Chapter Text
Commitment
1. I shall uphold the chivalrous tradition and knightly ideals.
The monastery is livelier today.
Hilda naps without a care in the world while Iganatz is training with Leonie in the matters of swordsmanship. Raphael is sitting with Lysithea, studying the ethical philosophy of Kante.
Ingrid roams through the halls of their academy, finding the habits and lives of her new friends interesting.
She sees Raphael struggling to grasp the categorical imperatives set by Kante. Lysithea has her brows furrowed together, and Ingrid knows she is wrestling with the concepts herself. She will win. It’s just a matter of making it easy for Raphael as well. And Lysithea is showing admirable efforts to make it possible.
She is kinder than what she claims, Ingrid thinks.
They all are. The hard transition in becoming a Golden Deer was more of a cultural barrier than a personality one. Even Lorenz, the one with the most zeal for nobility, the Golden Deers are not haunted by the norms and etiquette of a noble that’s oppressive as Faerghus. They are expressive. They are passionate.
And the students didn’t just accept her, they embraced her.
They seemed to welcome her and all the antics she brought. She has given many lectures in different settings and forms with her peers.
Ingrid walks through the corner, feeling the gentle breeze through the hallways, and inhales the scent of roses planted through. Marianne is again locked in her room, whereas she last saw Lorenz heading to the Professor for a scheduled tea time.
That left one person.
She’s supposed to be on a stroll, aimlessly walking around as a way to rest from her studies and training. But enough curiosity and a small sample of concern made it possible for her to be on the lookout. She looks down one of the hallways. Through the wooden frames, she sees the cobbled pathway, a chandelier swaying on the ceiling, a piece of paper- some note from a student- dropped and abandoned on the side.
Her eyes wander, and it’s the gold, hidden in the corner of the hallway, that catches her attention. She walks over to see that he is not alone.
She hears the other first. A high-pitch, delicate voice says, “So tell me, how have you got such a healthy glow to your skin? It's so... brown.”
Ingrid’s glare cuts through Claude, and straight into a noble student, one she does not recognize, standing in front of him. She stands close, too close for a respectful distance, and is rather animate with her hands.
“Just a little tanning,” says Claude as he leans back with his hands supporting his head. She can hear the smile, a little too foreign and fake for her liking, through the smooth cadence of his voice.
“That’s amazing. It makes you seem more... exotic.” Ingrid freezes at the boldness for the student to touch his skin, like it’s different from that of anyone else’s. And she finds it disgusting.
“You think?”
She could have sworn he was blushing… or at least, flattered. He was not smiling or happy. But at the very least, he seemed to be accepting the supposed compliment. She should have been disappointed, expecting better of a man who knows politics, emotional subtext, and people.
She shouldn’t be this angry.
“Of course,” the student lies. Her arms are rummaging through his sleeves, as if she is patting him down for security. She sways into him. “I would love to know more…”
Before anything, she walks into their conversation. Up close, she recognized his smell, as cinnamon. Earthly and spicey. Ingrid clutches Claude by the shoulder, a gesture of one soldier to another. And smiles.
“Good afternoon,” she says, rather too cheerfully, too forcibly. “I was looking for you, dear leader.”
“Ingrid!” He almost yelps, almost. He smiles at her, but a nervous energy flickers in his eyes. “To what do I owe you the pleasure?”
She turns her attention to him and frowns. She tilts her head and leans her cheek against her hand, supported by the other- the common gesture she always made. He should know. “Did you forget?” she asks. “Our tea time?”
“I… er.” He narrows his eyes to study her. But like a switch, his eyes have that glint again. The suave confidence. “Of course! Forgive me for my forgetfulness.” He gives an apologetic glance to the student, who is frozen, sharp, and cold. Ingrid can feel the glaring daggers. And she glares back.
“We should go,” Ingrid says, almost insistent. And before the normal etiquette of goodbyes and false exchanges of planning to see one another again could take place, she drags him by the hand.
It’s not until she knows there is no one around where she turns her attention back to Claude. She shouldn’t be glaring. She shouldn’t be angry.
“Claude, what the hell was that?” She hissed. “A leader shouldn’t be flirting around.”
He shouldn’t be flirting around.
“You’re giving me a very specific requirement to be a leader.” He pauses, studying her. She freezes at his glance. She wonders why she’s so worked up about it. Even- “Is this about… your close friend? The one you’re so found of comparing me to?’
She takes a moment before responding. “No,” she decides. “It’s not.”
“Then what is it?” Claude steps closer. “I’m sorry if I sound harsh, but you had no right to meddle on who I can or can’t talk to. Unless…” he almost glares. “You had suspicions on what I would do with her.”
“No! It’s not like that.” How can he say such accusations? Does he think she perceives of him to be that low? “I was…” she pauses, loss for words.
“You were?” Claude softens his eyes and holds her hands. “What is it, Ingrid? Please,” she never imagined hearing him so gentle and pleading, “tell me what made you so mad.”
“I just didn’t like the way she stared at you, the way she just talked to you. Like you were this, this exotic pet. It just felt disgusting.” She takes a breath before continuing. Her hands feel the calm stroking and squeezing from him. She refuses to look him in the eyes. “I just… I just couldn’t stand her debasing you like that and for you to just accept it.”
The truth felt more vulnerable as a confession. A terribly, exposing suggestion and Ingrid feels very afraid. She’s protective of Claude. Past their bickering and bantering, she cares for him. Very much so. So much that, she’s willing to defend him. She knows Claude, with his tendency to scheme. He looks into people and uses them as leverage.
What will he do with this?
“Thank you,” he says softly. “It… it means a lot for me for you to say that.”
Her legs are shaking.
“Does this… does this happen often?”
She doesn’t know what she meant by the word, this. But she keeps it open for Claude’s interpretation.
“I honestly don’t know.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t aware of it all.”
“You seemed flattered by her flirting.”
He shrugs again. It takes Ingrid a while to realize that he is embarrassed. He was embarrassed, that for all of what he did, Claude was still a man susceptible to flattery. No. Not just susceptible, but weak. He wanted some form of approval, admiration, or attraction from another.
Was it for his vanity?
“How did it make you feel?” she asks. This time, she looks at him. His face down, studying the paved road beneath them. Her hands squeeze his. “When she complimented you, even in a way that wasn’t actually right.”
There is no answer, but Ingrid, for once, chooses to be patient.
“Not good,” he admits. “Like I was nothing but a piece of meat. But…”
She inhales a soundless breath. “But?”
“But… I didn’t mind.”
“Claude,” she says gently. “You need to have more self-respect than that.”
She always knew there was more to Claude than how he carried himself. He worked harder than anyone she knew. He was honest with the ideals and dreams he carried. He had integrity. He had faith in whatever Gods there were to believe that right was right and wrong was wrong. He had charisma.
But he always refused to let people see that.
Ingrid never imagined this side of Claude: shy, guilty, and ashamed. He was scared.
“Is there a reason why?”
He shrugs. The last resort for deflection. To soften the blow of how he actually feels.
“I don’t…. I don’t get complimented often.”
“What do you mean?” She wants to know, to listen, but she’s also scared of the answer. Because she understands that she never helped. All her scolding and insults, her claim that he’s not a fit leader. She leans closer against him, hoping that it’s enough as an apology, as to the truth of how she actually feels.
I’m here. I’m here for you. And I want to help. So please, tell me. Talk to me.
“If the best thing people have to say about me is that I’m shrewd, that I’m too clever to be trusted, well… It’s nothing.” But she looks into her eyes, and it must have been enough to convince him to continue. He takes a deep breath. “It’s just that, that I never really- well, I’m just not used to being liked.”
He laughs at himself, as if that would make it more acceptable, as if to claim, I know. I’m being stupid, aren’t I? I know I’m being stupid, so you don’t have to think so. He laughs at himself, believing that she would do the same.
I’m not loveable.
Her heart breaks. She sits with the implication, with the knowledge of what he truly is saying.
“Anyways, I appreciate it,” Claude says. And just like that, his walls are up again. His smile, the fake one, is rising and pushes her out. “But eh, people are always like that! Who cares about what they have to say?”
No, she screams. Don’t do this to me.
“Claude,” she says gently. “Look at me.”
But there was no need. Her hands trace up to cup his face and caress his cheeks. And she soaks in the moment. His eyes, so green, so pretty. She is enamored by them. Past the hurt, she sees Claude.
Ingrid rests her forehead against his.
She wants to protect him.
She wants to cherish him.
“I care,” she says. “I care. About your dream. About your goals. About you. If everybody in the world chooses to hate you, then I’ll care in their place.” This is what it meant when she chose to transfer, right? Past her claim that she’s only here to learn from the professor, she knew what she was truly getting into. She’s here to become a knight. She’s here to champion a cause. She’s here to commit to Claude.
“As the knight of the Golden Deer, I will defend your dream. As your knight, I will defend you.”
His eyes are misty, and she dares even to think that she can make him cry. He embraces her, and the beating of her chest is loud, so fast and hard, that she imagines it bruising her own chest.
“You’ll become my knight?”
“I promise.”
“Then I hope to be worthy of your honor and service.”
“That’s the thing,” Ingrid says, burying herself into his embrace. “You already are.”