Work Text:
The first time around, before the ceremony in the Holy Tomb, there was a wretched interval in which he had lost both of his pillars of support.
Tensions were high, the once stagnant air turned expectant, and he had all the weight to carry with nothing to lean onto. The commander had to appear as a strong, unmovable figure.
If the commander wavers, so will their soldiers. He could not show weakness, not to his Lions that trusted him so.
Even then, some of the students and staff approached with regards to his wellbeing. Mercedes at the market while they were shopping, Dedue in the greenhouse, Alois at the knight’s hall, Flayn and Seteth at the chapel. All saying a variation of the same thing: his smile was off, forced.
Pretty humbling all things considered, he thought he was doing quite well actually.
Which brings him to his current position cross-legged on his bed with a particularly well-polished silver shield.
⭒⭒⭒⭒⭒⭒— — — ✧ — — — ⭒⭒⭒⭒⭒⭒
He couldn't stand to look at his reflection lately.
Perhaps that's why I didn't notice something lacking in my expression.
His now green hair was getting rather long.
I need a haircut.
His lips tightened a fraction. His father was one of the very few he trusted to hold sharp items so close to his neck.
With a huff he discarded the notion. His hair still got all over the place though. It was a hazard, he had to do something about it.
Getting up, he kneeled by his bed to reach under for the sewing supplies he'd acquired with Mercedes. They had gotten a small array of ribbons at her insistence.
“We have to stock up before our graduation, the market will be full the days leading up to it.”
Maybe he could tie his hair away from his eyes.
A couple of spools caught his attention, pink and white. An echo in his mind.
He picks them up and feels his limbs lighten a fraction. Glancing at the shield on the bed, he stands to grab a hairbrush from its drawer and returns to settle on the rumpled mass of his quilt.
He first starts brushing the tangles out his hair.
It was a mess even after a good washing... Should have done something about it before taking Mizar out for a flight.
Setting the brush down, he propped the shield up on a pillow and stared at his hair's reflection. Between pinched fingers, he rolled a few strands together, then got to dividing both clumps of hair into thirds.
Humming a melody familiar, he could practically see Sothis in his mind's eye, all pointy ear and braided mess of hair.
He didn't even notice how his eyes had glazed over, instead he blinked the blurriness away and corrected his sloppy handiwork.
Gotta keep my wits with me.
Swallowing, he pulled the spools into his lap, took hold of both ends of ribbon and lifted his hands. He didn't dare look away from the reflection. Instead let practiced motions born from muscle memory take over.
His green locks appeared blond to him, instead of his face he could see the back of his father's head. He could practically smell the smoke from that day's campfire, the flames wild in their dance. Raucous laughter of their mercenaries teasing each other over burnt meat. His father's deep rumbling voice, “You'll make people think we're calling for help with that smoke signal you've got going there”.
His father turning around to ruffle his hair and roughly pat the ground beside him. “Come on kid, unlike Cedric over there, Syfyn actually managed to make some edible rabbit stew.”
His father's lips gently curved up at the corners, eyes crinkled. Warm.
Smoke blowing their way, in their eyes, down the throat. Shrike finishes the second braid and tastes the acrid bitterness on his tongue. Phantom ash making his eyes water.
Clenching and releasing his fists, he picks up the dagger from his bed to cut the ribbons a few inches away from the ends of his hair. Tying the braid at the tip, he leaves the ribbons long.
He doesn't remember finishing the first one.
Taking a moment to rub his hands over his face, he admires the finished look on the shield.
The ends of the ribbon were cut somewhat (very) uneven, but it could be fixed. Otherwise... he thinks he feels slightly better. More centered perhaps. His skin didn't feel as tight over his flesh anymore.
A flicker of green and purple.
He recalls the words of concerned friends, and tries for a smile.
A bit different this time, perhaps he needed some playfulness, a teasing factor. He knew (his ribs feel too small at the word) someone who fit the bill perfectly.
A curve of the lips, so similar to the cats on monastery grounds. The expression on one particular dog that he would constantly tease her over their similarities. Mischief and affection both.
A curve of the lips, slant of the eyebrows, eyes crescents and radiating mirth.
The smile of a friend lost.
Natural and familiar. Like smoke around a campfire.
He feels a lightness in his lungs, emotion bubbling. First a small huff that evolves into disjointed chuckles and finally, loud laughter.
Looks just like Sothis, he thinks between wet giggles.
When he settles down enough to look back at his reflection, he catches the corner of his lips gently tilting up. Oh so similar to the smile backlit by the flame’s light of his memories.
The warmth returns and there's no storm to blow smoke in the face of the peace he feels.
Swinging his legs off the bed he pulls on his boots, adjusts his breeches, smoothes his hands over his doublet. Standing firm, he takes their halberd from the wall and secures it to his back.
A deep breath.
Shrike turns towards his bedroom door and opens it. Stepping into the afternoon glow.