Delicate Flower - A Hilda Fanzine

DELICATE
FLOWER
A HILDA FANZINE

PETALS ACROSS SEASONS
ANONYMOUS WORDSMITH
Spring extends into her months to watch over the late blooming flowers;
he pushes peonies and lavender and daisies down the stream that separates
their houses and in front of where Hilda spends most of her days. She picks
them up to leave them at her side for later. Every morning finds her there,
sitting on the river bank with her feet in the water and her white linen dress
blowing in the wind, as carefree as the birds that sing about the passing
of time.
There is never much for her to do, not when the other seasons do their
tasks so perfectly — Claude had always been on better terms with the sun,
the two of them arranged to melt away winter’s cold as soon as the time was
right and bring life to the plants and wildlife that had been hiding under the
protective snow. She finds the sun intimidating, a little too tall and serious
for her liking despite the warmth that it radiates, so when spring moves
into summer and Claude passes her the responsibility of handling the sun,
Hilda will simply leave it be.
“Will you do me a favor, handsome,” she begins every year without fail, “I see
no reason to direct how much you shine. There’s no one better than you to
know how much is too much, right? I would be forever grateful.”
The people can be picky. Too hot, too cold, too much sun or never enough,
always bordering the thin line between comfort and discomfort and praying
to their statues for one more day of light, one less day of heat. Hilda has come
to the conclusion long ago that they will always be disappointed no matter
what they’re given — perhaps it comes with being a deity, or the fragility
of the balance between their seasons, but she sees no reason to ever lift
a finger.
The sun can shine all it wants because it should know better than her, and
Claude brings back the spring breeze when the heat gets too much. He did
scold her at first; according to him the sun does his tasks too eagerly, and the
temperatures become unbearable. Hilda weaves his flowers into a garland
and floats it back to him with a smile over the river when the waters are
stilled, a “you tell him”, happy with the grumble she gets in response. Even
the seasons that work incessantly deserve their rest.
So the sun shines high in the air, Hilda weaves her flowers into accessories,
and the rain peeks at her over autumn’s fence asking if they can come out
and play already. No way. Rain would mean going back inside — it would
mean not seeing the others, no playful smile on spring’s lips, nor the freckles
autumn bears, nor the rare occasions where winter isn’t napping and gathers
them all to talk about the old times when the earth was frozen and only
he existed. Her months of the year are the only time when neither of them
are busy.
Hilda isn’t busy because she doesn’t want to be; all Claude has to do is
supervise his flowers and the couples he’s pushed together, and Ashe
doesn’t offer his bounty to the harvests nor paints colors onto the leaves until
the days grow shorter. Linhardt, always wrapped in blankets to stay warm
no matter how much power the sun puts into its shine, doesn’t know what
being busy means. Winter is nothing but a long sleep of life, and the rest of
them are there to make sure it doesn’t last forever.
“Sleep is necessary,” Linhardt says while letting Hilda braid flowers into his
hair one morning, while Claude and Ashe are having a heated discussion on
what fruit represents love the best. All of them, she thinks, if they’re made
into a cake, but watching them bicker over something so inconsequential
has her heart floating. She almost doesn’t realize Linhardt is talking for once.
Another lily goes into Linhardt’s hair, another braid, Hilda’s practiced hands
don’t tug even a single strand. She spots some white hairs here and there
that Claude must’ve missed when he dyed it last time.
“Is it?” she asks, curious what he has to say. Even Ashe and Claude have
stopped their argument to listen.
“Think about it,” Linhardt continues, “be it the smallest plant or the largest
animal you can imagine. Sadness, hunger, worries, exhaustion, sleep takes
all those things away, it makes it easier to face them when you next open
your eyes.”
“We don’t sleep,” Ashe says. “Except you.”
“Exactly. How do you deal with the things that weigh on your heart?”
Worries. Hilda is convinced she doesn’t have anything like that; if she doesn’t
need to sleep by nature nor has she ever considered doing it, it must mean
that there’s no need for it, that Linhardt was simply on one of his observational
tangents that in the end lead to nothing. Even so, his words do cause her
to think about herself beyond what she would ever consider comfortable.
Some days she stares at the sun, who makes sure not to harm her,
and wonders if there is something she did wrong.
People will always be disappointed, no matter what they do; Claude who
brings color and life and love, Ashe who brings families and food and peace,
and Linhardt with his mantles of snow and beauty and rest. Too much, not
enough, never enough —so Hilda will never bring anything, never listen to
the voices of their prayers, the sadness, the begging. The garland of white
roses by her feet look about to wilt, laid forgotten for the weeks her mind has
been elsewhere. Is it really sleep she needs or will that make her risk it again?
Disappointment stings like a poison that could kill her, slow and agonizing,
and she has been watching the other three drink it without worry and rinse
and repeat with every passing year. She forgets about the roses, and the new
flowers Claude is sending her, and rests her head on her knees; the sun’s
warmth embraces her and the rain falls silent. Hilda, summer, beautiful and

sun kissed and covered with flowers, yet she has never known what summer
is meant to be. The roses keep wilting, and she acquiesces to a sleep that has
been begging her for centuries but had been left willfully ignored.
Hilda sleeps. She doesn’t dream, but hears voices somewhere through
whispers and giggles that come accompanied with gentle sensations and
hands and a sweet smell that reminds her of Ashe’s home and the way he’s
always baking, mixing in with the scent of freshly picked bush roses. It slips
into her rest and envelops her in peaceful silence. It’s like floating into a
welcoming darkness that can do more harm, and perhaps, she thinks as the
last of her consciousness goes away, she will sleep more often.
By the time she wakes autumn has already pushed through. Her body feels
heavy, as if held down by something, and it takes Hilda a while to gather her
mind back into the world. The weight turns out to be Linhardt’s blanket that
has been pulled all the way over her shoulders; at her left, roses over roses
have been piled up, kept fresh through the magic of spring. At her right,
apple pie, still warm and making her stomach growl. It’s already been cut, so
she takes a bite to delight in the taste. Ashe’s baking never fails to make her
feel like it’s the first time she’s having it. The rich apple and butter taste wake
her up entirely.
Hilda drinks in his words like bees would drink nectar. Whether she believes
them yet or not, even she isn’t sure, but there is sincerity in Claude’s words;
that she somehow belongs in this great cog of things without having to
change herself. The others work harder to take away her worries, and she
exists to take away theirs. “Aw, Claude, you are so sweet sometimes I might
even cry.” She must already be crying, because Claude’s thumb is wiping a
wetness off her cheek, smiling as usual. “I like being full of surprises, and if
I’m honest, I love doing nothing as much as you do.”
Hilda laughs. The birds chirp with her, and the roses and pie and blankets will
remain with her as proof that she is loved, and she loves that oh-so much she
allows rain to sprinkle some summers and Linhardt to snow the mountains
all year round, and for Claude’s flowers to bloom all the way into the peak of
their laziness.
Spring extends into her month to watch over the late blooming flowers;
peonies and lavenders and daisies tickling Hilda’s feet in the water. Some
she picks up to weave like she’s always done, but others she allows to keep
flowing down the river, down time, so that they may decorate the land and
remind the world below that summer will remain the way it has always been:
carefree and loving.
The seasons had left her gifts. She looks at the blanket, roses, remaining pie,
and the guilt returns to poke at her mind. They must be disappointed in her,
too, never helping, always pushing things onto them to avoid the pain for
herself, and despite all that they still took the time to —
“Hilda,” Claude calls for her from across the river, and then he’s at her side
with a kind smile and more flowers. He sits at her side and helps himself with
a slice of pie too, looking delighted, especially as Hilda gives him a face for
eating her pie. “I’ve brought you more.”
“...Why?” Hilda looks away from him.
“Why?” Claude takes a moment, humming, as if he’s thinking about what
to say. She knows he only makes that noise when he’s sure of his answer.
“Because I love seeing you by the river every day, weaving crowns and
earrings and necklaces, or simply being .”
“You speak such nonsense! You and the other two work so hard, despite
everything, and all I do is pile more things onto you.”
“Maybe.” Claude shrugs. “Yet unlike the people, unlike the voices we hear
every day, you’re always thankful, Hilda. You say please, you say thank you;
you spend every second of your existence making beautiful things to share
with the rest of us and you’re the very reason we spend time together at all.
You’re why sometimes people can’t tell autumn from winter or winter from
spring. That’s what summer is supposed to be, Hilda; not some hidden goal
you’re missing, but the warmth of the sun, the beauty of being with others,
and doing nothing.”

YOU CAN COUNT ON ME TO MISBEHAVE
SAFRANINFLARE
“So, tell me again why I’m here?”
“Hilda, the sparkling jewel of House Goneril.” Claude patted Hilda on the
back, but she swatted his hand away like one of Dorte’s flies. “This is revenge.”
“Okay, but like. It’s Lorenz. We prank him all the time!” She thought back to
their most famous scheme, where they convinced the Gloucester heir that
she totally knew how to cut hair and Oh yes, Lorenz, that looks so noble.
Claude had nearly broken a rib from trying not to laugh.
“This is different. No one messes with the Golden Deer.”
“But, why do you need me? I’m not good at anything and plus, I need my
beauty sleep!” Hilda crossed her arms over her chest and gave her best pout,
even though she knew that Claude von Riegan was the only person in this
entire monastery that wouldn’t fall for her song and dance. Maybe that’s why
they somehow became best friends.
“You’re the only one that can fit through the window!”
“Nuh uh. Lysithea can too!”
“Do you really think that Lysithea would engage in something as childish as
our prank war?” Claude asked. “Plus, if we let this keep going, they’ll end up
pranking Marianne. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
Hilda bit her lip. Of course she wouldn’t want anyone to go after Marianne.
So, she snatched the rope out of Claude’s hands and sighed.
“The Black Eagles are going down!”
“That’s my girl!” Claude clapped her once on the back. “Just go through the
window, and unlock the door from the inside.”
She flashed him a thumbs up, then began to scale the wall. The moment
her foot first touched brick, she wondered how the hell Claude managed
to convince her this was a good idea. What if she got stuck in the window?
What if she failed miserably and got them caught, and then Marianne would
get pranked, and Claude would hate her.
What if she broke a nail?
“Come on, Hilda!” Claude shouted up at her, somehow forgetting that this
was supposed to be a secret mission. She was halfway up the wall, and yet
she was frozen. “I’ll do your chores for a week if you make it in there.”
“Oh, you dastard. Deal.” Hilda scrambled the rest of the way up the wall and
popped the window open without a second thought. Sure, it looked a little
tight, but there was no way that Claude would have miscalculated this.
She could definitely make it through.
Hilda shimmied through the crack and landed face-first on Manuela’s desk.
Papers scattered to and fro, littering the ground with assignments and
rosters and whatever other questionable things that Manuela kept there.
She picked one up, squinting at the horrid handwriting.
“Wow, Caspar. Even I can spell orange,” she mumbled, before vaguely
straightening out the things she knocked over. Thankfully, Manuela had
much less method to her madness than Hanneman, or even Byleth. Even if
she left things a bit of a mess, Manuela probably wouldn’t notice.
Hilda made her way back to the window and looked down at Claude.
“To the door!”
He flashed a thumbs up at her, and she watched as he slunk around the side
of the building. She made her way through the rows of desks, pausing for a
moment when she found what seemed to be the place where Edelgard and
Hubert usually sat.
At least, she assumed that was where they sat, considering it was the front
row and it reeked of the pair’s air of no fun allowed. Goddess, she was so glad
that Claude wasn’t as much of a fuddy duddy as the other house leaders.
If she was going to be stuck in the Academy for a year, at least she was going
to have a good time!
She unlocked the front doors and cracked one open, allowing Claude to slip
inside. He took a look around and let out a low whistle, even though there
wasn’t much different about this classroom than their own.
“So, what’re we doing? Hiding a dead fish in Edelgard’s desk?” Hilda asked.
Though, part of her wondered if it was wise to go after Edelgard. In fact,
she could already see the look on Hubert’s face. He might murder them all
in cold blood.
“Even better, Hils.” Claude had a bag slung over his shoulder, which he
dumped out on the floor. “I got some paint from Ignatz.”
A smile broke out on Hilda’s face as she snatched up a jar of bright yellow
paint and a brush. She bolted towards one of the Black Eagles banners,
moving faster than she had in months without someone actively chasing
her with a weapon.
“What should I write?” she asked. Before Claude could answer, though,
she smirked again. “Oh, I know!”

She wasted no time, adding a pair of antlers to their precious eagle, followed
by the words “Fear the Deer” written in the elaborate script that she had
practiced every time she wrote to Holst. When she finished, she tossed
the glass jar to the ground, allowing it to shatter and spread yellow paint
everywhere.
Claude whistled again. “A masterpiece, Hilda. Truly.”
“Is that it?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest and smearing a bit of
paint on her shirt. Well, she could always get Leonie to help her do laundry
in the morning.
“Almost.” Claude grinned.
Hilda had known him for long enough that that particular grin meant that he
had something absolutely diabolical up his sleeve. Sure enough, he slipped
a small vial out of the wrist of his shirt, one made of glass with a very securelooking
stopper.
“Might wanna hold your nose,” he said.
She also had known him for long enough to know that when he told her to
hold her nose, she listened.
Claude spiked the vial to the floor, and the two ran for the door with their
breath held, scrambling until they could make it back out into the fresh air.
Hilda pressed her back against the bricks, her skin covered with a sheen of
very unladylike sweat. How did Claude von Riegan make her run?
“What was that?”
“Something I whipped up. Remember the way that demonic beast smelled?”
Actually, she did. After they fought what used to be Miklan, it had taken her
a week and all of the rose-scented shampoo in Goneril to get that stink out
of her hair.
Without any warning, Hilda grabbed Claude by the lapels and swung his
back against the brick, pressing her lips to his. If they were going to get
caught, she’d rather get caught making out with the heir to the Leicester
Alliance than spreading beast stink in a rival classroom.
Seteth cleared his throat, the sound echoing in the night air. “Excuse me,
Miss Goneril. Mister von Riegan. Are you aware that it’s past curfew?”
Hilda pulled herself off of Claude, who looked absolutely dumbstruck,
and gave the best faux gasp she could muster. She ran her hands down the
front of her dress, careful to avoid flashing the bit of yellow paint on her arm.
“Oh, my Goddess. This is so embarrassing!” She ran a hand through one of
her twintails. “Claude, I told you we’d get caught!”
Seteth stared at them in a way that made her worry if he was actually buying
it or not. The frown on his face was ever-present, and could go either way.
“Please don’t tell Lady Rhea!” Hilda pleaded. Though, if she did get a detention,
she probably wouldn’t end up going anyway. It was too much work!
“I will make an exception this one time, provided you go straight to your
rooms—separately,” he said with a furrowed brow.
“Oh, thank you, Seteth! I promise we’ll be good!” Hilda grabbed Claude’s
wrist, Claude, who still seemed quite shocked by the whole affair,
and yanked him back towards the stairs. Seteth had already begun to walk
away, leaving them alone in the dark.
“You sure are something, Hilda,” Claude finally said, a look of admiration in
his eye.
“That I am, Claude.” She smiled. “Now, don’t ask me to do anything
ever again.”
“Oh, you’re evil.”
Hilda and Claude could barely hold their giggles as they walked back towards
the dorms. Despite the fact that it was way past curfew, they weren’t doing
anything to be sneaky. It would take too much time to go the long way, even
if it was more hidden. After all, she really needed her beauty sleep. In fact,
she had lost out on so much that she might have to sleep through the
morning’s lessons!
As they rounded the corner, however, Hilda caught a glimpse of the biggest
wrench that could get thrown in their plan. A tuft of green hair, the blueand-gold
of the archbishop’s chief aide—Seteth.

THE LIABILITY OF FRIENDSHIP
CAT
“Oh! Hilda!”
Well, at least if this got done, Leonie would certainly owe her something
later on…
Not that Hilda was planning on getting it done herself.
In fact, Hilda knows just the person that can do the job better.
Crap.
Hilda just knew she should have resisted her snack cravings.
She shouldn’t have come downstairs at all and to avoid public sight.
With her intuition for everyone’s schedule in the Academy and her rather
opportunistic personal problems, Hilda usually stays far from any eyes
searching to delegate a little responsibility. And most days, Hilda passes her
days without a single request.
But today, it seems, is not one of those days.
She huffs, wiping the exasperation from her face.
“Hey, Leonie,” she returns, spinning on her heel to face her. “What’s up?”
“Ah, I’m really sorry to ask you, but you’ll do me a solid, right?” Leonie asks,
with an uneasy smile. She rubs the back of her neck, pressing on quickly.
“I just need some help re-shelving the books in the library — I was only
able to get through some of them but then I suddenly remembered that
I promised some of my folks back home to join them in a ceremonial hunt
for the afternoon, and I have to go because, you know, I owe them a lot for
funding my studies here, and I just gotta go now! You know what I mean?”
“Well, I don’t know about—”
“Perfect!” Leonie interrupts, taking Hilda’s hands. “Thank you so so so much!
I gotta run! I really gotta get going. It’s already so late in the morning, and it’s
going to take me another few hours to get there!”
“Woah, wait! I can’t—”
But Leonie’s already sped off before Hilda has even formulated a retort,
sprinting down the hall and waving a goodbye.
Hilda sighs. This is what happens when she comes downstairs — everyone
wants a little something from her.
Oh, the things she does for friends.
Hilda looks tiredly at the double doors leading into the library before peeking
her head into the room, immediately seeing the large pile of disorganized
books. Leonie was most definitely desperate to get the job done.
Ferdinand is — as Hilda expects — in the weapon refinery, as he always
seems to be on Tuesday mornings.
Hilda peeks her head into the room. Ferdinand bristle a little, sensing her
presence.
“Ah, Ferdinand, how funny to run into you again!” Hilda greets. “Although I
suppose you are always so diligent to regularly maintain the weapons here,
aren’t you?”
Ferdinand turns, then half-rolls his eyes at her. He gets up slowly, quickly
wiping oil off his hands with a rag.
They’ve done this dance many times before.
“Let me guess,” he says, tossing the dirty cloth over one of the empty weapon
stands. “You want me to re-shelve the library books?”
Hilda lets her jaw drop, covering her mouth in feigned surprise. “You really
are good at reading my mind, aren’t you? So brilliant!”
“Well, it’s not really anything,” Ferdinand says modestly, although Hilda
notices how Ferdinand straightens as he takes the compliment. “I just
noticed that re-shelving library books is one of the things you hate to do the
most. I presume a lot of that has to do with how you would need to use a
ladder about twice as much as someone taller than you would need to.”
“And observant!”
This time, Ferdinand fully rolls his eyes. “You really don’t need to compliment
me when I’m already doing your bidding.”
“Hey! I really mean it when I say these things!” Hilda assures him, placing
her hands on her hips. “I’m not just saying things to get you to do things for
me!” Ferdinand looks at her, still incredulously, and so Hilda quickly adds,
“You know what — why don’t I get you some tea? You must be so thirsty after
working out here all morning. I can at least get you a drink, can’t I?”
Ferdinand perks at the very word. “Tea?” he asks, with a lilt in his voice.

He looks back at her, a brightness in his eyes.
“Of course!” Hilda promises, forcing a smile.
Oh, the things she does for friends.
Well, she thinks to herself, as she turns the corner to head toward the kitchen.
At least she might be able to find a snack for herself, after all.
And perhaps an additional set of hands.
“You know, you’re always working so hard, Annette,” Hilda remarks. This is a
conversation they’ve had multiple times before. “You’re always so ambitious!”
Hilda briefly remembers the last time Annette offered to help clean her
room, replaying the sight of her broken vases and a just-as-stressed Annette.
That wasn’t a great look at all.
Oh, the things she does for friends.
“You know what?” Hilda suggests. “Just focus on the kitchen. How about I
figure out your garden duties?”
Annette almost instantaneously looks less troubled. “Really? You’ll help me?”
Annette startles when Hilda enters the kitchen, nearly dropping a soapcovered
plate back into the sink.
“Oh! It’s just you — hey, Hilda,” she half-yelps, returning her attention to
dish-washing.
Hilda narrows her eyes, seeing Annette’s frazzled hair and very suspiciously
large blotches of wet spots over her clothing.
“You doing okay there, Annette?” Hilda asks, raising an eyebrow. She deftly
steps behind her and opens the pantry to browse the available selection of
sweets and savory. “Don’t tell me you’re working yourself too hard again!”
“No, not really! I just need to wash the dishes and then sweep the floors and
then clean the counters and then—”
“Why, Annette, that is certainly a lot to do,” Hilda remarks, reaching into the
pantry to take out some cookies.
“I don’t know what I’m going to do!” Annette blubbers on, scrubbing the
sponge even more ferociously at a dirty spot. “I still have to weed out the
garden and rake the leaves. And ah! I completely forgot I have to study really
hard for the Professor’s quiz coming up on this week! I haven’t even had a
chance to sit down!”
“You sure have a lot to do,” Hilda agrees, taking a few bites of the
acquired sweets.
“Oh, Hilda!” Annette frowns, continuing her lament. “I don’t know what I’m
going to do! I didn’t realize how long it was going to take to clean the entire
kitchen, and at first I tried to use a water spell to help with the dishes but
then it just turned into an even bigger mess that I had to clean, and I don’t
know if I’m going to be able to weed out the garden before the end of the
day like I promised I would!”
Well, Hilda wasn’t suggesting that she would be the one doing it herself.
“Yes, of course,” Hilda says, nevertheless. She glances over at the stove, where
the kettle sits on one of the burners. She chews her lip, then turning back to
Annette. “So… when do you think you’ll be done cleaning things up here?”
“Ah… I don’t know… Why do you ask?”
Hilda waves Annette’s concern off. “I was just asking. I was going to try to
make some tea, but I didn’t want to get in your way.”
Annette takes the bait.
“Oh, don’t worry about that! I can make your tea while I’m here! It’ll be my
thanks for you helping me with the gardening!”
Hook, line, and sinker.
“That would be perfect! Right then, I’ll be back soon.”
Opportunity shines upon Hilda once again, as she spots a tall hulking figure
in the gardens — unmistakably Balthus.
“Hey, Baltie, how’s it going?” she greets him.
Balthus turns his head, taking a moment to wipe his brow of sweat. “Ah,
Hilda!” he replies. “I’m just pruning these bushes. I thought at first it’d be
hard for me to cut in a straight line, but then I figured out that all you really
need to do is snip with these big scissors real hard and they’ll kinda take care
of the rest.”

“Yeah, you’re doing real well with those shears,” Hilda remarks. She side-eyes
a stray leaf on one of the edges of a bush next to her, quickly plucking it off
with her fingers. She tosses it into the dirt behind her back. “You’re really
good at gardening, huh? The King of Grappling and the King of Gardening,
too!”
Balthus stops mid-cut, considering the title. “Yeah…” he says, at first under
his breath, but then repeats again. “Yeah! I like the sound of that! The King of
Grappling and Gardening! They even rhyme!”
“Yes, they do, indeed,” Hilda affirms.
“What are you doing here anyway, Hilda? Unless you’re just dropping by here
to say hi to me… and look at my muscles!”
Hilda snorts. “Of course,” she replies, half-sarcastically. “No, I’m actually here
because I decided to do Annette a favor.”
“You mean the little redhead?”
“Baltie! That’s rude!”
“What? She is little and she is a redhead!”
“More importantly, she’s a hard worker who sometimes has too much on her
to-do list,” Hilda corrects. “I agreed to help her weed the garden, but I also
just manicured and painted my nails. It would really suck to get dirt on my
fingers so soon after! So this kinda sucks.” She frowns. “Also, I still have to
write back a letter to Holst…”
Balthus’s eyebrow cocks up at the name. “Holst?” he asks, fully turning his
body to face Hilda now. “You haven’t written back to your brother yet?”
Hilda frowns emphatically. “No…”
“Holst must be worried sick about you!”
“I know,” Hilda says. “And I should get to writing to him but I just haven’t been
able to get around to it. I’ve been so busy with all these chores around the
Academy, you know?”
“You should write to your brother!” Balthus admonishes her. “Don’t want him
to get upset!” He reflects for a moment. “And, uh, thank him for those traps
he sent over to help me with the mouse problem in my room…”
“Mouse problem?”
Balthus shrugs. “I think that’s just because the Academy had to open some
old rooms when all of us Ashen Wolves got up here. Mine has a family of mice
living in the walls somewhere and they’re just so small! I can’t catch or hunt
them down!” His lips twist. “Your brother got me some traps but I don’t think
they really worked…”
Hilda thinks to herself, gears in her head turning. Maybe there is something…
or someone that she can get to help with this mouse problem.
Oh, the things she does for friends.
Before Hilda says another word, Balthus abruptly interrupts himself. “You
know what, I’ll weed the garden for you!” he says loudly. “You should go write
back to Holst. I’m not going to get Holst upset while I can help it! You’ll write
to him right away, yeah?”
“I will, I will,” Hilda promises. She clasps her hands together, her tasks in the
garden accomplished. “Thank you so much, Baltie! I don’t know where I’d be
without you!”
“Just if you can remember to thank Holst for me… and don’t mention that it
didn’t really work out!”
“Yes, yes, of course!”
And with that, Hilda makes her speedy exit out from the garden to her room
— although not without first making a pit stop at the kitchen to grab some
ready-made tea, then to deliver said tea to a certain someone in the library.
Ferdinand downs the last of the tea with a satisfied sigh, leaning back into the
chair. “This was incredibly refreshing,” he tells her. “Thank you for bringing me
some, Hilda.”
“Oh, of course,” Hilda says, gesturing toward the now-empty pile of books to
re-shelve. “And thank you for helping me organize these books! I can see you
even straightened out some of the shelves! Always going above and beyond,
huh, Ferdie?”
Ferdinand seems to sparkle as Hilda says this. “Ah, you noticed!”
“But how could I not notice such good work when it’s done so well,”
Hilda replies.
The library door’s swing open, and Hilda’s eyes widen when she spots Leonie
come through the entrance. Leonie spots her, waving and running up to her
— and definitely noticing that the library has been organized on her behalf.
Well, there is no way getting out of this one, is there?

“Hilda!” Leonie nods at Ferdinand. “Hey, Ferdinand,” she acknowledges.
“What are you doing here?”
“Why I’m just having tea with Hilda—”
“So, Leonie, how was your time over back at your home village?” Hilda asks
quickly, standing up.
“It went well, and I didn’t miss a single thing! And so I wanted to come right
here and thank you so much for—”
“One hundred percent,” Hilda replies. “That has to also be why your townsfolk
wanted you back for their ceremony hunt! They wouldn’t have had a
successful one without you!”
Leonie laughs, her blush spreading over her cheeks. “I guess so…”
“Say no more! I have just the right job for you.”
Oh, the things she does for friends.
“Right, right, it’s not a problem at all!” Hilda interrupts, taking Leonie by
the shoulders and leading her away. “Well, would you look at the time? It’s
basically time to eat, and I’m positively starving! Why don’t you join me for
dinner in the dining hall today?”
“Oh! Okay!”
As the two of them promptly leave the library, Hilda looks back at Ferdinand,
winking at him and gesturing towards the empty teapot.
Dismayed as Ferdinand looks, he doesn’t refuse, starting to gather up the
cups on the table.
Hilda doesn’t let Leonie say another word until they’ve fully sat down with
dinner in front of them.
Leonie swallows before cutting into another bite. “Yeah, I just wanted to
thank you for re-shelving the books for me!”
“Oh, it was no problem at all! In fact, I had plenty of help.”
“I bet — there were a lot of books! I’m sorry that I left you to it.” Leonie frowns
to herself, then looks back up at Hilda. “Is there anything I can get you back
for? Maybe something I can do for you in return? I kinda just dumped that
chore on you so I really owe you one.”
“Well, only because you’re offering, I guess there is something I think only
you would be able to help me out with.” Hilda looks at Leonie purposefully, as
if thinking out loud. “I think you’re quite good at hunting, aren’t you?”
“W-Well, I mean, sure! It’s really just that I usually do better when I have fresh
air, I think,” Leonie sputters.
For how much of a rugged exterior Leonie puts up, Hilda is still amused by
how easily flustered she gets.

SOMETHING IN YOU
PARCHMINTS
See, this is why Hilda isn’t cut out for battle—her muscles are all achy and
she’s sweated the expensive perfume right off her neck. Which, gross. Sure,
she and her class stopped the Almyran forces from invading Fódlan’s Locket
but Goddess, at what cost? As soon as she speaks to her brother, she’s taking
the longest bath of her life.
Speaking of brothers...Hilda is going to kill hers. What was that idiot thinking,
getting a “sudden illness” in the middle of an invasion? If he’d been there,
she definitely wouldn’t have gotten as icky and sore as she is now. He owes
her. Big time.
She shoos off the attendants that welcome her at the door and heads straight
for Holst’s room, already dreading his incessant babying.
And ugh, of course his stupid room is guarded by soldiers.
“Lady Hilda!” one guard says, red and flustered under his helmet. Hilda has
that effect on people. “Master Holst is resting right now so…”
“I’m sure my brother won’t mind if I bother him for a few minutes. I did fill
in for him at Fódlan’s Locket, after all,” Hilda says. If she whips out her trusty
“get-what-I-want” smile, well, that’s between her and the Goddess.
The guard goes even redder and looks to his partner, who shrugs.
“I, er...well, yes. I’m sure Master Holst is anxious to see you.” He reaches for the
door’s handle. “The healer said he should get plenty of rest so…”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he doesn’t overdo it,” Hilda says. Normally, you
wouldn’t have to worry about such a thing but Holst, genius general that he
is, has a tendency to overexert himself even in conversation.
The guard opens the door for her, stiffening as she goes past, then shuts the
door quickly. He isn’t quite Hilda’s type (hers is more...feminine) but it’s a nice
confidence boost all the same.
The snoring is the first thing she notices. Holst is so loud she’s surprised it
didn’t interrupt her conversation with the guard. It’s been months since she’s
been in here, but it’s still a cluttered mess of weapons, crumpled up letters,
and discarded parchment with scribblings of battle plans. The maids are
never allowed to touch the clutter since Holst has—what he calls—a system,
but you can’t argue with his results. The windows are huge, stretching from
ceiling to floor, so at least the natural lighting is nice. Currently, they’re all
covered by heavy curtains to block out the sun—Hilda’s going to have to do
something about that.
She goes to the middle window, the one that’s sure to send a bright beam
directly into Holst’s field of vision, and swiftly pulls back the curtain. It results
in a satisfying and overdramatic groan from the bed behind her.
“Mm, hold on,” Holst says, tossing the covers over his head. “Baltie, not there.”
And, whoa, okay that’s enough of that. Hilda crosses to the bed and gives
Holst’s shoulder a hard shake. “Up and at ‘em, dummy.”
Holst jolts awake, sitting up straight and whipping his head from left to right
like he’s under attack, but he stops when his pink eyes land on Hilda. She
stares back at him with her hands on her hips and a glare that she hopes
conveys “you’re in big trouble, mister.”
“Hilda?” he says and his stupidly big arms extend their full wingspan out for a
hug. Hilda sighs. It’s true that Holst can’t deny her anything, but it’s also true
Hilda can’t deny him much either. She gives him a hug.
“A brute as always,” she says, pushing him off. Does every hug have to be the
rib-cracking kind?
Holst combs his pink hair with his fingers. It’s longer than the last time Hilda
saw him, nearly reaching his shoulders. “Aw, c’mon, Hildy. Hurts my feelings
when you say that.”
“Well, it hurts my back when you crush me like that.”
Holst grins. “Sorry, sorry. I was just worried about you. Tell me everything. Is
the Locket alright? My men?”
“Hmph,” Hilda says, crossing her arms. “You’ll be happy to know that your
baby sister handled the situation perfectly and all your men are fine. Well,
they might need a couple days in the infirmary, but no losses.”
Holst looks like he’s about to hug her again, but instead, he just beams.
“Hilda, you’re amazing!”
“I know.”
Holst stands, looking weak and uneasy on his feet. “No, you don’t get it. The
Locket is one of the most contentious parts of Fódlan. The fact that you led
a defense against the Almyrans without any casualties...I always knew you
were special, Hilda, but this is beyond even my expectations.” He gesticulates
wildly as he heads over to a desk covered in papers by the window. “Incredible.
You’re not even out of Garreg Mach yet. The will that takes, the strategic
brilliance! I have to tell Baltie. He’s going to be so impressed.”
Hilda feels heat rise to her cheeks. She loves getting her fair share of praise
but this is too much! “Holst, stop. I don’t need you bragging about me to your
boyfriend.”

“Aww, why? Baltie likes hearing about you,” Holst says as he sits and looks for
a blank piece of parchment.
“It really wasn’t that impressive. My professor and classmates helped. I didn’t
do it single-handedly or anything.”
“But you led them. Who in your ranks knows as much about the Locket as
you?” Holst happily reaches for his quill even though he looks like he’s about
to pass out. “No, this was your victory, Hilda. I’m so proud of you. I was sick
and you came and protected Goneril in my stead.” And oh, Goddess, he looks
like he’s about to be moved to tears.
“Speaking of,” Hilda says as she places her palm on Holst’s forehead,
“you’re burning up! You need to take it easy.”
Holst waves her off and turns back to his letter. “Did you tell Mother and
Father? Was Claude there? He should tell his grandfather.”
“No, seriously. You look awful. What happened?” Hilda says.
Hilda noticed earlier how horribly pale he was, but the question makes any
remaining blood in his face disappear. “Well, I—you have to understand that
rations can sometimes go bad when you’re out at war and you have to make
them last, so—”
“Holst.”
Holst sighs and his shoulders sag. “I ate a bad mushroom and um, my body
had a...negative reaction—”
“Stop talking,” Hilda says. “Are you serious? You left me to defend Fódlan’s
Locket because you had food poisoning?”
Holst looks at her like she’s just stabbed him. His eyes darken and an ominous
aura surrounds him like his own personal storm cloud. He slaps a hand over
his heart and tightly grips the fabric of his shirt there.
“It’s a disgrace,” Holst says, his voice a low rumble. “I disgust myself.
Me, the Alliance’s so-called greatest general, Duke of the noble house
of Goneril—”
“Holst, c’mon,” Hilda says.
“No! I can’t abide my own foolishness,” he says, standing and knocking a
dozen pieces of parchment into the air. He stomps right up to Hilda and
takes her by the shoulders before she can get away. “Take my place, Hilda.
I will forfeit my title and inheritance to you and you alone. I have disgraced
our house on this day and you are our only hope of redemption. Please, I will
defer to your word.”
Hilda rolls her eyes as far back as they can go and pulls Holst’s hands off
her shoulders. “Oh, get over yourself. Yes, you’re a massive idiot, but I’m not
interested in taking your title. That’s way too much work.”
“No, you must! You’re clearly more qualified than I. No, no it just won’t do.”
Holst ruffles his hair and returns to the desk, grabbing a quill and more
parchment. “I’ll send for an attorney right away and speak with Father.
I might be able to get someone here by tomorrow. Hilda, you’ll have to stay,
of course. They’ll need your signature—”
“I told you, I don’t want—”
“Father will fight me at first, but he’s a reasonable man—”
“Holst.”
“Hm. But your education. Perhaps I will stay Duke until you graduate,
but then, once you’re home you can—”
“Holst!” Hilda shouts, indignant and whiny like she was when she was a child.
Or a week ago, but semantics. “I am not taking your title. You got sick and
I filled in for you. That’s it. Now, will you please get back in bed? You look
like you’re going to pass out and I am not lifting a finger to help you if that
happens, do you hear me?”
Holst stares at her, gaping like a teutates loach. She’s about to turn heel and
leave when she sees a wet glisten in his eyes. Oh, Goddess.
His palm covers his mouth and he looks away from her dramatically.
“Oh, Hilda. What a fine young woman you’re becoming.”
“Don’t cry!” she yells, the tips of her ears getting warm. Her brother is so
embarrassing it’s unbelievable.
He ignores her and stumbles around the room like a newborn wyvern cub.
He spins in place, scanning the room until his eyes finally lock on his target
next to the bed. He fumbles toward it and—no. He can not be serious.
Freikugel.
Holst lifts the axe with as much ease as if it were a wooden stick and holds it
out to Hilda.
“No way. No way, Holst,” she says, shaking her head and waving her arms in
front of her. “I want nothing to do with that thing. It’s freaky and weird and
like, alive or something.”
“Hilda, please. Take it. It belongs to you as much as it does me. After what you
did today...you deserve it.” There’s a newfound clarity in Holst’s eyes, the fog
of fever lifting from them.

“You’re the one who’s out defending the Locket. I’m in school,” Hilda says.
Holst shakes his head. “No. If I’m a general worth my salt, then I shouldn’t
need a relic to defend my homeland.”
“I’m not saying you need it, but—” Hilda stops herself. She eyes Freikugel and
a wash of cold water goes down her spine. She can feel the power radiating
off of it and it’s far too much responsibility for her to handle. “I can’t, Holst.
I shouldn’t wield that thing.”
Holst frowns, his demeanor far more serious than Hilda is used to. “You have
the Crest of Goneril, don’t you? Freikugel will listen to you just as it listens to
me.”
Hilda bites her lip and presses her fists protectively over her chest.
“Holst, I can’t—”
“Just once,” Holst says, his hands gripping tighter onto Freikugel’s hilt.
“Just once I wish you could believe in yourself as much as I believe in you.”
Something hard gets stuck in Hilda’s throat. What can she possibly say to
that? Slowly, she unfurls her arms to receive the axe. Holst smiles, small
and genuine, and places it in her hands. Immediately, she feels her pulse
sync up with Freikugel’s own thrumming energy, its power mixing with
her bloodstream.
“I’m so proud of you, Hilda,” Holst says. “Truly. Don’t deny the power you have.
Our country needs it. More than you know.”
She’s too overwhelmed to speak, but she manages a nod.
She doesn’t feel ready. She doesn’t think she’s nearly as dependable or
competent as her brother imagines. But for the first time, a part of her thinks
she might be able to live up to the expectation.
Not yet, but someday.

[IMPASSIONATE]
SHAKYRA DUNN
Hilda never liked sweating. Or fighting. Or being active. Or really doing
anything that was difficult. But somehow, she found herself at the doorstep
of Garreg Mach Monastery the spring after she turned seventeen. Enrolling
was child’s play with her overbearing older brother Holst’s recommendation
in hand, and she supposed she could use a break from wandering the halls
of House Goneril, enjoy some time in fresh air, surrounded by people that
she could easily manipulate...
And being around the Golden Deer students was an added bonus.
“Hilda,” Professor Byleth had piped up during one of his infamous swordplay
lessons. “Wipe the drool off your face and pay more attention.”
“Aw, looking out for me, Professor~?” she chimed without missing a
beat, which only earned her a small laugh from Claude, who sat in the row
closer to the front. “You always were so sincere! Ooh, and studious. Have you
done something new with your hair?”
“Laugh it up while you can,” Byleth responded in turn, barely phased by her
methods of flirtation, returning to the board behind him. “But once your
passion slips away, you’re not going to have much left to work with.”
“Aw, don’t be so hard on her, Teach,” Claude piped up, resting his chin
under his hand. “Lazy as she is, Hilda’s passionate about a lot of things.
Fashion, makeup, keeping herself together… you know, the usual stuff.”
“You’re just making her sound like a spoiled brat, ya know,” Leonie pointed
out, polishing her cherished bow until the golden sheen that only formed
under light emerged anew. “Nobles like her don’t really have passions.”
“What?!” Hilda nearly hissed but kept her composure enough to make it
sound as though she were feigning shock rather than outright offended. All
a part of the ruse. She laid a hand over her heart, where her crest would likely
be. “You’re going to sit there and say that I’m lacking? Way to make a girl
work for her words, Leonie!”
“At least you’re working for something,” Leonie said simply.
“That’s enough,” Byleth cut in sternly, slamming a ruler against the desk
once. “You’re here to learn, not openly judge. Save it for after class if it’s going
to continue.”
When the class fell silent once more, Hilda found herself glancing over at
Leonie from time to time, Byleth’s teachings far from mind.
Passion… passion was born of one’s deepest drive to succeed, a reason for
them to push forward for a greater goal.
Claude’s goal was to unify all of Fodlan once he became a proper Duke. And
Leonie wanted to become a skilled mercenary, much like her idol Jeralt
Eisner, and by extension, Byleth. Plenty of students at Garreg Mach had their
own workload, their own ambitions to prove.
But what was hers supposed to be? Where had she lost it along the way?
The first time that Hilda had ever stepped out of House Goneril, she was ten
years old. Holst had been sixteen by then, and already training to take his
rightful place at the head of their home. And Hilda had practically begged
him to help her become stronger so that, like him, she could one day apply
as a student at Garegg Mach. Hilda was not only the second child, but the
only daughter, and a ‘delicate rose’ meant to grace the people of Fodlan with
her smile. Protected. Sacred.
If she wasn’t going to inherit a seat in her home, she had to do something
worthwhile. Being protected and watched over to the point where it was
unbearable was becoming stale. One swing of her tiny wooden training axe
allowed her a small chance at freedom with each blow. And now that she
was older, the days she’d spend at home wearing her pretty dresses and
ribbons were numbered and she was only going to become powerful, not
fragile.
Her mission at hand had been simple. She was just supposed to meet Holst
in the market while he was back for a visit, and their father wasn’t home yet
from a meeting in Adrestia. She had laughed to herself when she managed
to slip away from her escort, her shoulder-length pigtails flopping against
her shoulders as she skipped through the market.
She waved to some of the civilians as she waltzed through the busy streets,
her arms folded behind her back. An assortment of scents ranging from
cooked meats to pastries filled her nose, gossip from each side reaching her
ears. Then, there was yelling from a booth as a man yelled at what seemed to
be one of his employees, an apple flying over them before crushing against
the ground like paste. Hilda cringed, deciding to speed her pace up a bit to
avoid any more backlash.
This was what it was like to live normally, huh? At least it was better than
being cooped up inside all the time. Maybe this was why Holst was so eager
to see the world for himself.

She was rounding through the market a second time, having missed Holst
somewhere along the way, when she felt an arm firmly wrap around one of
hers. Her head snapped up to find not her brother, rather a man with sootstained
hair and rancid yellow teeth.
“Are you the lady of House Goneril?” he asked sharply, though not loudly.
“Nope, never seen her before,” she responded without missing a beat.
Someone looking to make a quick buck, and it hadn’t taken her long to
process that. And she was already regretting that she left her training axe
back at home.
“Can you let go?” Hilda asked quickly, her eyes appearing almost frightened
as the man moved in closer to really get a look at her. “You’re hurting
my arm…”
Maybe Leonie had been right all along. Maybe nobles like her didn’t have any
passion in them. Still, she knew what she was fighting for, at first. All that she
needed was the right person, the right moment, for it to awaken once more.
She had Claude to think about now. She wasn’t exactly his retainer, but she
was certainly one of his closest allies in the fray. She clutched Freikugel in her
hands as she gazed upon Derdriu’s misty skies, inhaling deeply, listening to
the sound of wyvern wings flapping in the distance.
Things were different now that she was much older. More experienced.
And had someone that she wanted to protect for herself.
She couldn’t be impassionate. She couldn’t let fate slip between her fingers.
Not anymore.
“Hm. Lady or not, you’re still a fetching one. I’m sure the boss would find
some use for-”
“Hilda!” a voice suddenly exclaimed. Like a beacon of solace, Hilda noticed
her older brother had come to her aide, his dark brown hair cut far shorter
than she remembered, his rose-colored eyes teeming with irritation.
At Holst’s side, she caught sight of his best friend Balthus cracking his
knuckles, already prepared to jump into action if things weren’t resolved in
a timely manner. And many in town feared them when they were together,
status aside.
When the man’s grip slightly loosened, Hilda went running to the two young
men, clinging to Holst’s shirt once she’d found her place behind him.
“Get the hell out of here,” Balthus snarled, his finger pointed to the shady
corners behind them. The man slithered off without another word.
“Hilda,” Holst began, kneeling down in front of the girl, laying a hand on her
head. “Are you all right? What happened there? What are you doing here all
by yourself?”
The questions came too fast. She didn’t know how to answer him. So instead,
she broke into tears, gradually into sobs, and allowed herself to be taken into
his arms while Holst gently comforted her and Balthus scampered off to find
something that could help ease her crying—sweets, a toy, anything could
work, as long as it helped.
Now she knew. Now she knew that she wasn’t ready to fight back just yet.
That being protected was the best thing in the world, because it meant that
she wouldn’t have to face adversities again.
Or so she wanted to believe, all this time. She couldn’t pull herself from the
idea of wanting to fight. But not for others. For herself—to protect herself.

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