CW: Mild Angst
A thousand years old is an unbearably long time to live, but somehow, Flayn still feels younger than everyone else around her.
Perhaps there's something to her father's worry, to the way that he holds her back and wants to hide her away. Flayn does her best to fit in and understand society, but she always seems to fall just short. Jokes that fly over her head, books that she reads that she doesn't quite understand-
She does her best, eager to learn and eager to please. Wants to be more than the cute, naive little thing that all others find her to be.
There's one thing that Flayn knows, though, far better acquainted with it than any other student around her: War.
She'd seen the stirrings of it all those years ago, watched as tensions rose. The way that Rhea's actions always seemed to be a little too dubious in nature, how certain people always had tricks up their sleeves. And then, of course, the Death Knight and Flame Emperor themselves.
Everyone was shocked at Edelgard's reveal, how she was the one intent on taking matters into her own hands to implement change.
Five years later, they still seem to be surprised as they wring their fingers together and wonder what comes next.
Flayn knows because she knows war, she's played this game before. What comes next are skirmishes, and war-torn battlefields and crimson red that'll stain the dirt wet with vermillion. They'll do their best to hold their lines, to set up camp, to flit around and heal who they can; but people will still die.
They certainly don't have the upper hand.
She smells her father before she can hear him. His footsteps crunch over debris in what's left of the Monastery. They're still clearing out the rubble, still trying to make it livable. She stands near a parapet on the western edge, watching the landscape.
Might be the last time she ever sees it, but who really knows? She's survived worse. Dragons aren't so easy to kill.
"I'm already tired," she says as Seteth stands next to her.
He's usually so stiff and formal, so it's a surprise when he leans over and rests his arms on the railing. Then, he sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "These kids," he says, "They just don't understand, they don't know. Not like we do."
"It isn't that I never thought I'd see war again, but…" Flayn's voice trails off, her fingers digging into the cool, sharp stone of the wall. "These are good people, people that I've come to love dearly. I don't want to lose them."
"It won't be easy." Seteth doesn't look at her fully, his face only tipping towards her with a sidelong glance.
"It never is," says Flayn. "It wasn't centuries ago and it won't be now. Still, I'll do everything within my power to be of use. I'm Cethleann, a healer of the light; if there is one thing I'm meant for, this is it."
Seteth turns to her then, regarding her fondly. "Most times I forget that you aren't a child, no matter what I'd like to think."
Flayn smiles softly at that. "I love you too, for what it's worth. You are, truly, the best father."
Seteth smiles, a soft and slightly pained thing. Flayn knows it's because he misses her mother, misses his youth, wishes that times were easier. He never had the chance to truly raise her, not like he's always wanted.
Life is hard for those who live such long lives.
He leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead, and then leaves her be. Flayn turns back to watch the sun sink below the horizon, painting the sky orange and purple.
It's quiet and nice. Ignatz would want to paint it, Felix would want to train in it, Sylvain would probably recite terrible love poetry to woo a lady or two. At least, that's how it would've been when they were younger. They aren't children anymore, Flayn's beloved friends are all grown now, one step closer to their end than she'll ever be.
Be it death in a war or death of old age.
Still, perhaps there's hope that rises like the twilight gloaming that casts purple hues. Most would see the darkness that falls.
All Flayn sees is tired potential.