibits underneath all those layers of black. He should inquire on the reason for them being here, but he feels inclined not to due to an odd feeling. 

Claude swallows as he stands on his feet, fixing the satchel at his side. The bulk of it sways forward over his thigh and shields his upper thighs. Regrettably he bites, asking the question he dreads the answer to. “I find it a bit distasteful, actually.” On second thought, he didn't ask what was on his mind, and instead settled to get under her skin considering she nearly cut him. Fingers stretching wide as he pushes his hair back, he feels the wetness of it once the tips of his fingers reach the back; not completely dry from his impromptu wash. 

Taking notice of the wetness of his sleeve as he bent his arm, with her free hand, Edelgard reached out to pinch the wet cloth to confirm. Pads of her fingers firmly pressing, almost gripping as she tugs, managing to pull his arm away from his head. At the opposing motion his hair styles to the front, naturally parting down the middle. The curve ends of his hair have volume, though thinning in appearance due to being permeated with water. 

“Why are you wet?” She asks, and in all honesty, it is a proper inquiry. Still, she didn't need the answer. Truth would only predispose him to mockery. So what he does is shake his head, much like dogs with wet fur do, and sprinkles the water in his hair everywhere. Edelgard raises her palm with minor inconvenience, all to spare her eyes from the drippage, waiting for the moment he stops. Hubert appears to be minimizing his reaction, attempting his best to play off his winces when water strikes his eyes. 

Claude’s not apologetic and that much is obvious. Once he’s done he attempts to fix his hair again. Slicking the pieces back hoping they’d stick, and fortunately for him, they do. “Thought I’d freshen up a bit.” Just vague enough for the truth to be out of her reach. 

“I think the most important question is why were you hiding?” This time it is Hubert who directs him. Edelgard and Hubert, they make a curious duo. And Claude is naturally curious by nature, it never bodes well when curious people are bunched together. 

Claude offers a smile. “I wasn’t hiding.” Yes he was. “I grew tired from my walk and simply seek rest.” He wasn't even trying to be believable, that was never his intention, but rather, to be dismissive enough to get them to leave. Might that make him unpleasant? Sure. Though who hasn’t had their off days.

“Seek rest a mere couple of feet away from your home?” Hubert points out the flaw in his logic purposely. 

“Sure.” His smile is tight-lipped and feign, truly hiding the potency his words could muster. 

“I’m certain I saw you cowering in the bushes, it was quite the bemusing sight.”

“I was leaning against a bush but it buckled under my weight. Fortunately for me the tree was a much better option. So like I previously mentioned, I was merely seeking rest.”

Ignoring their prattle, Edelgard had walked up to Claude to examine his bag. Her fingers inch curiously to grasp it but he pulls it away from her reach childly. “What have you there?” One of her eyebrows raises in suspicion with the way he reacts. “It appears heavy.” She adds, head tilting to the side as she further scrutinizes the item. “Is it another one of your books?” Guessing only by the purpose of his book bag.

“You’re awfully blunt in your suspicions but right you are. It is another one of my books.” Edelgard made another attempt to snatch his book, which he succeeds against, that is until he bumps into the tree behind him. His palms retreat to the tree. The texture is stiff and grainy of bark right underneath his fingertips. His hands start to roam, feeling, as if he could just phase through this organic matter and disappear completely. At this time his fingers felt an aperture. Nails slipping within where it was cleaved. Easing deeper and deeper down its width until he realizes. This is where Edelgard used her axe. With a single swing she managed to get through half of the tree. Such tremendous strength for one so little. He’s heard the rumors before, how she used to consume three dozen eggs on the daily to help her get large. All this time he figured it was spun from a half truth, because considerably, all that grew larger was her forehead.

Curiously enough, he feels cornered by predators. It’s unknown even to him whether he is sweating, or that the wetness he feels dripping down his back was from when he fell into the fountain. Claude takes a deep breath, and it slips out slowly when he glances down to where the tree got nearly chopped down. It's a formidable swing that has him reconsidering his course of action. Though as he thought, Edelgard took advantage of his distracted mind to take the book out of his book bag.

Once he realized it, it was too late, her feet carrying her a few paces away from his reach. His frustration is evident when Hubert gets in between the both of them. This man is hardly as intimidating as he believes himself to be. With a roll of the eyes to display his annoyance, Claude attempts to walk around Hubert, but the man matches his every move. Claude calls out her name, but even that wasn't enough to draw her attention. He manages to see a change in her posture. Her axe settles down onto the ground, where the curve of its iron provides a foothold for her. One of Edelgard’s hands holds the end knob steady, while the other hand splays the book open. The contents inside are on display for her judgement, and so far, she appears confused by the entries on the pages. Hubert’s slim body was unable to veil the tilting of her head, hinting at a lack of understanding. 

“How can you read this?” She questions, unable to adapt to the contents of the book.

Casually, Claude grasps onto a branch, bending it down as it curves under the added weight. Tricking Hubert under the pretense that he would answer the question, his lips part in a silent answer, making his false intentions more convincing. He takes a step, maybe two to pass by the man that threatens to impede his progress. Taking the branch with him, he stretches it until it can no longer bend, and then, Hubert was met with a mouthful of leaves. He wishes he could have witnessed it, but that man is hardly worth the effort needed to look back, no matter how bemusing the sight would have been. All that interests him is retrieving his book from Edelgard’s clutches. 

“Easily.” The start of his answer. He lurks close enough over her shoulder, and reaching for his book he adds, “assuming you are not illiterate.” Not the right words to utter, perhaps, considering that she flees to the comfort of a nearby trunk whose leaves have already turned golden in color. She’s agile considering her brawn. He underestimated her once and won't be doing it again, that is a lesson learned. 

A golden crown hangs above her, leaves of various colors saturating the tree, and hanging low just above her. One snaps off and slowly descends, and she blows on it once it floats in front of her. A turmolous wind in the form of a breath. It carries the leaf over to him and it caresses his cheek before continuing its trail. Losing height until it eventually reaches the ground. Edelgard drags her axe, carving a long line into the ground as she pulls her weapon towards her and has it lean against the tree to mimic her. 

Licking her finger prior to turning the page, Edelgard turns the book with readied hands, holding it vertically as if the text and images could become decipherable then. It’s humorous to watch her struggle. It’s not her intelligence that comes into question but her values, where the value of a book is considered less than that of an axe. 

“Edelgard, may I have my book please?” Even in exasperation his voice is soothing. Claude crosses his arms in expectancy, raising a brow towards her direction when she fails to deliver. He untucks his hand, and lays it out expectantly.  He even exercises his manners, like what more is expected of him at this point?

“Claude, it's about time you got your head out of those books and paid attention to more important things.” Edelgard behaves dismissively and tosses the book aside. When flung upwards the covers opened, its pages flipping freely in the wind until its inevitable fall into a pile of leaves and mud. 

Rushing to the aid of his book he falls to his knees, ignoring Edelgard altogether in favor of his reading material. His arm reaches out but in that instance Edelgard steps in front of him, blocking his reach effortlessly. “Like me.” She adds. As if anything she accomplishes is worth an ounce of his attention. He can’t help but frown upon her actions, the lines of his mouth dipping into disfavor. 

“The whole town’s talking about it,” Edelgard continues. She speaks as if Claude is dumb enough to be unaware of what people say about him. It isn’t right for a man to be so immersed in his books. To spend the best years of his life on a desk crowded over a book. To miss life experiences that would become lessons. He’s heard it all before. Over and over from family members, and from those who wish him to marry already. Particularly his mother. To have a life and a family of his own. Books may be unable to give him that, but they can educate him and lead him to a better life. “It’s not right.” She shows ignorance with her concern and it conflicts him. “Soon you’ll start getting ideas .”

Implied as if ideas are always inherently bad. With ideas is how change is made, for better, or for worse as everyone presumes. Those around him have become complacent with the way things are. Those who are afraid to dream the impossible. He wants more for himself, even if his goals are unattainable. “As if I care what the town speaks.” He picks up the corner of the book with thumb and forefinger, causing it to open. Claude shakes the book to rid it of any excess leaves and dirt before stuffing it underneath his arm. “If I were to preoccupy myself with the opinions of others, then I wouldn't have much of an opinion myself.” He looks at her as he stands, defiant on behalf of his book. “I'm no stranger to having unfavorable opinions said about me.” 

What Edelgard does next is reach for her axe, swinging it around her shoulder with mild effort. One of her hands rests on her hip in comfort, setting her weight onto one of her legs. “I can see that.” Then, her eyes drop to his hand, exploring the skin stitched together atop muscle and bone. She reaches out then, touching his hand, pulling it as she turns it over showing his palm to her. She traces the life lines, flexing her thumb back and forth over the thinner skin. He feels pressure on the back of his hand, the rest of her fingers supporting him. She adorns gloves so there’s a lack of sensation, blunt and never sharp. “You have thick skin.”  She comments, as she ironically presses into the thin skin of his body. Claude pulls his hand back upon hearing Judith’s voice, finally intervening and cutting this nuisance short. 

“Enough.” Judith cuts in, her no nonsense tone is enough for Edelgard to yield. Judith stood in the doorway of the hut, crossing her arms across her chest. Her brows cocks towards Claude as if questioning why he was still there. “Come here, boy, there’s much to do.” She props the door open with her body as she leans on it. 

Claude doesn’t argue with her in front of present company over the usage of boy, it would only make him feel more pathetic. However, like a good boy, he does take his leave because he’s been provided the opportunity. He doesn’t want to continue to linger around Edelgard and Hubert a moment longer. They've already done enough to sour his day. Regardless of how he feels, he doesn’t show it. What he does show, instead, is a wave of a mildly committed goodbye as he walks off. 

Reaching the steps he is once again reminded of the book he’s carrying, Judith’s non-subtle stare as she looks upon it was the very thing that made him realize. So he tucks it back into the bookbag, and closes it as it is meant to. Prior to addressing Judith he spares a quick glance to where he last left Edelgard and finds her there, unmoving, just watching his every step. Huffing, he speaks low but his whining still comes off as exceptional. “Boy? You couldn't have come up with something less embarrassing to call me!?” He fights the urge to smack his face as he drags himself inside. 

Judith shuts and locks the door, keeping all eyes and ears away from their conversation. “Only a boy would have such a problem with brats.” 

“I had it all under control by the way.” Control is an overstatement, but speaking it into existence is one of his favorite methods. Removing his book bag and tossing it over the dining table he notices something that hadn’t been there before, a buck head wall mount. The words couldn’t even reach him, but his fingers reached out in disbelief. So realistic in appearance, the buck head is attached to a wooden plaque. Nothing fancy but touching the fur helps Claude determine that it wasn’t made in imitation. This head had been butchered, stuffed and preserved and presented as such a gift. Who would do such a thing? Had it been Judith? Though it’s unusual for her considering her tastes, he could never be too certain. 

His hand reaches the antlers, wincing when he squeezes. It felt robust to the touch, certain that the creature had been the same when living. He’s conflicted. He wants it gone, but he doesn’t know whether that is his decision to make. 

“It’s for you,” Judith informs him, as she sets her arms up on the table, resting her upper body weight upon it. From whom , he wants to ask, but his confusion gets ahead of him. Stretches his lips thin and knits his brows close. “From that girl. I suspect she’s courting you.” She spares a look at the plaque, never missing the imperfections on the woodwork. “Probably butchered the beast herself.” Stepping around the table, her hand glides upon the smooth surface until nearing the gift. From there Judith moves her hand up, following the contours of the plaque. Noting how some spots were more finely sanded than the next. “Novice work but commendable.” 

“How is this commendable?” The use of the word would be laughable if he wasn't this displeased. 

“She’s skilled in many trades. Strong, dependable and an independent woman. You would be foolish not to consider the offer.” 

Consider what offer — a marriage proposal in the form of a decapitated animal? 

“There’s nothing for me to consider.” He sets down the buck head onto the table, never bothering on hiding his malcontent. He considers disposing it into the garbage but feels bad for the animal. Even if it's dead, it deserves a better purpose than this. 

“You’re one to think that you can do anything on your own, but that only leads down a bitter path. You need a partner, one who can straighten you out. I happen to think she’s more than capable of doing it.” Judith looks to the buck, touching its antlers, pressing the sharp ends to her thumb. “You don’t have to like her.” She reasons this because this marriage would be out of convenience. Love isn’t always part of the equation, and perhaps that's why people cling to the fantasy of love that’s served in novels. 

Deep down, maybe he is no different after all. 

“I’m not to be wed to someone if my heart is not with them.” His mind is racing, his fingers twitching with irritation. First Edelgard, and now Judith? Not to mention the whispers that had followed him around town. Would there be no end to this? It feels like the whole world has turned against him today."

Why couldn’t he set other goals for himself? Marriage had always the last thing on his mind. Finding someone to love was never an importance. He’d never needed someone to love him either. Claude never had to depend on anyone. The only person he could truly trust to want the best for him was himself.

Hastily he grabs his book bag. It follows loosely behind him when he swings it over his shoulder. He has to distance himself from this space. Gather some fresh air and clear his thoughts. He recognizes he may be overreacting, but staying here, where he is subjected to the opinions of Judith, and her wandering cold stare would only worsen the temperament of his mind.

There’s a fog that does not grant him clarity, so he needs to keep moving, to find himself in a place that causes the hazard in his mind to dissipate. 

“Where are you going?!” He doesn’t answer because he doesn't know himself.  Heading towards the back door, opening and shutting it promptly after he passes through, Claude has no time to regret this decision. Nowhere to move but forward. He’ll come back, this isn't him running away permanently. If it were he would be far more secretive of the ordeal. Judith, she knows that too, which is why she doesn’t chase after him — doesn’t try to stop him. As much as she worries, she’s never been a hindrance to his independence.

Claude approaches the horse stalls situated next to the house. Propping his book satchel down over a bundle of hay, he moves towards his own horse, a white breed that’s able to maintain its white pigment throughout adulthood, making her one of the rarer breeds of horse available. Her refined build, soft pink nose as it transitions to white and her dark expressive eyes, it’s all beautiful. These are all details he loves, especially the low cut of her mane across her crest. He feels it now as he runs his fingers through it, tickling his soft skin. 

“Hello, girl.” With a smile he offers her a greeting. Transitioning his hand to between her ears, he pets the spot there. “Are you up for a walk?” As if able to understand him, she nods, grinding one of her hooves on the dirt, itching for the open road. Laughing, he comments, “that’s my girl.” His hand moves downwards, stretching over her muzzle as he gently moves it back and forth in affection. He starts first by securing the reins, taking his time to ensure everything is secured in place. Next, he boards the saddle, making sure it was adequately placed on her back.

Opening the stall door, he begins to lead his horse by the reins. She follows his every step, tilting her head down to accommodate his smaller stature.

Oh, he almost forgot. Tying the ends of the reins in a knot on the handle of the stall, he secures his horse in place for a few short moments as he picks up his book bag and secures it across his shoulder. Once certain that nothing else is amiss, Claude undoes the knot, closes the stall and proceeds to mount his horse. Adjusting himself to this new perspective, he takes claim of the leather handle with both hands. His feet are deposited into the right slots, ready to stir his horse forward. Claude straightens out his back and squares his shoulders, tapping his horse twice on the side with his foot, prompting her to proceed forward with a leisure pace. However, he doesn’t want leisure, he wants speed. With a certain motion of the reins, his horse starts moving faster, dashing through the familiar surroundings with ease. 

Hurriedly they pass by Edelgard and Hubert later down the road. Their speed ushers Hubert’s cape forward, as well as Edelgard’s long hair, striking both their faces in unison. Claude couldn’t help but audibly laugh, even more so as he looks back to see Edelgard’s glare as she pulls her hair out of her mouth.

He imagines that his hair is not in presentable conditions either, what with the wind mismanaging it, scattering his locks in all directions. Already he feels the intensity of his mind lessen. Riding his horse has done well for him in a span of minutes, imagine what a few hours will do. 

Claude heads to the forest after an ingenious idea. Wasting the hours away, studying the organisms that reside there with the help of his new book. Using the information within it to lead him to new findings. Not every organism layered onto the pages are native to this area, but there have to be some that are scattered over these lands. He just has to find them, and become familiar enough to experiment with them. 

After seeing the forest’s entrance in the nearby distance, he lightly pulls on the reins, encouraging his horse to decrease her speed. He doesn’t want her barreling into unknown terrain where she might injure herself over the sharp rocks or branches that litters the unkempt pathways.

When they enter the forest they’re met with a distinct chill. The sun is not as present underneath the trees, daylight reaching scarcely, presenting his surroundings with harsher and muter tones. “Easy, easy…” He’s cautious, urging his horse to stop in front of a log that marks a fork in the road. He looks upon his surroundings to determine the best course of action. Beyond the path of the log lies uncertainty. Vines lined with thorns stretched across the ground. Branches followed a similar decorum, twisted like hands, sharp and brittle, ready to cut any passerbys. Whereas a different path leads elsewhere, but the way there is less perilous. Sufficient space between them and any tree, the branches don't lurk as lowly, and best of all, the terrain is more uniform for his horse to walk upon. There’s less lightning, yes, but compared to everything else, this is the best road to travel on. So Claude tugs at the reins in the direction he wants to go, getting his horse to follow in such a few short steps. They go slowly to be vigilant. Claude has become increasingly aware of everything. The way the chilling breeze crept up his back, making him regret traveling with a wet set of clothes. Of course not as wet as it was originally, but some damp spots still stick to his flesh, and the cold breeze is a purposeful breath upon it. It makes him shiver, making him feel as though he needs to sneeze. In hindsight he should have brought a coat. Claude often took great pride in his ability to plan ahead, though this time around, he disappointed even himself. Nevertheless, this would only be a temporary hindrance. No use wasting energy fretting over it.

Claude lowers his stance, avoiding an arrangement of hanging branches. He keeps this low stance, adding strain to his back, but he feels warmer being closer to his horse. His horse’s ear perks up, shifting to the direction of the noise. Claude can’t help but turn his face in the same direction. After straightening his back he is awarded with more visibility, but still he finds nothing amiss. No signs of movement around him, front or back. They remain still though for a minute more, expecting a repetition of sound to confirm if they are being followed or not. No such confirmation ever came but he is spooked the moment an echoing sound rings distantly. Sounds from a crow. Very vocal as the sound of flapping wings reaches his ears in abundance. 

Claude’s starting to rethink his visit here. Thus far it’s given him no gratification, only unnerved him with its visual and auditory unsettlements. There’s a reason not many come here, and as always, he’s too stubborn to heed the popular voice. Nevertheless, it’s too soon to call it quits, or more truthfully, too soon to go back home. The discussion of marriage is a stoked fire that sieged his heart, and he’s just trying to find a way to flee from it. And eventually, he finds his reason –his love for learning.

A flash of color catches his eye, a flower he recognizes. Its petals are wound tight in the color blue, not yet bloomed for the eyes of the forest. His hand reaches out, too drawn to the unusual pigment, but Claude stops himself. Realizing that he has to make certain, he can’t always act on his whims. So he goes into his book bag to retrieve his book. Once it’s under his possession he stacks it on the saddle, placing it on the seat rise where the swell of the saddle keeps it upright. He turns page after page until he eventually finds the correct one. Quite a lot of beneficial information, nearly two pages, and the visual paired along with it is nearly identical to what he’s witnessing. What intrigues him the most of what he reads is how it can be compounded into an oil to help against bacteria. It’s fascinating to him how organic matter can become so versatile if only one were curious enough to try. 

From high on his horse he leans down to reach into the rosebush. His finger lightly caresses  different roses to assess which ones had been damaged and which ones were not. Some felt dry to the touch, tips visually appearing brown, while others missed chunks altogether. Bitten by insects, a meal that sustained many lifeforms. Claude continued to observe until he finds the perfect one. This flower has its petals spread. Beautiful and open with a lack of imperfections. Of course this is the one that he would pick, the one that blooms specifically for him. Pinching the stem, he stings himself on a rose’s prickle. He disregarded the pain for he knows that the reward will be well worth it. He had not plucked it from the pedicel so it would sustain life for longer, even though doing so would have been a painless experience for him. 

Lifting the rose from its bush, he left a drop of his blood in exchange. The bright crimson drop had fallen over a leaf, continuing to move down the midrib of said leaf, descending to the ground where it soaks into the soil. From there Claude hears a growl, and suddenly becomes aware of his precarious position. 

A hungry pack of wolves had blocked the path back, cornering Claude and his horse to one direction. One step is taken in forewarning by the leader. The wolf’s claws dig deep into the earth where its saliva wet the soil around it with drop after drop. The lining of their teeth is black with old blood, and their sharpness makes any axe appear dull. 

Claude does not act hastily for he knows that any sudden movement would trigger them to attack. Right now it is about suspense. The wolves are studying him and his steed, to see what they’re capable of and determine how best to attack them. Hunger often leads to desperation, and that’s what they are, desperate. They don’t even see Claude and his horse as a threat too big to handle, only as food.  

With patience he moves up, never once breaking eye contact with the wolves who snarl at him and counts down the seconds until his last breath. Claude clutches the flower in his hand, angling his upper body in a way so that his opposing arms remain unseen. His eyes are wide, darting from one wolf to the next, counting their numbers frantically as he attempts to steady the panic in his chest. 

His other hand manages to reach his book, sliding his hand over the page until he reaches the top to grasp firmly. The pack is growing bolder, taking more consecutive steps towards their direction. He times his next move, waiting for his next draw of breath to throw his book at them. It hits one of the wolves, causing its face to snarl with malice while the rest of the group lunge to attack. Before they get too close his horse gallops, setting a distance between them and their attackers.

Claude digs his heels to the side of his horse, tapping it constantly as if that could make her move faster through these woods, allowing her autonomy to take turns that lead them to their survival. Speedy turns and jumps, nothing she does discourages the hungry wolves from their trail.

He squeezes his hand with a mind to throw anything he has under his possession under the hopes of slowing the wolves down. But such a soft feeling, almost like velvet, swaddles his palm. A blue rose, even if riddled with thorns, would not impede much. It would be a waste to hand it to the wolves, they would only trample it or rip it to shreds.

Looking back he sees that they’re still quick on their heels. The ravenous beasts froth at the mouth, speeding their pace to meet his horse’s tail. Close but no bite as a pair of jaws emerge to clamp around nothing, though it was a fair enough attempt to frighten Claude. 

He feels so helpless on horseback. If anything, he’s a hindrance, only serving as a weight to slow them down. He has to make himself useful, he can’t just sit and rely on his horse’s quickness to get them through. His survival is at stake too, and he refuses to spend what could be his last precious moments stricken with fear. 

After stashing the rose in his shirt pocket to free up his hands, he proceeds to remove his bookbag and dangle it in front of the wolves. He holds it by the strap, stretching it horizontally to cover more width and allows it to fall. One of the wolves jumps, head getting through an opening the opening the shoulder strap formed, but its legs gets tangled with the rest of it. Collapsing to the ground, it hectically tries to free itself with every twitch and roll. It meets the taste of leather as it tries to pry free, further complicating its fortunate misfortune by managing to loop the strap around the mouth like a muzzle.

One less headache to worry about , Claude thinks as he counts the remaining few. One is already dangerously close, again, jumping to clamp its mawl around his horse’s tail. Claude kicks impulsively, thankful that his foot didn't get caught up in between the wolf’s teeth. The risk was well worth it considering the wolf falls with a yelp. A pitiful sound that springs hope, as others from the pack trips or looks after its injured members. Though, there are a persistent few still hot on their trail. 

The path diverges, one side segmented to a higher elevation, stretching into a mound aligned with brittle trees. One of the wolves took that path and now Claude is unable to keep up with its whereabouts, that is until it emerges from the trees, lunging directly at him. His heart nearly bursts from his chest, shutting his eyes prematurely in anticipation when he brings up his arm for protection, but his body would never know pain from it. The wolf’s jaw sticks to a branch instead, dangling from it as it attempts to bite its way through. 

A relief that it hadn’t been either him or his horse. 

Claude exhales the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, replacing the tightness in his chest with a slight ache. His heart still palpitates painstakingly fast, rushing adrenaline down his veins to perform on instinct. His physiology drives him to survival and, despite the many risks involved, he couldn’t be mad at it. Even now when uncertain dangers are told, he clasps the reins and changes their trajectory. A sudden jerk nearly tumbles them over, the dirt rising underneath her hooves. The maneuver buys them some time as the wolves chase down the wrong direction, moving too fast to change their course unexpectedly. Having missed the wolves by a few short hairs, he knows that this will not be enough to stop them, but it’s enough to slow them down. He’s just thankful his ride was experienced enough to not fall from the sudden shift in direction. 

During the pursuit, he believes to have seen a castle in the distance. His eyes could have been deceiving him, conjuring a mirage as a way to fight their grim fate of endlessly running in circles until they succumb to exhaustion. A damning reality that there is nowhere to run other than the wolves’ lair.

He’s never heard of a castle being hidden in these woods. For all he knows, even if one were to exist, it could very well be abandoned. Still, if there’s a slim chance that other people were around, that means that there’s defenses, and if there isn’t even that, then sheer numbers might make the wolves reconsider.

Unsure of even the accuracy of his vision, he decides to bet their lives on this coincidence. 

In passing Claude scratches his cheek on a branch, not sharp enough to cut but enough to scrape at his skin. He doesn't feel pain at that exact moment but knew that it would come later as a bright red, stinging mark. It had felt like the caress of sandpaper, too rough for his delicate flesh.

The sounds of wolves are steadily approaching, inducing a panic in his bones. He feels his horse slowing down, exhaustion slowly creeping in her joints. Though not now, she can’t stop now, not when he saw a gate. Claude’s foot digs in, striking repeatedly for a last burst of speed to get them across the bridge.

The wolves are not as fast and are unable to meet their distance at this time, but they’re persistent, they’ll catch up, and quickly.

Barreling down this path Claude jumps from his horse to open the tall and imposing gate. He doesn't waste time on a proper descent, that would only cut the seconds too close. He trips, rolls on his shoulder and gets up immediately, attempting his best to push the gate forward. His horse helps too, walking into it and adding its weight, which does help. Once they manage a big enough opening, Claude rushes his horse into the castle grounds first. He pulls at her reins until she manages on her own, then he follows, pushing the gate closed as he gets in. It was made of dense iron, difficult to push, but he manages on his own. So close to closing it, that is, until a wolf wedges its head through the small opening left. Pushing back against Claude, and soon, the rest of its pack tries to join. His horse bashes the wolf’s nose with a kick, spiraling it back and granting Claude the opportunity to close and lock the gate. 

He takes a couple of steps back, observing the rabid animals as they fail one attempt after the next to get in, until eventually, they give up and retreat. Claude pants, hand traversing to his breast to calm his hefting chest. Next he moves his hand to his pocket, feeling the petals present and sighs in relief. 

It's an appropriate time to forget about the wolves now that they are no longer in present danger. So he starts caring for his horse, rubbing the side had forced with his foot. “You did great.” He tells her softly as he works to free her from the saddle. His fingers spread over her back, kneading repeatedly to loosen up the tension. “You can rest now.” He asserts with a pat. His horse turns to him, eyes dark and her lashes long, blinking at him with knowing. Claude brings his hands to grasp the sides of her long face, tipping her head down to touch their foreheads together. She flares her nostrils, her puff of air striking his face. It riles a laugh out of him.

“I’ll see if there’s anyone that can lend us some help.”

First thing Claude notices is snow during the warmer months. It flattens under his steps, even cools his skin as he continues to observe how it covers the layout. The snow is not fresh, evident by the specs of color as it resides over the ground, gate and walls. It lacks the pillowy soft playfulness it is often tied to. Succeeding only in making everything underneath the snow die or rust. 

It’s baffling to him that he failed to notice something so obvious. His focus on surviving had blinded him to some extent. So now he takes his time to explore. Secondly, noticing the place in which they reside is enclosed, kept behind a brick-walled gate. Stunning, gray bricks are stacked to heights he cannot reach, spreading over the massive perimeter. Turning on his center, he is amazed by the grandeur scale of the grounds. Quite a shame that it has become so unkempt. Perhaps the place is abandoned, for if there were signs of life, the grass wouldn't be as brassy as it is now. Weeds wouldn't be predominating and the trees would exhibit life and not a frangible covering. 

The same could be said about the castle itself, stellar edifice though it is, it has fallen on some tough times. The erosion on its masonry walls gives the palace an unflattering tone and ages it in appearance. Windows are muted with a build up of mildew and the spider webs that cling to the corners did not help preserve its image. Even the stone sculptures are not spared by his scrutinizing gaze. He spots lions carved by talented hands throughout the rooftops, all of them beautiful demonstrations of artistry that had grown damaged over the years by negligence and decay. If he were such an artist he would have given the guardian beasts wings, so that they could fly to kinder fates. 

Claude feels so small standing before the palace. The many towers ingrained to it could reach the heavens from his stature. Still, if his small footsteps can reach this place, nothing feels impossible to him. 

He tilts his head back to intake the full magnitude of the door. Massive in height and given a rounded arch, it is primarily painted blue with yellow added detailing. The sheer size makes for an imposing sight. It is unknown to him if the residence is vacant or not, regardless of the answer, he gives the door a couple of knocks. Heavy with the sound he waits a few moments before calling out for anyone. He presses his ear against the door, hands having braced themselves onto the wooden surface, only to be met with silence. Claude persists and pushes the door forward, tension pinching in his shoulder as he did so, still sore from landing on it earlier. The sound of the door opening is voluminous, allowing him to get the sense of how hollow the castle insides were to procure such an echoing sound. 

He calls out just as he steps inside, his voice echoing through the castle. “Hello, is anyone there?” Sensing the cold, Claude begins to rub his arms in a poor attempt to raise his body temperature. 

His eyes has not yet adjusted to this new onset of darkness, so with every step he takes he expresses caution. Turning his body to survey his surroundings, he focuses on the movement of curtains, given motion only by the draft. Claude pushes the door closed, and once he does, the sound of crackling firewood reaches his ears, something he hadn’t noticed before.

So someone must reside here.

“I mean no harm.” He makes his intentions clear in case he is being watched by someone. Turning his head, his gaze only meets with tall ceilings and furniture. He has not found distinct humanoid shapes lurking in the darkness, so perhaps the inhabitant is  elsewhere while Claude roams the palace. 

Announcing his arrival just as he did before, he clarifies that he’s seeking help. Waiting for one such generous soul to come find him, he begins to make himself at home. He may not have explicitly stated, but he’s not interested in leaving until he finds that someone.

Walking past a wooden, circular table standing hind on four legs, his fingers glide over that surface, collecting dust over his skin. What he does next is take the blue rose from his pocket to settle it on the table’s surface before proceeding towards the staircase. But he stops when he hears a noise. It comes from the direction of the fireplace, and it isn’t the burning firewood that is sounding. This is distinct, as if hopping or light tapping. 

Claude squints at the direction of the sound, finding silhouettes in motion. Unsure if the light source is responsible for the perceived motions, he steps nearer. He steps nearer to attain a closer look. Setting his hand upon the mantel shelf of the fireplace, he leans down, studying the charred remains of the hearth. This fire has been kept for a while. Ash covers the plating, and soon more wood will be needed to keep the fire going. Though for now, it heats enough to keep him huddled close. His hands move to the heated fire, feeling its warmth seeping through skin and into his bones. 

The sound of voices alarm him, breaking his concentration and causing him to look atop the fireplace questioningly. Set upon it is a candlestick, with three candles already partly melted. He moves to grab it, bringing it closer to his face, arching his brow whilst examining its unremarkable design. “It’s just a stupid candlestick,” he comments on his way to put it back.

“Who are you calling stupid?” Claude hears back.  His heart jumps into his throat as the object in his hand suddenly demonstrates movement and speech.

Ah yes, he must have hit his head when he got off his horse. That explains his obvious delusion. 

He feels a tap on his wrist. The candle moves its arms and Claude doesn’t know how to react. “Uh, mind putting me down?” The candlestick speaks to him, again , using the wick of the candle to slick the flame on the center candle back as if it were red hair. 

As far as Claude is concerned he’s got a limited set of actions. He could scream. He could scream and run. Or he could set the candle man(?) down and see where this leads. Knowing his own morbid curiosity, he knows what option to lean on.

Kneeling down in front of the fire to inspect the being under better lighting, Claude brings the candle man closer to his face, turning him on his fingers, thumb aligned to his column sturdily. The candlestick responds to his every touch, chuckling at whichever direction Claude’s hands wander to. Waving his small hands, he tries to lift Claude’s fingers off him with softened wax. “I’m ticklish,” the candle man says in between laughs. 

“Fascinating.” Claude comments. The fire bathes them both in its warm glow. The longer Claude holds the candle man (what should he even call him, or it?) the hotter his silver becomes under Claude’s ministrations. Must be from being so close to the fire, so despite behaving with a conscience, the body reacts much like the object it’s supposed to represent.

From the top of the fireplace Claude hears more hopping. A sharper sound, though much lighter in weight. A spout comes into view from up above, tipping down as if trying to see them. “Goodness, Sylvain, are you alright?” It’s a teapot. The teapot is talking . With her soft spoken voice the teapot sounds concerned.

“I’m well enough, Mercedes.” The sentient being in his hand waves at her, kindling a fire from one of his candles to illuminate his expression–?

Taking one hop closer to the edge, the teapot continues to observe the two of them. “How delightful.” She sounds relieved. Happy that her friend remained under good conditions. “Are you going to introduce me to your new friend?” She turns towards Claude, or at least he presumes she’s turning towards him? It’s hard to tell with the present lighting.

“Ah, yes, my friend!” The candlestick exclaims. “This here is, uuhh” He rambles on, clinking his drip pans together to form a thought but no such luck, Claude had never given his name. “What’s your name, monsieur?” 

At the question, Claude straightened out his knees, extending to his proper height to place Sylvain back atop the fireplace where he’d originally found him. He gives his name to the teapot because she’s the one whose curiosity had initiated the introduction. “My name is Claude. Claude von Riegan.” He extends out his small finger to service her hand, whatever that may be. He takes to her handle, the best he could do as a handshake. 

Though that seems to be the wrong thing seeing as Sylvain’s flames burst. Hotly blazing, bright and red, he stomps his way over, flailing his arms. “Monsieur, stop! That is her derrière!” 

Both astounded and frightened by the revelation, Claude drops his hand and apologizes. She accepts his apology without foul, and even puts his worries at ease. “No need for apologies, there was no way of you knowing. I can’t fault you for that.” 

He definitely hit his head because how could a teapot make him feel so assured? How is he even meant to respond to that? Luckily Claude does not have to thanks to the introduction of the next sentient object, a tea cup. It sprouts big hops, from the fireplace to his hand, carrying the bounces up his forearm, elbow crease and shoulder. 

“Hey, Mister!” The tea cup peeps in his ear, attaining his attention immediately. Claude turns to look, mindful as to not do it too fast for fear of accidentally bumping with them. “You’re a human, right?” She asks excitedly.

“Annette.” The one called Mercedes called out to her, reprimanding in her tone of voice.

The little tea cup spins mid bounce to face the teapot, waddling on Claude’s shoulder as she heads down his arm. “Come on, Mercie. It’s been so long since we’ve seen one! Aren’t you curious as to what brought him over here?”

What brought him here? At this point, based on all he’s witnessed here, it all seemed irrelevant. The wolves that chased him, the plants he blindly set out to search, it was all a distraction for something that now seemed so insignificant.

“What brings me here?” He repeats in retrospect. “Problems that seem so insignificant now.” He muses aloud. Catching their interest they tune in to what he had to say. That being said, he doesn’t necessarily understand what inspires him to talk about his problems to a tea set and a candlestick, but he does. 

His vague answers prompts the candlestick to ask, “what problems could a handsome man like you possibly be experiencing?” He leans onto Claude’s wrist as he contemplates. “Let me guess, girl trouble.” The flame atop his head sparks in a burst of ardent light. Sylvain crosses his arms, laying them on the jut of Claude’s wrist bone.

“You could say that.” Claude chuckles. The teacup spreads that ticklish sensation down his arm with every bounce until she reaches the fireplace. “It feels like everyone around me has been pushing me to marry as of lately. Forcing me into a lifelong commitment I’m not yet ready for.” A sudden melancholy takes over his expression. What compels him to reveal so much? 

He really must have hit his head, either that or he’s really going crazy. 

“Do you have that special someone in your life, Claude?” Mercedes asks him, suddenly they’re all attentive to what his following set of words would be. 

He shakes his head. “Not currently, no.” It’s not a priority , he wants to add but doesn’t. Just then the objects exchanged looks, and he’s not at all certain on what it could mean.

“Are you waiting on your one true looo-woah!” Poor Annette, too ahead of herself, tips over the edge. She falls straight for the ground, that is until Claude cushions her fall with his free hand. 

Though, in doing so, he had removed Sylvain’s resting spot, and he collapsed where he stood. Claude doesn’t regret it, in fact, it’s a good thing he acted quickly. It would be a shame if she had shattered so early into their meeting. 

He raises up his hand closely to his own face, bringing her close for his answer. “I wouldn’t necessarily call it that.” She seems so small in his hand, so fragile. He’s careful to set her down. “I don’t want to marry someone I know nothing about. I want to know them, and share interests with them. Learn to love and trust at my own pace.” Annette jumps from his hand onto the next platform to reunite with her friends —family—? 

“Some say that love can be blind but it doesn’t happen in a day.” A deeper voice says.

Sylvain’s wobbly arms help him rise to his base, which he uses to hop closer to the tea set. Being stuck on this topic for too long, Claude decides to change it. “Have you guys always been like this?” Like what— he should have been more specific. Objects with a conscience. Objects given voice. The result of an experiment or a curse? Have they always been objects, or were they turned? The more he thinks about it the more it doesn’t make sense. Magic is make-believe. A figment of peoples’ imagination. A concept of children’s novels, it has no place in the real world. 

He’s hit his  head and is unconscious now, he’s certain, or in the very least delirious.

They want to share something with him. It’s in the way their animations appear calmer, more controlled at the prospect of a human amongst them. They wobble over to the edge, all three of them, trying to get as close as physically able. Sylvain motions for him to come closer, and Claude does, ear first to the whisper that calls out his name. However, the closer he presses the more he realizes that the voice he heard emit was not Sylvain’s but someone else’s entirely. 

Jointed with a more irritated tune, someone else had spoken entirely. A human, perhaps. Shifting his gaze towards the ruckus, Claude realizes that it had in fact not been a human, but another object, a clock. The hands of time behind his glass face formed the shape of a frown, or in the very least, the closest thing to a frown that it could form.

“Stop your wretched nonsense, the lot of you.” The wood of the clock man is malleable, forming stubby arms as he waddles his way towards them. 

“Felix,” Sylvain calls out exasperatedly. “You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

“Even someone without a brain can tell you’re up to no good,” Felix counters irritably.

As entertaining as all this has become, Claude gets the feeling that he should say something. Though it appears that every time someone tries to get a word in they are quickly shut down by this clock fellow. 

Claude finds himself going back and forth between strange faces as they bicker amongst each other. “Can’t you see?” Sylvain employs the clock man. “This could be our chance!” He burns his candles, melted wax spreading to the nearest surface.

“Our chance at what? You’re pinning your hopes on failure. That boar cannot love anyone.” The boar? Is this some sort of talking animal? 

Anette interjects, hopping as high as her tiny body allows her to. “Well, we won’t know until we try!” 

At a loss with the turns the conversation has taken, Claude makes his confusion evident with his timid questioning. “Excuse me,” he says, less of a question and more as an attention grabber. His hands are laid upon the mantel shelf, resting close to his new acquaintances but not close enough to risk burning himself on Sylvain’s hot candles. His face is basked in warmth, a glow of mild intensity overcoming him. 

The animated beings looked up at him, perhaps not taken aback, but it was evident that they hadn’t expected him to speak. They could at least try to be more tactful, more mindful, parse. He is a guest within their home, the minimum courtesy he expects is not to be the underlying subject of conversation as if he is not there.

“Am I supposed to be the boar?” he inquires with a raise of his brow. 

Heavy footsteps stall everyone’s words. The wood above them creaks. It is far too heavy to be the result of an object. A human, Claude thinks, or perhaps a literal boar. The sound travels closer, the wood adjusting to the weight, crying out with each thunderous footstep. The suspense is more than he bargains for when no one speaks, as if they don’t wish to be heard. Annette huddles behind Mercedes, peeking her teacup face from the side awaiting. Claude remains curious, searching towards the ceiling where the next step might be. Interestingly enough it doesn’t come from above. 

A fall causes a stir. The floor beneath his feet shakes as does the furniture. There’s an ominous rumbling  at the height of the stairs. And, as if drawn, Claude distances himself from the fireplace and steps towards the stairs. Closer, in the hopes that the dark veil of shadow lifts to show the figure hiding within.

“Leave.” A voice speaks from within the darkness. Low and deep, laced with danger, and proceeds with saying, “You are not welcomed here.”

Of course what is there to do but take offense? Claude had arrived because he had no other alternative, he didn’t have any ulterior motives to bring harm upon the castle or its inhabitants. To be dismissed before even given the opportunity to express himself is outlandishly rude.

“You should learn what manners are.” Hosts are supposed to be more amicable, and assuming he is one, he is far from it. Frowning, Claude takes a step forward. From behind him he hears something fall. There isn’t a shatter, but gasps could be heard. Still it isn’t enough to deter Claude from looking away. If the other leaves the shadows he doesn’t want to miss it.

“You speak to me of manners?” Again, this prompts Claude to take another step. With every exchange he gets closer and the distraction behind him would worsen. A thump, this time, something else falls, and again, no shatter. Only a rolling sound upon a surface, followed by nothing and another thud.

“You’re the one who trespassed into my property.” A valid point, but Claude had not done so with ill intention. 

“I imagined the place abandoned, still I knocked.” Realizing what he said would not improve his situation, he admits, “I’m desperate for help.”

“And how is that my concern?” The booming voice seethes.  “Why should I trouble myself over your problems when I’ve yet dealt with my own?.” Claude can’t fault the man for being cautious considering the circumstances surrounding the inhabitants. However, one thing he has not yet considered if this person is the one responsible for the misfortune that had befallen them all. 

The one who made it all happen.

Turning back he finds Felix helping Sylvain off the ground, while Mercedes and Annette remain atop the fireplace. Somehow shifting the blame towards this mysterious man doesn't seem suitable considering how he wants him gone. If he had indeed been wicked in nature, he would have acted upon it by now. 

“I could help.” Claude offers, placing his hand on the carving of the stairs. He’s so tempted to take his first step heading up.

A great pause follows. The man is considering Claude’s offer, and after great consideration he is turned down. “…Go to the wolves to settle your problems.”

“They are my problem.” One of his truths, though not the one he had shared earlier. Claude never mentioned the wolves. Curious that they are brought up now. Had he heard their sounds?

“I know. I smell them on you.” This answer renders Claude without speech. He doesn’t react outwardly, just continues to stand near the ends of the stairs. What an ominous presentation, he thinks, still, he is not yet rendered defeated.

“You are not welcome here.” Sad, heavy and heartfelt, perhaps if the man weren’t so stubborn Claude could get through to him easier. “Go. I will not repeat myself a third time.” The footsteps above seem to be going away from him already. 

Claude knows what must be done. It may not be the correct thing, but it feels right in his heart.

Venturing to his first step on the staircase, he allows his weight to wallow on the wood. Unsettling creaks spreading through sound, soon after that, a voice calls out to him in alarm.

“Wait, wait!” Hop after hop after hop, Sylvain flails his arms to gain his attention. To stall Claude in place as he gathers enough momentum to jump onto that first step. “Let me talk to him.” Sylvain reasons, asking Claude to stay still with the motion of his hands. “You stay put, okay? Don’t go anywhere.” A complete contradiction from what he had just been told. And of course since it benefits him more, Claude stays. 

“Wait here,” he is instructed by the candle man, who steps backwards as if fearing Claude would disappear the moment he turns away. Giving Sylvain that confidence, the poor minute body proceeds to head up the stairs lumberingly. Claude would like to at least help him up the stairs, but he had been instructed to stay put. Not that that's the reason for his obedience, it’s just easier to meddle when there’s less eyes revolving around him.

When he no longer sees Sylvain, he blindly starts walking towards the comfort of the fireplace. He allows the warmth to guide him as he steps backwards. He ends up misdirecting himself and stumbles into a table. His fingers reach to stabilize it, holding the table steady as he presses it firmly against his legs. Then, he turns to adequately face the table. A soft gasp parts from his lips, his palm pressing against the empty surface of the table in surprise. 

The blue rose is gone.

Claude feels his pockets, voided and flat against his palms. Inspecting the floor yields a lone petal which he picks. Holding it on par with his eyes the exterior shows no signs of trauma. No tears, no holes, just one whole petal disconnected from the rest. Something– or someone– has scampered off with it, but who? 

Another stray petal caught his eye, quite a distance away from where he stands. A trail that could lead him directly to the one responsible. Apparently, the answer awaits him just beyond this pathway.