He was odd, and everyone knew it.
Their world is torn. Fires scar most of Ylisse's cities, and most of their families were dead. He himself had recently lost his uncle, but he seemed to miraculously live through the experience. He seemed to be unchanged. His own father had died, but he was still...
He was still him.
He is still kind. He is still bold and confident and unafraid of being who he was. Severa envies him for that.
No, she likes him for that.
She knows that times like these are hardly the times to think about love. Love is dangerous. Her mom died because she loved. She suffered because her mom loved.
Yet she is all too aware of her feelings for him. She is too aware of how worried she gets about him when she's lying in bed alone, in the room that his mother provided for her. Too aware of how her heart races merely upon hearing someone speak his name. Too aware that she wants to be with him, whether it's on the battlefield, at mealtimes, in bed at night... It's awkward and embarrassing and frustrates her to bits.
Severa plans on eating alone again that night. Even before Lucina's father died, group meals weren't her thing. Now it was even worse, what with the vibe of melancholy that everyone but Owain and his mother seem to succumb to. She slips into the kitchen, taking note of the pots laid messily across any surface they can find. When Severa had first been taken in, the kitchen had been a neat and tidy place, and even though war was still present, the countless staff members kept the room a cheerful and relaxed place. It had been incredible, really. But soon the staff began to disperse, returning to their families as destruction escalated. Now, only two chefs worked in the royal kitchen, but when Severa slips in, it is empty. She used to wonder where they would go when off-duty, but by now, she no longer cares.
She glides over to one of the counters, peering at the contents of the closest pot. Her eyes narrow as she lifts a small ball of bread, popping it into her mouth hesitantly. She chews for a moment, closing her eyes in content once discovering that it was neither burnt or horrid tasting. She glances back towards the pot, withdrawing a handful of the balls before turning around.
The food nearly drops from her hand as her gaze falls upon a boy standing in the doorway.
He doesn't notice her at first, his eyes scanning the room much like her own had earlier. Severa's shoulders were stiff, and she remained still as though frozen.
After what seems like centuries of standing like a statue, he finally notices her. He smiles slightly, his facial features relaxing as he says cheerfully, "Greetings, Severa! I'd be careful - my sword hand is hungry."
Severa tries not to think too much about the alternate meanings of his statement before hissing, "Or it could just be your stomach."
The girl's half-hearted attempt at a jab does not affect Owain's cheerful stature, and her scowl deepens. "Perhaps your sword hand is also secretly wild," he muses, although Severa is having a hard time keeping up. "That's why you always dine alone," he adds, nodding towards her hand that still held the balls of bread.
She blushes slightly, but mentally waves it off as being caused by frustration rather than being due to the amount of attention he was paying her at this moment. "I eat alone because I want to! Gawds, why must you make stupid stories out of everything?"
Owain simply shrugs, walking over to the counter she stands in front of. He stops when he is standing beside her, peering into the pot while Severa prays to all the gods she can think of that he doesn't notice how rigid her posture is.
"You having a wild sword hand wouldn't make much sense, anyways," he continues, much to Severa's dismay - she just wants to be able to leave, but for some reason, she finds herself wanting to listen to what he has to say as well. "After all, you aren't a part of the holy bloodline."
Severa closes her eyes in exasperation as his pointless rambling carries on. For some reason, she decides that another handful of bread-balls is a good idea, and she turns to drive her other hand into the pot. She tries not to express any emotion when Owain's hand joins hers in the pot only seconds later, but fails miserably when the fingers of her companion brush against hers. Her shoulders go rigid, and she is all too aware of the fact that his hand is lingering there more than it should be. She considers gripping it - after all, she could wave it off as thinking that it was one of the morsels she was fishing around for. Owain's so out-there that he might be naive enough to believe such a tale.
All thoughts of making a move are disrupted when he grips her hand instead. She's blushing furiously when he pulls it from the pot, and doesn't dare look at him as he laughs nervously.
"Sincerest apologies, Severa! My sword hand led me to believe that your hand was honestly one of these treats!" She says nothing as he mutters to his hand – which is still holding onto hers – as though annoyed, "Bad sword hand!"
"J-just let go already!" Severa snaps, tugging her hand away. She shoots him a glare, hoping that he can't hear how fast her heart is racing. Just to be sure that he doesn't notice anything off about her, she mutters to herself, "I don't need more of them, anyways. I'm off."
She storms out of the kitchen and down the corridor that leads towards her room with purpose, fighting off thoughts of how his hand felt against hers in frustration. Someone says hi to her, but she's horribly close to tears - tears she would claim are due to anger if anyone asked - and can't recognize them.
When she reaches her room, she slides down to the floor with her back to the door, letting out a shaky sigh.
She knows that times like these were hardly the times to think about love. Love is dangerous. Her mom died because she loved. She suffered because her mom loved.
Regardless, she finds herself reaching for her sword and shakily carving his name in the hilt.
She clings the sword to her chest, praying that the weapon wouldn't be the only one named
as such that would be by her side in this stupid war.
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