#meanwhile Lysithea: SO I AM ABOUT TO DIE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

roman-writing · 4 years

Text

two, across (8/8)

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Hilda Valentine Goneril / Lysithea von Ordelia

Rating: T

Wordcount: 14,256

Summary: Lysithea can barely keep afloat under the workload of giving undergrad lectures and finishing off her PhD thesis. Meanwhile Dr. Hilda V. Goneril is somehow both the laziest person as well as the most successful young professor she has ever known. It’s absolutely aggravating.

Author’s Note: Please be aware that one of the previous chapters has adult content, but that this chapter does not.

Read it here on AO3 or read it below the cut

According to Hilda -- whose opinion is the only one that counts in this matter, thank you very much -- they have been dating for over a year. It's very important that they've been dating this long, because Hilda has always refused to bring anyone home if she hasn't been dating them for at least a whole year. Meeting the family is no joke. Especially when it's her family.

They are big. They are loud. They are legion. And they are big. Did she already say they were big? Well, they are.

"Jesus, that man is big," Lysithea mutters under her breath.

Hilda glances around the airport terminal, and immediately spots him. It’s difficult not to. His head and shoulders stick out above the rest of the crowd waiting for loved ones to disembark.

He wears the same faded plaid and jeans combo from forever ago. Even though Hilda knows from experience that the clothing size is all XXL, he still manages to give the appearance that his broad shoulders and biceps will burst through the seams at the slightest provocation.

He sees her, and waves.

Returning the wave, Hilda sighs. She adjusts her pink-lensed sunglasses, and shoulders both her and Lysithea’s bags. “Yeah. That’s him alright.”

Hilda begins to stride through the crowd towards him. Lysithea trails along in her wake. “Wait. Seriously? That’s your brother?”

“I’m, like, ninety-nine percent sure.”

When they get close enough, Holst envelops Hilda in a hug that lifts her a good foot off the floor, crushing the air from her lungs. She grunts.

“It’s good to see you!” He places her back on the ground, but doesn’t let go of her shoulders. His brow furrows, and he gives her a once over. “Are you not eating enough? Look at you. Skin and bone.”

“Lay off, would you? You sound like Uncle Herrick.” Hilda shrugs his hands off, so she can readjust the bags before they fully slip down her arms.

“You know he and everyone else want to come over this weekend, right?”

“That better be a joke, Holst.”

“You rarely visit, and everyone wants to see the menagerie. Who am I to tell them they can’t see you?”

“I told you: no cousins! No uncles! Just you and dad!” As she lists them off, she drives a finger against one of his bulging pecs, and glowers up at him. “You two are enough to scare away potential suitors as it is.”

Holst is entirely unrepentant. “If they can’t handle me and dad, then there’s no way they could survive you.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

Throughout the entire exchange, Lysithea has been standing to the side, watching them, silent. When Holst’s head swings in her direction, she blinks owlishly.

Everything Lysithea thinks, she wears on her face. Every thought. Every passing notion. Even from a distance, Hilda can always tell what's running through her head. If a student asks a question that Lysithea thinks is dumb, her tiny shoulders will hunch up around her ears like she's trying to physically restrain herself from saying aloud what she really thinks.

Hilda likes to play a game. It is a dangerous game. One that involves saying increasingly outrageous things just to see what new expression it might elicit on Lysithea's face.

So far, she is winning.

Right now, Lysithea looks belligerent. Her lower jaw is held forward the way it does when someone tall doesn’t notice her existence, and nearly walks over her. Hilda had seen that happen once in a grocery story. The man had fled from Lysithea’s wrath like a dog with its tail between its legs, while Hilda had gleefully witnessed the whole thing from the sidelines.

Holst must notice the look in Lysithea’s eyes, too, for he holds out his hand almost warily. “You must be Dr. Ordelia. It’s nice to finally meet you. I’m Holst.”

Immediately, the tension melts from Lysithea’s shoulders. She clasps Holst’s hand, and her own is utterly dwarfed by Holst’s massive paw. “Just Lysithea, please.”

Hilda rolls her eyes, and grumbles at her brother. “Wow. Really?”

Holst pulls his hand back, and gives her an innocent look. “What?”

“Why don’t you ever call me doctor? Huh?”

“I changed your diapers.”

“Well, whoop-de-fucking-do. You change one diaper, and suddenly twelve years of academic experience means fuck all.” Hilda tosses him one of the bags. “Here. Make yourself useful, Muscles for Brains.”

Holst catches the bags as though he had been expecting them to be flung at him much earlier. He smiles, and his teeth are as annoyingly perfect as ever. He has always looked like a poster boy for dentistry aimed at young veterans with hereditary gigantism. Square-cut jaw. Brown-eyed. Sandy-blonde hair that’s somehow immaculately coiffed and artfully messy all at once. She wants to ruffle his hair just to mess it up, but she knows it will only make him look better. Curse their good genes.

He draps an arm around her shoulders, and ignores her squawk of protest to pull her into another bear hug. He kisses the side of her face. “It’s good to have you back.”

“Duh. I’m amazing. And you need to shave.” She shoves at his face to very little effect. “Your stubble is all scratchy.”

Holst lets her go. He runs an experimental hand over his jaw. “Thought I’d go for a clean lumberjack look. Is it not working?”

“Do you have dad’s straight razor at the house?” Hilda asks, waiting for his nod. “I’ll fix you up tonight, then. Now, where are you parked? I need a shower and a change of clothes.”

Jerking his head, Holst begins walking in that same direction. “This way.”

He leads them out and across the parking lot. The pickup truck that he drives gleams like it is owned by a pampered business executive and not a jock wannabe. When Holst tosses one of their bags into the cab, he says, “You two packed light.”

“I had to smuggle seven extra outfits from Hilda’s bag when she wasn’t looking,” Lysithea says, pulling at one of the door handles to open it.

“And she let you live?” Holst lets out a long appreciative whistle. “She really must love you.”

“I like to think so.” Lysithea’s tone is dry, but she flashes Hilda a small smile that warms all the way down to her toes.

For all the vehicle’s oversized cab -- with factory made sides no less, which Hilda has always told him are useless because she’s right -- it has no proper backseat. Trust Holst to buy a utility vehicle with literally no utility upsides. He could fit a whole five more sheep in the tray if he’d bought the model she recommended. What a waste.

“Smallest goes in the middle,” Holst informs Lysithea as he climbs into the driver’s seat. “Normally that’s Hilda, but today it’s you. Them’s the rules.”

Lysithea shoots Hilda an incredulous glance. “You’re the small one in the family?”

“The littlest of them all,” Holst confirms with a grin.

Hilda gives him the middle finger, which only succeeds in making his grin widen. She clambers into the vehicle after Lysithea, who is small enough that she needs a boost to get her up the first step.

“She’s also the only girl. Various aunts who married into the family don’t count,” Holst adds while he does up his seatbelt.

“This explains so much,” Lysithea says in an almost wondrous tone.

“Yeah.” Hilda slams the door behind her. “Like how it’s a miracle that I turned out so awesome when I was raised by these bozos.”

Holst doesn’t start the car until everyone’s seatbelts are in place. He checks, like an absolute dad. Only then does he turn the key in the ignition. The engine rumbles to life.

“Excuse me,” he murmurs politely to Lysithea as he reaches for the gear stick. It’s between her knees, and she has to widen her legs a bit so he can throw the truck into gear.

“How far is your family’s place from the airport?” Lysithea asks.

“Forever,” Hilda answers, already gazing out the window in glum anticipation of the long drive.

“About three hours.” Holst flicks on the radio. “Middle seat gets control of the tunes. Don’t let Hilda bully you into picking a pop station.”

“At least there’s one upside to this seat.” Lysithea reaches forward and begins fiddling with the dials. She switches from the news station that Holst prefers and which never fails to bore Hilda out of her mind.

Hilda could have kissed her. Then, remembering that she is allowed, she does just that. She leans over to press a quick smooch to the side of Lysithea’s head.

Lysithea does not stop scrolling through various radio stations. “What was that for?”

“What? Is it against the rules to shower my super cute girlfriend with affection?”

“It is when I’m in the car,” Holst grumbles. He pulls on the steering wheel to round a corner, clearly indicating for the full three seconds as legally required.

At that, Hilda taps on Lysithea’s shoulder. “C’mon. Make out with me.”

Not even bothering to look away from the radio, Lysithea pushes Hilda’s face away with one hand.

Holst chuckles. “Okay. I like you already.”

“I’m very likeable,” Lysithea fires back without a moment’s hesitation. She tunes the radio to a classical station.

Holst’s expression brightens. He does not take his eyes off the road. “Oh! Mendelssohn!”

With a great groan of complaint, Hilda leans her head against the window. “Oh my god. I’m going to die in this dumb truck before we even make it to the hills.”

Her brother and her girlfriend start chatting about classical music, which is normally enough to send Hilda directly to sleep. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars. Except that now it’s noon, and she’s already had two cups of burnt coffee on the plane. Her leg jitters with caffeine. It’s going to be a long journey home.

Fifteen minutes into the drive, Hilda is bored. She plays with the lock mechanism on her door, flicking the switch over and over in various patterns in time with the music. She makes it into a game, trying to find the best rhythm.

“I’m amazed Hilda hasn’t tried to wrest power from the Radio Throne yet.”

Lysithea smooths an absent-minded hand over Hilda’s jean-clad knee. “She can pick the next station in an hour.”

“Thank god,” Hilda mutters.

"Since you clearly have witch-like powers -" Holst begins. "No offence. I am simply stating a fact."

"None taken," Lysithea says.

"But since you clearly have witch powers, then perhaps you can convince Hilda to write to me more often."

Hilda locks and unlocks the car door a few more times. "I told you: I'm busy."

Holst lifts one hand from the wheel to mime little air quotes. "Busy. Is that what we're calling it these days?"

"Just because I take the time to look after myself doesn't mean I'm not working on a squillion things at once. It's called 'work life balance.' Look it up."

"Never heard of her," Lysithea says.

Hilda sticks out her tongue at Lysithea. "Yeah, I know you haven't, Miss Workaholic."

"That's Doctor Workaholic, I'll have you know." Lysithea turns back to Holst. "And I'll see what I can do."

"Traitor," Hilda says.

It's not that she doesn't like receiving a constant stream of letters from her brother. It's just that he always comes off as so needy. She would rather be blonde than appear needy.

Lysithea points to Holst. "Is that also Hilda's original hair colour?"

Holst nods. He runs a hand through his hair, which only makes it appear even more artfully disheveled. "It sure is. She's had it dyed different colours since the age of -- oh, I don't know -- thirteen?"

"Are there pictures?"

At that, Hilda snaps upright from her slumped position. She rounds on Holst with murder in her eyes.

He ignores her, like someone with a death wish. "So many pictures. I'll show you when we get there."

"Thank you. I'd like that," Lysithea tells him.

Hilda mouths at Holst over Lysithea's head. 'I'll kill you.'

She grunts when Lysithea elbows her lightly in the gut. "Don't be a hypocrite," Lysithea drawls. "I've heard it's very last season."

Before long, the cityscape outside gives way to sparse towns, then to nothing but trees and mountains as far as the eye can see. Which isn’t very far. A cold mist clings to the peaks, and flecks the windows as they begin to ascend. Slowly. Painfully slowly. Holst may be the proud owner of a douchebag truck, but he takes every switchback like he’s an old lady driving on the edge of a cliff. If she were the one driving, it would only take them two hours to reach the house.

Hilda isn’t allowed to drive with him in the car for a reason. But she only almost killed them on the road once! And it wasn’t her fault!

Okay, maybe four times. So what?? He’s such a big baby.

When Hilda begins to rummage through the glove compartment to find new means of entertainment, Lysithea absently reaches over to take her hand. Toying with Lysithea’s fingers provides enough distraction for exactly twelve minutes, at which point Hilda bends down to shuffle through her handbag for her phone. She unlocks the screen.

No reception. Fucking typical.

Flinging the phone back into her bag, Hilda crosses her arms with a huff. “For the love of god, please tell me you’ve installed wi-fi at the house.”

Holst pauses in his animated discussion of seventeenth century syncopation with Lysithea to say, “Sorry. You’re going to have to actually interact with family during your visit. It’ll do you good. You spend too much time on your phone as it is.”

Hilda buries her head in her hands.

She feels Lysithea pat her on the shoulder in a commiserating fashion. “Do you want to pick the radio station?”

Immediately Hilda’s head jerks up. “Yes.”

Lysithea lets her pick the music the rest of the ride into the mountains, and it’s the best because Holst can’t complain even though Hilda can see his jaw twitching in that way that means he desperately wants to go back to his boring news talk show. But middle seat picks the radio station. Them’s the rules. And if middle seat says Hilda gets to pick the radio station, then that’s set in stone, baby.

Hilda perks up when she finally spots the sign for the village of Locket, which heralds the last twenty minute stretch of drive to her family’s house. The afternoon has well and truly set in now. Hilda’s stomach growls at the sight of the local pub on the street corner. Its familiar faded sign is comforting in the way only unchanging things can be.

People wave at Holst’s truck as they trundle along the main drag. Despite the mist still dampening the cool air, Holst stops the truck and rolls down his window at one point to exchange neighborly words with Uncle Henrick’s youngest boy, who Hilda remembers best as a sulky nine year old.

“Who’s that?” Lysithea whispers for Hilda’s ears alone.

“A cousin. I’m related to basically everyone in this valley.” Hilda waves out the window as her cousin peers inside. “Hiya, Hayden!”

Hayden tips his cap back to get a better look at them. “Oh, hey, Hilda! Holst mentioned you’d be back in the area.”

“Just for the weekend,” Hilda confirms.

“That’s a shame.”

Hilda lowers her voice so that Hayden and Holst can’t hear, “It really isn’t.”

Holst pulls away from the curb, not because someone is behind him -- there aren't enough people in Locket to rustle sheep let alone the will to use a car horn. Besides, chances are that if you honked at somebody, you'd get a telling off from your mother for being shitty to a cousin later that night over dinner. That or you just get into a good honest blood feud over firewood during wintertime.

No, the reason why Holst hurries along is because the sun is starting to set on the mountains to the west, and dad can't cook for himself anymore. Holst apologises to Hayden for as much, and Hayden waves them along with the promise to talk to Uncle Herrick for them about rotating some of the cows over to another field for grazing.

Hilda hates that she knows exactly what they're talking about. Hell, her first ever degree was in large animal sciences before she realised that she never wanted to stick her arm up a cow ever again, thank you very much.

The truck trundles along through the village. The main drag of Locket is the only paved road in these parts. Holst turns left and onto dirt. For all that Hilda berates her brother for his poor taste in vehicles, at least his truck can take all terrain.

The side of her head bounces against the window, dislodging her sunglasses. "Are you trying to hit every pothole between here and the moon?”

“You know it's impractical to gravel everything apart from the driveway,” Holst counters.

Their bodies sway as he hits yet another pothole. Hilda adjusts her sunglasses on the bridge of her nose with a huff of irritation.

“I thought it was cute,” Lysithea says. “The town, I mean.”

“Village,” both Holst and Hilda say at the same time.

“It’s not a town,” Holst clarifies, when Lysithea gives them each an odd look.

Hilda nods, but only because the truck’s tyres are bobbing her up and down like a jackhammer. “Town is where the bigwigs live. Or, as we like to call them: ‘townies’.”

“Jesus Christ,” Lysithea mutters under her breath. “How many people actually live out here?”

“About .09 people every hectare. Which is to say: three hundred and seven inhabitants,” Holst answers.

Hilda’s eyebrows shoot up over the rims of her sunglasses in surprise. “Oh, shit? Who died? Was it Great Uncle Hartwig? My money was on Great Uncle Hartwig.”

“You are vulgar for taking part in that betting pool.”

“But was it him?”

“No, it was not.”

Hilda raps her knuckles against the dashboard. “Damn.”

“Yes, we are all very sad that Great Uncle Hartwig is still alive,” Holst says dryly.

The dirt road twists and turns all along the hills. They pass paddocks full of cows and mobs of sheep. The grass is so green it makes Hilda glad she'd brought her sunglasses, even though the sunlight is hidden behind the thick mist that shrouds the mountains.

Holst rounds another bend, and the dirt road gives way to gravel. They drive along for another minute before the house finally comes into view.

The house is everything that Hilda is not. Rustic, and tidy, and homey. It’s why she always frequents Claude’s bar. She likes the woodsy feel. It makes her feel at home.

Also, Claude is cute, and good company, with great taste in little underground live bands. Plus the drinks are killer.

Hilda undoes her seatbelt, and hops out of the truck before Holst even had time to shut off the engine. She offers a hand to help Lysithea down, and then reaches into the back for their bag. One of the herding dogs comes hurtling from the house towards them, and Hilda has to shoo it away.

"No, Brindle! Down! Brindle! This is Gucci!!" Hilda pushes the dog away before it can make a complete mess of her outfit, but it's too late. There's already dog fur ingrained into the fabric of her black slacks. She sighs in resignation.

Lysithea pets the dog when it snuffles around her feet, its tail wagging excitedly. She quickly retracts her hands, though.

“Oh.” Lysithea scrunches up her nose. “He’s quite filthy.”

“He’s one of our working dogs,” Hilda points out. “We don’t let him in the house. I would recommend washing your hands before eating.”

Lysithea is already wiping her hands off on her skirt. “Noted.”

Holst is the first in the house. He bellows their arrival with a single "We're home!!" while taking off his boots in the narrow hallway that acts as an atrium. While Hilda and Lysithea are taking off their own shoes, they can hear another voice from further inside the house calling back to them.

Hilda sets their bags down before walking further along. She makes sure Lysithea is following while they traverse the familiar twists and turns of the sprawling single-story farm house. Everything is wood accented. The white-painted walls and panelled floors and exposed beams. Everything is also properly sized for Hilda's family, which means that Lysithea looks like a pale doll walking through a human house. All of the shelving is higher, all the pictures hung at a level where Hilda and Holst can see but which Lysithea has to crane her neck to simply catch a glimpse of. And when they enter the living room, all of the furniture is massive.

Dad sits on his old leather armchair in front of the television. A stack of books and magazines are piles precariously at his elbow. An empty cup of tea teeters atop one the books. The television is on, but his gnarled fingers fumble with the remote for a few seconds while he figures out how to mute it without stabbing a million other buttons at the same time.

Her father struggles to his feet. He has to push himself up from the chair, painstakingly slow. Hilda bites back the urge to help him; he would’ve hated it. Watching him makes her chest tighten, as though her sternum is trying to meld with her spine.

He used to stand taller than Holst and just as broad. Her memories of him are always of a man with energy and exuberance to spare. Now he stoops. His hands shake, his fingers gnarled and worn to the bone beneath skin that’s paper-thin.

Hilda hugs him as soon as he’s on his feet. He pats her on the back, then uses a heavy hand on her shoulder to steady himself.

“You’re taller,” he says.

“You’re shorter,” she replies.

He squints at her, as though suspicious. His eyes are magnified behind the thick lenses of his glasses. Hilda dreads the day that her own eyesight deteriorates to that stage. Dior does not make prescription glasses that thick. Her amassed collection of sunglasses is already in need of a fresh trip to the optometrist as it is.

His gaze swings past her and lands on Lysithea, who stands behind Hilda. He nods at her, a jerky motion more than anything else, and says, "You must be Hilda's new beau."

Lysithea clears her throat. "Ah. Yes. Hi."

"What he means to say -" Hilda fills in for her dad, "- is 'It's so nice to meet you, Hilda's super cute and awesome girlfriend! My name is Harald! Welcome to my ancestral home, where generations of Gonerils have been born and raised!"

"Don't call me Harald," Harald grumbles.

"Dad. It's your name."

"It makes me sound old."

"You are old."

"Months without visiting, and then two minutes at home and already you slander your poor martyred father." He gestures at Lysithea and then at Hilda. "You see what I have to put up with?"

Hilda puts her hands on his wrists. "Okay. I'm going to drop you to the floor now."

"My point exactly." Rather than complain, he pats at her arms. "Help me back into my seat."

She does. It takes a while. His legs don't want to support him properly, and his back doesn't seem to want to bend.

"Where’s your cane?" Hilda asks, when she's finally got him situated back in his chair. She turns to where Holst is leaning in the kitchen doorway. “Holst, where’s his cane?”

Holst shrugs. “I saw it before I left.”

From the sidelines, Lysithea reaches behind a chair and produces a darkly polished wooden cane. “Is this it?”

Hilda takes it, and props it against the armrest of her dad’s chair. “Stop losing this.”

“It makes me look old.”

“Oh my god. Dad.”

He ignores her. "Hilda, go help your brother make dinner."

Hilda whines, "Holst doesn't need my help. He's fine."

"Actually -" Holst begins from the kitchen doorway.

"Nobody asked you," Hilda says. Then she grabs the bags she had set on the ground. "Besides. I need a shower, and to give my girlfriend a tour of the place."

Dad grumbles, but he's now expended too much energy trying to sit back down to really argue. Once upon a time she would have needed to really wheedle her way out of making dinner, but these days all it takes is for her to be out of sight. Dad can't go racing after her anymore and haul her back over his shoulder to do chores while she pounds her tiny fists ineffectually against his back. Though in truth she wishes he still had that mobility. Seeing him like this is far worse.

Hilda tilts her head to one side, "C'mon. My old room is this way."

"It was nice meeting you," Lysithea says to Harald, who waves her away with a brief smile.

Hilda has already started off down the hall, and Lysithea trots after her. Behind them they can hear the sound of the television starting up again in the living room. Hilda nods towards various doors and rooms as they go, giving a running notation of what everything is.

"That's the master bedroom. Dad sleeps there. Holst's room is over there. There's the downstairs bathroom for the living room. Here’s my room. It has its own ensuite bathroom, so we don’t have to fight Holst for it.”

“Let me guess -” Lysithea steps into the bedroom, which looks exactly as Hilda remembered. “-They gave you your own bathroom because you spent so much time in it that nobody else could use it.”

“I am insulted you would even suggest such a thing!” Hilda tosses their bags onto the bed, and begins to unpack.

“That doesn’t mean: no.”

“Anyway!” Hilda changes the topic by gesturing to the room at large while she hangs her outfits in the closet. “This is where I grew up. Surrounded by farmland sans internet. Starved for culture.”

Lysithea joins her in unpacking. “You’re being a bit dramatic.”

“Who? Me?” Hilda pulls out her spare hair dryer, along with a whole host of emergency make-up supplies that were packed alongside Lysithea’s medication case. “But seriously, though. The nearest library is an hour away by car. And that’s only if the rain hasn’t flooded the main road into Locket.”

“Where’s the school?”

“With the library,” Hilda answers from the bathroom.

She arranges all of her supplies, and sets down Lysithea’s travel cup on the sink counter so that Lysithea can use it for her morning Routine. When she emerges from the bathroom, Lysithea has neatly unpacked the rest of their things in all the exact places that Hilda likes them to be.

Hilda points in the direction of the kitchen. “Do you want a cup of coffee?”

Mischief crosses Lysithea’s face, and she says, “No, thank you.”

Hilda narrows her eyes. “What?”

With a nonchalant shrug, Lysithea says, “Nothing! I just saw all those picture frames over the fireplace earlier.”

For a moment, neither of them move or say anything. Then, Lysithea makes a dash for the bedroom door. She’s out before Hilda can close her in, and prevent her from seeing said photos. Hilda almost catches her in the hallway, but Lysithea’s height means she’s slippery and sly and difficult to grab hold of.

Harald barely even glances up when the two of them barrel into the living room. Everything in this house is Goneril-Proof anyway. They couldn’t break things if they tried. And Hilda and Holst had tried before. Many many times.

On the mantlepiece over the smoke-blackened fireplace, there are a host of picture frames cluttering around the riverstone chimney. Lysithea makes a bee line for them. Most are family reunion pictures. The family is too large to photograph altogether, so they are sectioned off by age group. Hilda is the only girl amidst a mountain of boys.

“Tell me about this one,” Lysithea demands as she picks one up.

With a sigh, Hilda relents and does just that.

There are a few other more personalised pictures. Hilda points to each of the ones that Lysithea asks about. There's mom looking young with her sandy-blonde hair before the cancer took care of all that at the age of fifty-two. There's her parents getting married. There's Holst at his first shooting competition. There's a baby picture of Hilda all swaddled up (and the cutest image on the shelf, if she does say so herself).

Hilda tells stories about each of her cousins. Dad pipes in from the peanut gallery to add corrections or embellishments. About how Hans busted her tooth when they were kids and had to share a bed. About how she waged war on the boys by weaponising cow pats. How she would do anything to win -- scratch, bite, cry, you name it.

Lysithea leans forward on her toes to observer a photo down the back. It's a picture of Hilda at the age of twelve, a baby-faced version of herself that she hardly recognises. Dad had snapped it after her first successful hunt with Holst. The two siblings are frozen in a pose over a freshly killed buck. Holst is looking at her rather than at the camera, a broad smile splitting his face in two.

In the picture, Hilda is caught mid sentence. She holds the rifle easily at her shoulder. Her jeans are torn at the knees. Her hair is dishwater blonde and loosely gathered in a simple ponytail at the base of her neck. Her plaid is baggy and rolled up at the sleeves to reveal her scrawny forearms. Her chest is covered in a high-vis vest. A pair of Holst's dark sunglasses are perched atop her head. She used to always steal them when she was younger.

Slowly Lysithea picks up the picture. "You look so different."

"Ugh. I know. It's awful."

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Please. Look at me. I'm wearing -" Hilda shudders in disgust, "- sneakers."

Lysithea’s thumb traces over the edge of the picture frame. “I would’ve liked to have known you then.”

Hilda snorts. “No. You don’t. Trust me. I was a little shit.”

“And you aren’t anymore?”

Making a face at Lysithea, she continues. “Very funny. Besides, you would’ve been, like, seven. And even if you had been my age, I probably would’ve picked on you so hard.”

“I doubt that.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Edelgard would’ve had me assassinated.”

With a huff of laughter, Lysithea says, “I can’t imagine you being mean to me in any lifetime.”

“Listen. That’s flattering. Really. But I’ve seen pictures of you when you were younger, remember? And I know what I was like back then.” Hilda picks up another photo, this one of Holst holding Hilda in one arm, and the Commonwealth championship trophy she’d won at the age of fourteen in the other. Her hair is dyed a sickening electric blue in the photo, and her makeup is way way over the top.

“Alright, then. I’ll bite.” Lysithea gestures with the picture in her own hand. “Why would you have picked on me?”

“Because you were so cute. Obviously. I mean you still are,” Hilda assures her, to which Lysithea just rolls her eyes. “But back then, I would’ve been super jealous. And also very in the closet to myself.”

“Ahh,” Lysithea nods in understanding. “You’re were one of those.”

“Yeah, yeah. I got over it. Thank god. Still took me until the age of sixteen or so to realise I wasn’t jealous of other girls, I just wanted to kiss them. And their boyfriends. You know. Because I’m not a coward.”

Placing the picture back on the mantlepiece, Hilda scrunches up her nose. She runs her finger along the varnished wood, and it comes up with a thick layer of dust. “Ew. Nobody ever cleans around here while I’m gone!”

“At least it’s tidy,” Lysithea points out. She places the other picture back, and discreetly wipes the dust from her own fingers off on her cardigan.

“What’s the point of things being tidy if they’re not clean? Excuse me. I need to go yell at my brother for polishing his Olympic medals, but nothing else.” Hilda turns and starts to march towards the kitchen.

In the end, she does wind up helping with dinner despite her best protests. Lysithea is no help, either. When Hilda pokes her head from the kitchen, it’s to find that Lysithea has sat down on one of the couches and is engaged in conversation with dad. And they seem to be having -- Hilda has to check her sunglasses to make sure they’re the right prescription -- a good time. Unbelievable.

Hilda’s only consolation is that she manages to weasle her way out of doing the dishes. She only feels slightly guilty when Lysithea and Holst do them together, chatting all the while. She did end up doing the bulk of the cooking, after all. No matter what Holst claims.

Instead, Hilda wanders back to her room for a shower. Short, because the hot water tank at the farm doesn’t last long, and she doesn’t want dad yelling at her on the first day of the trip. When she emerges from the bathroom amidst a billow of steam and wrapped in nothing but two towels -- one for her body, the other for her hair -- Hilda pauses in the doorway.

Lysithea is curled atop the bed. Her legs are folded beneath her. She reads from a tablet loaded with more books than are contained in most libraries. Hilda knows. She's seen Lysithea's online library account.

Hilda crosses the room, and jumps onto the free side of the bed. Lysithea does not look up despite the mattress bouncing beneath Hilda's weight. She is utterly engrossed in whatever book she is reading.

"Whatcha reading?" Hilda asks. She takes off the towel wrapped atop her head, and pats her hair dry before tossing it back towards the bathroom.

The tips of Lysithea's ears go an appealing apple red. "Nothing of interest."

Hilda immediately zooms in on the blush. It must have been a smutty book, in that case. "Oh, really? That's a shame."

Letting her hand smooth over one of Lysithea's knees, Hilda pretends that it's an idle motion. All the while she watches for a change in Lysithea's expression. The white stockings are fine beneath Hilda's palm. The corner of Lysithea's mouth twitches, and Hilda lets her fingers trail a little further up Lysithea's thigh. Just far enough to play with the edge of her skirt.

Still, Lysithea makes no comment. She continues reading in a valiant effort to ignore Hilda.

"Soooo," Hilda drawls. Her hand continues to stroke along Lysithea's leg, but never too high to be considered indecent should they be happened upon by snooping older brothers. “Is my humble family abode everything you’d imagined and more?”

Lysithea taps at her tablet screen to turn the page in her book. “It sure is something.”

“Wow. Yikes. That bad, huh?”

“No, not bad. Just different. Not what I expected, knowing you.”

“Would I fit in better if I wore cowboy boots and assless chaps?”

“I think you would rather die than be caught wearing something like that.”

“You underestimate the lengths I will go to for a bad joke.”

Lysithea snorts in amusement, and turns another page. “Well, if you do, then let me know. El would love a picture.”

“Oh, I’m sure she would.”

A comfortable silence falls over them. Hilda memorises the pattern of the stocking beneath her hand. "I'm bored."

"Sucks for you."

"Can I go down on you?"

“Didn’t you just take a shower?”

“Yeah? And?”

Lysithea glances at her over the top of the tablet. Then she eyes the door. "How thin are these walls?"

Hilda taps her knuckles against the wall behind their bed. "Like bedrock."

From another room, they hear Holst sneeze. Clear as a bell.

"Surface bedrock," Hilda amends. "Compacted gravel, even. Okay, maybe more like asbestos. But that’s still a rock!"

Lysithea purses her lips, but there's a considering air to that particular furrow in her brow. It's the same expression she wears when she's offered one slice of cake too many, but is still tempted to eat.

"We don't have to," Hilda assures her. She swings her legs over the side of the bed. "I can go blow off steam by splitting wood."

"Is that a euphemism?"

"Nope." Hilda jerks her thumb towards one of the night-darkened windows. "There's an axe and a bunch of logs out back near the porch light. Out here, we always need firewood."

Just as she’s about to take a step towards the door, Hilda feels something pull at the edge of the towel. She turns. Lysithea has reached out and is pulling her back towards the bed. The towel is tugged free, and falls to the floor. Lysithea’s eyes have an intense look that never fails to make Hilda’s pulse spike.

When Hilda flops back onto the bed beside her, Lysithea sets her tablet aside. She rolls over to straddle Hilda’s waist, steadying herself with hands at Hilda’s chest.

“You’re going to have to be quiet,” Lysithea warns.

“I can be quiet! Can you?”

As it turns out, they both can. But one of the pillows suffers for it.

Holst cooks breakfast the next morning. Hilda has to cut up dad's food for him, while bickering with her brother over the radio station, and Lysithea queries Harald about the farm. By the time Hilda is actually able to sit down and eat, her own food has gone cold.

Holst slides a cup of hot tea her way. "Here."

"Thanks," she sighs, taking a sip despite its scalding temperature.

Holst lumbers into the spare seat beside Lysithea. He gently bumps her elbow with his own as he tucks into breakfast. "I thought you might like to go shooting this afternoon."

Lysithea blinks at him. "I've never handled any sort of firearm before."

"Don't worry. Hilda and I can show you the ropes." Holst winks at his sister. "Unless she's so rusty from living in town, that she can't tell which way to point the barrel."

In response, Hilda meets his gaze with a steely expression. "Oh, you're on, pretty boy."

"Excellent. I love wiping the floor with you."

"As if. I'm going to win, and I'm going to do it in style."

Chewing at his eggs and toast, Holst takes a moment to swallow before speaking. He gestures at Hilda with his fork. "You're not really going dressed like that, are you?"

Hilda rakes a hand through her long pink hair. "I said what I said."

He snorts. "Yeah. Alright. Sure."

"You couldn't rock this look, let alone do it while shooting."

Holst's chewing slows. He leans back in his seat, and pats at his mouth with a napkin. "Is that a challenge?"

She grins at him. "You bet your ass it is."

Dad stabs at his own eggs with a fork, and mumbles to Lysithea, "They've been this way since forever. You get used to it."

"If you say so," Lysithea says. She watches from the sidelines with an expression that is intrigued, but in a wary way. Like she half expects there to be bloodshed by the end of the day.

Rising to his feet, Holst tosses down his napkin. He points at Hilda. "You. Me. Bathroom. Now. Bring your girly hair products."

"Oh, fuck yes," Hilda breathes, shoving herself away from the table to stand.

"Is this really a good idea?" Lysithea asks.

Neither Hilda nor Holst are listening. They are already racing each other to the restroom. Hilda has to take a diversion to shuffle around in her old room for the hair dye she had left behind from her last visit. After a minute or two of searching, she finally finds what she's looking for, and pushes her way into the bathroom, where Holst is draping a towel around his broad shoulders and getting his hair wet in the sink.

"Bleach first," Hilda instructs, leaning over the sink to help him. "We need to get your hair a lighter shade before putting any colour in."

He doesn't even ask what colour she'd picked. "Do your worst, Dr. Gonorrhea."

She brandishes the little bottle of bleach at him. "Call me that again. I dare you."

By the time they finish dying his hair, it's two in the afternoon. Hilda wields a hairdryer and a brush. Not that he needs to have his hair styled. Somehow, it always comes up perfect.

Holst admires himself in the mirror after she has finished. He runs a hand through his hair, which is now the same shade as her own. "Not bad."

“You’re welcome.” Hilda ruffles his hair, which only makes him look rakishly tousled.

Leaning in the doorway, Lysithea says, "Now you two look like twins."

"Could be worse, I guess," Hilda shrugs and puts the hairdryer away. "Let's go shoot something."

They take Holst's truck to an empty paddock facing the hills. There's already an Olympic sized skeet range in place there. Dad had installed it years and years ago, and Holst had been maintaining it ever since.

Hilda takes out the munitions box, while Holst handles the soft shotgun cases. Lysithea follows after them with a wary expression when Hilda hands over hearing protection.

"Keep them on unless the range master declares the range closed," Hilda says.

Lysithea immediately puts the hearing protection over her head and ears. "Who's the range master."

"Me," both Hilda and Holst say at the same time.

Holst pulls a coin from his pocket. "Heads or tails?"

"Tails."

He flips it. Glimmer of gold and aluminium, which he snatches out of the air and slaps onto the back of his hand.

Tails.

Hilda pumps her fist in triumph.

“And what exactly does it mean to be a range master?” Lysithea asks slowly.

“It means you have to do everything I say.”

“It means she’s in charge of the safety of the range until she leaves.” Holst starts taking firearms from their bags and propping them up on the stands beneath the firing platform awning. “And that we have to do everything she says.”

“Surely not everything,” Lysithea says.

Hilda points at Holst without looking at him. “Give me five push ups.”

Lysithea watches in horrified fascination as Holst sighs, drops to the ground, and does five push ups.

“See?” Hilda says smugly. “It’s rule number five. Which brings me to the next point: Safety.”

Holst finishes setting up while Hilda gives Lysithea the ‘Goneril Family Gun Safety Talk.’ 1) No pointing guns at other people even if unloaded, or you get a punch to the mouth. 2) No pointing guns in any direction other than down the range, or you get a punch to the mouth. 3) Treat every firearm as if it’s loaded, or you get a punch to the mouth. 4) No alcohol or other intoxicants on the range, or you get a punch to the mouth. 5) Obey the range master at all times, or the range master will personally punch you in the mouth.

“Why is there so much punching in this?” Lysithea asks after number five. “This seems like the opposite of safety.”

“It’s part of the time honoured traditions of the Goneril Family of Idiot Boys and Also Hilda,” Hilda says, still holding up her hand where she had been ticking off each rule on her fingers. “Lastly, number six: only load a firearm when ready to fire, or you -”

“- Okay. Yeah. I get it.” Lysithea says.

“Good!” Hilda claps her on the shoulder and steers her towards the platform. “You’re first.”

“W-Wait. Me?” Lysithea glances at one of the shotguns as though it will suddenly rear up and bite her.

“Relax. It will be fun. I promise.” Hilda puts on her own hearing protection, the muffs bright red. “Range open!”

Holst immediately follows suit. His own pair of ear muffs are the same colour and brand, but older and faded from years of use. He drops down into a chair behind them, folding an ankle over his opposite knee, watching with the claybird machine remote in his hand. When Lysithea shoots him a nervous look, he flashes her a thumbs up and a grin.

Under Hilda's instruction, Lysithea sets the shotgun firmly into her shoulder. Hilda uses her hands to guide Lysithea's legs apart so that her stance is more stable, and then places her hands on Lysithea's waist to steady her.

"Whenever you're ready. Just tell Holst to pull, and go for the claybird." Hilda gently squeezes Lysithea's hips. "And remember: try to keep your movements fluid. Track the target."

"Shouldn't we be starting off with something stationary?" Lysithea asks.

"Animals aren't stationary when you shoot them for the most part. Now, go ahead."

Hilda can feel Lysithea take a deep breath. Lysithea shrugs at the firearm, and then barks out firmly, "Pull."

There's a two second delay before the target zips across the air. Lysithea fires immediately, flinching from the shotgun before she has even pulled the trigger. She would've been blown back onto her butt if Hilda hadn't been standing directly behind her.

Lowering the shotgun, Lysithea rubs at her shoulder with one hand. "Ow."

"You get used to it," Hilda assures her. "This is a pretty light shell as well. Tuck the shotgun into the meat here -" she rubs at the right spot on Lysithea's shoulder. "- and lean into it a bit. But don't flinch! It’s a bad habit!"

Lysithea’s jaw takes on that familiar bullish slant, and she hikes up the shotgun once more. “Pull.”

She misses. And again. After the fifth try, she finally manages to clip the claybird, which sends a puff of bright purple smoke trailing through the air. Lysithea turns to Hilda and Holst, flushed with pride, and Hilda has to grab her arms and point the shotgun back down the range.

“Rule number two!” Hilda reminds her.

“Sorry! Sorry.” Lysithea grimaces apologetically. “Please don’t punch me in the mouth.”

“Rules are rules,” Hilda says resignedly. And then kisses her.

Behind them, Holst yells, “Boooo! That’s not how the rule works!!”

Hilda flips him off while she’s still kissing Lysithea. By the time she lifts her head, Lysithea’s cheeks have gone pink, and her grip has slackened around the stock of the gun. Hilda taps the shotgun with her finger, and murmurs, “Seriously, though. Don’t break the rules.”

“Y-Yeah. Got it.”

It takes Lysithea a few more rounds to be comfortable enough that Hilda doesn’t have to keep a steadying hand at the small of her back. But Hilda does so anyway. She strokes her thumb at the divot of Lysithea’s spine. Lysithea’s next shot misses wildly.

“You’re very distracting,” Lysithea mutters.

“I could be more distracting.”

From behind them, Holst cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Rule number seven: No hands on butts, or you get a punch to the mouth!”

“That’s not a rule!” Hilda shouts back.

“It is now!” Holst stands and approaches one of the other stations beneath the platform. He picks up a shotgun from the rack, and tosses the claybird remote to Hilda. “Pull for me, so I can get a higher score than you.”

With ease Hilda catches the remote. “You talk a big game for someone who still hasn’t beat my high score.”

“Only one Goneril sibling has won an Olympic medal, and it’s not you.”

Hilda gives Lysithea a quick peck to the cheek, before turning away from her to confront Holst. She crosses her arms. “If I win, you have to take us to the the pub for dinner with your hair the way it is.”

“Fine.” He loads two shells, and then snaps the shotgun into place. “And if I win, then you dye my hair back to its normal colour, and acknowledge that I am The Supreme.”

Hilda rolls her shoulders, cricking her neck back and forth. "Alright. Let's do this."

From the sidelines, Lysithea raises one of her hands. “Do I shoot as well, or -?”

“You see that over there?” Hilda points at a mound of dirt with what looks like a rack of spoons dangling from a steel bar. “That’s a reactive target. Go for those, while I show this guy who’s boss, and then we’ll go back to pulling for you. Or, you can put the gun down, and watch if you prefer.”

“Alright.” Lysithea breaks the shotgun in two, and throws the shells in one of the bins just like Hilda showed her. Much to Hilda’s surprise, Lysithea reaches for another two shells and loads them into the over-under barrels.

Behind her, Holst clears his throat.

Hilda turns back to him. “Yeah, yeah. Keep your tighty-whities on.”

He shoulders the shotgun. "Pull."

She clicks the button on the remote. A three second delay, and two claybirds zoom out across the air. Holst's movements are fluid, controlled, and precise. He seamlessly tracks the projectiles one after the other, and utterly obliterates them.

"Pull."

In the end, it's a near perfect set. It would have been perfect had it not been for Lysithea sneezing to the side. Hilda could have kissed her, but Lysithea apologises so much that neither Hilda nor Holst believe for a second that it was done on purpose. Holst is a good sport when he's not facing off against family members, and he pats her on the arm good-naturedly.

Finally, Holst offers the shotgun to Hilda. They swap out the gun and the remote. Hilda takes his position. She rolls her shoulders and adjusts her pink-tinted sunglasses to calm herself. The firearm is a familiar weight in her hands. Even years after giving up the sport, holding a shotgun in her hands feels like breathing fresh air.

"Getting cold feet?" Holst asks.

Hilda tosses her head, and sniffs. "You wish."

Lysithea has stopped shooting, and her shotgun is leaning up against the stand. She observes from the sidelines next to Holst. Suddenly there’s a prickle of sweat running between Hilda’s shoulder blades, despite the fact that the air holds a chill, and the mountains are shrouded in dense fog. Hilda wishes that she had opted to wear a scarf along with her classic Burberry trenchcoat.

Turning back towards the range, Hilda says, "Pull."

It's a perfect set. Hilda celebrates like she’s fourteen again and just won a tournament. Holst drops down to his knees and clutches his pink hair with a groan. Beside him, Lysithea golf-claps politely, even as she assures Holst that she personally thinks he looks very nice.

Pushing to his feet, Holst concedes defeat. "Guess dinner's on me."

"Damn right it is," Hilda says far more confidently than she had felt just minutes before. She unloads the shotgun, and then hands it back to her brother. "Here you go."

They trade, remote for shotgun again. "You don't want to keep going?"

"After that set? No way. Better to end on a good note."

Hilda walks back over to stand beside Lysithea, who slips an arm around her waist and leans her head against Hilda's arm. She is warm, and her pale hair is soft. Feeling like she is floating on a cloud, Hilda kisses the top of her head. Hilda can feel a thrill of pleasure working its way into her lungs like she's taken a sip of warm tea.

Another hour or so passes before the sun starts its descent, and the winds pick up speed. Hilda declares the range closed. They pack up, and clamber back into Holst’s bro truck.

"Is your dad going to be okay on his own tonight?" Lysithea asks when Holst starts the truck.

"He'll be fine," Holst assures her. "I cooked him dinner already. It's in the fridge, so he can just heat it in the microwave."

The truck trundles its way down the one of many dirt paths that run along the farm to various paddocks. As they pass, a few curious cows lift their heads and watch them go by. The sheep shy away from the noisiness of the vehicle, but are otherwise unconcerned. Hilda strikes up a conversation with her brother about when he's planning on tupping this season and if that new ram panned out. Holst enthusiastically tells her everything about his plans.

It takes a good twenty minutes to drive down to the main drag of Locket. The farm roads are steep in some places, and Holst drives like an arthritic grandma. By the time they arrive at the pub, the sky has darkened to a dark lavender grey, and Hilda is starving.

Hilda holds open the door to the local watering hole. Holst goes in first, and is immediately flocked to by a group of local girls. From the doorway, Hilda watches, mouth agape, as her brother does the big bashful gentle giant act, and they all fall for it. Hook, line, and sinker.

As he’s being dragged away by both hands, Holst mouths over his shoulder at her, ‘I told you so.’

Hilda rolls her eyes. She stomps over to a free booth, and sits down, followed by Lysithea, who sits across from her. When a waiter comes over to take their orders, Hilda gets the strongest drink she can find on the menu to go with their meals.

"God,” she groans. “He's going to be so insufferable later."

"You two really are related," Lysithea teases.

Hilda shoots her a warning glance. "Don't."

Holding up one hand in surrender, Lysithea grins around her soda.

Their meals arrive. People periodically wander up to their booth to talk to Hilda. They use small talk and catching up with Hilda after so long as an excuse to snoop. Word of Lysithea has whipped through the small town like wildfire. Hilda does her best to shoo people away with her usual charm, or -- failing that -- painfully sweet passive-agressiveness.

For the most part it works. There are still those that aren’t the least bit dissuaded, despite Hilda’s best efforts. Luckily, Lysithea is as immune to small country, backwater charm as ever. She takes every new introduction in stride, coolly shaking hands, and nursing her sodas. Meanwhile, Holst is making the rounds. The belle of the ball. As usual.

Hilda sighs, and orders another drink along with an extra basket of wedge-cut fries.

Lysithea abstains from alcohol, but Hilda indulges just a little. She doesn’t realise she’s a little buzzed until she catches herself watching Lysithea over the top of her glass, and thinking about all the ways she could try to get Lysithea to sneak around the back of the pub and make out with her. The thought of pinning her against a wall and slipping a hand through a gap in that button down shirt sends a flush rushing to Hilda’s cheeks, and a heat directly between her legs.

Lysithea is, of course, oblivious. Even after all this time, it takes all of Hilda’s blunt straightforwardness to get Lysithea’s pants off. Or skirt. Whatever. She looks cute in either. She looks cute in anything. And in nothing.

Someone puts money in the old jukebox, and Hilda is genuinely surprised when music starts to play. She and her cousin, Hans, had broken that piece of junk back when she was seventeen. She could still see the dents from here. Holst must have paid to have it fixed. That, or he will have fixed it himself, like the cool and honourable guy she had always admired, loved, yet also resented.

Said cool and honourable guy is currently gesturing at them from across the pub.

“What on earth does he want now?” Hilda grumbles, and Lysithea turns in her seat, craning her neck to look at Holst.

Holst mimes dancing with his beer, and then points at the two of them.

Okay. His ‘cool and honourable brother’ status has officially been rescinded.

A few other people have indeed begun to clear a few chairs away to make space for dancing. They are pairing off. One of the girls who had been fawning over Holst earlier is now dragging him onto the dancefloor away from his beer and conversation with cousins. Meanwhile, Lysithea has hunched up her shoulders and is studiously staring into her half-empty soda as though the idea of dancing in front of a bunch of strangers causes her physical pain.

Hilda plays a bit of footsie with her under the table until Lysithea glances up at her. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Fuck Holst.”

The song has changed into something a little more classic yet lively. Old rock with a heavy strain of twelve bar blues.

Lysithea lifts her head somewhat. Her pale hair is done up in a loose bun at the base of her neck, so that she looks like an escapee librarian from the 1930s. She tucks a loose strand behind one ear. “We could, if you wanted,” she says, eyes darting to Hilda. “I know you like dancing, even if it’s not something in which I typically partake.”

She wants to. She wants to so badly there's an ache in her chest. But Lysithea is watching her with an almost wary expression, like she expects Hilda to leap up and drag her onto the dancefloor without a moment's hesitation. That alone gives Hilda pause.

A few months ago, she would have done just that -- grabbed Lysithea at the first say so, and danced until Lysithea was pink in the face and needed to sit down to catch her breath. Now however, Hilda sits, frozen, in her seat. The old plasticky booth is somewhat sticky against her legs despite the cold. In the summer time it would be warm enough that you would have to scrape her bare thighs off with a spatula. The idea of pushing Lysithea too fast is, as always, a constant fear in the back of her head, like the buzzing of a phone alarm reminding her not to do what she usually does and fuck this up.

"No," Hilda says. "I'm fine."

At that, Lysithea blinks in surprise and -- surprisingly -- disappointment. "Oh. Alright. Do you want another drink? I think I'll get another drink."

The words are on the tip of Hilda's tongue, burning at her throat, wanting to retract what she said. Instead, she holds up her empty glass and waggles it back and forth. "Just water, thanks. I think I've had one too many of these."

"Okay. Be right back."

It's not too deep into the night before Holst wanders over to their booth. He shares a few snacks with them. He downs another beer. When he orders a third pint, Hilda holds out her hand for the keys to his truck and he promptly passes them over without complaint.

“Do you really think you should be driving?” Lysithea points out. “You’ve had a few tonight as well.”

Hilda swings the keys around her finger. “Can you reach the pedals?”

Glaring, Lysithea snatches the keys from her. “Give me those.”

In the end, Lysithea is the one to drive them home. The headlights cast the farm road in eerie shadows, and she drives extra slow to try to avoid as many pot holes as possible.

The downside to Lysithea driving is that Hilda has to sit in the middle (which is The Worst). The upside is that Hilda can keep a surreptitious hand on Lysithea’s thigh the whole way.

Back at the house, Lysithea takes off her shoes in the long entryway. Holst's muddy gumboots are neatly lined up against the wall beneath the series of wooden coat pegs. Out of force of habit of being on the farm again, Hilda takes off her own stylish boots, and immediately sinks down three inches. It means that the top of her head now barely reaches Holst's shoulders.

She is seriously considering putting heels back on, when Lysithea says, "I think I'll take a shower."

"Want some company?" Hilda asks.

Lysithea hums a contemplative note. "I’ll just take an actual shower, thanks."

"Boring," Hilda says in a sing-song voice, but winks at her anyway. "I'll come to bed in a bit."

With a wave, Lysithea wanders off through the spacious living room and down the hall. The house is dark. Presumably dad has already gone to bed. Lysithea leaves on a trail of lights as she goes.

Holst waits until the door to the bedroom is shut before going after Lysithea and turning off most of the lights in her wake. Another force of habit. Hilda herself had to resist the urge to the same. Instead, she stands by the old chair that her father favours. The leather is cracked and shiny from years of use, but none of them had the heart to throw it out. It’s too comfortable. It holds too much emotional value.

A knitted woolen blanket is thrown over one of the glossy arms. As a kid, Hilda had always thought that mom had made it. It wasn’t until she was older that she realised mom was truly terrible at knitting and sewing, and that dad had made it all along.

Despite the long shadows cast over the house, Holst manoeuvres his way back through the living room with ease. The only light is that of the moon, the porch, and the sliver of pale yellowish light from beneath Hilda’s closed bedroom door, where Lysithea is having her shower. Neither of them need light to wander this house. Not when the layout hasn’t changed in over thirty years, and every creaky floorboard is firmly ingrained in their every childhood memory.

Hilda nods towards him. “You looked good tonight.”

“I look good every night,” Holst says.

She rolls her eyes. “Shut up, and accept my compliment.”

“Thank you. I will.” The grin slowly slips from Holst’s face. He clears his throat, and rubs a hand at the back of his neck. “Hey - uh - can we talk?”

“Oh, no. What’s wrong?” Hilda asks, already expecting the worst.

“Nothing,” Holst says. When Hilda just arches a cool eyebrow at him, he shrugs and lowers his arm. “I appreciate that you’re just here for the weekend, but we need to discuss dad’s will before you go.”

Hilda darts a look over her shoulder. Lysithea is already in the shower; she can hear the roar of the pipes. Still, the walls in this house are thin. She lowers her voice to a hiss. “Can we please talk about this some other time?”

His brow is furrowed, but he keeps his voice to a low rumble rather than the usual raucous level their family employs. “I don’t understand why you’re so dead against taking ownership of the farm.”

“Because I have things I want to do with my life that don’t involve the latest in Rotary Milk Sheds Magazine.”

Holst brandishes an admonishing finger under her nose. “Now, I won’t hear a bad word said about RMS Mag in this house.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“I can’t keep doing this forever, Hilda. Uncle Henrick and his boys are helping me out when they can, but there will come a time when you need to step up to the plate. Dad won’t live forever.”

“Yeah, thanks. I know that.”

“You wouldn’t even have to visit more often than you already do,” Holst says, and he’s using that annoying older brother voice like she’s six again. “We just need to sign some papers, and then arrange for a farm manager to act in your stead for the time being.”

Shaking her head, Hilda strides past him towards the kitchen. “I need a cup of coffee.”

“We’re out of freeze-dried.”

“Fine! Tea, then.”

He follows after her. He has to duck through the doorway so that his head doesn’t hit the arch. “Caffeine this late at night isn’t good for you.”

Hilda flicks on the kitchen light. She fills the electric kettle with water from the tap, and sets it to boil. “I’m thirty-one years old. I have a PhD. I’ll damn well have caffeine when I want to have caffeine.”

With a sigh, Holst lets it go. He steps by her and makes a start into the dishes that dad has left in the sink, because these days dad is too old and shaky to be cleaning his own chef’s knives let alone running a farm.

The kettle boils, and Hilda grabs the jar of teabags that’s been in the same place since she was born. “Do you want a cup?”

Holst shakes his head. He has a dish towel draped over one massive shoulder. “No, thank you.”

She pours only a cup for herself, grabbing the bottle of fresh milk from the fridge and adding a healthy dollop. The tea isn’t nearly bracing enough, but it gives her something to do with her hands that doesn’t involve nervously wringing them together.

Warm water sloshes in the sink as Holst scrubs at a plate. “You’re awfully antagonistic this trip. More so than usual, I mean.”

The tea is too hot to drink quickly, but Hilda takes a large slurp anyway. “It’s almost like I expected to be ambushed by inheritance talks the moment I walked through the front door.”

“You’re acting like this is the end of the world.”

“I like what I do.” The porcelain sears between Hilda’s hands. “I know it doesn’t seem like it, but I worked hard to get there.”

“I know that.”

Silence settles over the kitchen. Hilda taps her fingers against the mug. Her rings clack. They can hear the hiss of the shower from the other room shut off.

After a long moment, Holst says, “Lysithea’s nice. I like her way more than that last guy you brought home. The short one with the blue hair.”

She shoots him a scathing look. “Gee. Thanks.”

“I didn’t mean it like -” He breaks off with a sigh. Pulling the dishcloth from where it is draped over one shoulder, he begins drying everything that he has just cleaned. “I just want to see you settled down with someone nice. And I think she’s very nice. You’re calmer around her. And I think she would make a good addition to the family.”

Hilda lightly swats one of his brawny arms. "You didn't say any of this to her, did you? Don't go scaring her off, you asshole."

"I didn't say anything!" Holst insists. Then he adds, "Yet."

Hilda points to the night-dimmed window. "I swear to god, I will go outside, grab an axe, and cleave you in half."

He waves the white dishtowel in surrender. "Relax."

"I really like her, alright? Don't screw this up for me."

"I wouldn't dream of it." Holst returns to drying the dishes. After a moment, he says, "Dad likes her, too."

That sends Hilda's stomach into a whirlwind of somersaults. Dad had never liked any of her previous beaux before. Then again, most of her previous beaux had been thick country boys, who were lacking in every category except the sack. She has always liked her men to be the same way: big, dumb, and easy to manipulate.

Lysithea is, of course, none of those things.

And then Holst says, "So, when are you going to propose?"

Hilda chokes on her tea. Her face goes bright red. She doesn't need a mirror to know that her complexion is now clashing terribly with her clothes. She splutters. "That's -! Well, I mean -!"

"Haven't you thought of it?"

"I have," Hilda admits slowly. "And -- not that it’s any of your goddamn business -- but we've, y’know, talked."

"And you haven't put a ring on her finger yet? Oh, Hilda..."

Slamming her teacup on the bench, Hilda growls, "What? Why am I the one who needs to propose here?"

"Well, because you're -" he gestures at her with a wave of the drying towel. "You know..."

Her glower is sharper than the knives on the drying rack. "No, go on. Say it."

Holst has never had a very strong sense of self-preservation. It shows, because he does in fact continue. "You're a very forceful personality. Always have been."

“Forceful personality?! I am a delicate flower!" Hilda stamps one foot on the ground. "And maybe I'm the one who wants to be proposed to! Have you ever thought of that? Huh?"

"It's not me who needs to think of that," he replies dryly.

That stops Hilda dead in her tracks. Her mouth works, but no noise comes out. Finally, she swipes up her cup of tea, and drains it dry.

“I am just looking out for you,” Holst insists. “And don’t be an ass. Not about this.”

“I’m not having this conversation with you,” she says once she’s finished.

“No. You should be having it with her.”

She clamps her mouth shut so hard she can feel her jaw ache. “I’m going to bed.”

“Just -” he sighs, “- think about what I said. About everything.”

Hilda shoves the now empty cup in his hands for him to clean. “Good night.”

Hilda sleeps poorly. She tosses and turns all night, and still wakes early enough to see sunlight creep through the window to the sound of distant birdsong. She whittles away an hour by curling up behind Lysithea, and sticking her nose into the back of Lysithea's neck.

Lysithea remains asleep. She is warm, and soft, and smells like clean soap and freshly washed sheets. Her long pale hair tickles Hilda's face. Hilda wouldn't move for the world.

Eventually however, Hilda is very much awake. And when Hilda is awake, she cannot keep from fidgeting. When she feels her own feet start to twitch, she gets out of bed to ensure that she doesn't wake Lysithea.

Wrapped in a cosy last season sweater, Hilda creeps out of the room. She closes the door quietly behind her, and wanders towards the kitchen.

Holst is already awake. He is cradling a cup of freshly brewed tea. When he sees her enter the kitchen, he blinks in surprise. "You're up early. The pot is on. Do you want a cup?"

"No," Hilda yawns. She runs a hand through her hair, which is still slightly mussed with sleep. "Can I have your keys?"

Fishing them from his jeans pocket, he tosses them to her. "Going to the village?"

She catches them. "Just for a bit. I'll be back in a hot second."

"We need more bread. And can you pick up the mail?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm on it."

In the entryway, Hilda stomps her feet into a pair of ugly boots that are nonetheless very comfortable, and more importantly she isn't afraid to get them dirty.

The mailbox for the farmhouse is over a mile away. Hilda doesn't get out of the truck, just leans through the open window to grab whatever is in the mailbox. It's a quick jaunt to Locket through the low-hanging fog. She picks up a few loaves of fresh bread and a local newspaper.

By the time she makes it back home, Lysithea is awake and having a cup of tea in the kitchen with Holst. Stepping out of the truck, Hilda pauses outside. She can see Lysithea through the mist-clung window; she has dressed into casual clothes, but her pale hair is still cowlicked from pressing against a pillow for so long.

When Hilda enters the house, and makes her way into the kitchen. She makes a point of putting down the bread, the newspaper, and the letters so she can run her fingers through Lysithea’s hair. It does little to tame the persistent cowlick.

“Morning,” Hilda says.

“Hey.” Lysithea does not tell her to stop, though her eyes do alight upon the newspaper. “Is this the local rag?”

"Mhmm. It's not the paper you're used to," Hilda says. Pulling her hand away from Lysithea’s hair, she flips a few pages of the newspaper over. "But it has a halfway decent crossword! Want to do it with me?"

Lysithea surprises her utterly by saying, "How about later? We can do it on the plane ride back this afternoon. Holst was telling me about one of the gentler walks on the farm. Think you can show me around?"

Holst himself has busied himself by taking the loaves of bread -- but for one -- and putting them into the freezer. The one he has kept out, he breaks into, placing a few slices into the toaster to start on breakfast. The moment his name is mentioned, he flips the bag of sliced bread shut, and reapplies the twist tie. "I can have brunch ready for you when you get back."

"Sure." Hilda tugs at a lock of Lysithea's hair. "You ready to go now? You might want to grab a jumper. It's chilly out there today."

A few minutes later, Lysithea is dressed in one of Hilda's oversized woolen sweaters. On Hilda it would have been just slightly too big, masking her bulky shoulders somewhat. On Lysithea, it could have acted as a dress. As they head out, one of the dogs thinks it can join on walkies, but Hilda shoos it away.

"We could bring him," Lysithea offers.

"Nah. He'll just be a pest." Hilda points back to the farmhouse. "Go on, Brindle!"

Dutifully, the dog trots back, and flops beneath the shelter of the eaves.

The house recedes as they go on their way. When Hilda had driven into Locket earlier, the fog had been thick enough to obscure the mountains and make the trees loom through like shadows. Now, the sun has begun to burn it away, giving detail to the world once more. Hilda guides them towards the gentlest walk on the property, but still she makes sure to take frequent stops. Lysithea's breathing only grows slightly laboured, but she has sounded more winded in bed to be honest.

"Uuugh," Hilda's feet squelch through the mud and grass. She grimaces down at her old hiking boots. They keep all the muck at bay, but they also clash terribly with the rest of her outfit. "This is a disaster."

"I kind of like it."

“Impossible. These boots are horrible.”

“I wasn’t talking about the boots,” Lysithea says behind her in a small voice.

Glancing over her shoulder, Hilda sees that Lysithea is trailing along in her wake. She looks -- and this really is strange -- nervous. Hilda doesn’t stop, but she does slow down slightly.

"What is it?" Hilda asks. Her eyes narrow. "Did my dad say something to you. Did Holst?"

Lysithea shakes her head. "No. It's nothing like that."

"I'll kill him."

"Hilda, I swear. They didn't say anything. They've been nothing but lovely since we've arrived."

"Hmm," Hilda hums under her breath, disbelieving.

Lysithea trots a few steps forward so that they walk side by side. She slips her hand into Hilda's and holds her fast. "Though I must admit -"

"Oh, here we go."

"It's not bad. I just have to say that when we first arrived I was -" Lysithea takes a second to fish for the right word. "- puzzled. This place seemed so unlike you. I had a difficult time reconciling that you grew up here. But the longer we've stayed, the more apparent it becomes. You really are at home here."

"It's the boots." Hilda lifts one of the offending shoes as they walk like she’s goose-stepping. "They ruin my whole ensemble."

"It's not the boots," Lysithea says. Then, after a moment, she adds. "Well, the boots don't hurt."

"They do. Specifically, they hurt my eyes."

"Hey," Lysithea's voice has gentled. She squeezes Hilda's hand to get her to stop.

They are standing in a clearing. The trees rise up on all sides. The grass is green and lush beneath their feet. Late morning sunlight slants through the low-hanging mist, and through the boughs of the trees can be seen the distant snowy mountain peaks bearing their misty capes.

Lysithea's words are a soft murmur. "You've been so uptight during this trip. Is there something I can do to help?"

Hilda lets out a long breath she had not known she was holding. It escapes her in a rush of air. She glances back in the direction of the house, but they've put it far behind them. Nobody is following them. They are alone.

"It's -" Hilda grimaces. "To be honest, I'm nervous."

"I already know that. I am a genius, you know."

Hilda laughs, but it's shaky and short and sharp. She has to clear her throat. Lysithea is still holding her hand, and her skin is cool against Hilda's own sweaty palm. "Every time I've brought someone back home, it's always turned out badly."

"Your family scares them away?" Lysithea asks. “Because I’ve met way scarier people. You remember Hubert, right?”

"Yes. No. Not always." Hilda shrugs. "It's just - nothing ever goes right for me after this step. And I don't want that to happen again. Not this time. Not with you. I kind of like you, you know."

"Yes, I got that impression, thanks."

“Just a little, though. Can’t have people thinking I’m going soft.”

“Your secret is safe with me."

"So, yeah. I'm nervous. And you know what the only thing I can think of is?"

Lysithea cocks her head to one side.

"That I really really should've danced with you last night." Hilda lightly smacks her own forehead with her free hand. "I've been kicking myself over it all day."

With a smile, Lysithea shakes her head. She turns Hilda's hand over, and seems to be deep in thought for a moment. Then, she says, "We can now, if you want."

"Here?" Hilda gestures to the gently sloping woodland around them. "And without music? What do you take me for? A loose woman?"

"Oh, shut up, and dance with me already."

Lysithea has to reach up to grab Hilda's other hand and bring it to her waist. Hilda's mouth goes dry. Her heart flops around in her chest in a dumb romance novel kind of way.

She's supposed to be past this point in the relationship already. She’s supposed to be restless and distant. She's supposed to be bored. It terrifies her that she isn’t.

Lysithea hums under her breath. It's a warm sound, surprisingly light and airy. She tends to only ever sing if she thinks nobody else is around. Even Hilda only hears Lysithea singing softly when they're in separate rooms in the apartment. Usually when Lysithea is in the bathroom for her morning routine, or in the kitchen brewing coffee.

It’s not a dance so much as it’s a sway. Hilda guides them around in small circles to make it more of an actual dance. Lysithea never dances with her in public. Normally, Hilda has to coax her into dancing in the kitchen. She’s only done it in public once at Claude’s three months ago. A trendy new band was opening there, and the bar had been packed.

The fact that she had been willing to dance with Hilda last night at the village pub is unprecedented.

“Holst and I were talking last night.”

Lysithea hums an inquisitive note, prompting Hilda to continue.

“Not going to lie, it got a little awkward. He was basically trying to foist off the inheritance onto me. Dad’s not getting any younger, and Holst wants me to officially start to look after the estate. It’s such a pain.”

For a moment Lysithea did not reply. Then she asked, “And what did you say?”

Hilda exhales a long breath that she turns into blowing a raspberry. “Well, he’s very insistent. But I don’t think I can be responsible for something like that. I can barely look after a house pet, let alone a thousand cows.”

“That’s -” Lysithea blinks. “- a lot of cows.”

“You’re telling me.” Hilda leads them around in a slow circular pattern. The long grass catches on the edges of her hiking boots with every step. “Anyway, I haven’t decided yet. I wouldn’t have to move out here for, like, ten years to really take over, but still. It’s a big commitment. I don’t know if I’m ready to give up what I have to come back to this old place.”

“You could be the most stylish farmer on this coast, though,” Lysithea points out.

“Hmm. Tempting. But not very challenging.”

"It's not a bad early retirement plan." Lysithea adds. "I kind of like the idea of just disappearing off the map one day. Though we would have to put a proper airstrip into Locket for El's jet."

"She can use one of the paddocks."

"I don't think jets work like that."

"She'll be fine."

"You know your brother is just going to keep worry about this until you give him an answer, right?"

Hilda rolls her eyes. "He's always worrying about something. Might as well make it something that will turn out right in the end."

Lysithea furrows her brow. "You never intended to say no to him, did you?"

"I am incapable of saying no. Especially not to a good cause. It's just a part of my giving nature."

Slowing to a stop, Lysithea studies her face carefully. “I hope I’m one of your good causes.”

With a snort of laughter, Hilda asks, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, I -” Lysithea chews at her lower lip, one of her signature nervous ticks. “I may have overheard a little of your talk with Holst last night, and -”

When Lysithea begins to fish around in one of her pockets for something, Hilda’s eyes go wide. She has to turn around and catch her breath. It feels just like that time she was playing rugby in an empty paddock, and was kneed in the gut by her cousin, Hughes.

It's one of Hilda's worst-kept secrets, that she is flustered by genuine romance. The best way to avoid getting all blubbery over even the most cheesy of romance movies is to either a) not watch them at all, or b) tell horrible jokes throughout all the bits that would normally get her misty-eyed.

It's embarrassing. It’s debilitating. It's something that would've gotten her severely mocked by a horde of male cousins since the age of zero.

“Hilda?”

Hilda peeks over her shoulder as if expecting a zombie to leap out of the bushes. Instead, it’s just Lysithea standing there with a little velvet box in her hand. Which is even more terrifying, arguably.

“Is this -?” Lysithea tilts the box back and forth like she’s debating whether she should just chuck it and run. “Is this not the right time or place or -? Have I messed this up?”

“No,” Hilda breathes. Then, realising what that sounds like, she hurriedly tries to correct herself. “No! I don’t mean: ‘no.’ I mean ‘No!’ I mean -! Yes! No, it’s not not the right time or place. And yes, yes.”

She is blabbering. She’s too far gone. She can feel a tell-tale burning in her eyes, and has to swallow down a swell of tears.

Lysithea stares at her, but if anything her expression is determined rather than completely baffled or put off by the way Hilda is rambling. She hesitates for only a second before saying, “I know you like a bit of showmanship, but I really don’t want to kneel down in the mud. Is it okay if I don’t -?”

“Yes!” Hilda is so excited she’s jumping up and down a little in place, and clapping her hands together. She sniffles. “Ohhhh! Open it! Open it!”

“Edelgard may have helped me pick it out a few weeks ago. Because I’m bad at jewelry, and tend to just go for something I think looks pretty,” Lysithea admits as she opens the box to reveal the ring.

It’s not gaudy, but it is eye-catching. Rose gold. Diamond. Pink sapphires. Without hesitation, Hilda sticks out her hand for Lysithea to put the ring on. For a moment Lysithea fumbles at the ring to pull it from the case -- it’s pretty firmly stuck in the velvet lining -- before slipping it onto Hilda’s finger. Her touch is warm and soft, and Hilda can’t keep the burning behind her eyes at bay any longer.

“Please don’t cry. You’re going to make me cry.”

“I can’t,” Hilda is already wiping at her eyes with her free hand. “Thank god I’m not wearing mascara.”

Lysithea laughs, but it sounds a little watery. She shakes her head with a grin. The silly cowlick still in her hair and the oversized jumper with a plaid collar poking through are so endearing that Hilda can’t help but kiss her. Lysithea’s hands grip the front of Hilda’s woollen sweater to pull her close.

When they part, Lysithea breathes, “I’m so glad you said yes.”

“Was there any doubt?”

“A little.”

“I’m shocked. Appalled, even. That you could even dream that I would say no to you.” Hilda kisses her again, briefly this time. “Honestly, it’s like you don’t know me at all.”

With a huff of laughter, Lysithea pulls away, but drops her arm to lace their fingers together. She tugs at Hilda’s hand. “Come on. Show me the rest of the walk. And then let’s go home.”

#hilda valentine goneril #lysithea von ordelia #hilda/lysithea #fe3h #fire emblem three houses #roman writes #two across

36 notes · View notes

roman-writing · 5 years

Text

two, across (4/?)

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Pairing: Hilda Valentine Goneril / Lysithea von Ordelia

Rating: T

Wordcount: 8,470

Read it here on AO3 or read it below the cut

Lysithea allows herself to be distracted by Hilda for the entire weekend. She does not open her laptop to check her emails, or even sneak onto her phone to peek at the university webportal login. On the same front, Hilda does no visible work despite the fact that she has a class to teach on Monday. Whereas Lysithea only allows herself this rare luxury because she does not have her lecture until Tuesday.

She will regret it come Monday evening, but during the weekend she cannot bring herself to care enough to actually disrupt the two days by worrying about university work. She messages one of her flatmates that she will be out all weekend, and spends the time alternatively lazing about Hilda’s apartment, or being dragged around town by Hilda to spontaneous events.

In the past, Lysithea had never been much interested in going to animated little bars with live music and decorative antlers. Hanging out in trendy establishments specifically designed for the consumption of alcohol, when she preferred to not mix meds with spirits, is not high on her to-do list, but something about the company more than makes up for it. Hilda herself opts to not drink much either, despite being on a first name basis with everyone on the premises, including Claude, the owner -- a rakishly good-looking man with dark hair, and eyes even more cunning than his smile -- who clears out other lesser customers from the best seats in the house for them, and personally ensures that their glasses are never empty.

So it is that on a frosty Monday morning Lysithea returns to work more refreshed than she could remember feeling in years. This time she and Hilda take the train from the apartment together. It is far too easy to go about her usual daily routine with Hilda in it; Lysithea does not even pause to think that it might be odd. It isn't until they are ordering their coffees at the cafe just around the corner from the university, that it strikes her that this is a departure from the norm.

Lysithea murmurs her thanks to the barista as she accepts her mocha, a slight furrow in her brow. She is so preoccupied with the notion that she does not even scold Hilda for stealing one of the marshmallows resting atop the lid of her takeaway cup.

The feeling lingers when they are waiting for the elevators with their coffees in hand, as though the return to what used to be the normal routine was more jarring than what had occurred just previous. Lysithea tries to shrug it away. Hilda doesn't seem to notice. Or if she does, she does not mention it.

They do the crossword in Lysithea's office. Hilda leaves for her class -- late, as usual -- and Lysithea opens up her work emails for the first time in two days.

A few of the usual suspects litter in inbox. Three spam emails that had slipped through the cracks of the university's firewall. A flurry of students worried about their upcoming assignment at the very last minute; the paper is due at the beginning of next week, and by the looks of it some of them have only just started now. No surprise there.

Midway through clearing the list of emails, Lysithea goes stock-still. Tomas has replied to the final thesis draft she had sent him on Friday. His response takes up only one ominous line on the screen:

‘We need to meet to discuss further. Come by my office Monday 2pm, if it suits. -T.’

Her heart races in her chest. A million possibilities pop up into her head about what could have possibly gone wrong this time. Or perhaps it has gone right for once, and she is simply over-reacting.

The latter seems unlikely. And besides, Lysithea had never been predisposed towards optimism. Life had taught her that, and if nothing else she is an expert study.

She responds to the email with an affirmation, and then spends the next few hours agonising over it. She wishes Hilda were here. She wishes Edelgard were here. But Hilda is in the second floor lecture hall, and Edelgard is four hours time difference away and probably busy with very important meetings.

Briefly, Lysithea considers going to Hanneman to pick his brain, but by the time she has thought to do so it is half an hour before she must meet with Tomas. She was supposed to have spent the day writing up her lecture for tomorrow, but instead she stews in a soup of anxious anticipation, unable to bring herself to do anything more than stall and not dissolve into full-blown panic.

She arrives at Tomas' office fifteen minutes early, unable to stand the idea of waiting a moment longer. In one hand she clutches her notebook and pen, and in the other her bag. Thankfully, he is inside. The door is ajar, and the lights are on. Lysithea has to steady herself with a deep breath before she raps lightly on the door, and pushes it open.

"You wanted to see me, Tomas?"

For a portly old man who dresses all in unassuming beige, his presence never fails to fill her with dread. He glances up from his computer. "Ah, Lysithea. Good. Come in."

This is how it always starts. With smiles. With a veneer of kindness and understanding.

Lysithea perches herself gingerly on the edge of a seat which is located at the end of his desk. She puts down her bag at her feet. He already has a copy of her latest thesis draft printed out. She feels ill at the sight of his handwriting scrawled all across the margins.

"About this draft -" she starts, but he cuts her off before she can get more than a few words in edgewise.

"Yes. I'm glad you sent it to me." Tomas pulls his chair a little closer so that he can angle his notes towards her and they can both read them. "I have a few concerns."

"O-Oh?" She clears her throat, and tries to hide the tremble of her fingers when she opens her notebook to a fresh page. She has already labelled the top of the page with the date, time, and meeting title.

Tomas flips to midway through her thesis, where a portion of her data is spilled across the page. The rest of the extensive tables and figures are located in the appendices. Meticulously, he puts on a pair of round spectacles, and pulls out a pen of his own.

"This main section here," he taps with the end of his pen at the corner of the data table. "It still isn't clear enough. You don't prove the correlation between your data and your results."

Even though Lysithea is poised and ready to take notes, she cannot bring herself to write anything down. Her notebook is filled with pages and pages of figures and sketches and explanations and minutes of their meetings on this exact topic.

"I don't understand," Lysithea says slowly. "How else can I explain it?"

"In a way that makes sense, preferably." His answer is dry and biting.

She has to mask a wince at his tone. She takes a moment to respond, and when she does so, it’s like hearing her own voice from a distance.

"With all due respect, I think that what you're asking me is outside the scope of this project."

He goes still. He leans back in his seat, and studies her. His eyes look very small through the lenses of his glasses. "I beg your pardon?"

"I just -" Lysithea swallows thickly, and forces herself to sit up a little straighter. "I just don't think that what you're asking of me is what this thesis is meant to deliver."

"Incorrect. This -" he taps at the pages, "- is not a thesis."

A chill settles over her. "What?"

"This is not a thesis. If you submitted it to anyone, they would fail it."

"I don't understand," she repeats. It's a sentence she has said many times in this office, and which she imagines she will say many more times yet. "I received independent advice from other academics in the field, and they said that -"

"Which academics?" Tomas' face has gone hard.

"Ha-Hanneman, of course -"

"A secondary supervisor is not an independent source."

"And Dr. Goneril," Lysithea adds.

It feels like a trump card, using Hilda’s name. The rising star of the department. The young up and coming darling of the field with a bright future and an academic matrix to die for.

This time when Tomas smiles, it looks forced, like a baring of teeth. “And what did Dr. Goneril have to say?”

“She gave me constructive feedback, which I took. And then she said it was ready to submit,” Lysithea answers truthfully.

The last bit in particular had made Lysithea’s chest swell with a sense of accomplishment at the time, as though her thesis had already passed the examination stage by the grace of Hilda’s approval alone.

Tomas takes a moment to clean his glasses with the edge of his beige sweater. “Well,” he perches the spectacles back upon his nose, “Dr. Goneril is very young. And unless I am very much mistaken, she has never been an examiner before.”

“Then, can you please tell me what you would have me do to fix whatever problem you think there is with my thesis?”

“Get more data.”

A prickle of fear down her spine. “That would take months. It’s not feasible within the timeframe to -”

“And yet it must be done. What you have here is -” He shuffles a few of the pages, and then waves at them like they’re garbage that has sullied his desk. “- nothing. It doesn’t prove anything. You’re miles away from finishing. You need more data, and you need clearer explanations as to how you arrived at your conclusions.”

“I -” Her mouth feels dry. Her stomach squirms like a bed of snakes, and with a sense of unreality she says, “No. I won’t.”

He blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I won’t change it anymore.” Lysithea shakes her head. Her voice is faint, but immovable. “I don’t have time to rewrite my thesis to be what you want. It’s - It’s never going to be what you want.”

Tomas stares at her for an uncomfortable length of time. A muscle leaps at his jaw. Then, he tosses his pen down, and crosses his arms. “In that case, I will not be endorsing your thesis for examination.”

Lysithea glances down, unable to hold his gaze any longer. Her fingers are still clenched around the pen, poised to take notes upon a blank page. She closes the notebook, and clips the pen into its sheath.

She grabs her bag, stands, and is surprised when her legs support her. “Then I suppose we are finished here.”

As she reaches the door, Tomas’ voice gives her pause. “You’re making a mistake, Miss Ordelia.”

She doesn't answer. Her fingers rest upon the door's handle. She pushes the door open, and walks out into the hallway.

When the door closes behind her, Lysithea stands in the hallway for a long moment, unsure of exactly what to do. She looks at the opposite wall, at the abstract painting of a cancerous cell hanging there, until she begins to walk. Her feet carry her down the hallway in a daze, and Lysithea does not think of her destination. Indeed, she has no destination in mind, but her legs seem to know.

She strides towards her own office, but freezes when she sees that Hilda's door is open; she must have just finished her lecture. Lysithea approaches, and walks in without a word.

Hilda is wearing earphones. She hums merrily along to a song that is playing on her phone while she texts simultaneously. Upon noticing Lysithea's presence in the doorway, she glances up, beaming. "Hey! What's up?"

Lysithea's mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

Hilda frowns, and reaches up to take out her headphones. "Sorry, I didn't catch that."

"Um -" Lysithea swallows and tries again. Her hands are trembling uncontrollably now. "I - uh - I just had a meeting with Tomas, and he told me he isn't going to support my thesis."

Hilda looks blankly at her, as though she had not understood what was said. "I'm sorry -- what?"

The words fall from Lysithea’s mouth in a torrent she can’t stop. "He - He said that I would need to collect more data and rewrite whole sections for clarity, but I don't - I don't have time. I came to the university on a grant basis, which pays for full tuition and ensures I have a job, and it runs out in three months, and if I don't submit - if I drag this out any longer I'm not going to be able to stay without paying out of pocket, and my family isn't - I can't ask El to do this for me. I can’t go home like this. I can’t do that. My parents are - they aren’t -"

The world is spinning at the edges. Her chest aches, and it is difficult to breathe. Lysithea hardly registers the fact that Hilda has risen to her feet and shut the door so they are alone. Gentle hands are suddenly on her shoulders, but Lysithea flinches so abruptly she drops her pen and notebook.

"Woah. Okay. No touchy. Got it." Hilda turns off the lights, and twists the blinds shut so that the room is dimmed and nobody can peer inside.

Faint music is still playing from Hilda’s headphones. The cheery pop tune is a stark contrast to the all-consuming panic that washes over her. The whole scene feels surreal, like she’s watching herself drown in a dream. She covers her face with one shaking hand. Her breaths are sharp and rapid against her palm. Lysithea closes her eyes and tries to will the world to stop turning so that she can collect herself -- just for a moment.

"Do you have your phone on you?" Hilda mumbles as if to herself. This time when Lysithea feels a hand start to sneak into her bag, she does not move away.

Hilda grabs Lysithea's phone and pulls up the screen. She unlocks it without any trouble, and starts flicking through the contact list before lifting the phone to her ear.

A familiar voice answers on the other line, but without the speaker on, Lysithea can't quite tell what Edelgard is saying.

"Hi! Nope. It's Hilda. Yeah, sorry, no time to chat. Lysithea is having a bit of a meltdown right now, and I need you to talk to her, okay?"

A touch at her wrist. Hilda gently tugs Lysithea's arm down so that she can press the phone between her fingers.

Trying to calm her breathing, Lysithea's voice is still a trembling mess when she says, "H-Hello?"

"Lys," Edelgard sounds grave and concerned. "What happened?"

Lysithea gasps on a sob. She tries to bite it back. Her teeth dig into her lower lip hard enough that she can feel them cut into skin. Her eyes burn, everything goes blurry, and suddenly it's all coming out in a rush.

Edelgard listens while Lysithea babbles on the phone about the events of the day, and even her silence is thunder-graven, as though she were hanging off of Lysithea's every word. When Lysithea finally stops to choke on a sob and wipe at her cheeks, Edelgard says in a soothing tone.

"You know I wouldn't let that happen."

"No, El."

"Lysithea -"

"No!" Lysithea has to lower the phone for a moment to compose herself. She roughly drags the back of her hand across her eyes, and brings the phone back up. "Accepting gifts is one thing but this is - this is too much. I can't. You can't solve everything for me with money. I don't want you to. I just - I just want -"

For this to have never happened. To submit her thesis. To pass. To graduate. To teach. To live without something horrible looming on the horizon, like she had for so long.

"I know," Edelgard murmurs. "And if that's what you want, of course I will respect that. But it isn't weakness to let others help you. This isn't the end of it. There is a way to solve this. You just have to find out how."

It takes a good fifteen minutes on the phone with Edelgard for Lysithea to finally get her breathing under control. By then, she has sunk down to sit on the ground, her back leaning against the wall. Hilda is sitting on the corner of her desk nearby, waiting patiently even as her foot jiggles and her fingers play with one of the gold bangles at her wrist.

Edelgard’s voice sounds distant for a moment as she pulls the phone away to speak to someone else, “Just another moment, Hubert. I’m almost done.” She brings the phone back. “I’m sorry. I really need to go.”

“Yeah,” Lysithea closes her eyes, and leans her head back against the wall. “I know you do.”

“I will call you tomorrow.”

“Alright.”

“Can you put Hilda back on the phone?”

Wordlessly, Lysithea holds the phone out, and feels Hilda cautiously take it from her.

“Y-ello?” Hilda chirps into the phone. “Nah, it’s fine. Got it. Yup. Yuuup. I said I got it, didn’t I? Geesh. Sure thing. Bye.”

Lysithea’s eyes are still closed. She can hear the soft beep of the call being ended, followed by silence. She opens her eyes when Hilda sits down gingerly beside her. Their thighs are pressed together. Lysithea stares down at both their shoes; her own outstretched feet stop midway somewhere between Hilda’s calves and ankles.

“I’m sorry,” Lysithea says; she sounds raspy and wooden to her own ears.

“Sorry?” Hilda stares at the side of her face, incredulous. “For what? Tomas being a bully?”

"For -" Lysithea waves at herself and then at Hilda's office. "- barging in here and just -"

"Oh, no. You don't have to apologise for that. You know how many people in their mid-twenties I have made cry in these very walls?" Hilda leans in closer, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "So many."

Lysithea can't keep a watery laugh at bay. She wipes at her eyes again, and sniffles. "What if he's right? What if it's all complete rubbish, and I've just wasted the last three years of my life?"

"Look at me." Hilda tugs at Lysithea's hand until she reluctantly glances up. Hilda is wearing a stern expression, as though she has just been insulted. "Are you calling me a liar?"

Lysithea blinks in confusion. "What -?"

"Because that's what it sounds like to me."

"Hilda, I don't -"

"Seriously though. Seriously. Have you ever known me to spout platitudes just to make someone feel better?"

Slowly, Lysithea shakes her head.

"That's right," Hilda says. She runs her thumb across Lysithea's fingers. The gold and coral rings she wears are warm from prolonged contact with her skin. "Because I am many things. Brilliant. Talented. Funny. Gorgeous -"

Lysithea's laugh is weak, but she can still feel the smile splitting her face.

"- but a liar is not one of them. I’m a modern day Oracle of Delphi; I only speak divine truths, which no one is ready to hear or appreciate," Hilda continues. "And your thesis is good. Alright? It's really good. And Tomas may be playing some fucked up game that's unfairly involved you. I don't know what it is. Maybe he's after more grant money. Or maybe he's just a dick. Personally, my money is on the latter of those two options. Occam’s razor, or whatever."

"I don't know," Lysithea sighs.

She allows Hilda to keep playing with her hand. She even responds, turning her palm face up and curling her fingers so that their hands are laced together. It doesn't last long; Hilda is terrible at keeping still. Soon, she's toying with Lysithea's fingertips again like they're her own personal playdough putty.

"What am I going to do?" Lysithea says softly.

Hilda mulls over that for a moment before replying. "Well, it's your thesis, you know? And a supervisor's role is to supervise. Which is very tautological of me, but tautology has its place in the world irregardless of the fact that it's mostly bunk. So, my point still stands. It's your thesis. And technically speaking you don't need a supervisor's permission to submit it. You can just submit it on your own."

Lysithea stares at their hands, and then at Hilda herself, who is watching her intently. "But how would I find examiners, or - or -? I don't know the process behind the bureaucracy."

"No," Hilda drawls the vowel out as if savouring it in her mouth. "But there are other people in the department who do."

"I can't go to Judith," Lysithea says, adamant. "She was taught by Tomas! He's the professor with the longest tenure in the school, let alone the department! He's untouchable."

Hilda uses her free hand to tap the tip of Lysithea's nose. "Au contraire. He’s very touchable.” Realising what she has just said, Hilda makes a disgusted face. “Oh, ew. Forget I said that. Anyway! I wasn’t talking about Judith.”

“Then who do you -?” Lysithea’s eyes widen, and she pales. “You can’t mean Rhea.”

“Directly to Rhea,” Hilda confirms. “Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.”

“I can’t do that. He would be so mad.” Lysithea even checks over her shoulder towards the closed office door and drawn windows, as if he were a boogeyman lurking just outside and eavesdropping on every word.

“Yeah, well. Maybe he should’ve thought of that before being a fuckwad.” Hilda slips her hand free of Lysithea’s in order to shuffle a little upright and turn towards her. “Listen. I get it. Rhea puts the fear of god in me, too. But she’s the Dean. She is literally everyone’s boss. And as part of her job description, she is supposed to weigh in on these things when they crop up. Speaking of cropping -- do you want me to dismember Tomas horribly?”

Though Hilda is smiling when she asks it, her eyes are very cold and her voice very serious.

Lysithea takes a moment to mull the offer over. “Tempting, but no. Thank you.”

“Oh, anytime. You need someone’s ass kicked? You call me.”

“Isn’t that job reserved for older siblings, not younger ones?”

“Well, la-dee-da, Miss Only Child! When did you suddenly become an expert on sibling relationships? I’ll have you know, I kicked many a deserving ass without my brother’s help.” Hilda pauses, then adds. “That being said, if Holst were to kick someone, their individual vertebrae would pop out of their mouth like a pez dispenser.”

Lysithea pats Hilda’s knee in a consoling fashion. “Don’t worry. I’m sure if you bulked up some more, you too could kick someone into low Earth orbit like a Saturn V rocket.”

“Aww...That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Yes, nothing says romance like a girl stumbling into your office and blubbering like an idiot for thirty minutes,” Lysithea says dryly. It is a testament to Hilda’s skill at distracting her that Lysithea is even able to summon up a bit of sarcasm right now.

In answer, Hilda uses the edge of the table to pull herself to her feet. Then she turns to offer Lysithea a hand. “C’mon. Let’s get out of here.”

“But -” Lysithea starts to protest, but Hilda shakes her head.

“No way. You’re not staying here after this fustercluck. Take the rest of the day off. And tomorrow, too. I know you have lectures tomorrow, but I’ll bet my studded McQueen boots that you haven’t missed a single day of class this term, so don’t even think about coming into work. Now,” Hilda wraps her scarf around her neck, and hoists her black bag over her shoulder. “Do you want to go to your place or mine? Up to you.”

At the thought of having to explain this whole thing again to each of her flatmates as they come home, Lysithea cringes. “Yours, please.”

“Great choice. I’ve got that pizza place’s phone number burning a hole in my pocket, and enough ice cream in my freezer to tranquilise a horse.”

Lysithea lets herself be pulled up from where she is seated on the floor. Crying has completely drained her, and the promise of food does little to rouse her appetite. If she had gone back to her own place, she wouldn’t have eaten at all that evening. Indeed, the idea of curling up on the ground and sleeping for the next thousand years seems like the best available option, but Hilda is already opening the door for them to go.

As they step out into the hallway, Lysithea briefly considers grabbing her laptop from her office, but the thought makes her stomach turn, so she leaves it behind. Walking to the elevators means walking past Tomas’ office, and Lysithea skulks behind Hilda the whole way. She doesn’t relax until they are leaving the building entirely and striding across the snowy street towards the train station.

Arriving at Hilda’s apartment feels like reaching the promised land. The familiar clutter draped over every surface, and the smell of Hilda’s perfume on the air might as well be salvation.

Hilda flings her bag into a corner of her bedroom, and taps away at her phone to turn on her automated heating system as well as order them a pizza with all the trimmings. Without needing to be told or ask permission, Lysithea opens up one of the drawers to pull out a spare set of Hilda’s overly large sweatpants and t-shirt for pajamas.

She wanders into the restroom, but doesn’t bother to lock the door. She runs a bath, and strips. The hot water scalds at first, then cools to just the right temperature. She cries a bit more. She lets the bath wash away the day’s events until Hilda is knocking on the door to announce that their food has arrived, and that the delivery boy was a seven.

Lysithea emerges from the bathroom with wet hair, dressed in Hilda’s clothes. She flicks a quick email off to her students on her phone that she is feeling unwell and will be unable to make it to tomorrow’s lectures, while Hilda opens the pizza box in the kitchen and puts a few slices onto a single plate for them to share.

Four episodes of a netflix show and a tub of ice cream later, the world outside has fallen to an early wintry night. Snow gathers on the windowsill, illuminated by the glow of the laptop on the bed between them. It’s barely nine in the evening, but snuggled up beneath the warm sheets Lysithea yawns. Hilda shuts the lid of the laptop and sets it on the ground. The room is plunged into a quiet darkness. Rolling over to face the window, Lysithea buries her head into her pillow.

The mattress dips slightly as Hilda shuffles around. “You still in no touchy mode? Or are cuddles acceptable?”

In answer, Lysithea gropes around in the dark for Hilda’s hand. She finds her wrist, and pulls it over so that Hilda’s arm is wrapped around her stomach. Lysithea lets her eyes fall shut as Hilda curls up against her. And as she drifts off, she dreams that Hilda presses a chaste kiss to the back of her neck.

Lysithea decides she is very bad at playing hooky. She spends the day at Hilda’s apartment. She tries to not do work -- she really does -- but the itch is so overwhelming that it’s a relief to use Hilda’s tablet to plan her Friday lecture.

She may not have had the crossword with Hilda that morning, but at least she can do one thing that feels normal and routine. Today of all days, Lysithea clings to any creature comforts she can get her hands on. And if that means meticulously planning out notes and a slideshow for a two hour lecture, then that's what she's going to do, god damn it.

Eventually however even that isn't enough to keep her occupied. Hilda had promised to return early from the university, but without her the apartment feels haunted by her absence. More than once Lysithea looks up, ready to speak to Hilda only to realise that she's not there. Disappointment twists her gut, which only makes her frown and throw herself back into her work with more zeal than before. By the time it reaches one in the afternoon, Lysithea has finished with her notes, and has even added a few extra slides to her powerpoint in case she needs to pad out the time, leaving her with nothing to do.

Opening a new tab in the browser, Lysithea goes to the university website. She looks up the dean's page. She chews nervously at her lower lip as she stares at Rhea's email address. And then, before she can convince herself that it's a bad idea, she copies the address and pastes it into the send bar.

The email she sends to Rhea is simple, a request for a meeting to discuss her main supervisor.

No sooner has Lysithea put down the tablet and gone hunting through Hilda's kitchen for the ingredients for a hot chocolate, than she hears a faint chime of an email in her inbox from the other room. It takes her very little time these days to find things in Hilda's apartment, and she returns to the tablet with a mug of steaming cocoa, complete with whipped cream and a cinnamon stick as a garnish.

She almost drops the mug when she sees that Rhea has already responded to the email.

'Of course. I have fifteen minutes in between meetings tomorrow at 3:30pm. Your schedule permitting, come around to my office then. -Rhea, President of the University for Biology and Medicine, Dean, Division of Biological Sciences and Physical Sciences, PhD.'

Lysithea takes a hasty gulp of cocoa that's too hot, but the scalding grounds her. Her stomach was a hive of anxious activity again. She didn't know if she could handle another meeting like the one she'd had with Tomas just yesterday all in the same week.

And the worst part about it is that Hilda was right. And Lysithea just knows that Hilda is going to be insufferable about it.

Lysithea sits in a chair outside the dean's office. The walls in this level of the building are sleek and wood-paneled. She feels excruciatingly out of place with her knee-length skirt and tattered old notebook clutched in her hand. For the fourth time since arriving and being told by the assistant to take a seat while she waited, Lysithea checks her watch. As she turns over her wrist, the door to her right opens, and she nearly jumps out of her skin.

Rhea stands in the doorway, wearing a white dress. Her hair is long, extending down her back, and from beneath the hem of her dress Lysithea can just see the hint of sandals, the kind that Hilda would have liked and therefore must have been fashionable. On anyone else, the outfit would have made the wearer appear to be an ancient Graecian noblewoman or perhaps a lost ghost from a gothic Victorian novel, but on Rhea it just makes her look sleek and imposing.

Rhea opens the door a little wider and steps back in a wordless invitation. "Miss Ordelia. I'm glad you could make it."

Lysithea rises to her feet. When she slips past Rhea, she tries to stand a little straighter, but it has very little effect. Rhea is one of the tallest people she's met, and somehow Lysithea always feels even shorter when around her. As though Rhea were not tall at all, but that other people were merely too short to stand beside her and meet her gaze.

"Thank you," Lysithea says. She holds her notebook and pen in both hands as though they were a shield. "I really appreciate you making the time to meet with me so promptly."

"Not at all." Rhea closes the door so that they are alone in the office. She gestures to a chair. "Please. Sit."

The office is large enough to house an enormous desk on one end, and a seating area for guests in another. Also an entire wall of floor to ceiling bookcases, complete with a marble bust of some religious figure or another that Lysithea does not immediately recognise. Rhea had gestured towards the desk half of the room, so Lysithea takes one of the seats there.

Rhea meanwhile rounds her desk and sits behind it as though seating herself upon a throne. She leans her elbows on the polished wood surface, her gaze sharp and green and attentive. "How can I help you?"

For a moment Lysithea fiddles with the lavender-coloured ribbon that marks her place in the notebook. Then, steadying herself, she explains the events of not just yesterday but the last year during which all her troubles with Tomas began.

Rhea listens, calm, never once interrupting. Her face is a mask of composure. Lysithea wishes she could read her, but Rhea has always come across as cold and distant no matter the occasion, be it during Lysithea’s entrance interviews, or during departmental holiday parties. It makes Lysithea even more nervous, and more than once she has to pause to collect herself before she can continue once more.

Finally, when Lysithea stops, Rhea speaks. "First, allow me to apologise on the university's behalf. Students in your position are vulnerable to this sort of behaviour, as they are reliant upon their supervisors for advice and information through a very stressful time. Had this issue been brought to my attention sooner, I might have been able to act upon it then."

Hearing that, Lysithea can feel the small ballooning of hope in her chest fade. But then Rhea continues.

"However, I believe the solution to your problem is quite simple at this point. I understand that there are certain time sensitive elements to your employment and connection to this programme, but this works in your favour, not against it.” Rhea raps her fingers against the desk as she speaks; her fingernails are painted a pale green, like Wedgwood porcelain, or the shell of an egg. “I am going to make the recommendation that Tomas’ supervisory role be transferred immediately. I will ensure the paperwork is expedited so as to take into account your grant deadline, but I will need you to first send me an email outlining everything you have told me here today. Spare no detail.”

Lysithea blinks in confusion, wondering for a brief moment if she has heard that incorrectly. “You’re going to give me a new supervisor?” she asks slowly.

Rhea cocks her head to one side. “No. While I understand that due to the interdisciplinary nature of your work that you had two supervisors, I trust that between you and Dr. Essar, you will deliver a more than passable thesis. Unless you take objection with this option?”

Lysithea shakes her head furiously. “No! No, this is fine. Thank you.”

Hanneman as her sole supervisor. It’s better than fine. It’s what she wishes had happened to begin with, but which she only could have known in hindsight.

“Excellent. Now,” Rhea leans forward in her seat. Her glass-green gaze is fixed and unblinking, like that of a great serpent. “Have you by any chance been keeping record of specific dates and notes of your meetings with Tomas?”

Lysithea nods. She holds up her notebook and gives it a little wave before placing it back in her lap.

Rhea’s gaze flashes with something keen and sharp. “Good. Be sure to include those as well.”

“Might I ask -?” Lysithea hesitates, waiting for Rhea to give a slight incline of her head before continuing. “What exactly are you going to be doing with this information?”

Rhea smiles, and for the first time Lyisthea notices two things. One: that Rhea has not seemed to blink even once during this entire encounter. Two: that Rhea’s teeth are remarkably sharp.

“While I cannot speak too much on the matter outside of a confidential arrangement, I can tell you that yours is not an isolated incident, Miss Ordelia. Let us say that Tomas has a not insignificant file on record. Any details, any specifics at all you can give me may be instrumental in current proceedings.” Rhea’s long, pale, green-painted nails are like talons atop the darkly-varnished wooden desk. “So, do be sure to send me that email at the first available opportunity.”

Less than two weeks later, Tomas is no longer her supervisor, and Hanneman is signing the administrative paperwork to submit Lysithea’s thesis. That sense of unreality still hangs over her like a cloud. Hanneman hands her the pen to sign on her own dotted line, and it feels like reaching for a piece of candy that is going to be snatched away at a moment's notice.

The giddiness starts up when Lysithea is carrying her final bound and printed thesis copies from her office for submission. There's a bounce in her step that she hasn't felt in ages. There are two copies of over two hundred pages each, bound in white with her name in simple gold lettering embossed on the cover.

Her step falters when she has to walk by Tomas' office. She had avoided him ever since that meeting. Every day where she went without seeing him was a day she breathed a sigh of relief. Today however, as she strode down the hall towards the elevators, she noticed his office door was wide open.

Lysithea walks a little faster, but then pauses. She turns and peers into Tomas' office.

The desk and chairs remain, but the shelves are empty. Indeed, all personal affects seem to have vanished. Tomas himself is nowhere to be seen.

Her grip upon the twin copies of her thesis slackens. As if she had seen a ghost, Lysithea hurries off towards the elevator, stabbing at the button with her finger to call the lift from the second floor. Her heart is hammering in her chest, and her mind whirls at the speed of light.

Upstairs, she drops off her thesis copies and the forms Hanneman had signed onto the desk of one of the dean's many administrators. The woman seated at the desk checks over all the paperwork before stamping it with an official seal that she then signs and dates. Afterwards, she smiles up at Lysithea, and ensures her that everything is completed. She also reminds Lysithea that neither she nor Hanneman are to attempt to contact the examiners in any way, no matter how long the process takes.

"You will hear from the dean when your examination results are in," the administrator assures her.

"Thank you," Lysithea says for what must be the fifth time since she arrived just moments ago to turn everything in.

"Not a problem. Go. Relax." The administrator waves at her in a kindly fashion. "Try to think about something else for a while. You've earned a break."

"Thanks," Lysithea repeats, then realising that she has said it yet again, turns to leave.

The dean's offices are located on the top floor of the building. Between the wood-paneling and the statues and the light streaming through the stained-glass windows, it feels like standing in the wing of a cathedral. Lysithea bounces on the balls of her feet, and hums to herself as she waits for the elevators to make their long haul back up to this floor. Before the elevators can arrive however, someone steps up beside her.

"Good afternoon." Rhea smiles down at her in that chillingly beatific way of hers.

"Hello." Lysithea tries to return the smile, but it feels tremulous all the same.

They stand in silence. Lysithea watches the light counting the floors over the shining elevator doors. She has never thought of herself as being a particularly fidgety person, but beside Rhea's poise, Lysithea feels like a child unable to keep her hands and feet still for longer than a few seconds. Perhaps she really has been spending too much time with Hilda lately.

The doors open, and Rhea gestures for her to enter first before following after her. Lysithea hits the seventh floor button, while Rhea presses the third. As the elevator doors slide shut, the image of Tomas' empty office puts an immediate dampener on Lysithea's recent triumph. The elevator shudders, then begins its descent.

Bracing herself, Lysithea turns towards Rhea and asks, "Excuse me for asking this, but I was walking past Tomas’ office and - well. What happened to him?"

Rhea does not glance in her direction, instead watching the floor counter overhead. "I fired him."

Lysithea stares. "You - You what?"

"Perhaps I misspoke," Rhea says in that same decorous tone she always seems to use. "There was an official panel inquiry by the board of directors, and then I fired him."

Finally, Rhea looks over at her, and all of a sudden Lysithea very much wishes she hadn't.

Lysithea drops her gaze to study her own shoes. The long hem of Rhea's elegant dress brush against her ankles, and Lysithea has to resist the urge to shuffle further away. She thinks of all the notes she had typed up and sent to Rhea in that email, all the dates, all the hours Tomas had spent berating her over data and clarity and other nonsense, all the correspondence she had forwarded between them. Damning evidence, to be sure, but she never could have dreamed it would be enough to get someone with that much history at an academic institution actually fired.

Somehow she knows even without looking in Rhea's direction that Rhea has turned her attention away again.

"I really ought to thank you. The panel had already been meeting for over a month at various times. Your notes came at just the right time."

Lysithea's head spins. She swallows past an obstruction in her throat, but does not trust herself to speak.

"Though I should also tell you that this was not your doing alone. Tomas tied his own noose long before you arrived on the scene.” Rhea gives a wave of one hand, as if trying to clear the air of flies. “He was near impossible to get rid of due to his tenure, and so I began building a case against him some time ago. You were merely the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back.”

Despite Rhea's obvious attempt at mollifying, Lysithea does not feel very soothed by her words. After a few seconds of chilly silence, Lysithea manages to croak out a weak, "Oh."

Rhea hums a note at the back of her throat as if in agreement. The elevator slows its descent, and Lysithea is eager to escape being alone with Rhea in a small steel box. When the seventh floor illuminates on the screen, and the doors slide open, Lysithea nearly trips over her own feet in her haste.

“Miss Ordelia?”

Lysithea hesitates, and glances over her shoulder.

Rhea is smiling that cold smile of hers, a smile that never seems to touch her eyes. “Congratulations on your submission.”

The moment Lysithea returns to her office, feeling dazed and bewildered from her run in with the dean, Hilda is already waiting for her.

"You all done?" Hilda asks. She stands leaning against the closed and locked door to Lysithea's office. Her thumbs tap away at something on her phone, but after a moment she puts her phone away and awaits Lysithea's answer with an expectant expression.

Lysithea nods. "All done. It's submitted. Now, I wait."

A slow smile spreads across Hilda's face. She pushes off from the door, and links her arm through Lysithea's so that she can steer her back down the hallway towards the elevators.

"Where are we going?" Lysithea asks.

"Out to celebrate." Hilda hands over Lysithea's own bag, presumably pinched from her office just earlier. "You forgot this at home, by the way."

"Oh." Lysithea flushes.

So, not pinched from her office, then. Lysithea must have been so distracted this morning at the thought of printing and submitting her thesis that she had left her bag behind at Hilda's apartment, where she had been staying for -- well, for weeks now.

At this point, Lysithea is greeted with surprise by her flatmates when she actually returns to her own apartment.

Hilda drags her back to Claude's bar, which Lysithea has learned was her favourite haunt in the city, though certainly not the only trendy place she frequented on her nights on the town. It's only three in the afternoon, but still the bar is flooded with customers. When they enter, Hilda waves at a few people as they call out to her. One or two even flash Lysithea a familiar smile as well, to which Lysithea reacts with pleased puzzlement.

She has never been recognised at a bar before. Especially not one like this.

Hilda breezes her way through a few customers to get at the bar and order drinks. Lysithea has a soda, but despite the hour Hilda orders herself a fruity drink with more vodka than sense. Grabbing up both their drinks, Hilda heads towards her usual seat in the house: a series of rich leather couches on a raised platform like incredibly comfortable thrones upon a dais. The walls behind them are festooned with gold-lacquered deer antlers for which the establishment takes its name. A well-stocked fireplace keeps this area warmer than the others. Logs are meticulously stacked against one of the walls all the way up to the ceiling to give the impression that they are lounging in a luxury lodge in the middle of the woods.

Hilda leans back into one corner of the couch, her feet propped on the low table before them. From her seat, she can see everyone in the room, and they can all see her. Lysithea feels like she’s on stage sitting next to Hilda here. And indeed a few other customers glance curiously in their direction.

“So,” Hilda sips at her drink, and says around the bright yellow straw, “how was Rhea?”

“Terrifying,” Lysithea admits truthfully.

Hilda sniggers. “You gotta admit though: she gets results.”

“She fired Tomas.”

“Good. I never liked that guy anyway. Gave me the creeps the first time I met him.” When Lysithea squirms somewhat in her seat and doesn’t answer, Hilda rolls her eyes. “Oh, please don’t tell me you feel guilty about this.”

Lysithea frowns, indignant and a little irritated that Hilda can read her so easily. “I just wish we could’ve found a better way around this whole situation.”

“Honestly? To be honest? To be perfectly frank?” Hilda gestures emphatically around the drink in her hand. “I think everyone got what they deserved. Tomas got fired. Yay. Hanneman gets to be your main supervisor. Yay again. Good for him. And you got to submit your thesis on time. Double yay.”

Lysithea still hasn’t touched her soda. It remains on the table, atop a coaster because she remembered from the last time their visit how one of the wait staff had scolded Hilda for not using one.

“And you?” she asks.

Hilda tilts her head. “Me?”

“What did you get?”

For a moment, Hilda appears utterly puzzled by the question. Then, she snorts. “I got to help a friend. Duh.”

It occurs to Lysithea then that of all the times she had thanked everyone throughout this process -- Rhea, Edelgard, Hanneman, even the administrator whose name she couldn’t remember -- she hadn’t thanked Hilda. Thanking her for offering to maim Tomas just doesn’t feel the same.

“Thank you,” Lysithea says. "I don't know what I would've done without you."

"Oh, pssht!" Hilda waves her away. "I didn't do anything. You and Edelgard and Hanneman and Rhea did all the work. I was just an accessory."

Lysithea shakes her head. "You and I both know that's not true. If you hadn't been here, I probably would've given up."

"Bull. Shit." Hilda slams her drink down on the broad arm of the couch, where it teeters precariously. "You would've pulled through just fine. You're amazing! I've never met anyone more resilient and hard working. Not gonna lie, it's a bit spooky. You were, like, super intimidating when I first met you."

The idea that Hilda could have been intimidated by anything let alone by Lysithea is ludicrous. Lysithea doesn't believe it for a second. She scoffs.

"That's ridiculous. I'm not special. Not like you. I'm just diligent, whereas you're -" Lysithea gestures to Hilda, "- actually gifted. You just chose to be lazy. And even then you make it all seem so effortless. I wish I were more like that."

“As much as I just love being complimented, the sincerity of your delivery is kinda starting to freak me out. Are you feeling alright?” Hilda reaches over to test the temperature of Lysithea’s forehead.

Lysithea doesn’t pull back, but she does scowl. “I’m trying to express my gratitude!”

“Yeah, well, gratitude expressed. I’m great, and you’re welcome. Anyway -”

Lysithea isn’t letting her off the hook that easily. She sits up a little straighter on the couch and looks Hilda dead in the eye. “I mean it. It’s important to me that you know that I - well, I -”

The dim lights of the bar wash the room in a golden sepia glow. The fire flickers and warms the air around them. Hilda is watching her with an expression that can only be described as star-struck, and Lysithea wonders how long Hilda has looked at her like that for, or if this is just the first time she’s noticed.

“- appreciate you,” Lysithea finishes slowly. “And everything you’ve done for me.”

A steady flush rises up Hilda’s cheeks until her face is bright pink. Lysithea stares. Hilda is the first to break eye contact. She snatches up her drink, and slouches back against the couch to sip at the straw, holding the glass like she’s trying to hide behind it.

It hits Lysithea like a freight train, the sudden realisation. Her jaw goes slack. Hilda has already recovered, and is striking up some new spirited conversation about the band that’s setting up across the room, but Lysithea can barely hear over the blood-dimmed rush in her ears, roaring like the tide.

She doesn’t know what’s worse. That she now has to wait a harrowing few months to find out if her thesis has passed. Or the newfound knowledge that she is absolutely, irrevocably head over heels in love with Hilda Goneril.

#fe3h #fire emblem three houses #hilda/lysithea #hilda valentine goneril #lysithea von ordelia #two across #roman writes

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