In the aftermath of her rampage, there is a man frozen in place, seed falling from his hands while blood falls from hers. The birds have long since scattered, feathers where their shadows were, scared away when the earth shook and rotting wood took their place.

Her heavy breathing fills up the space afterwards; he is silent, staring as though he's seen a ghost, not another stranger in the woods.

Curls fall haphazardly across her shoulders and she has not been this unfurled in such a long, long time; she was supposed to be secluded, alone with her thoughts and splintered wood to add to the dead earth. The silence is almost unbearable, and so she fills it, demands to know the point of his stare, as though one look claims to know the weight on her shoulders, the weight that's doubled, now that she's relocated and secluded and dishonorably discharged for being too good at her own game. Weeks' worth of travel away if something were to happen, the very idea causing her shoulders to rise and her demands grow louder as she takes a bold step forward.

Silence. Nothing but silence as he steps forward, and her fists rise instinctively, bloody knuckles and splinters and all, as though she means to parry the hand that extends towards her—

—and catches them, carefully. Only enough to bring them down, but it's a gentle touch and her eyebrows knot in confusion, for he does not look the type at all. Words do not fall so easily from his tongue (he opens his mouth, closes it, lips set into more a grimace than anything else) but when they do, it is simple, a small statement with intent to help clear the air:

"Your hands are bleeding."

She is brusque in leaving without another look back, scattered words more a growl at the back of her throat, but there is something distinct in his statement that settles and lingers, although he is hardly the most pressing matter.

The newest recruits—a laughable statement, the very phrase bitter on her tongue as she utters it under her breath—find themselves with the distinct pleasure of taking over the duties of soldiers far older than she is. They make the mistake of assuming her shoulders are far less tired, but she is in no position to protest.

Dead earth and sleepy village rest below her. In the distance, mountains cut through thick gray clouds. The air tastes like distant snow and bitter cold.

The lone door to the watch tower creaks open. There is hesitation, and the same man steps in, wringing his hands, watching her with an expression that's hard to place in the dim light.

This time, he speaks first: asks about her hands, speaking carefully, voice a low rumble. Asks for a name, asks if she is all right. All in fragments, but thick with concern. A groan escapes from her lips as she cradles her chin. The answer is no, but it's longer than that, and they'd be here all night.

Well, she supposes, they have it.

One more groan, all deep resignation that settles into her posture.

She starts at his questions with the simplest one.

("Charlotte.")


Honestly the most underrated characters in Fates.

Based off their localized supports because translated material and subsequent discussion on them is so sparse. There are a few differences between their supports from the translated versions I read, but I overall felt more comfortable working with a text I have full access to. It'd be interesting to hear what people thought of their supports pre-localization, though. didn't see many people talk about them at all.