[ Unless it involved running away from something, Hilda hated running. Ironically enough, that's all she felt she's done since arriving in Abraxas. Not in the literal sense (although there had been plenty of it in the literal sense) but metaphorically. Upon arrival it had become wildly clear to her that everyone she knew from home had had a head start: in understanding Abraxas, in building new lives, relationships, feelings.
She hated running so much that she'd resolved never to run for anything, for anyone. Running was for people who had places to go, things to achieve. She had neither. So why not meander instead and enjoy the world as she passed through it? Armed with no responsibilities and silly superficial dreams she could do as she liked. Planning for the long term has never been her forte. Why start now? But fear gripped her. Squeezed her so tight that she hadn't realized she had been in the throes of it until those claws dug into her flesh. The thought of disappointing people has always had a chokehold on her. She didn't think another fear could take its place - but something had. Had it been a byproduct of the war, festering and biding its time until she had arrived here and seen the way her friends had forged something she felt like an outsider to? Or was new fear a consequence to the growing pains she had been artfully dodging for so long? Twenty-six with no big goals, no big dreams. It left a hole, a gnawing wound for loneliness to grow. Hilda had thought she had been content with being as beautiful but unremarkable as a pretty bouquet. Instead she realized that the thought terrified her. She didn't want to decay. She didn't want to be left behind on a shelf, slowly wilting and decaying until she was tossed out.
It tore her in two, this newfound desire to run towards something, someone, that she wanted while staying true to what she knew. What would happen if she ran and nothing came of it? What if she was left worse than how she felt for months - a pretty shell hollowed from the inside out? Paralyzed by these polarizing fears, she had stubbornly dug her feet into the ground repeating to herself what she had for all these years: she didn't run for anything. For anyone. But for them, her heart had.
A part of her thought her heart foolish for that for a multitude of reasons: she's a coward, all her sweetness had rotted her to her core and once they saw that they'd turn her away. But in spite of that she still kept running. A consolation prize is all she could hope for, she thinks. Even if she caught up she'd always be two steps behind them because that's where she belonged. She had no destination. Where they'd go she would follow – so long as they let her. So long as time allowed. In many ways it was similar to how Sylvain felt but he had potential that burned brighter than he wanted to admit one that outshone his Crest, his family name. It could burn as bright as Claude if he let it. She never planned, but she had always known that her presence by Claude was finite. She knew her time with Sylvain was too for different reasons.
With no guarantee she had run until her lungs burned and her knees had given out. All of this could be in vain. Had she run just so she could stand still again? But in spite of that, because of that finite time they have, her heart still urged her on. Maybe it's the both of them, baring their hearts out in a way that she had never thought possible that finally brings her to a slow, jagged breath. Their words settle against her skin like the faint touch of Claude’s hand against her back and Sylvain's lips against her hair. When she finally stops, when it feels like her heart is about to give out, a realization crashes over her: she hadn't run for nothing. They were still here. In spite of all her wretchedness, of her attempts at self-sabotage, they hadn't left.
Her gaze lifts inch by inch before turning slowly to look back at Claude with tear-stained cheeks and a stuttering chest. Remorse for what she said even if it had been true fills her gaze as she shifts so that she's now sideways in his lap. A hand reaches to cup his face with the same reverent quality from times before. ]
You both make it sound so easy. You always have. [ Her voice is quiet and watery. ] It's more confidence that anyone should ever give me because... [ The implication that she'd only disappoint them hangs in the air like a blade waiting to swing. It doesn't matter whether it was a silly chore, caring for a heart, defending a bridge, she could always be counted on to disappoint. ] I don't think I'm capable of living up to it.
[ Claude had already said that he thought they were enough. But believing that didn't happen overnight and denying it would only serve to send her into an endless loop of tears and self-loathing. There's a beat where the only sound is of her sniffling and the crackle of fire, the silence possibly filling in everything caustic she has to work to swallow. The feeling of Claude's skin under her thumb is soothing, effective in keeping her grounded instead of floating away down a despondent rabbit hole. ]
But maybe, this time, I want to believe that I can. [ Her gaze turns towards Sylvain, hand reaching to cup his face as tenderly as she does Claude's. ] That we can. I want that. I want us.
[ Tears prick at the corner of her eyes again, a stray one escaping. There's more that has to be said before she can think of agreeing to walk together on this uncertain path because she'd never be able to forgive herself if she didn't. The remorse bubbles over. ]
I'm sorry for hurting you both. I know it isn't much because I say a lot of things I don't mean. But I mean this. I know that you both may never forgive me and neither of you have to because I wouldn't either. But I'll do whatever I need to make it up to you both. You mean so much to me.
[ More than she can eloquently put into words. More than any jewels she could horde, more than any silk she'd covet. More than her heart can bear. ]
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She hated running so much that she'd resolved never to run for anything, for anyone. Running was for people who had places to go, things to achieve. She had neither. So why not meander instead and enjoy the world as she passed through it? Armed with no responsibilities and silly superficial dreams she could do as she liked. Planning for the long term has never been her forte. Why start now? But fear gripped her. Squeezed her so tight that she hadn't realized she had been in the throes of it until those claws dug into her flesh. The thought of disappointing people has always had a chokehold on her. She didn't think another fear could take its place - but something had. Had it been a byproduct of the war, festering and biding its time until she had arrived here and seen the way her friends had forged something she felt like an outsider to? Or was new fear a consequence to the growing pains she had been artfully dodging for so long? Twenty-six with no big goals, no big dreams. It left a hole, a gnawing wound for loneliness to grow. Hilda had thought she had been content with being as beautiful but unremarkable as a pretty bouquet. Instead she realized that the thought terrified her. She didn't want to decay. She didn't want to be left behind on a shelf, slowly wilting and decaying until she was tossed out.
It tore her in two, this newfound desire to run towards something, someone, that she wanted while staying true to what she knew. What would happen if she ran and nothing came of it? What if she was left worse than how she felt for months - a pretty shell hollowed from the inside out? Paralyzed by these polarizing fears, she had stubbornly dug her feet into the ground repeating to herself what she had for all these years: she didn't run for anything. For anyone. But for them, her heart had.
A part of her thought her heart foolish for that for a multitude of reasons: she's a coward, all her sweetness had rotted her to her core and once they saw that they'd turn her away. But in spite of that she still kept running. A consolation prize is all she could hope for, she thinks. Even if she caught up she'd always be two steps behind them because that's where she belonged. She had no destination. Where they'd go she would follow – so long as they let her. So long as time allowed. In many ways it was similar to how Sylvain felt but he had potential that burned brighter than he wanted to admit one that outshone his Crest, his family name. It could burn as bright as Claude if he let it. She never planned, but she had always known that her presence by Claude was finite. She knew her time with Sylvain was too for different reasons.
With no guarantee she had run until her lungs burned and her knees had given out. All of this could be in vain. Had she run just so she could stand still again? But in spite of that, because of that finite time they have, her heart still urged her on. Maybe it's the both of them, baring their hearts out in a way that she had never thought possible that finally brings her to a slow, jagged breath. Their words settle against her skin like the faint touch of Claude’s hand against her back and Sylvain's lips against her hair. When she finally stops, when it feels like her heart is about to give out, a realization crashes over her: she hadn't run for nothing. They were still here. In spite of all her wretchedness, of her attempts at self-sabotage, they hadn't left.
Her gaze lifts inch by inch before turning slowly to look back at Claude with tear-stained cheeks and a stuttering chest. Remorse for what she said even if it had been true fills her gaze as she shifts so that she's now sideways in his lap. A hand reaches to cup his face with the same reverent quality from times before. ]
You both make it sound so easy. You always have. [ Her voice is quiet and watery. ] It's more confidence that anyone should ever give me because... [ The implication that she'd only disappoint them hangs in the air like a blade waiting to swing. It doesn't matter whether it was a silly chore, caring for a heart, defending a bridge, she could always be counted on to disappoint. ] I don't think I'm capable of living up to it.
[ Claude had already said that he thought they were enough. But believing that didn't happen overnight and denying it would only serve to send her into an endless loop of tears and self-loathing. There's a beat where the only sound is of her sniffling and the crackle of fire, the silence possibly filling in everything caustic she has to work to swallow. The feeling of Claude's skin under her thumb is soothing, effective in keeping her grounded instead of floating away down a despondent rabbit hole. ]
But maybe, this time, I want to believe that I can. [ Her gaze turns towards Sylvain, hand reaching to cup his face as tenderly as she does Claude's. ] That we can. I want that. I want us.
[ Tears prick at the corner of her eyes again, a stray one escaping. There's more that has to be said before she can think of agreeing to walk together on this uncertain path because she'd never be able to forgive herself if she didn't. The remorse bubbles over. ]
I'm sorry for hurting you both. I know it isn't much because I say a lot of things I don't mean. But I mean this. I know that you both may never forgive me and neither of you have to because I wouldn't either. But I'll do whatever I need to make it up to you both. You mean so much to me.
[ More than she can eloquently put into words. More than any jewels she could horde, more than any silk she'd covet. More than her heart can bear. ]