[ The moment the opportunity to return to the islands has surfaced, Hilda had been keeping a quiet, almost tentative eye on Sylvain and Claude. Whereas Claude hadn't brought up much of the experience at all, Sylvain had at least spoke about it in passing. Using that to piece together what other friends had gone through in the pit and her own visit after the fact in the recovery efforts, Hilda had a fairly clear picture of those held closest to heart had gone through.
Breaching the subject is another matter however. It's in Hilda's nature to skirt around the not so cheerful topics in life. In part, it's for her own protection – ignorance was bliss for her. The other part of her however, the one with the more serious answer, is that if she did bring it up, she didn't know how she'd possibly help them soothe the wounds the cultists had left behind. The easy answer is simply never bringing it up in the hopes that someone else would. But that didn't feel right either. Because if she didn't bother, if she didn't try, then what was the point in staying by either Claude or Sylvain's side? That being said, she still had to find a way to build her bravery.
December comes and goes. January arrives in a flurry of activity that brings more gloom in the aftermath of their efforts on the island. It keeps all three of them busy and there's some nights where she doesn't see either of them. She knows this can't be easy for either of them - or rather hasn't been if any of her observations are anything to go off of. But then she formulates a plan. Granted it's not necessarily an original plan (Sylvain was the one that started it first) nor does it have any other goal than trying to keep his spirits up – but she has to start somewhere.
Notes follow him wherever he goes. Or rather, that's the impression he might get. Folded up birds, little paper lanterns, hearts, stars, flowers, a mouse, a cat, a fox can be found every day in obvious places like his pillow when he returns in the evening, his coat pockets, the kitchen, amongst the plants he's using to grow his tea ingredients, tucked into the saddle of whatever horse he chooses to ride the day he visits the stables, his bag. There's nothing special about them at first, no words to accompany them. Sometimes there's the occasional silly doodle of whatever the papercraft is giving him words of encouragement or silly, flirty phrases. But eventually the corresponds begin.
Today's note comes in the shape of a paper airplane that she probably learned how to make thanks to the Doctor. It floats gracefully through the air to wherever he is, smacking gently into the side of his face to get his attention. Read me! is written in neat script on it. Somewhere behind him there's the briefest flutter of a giggle and the sound of receding footsteps but when he turns around no one is there. If he opens the note he'll read: ]
— throughout january
Breaching the subject is another matter however. It's in Hilda's nature to skirt around the not so cheerful topics in life. In part, it's for her own protection – ignorance was bliss for her. The other part of her however, the one with the more serious answer, is that if she did bring it up, she didn't know how she'd possibly help them soothe the wounds the cultists had left behind. The easy answer is simply never bringing it up in the hopes that someone else would. But that didn't feel right either. Because if she didn't bother, if she didn't try, then what was the point in staying by either Claude or Sylvain's side? That being said, she still had to find a way to build her bravery.
December comes and goes. January arrives in a flurry of activity that brings more gloom in the aftermath of their efforts on the island. It keeps all three of them busy and there's some nights where she doesn't see either of them. She knows this can't be easy for either of them - or rather hasn't been if any of her observations are anything to go off of. But then she formulates a plan. Granted it's not necessarily an original plan (Sylvain was the one that started it first) nor does it have any other goal than trying to keep his spirits up – but she has to start somewhere.
Notes follow him wherever he goes. Or rather, that's the impression he might get. Folded up birds, little paper lanterns, hearts, stars, flowers, a mouse, a cat, a fox can be found every day in obvious places like his pillow when he returns in the evening, his coat pockets, the kitchen, amongst the plants he's using to grow his tea ingredients, tucked into the saddle of whatever horse he chooses to ride the day he visits the stables, his bag. There's nothing special about them at first, no words to accompany them. Sometimes there's the occasional silly doodle of whatever the papercraft is giving him words of encouragement or silly, flirty phrases. But eventually the corresponds begin.
Today's note comes in the shape of a paper airplane that she probably learned how to make thanks to the Doctor. It floats gracefully through the air to wherever he is, smacking gently into the side of his face to get his attention. Read me! is written in neat script on it. Somewhere behind him there's the briefest flutter of a giggle and the sound of receding footsteps but when he turns around no one is there. If he opens the note he'll read: ] [ Below her signature is a drawing of two foxes at a table happily dining on some food. ]