[ There are certain things that even Claude overlooks. They are not external.
See, Fodlan: At the Academy, he had used the ingrained obstinacy, even complacency, of the people of Fodlan. Used their ignorance, a blindness that sometimes seemed as much willful as it was willed by the Church. Yet, he had not depended on it, had not let down his walls and flaunted his otherness, at least not intentionally. Not intentionally to the extent that what made him unique might also give him entirely away.
After all, someone like Lorenz had been watching even after he'd changed houses. Claude couldn't be naive enough to dismiss the possibility that there were others.
What he'd overlooked, however, he continues to overlook. A lifelong blindspot, and the most dangerous kind: his own tells. The unintentional. The dozens of small ways in which he'd given himself away, in which he gives himself away, against his best judgment and every conscious impulse.
Dimitri is transparent. He wears his emotions as naturally as the crown he'd been born to, in a land that believed nobility a birthright. Claude recognizes his surprise and expects it, though he'd misjudged which of his words would startle.
And he recognizes his comprehension, however fleeting the evidence.
He doesn't like it.
Plain at that, and plain as this, it's like a nettle. Sticking, one he'll need to work to pick loose and put away. What's strange, even unsettling, though he's disinclined to be unsettled: it isn't the only spur. But why a memory as simple as Dimitri's, as superficially pleasant, should stick...
Later.
For the moment, for now, his smile keeps easy, and his eyes hadn't been clear to begin with. Even manages a glint of mischief, cut through his laugh. ]
Why not? Considering all the damage we've managed to do apart, if we four giants of men and the goddess herself reach out our hands in friendship —
[ A moment's interruption as he jerks left, out of the looping trajectory of a firefly. ]
— we might just win. Though I vote we start holding hands on a less buggy day.
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See, Fodlan: At the Academy, he had used the ingrained obstinacy, even complacency, of the people of Fodlan. Used their ignorance, a blindness that sometimes seemed as much willful as it was willed by the Church. Yet, he had not depended on it, had not let down his walls and flaunted his otherness, at least not intentionally. Not intentionally to the extent that what made him unique might also give him entirely away.
After all, someone like Lorenz had been watching even after he'd changed houses. Claude couldn't be naive enough to dismiss the possibility that there were others.
What he'd overlooked, however, he continues to overlook. A lifelong blindspot, and the most dangerous kind: his own tells. The unintentional. The dozens of small ways in which he'd given himself away, in which he gives himself away, against his best judgment and every conscious impulse.
Dimitri is transparent. He wears his emotions as naturally as the crown he'd been born to, in a land that believed nobility a birthright. Claude recognizes his surprise and expects it, though he'd misjudged which of his words would startle.
And he recognizes his comprehension, however fleeting the evidence.
He doesn't like it.
Plain at that, and plain as this, it's like a nettle. Sticking, one he'll need to work to pick loose and put away. What's strange, even unsettling, though he's disinclined to be unsettled: it isn't the only spur. But why a memory as simple as Dimitri's, as superficially pleasant, should stick...
Later.
For the moment, for now, his smile keeps easy, and his eyes hadn't been clear to begin with. Even manages a glint of mischief, cut through his laugh. ]
Why not? Considering all the damage we've managed to do apart, if we four giants of men and the goddess herself reach out our hands in friendship —
[ A moment's interruption as he jerks left, out of the looping trajectory of a firefly. ]
— we might just win. Though I vote we start holding hands on a less buggy day.