The Anchor of Names, The Striking of Colors

They ate in silence.

Not the awkward kind. Not the stilted lull of strangers uncertain where to look or what to say.

It was the quiet of two sailors watching the same sea, side by side, without need to fill the air. The wind moved softly through the rooftop, carrying with it the scent of salt and distant cut grass. Below, the world continued—boots on pavement, idle conversation, distant gulls—but here, atop the freshman barracks, time moved more gently.

Rowan chewed his sandwich—delicate, buttery, suspiciously perfect—and found, much to his surprise, that he was not tense. Not performing. Not bracing for another tactical flirtation.

He was simply… there.

That was when she spoke again.

"Master Takeda," Catherine said lightly, dabbing at the corner of her mouth with a linen napkin, "allow me a question."

He glanced at her. She wasn't looking directly at him—just out toward the water, where a training cruiser glittered in the distance.

"Why do you still call yourself Takeda," she asked, "rather than Lightning?"

Rowan didn't answer right away. He leaned back on his hands, elbows to the concrete, and tilted his face to the wind. His red hair lifted slightly in the sea breeze—messy, sun-kissed, alive.

Then, calmly, simply:

"Because I'm not Lightning," he said. He looked over at her now. Not defensive. Not deflecting. Just honest. "She is. I feel like… if I took her name, it would actually kind of cheapen her. And I wouldn't want to do that."

A pause. He plucked another crisp from the little brass tin and popped it into his mouth.

"Besides," he added with a small smile, "she'd never let me live it down."

Catherine chuckled—quietly, with grace. Then, in return, he offered her a slight nod.

"May I ask in turn?" he said. "Why did you choose to take on Hood?"

She was still for a moment. A gust of wind pulled at her coat, revealing the gleam of her buttons and the ripple of her sash.

Her answer, when it came, was not rehearsed.

"Tradition," she said softly. "Mostly."

Her gloved hands folded gently over one knee, posture straight even in thought.

"I am noble born, after all. And we British…" she gave him a faint, self-aware smile, "we love our traditions. Flags and toasts and ancient names stitched in gold. We cling to them, sometimes too tightly. But there's comfort in it. Stability."

Her gaze drifted slightly skyward, where a banner flapped lazily on the main tower of the central hall.

"And Hood… well, she was glorious. Regal. Respected. To bear her name, to walk in her memory—it felt like a duty I was bound to. If I turned it down, it would feel like… like I was insulting her."

She looked at him again, this time with something gentler in her eyes. "It's all a matter of perspective, I suppose." Catherine let the silence return—for a moment. A breeze tugged at the edge of her coat and played with the ribbon in her hair. Her tea had grown cooler in the cup, untouched.

Then, with a calmness that felt measured but not guarded, she spoke again.

"…I confess," she said, "I am rather jealous of you in that regard."

Rowan turned slightly to glance at her, brow rising—not mocking, not questioning, just surprised. She gave him a small smile, but it didn't quite reach her eyes.

"I am… close to Hood," she said, as if the words carried weight. "Of that there is no doubt. I admire her deeply. I am fond of the old knight. She has stood with me in training, through protocol, through trial. We are of a kind, she and I."

She looked down at her gloves, then unfastened one slowly, with a quiet, practiced dignity. She let the fabric rest in her lap as she flexed her bare fingers, watching them as if uncertain they belonged to her.

"But sometimes, I feel I have come too close. In bearing. In thought. In habit. There are days when I cannot tell where Hood ends and Catherine begins."

She folded her hands again, bare now, but composed.

"Not that it's wrong, of course. The closer a Captain is to their Frame, the more precise their movements. The more natural the resonance. Efficiency demands cohesion. And yet…"

She trailed off for a moment, looking out at the sea.

"And yet there are times," she said softly, "when I feel more like a machine built for war than a woman."

The words hovered for a moment in the air—not bitter, but gently resigned. Worn at the edges. Like the soft creak of an old ship when the wind changes.

She turned to look at him again. "You and Lightning… you are distinct. Still yourselves. And yet no less formidable. You fight well because you remain separate. You laugh. You argue. You take up space without dissolving into each other."

A pause.

"I envy that, Captain Takeda. I do." Hood said the she seemed to sense that she'd gone too far into the fog.

The moment hung, not unpleasantly, but heavier than she intended. She drew her glove back on with slow, practiced motions and lifted her teacup once more, letting her tone brighten just a touch.

"But there's no need," she said lightly, "for such dreadful melancholy on a beautiful day like this."

She sipped, eyes closing for a moment in appreciation, then opened them again with that same, measured smile.

"Allow me instead to offer congratulations on your victory over the GNS Bismarck yesterday."

Rowan blinked "Oh," he said. "Thanks."

"I'm glad," she continued, setting her cup down with a faint clink, "that my advice proved useful to you."

There was no boast in her voice, only quiet satisfaction—like a teacher pleased to see a pupil flourish, but far too well-bred to take credit aloud.

"To attempt such close engagement with her turret rotation speed being what it is…" she gave a small shake of her head, "was both dangerous and daring." Her crimson eyes sparked with a flicker of restrained amusement.

"But I must say, Master Takeda...it was also completely insane."

Rowan choked slightly on a sip of tea. "Well—yeah, I kind of figured that part out mid-maneuver."

Catherine laughed—truly laughed this time, a soft, melodic sound like sunlight through old rigging.

"No well-trained naval officer would ever have attempted it," she said. "And yet you did. Masterfully performed, if I may say so. Though I must assume Lightning was screaming at you the entire time."

"She was," Rowan muttered. "I think she's still mad about it."

"I should hope so." Hood remarked with a playfully disdainful sniff, but she glanced back toward him, eyes warm now. "But then… perhaps that's why it worked. No one trained you in how to win the way you did. You did not follow the manual, Master Takeda—you rewrote it in real time."

Rowan grinned—softly at first, then a little wider, the wind playing in his hair.

"Well, news flash, Miss… uh… Lady?" He scratched the back of his neck. "I actually don't know how to address you."

Catherine tilted her head ever so slightly, her expression gentle, amused.

"Lady," she replied. "That is what's proper."

"Right. Cool. Okay." He nodded once, solemn as a midshipman addressing a tribunal. "Well then, here's a bit of news for you."

He leaned in, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper, like he was sharing state secrets.

"I'm a dude."

That alone nearly undid her.

"I mean," he continued, "the closest I ever thought I'd get to naval combat was in gacha games and World of Warships."

There was a split second of stillness.

Then it hit her.

Catherine barked out a laugh—a real one, utterly unguarded—and immediately tried to stifle it, but it was too late. The sound escaped her lips with an unmistakable snort, and she clapped a gloved hand over her mouth, crimson eyes wide in abject betrayal of her own composure.

"Oh—oh dear," she gasped, cheeks blooming with color. "I do apologize, that was terribly—"

"Nah," Rowan said, grinning now. "That was pretty cool." He leaned back again, squinting up at the sky like he was filing the moment away somewhere important. "I can say I made a Duchess laugh. Can't put that on a resume, but still feels like a win."

She turned her face slightly, letting the wind mask the rest of her blush, but her lips still curled with a smile that hadn't been there before. "Master Takeda," she murmured, "you may be quite mad… but you are, I think, a very rare sort of Captain."

Another lull settled between them. Not awkward—just companionable. The kind that forms when the tea's still warm and no one feels the need to fill the silence for silence's sake.

They sat like that for a minute or two. The breeze ruffled the cloth between them. Somewhere below, bells marked the passing of the hour.

Then Rowan shifted slightly and broke the quiet with a tentative, "Hey… if you don't mind my asking, Lady Hood—"

"Yes, Master Takeda?"

He hesitated, then gave her a sheepish smile.

"Why does nobody like Bismarck?"

That made her blink.

She set down her cup and folded her hands, considering him with a raised brow. Not offended—just mildly surprised by his directness.

"Well," she said at last, "that is… quite forward."

"Yeah," Rowan admitted. "Sorry. I just—everyone kind of tenses when she walks into a room."

Catherine gave a long-suffering sigh. "Yes. Well. I suppose I can indulge you."

She sat a little straighter, folding one leg elegantly over the other, and spoke as if delivering a formal report to Parliament.

"Her Frame," she began, "carries a name that, let us say... Is not without its infamy. And she herself was unbeaten in over forty mock combats, a record which, while objectively impressive, does tend to breed resentment among her peers." She looked out over the edge of the roof, voice still even. "And of course, such consistent efficiency often invites jealousy. Petty, perhaps. But unavoidable."

She paused then, tilting her head slightly. And added, with perfect clarity and no change of tone whatsoever: "And she is an egregious bitch."

Rowan choked. His laugh burst out before he could stop it—a sharp, startled bark of disbelief and delight.

Hood turned back toward him and grinned, just a little too pleased. He looked away from that lovely refined grin and Hood purred internally. "I did rather intend that effect," she said, eyes twinkling like lantern light on a dark sea. "But your laugh, Master Takeda, was worth a bit of unladylike vulgarity."

Rowan leaned back on his palms again, gaze drifting past the campus rooftops toward the sea. The horizon was a hard line in the distance, painted in shades of blue and steel.

He spoke softly, but the words carried.

"Yeah, but… you seem to have a particular distaste for her."

Catherine blinked.

Her amusement faded—not completely, but enough to leave a silence between them. She turned her head slowly, studying him with new attention.

"You really don't know?" she asked.

Rowan met her gaze and shook his head, sincere as sunrise.

"No. I don't."

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then she turned away again, hands resting gently in her lap. When she spoke, her voice had changed—still measured, still clear, but touched now with something older. Deeper. Like the opening of a weathered logbook in a forgotten drawer.

"May I tell you a story, Master Takeda?"

He nodded.

She inhaled—slow and quiet—and began.

"There was once a battle. In another world. Another time. The year was 1941, and the seas were Europe's to stain with fire and smoke. The HMS Hood—my namesake—was a battlecruiser of unmatched grace. Beloved. Glorious. A pride not just of Britain, but of an entire naval era."

She paused.

"And then there was the Bismarck. Newer. Heavier. Armed to the teeth and built to defy every ship that came before her."

Rowan was listening now—completely.

"They met off the coast of Denmark. Hood and Bismarck, two giants in a world already teetering. The Royal Navy sent Hood to intercept the German raider. To stop her before she could reach the Atlantic and cripple supply lines."

Catherine's voice had grown quieter. Not reverent, but respectful. Heavy with the weight of remembered pride.

"They never stood a chance," she said simply. "The Hood was struck amidships. Her magazines detonated. She exploded—split in half and sank in under three minutes."

She looked over at Rowan now, and her eyes were not bitter, but they brimmed with tears that she refused to let fall. "Out of a crew of one thousand four hundred and eighteen, only three survived."

Rowan sat very still.

"She was lost." Hood continued with a sniff, shaking off the emotion as if it had never been. "Utterly. And the Bismarck—that ship, that name—became a mark upon our naval soul."

Hood looked away again, back toward the wind and the wide ocean.

"I know, logically, that the GNS Bismarck is not that Bismarck. That our names and Frames are only echoes. Symbols."

She smiled faintly.

"But tell me, Master Takeda, how does one look into the face of the ship that destroyed your legend and not feel the steel press of memory?"

Rowan glanced over at her—truly looked—and said, without a trace of guile: "That's a shame. Because I think if you guys could let that go, you two could be good friends."

Hood choked, completely, and without warning—nearly drowned in her tea.

She set the cup down with precision, eyes wide in disbelief, as though someone had just told her the moon had filed for divorce from the sky.

"Excuse me?" she said, voice sharper than she'd meant it.

Rowan didn't flinch. Didn't blush, didn't stumble. He just turned his gaze back out to sea, elbows resting on his knees, wind tugging at his red hair.

"It's true that Bismarck's a bit prickly," he said. "And yeah, she can be cold. Sharp-tongued. Looks at people like she's measuring firing solutions." He paused, like he was mulling something over then he nodded. "But… I think it's because she's scared."

Hood's expression tightened slightly—not in protest, but in thought. "Scared?" she echoed.

He nodded. "Yeah. She's carrying something heavy, and I don't think anyone ever lets her set it down."

His voice was quiet now, not dramatic—just honest. It was the way he'd say a hard thing to Lightning, or to a friend who needed to hear it.

"Other people look at her and see a flag she didn't raise. They call her a Nazi. Whisper that she's going to resurrect the Reich just by existing. She's proud of being German—but no one wants that title on their back. No one wants to carry that shadow."

He folded his hands between his knees, eyes still on the waves.

"And yeah… she is proud. Just like you. She's strong. Scary-strong. But she's good too, in her own way. I think the problem is, people expect her to act like a villain, so she gives them what they expect. It's easier than proving she's not."

Catherine Wren, Third Duchess of Jersey was silent. Completely still.

Rowan turned back to her, softer now.

"You're both proud of your legacy. Both incredibly strong. Both beautiful in different ways. Her—she's got that soldier's bearing. Harsh lines, sharp dignity. She looks like a marble statue, ready to step off the pedestal and swing a sword."

He gave a happy, crooked smile. "You're English nobility. She's some sort of hardened Teutonic knight."

Then, without even knowing it, he said the one thing that no one ever had.

"You're both incredibly talented and honorable!"

He kept talking—unaware, or perhaps just too earnest to notice the silence settling around his words. "She honored our stake," he said, tone light, almost exasperated with himself. "Stupid as it was. I tried to release her from it after the duel, figured it wasn't fair. But she—she couldn't even fathom the idea of backing out of a deal. Not even one she didn't want. Because to her, an oath is a line you don't cross."

His foot tapped idly against the steel ledge, head tilted as if puzzling through the memory aloud.

"And you, Lady Hood…"

He looked over at her then, smiling gently.

"You felt so bad about being rude, you went out of your way to make lunch and bring it up here, just in case I needed a quiet spot to breathe."

His tone wasn't flattering, just matter-of-fact.

"I'd like to think that says something about you both."

And it did.

It said more than he knew.

Catherine sat still, hands folded neatly, but inside her chest something shifted like rigging in a high wind. Her throat tightened. Not painfully, but unexpectedly—like something unspoken had just been named aloud for the first time.

He had seen her. And Bismarck. Not as rivals. Not as reputations.

As people.

And perhaps it was that. Or perhaps it was simply the way he'd said you both—with such warmth, such fairness, such unguarded kindness—that made her move.

She shifted. Subtly. Carefully. But undeniably, she scooted closer.

Just enough that their shoulders might brush if one them shifted. Just enough to feel present, not separate. She didn't say anything right away. Her voice, always measured, needed a moment to find its bearing again.

But she was smiling now—small, thoughtful. And softened, in a way even she hadn't expected. Who was pursuing who here?

The air shifted.

Something subtle, but undeniable—like the moment just before a ship crests a wave and sails into open sky.

Rowan finally looked at her again—and realized, with a strange fluttering in his chest, just how close she was now. The scent of tea and old paper and something floral—lavender, maybe?—brushed the air between them.

Her eyes, those deep red rubies, were warm.

Focused.

Locked.

"Master Takeda," she said softly, but with weight behind the title. Like she was savoring it.

"That was very kind of you."

He opened his mouth, unsure of what to say—but she continued, voice like velvet drawn across steel.

"However…" Her smile curved slightly, like a warship turning broadside. "You've just said something rather forward."

He blinked.

She leaned in, slowly—so close he could feel her breath, the whisper of heat between them. Her lips hovered just shy of his, not touching, not daring—just there, like the edge of a promise.

"You called me beautiful," she murmured. "How very, very bold."

Rowan's breath caught. He didn't move, not at first. But reaction is a funny thing and he found himself moving to her. Instinctively. Gently. He leaned forward, just enough to close the space between their mouths. To let their lips touch...

But she was faster. Catherine pulled back just slightly, just enough to leave his lips suspended in air, wanting.

"Say it again," she whispered, voice rich with play and power, "like you mean it…" And then dangerously, devastatingly she purred "Master Takeda." The word Master had taken on a very different context in the way Hood nearly growled it at him... and Rowan was very sure it had nothing to do with sailing.