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The first spell Annette successfully casts is Wind . It takes her numerous times to understand how to accurately draw the rune, how to pull properly from the earth, and how to execute the correct gesture with her palms.
Each attempt saps from her energy, eats at her stamina, and makes her dizzy from exertion. It is not until she casts the spell decently, does a rush of wind push from her fingertips, so solid and abrupt, that it knocks her off of her feet.
Once she is able to successfully cast the spell, she does so over and over until she is no longer able to stand. She casts the spell again on her knees, as her hands shake and sweat drips from her brow. Her teeth are still clenched as she pushes the last of her vigor into the spell, causing her to collapse into the dirt as black dots sparkle into her vision.
She never uses the spell to kill anyone.
She learns Cutting Gale next.
It is a much more complex rune to draw. She studies her reference notes and sorcery textbooks on how to properly complete the summoning. Each entry focuses on different applications of the spell, how to be precise in the spell's trajectory, and how to target its blast for the most lethal damage. Annette fixates her efforts on more modern drawings of the rune, with stronger lines, and distinct connecting arcs. The ancient hieroglyphs are penned neatly on the page that glows under Annette’s ink stained fingertips, confirming that the rune is drawn correctly.
When she is finally able to cast the spell, the fearsome malachite whip bursts from her palms, cracking the training dummy in half. Her eyes widen as she is stunned by the raw strength of such an intermediate spell.
She stares at her tender palms, amazed by the marvel of the arcane.
Annette is tedious with her spellwork. She practices Cutting Gale again and again until her chest is heaving, and all the training dummies are destroyed. She casts the spell at numerous different distances, with various levels of intensity. She trains on moving objects, too afraid to practice with her peers, to try to perfect her accuracy.
Her professors caution her from training in combat with her spellwork. They explain that it is much too dangerous to attempt to control close combat offensive magic.
It is easy to parry against a lance, if you understand how to defend yourself from its brute strength. But, a powerful blast of thunder? All you can hope to do is dodge the crack of lighting, before it can shock your system.
This problem becomes even more apparent the more advanced the spells the spellcaster becomes familiar with.
Annette uses Cutting Gale to save her classmates, to save herself. She tries to not memorize the sound of the cracking whip against bruised flesh.
She learns Sagittae next.
She spends most of her time studying the etymology of the spell. Where the rune comes from, the different applications, the various different formulas, and the primary accounts from the first spellcasters who developed Sagittae in the first place.
The word Sagittae comes from an ancient language which means Arrows. The notes from the textbook caution that the enchantment can have significant repercussions from overuse, and that it is a spell very difficult to control.
Of course, Annette ignores these warnings when casually trying to mimic the gesture of spell in the confines of her dorm room.
Suddenly, a burst of light blinds Annette as she accidentally casts the spell for the first time. A rush of arrows encased by powerful winds detonates from her fingers, the blowback harshly shoving her into the wooden frame of her bed. The impact shatters all the windows in a moment, ink pots erupting, study reference pages flying, the wood from her desk sharply snapping in half.
It is the most powerful spell she has ever attempted to cast, and it easily destroys her bedroom in a mere moment.
Annette is heaving deep breaths as she takes in the aftermath of the destruction. She peers at her arms, covered in small cuts, her bedroom thoroughly wrecked and all because of a spell she, foolishly, accidentally cast.
Mercedes eventually bursts into her bedroom with a worried cry and attempts to gather the injured mage in her warm embrace. All Annette can do is shake, as she tries to imagine the kind of damage a spell like that could do to a person. With discipline, with training, and better accuracy; the raw power of a blast like that would be lethal at close range. She has seen what magic does to the human body, how it breaks armor, how it can wipe out entire battalions, how it can melt skin.
She hopes she will never have to use that against anyone who does not deserve it.
She is wrong, of course, because who deserves such a gruesome death?
When the war inevitably begins, she refuses to learn the final wind spell: Excalibur .
At this point in her studies, she has already passed her Gremory class certification and she feels there is no need to use the deadly rune.
She is quite accomplished in battle, with more than a few under her belt, both as a sorceress and a fighter. She is competent in both the Axe and Bow, for close and long range combat respectively. She may not be the best in combat compared to her peers, but where she lacks in combat she makes up easily as the most impressive mage in the Blue Lions class. Annette tries not to be pompous about her success, but it is clear that her efforts have made her into a brillant sorceress.
However, it will soon become clear that she is not the accomplished witch she believes she is.
It is not until the 30th of the Great Tree Moon, that day where the three-way battle between the Empire, Kingdom, and Alliance takes place on Grounder Field, that she has a change of heart.
It is the moment she sees Lysithea Von Ordelia, the talented mage from the Golden Deer class, cast Hades Ω , that Annette’s breath is caught in her throat. The hex is instantly recognizable as the most powerful dark magic spell to ever have been cast. Annette is not exaggerating in saying that the spell is not only extremely difficult to learn, but only a chosen few mages ever have the affinity to cast it.
The thick black smoke emits from the sky, the terrifyingly massive violet explosion, is nothing like Annette has ever seen. It is the most lethal spell she has ever seen cast up close. It embodies death, destruction, and calamity.
When the rune is cast against the crown prince, Dimitri Blaiddyd, the ground shakes, causing everyone around to watch as Lysithea, the dark mage, gestures the deathly hex with a precision like no other.
The Prince is one of the strongest, most capable fighters Annette has ever seen. In their time apart, he had become more reckless, savage in his combat. He is menacing, brutal, and unforgiving in the way he wields his lance. However, as Annette watches and the moment stretches slowly, it becomes clear that Dimitri can do nothing but take the blast head on.
The sound of the impact is all encompassing, booming, as it is heard throughout the entire field, and everyone: the soldiers, her classmates, her enemies, have all turned to watch. In both horror and awe, the piercing strike of darkness hits the prince where he stands.
Time refuses to stop, as the thickened smoke begins to fade. Annette’s heart squeezes in her ribcage, as terror fills her senses.
A lone blonde figure is visible in the distance, the earth around him has been blackened, and he appears severely hurt. The prince is crouched, but not yet on his knees, as he roars forward with Areadbhar clenched in his fist.
Behind her, she hears Mercedes quickly casts Physic , a far range healing spell to help Dimitri against another attack. However, as if the attack did little to deter him, the prince charges towards Lysithea at full speed.
It is clear the prince goes for the kill, with no qualms at her size or the fact she was one of his previous classmates. His stance is one of a rabid animal, and his scream is almost louder than hers when he strikes.
When Lyisthea falls, the deep gash across her chest bleeds, she barely lets out a sound. Those closer to her, who notice the light behind her eyes fading, cry out in agony. As her blood seeps into the soil, the red river pools around the fallen mage soaking her clothes and ashen hair.
Annette's heart burns, it breaks, it collapses. Lyisthea was her friend.
And what if she had killed your King , a snide voice echoes in Annette’s mind, what would you do then?
The present does not wait for her to dwell in her muddled thoughts. Annette casts rune after rune, even if her heart bleeds. She survives.
She feels she does not deserve it.
The moon is high in the sky, when Annette stumbles into Healer’s tent. Her body aches, her hands tremble, as her energy has been depleted from battle. The throbbing migraine beats a drum inside her ears, and she attempts to rub her temples to ease the pain.
She had come to assist Mercedes, her dearest friend, to tend to the wounded.
Gounder Field was a bloodbath. She had witnessed friends die, countless soldiers fall, entire battalions completely decimated. The odor of blood is thick in the air, and Annette knows the night in the Healer’s tent will be a long one.
Once she walks over to Mercedes, she brushes her palm along with the healer's shoulder to alert her of Annette’s presence. Annette swipes a concoction from the healers cabinet, and downs the bitter substance in one gulp. The thick potion slides down her throat, alleviating her migraine and providing a small boost of energy. It usually is not recommended to use potions to assist with exhaustion, but at least she could now stand to heal the remaining patients for a little while longer.
Annette moves to a female Brigand, who is groaning pain at the gash in her abdomen. Annette rummages in the healer’s cabinet to find some clear alcohol to disinfect her bare hands. Once finished, she grabs extra gauze and turns back to her patient.
“Hey, I’m Annette.” Annette cracks a smile at the soldier, and touches her forehead to check for a temperature. “I am going to stitch you right up. Stay with me, alright?”
The brigand grunts in response, eyes clenched in pain as she tries to relax into the pillows of the cot. Annette cleans the wound the best she can, and casts Heal. The flow of faith magic emits from her fingers, and she watches as the wound slowly stitches itself back together. The wound is pretty deep, so it will likely take a couple of sessions to completely heal the wound, but Annette focuses her efforts reversing any internal bleeding.
Once Annette is sure the worst of the damage is healed, she pulls the energy back, wiping the beading sweat from her brow. Normally healing such a wound would not exhaust her to such an extent. However, the reservoir of magic that she normally pulls from is completely empty, and her spells are being fueled by the artificial energy provided by the concoction. She tries her best to ignore her tiredness, and move back to check on Mercedes.
Annette glances back to where the cleric is standing. As Annette gets closer to Mercedes, she can tell her friend is exhausted. Mercedes heavily leans on the frame of the cot to keep herself from collapsing. Annette now stands beside her, grasping a hand around Mercede’s elbow to get a better look at her face.
Annette leads her friend to the nearest open bed and forces a concoction into Mercedes shaking hands. Annette leans over to open the covers, and keeps one hand on the blonde’s shoulder to push her into the pillows.
Mercedes appears weary, her short golden bangs are plastered onto her forehead drenched in sweat. Her normal bright sky blue eyes are now faded, dull, and the priest does not even seem to have the energy to argue. Annette’s best friend is gorgeous, with sparkling crystal eyes, a full face, and perfect pouty pink lips. But, in her tired state, Mercedes’s cheeks are sallow, jaunt, her undereyes are a deep purple, and her skin is ghost white. Her clothes are wrinkled, blood that does not appear to be hers have stained her sleeves.
“Don’t overextend yourself, Mercie,” Annette cracks a smile at her friend, brushing a chaste kiss into Mercede’s temple. “I got this.”
Annette wishes she could do more to make her friend comfortable. She makes a note to call Sylvain or Felix to help carry Mercedes to her respective chambers. Annette cannot help but want to fuss over the priest’s injuries, trying to soothe her obvious exhaustion.
Just the sight of her dearest friend— no, Mercie is her sister— so battered and used up, brings an unexplainable tightness in Annette’s chest. Anguish blooms behind her eyelids, stinging at her tear ducts.
In an attempt to distract herself, Annette unlaces Mercedes’ muddy boots, removes her excess jewelry, and slips off the veil and cap from her hair.
Annette half expects Mercedes to refute her worry, however as soon as Annette tucks the blanket under her chin— Mercedes’ lids slip shut.
Before turning away, Annette’s motherly instinct calls her to press the back of her hand to the blonde’s cheek. The skin is damp, cool, and still too pale to ignore.
Annette hesitates.
“Go.” Mercedes’ voice is croaked, broken— but somehow it is enough to reassure Annette.
So, she turns her attention back to the wounded.
She casts Heal over and over again, changing bandages, and applying numbing salves. Her palms are now overly tender, from the overuse of casting. She feels the migraine from earlier creeping back into her head, thumping and thumping.
After the fifth or sixth healing spell, black lace begins to cloud the edges of her vision. She feels dizzy from the exertion.
Before she can collapse in a heap of shaking limbs, Felix, the amber-eyed swordsman, appears in front of her like a flash of lighting. He wraps a secure arm around her waist to keep her from falling. He locks his body against hers, to keep her secured.
Oh , her mind calls, it’s Felix.
Annette’s cheek falls against his chest, free from armor, and like a reflex she nuzzles against his clothed skin. His closeness eases the tremors wracking her body, like a blanket keeping her from shivering in the frigid winter. He uses his body to stand between her and the patients around them, caging her away from the others in the room.
Even with an audience, the world fades away and she melts onto his limbs. The stress in her shoulders, the pain in her palms, and the utter exhaustion from today’s battle seeps into Felix’s form. A cover of calm settles over her, she is safe, and it can only be described as home.
She will never get used to this, the feeling of tranquility that wells inside her, the way the strength of his arms fiercely brackets her, the way she is no longer afraid of having nowhere to land when she falls.
Annette’s thoughts are too muddled to focus on anything other than him.
The warmth of his embrace spreads across her spine, up her shoulders, even through the layers of clothes between them. She is sure he can hear the pitter patter of her skipping heart.
The fortitude of his heartbeat is reassuring, the pumping of his warm blood, the pulse that thrums throughout his limbs, it is a reminder that he is still breathing. It is something she is forever grateful for, at the end of every battle, at the crack of every sunrise, at the descent of every sunset— that his heart is still beating, and he is alive.
Even now, when her bones are too loose and her body is so utterly empty— it is the only thought left in her mind.
Before Annette can stop herself, her fingers reach to brush his face. Leaning further into his shoulder, she watches his eyes widen as her fingers caress the angry wrinkle between his eyes. Her thumb moves across the arch of his brow, smoothing out the lines of irritation, ignorant to the audience around them.
She beams at him, smile dopey and eyes fluttery, with her image of him blurring like a picture being drowned out by water. She thinks he is calling her, saying her name, but she isn’t sure. The sound is too far away, and she is too weary to try to focus on it.
Annette is so unbearably tired. A mixture of the deliriousness from her exhaustion and his proximity makes the world fall away.
Darkness overtakes her, and she falls helplessly into oblivion.
She wonders, darkly, before she is completely submerged, if this is how Lysithea felt, falling, slipping, drowning to her imminent death.
When Annette wakes, she watches the sunrise between the curtains of Felix’s dorm room window.
They are in his room; his impersonally empty, too tidy to ever feel comfortable, bedroom. It is so characteristic of him, the way his room is too sterile, with little belongings, very minimal clothing, nothing but the stash of polished steel, a silver sword, and Aegis— The sole shield belonging to the crest bearer of Fraldarius.
Annette lays on the chest of her beloved, her cheek pressed against his bare skin. He is resting, his breath still even and deep, with dark lashes flush against his cheekbones, and the normal crinkle between his eyes smoothed out in relaxation.
She is used to waking before him, studying his features in a way she can never do with an audience. Even when it is just the two of them, his gaze is often too heavy and intense for her to unabashedly take notes of his attractive features.
So when he sleeps, she takes the opportunity to marvel, to watch. She has studied the way he wakes in stages: first, he stirs. His heartbeat picks up from its steady thumping. Second, his breathing changes. She can tell by how his lungs expand and concave. Third, the moment before his eyes flutter open, he takes a deep breath and tightens his hold around her.
The squeeze will be almost too tight, like how a babe clings to their mother’s breast. He will bind his arms around her waist without waking, and clench the hold his legs have on hers. He will instinctively pull her closer, like he is trying to mesh them into one another. The action never fails to steal the breath in her lungs, and wish for the moment to bleed into forever.
Of course, time continues no matter how much she hopes for it to still.
When he wakes, he releases his grip just a bit. It is enough for air to rush back into her lungs.
“Sorry,” He mumbles.
“It’s fine, love,” she says with her chin propped against his bare chest. “You just tend to underestimate your strength when you sleep.”
When Felix looks down at her, he is still blinking the sleep away, and his irises reflect bronze with specks of gold. His skin is marred with the wrinkles of their sheets, and there is growth of sparse dark hair decorating the line of his jaw. Up close she can even see how his nose is a bit crooked, like it has been broken way too many times, how his lips are cracked, and how the scent of his skin is overwhelming.
Annette shudders.
As he returns her tender gaze, she notices his expression darken. “Do you want to talk about yesterday?”
Confusion fills her features, “Talk about what? Is this about me helping out in the infirmary?”
“Well, no— actually we should address your tendency to ignore your exhaustion to heal others, when faith isn’t even your strength, and there is no reason you need to push yourself until you pass out—“ The glare he sends her is sharp, “but, no I am talking about Grounder Field.”
The darkness she feels from battle creeps back into her chest, and she can feel how it sits heavy in her chest.
She thinks of Lysithea.
and how her little body crumbled, how frail the cry made when she fell, how thick the violet smoke of Hades Ω stung her eyes, how the pungent the smell of iron was, how the earth had been blackened, how easy the red river pooled from her lips, how her bleeding gash seeped into the dirt—-
“Annie?”
Felix’s voice brings her back to the present, even if the events of the past remain fresh behind her eyelids. She forces her eyes open, clutching her arms around his, and counting the deep breaths.
One, in, two, out, three, in, four, out.
“Hey?” His voice is quiet now, like he is knocking on her psyche checking in to see if she is still present. He clasps her chin gently, pushing their eye lines together. His persimmon eyes are always her favorite, but the clear concern they show makes her ache.
Annette feels like she is breaking, pieces of her that are dripping beneath the cracks, slumping, sliding, falling.
Felix’s thumb brushes against the curve of her jaw, and somehow the touch is enough.
If she is the rainwater that descends, then he is the rain catcher. He collects the droplets of her that shower from the storm. His touches root her, bring her back to where she is supposed to be.
She looks up to him, and tries again.
While her words are failing her, she manages a broken sound, “Lysithea.”
Felix's face dawns in recognition, and his expression darkens. Angry chaotic storms cloud his gaze, as he peers down at her.
“Was she your friend?” He asks, tentative.
“I…” Annette leans away from his embrace, withdrawing her arms from his. She twists her palms towards her, and stares at the scarred flesh. “You know, Lysithea is the most capable mage I have ever met.”
He waits for her to continue.
“S-she was brilliant, confident in her skills, always getting on me for being insecure—a-and always willing to help, to share whatever she knows.” The words are breathless, as they rush out. “And that spell, Felix, that spell was insane. The magnitude, the power, the enormity of it—I have never witnessed such dark energy from a Reason spell. A-and there are so few magic users that even have an affinity to learn, let alone cast it perfectly and I just— I just— She’s dead. She’s dead, Felix. She tried to kill Dimitri, and he killed her and I just feel—“ The words halt, with how her jaw shakes, and how her tongue thickens, and her lashes blur with tears.
Even with the cloudy vision, she gawks at the burned flesh of her hands. The way the skin is raised, calloused, and bumpy. The way she casts the same spells that continue to burn her skin, over and over again, just to continue to slaughter.
Her first love was Reason, the first thing that gave her purpose.
But, now? Her hands are weapons, and she will have to kill her friends, and she will have to follow a king who pillages but does not protect.
Annette visualizes how Lysithea’s corpse will never be buried, how her soul will aimlessly wander, never finding its way back to her family's land. How her body is forgotten to rot, to mold, and to never be allowed to rest beside her loved ones.
What a merciful and forgiving war they are fighting.
Annette thinks of Lysithea’s parents— the ginger knows that they have no other kin. That Lysithea was their last surviving child, their hope, their remaining legacy.
Annette wonders if Lysithea’s father will know how capable their daughter was. How brilliant and spectacular. How intuitive and sharp and empathetic and kind. How she was able to tell Annette was hurting from the way she closed her textbook, fingers pressed against aged leather. How transparent Lysithea made her feel in her presence, how easy it was for Lysithea to know that the fatherless mage was a self-deprecating cynic wrapped in faux cheeriness and a studious demeanor.
Annette considers if they knew that Lysithea almost killed the prince of Faehrgus— and that her tiny palms had the potential to topple kingdoms.
What if she had killed your King , the same sinister voice snaps from inside her, what would you do then?
It matters not, doesn’t it? For they are the victors and they have succeeded.
As her mind unravels, Annette struggles to grasp at the reins of control. She reminisces about Lysithea.
Annette envisions her porcelain skin, and her too pale lavender eyes. How her skin was too ghast and transparent, how her eyes were constantly rimmed with tiredness. If Annette closes her eyes she can still somehow smell her sugary sweet perfume, and how it was the easiest way to tell that she was coming around the corner.
Annette is familiar with the desperation that edged the white haired mage, she recognizes the feeling in the mirror every time she takes a look at the reflective glass. Annette understands Lysithea’s eagerness, her compulsion, her inability for failure, and willingness to do anything for the people she loves.
There was a time Annette assumed her passion for magic was the best thing about her. Her shining achievement, her talent that would bring her greatness.
She imagines Lysithea probably believed that too.
Annette never saw her fixation with the arcane as an outlet of destruction. She never wanted to hurt anyone who did not deserve it.
Lysithea is the greatest sorceress Annette has ever met. Probably the best that would ever live in her lifetime.
And now she was dead. Heart still, no longer beating.
The moment bleeds, and her mind continues to spin, but she is brought back to earth with another gentle graze.
Felix covers her hands with his, his large and calloused and warm. He cradles her palms, and touches their foreheads together.
He does not offer his condolences, sweet nothings, or any sort of coddling.
He just holds her, like he is keeping her broken shards together, and waits until the tremors stop.
Annette learns to cast Excalibur.
It is to save her friends, to protect their King, and to end the war.
That is, at least, what she tells herself.
She kills. Again, and again and again.
This time she remembers: every rune, every blast, every death.
The smell of burning flesh will be a constant reminder.
She is a fool no longer.