Utilitarianism

Summary: And he despairs, a little, because he has abruptly rediscovered his utter stupidity—because she is practical, after all. But it is fine. A story on Lethe's ribbon. LetheRanulf. pre-FE9/PoR

A/N: Can someone please beta me? My writing and characterization are crap, and as much as I like editing, sometimes you just need outside opinions. Like if the parenthesis barf is worth it or not. Or tips on how to keep my tone consistent. And stuff.

Pretty much inspired from FireEdge's Ribbon and Bandages.

Lethe, he realizes, woefully—not long after he has handed over a hefty amount of gold to a cheerful beorc merchant (though he is sure she is cheerful because of his recent, idiotic purchase)—is practical.

And while it is precisely this practicality that made Lethe Lethe and was why she had risen so quickly through the ranks, which led to their eventual meeting at the officers' conference, and is one of the things he likes most about her (aside from her brutal honesty and sharp wit and rare kindness and—now is not the time for this, he is in a dilemma), right now, Ranulf is wishing she had a little less of it (so he could've perhaps been able to have her assigned to his unit or some other absurd idea like that). Because how else would he get her to accept something as frivolously ludicrous as a ribbon, a ribbon almost twice his height and with two bright, merrily chiming bells attached? He groaned, sinking despairingly to a crouch, glad of the cool respite provided by a shop's shade. And he had somehow been so sure about this at the time of his purchase, too, unwittingly goaded on by a compliant beorc peddler casually supplying him with questions of his "lady friend" (which he had ambiguously denied) as he browsed (because why else would a grown adult male be browsing through ribbons, of all things). Of course, he belatedly realized, those inquiries were all to fool him into thinking he was making an excellent choice for "her," that "she" would "gladly receive" the "fashionable" gift. And to think, he'd only nodded—dumbly, stupidly—in astonished agreement when the merchant had presented him with a silk ribbon ("silk is strong, you know, stronger than most beorc armor") of a lively green sheen ("mature, but not old, you know?"), only unenthusiastically balking when his ears had caught the soothing jingle of well-crafted bells ("don't be silly, she is a girl, after all, you know? Just because she's tough and intelligent and self-sufficient doesn't mean she doesn't want to be pretty. They're very much worth the, ah, extra expense, you know?"). He was an idiot, an idiot. Since when did Lethe have a penchant for pretty luxury items? Since when had she been keen on fashion and what others thought of her, if she kept up with the latest trends or not? Really, he was better than that, he shouldn't have been stupid enough to blindly be led around by the nose, beguiling merchant or no—he knew Lethe better than that, he wasn't so stupid as to confuse her with Lyre, even if they were twins.

And yet, even as he despaired and lamented squandering the few gold coins he had (beorcs were the only ones that needed such a bartering system; the laguz way of trade was much easier) on a highly expensive, utterly useless accessory, he just couldn't bring himself to not do anything with it. Trying to surreptitiously trash it was absolutely stupid in Gallia; barring the fact that the ribbon was already unnecessarily shiny and sounded beautiful, he is well aware that laguz have a knack for sensing suspicious and dishonest behavior (and thus, why the crime rate was nearly nonexistent) and that cats, in particular, have sharp eyes. Besides, he had already spent so much money on it—it would be such a waste to simply throw it out. So he considered the next (practical) solution: resell it. Because—well, call him a bleeding heart, but he felt a bit shamed just thinking of returning merchandise to that smiling beorc, even if he had firmly convinced himself that it had all been a (highly effective) ruse to get him to buy likely the most expensive item she possessed. In any case, she was probably long-gone (and hopefully not drowned in the Gallian sea of antipathy), and the choice to hawk the ribbon out on the street gave him an unpleasant lurch in his stomach. He (obviously) didn't know a thing about female fashion trends, whether they be beorc or laguz, and was hardly looking forward to threading awkwardly through the market crowd, dragging a long silk ribbon behind him (because let's face it, Gallia is full of cats, whatever size they may be, and cats are simply attracted to moving objects and jingling bells—another reason why buying this for Lethe had been an awful, horribly thought-out plan). And then there was always the chance of those who actually knew him catching sight of him with it (and Goddess forbid she would see him) and thus lead to awkward questioning (and now that he thought of it, he was rather grateful for the deep shadow he was currently borrowing to better hide what was still in his possession), and he hardly wanted his reputation to be tainted with "seller-of-female-accessories." And he would much rather keep with that slow pace of "let's-try-being-friends-and-not-mention-how-attracted-I-am-to-you" and would very much like to not explain why he had this distinctly feminine article in his possession in the first place ("hey-do-you-have-a-mate-is-that-for-me"). And so, that left him with one last option—to hurry it home and hide it somewhere, a testament to his inanity and cowardice, until he felt their relationship had progressed "sufficiently" to present it to her. This would, of course, only increase the likelihood that someone would spot it and ask questions, even if he wasn't particularly one of those people who frequently invited others into his home. And then, he always ran the risk of the bells dulling with dust, of moths ruining the expensive fibers—no, no, that was certainly no choice at all; he refused to have wasted all that money and have even less to show for it.

So the only option was to give it to her. Give it to her now. Because he simply couldn't just hand it off as a gift to his (practical) mother, or one of his sisters (which would, of course, raise clamors of "why-don't-I-have-a-present-too"), or one of his other female acquaintances (like Lyre, for instance, who he knew was quite infatuated with him); because he had bought the silly thing with her in mind, and it simply wouldn't feel right seeing it with someone else. And who knows, perhaps she'd be kind enough to maybe at least use it as a useless decorational trinket in the home she seemed to visit less and less, or—he thought, a mixture of gloom and wry humor—perhaps she'd be practical and use the ribbon to tie up meat. Or bind fruit. Or hang fish. Or something else equally practical and useful. After she had done away with those daintily shining, perfectly round, gently tinkling expensive golden bells, of course. Lethe is practical, after all.

And he laughs, a little, despairing at his utter stupidity and the very beorc-like way he is getting worked up about this; and he bitterly remembers the way she dislikes humans, which should have occurred to him even in his merchant-induced brainless dream state. But he figures the longer he waits, the more likely he will encounter awkward questioning, so he stretches and gets to his feet, shading his face from the searing sun, heart starting to hammer more insistently in his chest. Where would Lethe be just about now...?

-

When he does find her, she is perched on one of the strong, old trees overlooking an ocean of grass (and it is one of her favorite trees, even if she denies having a "favorite place" to the end). As he draws closer, he sees that she is eating some sort of fruit using that plain, sturdy beorc knife she'd found a while back, and for a second, Ranulf allows himself to get his hopes up—hadn't she said it herself, when Kezhda had jeered at the "human-made folly," that it was ridiculous to deny something's worth out of petty spite (and then knocked the stuffing out of him)? But then, Ranulf forces himself back to reality. There is a difference, after all, between a beorc-made knife that has proven itself convenient in eating food and a beorc-made ribbon that would quite obviously be Distracting and Conspicuous and Generally Unhelpful In Daily Life. Lyre, he thinks regretfully, fashionable and vain Lyre would appreciate it much more than Lethe would—Lyre, with her long hair and self-consciousness of how much she ate and bold, perfectly coordinated form-over-function clothes that coquettishly displayed her tiny form.

And yet, just as he was moving to slink back the way he came, Lethe's voice clips through the heavy heat-burdened air, stops him in his tracks. "What are you doing, Ranulf," she snaps, tail lashing and ears flicking. "You are being noisy. Where has all your training gone?" He smiles, pained. Of course, Lethe, whose ears were so finely attuned to sound, had heard him coming fifty paces away, even without accounting for the racket the bells were making. And since she has not moved from her perch, has not even turned her attention from the fruit she is picking at with her knife (he can see it's pomegranate, now that he has given up all hope of stealth), Ranulf takes it that he should move closer. Lethe is like that, after all.

"Ahh, but Lethe, if it's you, then it's fine, right?" He leans against her tree, disgustedly noting how his legs were starting to tremble, and resists the urge to sprawl on the inviting grass. Wouldn't do to get too comfortable in the case he had to make an emergency escape from embarrassment. Which wouldn't be a particularly gung-ho Gallian way to be dealing with his problems and certainly wasn't a good plan if he wanted to keep Lethe's respect. Hopefully there would be as little mortification involved as possible.

"What are you talking about, 'then it's fine,'" she scoffs. He relaxes at her tone. Only mildly scathing. She was in a decent mood today. Figures; there had been training for her unit this morning, and if her go-all-out-and-go-a-little-more attitude was still the same, she was contentedly tired right now. Hopefully.

A brief silence passes, and Ranulf is about to just throw caution the winds and hand the stupid ribbon over and run when something red swings out in front of him. "You are hungry, right," Lethe says, tail furiously attacking the tree trunk at every swing. "You used to bring something to eat around this time at those meetings they always used to have." He cannot quell the clenching beat his heart is playing against his ribcage, and he reaches up to accept the neatly cut half of a pomegranate she had been eating.

"Thanks," he offers, both for noticing and for the fruit, and for one instant their gazes lock. She makes a quiet sound of contempt and looks up again, away from his sharp eyes.

"I wasn't hungry, anyway, and it would have been a waste."

And they continue like this for a while, in the quiet company of the other, long after Ranulf has finished eating, just watching the clouds and the grass. But at last, the sun continues too far in its inevitable journey, and he is somewhat startled when Lethe lands next to him from her branch, surefooted and graceful. "The sun is setting. I need to go home." And go fetch Lyre from whatever silly activity she is no doubt participating in, she silently adds. He smiles, wryly, fully aware of what shenanigans her sister might've gotten herself into. He flexes his stiff muscles (sitting for such a long period of time wasn't good for the body after all), and hears her stifling a yawn. "I have an early mission tomorrow," she adds offhandedly, as if explaining why she was parting his company when cats had such excellent night vision. "We are leaving before the sun rises." A brief pause. "So I will see you—later." And suddenly, he realizes that it is now or never, because after today, he will never bring up the courage (or the idiocy) to bring that ribbon out of the box he was no-doubt going to stuff it in after today; so he scrabbles for his pouch, for the source of the jingling Lethe had no doubt heard hours ago but had been too proud to ask about.

"Wait, wait," he says when she has begun to turn around, that awful clenching feeling returning to hound his chest, horribly certain even a mewling kitten could have smelled his nervous apprehension at such close quarters. But she waits for him anyway, does not ridicule his obvious anxiety, and turns to face him as he wrestles out the neatly folded ribbon. "Here," he says, holding out the ribbon, revolted at how he couldn't seem to supply enough air to his voice, as if he were one of the many unfortunate males Lyre has wooed. "For the fruit," he offers lamely, even though he knows they are both quite aware that the value of half a pomegranate does not equate that of a silken ribbon and merry brass bells. And now that he is directly facing her and she him, he can feel what little confidence he had evaporating at her neat, practically-cut hair; and practically sculpted, practically solid body; and comfortable clothes she'd chosen to wear that day, comfortable and a bit ratty and practical and not at all fashionable and chosen to better blend in to the Gallian landscape, to better sneak up on her prey. And he can feel his wide smile starting to lose its vigor, but even now she is motionless, does not turn away from him and scoff at the foolishness of "such impractical accessories;" she is still, and her eyes are focused on his offered gift. And in a way, he is relieved, because that means she thinks enough of him to take the time to decide if she wants it or not; but at the same time, this long, long, horrendous silence, it means she also is not certain she wants to accept it, and at this he feels his arms begin to give way (arms that had no trouble swinging around three giggling kittens just today morning, arms that had easily blocked a grunting Kyza's punches and kicks not two days ago).

But then, he feels the slight weight of the ribbon slither out of his hands, and when he looks up, he cannot be sure if the red on her face is from the setting sun or not.

"...Thank you," she says gruffly, and she is gone, already ten steps away before he can say anything else. And he sighs, somewhat resignedly, and heads in the opposite direction (because his house is not in the same direction as hers and he is neither stupid nor bold enough to attempt to follow her). But, in the end, he is glad she has accepted it, regardless of what she is going to use it for, because in this way, she is at least at the point where accepting his feelings—however vague they may be—is fine, no matter how awkwardly it is done.

-

And from that day onward, he sees her less and less. Her practicality had gotten her promoted, and she now leads her own unit. Between that and his own rise, it is years before they have the time to do little more than catch glimpses of the other. Commanding officers are busy, after all, and do not see much of each other. There are no storybook reunions like those in the beorc world of splendor and romance; units seldom join forces (because it is better to die a glorious death than to be so weak as to request aid), and since Gallians had never been fond of formal events of the "royal court" like the beorc are, they do not meet. So it is years.

But that is fine as well, because years have given him time enough to truly contemplate, and because Lethe is Lethe (and Lethe is practical), he trusts that she is doing the same. And if, in the end, it turns out that they are not meant to be—it is fine. Because they will have regretted nothing.

And yet, after years, when he sees her again, they are separated by a sea of people. But it is fine, because when he sees her, she sees him (and this time, she does not look away). And even in the uncertain light of dusk, he can see the gleam of a ribbon worn with use and can pick out the age-softened chime of bells (and he wonders how she has managed to integrate something so useless and impractical into her lifestyle, but then remembers that it is Lethe and Lethe can find the use in anything).

So he directs a faintly halcyon smile at her, and she sends one back.

A/N: Ranulf is difficult to write. I can't do him justice. Ahhgh.

Critiques are very much appreciated, please. I need it. o__o

Thank you for reading. Really.