Annette Fantine Dominic never, ever gave up hope. Yet, among the forgotten rubble that had once given form to the distant goddess, her heart was treading dangerously close to the darkness of surrender.
The echo of her steps resonated within the limestone walls, not unlike the funeral tolling of a bell. She would rather bask in the company of her friends any other day, but now, it was a mercy that the cathedral remained as empty as ever. Normally, the presence of their deranged prince was more than enough to drive people out, but even he was nowhere to be found. Every single nun, merchant, cook, anyone had to tend to their weary forces after the massacre that Gronder Field witnessed.
Her feet throbbed from running around the monastery and her hands trembled, incapable of handling a single more wisp of healing magic. Like every muscle in her body had turned to rock, the grim reality of her exhaustion began to dawn on her.
And it was unbearably frustrating.
I should be out there helping, she insisted, clutching her wooden doll. It was so silly, seeking out relief in a toy, and she had wished that she would grow out of it eventually. She would stop imagining her father's soft voice and his calloused palms stroking her head, those same ones that had carved her most precious possession…
She glanced around the cathedral, straining to find traces of the comforting atmosphere that was the reason why she considered such places holy. Since she was a child, her father had taught her to retrieve her courage in the home of their deity, wrapped in her loving, albeit incorporeal embrace. It had always worked.
But now, with icy winds scattering specks of dust along the wreckage, the cathedral was no more. Instead, a ghost house trapped her among the souls lost to the war; those spirits that were desperately trying to find their way to the goddess, never aware that her likeness had been reduced to mere debris. Whenever she closed her eyes, she swore she could once again hear Bernadetta's cries as she was burned alive, or the roars of Claude's wyvern when poisoned arrows pierced its scales…
And so, as raindrops filtered through the ceiling's cracks, Annette wept.
She wept like she hadn't allowed herself before, like her body had so adamantly demanded to. Guilt crawled up her spine, wreaking harder sobs from her as it reminded her of how pathetic she was, running off to cry like a child when everyone was working so hard to mend a broken cause. She wept for the victims of such a horrific conflict, for her friends, for her own father, who now more than ever seemed like a walking member of the dead's ranks.
Although she had survived the most gruesome encounter yet, she didn't think she could endure the notion that she was no more than a useless, selfish burden.
The lone warrior girl bawled until her stinging gaze refused to shed any more tears. She wished she could have cast aside every ounce of her grief in her cries, and she did feel better after letting it all out, but such a heavy weight wouldn't let go of her shoulders so easily. In her grasp, the tiny figure stared back at her with her permanent, oblivious grin, stirring up a pang of jealousy in her gut.
How wonderful it would be to revel in that same joy, to be whisked away to a wonderland that knows no suffering…
But Annette Fantine Dominic wouldn't give up hope.
Her sight still blurry, she stared skyward. The moon greeted her in full splendor, far away yet close enough to share its glow with the world. In her mind, the notes of her newly composed tune resonated, like stringing a lullaby that begged her to keep fighting.
Allowing herself to breathe in deeply, she tried to dispel those rotten battlefield flashbacks that overwhelmed her, instead recalling images of her guiding light. Mercie helping her give Ingrid a breathtaking makeover for the winter ball, the Professor and Sylvain never going easy on her during sparring sessions, Dedue and Ashe teaching her how to prepare that exquisite fish and bean soup…
Felix smiling warmly as she sang the library song…
Then, the memory of a heartrending scream sent her back to the Battle of Gronder, where Annette could merely stare as the powerful swordsman fell to his knees, clinging fiercely to his father's dead body.
Oh, saints, Felix.
Her blood ran cold. He hadn't said a word to anyone since Gronder. Their return to the monastery had attained an even somber ambience whenever Ingrid or Sylvain tried to approach the detached soldier, who muttered—almost hissed—to leave him in peace. It had become rarer and rarer to see him eat or get out of his quarters.
The black beads of her doll shone in the moonlight, like wanting to share the answer to their troubles. The young heir of Fraldarius might have disliked Lord Rodrigue, even detested him, yet Annette was certain that he couldn't be all right after his death. The young boy in his heart hadn't ever stopped loving his father.
After all, she knew what it was like to love someone who had abandoned you.
That settled it.
She placed her doll in her satchel and pulled her capelet over her head to protect herself from the rain, then walked down to the bridge and inside the reception hall. To compensate for the infirmary's lacking capacity, makeshift beds lay sprawled around every centimeter of the floor, barely leaving the necessary narrow trails for the healers to maneuver. Unsure to interrupt their work, she wandered around the room until a kindhearted nun pointed her in the direction that she had seen the famous combatant set towards. Of course; if he wasn't in his quarters, he would be in the training grounds.
Midway through the staircase, muffled traces of deep grunts reached her ears, as did the swish of a weapon cutting through the air. She quickened her pace, ignoring the shooting pain as she ran up two steps at a time. There were only a handful of people willing to train in the middle of a downpour.
When she reached the top, her breath caught in her throat.
At the center of the enclosure, Felix slashed away at a wrecked dummy, straw pouring out of its weakening stitches eerily like blood from a wound. Each strike of his blade was brutal, unrelenting, yet an unfamiliar clumsiness engulfed his demeanor, showing itself in his uncertain stance and in the way that his hilt slightly wobbled in his loose grip.
I can't leave him, she thought, striding over to him with soft yet resolute steps. I need to do something.
"Felix?" she began, her caring tone out of place among the sounds of combat.
His concentration wavered, but he didn't answer nor turn around to look at her.
She trudged to his side, noticing that his clothes were completely soaked. Beads of sweat born from his strain blended in with the raindrops that cascaded down his face, sticking his bangs to his forehead and obscuring most of his features from view.
"Oh, Felix, you shouldn't be out here right now," she said, holding her capelet closer to avoid trembling visibly. "You could catch a cold, you know…"
Although he remained silent, the swordsman finally stopped his attack and tilted his head up slightly, as if just now noticing the heavy rain of spring pouring onto him.
It was then that his gaze met hers.
If Annette's heart was already broken, the sight in front of her crushed its remaining pieces. With the thrill of battle forsaking his limbs, he struggled to drag his feet towards her, his tired movements akin to a ragdoll's. Deep bags bore into his skin, the price to pay for spending countless nights awake. It was like a black cloud had drowned out the piercing amber of his now puffy and bloodshot eyes.
They would have mirrored those of a corpse…if it weren't for the fact that they were rolling back into his head.
"Felix?" She scrambled towards him, her arms shooting up to grab his shoulders so he wouldn't fall. The thud of his sword hitting the ground rang throughout the cloister. "Felix!"
Dread flooded her veins as she quivered under the dead weight, but she breathed a small sigh of relief when she realized that he was focusing every ounce of consciousness and willpower left in him to maintain his balance. Daring to free one of her hands, she brushed his obstructing fringe away. His temperature wasn't feverish, mercifully, but she could have sworn that his complexion was growing paler by the minute. She searched for the glint that Felix often bore in his gaze, that which exuded energy and resolve and life.
Instead, she found the most frightening nothingness. A soul numb from pain.
"Oh my goodness," she breathed, her wobbly fingers wandering from his face to his torso and shoulders. She couldn't remember ever feeling so anxious with any of her patients, not even those of the ghastliest injuries.
Of course. This was another type of wound entirely.
"Felix, hold on to me, OK?" she instructed as she positioned herself under his arm, clutching his waist. Although she squeezed the fabric of his shirt as gingerly as she could, water still poured out. "Come on. Let's get you out of the rain."
The pair trudged over to the nearest covered walkway. With every step they took, Annette realized to her absolute dismay that his body grew warmer against hers and his ragged breaths resonated by her ear. Her traitorous cheeks flared, and her mind replayed a particular scene over and over.
I hear your voice when I'm asleep, or in battle…
She mentally chastised herself, fixing her sights on the road and hoping that her determination would drown out the fluttering in her stomach. A hundred other matters were far more important at the moment.
Once they reached the hall, she carefully untangled herself from his warm grasp, the icy air of the night seizing the opportunity to permeate her bones. Undeterred, she guided him to sit by the weapons rack.
"There we go." She knelt before him and tucked back his unruly hair. His eyes were still half-lidded and unfocused, but a tiny flicker of vigor seemed to be returning to them. For the first time in an unbelievably long while, Annette smiled. "That's so much better. You'll feel much better now."
He glanced at her hand, which was still grazing against his temple. As if she had touched fire, she pulled it back with an embarrassing yelp.
"Sorry," she blurted out, averting her eyes.
Saints, what should she do now? Offering her condolences would be an obvious answer, but he had already received plenty of those from their peers, shooting each one a vicious glare for daring to utter his father's name. She was no expert physician, and whatever meager amount of white magic she could conjure wouldn't stitch up a cut, much less soothe the aching in his limbs. Mercedes and Manuela were undoubtedly tending to a myriad of injured soldiers, and the notion of leaving Felix as he was would crush her, but perhaps it would be better to bring a capable healer…
However, as soon as she began to stand up, his eyes widened and his brow furrowed in fear, like the motion had yanked him back to reality.
"Annette…" he whispered hoarsely, as if he hadn't spoken in ages.
One word had never filled her with such overwhelming relief. She immediately sank down to her knee again.
"Yes?" she urged, frantically searching his features for any more signs of vitality. Gripping her dress seemed to stop the impulse to reach for his cheek, or his forehead, or his hair.
"I…" he began, clenching his jaw. Amber irises glimmered as his sorrow begged to be set free. "Annette, I… I can't... Not again." He looked away, digging his fingers into his palms. "I'm so weak, I… I can't bear this again."
An agonizing lump rose to her throat. She knew what loss was. She even somewhat knew what it was like to lose a father, but her family had never been truly shattered. Back home, her mother awaited her, alive and safe.
Felix had lost everyone. His mother, his father, his brother… Of his dearly loved ones, only he remained among the scorched remains of the world of the living.
The mere attempt to fathom his suffering caused something in Annette's chest to ache. She didn't see a formidable swordsman capable of paralyzing elite warriors with terror, nor did she see her moody classmate whose rare smile was the most genuine of them all.
She saw a young boy, scared and exhausted and so, so alone.
Not unlike that little girl who hugged her wooden doll as she wept.
"Felix…" Annette mumbled.
Then, she did something that she never would have dared to in the past, something that was once guaranteed to provoke a grimace or a shove.
She threw her arms around his neck and pressed herself against him in the tightest hug. He did not stiffen—if he had the energy to even do that—and only the clamor of raindrops accompanied the pounding of her heart.
Then, a slight warmth cradled her side. One of Felix's hands nestled on her waist while the other hesitantly slid up her back, as if unsure of how to return the embrace. Wanting to say It's OK, I'm here, she held him closer, but a stifled cry escaped her mouth when she opened it. She reached for his damp, tangled hair, prompting him to rest on her shoulder.
Even then, Felix didn't sob. An almost inaudible whimper escaped his lips, perhaps, and he inhaled sharply through gritted teeth. Annette wondered just how many hardships he had endured, how many tragedies had twisted his existence, for him to become almost numb from torment. To say that he's weak for grieving the death of his own father.
To think that he's cursed to tread through life alone.
Some people may like solitude, the words of her mother rang through her mind. She recalled her sitting by the window, the captivating colors of dusk illuminating her hair, as she set down her violin. But no one ever truly wants to be alone. Music, Annie… Music will always be with you, even when I can't. Don't forget that, all right?
She gently pulled away from the hug. A spark of panic ignited in his gaze, but he relaxed when she gave a weary smirk and sat against the wall. She patted her thighs, and a new type of fear settled on his expression. His gaze darted to the ground and then met hers timidly, as if asking if this was truly OK. She laughed softly, beckoning him to lay on her lap.
"Can I sing for you, Felix?" she muttered.
He stiffened, staring up at her like he couldn't believe what was happening. She wasn't really sure that this wasn't a dream, either.
Slowly, he sunk back into her lap and gave the slightest of nods.
She cleared her throat. Then, she began to hum the opening tune of her most recent creation.
Where are you sun, your golden rays
Illuminating each of my days
Color the skyline of shining reds
Then I'll know, yes, you're on your ways
Her voice was hushed and wobbly, threatening to break at any moment, but, weirdly enough, the sub-par performance didn't embarrass her. It was meant only for his ears, the howling rainfall shielding her song from the rest of the realm. Besides, ever since he expressed his love for her singing, a new wave of excitement engulfed her whenever she finished composing a new piece, urging her to share it with him.
Humming the chorus, she played with his unexpectedly soft locks, and his chest began to rise and fall in a more relaxed rhythm. She was especially proud of this melody: the song of the sun and the moon, composed on her loneliest nights. Her repertoire wasn't exactly known for being elaborate or deep—as much as Claude had searched for any morbid connotations—, but perhaps the goddess had helped her channel her inner poet with this one.
Now, as sleepiness overtook them both, the meaning of her lyrics had never rang more true in her ears. People always wait for the sun to vanquish the darkness and for its first rays to peek over the horizon, promising a bright tomorrow, but few remember to honor the moon. A glimmer of faith among the night, it protects them all throughout their most desperate hours.
She continued, knowing that this was not a proper gesture of gratitude, but a prayer for the lost and the broken.
For herself, and for the man in front of her.
Moon, don't be shy, with gentle light
Watch over us in the depths of the night
Color the heavens of brilliant white
Then I'll know, yes, you hear my plight
Against her persistent efforts, her voice cracked on the final notes, replacing them with a quiet sob. She cursed inwardly when a feeling of powerlessness worsened her cries. Hadn't she shed all of her tears back at the cathedral? Why must she always burden others with her troubles? She was supposed to help, for heaven's sake, she was—
Her mind went blank when a feather-like touch wiped her cheek. Felix fought against his fatigue once again, this time to cup her face and let his thumb stroke her damp skin. Her hand nestled on top of his own, and the leather of his gauntlets was suddenly too rough, too obstructive. Still, no amount of material could drown out the softness of his caress, nor the kindness of his unspoken words, and a little smile reached her lips. His frown softened and his eyes closed, like the world was finally at peace.
Not quite ready to let go of his warmth, she laced their fingers as slumber claimed him, lowering his arm. Felix may not be cheery or radiant like the sun, she supposed. He was not their promise of a prosperous future, nor their long-awaited savior.
Her smile widened. No. Felix was not like the sun, but he was her moon: a faint, tender light, one that protects her amidst the darkest of nights. One that inspires her to keep moving forward.
At last, one of her prayers had not gone unheard.
She could not remember when her surroundings faded into a peaceful obscurity, nor when the sounds of the storm ceased. She could only remember a lingering thought among the haze of her mind, one last hope for the bloomed overachiever, Annette Fantine Dominic.
That, if she could be his sun…then, perhaps, everything would be all right.
Author's Note: Oh WOW writing this emotionally wrecked me because these two emotionally wreck me. I like to imagine that a very distressed Mercedes scolded them for sleeping outdoors, in the rain AND with wet clothes on. Mama Mercie is not gonna have any of that. I also like to sing the sun and moon song to the tune of "The Heritors of Arcadia", from Shadows of Valentia! (Yeah I'm not the greatest songwriter ;v;)
Anyway, please don't hesitate to tell me what you think! ^^ And thank you so much for reading!