Work Text:
Eli instinctively straightens his posture as he slides into the seat before the dark oak vanity, his gaze tentatively following Mist as she lifts a pair of scissors. This is making him more nervous than it should; it isn’t like him to fret over something as trivial as a haircut.
Begnion’s haughty atmosphere is getting to him. Among senators that carry half a century of experience to his measly few months on the run, Eli’s a mere child dressing up and playing at royalty like it’s a game. He still hasn’t found his footing embodying the poise and diplomacy that the role of Crimea’s prince demands. Ever since he left the isolated security of the villa he’s been an outsider looking in, trying to fill a hole he doesn’t quite fit. How a few cut inches of hair is going to fix that, he hasn’t the slightest clue, but he asked and Mist was more than eager to oblige.
“Are you ready?” Mist asks. She meets Eli’s eyes in the mirror and raises an ivory white comb.
He isn’t, but he nods.
These past several months of endless travel have caused his dark-green locks to grow all the way to his shoulders. Since reaching Begnion, he’s considered the length the worst offender in making him appear unpolished and inexperienced to the politicians above him. That’s not to say he doesn’t like it—he thinks it frames his face nicely, and he’ll miss having Mist constantly fidget by braiding the longest pieces—but princes don’t usually keep their hair this long. Kings even less.
“Y’know,” it’s kind of a shame.” Mist’s expression sours into a pout as she starts separating Eli’s hair into sections; it’s not only longer now but thicker, a hassle to cut. “I think you look really nice with longer hair. It’s… I don’t know, fitting?”
A habit he developed when his hair first passed his ears, Eli starts to awkwardly twist a stray front piece around his finger. Mist playfully slaps his hand away so she can section it. “I think I’d keep it,” he says, quickly finding something else to tensely fuss with, “if only it didn’t make me look so unprincely.”
Mist snorts a laugh at what he says, in the same way she always does when Ike says something particularly meatheaded or stupid—her words, not Eli’s. It makes Eli feel a little foolish himself, being on the receiving end of Mist’s sisterly teasing. “It’s kind of overkill to chop it all off if you like the length,” she says. “Haven’t you thought about styling it?”
Eli blinks. Styling it? “W-well, I suppose I hadn’t,” he stammers. “I’ve just always had it cut short. I thought that’s how you’re supposed to do it.”
“There’s no way you’re supposed to keep your hair, Eli.”
He grew up under that impression, surrounded by men he admired who always kept their hair neat and trimmed. Eli never explicitly chose it for himself, it’s just something that always happened; for as long as he can remember, the stylist at the villa has always done it exactly the same. Eli never brought up wanting something different. He never knew he could. He never knew he wanted to.
“If you have something in mind, I suppose we could try styling it,” he says, a bit hesitant. At least it isn’t permanent; he can always cut it short again if it doesn’t fit him.
Mist grins at him through the mirror, then rests the scissors back on the vanity. “Leave it to me,” she peppily assures him. “You’re going to love this.”
Like she’s been waiting years for the chance to style someone else’s hair—and she probably has, with a brother as clueless and indifferent about appearances as Ike—Mist cracks her knuckles and approaches her work with a fervor unlike anything Eli’s seen from her before. Focused, she holds the tip of a bobby-pin in her teeth, then starts brushing some of his hair up. She lets a few shorter strands hang freely down in the front, and the rest is pinned neatly back into a bun, just slightly lopsided off the crown of his head.
It’s nearly feminine, it reminds Eli of a hairstyle he thinks he’s seen Mist do on herself before, but he likes it. Far more than he thought he would.
When Mist jumps back and shows off the finished hairstyle with an exaggerated “Tada!”, all of Eli’s worries from earlier fade. It isn’t neat enough to be princely, but that’s an easy fix; it fits him far better than his short hair ever did. He silently examines every curling strand of hair tied back and—
—and somehow, he feels a bit more like himself.
***
For the past half-hour, Eli’s mind has been on everything but the book he’s reading. His hands fit and fuss with the edges of its thin paper pages, flipping them over and then back again. The lines of ink and writing blend together into one big, unintelligible block; he tries to focus enough to read it but can’t manage more than a few words before his attention is inevitably pulled elsewhere.
To Soren, across the sitting room of Begnion finery, lounging back in a shell-shaped red velvet chair that swallows him whole. Him and his long, tied back hair that Eli can’t stop staring at. Everything Mist said to him a few days ago rings in his ears when it shouldn’t; he’s retroactively convincing himself that he’s uncomfortable with the choice he made, so his jealous gaze lingers on the one person who doesn’t seem to have a little voice in the back of his head telling him it’s wrong.
Eli’s trying not to draw attention to himself, but his fidgeting and stolen glances aren’t exactly stealthy. Soren snaps his book shut and Eli jumps, then follows suit by closing his. “Is there something wrong?” Soren asks with his usual temper. “Spit it out. Your staring’s getting creepy.”
Ignoring his immediate instinct to flee, Eli roots in his chair. “I-I just,” he stammers, “I was wondering why you kept your hair so long…”
Soren scowls, then waits a beat as though he doesn’t expect that to be all Eli’s asking. It may be meaningless to him, but it’s a weighted question for Eli. “Because I like it long,” he responds, clipped. “Is that all?”
“But I thought— It’s just that men don’t usually…”
With a sharp sigh, Soren cuts him off. Eli still feels the urge to run before he ends up on the receiving end of one of Soren’s infamous lectures; he’s never seen one up close but has heard no shortage of horror stories from Mist about just how tempestuous Soren can be when faced with idiocy—and Eli’s question feels like the exact same folly Soren so despises. His finger nervously coils and twists around a lock of loose green hair hanging in front of his eyes—he still has it styled how Mist did, despite the odd feeling in his chest—and he braces himself for the thunder-sharp impact of Soren’s tongue.
“You’re still new to mercenary life, so I’ll be nice,” Soren begins in a very not-nice tone. “No mercenary views things like your royalty and nobility do. There’s no divide between men and women, and no one cares about your appearance. What matters is if you can fight or, in your case, lead.”
Eli wishes it was that simple for him. Unfortunately, leadership—and especially one as fresh and underdeveloped as his—comes with the expectation that you meet others’ expectations.
“I feel that ever since joining the Greil Mercenaries, I’ve been missing out on something,” he says. “Some knowledge all of you are privy to, but not me.” When Mist styled his hair, he thought he’d caught onto it, but then the doubts had set in again.
Soren’s gaze flickers into something passive and unreadable, the same concentration as when he’s staring down a map and planning a strategy for Ike to lead them into battle. Eli shifts uncomfortably in his seat, then Soren relents. “I wasn’t born a boy, you know,” he says, hushed. Eli clings to it. “I realized fairly early on that I wasn’t a girl, even if that was the body I was born in. I’ve lived as a man for most of my life.”
Eli’s silent for a long, drawn out minute, certain that if he waits then Soren will start laughing at him for taking that seriously. He doesn’t. He stares unflinchingly at Eli.
Disbelief rises in the back of his throat. “You can do that?” Eli asks, incredulous.
Soren scoffs, but it’s missing its usual condescending edge. “If that’s the way you feel, then it’s the way you feel. Some people may have an issue with it, but Greil Mercenaries don’t.”
“And Begnion?”
“You’re receiving aid from the Apostle, not the Senate.” Soren speaks matter-of-factly, like it’s all another strategy, and maybe it is. Maybe Eli has been overthinking things. “Don’t concern yourself with them. Empress Sanaki’s already offered her support, and something like this wouldn’t change it.”
***
Eli sits on his words morning, day, and night until it’s boiling over and he can’t keep it inside.
Early in the morning, as he dresses for another day spent navigating the culture and nobility of Begnion, he stands in front of the mirror to do his hair. He sweeps his green tresses up into their usual small, off-center bun and, for once, takes a second to look himself over. He’s been avoiding it, afraid that the guilt and anxiety of how he’ll be perceived will find the chance to creep back in.
But today, he feels good.
He takes it a step further.
Eli was a name chosen to honor his grandmother, the beloved Princess Elincia of Crimea, younger sister of the king. Though she never took the throne, she was beloved by the nation for her good will and aid to the people in times of plague and poverty. She was known for her strength and tolerance, for leading battles atop the pegasus she reared since it was a foal. She was exactly the kind of ruler that he wants to be.
Or, perhaps, exactly the kind of queen that she wants to be.
It feels odd, but not bad, like a pair of new leather boots that she hasn’t had the chance to break in just yet. Princess Elincia Ridell Crimea has a nice ring to it, but it will take some wearing and getting used to.
***
Though Elincia is sheepish and awkward as she attempts to reintroduce herself, Mist has enough excitement for the both of them. She claps her hands together in genuine celebration, and rambles on about finally having a friend that isn’t just some musclehead man.
While Elincia wouldn’t have considered herself a musclehead man when she was Eli, Mist’s excited acceptance is much appreciated.
With the leftover funds they received from Apostle Sanaki—which Mist only procures by lying and convincing Soren they’re for something completely different—they head out into the greater city of Sienne to find a dress shop. Soren gets dragged along too, much to his chagrin. Mist forces him to take a seat on the too-soft poufs outside the dressing room and wait with her as Elincia tries on each and every one of the dresses Mist picked out for her.
“I’m not really a girl,” Mist says, shoving her into the curtained dressing room, “but trust me, I’m an expert on this. Try these on, I’m sure there’ll be at least one you love.”
The Greil Mercenaries really do play the concept of gender fast and loose; Elincia isn’t quite sure what Mist means when she says that, but that’s a mystery that can be unraveled later. She takes the weighted stack of dresses from Mist and slowly but surely begins to pace through trying them all on. They’re all pompous and frilly—being a prince there was some layer of decadence to her attire, but voluminous skirts and yards upon yards of lace feel unfamiliar to her. Uncomfortable, because she isn’t used to it.
There’s exactly one dress in Mist’s collection of increasingly gaudy ballgowns that placates Elincia’s shyer tendencies. The fabric is almost thin and warm-toned, a bright and ravishing orange with a cream overskirt. There’s none of that itchy lace, and the ribbons and accessories it does have are few and not over the top. She spins to get a good view of herself in the mirror and her heart races; she hadn’t realized that it was actually possible for her to feel this comfortable in the clothes she wears until now.
When she emerges from the dressing room, Mist’s wide smile says it all. Soren doesn’t look as enthused, but after months traveling together, Elincia can still tell he’s genuinely happy for her.
“Princess Elincia,” Mist whispers.
The name suddenly fits her perfectly when Mist says it; she swells with a sense of pride and newfound assurance. Her smile brightens and she does a little twirl for them both, but really, the dress and hair feel negligible compared to finally clinging onto that feeling she had been missing. Elincia knows who she is now.
For herself, she’s found the way things are supposed to be.