#Still thinking about his response to Sylvain after he kills his father..... | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dmclemblems · 2 years

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I think Matthias is a special case. Unlike count Gloucester, we don't have any true info on Matthias from 3H. We know he disowned Miklan but we never learned when - it couldn't have been when Miklan was a child because Miklan still grew up along Sylvain and bullied his younger brother. Thus, it's hard to say if Matthias is part of why Miklan was so awful vs maybe Miklan was a bad dude who got disowned for multiple reasons. I like the more complex AG Matthias because he's a character now.

While I don’t mean to say this is from you directly, apparently there is a huge misconception that I hate or don’t like Matthias. My opinions on things he did in Houses or Hopes might not be the greatest, but I recognize both sides of him and have been very vocal about not thinking he’s a bad person.

That said, in regard to this ask in particular, as someone who started with Blue Lions and plays it as my primary route, I do recognize the difference in how I’ve seen Matthias over the years, though my initial impression of him wasn’t good three years ago (explained below as to why). It wasn’t that he was like total scum, because Sylvain does mention in the war phase that he was worried about his father, so if his son does care about him in any capacity I deduced that he at least had his child’s love even if there was still trouble between Matthias and Miklan.

(Under the cut: Matthias did big goofie uppers, but Matthias realized his big goofie uppers and gets solid development in GW. I recognize his goofie uppers and his acceptance of his goofie uppers.)

For me though what I thought/expected was a lot worse than what we got in Hopes. For instance, the way he disinherited his firstborn because he later had a child with a Crest was my first put off, but then there was also the fact that Sylvain was uncomfortable with him asking Sylvain, in his paralogue, to “go alone” for that mission. Sylvain thinks it’s crazy of him to ask that and refuses to go alone. In contrast, Rodrigue, another Faerghus father, asked his son to bring reinforcements on top of making no indication of wanting Felix to be alone or not bring more help than asked for.

The thing is there was nothing big and like, right out there or in you face that specifically says Matthias is a bad person, but it was more that my initial thoughts on him were “what’s with this guy?” based on various factors. He read to me as a pretty good dude to his country with very odd choices.

Regarding Miklan specifically, the main reason I say I believe Matthias is in part responsible isn’t because of Matthias directly, but more because of indirect action. Basically if you see that you have a child actually causing harm to your other child, wouldn’t you do something about it? But from the sound of it Matthias didn’t really prevent it or find a way to do so.

For example, he could have sent Miklan away to another household to rectify his behavior, or even have had another person look out for him in some way. He also doesn’t seem to have made any move to protect Sylvain, considering at some point he had to have known that Miklan was trying to hurt and even kill him. Basically you’d think that sooner or later he would be like, you know what, I need to keep these two far apart. You’d expect that he’d try to keep Sylvain safe and try to scold Miklan when he was a child so that he would grow up knowing right from wrong and how to manage his anger.

Since all this started when Miklan was still pretty young, I do think he could’ve been set right if someone stepped in and made him understand that hating Sylvain and trying to kill his own brother was not going to solve his problem. Naturally that would fall to his parents to try to teach him, but we hear nothing about them doing so (more on parental comparisons later). The fact that Miklan was even allowed near Sylvain after everyone must have realized how dangerous that was has always been a huge question for me. Why would they leave Sylvain near him? Why wouldn’t they try to protect him better? Why did the situation even be left to escalate to the extent that it got to?

Based on Houses’ information and also lack thereof, my takeaway was that Matthias didn’t really do much (and nor did Sylvain’s mother in this case) to prevent the problem. We know Rodrigue scolds Felix when Felix gets out of line, even when Felix is nearly an adult pre-skip. Even if Felix doesn’t listen, Rodrigue does try to set him straight (such as telling him when enough is enough or that he won’t tolerate his language). From how Sylvain’s story is explained throughout the games, it doesn’t seem like Matthias really parented Miklan after disinheriting him.

Again, I don’t like Matthias is a bad man, but he was not that good of a parent (and he admits as much in GW so it’s not a stretch to say he wasn’t particularly fatherly) to either child. I include Sylvain in that because again, why was Sylvain in danger so often? Why didn’t Matthias finally step in and separate them, even if that meant sending Miklan elsewhere? Why didn’t he try to stop it?

The thing is, when it comes to Rodrigue and Felix, we know a LOAD of details about their relationship and how they treat each other (in both games, no less). Matthias in Houses however we know little about as well as his relationship to both his children. Rodrigue explicitly talks about both his children in both games so we have a clear picture of his feelings and relationships. When it comes to Matthias we aren’t told what he did and didn’t do. I would think if he did have a bigger influence on his children’s lives that we would know about it, similar to how we know about Rodrigue’s relationship with his own children. For example, we hear this line from Rodrigue: “I lost a son in Duscur that day. I exhausted every last resource I had to investigate what took place there.” That to me says volumes about how much effort he put into something because his son died during that incident. He felt driven to find out what really happened because he wanted to know the truth of what took place that caused his son to be killed.

What I mean is that, if Matthias had done something to help with the problem, we would almost pretty assuredly know about it. We’re usually given some kind of information about those things, even if it’s through the main story, supports, etc. Basically, I think Matthias may have detached himself too much from the situation. Perhaps he did do things here and there to try to stop it, but he didn’t do enough if Sylvain regularly had to avoid being killed.

Again, I don’t think Matthias is some shitty person who Sylvain should hate and scorn for being some total crapshoot. I just feel that his inaction is what caused Miklan to become so aggressive, realizing “hey cool I can get away with this and nobody is gonna try to stop it”. His hatred was known to be bad enough to attack Sylvain, but I would find it strange that he’d even be able to so often if countermeasures were ever put in place. To me it always sounded more like Claude’s childhood where he was expected to just survive through his own means while his parents were very hands off even if he was in danger of being killed (which was apparently frequent enough).

I’m sure Miklan absolutely did do multiple things that got him disowned (mind you Miklan insists he cut ties with his family, but Matthias insists he disowned him and they both have that conflicting dialogue in the exact same Hopes chapter, so I get the feeling that Matthias did disown him and Miklan was angry and bitter and so decided to tell himself that he just cut himself loose and ran off to make himself feel better about it). The questions I keep wondering though are why he was able to get away with those things for so long and being that kind of person with his parents not stepping in. Supposedly according to Hopes Sylvain, Sylvain’s mother/Miklan’s step mother did love him, but we have no indication that either parent made it a point to help both children. From the sounds of it, they may have just expected Sylvain to get up, brush off his own wounds and move on. Again, similar Claude’s parents where they didn’t really stop it and expected Claude to deal with it.

I’m sure Miklan had a slew of things he started doing by the time Matthias was like okay we gotta get rid of this one, but I also want to understand how it even got so bad. Since Miklan was probably very young when he started doing these things, I think it would be possible to set him right because young children are still learning and aren’t set in their ways. If you let them grow into teenhood thinking they won’t be stopped from doing something bad, they won’t stop. Even if they realize it’s bad, if you let them become accustomed to it, they’ll keep doing it. If you try to stop them when they’re now a teen and still doing it, they’ll prooobably want to know why they weren’t stopped before so why are they being stopped now.

Basically I can’t completely blame Miklan for it because we’re led to believe he started trying to kill Sylvain pretty early into Sylvain’s childhood, and it happened so regularly that I can’t imagine anyone really, really tried to stop it. According to Ingrid it’s pretty well known too (at least in the circle of nobility), so there’s no way Matthias and his wife didn’t know it was happening.

Even if Miklan waited until Sylvain was vulnerable, like if they were outside by themselves without supervision/Sylvain was alone or only near other young children, Sylvain would’ve had evidence in his injuries that this was occurring. Not only did others start to know about it, but Sylvain would have evidence on his body that it was happening, and yet somehow it was able to keep happening. That just tells me that eventually Matthias knew about it, and yet it wasn’t stopping.

To a point, Miklan is responsible for continuing to do those things as he grew up and understood it wasn’t acceptable behavior, but Matthias isn’t off scot free either because I can’t find any indication that he repeatedly tried to stop Miklan without disowning him (i.e. tried everything he possibly could to stop the behavior, it wouldn’t stop and he finally disowned him. That’s what I’m not seeing).

Since Matthias does say he knows he wasn’t that great of a father, he’s obviously aware he didn’t do enough for his children (and he says that in a route where Miklan is still alive and fighting at the western front). He probably regrets it honestly, but he’s aware that it’s a big mistake he made in his life. I’m sure it has a lot to do with what Rodrigue said about his first wife dying and him changing as a result of that, but I also think Matthias recognized that before dying in GW. In a way you could even say the fact that he was happy to go out the way he did, with Sylvain saying he was beaming like he’d never seen his father do before, was because he felt he was finally doing what was unquestionably the right thing. He thinks Sreng’s former prisoner was a mistake in the sense that he taught him a lot about Fodlan. He thinks he made mistakes as a father. He seems to think he made mistakes just by being who he became when he lost his first wife. In this case, now, maybe he feels he’s finally doing something that he knows is right, because he’s fighting for his home and saving his best friend’s and best friend’s son’s life. For him that battle was almost like self-forgiveness. It sucks that he was only truly happy with a decision he made when he went off to die, but I think in a way that was a redemption of his mistakes in his own mind. I also think he was happy to tell Sylvain he would be the new Margrave, because he likely believes the House will be in better hands than when he was in charge of it.

I really do get the feeling Matthias doesn’t have a very good self-image and thinks pretty poorly of himself. I never got the notion that he’s super proud of what he does, but rather does things and later berates himself for it. Maybe he even regrets that he didn’t do enough to protect Sylvain when Sylvain was a child, and maybe he regrets that he didn’t do enough to get Miklan to grow up to be a better person. Since Dimitri did find Miklan and help him turn himself around as part of the Kingdom army, it’s still true in GW that his AG story did happen, except it actually goes on through the whole route and isn’t cut short by death in the war. The longer Miklan had to prove himself, the more Matthias may have realized how strong the western front was going in defense and may have regretted his relationship with Miklan. He probably saw that he was really powerful and could have been better if he’d been steered in a better direction, and if Matthias failed to do that for him, I imagine Matthias would look at what Dimitri did for Miklan and think “I could’ve done that for him if I tried harder”.

While I would like to think he came to these conclusions in AG too, because it’s just depressing that he only gets to have these realizations (presumed aside from the parenting that he does open up about) in a route where he dies, I do like that we get insight into his real feelings. I like that the parents get development when actually we’re able to see them (ex. parents we actually meet in Houses got development, but they also got development in Hopes too. For the ones we don’t see in Houses like Erwin and Matthias, they get development but only in Hopes).

#Three Hopes Spoilers #GW Matthias is probably the biggest eye opener of his character with his flashback scene with Sylvain #it feels like we got more about him in that one scene than all of Houses and a chunk of AG #inb4 I have to start making a tag called No I Do Not Hate Matthias #bc someone somewhere out there is gonna read this and be like omg she hates Matthias #even tho it's a look on how he handled his son nearly being killed multiple times by his other son #and has nothing to do with him as a person and that I do not hate him as a person #REMEMBER WHEN I WROTE TWENTY PARAGRAPHS ABOUT ERWIN?#well I just wrote twenty paragraphs about Matthias too #they both got twenty paragraphs good for them #DCE Ask

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butwhatifidothis · 2 years

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I'm honestly 1 straw away from barging into the comments section of the fic to rip cap a new one after reading your notes on the latest chapter. This is DISGUSTING. Imaging telling a genocide survivor it's their fault because they didn't do their responsibilities.

Along with the racism, sexism, and ableism. I think it's safe to say that Cap isn't just a bad writer but an asshole too. Because not once when writing this did he ever think "hey this may not be ok to write". I feel that he genuinely believes this stuff deep down.

Honestly I welcome the day the internet rips this fic apart.

(sorry if this may be harsh. I just love the lettuce fam alot and seeing this stuff be written down knowing how popular this fic is and how it's seen as cannon to many just fills me with rage)

Different nonnie: You know, I mostly just roll my eyes at the fic and enjoy the commentary. The fic rarely makes me truly angry. But WHAT THE FUCK.

Different nonnie: I could not even read through that last part with your notes. I’m just disgusted. Remember kiddies! If someone would rather protect their family than grovel at your feet they are irredeemable.

Lemme preface this with saying that I still don't condone going to the fic and leaving disparaging comments, and that I still try to maintain that since I don’t know Cap'n irl I can't make any sound moral judgements of his actual character.

What I can say with confidence, however, is that at the very least, his writing - intentionally or not - is some of the most genuinely morally repugnant I've seen written in a fanfiction that wasn't deliberately meant to be such (like in a dark!fic). The constant and consistent victim blaming of literal genocide survivors that not only never goes away, but will go on to somehow get even worse, is some of the most uncomfortable I've ever been reading a fic. And not because it was meant to make me feel that way, but precisely because it wasn't.

That anyone - let alone multiple people - can sit there with their full chests and say "yeah, genocide was kinda cringe, but the survivors of the genocide didn't react in the way that most benefited the race that genocided them! They didn't consider how their actions would affect specifically the protagonist and her friends when they made their choices a thousand years before these people were born! And really, maybe they had it coming with how they must have mistreated humans beforehand! Really, they're no better than the people that genocided them!" and mean that, in a positive connotation is just. Disgusting? Let's go with that. It's very disgusting.

And also, just. There’s like. A very strange and manipulative theme of “ignoring/shitting on someone until/unless they can be used to make yourself look better” that goes on from Woobiegard’s side of things. Sylvain’s suffering and his reaction to it as he sets off to kill his own older brother on the orders of his own father? Treated as an inconvenience to Woobiegard, until it can be used to distract from Dimitri’s rightful criticism of Woobiegard. Ingrid's father? Repeatedly and unendingly called misogynistic, awful, verbally abusive, until he can be used against Seteth, because Ingrid is “a daughter” and thus Seteth fighting against her to protect his own daughter is somehow hypocritical. Like liege like knight, I guess.

And just. The whole “If you REALLY cared about Rhea you’d stay by her side no matter what!” mentality is just. It says so much about the fic’s narrative. No, Seteth, actually, you should have endangered the life of your only daughter, because otherwise you aren’t completely and utterly loyal to your sister and thus you don’t actually care about your family. No, Byleth, actually, you should always stay by Woobiegard no matter what she does to you or your friends or to Fodlan, because otherwise you failed her and don’t deserve her love and you have to keep earning her love (ohhh ho ho can’t wait for THOSE notes to drop lmao). No, Black Eagles, actually, you should always center the world around you and your problems to the exclusion of everyone else, because otherwise you will all become emotionless husks who are all incapable of caring and loving yourselves. There’s this unnerving theme of absolutism, a completely stark black-and-white “if x then y” cause-and-effect where if you don’t do this morally questionable thing that has been presented as the One Good Moral Option With No Nuance Whatsoever, then you will suffer immensely with no question or way to stop it.

Like, this fic has had a lot - a lot - of problematic elements to it, but it’s when the Nabateans get involved that things take a nosedive. The racism goes from something that could be picked up but possibly explained away to “yeah no Woobiegard is feeling rage and disgust just from looking at Flayn explicitly because she is a Nabatean.” The victim blaming is ramped up to 11 billion, straight up saying that genocide survivors are on par with the people who committed genocide against them because Marianne Was Sad Too Once (because her ancestor was one of the people who directly benefited from said genocide and rightfully got fucked for doing so). Misandry is just straight up a character trait at this point, repeatedly physically assaulting Seteth whenever he dares step out of Ingrid’s line (and he’s not the only man who’s gotten or will get this sort of treatment - remember, in Chapter 36 Ingrid also threatened to use Luin against Sculptor Guy because he made her Mad and nothing else - but he’s the one where it’s portrayed as the most righteous that it happens).

If this were intentional, I’d applaud the fic for steadily building the moral bankruptcy from something that could maybe possibly be explained away if you’re being really generous (and/or naïve) to outright and blatant racism, sexism, religiophobia, etc. etc., because watching this shit slowly get worse and worse until the crescendo of “these genocide survivors are no better than their genociders,” “physically assaulting men who step out of women’s lines is morally righteous,” “looking at someone and feeling disgust and hatred due to them being a certain race is understandable because their race as a whole is to blame for the world’s problems” is like. Such an unnerving thing to read. But it. It like. Wasn’t intentional though. Everyone doing the horrific things is treated as a paragon of morality and goodness and righteousness, and their victims painted as their abusers, and it’s like. Played completely straight. So it’s like. Yeah I can definitely understand the anger

#ask #anon #exqueuese me princess #o captain my captain #like wow. WOW. it's indescribable how awful this fic is #its rhetoric is genuinely disgusting

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crestbound · 3 years

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in another life, i was free.

In one lifetime, they’re gathered around a fire—him, Dimitri, Felix, and Ingrid. It must be summer in Fraldarius; Sylvain can hear the crash of ocean waves off the towering cliffside far away. They’re not old enough to be here completely unsupervised, but neither are they too young to know how to sneak away. The Fraldarius maids must be turning the castle upside-down.

The fire crackles. Sylvain remembers that look on Felix’s face; it’s the look he gets when he boasts about something Glenn had done, to be inevitably followed by his own plans to follow in his brother’s footsteps.

(He misses that look. He misses when Felix’s eyes used to shine with a world of things to look forward to.)

“I wish I had a sibling too,” Dimitri admits. “Someone strong, like Glenn... or smart, like Miklan!”

No, Sylvain thinks wryly, you really don’t.

But the one huddled by the fire, handing Ingrid a skewer of meat, doesn’t agree. This one looks happier. This one is braver.

“I can be your brother, Dima,” he says, which is everything wrong and everything he’s ever tried to be. “I can be everyone’s big brother!”

“Oh?” comes a familiar voice, carrying over the sound of footsteps on sand, of waves yet to announce a storm. Sylvain feels his heart jump once and catch in his throat when Miklan walks into view. It’s almost a knee-jerk reaction, to run in between them.

“Miklan—” he begins, but even his breath tangles in his lungs when Miklan simply walks right through him. (Run. Why are you here? I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—)

“Forget about being a brother,” Miklan says, lacking so much vitriol that Sylvain has to turn, light-headed and nauseous, to stare at him again. “You’re going to be grounded, first. All of you are. The whole castle’s in a panic; Glenn’s about to round up the entire Fraldarius army just to look for you brats.”

“But we wrote a letter!” the young Sylvain protests.

Miklan rolls his eyes. (Wrong shade of brown. His hair’s so much shorter, here. He’s missing the scar on his jaw.) “You wrote ‘off to play.’ That’s not a letter, Syl.”

Syl.

His heartbeats grow louder and louder in his ears, crashing against an incessant ringing, the howling gusts of his breaths. Miklan’s never called him that. Miklan’s never been this nice, either. Miklan is...

(If it weren’t for you...!)

...Miklan is...

Shall we try again?

In another lifetime, the Margrave is ill. They say he caught a sweating sickness from the north, where the Srengi have been tearing down the border walls and pillaging the villages just beyond. He’s expected to die within the moon.

Sylvain is six years old when the margravine tells him.

“Oh,” he says, and looks down at his feet. His mother taps her finger on the table once, too proper to clear her throat. Sylvain straightens up to look at her until she smiles. “When is Miklan coming home?”

“Perhaps in a week or two,” she replies. “But I trust he will be present for the exchange of seals.”

They’re to destroy the margrave’s official wax seal stamp, made of gold and treated blackwood, and create a new one—this time, with Sylvain’s initials instead of his father’s. It’ll be used to seal the letter to the king, announcing the death of the margrave and a schedule for his heir’s arrival at the capital. In Fhirdiad, he’ll kneel before the throne and swear his pledges again.

Sylvain frowns, and resists every urge to shift uneasily in his seat. “...He has to be. Isn’t it going to be his ceremony?” After all, Miklan is the margrave’s firstborn. He’s charismatic, and he’s smart, and he’s terrifyingly brutal with a lance. There isn’t a single soldier in the Gautier cavalry that doesn’t admire him.

But the margravine isn’t part of the cavalry. Though she hasn’t said a word of it herself, everyone in the castle knows that their lady, a paragon of every feminine virtue belonging to the nobility, laments every day for her one failure in life: Miklan Anschutz Gautier, born to her without a Crest.

Imagine that.

“Oh, Sylvain,” she tuts. Her hands are soft when she reaches out to touch him, brushing the hair out of his face and tucking unruly locks behind his ear. “Don’t be silly; of course it will be you. You’re our son.”

But not Miklan. Not Miklan, whose eyes are a closer shade of hazel to the margravine’s than Sylvain’s are; not Miklan, whose laughter echoes the same way the margrave’s does, heavy and confident. Not Miklan, born with a blessing from each of the Four Saints, from Macuil’s keen eye for strategy to Indech’s indomitable strength.

But not Miklan, Crestless and worthless, of the right flesh but not the right blood.

The margravine pulls back. She looks satisfied with her work. “Now,” she says, “Let’s enjoy some tea, shall we?” It’s one of her favorites, a cinnamon blend with a touch of honey. In this life, Sylvain likes it, too.

His brother ends up returning home in five days. Just an hour after sunset, Sylvain—older, taller, the one that survived—watches Miklan kill him.

Neither of them flinches when a sickening crack sounds from the bottom of the well.

In this lifetime, that’s the end.

—we try again?

The next life starts with blood.

He’s angry. Not him, but him—the Sylvain of this life, thrown away and forgotten. There’s a jagged scar that runs from his left temple down to his right cheek, a sick mirror image of Miklan’s worst injury.

And it strikes him, then, that this is the life where it finally happens; this is the life where everything’s turned around. Flames devour a small village just on the border between Gautier and Fraldarius. They don’t have much to plunder, but it isn’t about what can be stolen; it’s about the message that’ll be sent.

Even here, Fraldarius and Gautier enjoy a good relationship. Even here, Sylvain is smart enough to know the best way to hurt his father is through shame.

Your son did this, they’ll tell him. Control him.

And what can he do but try? Even disinherited and stripped of everything he has, Sylvain is still a Gautier. He’s the margrave’s responsibility, especially when he begins causing trouble for the duke.

But of course his father would never come himself. Sylvain can burn a hundred villages, kill a thousand civilians, steal a million bars of gold, and still, still, he’d send his prized son, his Crested son, his only son, to clean up the mess. That’s what he’s good for, after all. That’s what he’s worth. Riches and loves, hearth and home, all because the right blood sings in his veins.

“Miklan,” he rasps, smoke thick in his lungs. “Of course he’d send you.”

“That’s enough now, Sylvain,” Miklan replies, brandishing the Lance of Ruin. It titters and glows in his hands.

Sylvain—the real or the fake, the one that doesn’t belong, the one that should, that wishes, that doesn’t want to be—releases a quiet breath. Then another. A sound, then two, then three.

Then, he laughs.

Miklan kills him here, too.

—try again?

There’s a war in this life.

Behind him, on top of the hill, Dimitri refuses to die. He is a torrent of anger that threatens to tear open the heavens to drag down the Goddess by her neck. Several feet in front of him, Ingrid is already dead. She’s half-crushed by her pegasus, bent and twisted in all sorts of ways.

Between her and Sylvain—the one fighting, the one losing—is Felix. The Sylvain that doesn’t belong knows with a sinking feeling in his gut that the blood on his cheek is Ingrid’s.

Sylvain lifts the Lance of Ruin. It’s tittering more than he’s ever seen in his life, stained through with blood and ichor.

“Hey, Felix?” His voice sounds tired. “Remember when we were kids and we made a promise about dying together?”

Felix doesn’t flinch. He’s always been like that—stubborn and unyielding, willing to commit himself to his decisions to the bloody, sad end. “I remember.”

Sylvain smiles, and it’s a pathetic thing, cracking at the edges. “Well,” he says, “seems we’re about to kill each other.”

There’s one moment where their heartbeats crash against each other, in sync. The next beat, they’re skewed again. One sounds like wardrums; the other, a funeral dirge. It isn’t hard to guess which is whose.

“Sorry, Sylvain.” There’s a flash of a blade. Sylvain—both—wonders if the blood that’s still on it is Ingrid’s.

“Fe—”

“You’ll die first.”

(I know.)

—again?

That’s enough.

#UnlockedWesternFaerghus2021 #drabble #also quote spoiler for cf felix vs am sylvain #u can tell i started off with Ideas that i wanted and then got lazy after like a sentence in shdoigshd

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agent-cupcake · 3 years

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Beastie and the Bard

Fire Emblem Three Houses - Dimitri x Reader - Chapter 9

Word Count: 11,631

I bet you thought I’d forgotten about this. Nope, not yet. I actually have a fully fleshed out framework for where this story is going with a scene by scene breakdown. You can read the previous chapters on my blog or on AO3

This chapter takes place during the first part of the month before the Battle of Garreg Mach.

Elegiac Chorale Mortis Honore Opus 7, No. 1

There was something surreal about sitting in the classroom again, the desks arranged in their neat rows and Professor Byleth facing you all from his usual place. Not even a week had passed since your last class, since your last private conversation with Dimitri, but everything had changed. Peace, whatever dregs had been left of it after everything that had happened, was utterly destroyed. Any illusion of safety behind the old stone walls of the monastery was waved away into smoke. No more laughter, no more fun. The monastery swarmed with word of Emperor Edelgard’s treasonous claims and threats, words weaponized to spread disquiet.

It was almost a relief when Professor Byleth said it, confirming something that everybody already knew. “There is going to be a battle,” he told you all, his voice striking the silent room without any particular cadence. “Scouts report that the Imperial army led by Emperor Edelgard will be here by the end of the moon.”

By the end of the moon. You tried to calculate the days but knew that it wasn’t any more than three weeks. Less, actually.

“So soon?” Ingrid asked, her voice breathy with the shock you felt echoed within yourself.

“This plan has been underway for longer than we could have guessed,” Professor Byleth said. He winced, an odd tick of an expression. “I’m sorry for not seeing this sooner.”

“We don’t blame you, Professor,” Annette said. “Who could have known, right? We all thought...” she trailed off, but there was no point in continuing. You had all thought, you had all been so distracted.

“We can’t let ourselves get caught up on that, Annie,” Mercedes chided.

“You’re right,” Professor Byleth said. “Now, we must prepare for what is to come. Before we begin, does anybody have any questions?”

Nobody said anything. You scanned the faces of those you could see. Dimitri and Dedue sat in front of you, giving you only a profile glimpse of drawn expressions of exhaustion. Of those sitting in your row, nerves cast a sickly pallor over Ashe’s freckled cheeks, painted shadows beneath Annette and Mercedes’ eyes. You wondered how you looked. Tired, probably. You felt as if you hadn’t slept all week.

“Right,” Professor Byleth called, folding his hands behind his back in something akin to parade rest. It was interesting how quickly he had traded a mercenary’s unrefined motions for the more commanding stances of a general. “Dimitri, have you heard any word about what’s happening in Fhirdiad? Seteth’s reports indicate that they’re hesitating in committing any troops to defend Garreg Mach.”

“My uncle is blind,” Dimitri responded with obvious distaste. “He rejects reality. Foolish man.” Although nearly everyone knew of Rufus’s incompetence, Dimitri’s genuine and open scorn for the man, his uncle, was shocking.

“According to my father,” Felix added from behind you, his tone far more measured, “there is opposition within that prevents the regent from committing any men. Not to mention, the Kingdom troops are already spread thin along the western border.”

“Um, excuse me,” Ashe said, nervously raising his hand as if this were a normal class. “There is good reason for that. Professor, may I?”

“Please,” Professor Byleth said, motioning Ashe to continue. He looked from face to face nervously, fidgeting awkwardly in his seat. You were close enough to see the red rimming his eyes, the white skin on his chapped lips. But he spoke and his voice was steady enough, his gaze even as he addressed the class.

“Lord Lonato named me as his heir,” Ashe said, “although I have not yet claimed the title, the Church has allowed me to remain informed about what is happening in his territory. I am… I’m afraid there seems to be some conflict over how the western lords intend to act. After what happened, many of them have been actively rejecting Church aid. Should this become an all-out war-”

“They intend to betray the Church,” Dimitri said, turning and narrowing his eyes at Ashe. “No—to betray their country, is that it?”

“There could be another explanation,” Ashe said.

“I’m sure there is,” Professor Byleth said, motioning to calm them. “What you’re saying is that we can’t count on the western lords for help.”

“Yes,” Ashe answered, his shoulders slumping somewhat. “I’m sorry.”

“I cannot help but wonder if that was the intention,” Dedue said.

“What do you mean?” Byleth asked.

“It is merely speculation,” Dedue began hesitantly, like he was unsure if he should be voicing his opinion. “However, it seemed strange that Lord Lonato would raise a rebellion in the manner he did when he did. Unless he had outside support with considerable sway-”

“You think the Empire is behind Lord Lonato’s betrayal?” Mercedes asked.

“As I said,” Dedue told her, his expression unreadable, “it is merely speculation. But it would explain a great many things. Faerghus is more divided now than ever, it is difficult to believe that is a simple coincidence.”

“Duscur, Lonato, the Church,” Dimitri said, “the infection of the Flame Emperor’s touch has been festering in the Kingdom for far too long. And they would choose to ignore it rather than fighting for their country. Have they no honor?”

“Does any of this matter?” Felix interjected, clearly annoyed. “Even if the Empire did have something to do with the failed rebellion, Lonato is dead now. We can’t waste our time wondering about the motives of a dead man. We need to focus on the problems at hand.”

Dimitri raised his chin imperiously in reaction to that statement, although he didn’t object, turning to face the front again. Ashe sunk back in his chair, pressing his shaking hands flat against the table. Felix’s cruelty was expected at this point, but Dimitri’s was still a fresh wound. You could understand that. You put your hand over Ashe’s, pleased at how steady it was. Your eyes met and you nodded to him, hoping the show of support was enough. His lips quirked in what could almost be counted as a grateful smile.

“About that,” Sylvain said, breaking the tension somewhat with his easy tone. “I received word from my father. He said that he’d send men, but they still won’t get here in time. It’ll take an entire moon for any sizable force to get here. Best case scenario, the Empire forces are delayed, and we can bolster our numbers.” He didn’t continue with the worst-case scenario, but he didn’t need to. The little helpless shrug was more than enough.

Byleth nodded thoughtfully. “This will be a decisive battle, but we’ll be in need of fresh soldiers after the fact no matter which way it goes.”

“Win or lose, you mean,” Felix said dryly.

“We won’t lose,” Annette said. “With the Professor on our side, we’re definitely going to win. Right?” Her blue eyes jumped from face to face, searching desperately for confirmation of her plea.

“Right,” you agreed, trying to unravel the knot of fear and dread tangling in your stomach. You had to work past that, to remain strong. “No matter what, we can’t let the Empire scare us into submission. If we do that, we might as well give up before the battle even starts.” Could they hear past the conviction in your voice to the weak wobble that laid beneath? At the very least, Annette smiled in return. That was enough.

“We will win,” Dimitri said. “When I have her head in my hands, there will be peace. For all of us.” Even in profile, you could see the sickly smile he wore as he considered that. Compared to any regular expression of joy or pleasure, this was a ghastly, inhuman expression. One you had seen before.

“Dimitri, when was the last time you slept?” Professor Byleth asked, tilting his chin up as he considered the prince.

“Slept? I...” Dimitri replied, his eyes snapping upward and the smile dropping. A moment later, his expression froze over. “That is unimportant.” Even for Professor Byleth, this was dangerous territory.

“What about your last meal?” Professor Byleth pushed.

“That is no concern of yours,” Dimitri said, meeting his eyes evenly. “And assuming it was… I have no appetite.”

“Oh, so is that your plan?” Felix called, his voice dripping scorn. “You’re going to kill yourself before that girl can do it for you?”

“Felix,” Dedue said, a warning in his voice as he turned to scowl at him.

“Shut up, dog. I’m tired of your sycophantic denial,” Felix snapped. “Wake up, boar. If you want to lose your mind, do it on your own time. Right now, there are more important things to worry about.”

“Hm,” Dimitri said in response.

“Felix, calm down,” Ingrid said, her worry clearly etched into a frown.

“You’re telling me to calm down?” Felix asked her. “Am I the only one who understands what’s at stake here? You want me to spare the feelings of a mad boar… For what? How is pity for him going to save the lives of the people here? What good is compassion against an upcoming war? This is a farce.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Dimitri said, standing with the sharp scraping of wood on stone. “I recommend you all prepare yourselves. We will crush the enemy as soon as they dare to enter through the gates. And as soon as Edelgard draws near... I will have my revenge.”

Dimitri let that ominous threat hold in the still air. Dust motes played in the light streaming in through the windows, disturbing into a frantic swirl of a dance as he left the room with a swish of his blue cape. Dedue followed with a hurried, “Pardon me.” The doors shut behind them, but not before allowing in a chilly draft of cold wintery air. You didn’t even think about it, pushing away from the table with dread settling like ice in your heart.

“You’re going to go after him, aren’t you?” Felix accused, pinning you in place with his glare.

“What?” you asked, feeling the attention settling on you.

“Give me a break,” Felix said, his lip curling back in outright disdain, “you’re not fooling anybody. You’re as bad as that boar’s lapdog, constantly following him around as you do.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” you said slowly, carefully.

Felix scoffed. “Anybody with a set of eyes can see the truth. If he’s the boar’s lapdog,” he said, nodding towards the door Dedue had just departed through, “then you’re his bitch.”

You recoiled as if he’d physically struck you. It felt like it, almost. Heat built up urgently behind your eyes, ringing with the pulsing stream of blood in your ears. Like the first time you’d been punched in the face, you just felt stunned.

Did he know the extent of your feelings? You supposed they had been transparent from the start; you were an idiot to believe you’d ever fool anyone. All the same, thick shame began to congeal in your gut, rising up like bile. “That’s a terrible thing to say,” you said into the ensuing shocked silence, your voice soft with pained shock, light and airy in order to get past the swell of tears in your throat.

“Felix, that’s enough,” Sylvain said in warning, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. Felix shook off Sylvain’s hand by standing up, glaring at him, too.

“You’re all fools. You think you’re being kind, but all you’re doing is enabling him to destroy himself,” Felix said. “We don’t have a chance of winning if we spend all of our time worrying about a mad boar. Tell me when we’re actually going to discuss something important. Until then, I’ll be training.” He turned on his heel and left without any further objection.

Elegiac Chorale Mortis Honore Opus 7, No. 2

There weren’t enough knights to do everything that needed to be done in preparing Garreg Mach for the impending battle. That meant that many of the less intensive tasks fell to the students to complete, including evacuation of civilians.

Those who had the resources to do so were able to get out practically on the day of Edelgard’s betrayal, like wildlife that could smell a storm before it broke, people scattered away from the encroaching doom. Others weren’t so fortunate. They were poor, they had families, they had settled their lives in Garreg Mach as surely and firmly as the old stone walls.

Getting those people to safety was absolutely essential and important, but the reality of the matter was grim. The friendly territories of the western kingdom and along the Alliance and Faerghus border were quickly becoming packed with refugees. Not just from Garreg Mach, but from the northern Empire. Asylum seekers from the Imperial recruitment and cruelty.

Most of those people were used to the mild winters in Central Fódlan, so those who were forced further north into the kingdom weren’t accustomed to the harsh conditions. Already, there were rumors of entire camps of refugees left dead from exposure. Or bandits, the Kingdom was still rife with lowlife thugs like Miklan. And that wasn’t even to mention the fact that the civil unrest had already left Faerghus without enough resources over the winter months.

The Alliance wasn’t much better, most of their energy was put into fortifying their own defenses and the little wars of internal conflict. You had never paid much attention to how divided the Alliance was after Duke Riegan’s death. Claude insisted he could get a handle on it, but there was only so much he could do for the time being.

That was the general feeling in Garreg Mach. There was only so much you could do. Only so much anyone could do.

You helped load another family onto an overpacked cart with only the most essential of their possessions. Families of the soldiers got priority, and this caravan was thick with children. Despite the hapless sounds of crying children and soft weeping, there was a hush over the once lively square. A somber farewell.

Having done all you could, you stepped back. You couldn’t help but focus on a young girl towards the back. She had a ghostly white face and clutched a doll to her chest with hands still round and dimpled with baby fat, her mother’s arm draped across those tiny shoulders to keep her from bumping into the strangers they would be traveling with. Tears glazed those sweet baby blues, exhaustion ringed the young mother’s eyes. Her husband, a young soldier who had hung around to say goodbye, would be staying and risking his life. He kissed both girls with the desperate fervor of a man who knew, on some level, that this was goodbye forever.

You wanted to believe that this was the best thing, and it was, but you knew what it was to be displaced at such a young age. You knew what it did to people. You knew what goodbye forever felt like. Selfish as it was, you felt almost as if you could see yourself in those glassy young eyes. It was just all too familiar.

Thinking of your mother, as always, was a painful thing. After realizing the magnitude of the situation, you had sent several letters to her nurses and the man you had left in charge of your Fhirdiad estate to warn them of what was coming. Right now, you held onto the belief that the battle at Garreg Mach would stop the war from invading into Faerghus, which meant that your mother was fine to stay in the country mansion. Besides, you worried about what the city would do to her system, she was already in such a poor state.

But that was a worry for another time.

The horses were kicked into motion and the cart rolled over the smooth cobblestones to the great somewhere else. You hoped the goddess went with them, keeping them safe. When they fully disappeared through the gate into the cloudy winter sunrise, you turned on your heel to return to the monastery. After such a long night of patrolling and a morning of packing up civilians, this was the last thing you wanted to do, but you had already put it off too long.

If you were a good person, or even a good leader, you would have visited your company the moment you had any solid news about what was happening. But you weren’t. You didn’t.

Not all of the soldiers employed by the Church stayed in the monastery, which was reserved primarily for the knights and those with high standing in the militaries of the three countries. In a section wedged between the monastery proper and the town of Garreg Mach, a large camp of barracks had been laid out for all of the other soldiers. The organization of it was a bit strange, considering most of them had separate allegiances and very few of them reported to the same generals. Lady Rhea would be considered their High Marshal in theory, but that was just about the only unifying force. Each battalion of soldiers was employed to serve whichever student Officer they had been assigned, so they worked both as an independent, almost mercenary-like group as well as military personnel.

You had always felt awkward with your own battalion, unsure of how to command or treat them. Lieutenant Avery was basically the leader of your company. There was no question of the men’s loyalty, your authority wasn’t the highest to those men, even if they were technically yours to lead. That had never bothered you, not in the way it should have. Only recently had you begun to feel shame about the fact. So many other students had been found to have traitorous Imperial soldiers under their command, a massive embarrassment to the Church as well as cause for distrust of the students themselves.

The vacancy of the empty barracks segmented for the Imperially sourced companies was hostile. Urgent intensity passed between the men who were still hanging around in thinning groups, performing the first of the day’s chores or hanging around in hunched clusters, creating an atmosphere so oppressive you almost found it hard to breathe. They were in a strange place. Staying pitted them against their country, but to leave would be a betrayal against the Church. Nobody trusted them either way, forcing them to congregate only among themselves. That was what Edelgard had done. Verbal poison, the warfare of the mind, turning everybody against one another. Unifying a country, it seemed, required mass division first.

Your men were placed in the no man’s land at the outside of the Kingdom barracks. Professor Byleth had offered you several companies of Kingdom patriots, but you hadn’t felt drawn to them like you were to Avery’s Wyvern Co. They were fresh soldiers among the large array of companies out for the Church to hire, only having arrived shortly before the year began. In truth, you weren’t even completely certain that they were soldiers to begin with. Avery was a strange person with a mysterious background and you truly believed he was a good man, but there was something about him that lacked the shine and polish of a soldier.

Not that it mattered much to you. You liked him; you liked the men. Amidst the dark and oppressive atmosphere of the barracks camp, he and his men sat around a fire, eating breakfast, and chatting among themselves.

“Fancy this!” Avery called as you approached, his grin lit up in brushed orange and distorted by the smoke of the dancing flames. “And here I was just wondered what had happened of our dearest Captain.” The complete disregard of proprietary and respect was utterly inappropriate, but it was clear that Avery never meant anything strange by it. What was strange to you was how easy-going he sounded. Compared to the rest of the Garreg Mach, it was like laughter at a funeral. You didn’t mind it. This task was dour enough without a bad atmosphere. “Why don’t you sit?” Avery offered, gesturing to the bench seat by him. “Have you eaten? I’m sure there’s still more...”

“I’m fine, thank you,” you told him, sitting. “I’m… sorry to not have visited sooner. You’re all doing well?”

“Better than you, it looks like,” Wendell, one of the men who had been wounded in the Sealed Forest, told you. After your concern for his injuries following the battle, he seemed just as loyal to you as Avery. “If you don’t mind me saying, of course.”

“Wen,” another man, Euston, scolded dryly. “You can’t say things like that to a young lady.”

“She’s our Captain,” Avery said, lightly hitting Euston across the back of the head. “Show some respect.”

Euston laughed, undeterred. “You’re one to talk, worrying about her like some kind of mother hen.”

“Is it wrong to care? This past moon has been difficult,” Avery said. Everyone sobered up at the reminder. Difficult was probably an understatement. “You were there when the Emperor revealed herself, weren’t you?” Avery asked you. “I heard what happened. The prince-”

“Dimitri’s fine,” you said, avoiding his eyes. “And I…” You meant to say that you were fine, to reassure them that their captain was steady and sure. But you couldn’t. “That’s actually what I’ve come to talk to you all about. As I’m sure you’re all well aware of by now, there is going to be a battle. The rumors are true. Imperial troops are estimated to arrive by the end of the moon.”

Avery whistled, a quiet rumble of dissent waving over the men. “That soon? She must have been planning this awhile.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, hating to think of it. While you were carelessly training and falling in love and having your heart broken, she was sowing chaos, arranging a war. “And I’m sorry for neglecting you all. I should have done this sooner.”

“That doesn’t bode well,” Euston said.

“If you wish to leave, you’re free to do so,” you told them, your voice raised as you forced yourself to look from face to face, to not shy away from this task. Every expression you acknowledged was set in various degrees of stony to bemused, as if they couldn’t believe what you were saying. “I’ll personally pay you three moons’ wages… More if you act as an escort for the civilians leaving Garreg Mach. You’ll also get a glowing recommendation for your service thus far.”

“The odds are that grim, eh?” Avery asked. Everyone was watching you, waiting for your answer.

“Um…” you began forcing yourself not to clam up under the pressure. “Yes. A-and no. The chances of victory are… Well, nobody really knows at this point. But even if we win, this is a full… a full-on military assault. Edelgard… Emperor Edelgard means all-out war. The Church is just the beginning. I won’t force anyone to fight, I know that none of you ever signed on for allegiance to the Kingdom, or even the Church.”

That began another wave of grumbling, words you couldn’t quite make out as that information was digested. The fire was dying, but the rising sun illuminated enough for you to see the uncertainty on every face, the doubt. You were confirming things they already knew.

“If there’s going to be a war anyway, where would we go?” Lester asked loudly. He was the other one who was wounded in the Sealed Forest. You didn’t like to think of yourself as buying forgiveness to assuage your guilt for his injury, but you did know he had an affinity for chocolate. “Seems like a victory here is our best bet to avoid that.”

“Yeah,” Euston agreed. “War seems like it would be… annoying. We came to the Church because they give us the easy life. Or, they did before this mess all started.” General assent followed his words, heads nodding.

“I’d never forgive myself if I left you here, Captain,” Wendell said. “I may not care that much for the Kingdom or the Church or anything, but I like you. Never known a noble who was so...” He waved his hand, at a loss for words. “You know… The point is, I’m staying.”

“Wendell…” you said, your voice half choked. “Thank you.”

“So, does anyone want to take up our generous Captain on her offer?” Avery asked. Silence met his question, a resounding answer in its own right. You swallowed down the lump in your throat, hating to feel the pressure of tears at the back of your eyes.

“Thank you. It is… my greatest honor to lead you all,” you said, feeling that the words weren’t enough but knowing it was the best you could do. To them, a company of seasoned men, what were you? A slip of a girl pretending to lead them. And yet, they would follow you.

“When this is all over, you’re gonna owe us all a drink,” Euston said. “I’ve always wanted to try that plum liquor they make in Morfis.”

“When this is over, I’ll owe you all a hundred drinks,” you said. “So you’d better all make it, okay?”

“Yessir,” most of them said in unison, touching forefingers to their brows or giving you half-salutes. You let out a heavy breath, glad to be done with that and feeling far better than you had upon arrival.

“I’ll be off, then,” you said, standing up and stretching. The sun had risen, but the sky was miserably gray and cloudy. One of those days. It seemed like all days were one of those days.

“I’ll walk you back,” Avery said, standing.

“You don’t need t-”

“Come on,” he said without waiting. You waved to the rest, even getting some smiles in return, before hurrying to match his stride.

In a way, you were glad for the company. The tension among the battalion camp was just as uncomfortable now as it had been on the way in, but now people were moving around. There was an endless supply of jobs anymore, always something for someone to do.

“It was good of you to offer that,” Avery said.

“Do you think any of them will accept?” you asked. Nobody had spoken up at the moment, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t in private. You didn’t fault that.

“No, we stick together. No matter what.”

“They’re very loyal to you.”

“Like I said, we stick together,” Avery said. “You never asked what we did before we came to Garreg Mach, or why.”

“I didn’t think it was important,” you responded.

“I can’t tell if you’re too naive or too kind,” Avery said, shooting you a sideways smile. “When you picked us, I was braced for the worst type of brat, that’s what we signed up for. But you’re not that. Sure, you’re incompetent, but I know you mean well.”

The casual jab hurt, but the praise leveled it out. Somewhat. Besides, he was right.

“Even if you were the worst of them, we’d have taken it. It’s like… penance. But you’re not, so I figure I should give you a chance to decide you want men like us following you.”

“I don’t care about your past,” you said.

“We were criminals,” Avery said, acting as if he hadn’t heard you. He wasn’t looking at you anymore, his eyes forward and expression schooled into a serious mask. “Damned good ones, too. We all came from villages near the Almyran border, grew up on the backs of wyverns, always dreamed of being accepted into Gonerill’s army. I got my own company before I really realized it; the fight with the Almyrans is pointless. Fighting for fighting’s sake. You lose limbs and lives in what amounts to little more than a game, there’s nothing respectable or sane about it. So, we, my men and I, deserted.”

“Oh,” you said, stunned by the confession.

“After that, we terrorized people, thinking we had some sort of right to do it because at least we weren’t liars like all of the nobility who toss lives away like trash. We only took from the rich and called it justice.” Avery sighed regretfully. “The things we did… the things I did... “

“It couldn’t have been that bad,” you said doubtfully, trying to imagine somebody like smiling Wendell doing what Avery was describing.

“I destroyed people’s lives,” Avery said. “Because of me, children lost their fathers, women lost their husbands... One day I looked at what I had done, what we were doing, and knew that I was damned. I came to the monastery to beg forgiveness, to serve the children who I might have ruined.”

The two of you were approaching the front gate. Cold shivers had crept up your spine, over your arms. Bandits had killed your father, ruined your mother. Ruined you, in a way, even if it was liberation.

But Avery didn’t know that. Besides, it couldn’t have been Avery. To believe in such a coincidence was too awful, too cruel. Avery was a good man, you believed that.

“Now you know who it is that serves you, Captain,” he said, stopping and facing you. He didn’t have the face of a bad man. His skin was leathery and crinkled from too many years in the sun and the line of his nose was an uneven mess from being broken a time or two. He surveyed you with a neutral expression, waiting for your judgment.

“Thank you for telling me,” you said carefully, willing yourself to not become emotional. “I think… I’m not the person to forgive you, but… But it would be really hypocritical of me to judge you. A man I lo―care about quite a bit is in a similar position, looking to the goddess for help and forgiveness, and I… What else is there? As long as you keep trying to be a better person and… Um… I don’t think any less of you. I’m grateful that you trust me.”

Avery measured that response for a long moment before he finally spoke. “Then it is my genuine pleasure to serve under your command.”

“And I’m going to be better,” you told him. “I know I’ve been a poor captain. Most of the time I feel like a child, but I… We can both be better, right?”

“I’d like to think so.” Avery smiled, encouraging you to do the same. “Have a good day, captain. And consider getting some rest”

“I will,” you said. Consider it, at least. Sleep was evasive these days. Besides, there was so much to do. Still, after Avery left, you did take a moment to breathe, to consider what he told you. It didn’t change anything, did it? Yet somehow, you felt more hopeful. And distraught. It seemed the world was insistent that you not let go of your past, throwing it back in your face like this.

But there wasn’t much time for contemplation like that. You hurried back to the monastery, determined to make the most of this ugly gray day.

Elegiac Chorale Mortis Honore Opus 7, No. 3

Six days had passed since Professor Byleth had called you all together to discuss the state of things. You felt the passing of each hour acutely, the countdown dragging the monastery closer and closer to uncertain ruin. Yet, at the same time, it seemed as if the clock was crawling along, prolonging the nightmare-ish state.

Felix hadn’t so much as looked at you since that disastrous last confrontation.

Dimitri only occasionally showed up when he was summoned.

And you were silly. Stupid, even. Why you felt the need to volunteer yourself to go get him to come to the meeting today, you didn’t know. He was more likely to listen to Professor Byleth anyway. But you did. Of course you did.

The vaulted space of the cathedral was nearly always filled with those who thought to pray for aid from the Goddess. Devoted and questioning alike gathered up to pray for their souls, to pray for their loved ones, to pray for some measure of comfort. Everywhere buzzed with word of Emperor Edelgard’s proclamations and the size of her forces and the fearsome strength of her military, whispered rumors dripping in like poison along with the prayers.

Dimitri spent a great deal of time in the cathedral. Nobody really knew why, people whispered about it like it was some great mystery that a man half mad would think to reach out to the goddess for guidance, but you thought you understood. Avery’s desire for penance was fresh in your head, and you could remember Dimitri’s words that night in the Goddess Tower, almost like a melody you couldn’t quite shake from your head.

“The goddess just watches over us from above… That is all. No matter how hard someone begs to be saved, she would never so much as offer her hand. And even if she did, we lack the means to reach out and grasp it. That’s how I feel about her.”

And you knew that he was the one most affected by Edelgard’s betrayal, the one suffering the most pain. You kept your promise that you wouldn’t tell anybody of his true connection to the Emperor, but it haunted you. The moment of her mask falling away had cut some integral thread of forced composure that Dimitri had been clinging to as a lifeline, and without it he’d fallen victim to the very worst parts of himself. He spent so much of his time reaching towards the goddess for a lifeline because, despite the brutal killings you had seen him commit, he was weak.

You were weak, too. Although you had a reason to seek him out, your feet took you to him because they always did, they always brought you to him. You were so, terribly weak.

Upon passing through the gate of the cathedral, it was impossible to miss Dimitri. Everybody gave him a wide berth of space when passing, casting him nervous side glances, and whispering to their companions in hushed tones. He stood alone like an exhibit in a museum. Rumors had spread about Dimitri just as quickly as they had about Edelgard. Rumors of madness, of insanity. It was upsetting to hear, heartbreaking that he was viewed as little more than a spectacle, but you shrugged them off. It didn’t matter what people thought, or at least you couldn’t blame them. They were ignorant and afraid, and while Edelgard was still far away, Dimitri was right in front of them.

He, as had become usual, stood in his grand stage of empty space. A position he could occupy for hours without break. Dimitri’s uniform wasn’t as neat as he had usually kept it, and his hair needed to be cut. Your heart softened upon seeing him. A foolish, stupid feeling. Unwanted entirely. You knew that things had changed and could keenly remember the many times he’d snapped at you for doing what you were about to do. Whatever tenderness that had been cultivated within him before now was gone. Withered away like flowers in the frost, a sweet melody played sour on an out of tune lyre.

But you refused to stop, and you especially refused to be frightened of Dimitri, or believe that he would do anything to hurt you.

It was better to stick only to present concerns. Such as the fact that he was muttering to himself again. Words you couldn’t quite hear over the hushed noise of the devout. Dimitri’s lips moved with a rhythm that made it seem like he was speaking to something, someone. The dead, his dead. You had heard him use their names once, addressing people who were long gone and buried. Glenn, father, stepmother. He stopped whenever someone was close enough to pick out details, but you heard them all the same.

Melancholy intermingled with a deep, bone-grinding fear at seeing him like this. Many poems or songs you knew spoke of insanity, but none of their descriptions truly matched the broken man in front of you. They saw the afflicted through the eyes of a romantic. In other words, a lovely lyrical lie. What most of them had in common, however, was an eventual tragedy. With every fiber of your being, you swore to not allow him to become victim to such a fate.

You had failed once. You couldn’t handle another. You were weak.

“Dimitri?” you asked, striding up to him with a level of cheery confidence you weren’t so sure you felt. The eyes of a crowd of outsiders followed you now that you had broken the bubble of space surrounding the prince that frightened them so, watching as if you were approaching a beast in the woods unarmed.

Dimitri didn’t respond, either ignoring you or lost in thought of whatever he’d been muttering about. You would have preferred the former, because at least then he’d still be with you, not sunken down into some dark void that you couldn’t possibly reach him in. Unfortunately, you suspected it was the latter, what with the way his blue eyes were ringed with deep shadow and glazed over. You couldn’t even imagine the last time he must have slept. According to Dedue’s careful vigilance, he spent his days in the cathedral and his nights on the training grounds, throwing himself into combat practice so intensely nobody dared intervene. Not even you.

“Dimitri?” you asked again, a bit louder, daring to reach out a hand to get his attention. The touch startled him, and for a moment you were almost afraid that he was going to strike out. He didn’t, although you could tell by the way his body was coiled and poised that it had been a close thing. But he didn’t, and that was all that mattered.

“What is it?” Dimitri asked in the clipped and cold tone of an accusation. The familiar blue of his eyes was flat when they found focus on your face, his stare without any recognition for your feelings or softness for who you wished you were to him. It hurt, it still hurt. Maybe it would always hurt when he looked at you like that, maybe your heart would never scar over and allow you to recognize that this version of him wasn’t truly who he was. You began to rack your brain for a proper verse about the pain of looking in the eyes of someone you loved and seeing nothing in return but stopped yourself. There was no song or lyric that could explain the piercing ache of such a feeling. With him, with your mother, you knew that so very well.

“The dining hall is serving cheesy Verona stew,” you said.

Dimitri grunted dismissively, turning his face from you. That, of course, was not nearly enough to actually stop you.

“See, I asked, and nobody seemed to know if you’ve eaten in the past few days,” you continued.

He said nothing.

“And I know for a fact that you like cheesy Verona stew.”

Nothing.

“Plus, you won’t be able to fight or anything if you’re starving, so-”

“What, exactly, is it that you want?” Dimitri abruptly snapped, fixing you again with a look you refused to believe was a glare of murderous intent. Despite that firm belief, the expression was threatening enough to push you into taking an unconscious half-step away in physical recoil.

“I was worried-”

“I’m fine,” he insisted in a raised voice. Not shouting, just authoritative. It made your stomach drop anyway. At your reaction, he lowered his voice, shaking his head in a jittery way as his eyes cast downwards, a hand raising so he could press a finger against his temple. The headaches he had once told you of must have reached a new level of agonizing. “As soon as her blood is drained from that treacherous heart, everything will be fine… We’ll be fine... So leave me be.”

Overexposure drained those muttered words of much of the power they used to hold but hearing the man you’d seen nearly break down over death speak so casually of gratuitous violence created its own type of deep-set horror. Not to say that was unexpected. You’d heard him say much worse since he learned of the Flame Emperor’s true identity.

“Okay, I-I’m sorry. The Professor is calling for a council and requests that we all attend. I was thinking that you should eat something beforehand. It might make you feel better, you know?” you explained. “But if you’re not hungry, th-that’s fine. The meeting’s in an hour.”

“I understand,” he snapped, cutting you off.

“We could go together, if you wanted,” you offered.

Dimitri gave you a flat look and for a moment you were sure he was going to shout at you. But he didn’t, which was somehow worse. “I’d rather you leave me alone.”

“You don’t need to be alone. It’s not healthy,” you told him quietly. “Before, you told me that you would talk to someone, that you would… Don’t you remember?”

For a long moment, Dimitri didn’t respond. You had no idea what was going on behind the storm of his eyes, the conflicted dance of anger and pain. “Why must you continue to torture me?” Dimitri finally asked, his voice low and throaty. “None of it meant anything, don’t you understand that? It was not my place to tell you those things. I have but a single purpose, to be distracted was my most grievous error. So leave me be.”

He turned away, once again facing the front of the cathedral.

“Okay,” you agreed, almost inaudible with the way your throat had swollen up. “I’m sorry.” Dimitri’s eyes closed, but he didn’t respond. That might have been for the best. You turned on your heel and left the cathedral, feeling the dozens of eyes track each step, whispering. Always whispering, talking, lying, always, always-

On the bridge, you faced the harsh wintery wind, hoping that the sharp bite of its touch would hide the true reason for your watering eyes and red cheeks. Because you were weak. Because you were in love with a man who was fated for tragedy. Because you knew goodbye forever and there was nothing that you could do about it.

Time ticked on, seconds became minutes, minutes you didn’t have the luxury of wasting. You turned you back to the cathedral and the wind and acknowledged that you had at least done as you were told. Just like a soldier would. Just like a knight.

Elegiac Chorale Mortis Honore Opus 7, No. 4

Even with war hanging heavy on the horizon, even with your heart heavy and breaking, the mundane chores still had to be done. Until coming to Garreg Mach, you had never so much as thought about doing the dishes. It left your fingers pruning and hands chapped and dry, but the ritual of it felt satisfying. Taking something dirty and making it clean. You and Ingrid stood above the sudsy, steaming basin; your uniform sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

The two of you made some small talk at first, but it was clear to see that she was preoccupied. You’d have loved a distraction from your Dimitri-centered thoughts―and under different circumstances, you might have tried anyway―but there was really nothing to say. Dimitri’s harsh rejection the day prior still burned hot and horrible in your chest. If you thought about it, you’d probably start crying again.

“I feel as if I owe you an apology,” Ingrid finally said as you worked a particularly tough bit of grime from a plate. That brought you up short, looking at the blonde to try and figure out what she was thinking to say that so suddenly.

“An apology?” you repeated after a moment.

“For what Felix said,” Ingrid clarified, her eyes casting down towards the water.

You stiffened at the reminder. Out of everything that had been happening lately, you had almost forgotten about that incident. No, you had willfully been trying to forget about it. “You don’t have to apologize for that,” you told her.

She sighed. “It’s always been up to me to clean up after them. His Highness, Sylvain, and Felix... I tried to talk to him, but he won’t hear it.” Ingrid paused. “He doesn’t mean it. I doubt that’s any consolation, but-”

“I know,” you said, cutting her off.

The Boar’s bitch. Goddess, that was cruel. But it wasn’t even entirely untrue. That was the worst of it, to have something you held as holy pulled out from your heart and exposed for the appraisal of eyes that would defile its sanctity.

“I don’t know the details of what happened between Felix and Dimitri to make him so angry, but it changed him,” Ingrid said, picking up a tin mug to begin washing. “After Duscur… Well, everything changed. Felix used to adore Dimitri. He followed them everywhere like a lost puppy.”

“Them?”

“Dimitri and… And Glenn.” Pain twisted Ingrid’s voice with the name. “He is… was Felix’s older brother.”

“Dimitri’s mentioned him,” you said. Dimitri talked to him, actually. Glenn was one of the dead, a victim of the Duscur Tragedy. From what you had gathered, Glenn had been the knight ideal. And, if you weren’t mistaken, Ingrid’s betrothed. You tried to imagine the girl you knew being promised to any man, but the image just didn’t compute. It was almost as strange as trying to imagine a younger, softer version of Felix.

“Losing him was hard on all of us,” Ingrid continued. “I can’t say I don’t sympathize with Felix’s pain... but that doesn’t excuse what he said.”

“It’s fine,” you said, focusing especially hard on the plate you were scrubbing.

Ingrid didn’t respond to that, although you could feel her eyes jump up to watch you every so often, her mouth opening before closing again. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of waiting, she said, “I don’t mean to pry, but you and Dimitri…” Your entire body tensed up, shoulders hunching and the silverware you’d been washing slipping back into the basin with a splash. Of course, you’d been waiting for a question like that. But you hadn’t been ready, either. “I know the two of you were close,” Ingrid said, as if she hadn’t noticed your reaction. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I… Well, I suppose I know what it feels like to have your heart broken. If you need someone to talk to, I’m here.”

“Thank you,” you told her stiffly, fishing the fork out of the murky water. There was more to be said, the words piling and pooling up on your tongue and ready to spill out, but before you could speak, the pantry door was flung open, a tiny figure emerging.

"Counting all the way up to numbers I don't even know. And more! Flour and sugar and rice and grain galooore-"

"Annette?" you asked, watching her spin on her toes as she closed the door behind her.

"GAH!" With a graceless turn, Annette whirled around, a hand clasped over her mouth and the notepad she was holding crashing to the floor. Recognition flashed through her wide blue eyes after a moment of horrified shock and she lowered that hand to her chest. “Oh, it’s you!” she exclaimed. “You scared me!”

“Sorry...” you responded, exchanging a glance with the equally bewildered Ingrid.

"Oh, well, it’s fine,” she said, trying to play it off. “You didn't… hear anything, did you?"

You were about to lie, mostly to avoid upsetting her, but Ingrid beat you to it. "You were... singing?”

Annette winced, "I can explain! I was taking inventory for Seteth and got very focused and the song just sort of came to me and… and…" She deflated. "I don't suppose you would pretend that you didn't hear that, would you?"

"Why?" Ingrid asked.

"Because… because…" Annette said, flustered. "Because if everyone finds out that I sing to myself they're all going to think I'm that weird girl who makes up stupid songs about counting and food and then they’ll all whisper about me behind my back about how weird and stupid I am!"

"It's not that weird to sing while you work,” you told her.

"Do you?" Ingrid asked, looking at you curiously.

"Well… not around people…" you answered. Everybody in your class knew about your affinity for music on account of that day Sylvain stole your book of songs, but you didn’t advertise the fact that you enjoyed making music, too. Especially not to the knight ideal like Ingrid. Music was impractical.

"See! It is weird!" Annette exclaimed. "Now you're going to tell everyone, and they'll all think I'm a total freak who sings about flour and sugar and-"

"Annette…" Ingrid cut in, frowning in concern.

Annette continued on like she hadn’t heard, her rant getting progressively more distracted, "And they're gonna look at me and laugh and never take me seriously because of the stupid childish songs and-"

"I didn't know you liked music," you said, interrupting her.

Annette blinked, focusing on you. "I don’t really tell people. It’s kind of embarrassing.”

"If it makes you happy, I don't think it's embarrassing," you told her.

"She's right," Ingrid said seriously. "I don't have any interest in music, but the song wasn't that bad."

"That bad…" Annette said, frowning. "So it was still bad. I knew it. Oh, this is just the worst!"

"It wasn't!" you told her quickly. "I liked the melody; did you compose it?"

"Well, yeah," she said, fidgeting with her notepad.

"That's really amazing, Annette,” you said enthusiastically. “I'm no good at writing music."

"Oh, it's not that impressive," she said, waving her hand.

"I'd love it if you could teach me some time," you said. "It might be a nice break from-" you waved your hand around generally, your voice trailing off.

“Well, if you really want to, I guess I wouldn’t mind,” Annette said. “As long as you promise to never, ever tell anybody what you heard today.”

“I promise,” you vowed.

“As do I,” Ingrid said.

“That’s a relief,” Annette said, finally picking up her dropped notepad. “Are you free tonight?”

“I have patrol duty with Ashe,” you replied, frowning. “Maybe tomorrow?”

“Sure! I’ll have to let you know when, though. There’s so much to do.” Annette sighed. “Speaking of which, what was I doing…?”

“Inventory?” Ingrid offered helpfully.

“Oh, right! That!” Annette responded, her trademark bounce returning. “Well, I’d better go, then. I’ll see you tomorrow!”

You and Ingrid said goodbye, but Annette was already out of the kitchen. Seconds later, there was a loud crash right outside the door and Annette’s muffled voice demanded to know why there was a box in the way where people were walking. It left your heart feeling oddly light. Everything else could change, but Annette was still a whirlwind mess of drive, clumsiness, and quirk.

“If you have patrol, you should probably get going,” Ingrid said. “I don’t mind finishing up here.”

“Oh, right,” you said, quickly drying off your hands. “I hate being out in the town these days, it’s so empty and creepy.”

“Do you want to switch?” Ingrid asked, raising an eyebrow. “I have guard duty tomorrow at dawn.”

“As enticing as that sounds, I think I’ll pass,” you told her, your face scrunching up at the very idea of it. It was one thing to be cold and miserable at night but being cold and miserable with the memory of your soft, warm bed fresh in your mind was worse.

“I suppose it was worth a try. Be on your guard,” Ingrid told you. “And be safe.”

“Thanks,” you said. “I’ll try.”

Elegiac Chorale Mortis Honore Opus 7, No. 5

“Ansel’s stories are great!” you insisted, walking side by side with Ashe on your nighttime patrols. With the curfew, there were no other people wandering around, but that wasn’t the only reason for the uncomfortably hollow feeling in Garreg Mach. With each passing day, the small towns that littered the outskirts became ghostly haunts, shops closing up and merchants who sold anything other than weapons and supplies packing up. Outside the realm of his torch, the once lively was a depressing and frightening place. But having company helped. It helped a lot. “I love the characters.”

“I didn’t say they’re bad,” Ashe responded quickly. “But... they’re mostly romance. They shouldn’t be shelved by the stories about knights, someone could accidentally pick one up and have no idea what they’re in for.”

“There are knights and heroes, too,” you pointed out. “Besides, romance is integral to the plots of most hero stories. What’s worth fighting for more than love?”

“You’re starting to sound like Sylvain,” Ashe told you, laughing.

“Don’t you fight for love?” you asked, only slightly defensively. “Love for your country, your family, your friends… Isn’t that why people fight? We’re all driven by passion, don’t you think?”

“Huh… I guess that’s true. But... wait, that wasn’t my point! I-” Ashe’s words abruptly cut off as you turned a corner. This street, a main thoroughfare with some of the few remaining open establishments, was well lit. A crowd of people congregated at the far end. “What’s going on over there?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the sight. “Is there some sort of event?” you asked.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Ashe said. “Besides, the curfew...”

“We should go check it out,” you said, all amusement from your conversation going stale and cold. You had a very bad feeling about this.

Ashe quickly put out the torch, following after you as you approached the crowd. There was a sense of dread in the air. There was a crowd, sure, but their voices weren’t loud enough, no laugher could be heard. It was just tension and raw, crackling energy. Most of the people were soldiers, men and women from other battalions. Some villagers. The entire crowd smelled of urine and liquor and the desperate vinegar of excited sweat. You tried to cut your way into the group, standing on your toes to see what they were all circled around. Nobody paid you any mind, too focused on what was happening to make way.

“Is that… His Highness?” Ashe asked, his voice loud above the noise.

And it was. Standing in the impromptu ring created by the surrounding crowd, Dimitri faced off against five other men. One of them was wearing Imperial fatigues. Another wore clothes you recognized as being an unkempt and dirty Faerghus soldier uniform. All of them had a wild, drunken look and anger and bloodlust.

“-known that your association with that Duscur beast would rub off on you,” the Faerghus soldier was saying. “I refuse to follow a monster into battle, let alone lead my country.”

“I see,” Dimitri replied. Despite the many voices rumbling around the square, his was easy to make out. “You have betrayed your country, trading one monster for another. How does that feel?”

That made the other man wince, but his fury was far more potent. They were ganging up on him, this was an ambush.

“Ashe go get help. Professor Byleth… Guards… anyone! Hurry!” you told him, your voice quivering with urgency. He blinked, his eyes wide and frightened, but nodded.

“I’ll be quick.”

With Ashe running off, you tried to steady yourself with a deep breath, forcing your hands to stop shaking. “Let me through!” you demanded, trying once more to cut your way through the crowd. People shifted, although you took more than one elbow to the ribs, bodies pushing back against you. “On behalf of the Church of Seiros, I demand that you let me through!” That finally worked. Sort of. You broke out into the front of the group, a hand on your sword hilt. “This i-is… an illegal act of violence against the crown prince of Faerghus… Disperse now!” Jumbled and nervous, your words were still able to get the attention of the group of men. Dimitri turned, meeting your eyes for a half-second with a look of surprise. And then his face darkened, his jaw clenching as he looked away.

“What is this?” the Imperial asked mockingly, “Another student? Maybe a friend of yours, crown prince?”

Dimitri said nothing, not even looking at you.

“The guards will be arriving soon!” you threatened.

“Faerghus law allows any Faerghus soldier challenge his superior, nobility and royalty, to a fight,” the soldier said. “It’s up to him if he wishes to accept the terms.”

“What do you say, beast prince?” the Imperial asked. “Do you have any honor left, or have you abandoned that with your humanity?”

“Honor?” Dimitri asked, sounding amused. “Coming from one who wears the colors of the Empire? Tell me, do you act on behalf of that woman?”

“I act for myself,” he responded. “And for justice. My brother was one of the men you slaughtered in the Holy Tomb. I saw his body, creature. You’re no prince, you’re not even a soldier. You’re a monster.”

“And your gang of traitorous vermin?” Dimitri asked. “They agree?”

“Faerghus is better off without you,” the Faerghus soldier said, eliciting sounds of agreement from the others.

“Fine,” Dimitri said. “I accept your challenge.”

“No!” you shouted, lunging forward. Or, attempting to. A man you hadn’t even noticed shot an arm out to keep you from entering the informal circle, pulling you back.

“Don’t interfere,” he said, holding your arms pinned so you couldn’t go for your weapon. His breath was hot and sour on your ear, making you shudder in disgust. “I have money on this fight, girl. Five to one… the pretty boy’s ‘bout to learn a lesson he won’t forget.”

“Dimitri, stop!” you begged. It didn’t even occur to you to be worried for him. Only about what he would do.

The Faerghus soldier went for him first, pulling a knife from his stained coat and lunging at Dimitri with wavering, drunken posture. He was a large guy, the type that expected to win fights based purely on his size and raw strength. Dimitri sidestepped the attack, grabbing the man’s beefy arm as he did to misdirect his momentum and contort the arm behind his back, twisting him around and sending him staggering to the ground.

Dimitri had gotten hold of the knife during the exchange, but he didn’t bother using it. When the large man made to grab Dimitri’s legs, Dimitri kicked him in the chest. Bones crunched. Loudly. Dimitri kicked him again, the choppy strands of his blond hair flipping and falling with the motion.

Despite the shocking display of efficient brutality, the Imperial went into attack. His knuckles glinted with metal as he drew back his fist.

“Watch out!” you called, but the warning was unnecessary. Dimitri whirled around, grabbing the Imperial’s hand before it could make contact and slamming it flat against the side of the building. He drove the knife right below the band of metal ringing the Imperials fingers, pushing it into the grout between brick until the handle was flush to the man’s skin. The Imperial screamed, immediately trying to pull the knife free, but it was stuck. He tried to lash out at Dimitri, but the prince easily ducked beneath the attack.

The other three men bunched in a group, ganging up on Dimitri together. The tallest stood in the center, a short man on his right and a heavy looking guy who’d picked up a broom as a makeshift weapon on his left. All you could see of Dimitri the back of his uniform and the fluttering cape on his shoulder, so brilliant and vividly blue.

Ducking out of the way of the broom’s handle, Dimitri took a fist to the face from the shortest man. Despite the successful blow, the short man was immediately rewarded with a brutal backhand that sent him to the ground with a fleshy kind of crack.

Dimitri didn’t hesitate, throwing his body at the man holding the broom. The wooden handle split into two pieces beneath Dimitri’s gauntleted left hand, his right elbow slamming against the heavy guy’s face while he was distracted by the loss of his weapon. The heavy man’s face immediately exploded in a bright spray of blood, sending him stumbling back and tripping onto the ground, clutching his face desperately.

The tall one tried to attack with a straight right, but Dimitri spun out of the way, swinging the broken piece of broomstick handle in an arc at his head. The wood broke on impact with the guy’s skull. While he was stunned, Dimitri’s fist easily connected with his stomach. He dropped with a heavy “umph” of a groan.

Breathing heavily, Dimitri turned from them, dropping the short length of broomstick handle with a clatter of wood on stone and tossing his sweaty hair from his brow. Blood dripped from his nose, staining the ashy pale of his complexion, dribbling over his chapped lips.

The Imperial was the only one standing, having managed to free himself. You hadn’t seen what he’d done to get out of the trap, but the knife remained in the wall and his hand was in a ruined state, too covered in blood for you to see.

Dimitri faced him, his chest heaving and a gruesome smile on his face. Blood dripped into his mouth, staining his teeth red. With wild eyes, he surveyed his final opponent.

Had Dimitri done this on purpose? Ensured that the Imperial would be the last to face him so he could savor it? Something about the expression on his face made you think that sickening thought. Taking advantage of the way the grip keeping you still had slackened in horror, you stumbled forward.

“Dimitri stop!” you shouted.

He ignored you, moving towards the last man with the predatory gait of a killer. You didn’t even think about it, lunging at him and wrapping your arms around his middle. Doing that could have killed you, you knew that. His reflexes were faster than you could ever hope to move. But your blood pounded steadily in your ears and your pulse made your throat feel swollen and men you hoped weren’t dead littered the ground. You needed to make him stop.

Somehow, it worked.

“Unhand me,” Dimitri demanded, prying you off of him despite your attempts to hold fast. The violence of it pushed you back several steps, but you managed not to fall. “This Imperial traitor asked for a fair fight. Have I not granted him his wish?”

“You’ve won!” You looked at the glowering Imperial who was wrapping his hand with a ripped piece of shirt. “Yield, please. You can’t fight, your men are down… Please, stop this.”

“No,” he said, pulling the fabric tight with a wince. With that, he swung, his arm arcing clumsily towards Dimitri who easily caught the fist, twisting it with enough force to make the main shout in pain. The movement forced the Imperial to fall forward, but Dimitri caught him with a grip on the front of his uniform, pulling him close.

“Dimitri,” you pled. “You can’t kill him. Please.”

“No? Even though he follows that wretched woman?” Dimitri asked. “Even when he would have gleefully killed me in an honorless fight?”

“Please, just yield and leave. Please,” you begged of the other man. “Dimitri, you’d let him go if he yielded, right?

“This foul creature does not deserve your pity,” he said.

“Please?” you begged again.

“Fine,” Dimitri allowed, his lip curled as he looked at the man. “I’ll let you go free. Provided you deliver a message to your master.”

The Imperial sneered, answering by screwing up his mouth for a second and then spitting. The glob of saliva landed squarely on Dimitri’s cheek. Dimitri accepted it with a cold, empty patience, letting it slide down his face without any reaction. “I’ll accept death before I do something for a beast like you,” the Imperial said.

“Very well, I shall be glad to deliver,” Dimitri responded. “You and your gang of cowards are not the first men I have sent to the Eternal Flames. But you already know that, don’t you? Your face is not even worth remembering. Just as I have forgotten your brother, you too will die a meaningless death.”

A strangled sound of rage left the Imperial’s mouth, his face twisting in genuine hatred as he fought the hold Dimitri had on his uniform. Blood had already soaked through the makeshift bandage on his hand. And Dimitri was going to kill him. That sickening smile was gone, all emotion sapped out. His expression was cold and cruel. The act of killing made him dark. Empty.

“Dimitri!” a familiar voice called, breaking the tense scene apart. The crowd, whatever remained of it, parted for Professor Byleth’s confident stride, his green eyes focused solely on the prince. Ashe hurried behind him; his cheeks colored with a flush of exertion. Dimitri’s grip on the Imperial slackened, some awareness seeping into his eyes. Finally, he wiped the spit from his cheek, catching some of the blood from his nose. It left a rusty streak on his pale skin.

The Imperial took advantage of Dimitri’s distraction. His nails made contact with Dimitri’s face for a second before the prince reacted, throwing him away with unnerving ease. What was left was four distinct and angry short trails of red high on Dimitri’s cheekbone.

“It seems you’ve been spared,” Dimitri called as the man scrambled to get upright. But he had landed poorly, swaying dizzily like he hit his head. “This time.”

“What happened?” Professor Byleth asked you, forcing your attention away from the horrific scene. You cleared your throat, trying to calm your mind.

“They challenged him to a fight,” you said. Byleth’s lips formed a line, but he nodded. “And he accepted.”

“These men were Imperial vermin and traitors,” Dimitri added. “They wished for a chance to take me out and failed.” He sighed, shaking his head. “Vengeance… Vengeance is for the strong. They were too weak to attain it.”

“You didn’t need to accept their challenge,” you told him, belatedly realizing that you were crying. Shaking, too. Trembling so hard you felt it in your bones. “You’re… you’re better than that.”

“Am I?” Dimitri asked. “Tell me, would it be honorable to keep another man from his revenge? I allowed him a fair chance, and he was unable to follow through.”

“Still…” you muttered, looking around at the carnage. Already, guards were surveying the downed men. Checking for pulses. Killing men in battle was one thing but killing them here in the dark and dingy streets of a nearly abandoned town. A place that was supposed to be a refuge, to be sacred. It was like you couldn’t breathe, like the world was closing in on you.

This wasn’t Dimitri, was it? The man who had kissed you, who had held you, who had made you laugh. The man you were in love with.

“If you can’t stomach reality, you have no place here,” Dimitri said, stalking past you. Professor Byleth attempted to stop him, but that didn’t matter. Dimitri was a force of nature, like a storm or a fire, without reason or restraint.

Besides, the guards for calling for Professor Byleth’s help, likely asking for advice on how to handle this situation. How were you supposed to handle this situation? What were you supposed to do?

“Are you all right?” Ashe asked, peering at you with a look of concern. “Let’s go back to the monastery, the guards can take care of this.”

“Okay,” you agreed. Your ears were ringing. It sounded like screaming. It smelled like blood and fire and the tangy, sour, stale sweat that reeked of pain and fear. Was this any more or less horrific than what you had already seen? You already knew the violence Dimitri was capable of, you already knew the depths to which he had descended.

“Are you sure you’re okay? You look really pale…” Ashe said.

You felt a little numb. Empty, cold, like everything had been drained out and replaced with cotton.

“Ashe?” you asked, but your voice sounded far away.

“Yes?” He looked so concerned, so earnestly worried for you. That was good, nice. You could hold on to that.

“What do you think it is to be honorable?”

Ashe blinked, clearly confused, but his answer was quick. “Honor is doing what’s right.”

“Who defines what’s right?” you asked.

“I’m not so sure this is important right now,” Ashe said, looking around. You ignored it all, the noise and the people and the carnage and the fear and the disgust, focused only on the one question. “Perhaps we should wait until we’re-”

“Please?” you asked. That word was etched into your tongue.

He looked like he was about to argue but relented after a moment. “I suppose the goddess defines what’s right, so do those who lead us,” Ashe said. “But knights also must follow their hearts. To follow all of those things… that’s honorable.”

You closed your eyes, trying to comprehend exactly what he said. That definition definitely made sense. Honor both was and wasn’t. Nebulous and strict. If you doubted what you knew, you’d lose it entirely. It was better to let it be, you decided that long ago.

Letting out a shaky breath, you nodded. “You’re right.”

“Are you okay?” Ashe asked again.

“Yeah,” you said, nodding. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. You just had to ignore this, shove it from your mind. Focus on other things. “Let’s go back to the monastery.”

#dimitri alexandre blaiddyd #fe dimitri #dimitri alexandre blaiddyd x reader #fe dimitri x reader #fe3h #fire emblem three houses #beastie and the bard #my writing #i say its dimitri z reader but really it's more of an ensamble piece #like who even knows anymore #mercedes is a better bf at this point #wowzers i put the wrong chapter number how embarrassing

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kumeko · 3 years

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A/N: For Golden Dearest, a Claudeleth Zine! I wanted to do a little Claude pining for my piece.

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A chilly breeze wafted through the royal library, carrying with it the warm scent of spice and roasted meat. Nose in his book, Claude stared blankly at the page for a long moment as he registered the new smells, the sensation of cold wind blowing through his hair. His nose twitched. Looking up, he was taken aback by how dark it was in the library. Outside, strings of lanterns lit up the street markets, their glow barely visible from the library’s windows. The smells were both familiar and strange; it had been too long since he’d eaten proper Almyran food and the thought of it made him homesick. Even though he was home now, it would take some time for his body to adjust.

“It’s that late already?” Claude murmured, setting down his book and pinching the top of his nose. On the table in front of him, several books lay open, their contents barely touched. Beside them were several letters from Byleth, the latest one still waiting for a response. When he had come back to Almyra, he had known it would be a long, hard climb to the top.

What he hadn’t expected was the amount of studying he’d have to do. It felt like he spent more time here learning than he’d ever done at the academy. The politics in the region had changed in the years he’d spent abroad, each alteration transforming other smaller areas. Politics was about dealing with those webs of connections. It was what made it exciting.

It was also what made it exhausting.

Once more, a cool wind ruffled his hair and despite himself, Claude shivered. The nights in the Almyran main castle were nothing at all like its days, the warmth of the sun long gone once the moon showed its face. His stomach rumbled and he chuckled. “Alright, alright, I get it. Time for a break.”

No one replied as he got up, his chair scraping on the wooden floor. There were no “Finally! I wonder what’s in the kitchen?” from Raphael, no stony glares from Lysithea as she tried and failed to concentrate, no smug smirks from Lorenz as he got up a second later. No, here there was only silence. Not even the servants wanted to be seen with the outcast from Fódlan.

Claude had expected as much when he’d made his decision. And yet…stuttering Marianne, more comfortable with horses than people. Ignatz and his secret paintings. Leonie, willing to challenge anyone, anytime. Hilda and her many schemes that miraculously kept her from doing any work.

Byleth. His throat caught at that last one, at that last memory. The late nights they’d spend in the library, plotting out the course of the war. As skilled as she was at war, she was less proficient with long-term strategies. More often than not, he’d look up from his notes to find her fast asleep on his right, her breathing shallow, ink smudging her cheeks.

The seat on his right was empty now. The library was empty. They were all in Fódlan, and he was here in Almyra. Seven years ago, he had left behind everything and everyone he’d known for a brand-new world.

Somehow, the journey back was even harder than he’d planned.

-x-

“Khalid.”

It took Claude five seconds to realize that Nader was talking to him. Chuckling, he released his notched arrow, striking his target slightly off-centre. Done with practice for the day, he slung his bow over his shoulder and turned around. “Ha ha, I have to get used to hearing that, don’t I?”

Standing behind him, Nadar guffawed. “Don’t let your mother hear that. She picked your name, after all.”

Despite the hot, afternoon sun, Claude shivered. He’d seen enough destruction left in his mother’s wake to know what that entailed. “I have enough of a challenge without the demon chasing me.”

“Don’t let her hear that either.” Coming closer now, he ruffled Claude’s hair affectionately. No matter how much he’d grown, Claude felt like a child at that touch. Nader’s hand was always impossibly big and warm. “Are you missing all of your targets now, or just that one?”

“Can’t get perfect all the time, you never know who’s watching.” Ducking away from Nader’s reach, he patted his disarrayed hair back into place. “It takes a lot of skill to purposely miss. Even more than it takes to reach the center.”

Nader’s brow rose. “Does it now?”

“It does.” Claude rolled his eyes, crossing his arms. “I don’t think you came all the way to the training grounds to discuss my archery?”

Nader chuckled once more. “No, but maybe I should consider it.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a thin letter. “This arrived this morning, for you. I made sure to take it before any of your siblings spotted it.”

Claude tried not to smile too much as he took it. “Thanks.”

As expected, the writing on the front was in Byleth’s hand. For a second, he traced out his name on the letter, his finger hovering over the dried ink. It was a good thing they were alone out here. He could feel his expression softening automatically. It had been too long since her last letter. Carefully, reverently, he tucked it into his shirt.

“You’re not going to read it?” Nader asked, surprised. The older man stroked his ragged beard. “I thought you’d tear it open immediately.”

“Oh?” Claude smirked suggestively, leaning closer to his former teacher. “Are you that curious about my love life? I didn’t think you were that kind of person, Nader. I mean, I thought it’d be better to read this in private—don’t want anyone to get too hot and bothered by it, but if you want to hear all the sordid details…” He trailed off meaningfully and winked.

“You certainly have grown.” Nader guffawed once more, his laugh like a bear’s grunt, before wrapping an arm around Claude’s shoulders and squeezing him tight. “I’ll leave you alone. Got enough saucy tales of my own without adding yours to it.”

-x-

“What do you want?” Direct as ever, his half-sister reclined regally on her plush seat and regarded him. A perfectly arched brow rose and she crossed her legs. “Well?”

“What makes you think I want anything?” Claude replied, an easy smile on his face. His hands were clasped behind his erect back, his shoulders relaxed. He wanted to paint a disarming picture. It was always easier when your opponent looked down on you.

Unfortunately, while he had a lot practice with Lorenz, his sister wasn’t buying it. “Khalid, since when do you approach others unless you need something?” She rested her chin on her hand, her long, painted fingers tapping her cheek. “The only question left is what are you willing to pay for it?”

Claude chuckled softly, mirth colouring his tone as he played along. “I can’t pull anything over you, can I?”

There were rules to politics, rules that kept you safe, that let you take advantage of others, that let others take advantage of you. A charming smile kept others at bay. Words had to mean nothing and everything. It was easier to give a fake weakness than to reveal a real one.

From the corner of his eye, he spotted a flash of blue and his words died in his throat. She hadn’t needed any of that, had she? Effortlessly, Byleth had charmed all of Garreg Mach. Even though her smile had been a rarity. Even though her weaknesses were open for all to see. Even though her words were ever honest.

The new Fódlan she was building…his hand twitched. He wanted to see it. A world where merit trumped lineage. Where borders meant nothing. He wanted to see it. He wanted to see her.

“Khalid?”

He forced himself to look in front of him, away from that flash of blue and his scattered thoughts. “Sorry, I was just feeling overwhelmed. It’s not every day I get to trade words with the crown princess, after all.”

-x-

It was only by candlelight that Claude allowed himself to read Byleth’s letter. In the privacy of his quarters, alone and away from prying eyes, if only so no one could see the soft curve of his lips as he pulled out her letter once more. He’d kept each and every one, though by now the letters were so well-worn they were barely legible.

At one point, he imaged her letters must have smelled like her, all rainwater and pine needles. Now, they only carried the scent of dust and horses from the thousands of miles it had travelled to reach him. The flame flickered as he opened the envelope, casting long shadows on him as he unfolded the sheets of paper. Her writing was as concise as ever, each word written compactly to save room. It was the way of the mercenary, the way of her father.

Hi Claude.

And now, the way of Byleth. Claude chuckled as he read the first line in the letter. It seemed even time and distance couldn’t improve her skills. “No dear? I’m hurt.”

As I thought, it is difficult to rebuild a nation. Particularly when we have lost the majority of our leaders.

“As straight to the point as ever,” he murmured softly, his eyes lowering. How many friends had they lost in this war? His classmates, his peers—each death had weighed heavier than the last. Could he have saved any of them? His smiles only held power in the castle; outside, they were nothing. Dimitri had rejected his hand outright, revenge blinding him and his house to all other possibilities.

And Edelgard…

Byleth had trembled after she’d killed the Emperor, her jaw tight as she watched her head roll. He wondered if she replayed that scene in her head. If she dreamed of that sword, of the weight of it.

He still couldn’t look at the colour red the same.

His grip tightened, crinkling the paper. “Whoops, can’t have that,” he said glibly, forcing himself out of his thoughts. Claude flattened the paper, smoothening out the wrinkles. “These are going to be family heirlooms, after all.”

Hubert would have made fun of him for that. A starry-eyed Dorothea would have called it romantic. Slyly, Sylvain might have swapped love stories. In the future, he hoped no one would know this dull ache that throbbed in his chest or the heavy lump in his throat.

At least his house had made it through, unscathed. Especially Hilda; Byleth’s every other sentence for the next two paragraphs were about her and her exploits: a children’s book with Seteth, charming the pants off every noble she encountered, and starting a fashion line. And Claude had thought he was accomplished. Ignatz was painting and Raphael visited his sister and for all the sorrow the war had caused, there was joy too.

Claude read Byleth’s letter unhurriedly, savouring each word. News from Fódlan was hard to get here, news of his friends even more so. Yet, no matter how slowly he read, the end came all too soon.

Progress is slow, but steady. Come back soon,

Byleth

Her usual final words. It was never ‘I love you’ or ‘I miss you’, just ‘Come back soon’. He wondered how Byleth looked when she penned them, if she sat alone in her room just as he did his, carefully picking out each word as though he were searching for jewels in the dirt. Claude pressed his fingers against Come back soon, remembering the feel of her rough hands. Her soft lips. She had only recently remembered how to smile.

He hoped she wouldn’t forget before he came back.

It was funny. Claude had made it through five years without her, five long years buoyed only by his belief that she’d back. Byleth had shown him miracles and he knew she’d show him one last one, that someone like her wouldn’t just die like that.

Now, he knew exactly where she was, knew exactly how to reach her, and he could barely make it through a few months without wanting to run back to her arms. He’d lost the ability to do without her. Utterly, completely lost it.

“When I get back, you’d better be ready,” Claude whispered, reaching into his tunic and pulling out a fine silver chain. Dangling off it, her ring glinted in the candlelight. It glittered full of the promises of tomorrow.

In the middle of the night, tomorrow felt like a long way off. He could only hope she missed him half as much as he missed her.

#claudeleth #claude x byleth #claude von riegan #byleth #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #khalid #fanfic

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cavalierious-whim · 3 years

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The Weight of a Kiss (FE3H)

Sylvix | Canon-Compliant | 5 + 1 | Teen | Complete Five times that kisses are greetings, and the one time they aren't. Funny, how things change.

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A/N: Read here on AO3 for better formatting!

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A kiss that is never tasted, is forever and ever wasted.

Felix is a scrawny little thing. It’s the first thought that comes to Sylvain. He’s got the same coloring as Glenn even if he’s only half his brother’s height. He shies away, fingers gripping at Glenn’s trousers tightly. Sylvain waits patiently as Glenn reaches around, urging Felix forward. Just a gentle hand against his back.

“Come on, Felix,” says Glenn. Felix is surprisingly stubborn in his own right, unwilling to budge at first.

“It’s alright,” says Sylvain to Glenn. “He can take his time.”

“Felix,” says Glenn once more, gentler, like coaxing a newborn fawn. “Just a hello, that’s all that’s needed. And then you can leave.”

The way that Felix pouts is adorable, his cheeks puffed out slightly as he surveys Sylvain with a wary look.

“I don’t bite,” says Sylvain, thinking that it might help.

Felix finally steps forward until he’s right before Sylvain. The cool springtime breeze lifts his bangs from his forehead. Felix stares from underneath long eyelashes, dark amber eyes watching Sylvain with a calculating stare. Interesting, Sylvain thinks. Felix might be a shy crybaby, but there’s more to him than meets the eye.

“You don’t bite,” says Felix. More a statement than a question, an acute observation.

“I promise,” says Sylvain.

Felix purses his lips and then says, “Shame. Glenn needs someone to knock him down a peg.”

Sylvain’s mouth falls open and he glances at Glenn. They’re far enough that he can’t hear the exchanged words, but Glenn’s prone to having a biting wit. He wouldn’t have found the comment amusing, not as Sylvain does.

Or Felix, judging by the tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth. Suddenly, Sylvain’s not sure if it’s a joke.

“A proper greeting is expected,” says Glenn from behind them, breaking their quiet moment. Sylvain doesn’t miss the sly, amused smile that he wears.

“Right,” says Sylvain.

“Ugh,” says Felix. Still, he stands straight and readies himself.

Sylvain leans forward, gripping Felix by the shoulders gently. He presses a kiss to one cheek, and then the other. Felix repeats the gesture, Sylvain having to lean over slightly for him to reach. When they’re done, they pull back, staring awkwardly at each other.

Then, Felix makes a gagging sound, pretending to retch.

Sylvain follows suit, saying, “Gross. So, so gross.”

Glenn laughs loudly, amused by their reaction to expected societal customs. At least, he laughs until he has to follow suit.

Over the years, it becomes kind of a game to them. Well, more so for Sylvain. Felix tries his best to disappear and skip formal greetings entirely. He rarely succeeds, Glenn dragging him to the front of the manor by his shirt sleeve.

Felix looks more and more like Glenn every year. At eleven, Felix is past his crybaby stage for the most part and now spends his days emulating his older brother. Glenn’s a good guy, but Sylvain wonders if his personality is one to be adopted. But, with Glenn, as a knight now and rarely home, Sylvain knows that Felix will do whatever possible to cling to what he still can.

They’re close in height now, Felix’s amber eyes nearly level with his gaze. Now, or never, Sylvain thinks. Just get it over with. Sylvain leans over to press the sloppiest kiss that he can manage across Felix’s cheek.

“Disgusting,” snaps Felix, already pushing Sylvain away before he can plant one on his other cheek.

“Oh come on,” says Sylvain, “It’s proper.”

“Properly annoying,” says Felix. His hand finds Sylvain’s face, pushing at it hard.

Sylvain snorts before trying again. “Our fathers are watching.”

At that, Felix stops resisting, letting out a loud sigh instead. “Formality can kiss my ass,” murmurs Felix.

Sylvain pauses at that, still holding Felix’s face between his palms. “Since when have you cursed in such a way?”

“I only learn from the best,” says Felix. They both look to Glenn who smirks right back. The best, indeed. Then Felix says, “Well then, get on with it.”

Sylvain lets out a soft laugh and pecks Felix’s other cheek lightly, giving him a rest from their usual antics. It’s Felix’s turn next, reaching out and grasping Sylvain by the shoulders. His face is terse and serious as usual when he leans forward.

The kiss is soft against his cheek, and then again on the other. Then, Felix’s hand darts out, finding its target easily on Sylvain’s chest. Felix squeezes Sylvain’s nipple tight through his linen shirt and roughly twists.

Sylvain yelps, falling over, watching as Felix runs away with a smirk.

Rodrigue can barely hide a smile behind his hand. Sylvain’s father’s mouth is pulled into a terse frown. Glenn’s nearly doubled over with raucous laughter.

And Felix is long gone, having entirely disappeared. Sylvain grunts as he finds his footing again. He’s going to kill him the next time that they spar.

Sylvain doesn’t want to be here. It’s a foreign feeling, nearly incomprehensible. Fraldarius manor has always been a place of respite for him, but now it’s just dark and foreboding. The dark cloud that hangs over it permeates everything around them.

Glenn’s dead, far before his time, and doing what he did best; protecting those that he loves. Sylvain wonders what makes Felix angrier; that Glenn is gone, or that his brother died protecting Dimitri, and not him.

Felix, for once, meets them at the front of the manor, hands clasped behind him properly. He looks like he’s aged five years. He looks angry and sad and depressed. He looks like a shell of himself, barely there, quiet and distant.

He doesn’t look at Sylvain, he looks right through him.

“Felix,” says Sylvain, his voice quiet. He doesn’t know how to do this, he doesn’t know how to approach him. He feels utterly suffocated; by expectations and propriety, by the weight of war on the horizon, and the way that Felix looks like he’s just about died on the inside.

Sylvain misses Glenn, but not as much as he misses his best friend.

“Sylvain,” says Felix. His tone is curt, almost unfeeling, but Sylvain knows that it’s not directed at him. Felix has never dealt with his feelings well, lashing out at the slightest of things. Glenn’s always helped temper him. Without him here, Felix is a dark ball of angst with nothing to butt heads against.

That worries Sylvain.

For the first time, Sylvain thinks, he wants to greet Felix the proper way. Felix will likely hate it, but Sylvain’s the kind of person who grounds himself through touch. He reaches out, fingers sliding along Felix’s shoulders. Felix is thirteen, too young to look so old and broken.

Sylvain leans forward. Felix’s cheeks are cold against his lips and he stiffens against Sylvain’s hold. One kiss, and then two. When Sylvain pulls back, Felix’s hand lashes out, fingers curling into his sleeve tightly.

They both freeze. There’s a beat, and then Felix says, “Don’t. Don’t leave me as he did.” Felix makes no move to return the greeting, but the look that he gives Sylvain is utterly heartbreaking.

“Oh, Felix,” says Sylvain, pulling him in close for a hug. Proper manners be damned, he doesn’t care. Felix is hurting, Sylvain’s hurting, the entire damn household is hurting. “I won’t, I promise. The only way I’ll leave is if we die together.”

“A promise,” says Felix. “A promise never to leave each other.”

But even as he says the words, Sylvain wonders if it’s a promise that he can keep.

As it turns out, Sylvain’s shit at keeping promises.

Years pass and things change. Felix does what his father asks and sets on the path to becoming a knight. Even if it’s the last thing that he wants. He goes off with Dimitri, only to come back angry and sardonic and calling their prince a Boar.

Meanwhile, Sylvain’s father leads with the expectation of marrying him off early for even earlier grandchildren. Sylvain wants nothing to do with that at sixteen, seventeen, even eighteen. He wears women on his sleeve because it’s easier than commitment, and he doesn’t care what the lasting effects might be.

He sees Felix again when he’s nineteen and his heart flips upside down, seizing in an unfamiliar way. Felix looks less like Glenn and more like himself, and Sylvain finds that he cannot stop staring.

Ingrid punches him across the shoulder and tells him to pick his jaw up off the ground. Then, she tells him to not even think about it.

When Felix greets him, his lips are tugged into a frown.

“You didn’t write,” says Sylvain, his tongue strangely tied.

Felix frowns. “Neither did you.”

No, Sylvain hadn’t. Sylvain had been too busy dodging his father, dodging marriage proposals, and dodging responsibility. Not that Felix is any better; he’d run off to squire, following in Glenn’s footsteps, anything to get himself killed early. The ultimate honor in the wake of his dead brother.

The two of them are a mess, Sylvain thinks, and not for the first time.

Felix is the one to reach out first, finely boned fingers sliding along Sylvain’s broad shoulders. Sylvain towers over him nowadays, so he leans over, as expected. Felix kisses one cheek, rather aggressively, and then the other, and then pulls back stiffly.

When Sylvain repeats the gesture, it’s softer and with more poise, but that almost makes it worse. When he pulls away, Felix scoffs, scowling at him angrily. His gaze drops from Sylvain’s face, down to his feet and then he sneers.

“I’ve heard the stories,” says Felix. “Ingrid’s told me. Don’t expect me to peel you up after I find you drunk on a tavern floor. That’s on you.”

Years before, the harsh words would have been joking, maybe even funny. But now, they sound bitter and sour.

Sylvain wonders what it is that made Felix so.

Five years is a long time, and yet, it passes in a flash.

Sylvain’s been north, hunting down Adrestian troops that find their way into his lands. Meanwhile, his father holds the fortress, and with it, Sreng. The country isn’t above using wartime to launch strategically placed attacks.

He’s weary. He’s tired. It’s been a long day of battle and reunification. The Professor’s alive by some fucking miracle. Sylvain needs a woman, a cup of strong wine, and a bed.

At least, it’s what he thinks until he sees Felix, bloodstained and hardened, a shell of the boy he once was. Sylvain stares at him in surprise, wondering how he could have ever thought he’d looked like Glenn.

And, while most lose those harsh edges and the chips on their shoulders as they age, Felix hasn’t. He’s only gotten worse it seems, snapping acerbic quips at anyone who comes his way. Ingrid, bless her soul tries. And fails.

“Felix,” says Sylvain as Mercedes heals his arm. He’s got a pretty terrible gash and the warmth from her hand is welcome.

Felix doesn’t say anything, but he does look at him with hollowed-out eyes. Sylvain swallows. He’s handsome, beautiful even, in his own way. Sylvain’s never felt his heart twist like this. And then Felix sneers, annoyed, and looks the other direction.

It feels like a loss. There will be no kisses or cheeks cradled gently by fingers, despite how annoying manners can be. Sylvain wants the familiarity of it, he misses being normal because nothing is anymore. Everything’s gone to shit.

Sylvain’s surprised at how much he yearns for even a crumb of recognition in Felix’s cold, dead stare.

Mercedes hums, her fingers rubbing along the skin of his forearm lightly. “At least he looked at you,” she says. “That’s more than the rest of us.”

Perhaps it’s not as much of a loss as he thought, but it stings all the same.

It’s strange being here.

The Gautier Fortress rises above him, cold and empty. It doesn’t feel like home. If Sylvain had his choice, he’d never step foot here again. But, the Margrave is dead and Sylvain’s been saddled with responsibility since before he could walk.

He reaches out, resting a hand against the cold stone of the archway.

He misses his mother.

“Sylvain,” calls a voice from behind him. A voice that shouldn’t be there. A voice that Sylvain had thought he’d never hear again.

Felix had been very clear in his intent the last time they’d spoken. He’d leave and go far away, living by his sword, and dying by it too. Their promise would be broken because that’s what they do best.

Sylvain turns. Felix has already jumped down from his horse and is marching up the stairs. Sylvain shouldn’t be here, but neither should Felix.

“Felix,” says Sylvain.

When Felix stops before Sylvain, he hesitates, mouth twisting slightly as he thinks. He doesn’t know what to say; he clearly hadn’t planned this. That’s unlike him, Sylvain thinks. Felix is ever calculating, planning things to the tee. Sylvain’s the one that takes risks.

Except for lately. He hasn’t taken a risk in what feels like years.

“Well then,” says Felix, irate. “Get on with it.”

It takes Sylvain a moment to realize what he means. Manners and propriety haven’t been a part of their life in nearly a decade. Instead, Sylvain says, “You’re here.”

“Glad to know you aren’t blind,” says Felix. A pause, and then, “Get on with it.”

Sylvain wants to reach out to him and pull him close. His fingers are itching to curl into Felix’s hair and brushing it back, scratching at his scalp. The way he used to when they shared a bedroll in a single tent, keeping warm on the cold nights and waiting for the end to come.

They’ve never talked about that.

Sylvain reaches out tentatively. Felix’s shoulders are slight compared to his own, but no less powerful. He grips them tightly and pulls Felix forward. Felix follows easily, willingly, eagerly, even. Odd.

A kiss to his right cheek, Sylvain’s mouth lingering. And then he presses in for the left and Felix turns his head. Their lips meet and sparks fly and they’re kissing. Felix is aggressive, pulling Sylvain closer, his mouth slipping open as he tries to stake his claim.

All they’ve ever done and they’ve never done this. A kiss hasn’t ever meant so much, and Sylvain cradles Felix’s cheek, thumb sliding across his cheekbone, trying to temper the movement. Felix reluctantly acquiesces, pressing against Sylvain slower and softer, with a tentative arch of his back.

When they part, they’re both breathing heavily. Sylvain stares into Felix’s eyes and he sees so much there, so much that’s waiting to be said. So much that Felix probably never will because he’s emotionally stunted on his best of days.

But still, Sylvain loves him, he’s loved him for years.

“You’re here,” says Sylvain again, still cupping Felix’s jaw.

“I’m here,” says Felix. “I promised.”

Sylvain wants to cry. Or laugh. Or die. Instead, he leans down to kiss him again.

#sylvix #sylvain/felix #felix x sylvain #felix hugo fraldarius #sylvain jose gautier #fe3h #fire emblem fanfiction

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fe-semi-decent-scenarios · 4 years

Note

How would the blue lions react to facing/killing their s/o from pre-timeskip in battle?

[Wow, this actually upset me pretty hard when thinking about it lol. This kind of trope always gets me even if it’s being done by two characters that I don’t really like. It doesn’t help that there’s a thunder storm outside that’s making me feel emo. Thank you for the request, I hope you like it!]

Dimitri:

He’s slaughtered so many enemies that there is no more hesitance. His past self felt remorse for those he killed, and after each battle he would reflect on the dead. Unlike now.

He still remembers, but he doesn’t feel guilty. They opposed him and stood in the way of his revenge. To Dimitri, the people he faces in battle are nothing but walking corpses awaiting his blade

The professor had given him orders not to approach any of his old classmates. They wanted to try and save them

He brushed it off as a wasteful effort

“An enemy is an enemy. I care not for who they are or were, I will kill them if they stand in my way”

A regret he’ll live with for the rest of his life

The entire battle was a blurred frenzy. In his state of mind all the cries of those he killed mixed together. He knew not of who or what met his blade

Only when he saw the distress among his inner circle did he realize: he killed you, and he did it without pause

The professor didn’t get their opportunity to talk with you, and you barely stood a chance against his onslaught

Another soul to haunt him

Another loss he has no right to mourn

Another reason to be called a monster

Dedue:

Once reacquainted with his fellow Lions Dedue swore himself to the cause. He would fight without pause till his dying breath

It seemed that having him back was a boost for moral on their end as well, and he felt genuinely relieved to see that ‘everyone’ was alive and safe

Originally he assumed that you weren’t recruited for the battle at Gronder and that he could visit you at the monestary.

When inquiring about your whereabouts to his highness he only received a scowl. It wasn’t something new for Dimitri’s personality so Dedue decided to search during his free time

He spent ages walking around with the expectation of finding you...so, why weren’t you there?

He’d ask the professor if you’ve gone on another mission only to see one of their rare grimaces

Hearing that you’re fighting for Edelgard confuses him. He was certain that your loyalties lied with the kingdom. With a stoic demeanor he’d drop the topic and never bring it up again

Dedue may seem like a blind puppy who serves Dimitri, but he does have his own opinions. He just holds them back well

People mistake it for indifference. Felix takes a few shots at him for his lack of emotion

“You’re telling me that (Y/N)’s not here and you don’t care? Weren’t they your s/o?” “My personal feelings do not matter. If they oppose his highness then there is nothing left to discuss” “You two really are a match made by the goddess. A heartless dog for a feral boar”

When the time comes to cut you down he hovers near your body after the battle. When your buried the grave will never be empty. Every week comes with fresh flowers, and never is there any debris on your stone

Felix:

It was your own fault. If you had backed down like the others then this could have been avoided

If he didn’t do it then someone else would have. If he didn’t then you would have killed him instead

No. No you wouldn’t.

Felix knows that if the roles were reversed he would still be alive

How many people is he going to lose for the sake of the boar? First his father...now- now this

He assumed that after not seeing you in battle once that he was in the clear. You weren’t at the reunion so clearly something else must have been keeping you from coming back

He still could find you after this ended and you both could test your metal like the old days

It was the one relief he had

He wasn’t expecting to see you fighting at her side. Despite his stubborn behavior his affections towards you were obvious to everyone during his youth; something the ‘Emperor’ must have saved as a trump card

It was his responsibility to either make you see reason, or to end it all. He had not come this far just to die from old sentiments

“I will say this once. Get out of my way (Y/N) or I will cut you down”

You wouldn’t move or even fight back. They obviously made you into a human blockade. It was a swift death, something he continues to remind himself of

That was his final battle, one that left his sword heavy and thoughts lax

The future he longed for is gone, so this damn war better have been worth it

Ashe:

Ashe doesn’t like violence. He’s a firm believer that everyone is worthy of a second chance and that people sometimes do bad things for the right reasons. A life is a life, and it is precious

Each morning he wakes is a reminder of how lucky he is to be alive. There is no guaranteed tomorrow, and each day could be his last

He knows because he watches. He watches as the people he used to call friends die for what they believe in. In their mind they are fighting for what they think is right, just as he is

but he wasn’t prepared to fight you

Anyone but you. He prayed to the goddess the moment he noticed that you weren’t at the reunion. He wished for your safety, and hoped that you were not on the opposing side

He prayed that the goddess wouldn’t take you to her side

Despite being away for so long, he still loved you. That feeling was one of the few things he still held onto from his teen years

All faith was shattered when you appeared at the Valley of Torment. What a fitting scenery for how he felt

“Professor, let me try to convince them. No matter what happens I have to try”

and try he did. He begged you to switch sides once you were defeated but it was no use. You were doing what you thought was right

He couldn’t kill you, his bow wouldn’t hold steady even if he tried. The professor took it upon themselves to do it in his stead

He was grateful for their interference, but the image of your body won’t ever be erased from his mind

From then on he visits the church after every battle. He’ll sit at the same pew for hours and reconcile over what he could have done differently

He’d wonder why good people had to die for another’s benefit

Sylvain:

Sylvain finds the situation deplorable. Yet another person fallen to the system

Seeing you on the other side reminded him of Miklan, except you weren’t fighting to gain something. You fought for the side that wanted complete reorder

He thought your loyalties lied with the Kingdom, with him, but people change. The fire behind your attacks only fueled the questions within him.

Questions that he wasn’t 100% sure that he wanted answers to

Sylvain knows hatred, but just what happened to make you willing to give up everything?

He knows better than to blame himself. People didn’t know him for being the perfect partner, but there was nothing he or anyone else could have done to change your mind

What was he supposed to do? Lock you in the prison?Then what? It would only cause more issues. Seeing you in chains or in a cell isn’t something he could handle

You were one of the few people to break his barriers and see beyond the stigmas that others gave him. It was his turn to try and see your side of things, but he was too late

Just one more failure to add to the list. He failed his house, his brother, his friends, country, and now you

After the encounter he’ll be even more unmotivated than before. He only trains because Felix forces him, and never attends any of the extra lectures offered. His humorous mask basically dissolves to reveal what he’s always been hiding: exhaustion and despondence

If anyone tries to comfort him they’ll be brushed off

“Look, would you leave me alone? Don’t act like you understand when you can’t”

No one can, and he doesn’t want them to. He wouldn’t wish this hurt onto his worst enemy.

Annette:

She knew. It wasn’t the first time someone important had vanished from her life. People do not leave without reason

She knew that you were on the Empire’s side. She knew that there was a high chance of facing you in combat

Her father even brought up the possibility when they were alone together. He encouraged her to back down, but she insisted that all would be okay

It did not brace her for the hollow feeling of seeing your corpse

Normally when Annette is sad she’ll garden. If she can’t sleep then the first thing she does is go water the plants while humming one of her little tunes

So, she does. She pretends as if you two never reunited because it’s the only way she can push forward. With the situation as it is there is little optimism among the troops, she can’t afford to give in

She turns her grief into strength and volunteers to help around the monastery

As long as she’s busy then it’s okay. When she’s working then her thoughts can’t wander

Eventually it will settle in though, and she’ll want to vent. Out of everyone she’ll most likely go to Mercedes since she also has someone dear to her on the other side

“I-I don’t know what to do Mercie. It h-happened so fast but I can’t forget it!”

Annette is strong, and will remember you as you were to her. Not a ruthless enemy, but as someone she cherishes

Mercedes:

After the fight she’ll visit your old room. It hadn’t been touched in so long that dust coated nearly everything

The Empire had claimed Emile, and now you as well. When you fell it took all her willpower not to cast a healing incantation

It wasn’t what you wanted. The professor had offered mercy, but you chose death

A freedom she had no right to take away. With swift words she ended your life as peacefully as possible

It came as a shock to those nearby. If she had let the professor handle the deed then perhaps the pain would be lessened

But for some reason she couldn’t do it. Despite the tears in her eyes she refused to let you be pierced by a blade. An incantation would be more swift, painless, and leave your body as it was

While reminiscing in your quarters she’ll tidy up the space. She’ll admire your handwriting on the withered papers, sift through what books you had been reading, and eventually the room will be good enough to be inhabited again

Except no one would ever sleep here again, she knew it in her heart

However, Mercedes also knows that it was your choice. She won’t blame herself over your death, but instead use it as a driving force to protect the people she cares about who are still alive

“May the goddess guide you to eternal peace. I will never forget our time together (Y/N)”

Ingrid:

She wonders if it’s ‘her’ that’s the issue

Everyone she loves is gone. Dimitri is a shell of his former self, Glenn passed, her family’s in shambles, and now you have vanished as well

Ingrid doesn't like to show weakness in front of others, but there’s only so much one person can handle

Even a war-machine feels anguish from striking down people they care about. Ingrid has felt the hardship of losing a lover, but to be the hand striking the blow? How much strain can someone put on their emotions before everything snaps

The days after the world is unanimated. She continues on with her normal regime as if it was a minor bump in the road. Yet food has no flavor, training leaves her body weak, sleep is difficult to come by, and when people speak it’s as if there’s no tone to their voice

He sorrows become rage. She focuses all her negative feelings towards ending the war and it’s horrifying. Ingrid is known for her composure but if you gave her an eye-patch then the prince might have a twin

“This fight has drawn out for too long. Too many innocents have perished, and at the rate we’re going at there will be no future to speak of. Professor, my sword is yours. Let us finish this once and for all”

Pity those who cross her path. If women truly are made of ‘sugar, spice, and everything nice’ then your death has tossed five tablespoons of cayenne pepper into her mix.

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mommymooze · 3 years

Text

Gautier Girl

You are a proud member of the Blue Lions. Land of honor and chivalry, knights and duty, respect for the monarchy and the territory that you hail from, at least until you came to Garreg Mach and join the Officers Academy. Your father is a proud member of the Gautier soldiers protecting the territory from the invaders of the north. You had never been to the Margrave’s residence, they were a very private family and kept to themselves. The first time you had actually met the son of Margrave Gautier was when introductions were made on the first day of class. Certainly, Sylvain looked the part of the son of the noble house. His bright red hair is unruly curling loosely across his forehead, his strong chin, and coppery eyes sparkle in the sunlight prove he is an attractive and dashing young man. Then he opens his mouth and that all falls by the wayside. If he is not rudely and disrespectfully taunting and tormenting his friends, he is chasing after or drooling for almost every girl in the academy.

You head to the training grounds after dinner to work on your lance skills. Ingrid is there and helps you find tune your warmup exercises and drills. When you both stop for a drink of water you casually ask her how she knows Sylvain. Ingrid immediately stops what she is doing and looks you straight in the eye.

“Take my advice, stay away from Sylvain. He has broken more hearts than I can count!” She angrily snaps.

“Oh, it’s not that. Not at all. I am from Gautier territory and had not met him until I came here. I’m shocked by his behavior. I am in awe of you trying to keep him in line.” You say, not quite truthfully.

“Good.” Ingrid says. “He is terrible. He even flirted with my grandmother when we were young, can you believe it?”

“Yeah, definitely a heartbreaker.” You laugh in response.

You continue practicing as Ingrid leaves. You feel ashamed of yourself, lying to a noble, lying to Ingrid! Yes, you had seen Sylvain in the past, riding through the towns of Gautier, looking like a hero with a purpose, his hair waving behind him like it was on fire. He was the most impressive man you had ever seen, so handsome, and you had fallen in love with him at first sight.

However, here at the officer’s academy, Sylvain hardly gave you the time of day. On a good day he smiles or winks at you, but that was it. Yeah, you were a late bloomer and more of a tomboy than a girly girl, but why did it frustrate you so much? When you accompanied the Blue Lions in battle, he was always focused on his friends. How could you get him to notice you?

You head to the library and check out every single book on the Gautier territory and the Sreng. When you go to the market you would beg the booksellers to find books regarding Sreng, their history, their stories, anything to find out more about them. You were able to procure a few books, but not a lot of information.

Then the war started. Everyone heads home, including you. You join the army protecting Gautier territory. You march alongside other soldiers, working hard to get yourself transferred to the forces closest to the borders. You learned about the towns and villages in the area and finally strike paydirt. You find Betka, a Sreng woman. It takes knowing her some time before she admits to her heritage. She tells her story of how she had been out hunting close to Gautier lands. An elk had turned on her, she was seriously hurt. A huge storm was on the way when a Gautier soldier found her and brought her in from the storm. He sheltered her, helped her heal from her injuries and fell in love with her. They have been married for ten years now. Any time your garrison was stationed at the town, you would stay with them. Betka and her husband teach you Sreng customs, tell you their tales and stories, speak of their gods, and most importantly, the language.

It was summer in Gautier territory, four years after the war started with the Empire. There were less soldiers to guard the borders since so many were demanded by the kingdom to boost defenses in Fhirdiad. You were on a watchtower, scanning the lands at the border. You notice a Sreng hunting party coming closer. You decide you need to engage them before the other soldiers catch sight of them. Taking your lance you run in their direction. Fortunately, you were not followed. The Sreng party notices you. You hold your spear in both hands above your head. They talk among themselves then one of the hunting party walks towards you and throws their spear into the ground at your feet. You throw your spear into the ground next to theirs. You then begin speaking with the Sreng female in front of you. You talk for almost twenty minutes, she then turns, whistles, makes a motion with her hands, and the hunting party heads the opposite direction. You both pick up your spear and head back over the border line.

As you approach the watchtower there are now quite a few soldiers gathered around the base of the tower. You feel odd as they don’t say a word. Then they tell you to go up the stairs. Waiting at the top of the tower is Sylvain.

“Hello (y/n), it’s been a while.” Sylvain’s face is hard to read, there is a bit of a smile but also a look of concern.

You are gasping for breath after running all the way back here and having to climb several flights of stairs to get to the top of the tower. You bow to the son of the leader of your military forces before you speak. “Sir Gautier.” You gasp. “I am surprised to see you. How may I be of service.” You manage to get out, still gasping for air.

“Well, first of all, what was that?” The redhead gestures out to where you were speaking with the Sreng.

“That was a hunting party. They were coming close to the border and I wanted to speak with them to convince them to go back into their own territory, I was happy when they did.”

“Since when do you speak Srengi?” He asks, looking back at where you were talking to the hunters.

“Since we left the academy. I’ve been working in different garrisons and different towns. I’ve met a few people that came from Sreng that live in the kingdom now. They have taught me much about the Sreng people. They really aren’t that bad.” You say.

“You know, my father would have you killed for allowing the enemy to escape. You were seen walking out there, fraternizing with our foes. Letting them get away. You are certainly not following his orders to kill every Sreng on sight.”

You hang your head. “They are people. Not wild animals. War is coming at us from both sides. I thought if we could talk to them, maybe we can stop the fighting here. I wanted to bring it up to the Margrave, but I had to see if we could talk to them first. I accept my punishment. I am not sorry though.” You remove your weapons and drop them to the floor.

Sylvain puts his left hand on your shoulder. He’s going to have you carted away and hung as a traitor. You sigh heavily.

Suddenly his other arm comes around your back and he hugs you to his chest. “You are so lucky I’m not my father. What you did today was amazing! I can’t believe you did that. What led you to do something like this? I’m just flabbergasted!”

You are almost in tears. Your emotions are a whirling tornado in your brain. But right now you can’t breathe because he is squeezing you so hard in his arms. You give him a few taps on the back, hoping he will let you breathe soon.

Sylvain finally lets you go. He sits on a bench, asking you to sit across from him. “So tell me why. Why’d you do it?”

“I did it because I wanted to help you, Sylvain. I know you hate your crest, that it’s so important to your father. You are the only one that can wield the Lance of Ruin after him, the one thing you know the Sreng fear. So I thought, if we could talk to the Sreng, stop the war, well, he can’t hold it over you that you have to stay here and you could do what you want.”

“Okay. I get that.” The redhead acknowledges. “But what’s in it for you?”

“Um…” You think try to think fast, you only did this to help him. “Oh. If we can make peace with the Sreng, more soldiers could be freed up to help fight the war. The people close to the borders can rest easy. And if we can end all of these wars my father can come home and rest.”

Sylvain leads you down the stairs of the watchtower and pulls you onto the back of his horse, telling you to hold tight because you’re going to speak with the Margrave. You want to swoon from putting your arms around him and holding on for so long, and had it not been for his armor being in the way of really touching him, you probably would have. He takes you to the residence where he leaves you in their library. He will have to speak with his father first.

You try to busy yourself with looking for some interesting books to read, finding a few about the Sreng. You notice notes in the margins that are more interesting than the book itself. Your reading is interrupted by loud shouting from upstairs that does not quiet down. You begin pacing anxiously as the voices are loud and angry but you can’t exactly make out what they are saying. You jump as a woman comes in from the kitchens with a small tea service.

“Sorry ma’am. Tis going to be a while. Have some tea. Don’t mind them, they’re always like that.” The matronly woman smiles at you, leaving the tea next to a table by the window.

“Thank you for the tea and the reassurance.” You say to her.

You have your tea. You ask to use the powder room. You are getting restless. Anxious. Angry. Upset. Furious. The more time that goes on, the more you decide you can’t stand this. Finally, your pot boileth over. You go upstairs and knock at the door. There is no response, they probably did not hear it over the shouting. You take your dagger out, using the butt of it, you knock on the door very loudly. There is a dual scream of “What!” answering your knock. You open the doors quickly. You enter you see two red-faced redheaded men toe to toe in the most antagonistic stance you have ever seen. Deciding you are at your wits end, you thunder into the room.

“Eee-Nough!” You spat between them, calling for a cease fire.

Both men look at you shocked. Who would dare to barge into this room and interrupt a serious conversation such as this?

You do not flinch, marching straight up to the Margrave, stepping between him and Sylvain you take your index and middle finger, stabbing it in the center of his chest. “You! Sit.” You point to a chair on one side of the table in his office. You do not move until he backs up, Hrumpfs, and takes a seat.

You turn, stabbing Sylvain in the chest with the same two fingers. “Sit.” You order him, and he obeys like a scolded puppy.

You stand at the end of the table the men seated to your left and right. Your hands touching the table in a steepled position, only your fingertips are on the table, a completely controlling and aggressive posture. Your eyes are fierce, piercing through them into their souls.

“I came here for a serious conversation regarding peace with the Sreng. We will discuss this like civilized adults. If you insist on acting like little schoolboys, perhaps we should take you behind the woodshed for 10 lashes with a strap and put you to bed without any dessert tonight.”

Both of the redheads are taken back by this serious, controlling woman ordering them around, however neither one wants to step out of line, afraid of what she would unleash upon them. The three are able to draw up a proposal to be delivered to the Sreng, an offer of 3 years truce as they work to agree on the boundaries of the borderlands between the people, learn to understand each other better and negotiate through terms of a permanent peace treaty.

The Margrave is very much pleased with himself by the time it is complete. Somehow this was his entire plan from the beginning, and that he had thought of this in the first place. Of course he was just seeing if Sylvain would come to the same conclusion he had already determined. He invites you to a late dinner and to stay at his modest home for the night.

After dinner Sylvain takes you to the library. You sit on the loveseat, leaving a space next to you, and he sits in the chair to your left. At first you talk a little about the truce. Then you both become very quiet.

Sylvain gets a sheepish look as he raises a hand behind his head to rub his neck nervously. “Um, (y/n) I just want to thank you for uh, everything you’ve done for me, for us, er, well for everyone today. “

You blush a bit. “But Sylvain, it took all of us. Certainly, you and your father, but the soldiers not overreacting when I went out there. The villagers that helped me find some Sreng people, the Sreng themselves. I think everyone wants this particular fight to be over.“ The room again is quiet. A clock ticking on the wall echoes through the room.

Sylvain fidgets in his chair. He puts his hand on his chin, staring at the table. He still looks at the floor in front of you when he begins to talk. “You know, back when we were in school, I never asked you out. It was because every time you looked at me I knew you could see right through me. Your eyes looked into me and saw the truth. All of my lies, wanting to hurt those girls because they really did not want me. They wanted my crest and my family name. I was angry and mean, a real terrible person. I saw that terrible part of myself reflected in your eyes. I never wanted to hurt you like that, so I ignored you. And yet here you are. You came to save me. I didn’t ask, you just…did it. Why?”

“I grew up in this territory too. We didn’t have to live with you to know many of the things going on in your house. We heard of how you cried sometimes when you had to go home after visiting Dimitri or Felix. Your father’s expectations forced upon you. You were ordered to do as he says. He turned a blind eye to what Miklan had done. You will wield the lance, marry who he wishes and bear the next lance wielding child. Then I saw you with your friends at the school. You were so kind and supportive. You would do anything and everything for them. You nearly died so many times throwing yourself in front of attacks meant for them. It was like you were two different people. I couldn’t stand to see you suffer any more. I thought that maybe if we could stop the need for you to have to wield the lance in the first place, that part of you could be free and you could be whole.”

“I-I don’t know what to say.” Sylvain realizes for the first time in his life he has no idea what to say to a girl, no, a woman, particularly this woman.

“You look exhausted. It’s been a busy day. I think it is time to turn in.” You say covering a yawn.

Sylvain escorts you to your room. You nod and wave, going inside.

The next morning you find a note slid under your door. The Margrave has completed his proposal to the Sreng. You are to translate it to their language, leaving a copy here and taking a copy to Sreng for them to ponder. You ignore the servants call to breakfast, determined to finish this as quickly as possible.

Entering the dining room you bow before the Margrave, holding out both copies in Srengi for him to review. Not that he can read it, however he can compare the two and see that they are written the same, no change of words or marks between the two documents. He signs one and keeps the other. You take the two documents, one in each language with you as you head out the door and grab a horse to ride to the border of the lands, to watch and meet with the Sreng people.

Sylvain helps you saddle the horse. You nod as you work together to quickly get it ready. He smiles and wishes you good luck as he slaps the horse on the flank, speeding it on its way. You are at the borderland in no time. You forgo the watchtower, jumping the fence and heading straight into Sreng territory. Just a short distance beyond where you met the hunting party you stop and wait.

You wait for a few hours. Suddenly a Sreng warrior steps from behind a tree. You hold your spear in both hands over your head. They take the same position then slowly walk until they are in front of you, throwing their spear into the ground between you, you follow suit. You are instructed to kneel and keep your hands on the ground. Walking towards you is a beautiful warrior woman, covered in white bear furs, the huge skull of the bear is on her head. She is decorated in gold and colorful beads. She asks you to come with her and you follow. The warrior takes your horse and lance. You are led back to where their horses are waiting. There are fifty or more Sreng here. You are told to mount up and you are taken further into the territory for several hours riding at top speed. You see a valley ahead and a huge Sreng village. The large stone building is the residence of the Chief of the tribe. You are taken down several corridors until tall double doors are opened before you. Thick dark carpeting is on the floor, your eyes follow the path to the dais at the end of the room. To the left and right are many Sreng, seated at tables with parchment and glasses in front of them. All are silent as you are led to stand before the Chief. The Chief sits on a throne surrounded by heavily armed soldiers. A tall slender woman in black approaches you. You are surprised as she speaks the language of the kingdom to you.

“Why are you here?” She states in a commanding voice.

You feel compelled to answer. Slowly reaching in the bag at your hip you pull out the two parchments. “I have come to discuss ending the fighting on the border at the south.”

She walks toward you, looking into your eyes. “Do you have power over the lance of fire?”

“I do not.” You look into her face. Her look is strong and deadly serious. “I came from those that wield the lance. The one who controls it wrote the document, offering to begin talks of ending the fighting. I am but a messenger.”

She holds out her hand and you hand her the documents. She does not turn around as she tells you to leave. You bow first to the Chief, then to her, then the others of the room and head back out the double doors. You are led to a small comfortable room where there are two Sreng women around your age. They are not dressed as soldiers, but only what you can guess as common clothes. Speaking Srengi, they invite you to sit and eat with them. They ask curious questions. Is everyone a soldier? Is it true that everyone in Fodlan was taught to fight as soon as they learned to talk? Do you remove the hearts of those you have killed to eat their strength? Do you worship devils of fire? Do you not fear the wrath of the gods of the Sreng for your transgressions?

You try to allay their fears. The people to the south are simply people like themselves. We eat vegetables and animals. We are sad when we have to take the lives of others, but we do so to defend ourselves. We do all sorts of jobs cooks, tailors, farmers, sailors, builders, masons, blacksmiths, teachers, bakers, etc. You compliment on their beautiful and colorful jewelry and the bright beads they have woven into their hair. One of the women has a large stone that sparkles in a rainbow of colors in her necklace. You have never seen such a stone. They explain they wear this stone as a protection, calling it the eye of the gods. They associate each of their gods with a color, this special stone having all of the colors within it.

The dark clad woman comes to you from the Chief’s room, the women that were with you scatter. They clear the table and place both of your parchments down. She demands clarification of the wording from your translation. You explain your intention, your knowledge of the Sreng language is certainly lacking. Once she is satisfied with the corrections, she leaves again saying she will return later.

You are left alone in the room. You wait quietly when one of the younger women hesitantly enters the room. She places a necklace around your neck, the pendant is of the stone you saw before. “So the gods will watch over you.” She says before quietly leaving. You thank her and tuck it inside your clothes. You’ll take every blessing you can get. You are happy that so far your head is still on its shoulders. That can change any minute you think as the door opens again and the tall woman is back to take you to the chief. As you approach you hear loud sounds coming from the room, like many voices shouting. The doors open, there is a yell and all is quiet. You follow the darkly dressed woman and stop where you were standing before, she moves to her position in front of the Chief.

The Chief stands, then speaks in Srengi. “We accept your terms.”

The room becomes loud once again with whoops and yells. The spectators to the sides are chest bumping everyone around them. One Sreng male is very excited, he jumps over the table and stands in front of you with his arms out wide. You look to the woman in front of the Chief briefly and she nods. You open your arms and chest bump with him. Now everyone wants a piece of you. Food and drink appear in the room. Feasting and partying goes well into the night. Before the night ends, you have been adopted into four different families as their child, been asked for your hand in marriage by numerous warriors (you respectfully decline), become an honorary member of the Sreng and are given a tattoo on your back that you have been blessed by the goddess of wisdom. Your ribs hurt from being mashed by chest bumps so many times.

The next morning you are laden with gifts, some for you, some for the Margrave. You return to Gautier territory. All of the trees on the border are already marked by the Sreng. On the side facing Gautier is an open eye. On the side facing Sreng is a closed eye. This is a sign to the Sreng that their gods cannot protect them beyond the closed eye. It is a sign to the intruders from Fodlan that this is Sreng territory and they will be watching. You cross into Gautier territory There, at the border to escort you, is Sylvain smiling as bright as the sun.

“We did it! They agree to the terms!” You say as you run up to him.

Sylvain grabs you, spinning you around as he holds you in his arms. “You did it! I am so happy. Thank you so much.” He gasps as he squeezes you against his chest. You are not sure which feels better. That you have accomplished this or him holding you in your arms. You smile wider because you have both.

#fe3h #feth #fire embelm three houses #sylvain #sylvain jose gautier #fe3h x reader #sylvain x reader

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sabineelectricheart · 3 years

Text

A Child With a Crest

Summary: A birthing woman waits for her husband to return.

Rating: R - Content features heavy themes. Not suitable for most audiences. Consult warnings before proceeding.

Graphic depictions of infanticide, eugenics and domestic violence. Reader discretion is highly advised.

Words: 1700

Notes: I warned ya that my fluff fever would not last long.

He is gone again. My husband. There is nothing I can do but wait.

It was the fifth day of Garland Moon. The nights were shorter and the days were warmer. Soon, the Day of Love will be upon us, and I hope an heir is a better gift than any old garland.

The midwife has bathed the baby and placed it in my arms, even though he told her not to until he returns. I am numb. When I look into the red, wailing face of my child, I feel nothing. I do not dare. My breasts ache in response to its cry. I suppose that means I should feed it, but I do not dare do that, either. It gets nothing. No milk. No name. No right to exist. Not until my husband says so.

Do not get too attached, I tell myself. Not this time. There will come a moment for you to indulge, but not now and not today.

It is much worse than the last time. The waiting, that is. The time seems to extend infinitely while I was left alone in my chambers, with it on my arms and a heart full with terrors. I was afraid then, too, but I was so certain that everything would be all right in the end. I was a naïve girl, then, and I did not know the reality of my condition in this house.

It was plain bad luck that I conceived during a time when my husband was so frequently away from home. He is an important man, the Margrave, often too busy for such trivialities as wife and family. The Sreng barbarians were acting out once more that Moon, and so he was out in the border, keeping them in check. I was faithful, though. The child was definitively his.

He did not believe me. He called me all manner of vile names, he threw accusations at me, but he never once laid hand nor iron on me. He would never do that, unless I provoked him. He is a good man, and good men do not hurt deserving wives.

When the child was born, he did not even come to look at it. Instead, the cleric who birthed it took a sample of its blood and the Margrave ran to the church to have it tested. A child with a Crest is a necessity in those wildlands, and the Western Church is kind enough to test blood samples of the nobles and bannermen of the region, lest we waste resources on those who will not be able to fight for us when time comes.

These are matters of public record, the bishop in Arianrhod was quick to point out whenever questioned about it. The noblemen had every right to check whether their wives had made a scandal of myself and besmirched their good names.

I waited, then as now, knowing I had done no wrong, but terrified nonetheless. I rocked that baby, murmuring soothing words, telling it and myself that everything would be all right. Only that time, I had the misfortune to believe in my own words. My husband would see that I had not been unfaithful, and all would be well.

When he returned, yellow eyes blazing with cold fury like a ravenous wolf, he spared no glance for the midwife, only snapping, "Out!" before rounding on me.

He stood at the foot of my bed, the Lance of Ruin in his hand, glaring. I kept my eyes lowered, hunching protectively over my baby.

"What is wrong, milord?" I asked, willing my voice not to shake.

"What is wrong?!" He hissed. "What is wrong, you fucking useless bitch, is that thing attached to your tit. Put it away from you this instant, or by all that is pure and powerful, you will wish that you had."

Trembling but obedient, I laid the keening baby on the bed. My husband settled the Relic down by the door and strode over to it, lifting the child with an expression of revulsion. He turned towards the door.

"W-where are you taking it, milord?" I asked, my voice faltering and my eyes filling with tears.

"I will not have this abomination in my house." He said, simple and cold, with no attachment to anything.

As soon as he came, he was gone, taking the weapon and slamming shut the door behind him.

The infant's wail drifted back to me from the corridor for a moment, then a flash of red light appeared under the door, and the sound abruptly ceased. A scream of anguish tore from my throat. I slumped onto the bed, curled around my aching and empty womb.

I do not know how long I lay there. Ten minutes. An hour. Longer still. When he returned, I threw myself at him with a cry of rage. I would have clawed those cold eyes out of his head if I had reached him, but he held his weapon, and I had nothing but my own hands.

He shoves the dull end of the Lance of Ruin against my womb with murderous force. Pain lit every nerve of my body and I crumpled to the floor. It was over almost as soon as it began, but I did not try to rise.

"Why?" I wailed.

"The test came back negative." He spat. "You bore me a Crestless bastard, you worthless cunt! I thought I was getting a wife of unquestionable breed who would bear me a powerful heir. Your family sold me a bill of goods. You are a disgrace to your name. I should send you back to them in pieces."

"Please." I begged, raising my tear-streaked face to look at him. "Give me one more chance. It was not my fault! I-I will do better next time. I promise I…!"

With a look of sneering disgust, he turned on his heel and strode from the room, slamming the door behind him once more.

He gave me another chance, though, because he is a fair man. A good man. This is my last chance. I suppose he had to, to save face. It would have done him any more good than me if word had got out that I had borne him a Crestless child, lest the bannermen think the blood is thinning. So, it was kept quiet, and he put the word about that the baby had been born dead. The midwife was paid handsomely for her silence. It was not the first time such a thing had happened, after all, and it would not be the last.

I did not conceive again for nearly a year. My husband is such an important man, always busy, rarely home. Yet, he did his duty in my bed, and a year later, I was with child for a second time.

Now, I wait, cradling another infant to my breast, so warm and alive, murmuring the same soothing words that the other once heard, but not believing them at all.

The worst that could happen would be for him to kill this baby, too, and send me back to my family in disgrace. I have no illusions about how they would greet a daughter who had borne two Crestless sons. It would be better for everyone if the Margrave kills us both.

He would be right to do it, after all. There is no reason why a good, Goddess-fearing nobleman should permit a Crestless child to pass between his wife's thighs. To allow such a child to live is anathema to all that we hold true, and a noblewoman who cannot bear a Crested child is worthless. A man such as my husband is entitled to a proper wife who can bear him the heir he deserves.

However… I can see, with my clear eyes and strong conviction, that my baby is so strong and perfect and beautiful. I cannot wish it dead, no matter what its faults. I cannot just sit by and let it happen. Not again. I could try to run now, before he comes back. I would not get far, though. Not carrying a baby. Not with my body exhausted by birth and fear.

Even if I did run, where could I hide? There was no household in Faerghus who would shelter the runaway wife of the Margrave, the Royal Guard would look for me anywhere and everywhere in Fódlan, and a man has a legal right to his wife and child to do as he pleases.

I am not a coward. I will not run. I will stay and face him. Better that I should die fighting for myself and my child, even if there is no point to it, and no hope.

Footsteps are heard from downstairs. He is back. My husband. Our time has run out. A shiver of fear rolls down my spine. I wonder if anyone will miss me when I am gone, I wonder if I will go to a place where I can be with my babies, if I deserve blessings after letting my oldest child just be killed with a stroke of a lance.

I wish there was something more I could do than be afraid, but there is nothing left. Nothing but me and it.

Footsteps in the corridor. My baby is crying. I am holding it too tightly, but I cannot seem to loosen my grip.

The door opens, and he is standing there, silhouetted by the light from the hallway. He crosses the room to stand beside my bed, eyes unreadable.

"Give him to me, milady." He says in a low voice.

My breath catches in my throat. Him, not it.

I cannot refuse him. He is too powerful, too commanding. Arms shaking, I offer my baby up to him. He lifts the child into his arms.

"Sylvain Gautier." He murmurs, cradling our child's head in his palm. "Welcome, my son."

I feel dizzy, faint with relief I had not dared to hope for. We will live, Sylvain and I, because my husband decrees it. and one day, he will be a powerful, proud, and righteous Margrave, just like his father.

*_*_*_*_*

Fire Emblem Masterlist

Three Houses Masterlist

#fire emblem #Sylvain Gautier

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msbluebell · 5 years

Note

Hey! How about a Captured AU where Byleth, before all this, had a thing with Dimitri and is pregnant by the time she is brought to Enbarr? 💔

Oh boy.

This one is going to hurt, isn’t it? There’s no way it’s not. There’s no way not to hurt in this one. I’m sorry guys, but melmcshane is the one that did this to you all. I’m merely writing these scenarios in the most logical/in character way I know how. I didn’t do this!

Before we get into what happens if Byleth is pregnant during captivity, we need to figure out how this would happen. Now, it’s no secret that I’m against student/teacher while the student is in school, and Dimitri is only 17 when he’s in school which is iffy as shit to me. I may have projected that onto Byleth as well, y’know, just wanting to keep the power dynamics at balance. It’s very clear to me that Dimitri and Byleth do fall in love over the course of the school year, but I imagine one of the things holding them back is the fact that Byleth is Dimitri’s teacher and Dimitri is the prince of Faerghus.

So the affair would have had to happen late in the year. Both biologically and personally speaking. I mean, Byleth would have had to be in the extremely early stages of pregnancy to go into the battle without noticeable changes, especially considering her default clothes shows off here naval. She would have had to be in the first trimester, which gives us a three month interval.Now, Dimitri was on a downward spiral during that interval, but there’s a certain point I think we can pin when this affair would have happened. Now, I’m going to go ahead and say it didn’t happen post-reveal because Dimitri was not okay and I doubt he nor Byleth would have indulged in such an intimate moment at that time. It would have been iffy at best, and I don’t think either one of them would have been emotionally able to

If I had to take a guess when they’d indulge in such a moment, I think I would put my bets on the night before visiting the holy tomb actually.

Logically speaking, I think that’s the best bet. If Byleth and Dimitri have harbored feelings for one another that they’ve been holding back based on the fact that Byleth is his teacher, then I think that this is the time that issues would seem most irrelevant to either of them. Not only does this take place after one of the moments that I have speculated either of them could have realized they’ve fallen in love in the game, but this is also a critical moment where they don’t know what will happen. Neither of them know what will happen when Byleth receives the revelation, and even if Byleth is expecting nothing based on what she knows about what happened to Sothis that no one else does, there’s no guarantee that she will not come out of this unchanged, or perhaps even replaced/overwritten by Sothis.

So, maybe the night before the ritual Dimitri comes to check on Byleth, or maybe it’s the other way around considering he mentions that he hasn’t been sleeping well lately. Either way, they’re both worried about the other, and they don’t know what will happen, or what the future holds, and this might be their last chance to tell each other about their feelings. Maybe it started out innocent enough, with some mutually reassuring words, mutual attempts at comfort, and then it got more heavy from there. Comfort somehow became admitting they don’t wanna lose each other, which somehow became a kiss, which lead to them forgetting everything outside that moment and just focusing on each other, which lead to that night.

It was a thing of passion and comfort, because they’re scared everything will change and they’ll lose each other and then may be the first and last time the get this.

They’re…not wrong.

After the holy tomb there were more important things to focus on. Dimitri’s mental health has rapidly declined, and there’s a war marching toward them, and things have gone to hell. So there’s no time to talk about what happened, not yet, right now they need to focus. They can talk later, if they survive.

Maybe they did say something before battle, maybe they promised that after they would talk. Who knows. In any case, the battle goes as it does in the game, with Edelgard’s forces taking Garreg Mach and basically destroying it, and Byleth falling off that cliff.

So, when Byleth fell off that cliff she would have been about two months into her pregnancy. That’s early enough both to not be showing and for the baby to possibly survive the fall with their mother so long as Byleth didn’t land on her stomach or anything. So, for the sake of the prompt, I’m going to say that the baby got lucky here and the force of impact didn’t do much to disrupt the pregnancy. Now Byleth is in a coma, and pregnant, and the Imperial troops probably find her.Now, I’m going to assume some field medics are on the case, but I doubt they’re going to be looking for signs of pregnancy in a soldier, especially one that survived falling from a cliff, so they don’t realize right away and keep Byleth put under for the trip to Enbarr like in the original Captured Post. They put her in the tower, lock her up, and things continue as it was in my original AU.

Except that, of course, things have to change if Byleth is pregnant.

Now, I’m going off the assumption Byleth didn’t realize she was pregnant at first. Observant as she is, I doubt that the possibility of pregnancy was the first thing on her mind at all during the last month or two. If she noticed she missed her period than she probably assumed she was irregular because of stress and anxiety or something.

Three months into the pregnancy though? She’s going to start showing a bit.

Now, three months is the end of the first trimester, so she’s starting to show more than a little bump. During the second month she could brush off a little bump as some weight gain, maybe, but three months in and it’s becomes a little difficult to mistake a swell for extra fat tissue. By this time she will miss her third period in a row, and would start showing more noticeable symptoms. Morning sickness would definitely be an issue, a heightened sense of smell as well as fatigue, much more frequent urination, breathlessness, headaches, mood swings, frequent changes in libido, and of course, breast swelling.

Yeah, pregnant ladies deal with a lot of bullshit, and being trapped in a tower shouldn’t be one of them.

Now, Byleth isn’t stupid. That said, I can see her being in denial at first. She’s already trapped here, she can’t be pregnant on top of that! She probably denies it for as long as she can.

But no one else is stupid either, and she has people watching her for signs of health risks and such. They probably notice something is up right away and have healers sent in. And even if Byleth somehow denied them the chance to check her, it would become very obvious to everyone very fast that she’s pregnant.

Can you imagine how horrified some of the Black Eagles student’s would be to realized they locked up their pregnant professor in a tower?

So they find out she’s pregnant. I imagine that, at first, Edelgard isn’t too happy with the news. There’s probably a lot of debate over who the father could even be, because I doubt that Byleth would share that particular information. Some of the more observant students, like Hubert, could venture a guess that it was Dimitri, but there’s no solid evidence yet. There’s probably a lot of debate about what to do about the professor, specifically what to do about the child. Some might have even been in favor of, y’know, easing up on the captivity (Dorothea), or at least putting her under house arrest as an alternative (Ferdie), just anything to ease up on a pregnant woman. Someone may have suggested…”accidentally” inducing a miscarriage (which I think would be a last fucking straw for a lot of the students, not going to lie, you can only justify so much awful shit in the name of safety) which got very quickly eliminated from the ideas. Either way, it’s considered an unresolved issue…at first.

Byleth, herself, would be stuck on what to do. She’s not stupid, she knows that if she has this child then they’re probably going to take them, or kill them, or…something. Worst case scenario they grow up trapped in this room for all their life and never see the outside. Or Edelgard takes them as fills their head with nonsense. Or…or…

She can’t see a good way for this to end. The best she can hope for is a rescue, or to escape while she’s still early. But security will have been doubled by this, and she doubts she can escape with a baby in her arms. Risking herself is one thing, risking an innocent baby is another. But staying doesn’t seem any better.

Byleth may even also legitimately be considering somehow aborting the child herself out of sheer desperation. It’s not that she doesn’t want the babe, she just legitimately can’t see a way to save them.

Let’s say that there’s no chance to get rid of the baby though, what happens?

I can see Edelgard being resentful…at first. But the longer the pregnancy goes on, the softer her feelings for the idea becomes. She might never have a child of her own, after all, there’s no certainty, and the idea of raising the babe as her own family has appeal.

Byleth would swell, of course, and go through the turmoils of pregnancy without the father. I wonder if Byleth would ever rub her belly and think about Dimitri? I wonder if she would wonder if he’s alive? I wonder if she sings to the babe? Or tells it stories? Babies are supposed to be able to sense that stuff in the womb, right? That’s what the stories say. So she probably tells them about their father when she’s all alone. She probably tells them about their grandfather too, and the mercenaries, and Garreg Mach, and what little she knows about Faerghus. I wonder if she knows any lullabies? I wonder if she has to make some up? I wonder if she tells them about the Blue Lions, about kind Ashe, and gentle Mercedes, and loyal Dedue, and clever Sylvain, and responsible Ingrid, and fierce Felix, and loving Dimitri.

I wonder if she agonizes over the names. I wonder if she wishes Dimitri was there to help her. I wonder if she rubs her belly and tries to imagine what kind of names Dimitri would have liked, what kind would fit Faerghus.

Her child deserves to grow up knowing these people, knowing their home, but instead they’re going to know round walls and windowless rooms.

I wonder if she gives birth in that room of if they let her into an infirmary. She probably gives birth in that room.

They probably let her keep the baby herself, because newborns need constant attention from their mother. They need to be nursed, and changed, and given constant affection. Maybe, that’s what gets Byleth through the first year and a half of her captivity, taking care of the baby. Naming them, telling them stories, playing with their hair.

Byleth is a new mother, and she didn’t have a mother of her own to learn from, but she has nothing but time to learn in this room.

I wonder if the babe has blonde or green hair? I wonder if they have green or blue eyes? I wonder if they have their father’s nose? Their grandfather’s ears? I wonder if Byleth looks at them and thinks about Dimitri sometimes, and the fact this child might never meet him.

Okay, but in my discord server we decided that Link from BOTW is the Dimileth love child and now I can’t stop thinking about it.

One thing the child does have is a crest of Blaiddyd.

Pretty hard to hide who the father is with that.

The Black Eagles all try to be involved in raising the child. They brings toys, and books, and clothes. The stay and tell stories and sing songs. But it doesn’t make up for the fact that the child is growing up in such an environment and never will.

Edelgard probably relocates the child after the first half a year, though. She moves them to a royal nursery and has nannies help raise them, and tries to act as a second mother to them. It was probably a big fight to get them out of the room, with lot’s of Byleth screaming and kicking and clawing at the guards as they took her child. Edelgard probably tried to placate Byleth, saying that the babe needed to be outside some, and that she’ll join him as soon as the war is over.

Or maybe that doesn’t happen. Maybe the babe is locked in that room with their mother, having never seen the outside world. Never knowing anything but that room.

I think that one is sadder and more likely, if only to keep Byleth complacent, so we’ll go with that one.

The babe probably grows up with two different extremes. On one hand Edelgard is trying to be their mother and feel their head with Empire propaganda. On the other hand Byleth is telling them not to trust Edelgard, whispering different stories than the one they’ve heard about the war and he people involved. The grow up with one side telling them about the evils of the church and crests, and the other telling them about the best memories of Garreg Mach and the people there.

For years, the only thing the child hears about their father is that he’s either an enemy of the Empire, a dead one, or he was a kind and just man.

If the poor babe was locked up with their mother and never let out than they’re probably more inclined to believe her over the other mother that’s not really their mother that visits all the time, even if she does bring great toys. The news would be more mixed if they’re raised in the nursery. But since I’m leaning towards the former…

The child grows up pale and used to enclosed walls. They probably don’t know what the sky looks like, or the sun, or a forest, or lake, or the stars. They’ve seen pictures in the books the Black Eagles bring, but no real concept other than that.

I like to think that Byleth probably finally decides to risk escape when the child asks if he’ll ever get to feel rain. That’s when she tries to make plans at least.

Byleth probably teaches him to wield a sword as best she can in that room, teaching him to swing a little wooden toy sword as best she can.

The first time the child sees the sky is during the first escape attempt.

Tiny hands clutch their mother’s clothes from beneath a cloak, and small eyes turn up towards the sky to see so much bright that they’re blinded, unused to so much light. It’s big, and blue, larger than they could have ever imagined.

Byleth fights a whole armed guard trying to get out of that city, her child strapped to her back. She’s fiercer than any dragon, more savage than any lion, and more determined to get through those gates than any force of nature they’ve ever faced. It takes dozens and dozens of guards to stop her without harming her or the child, but they do, eventually, because Byleth couldn’t go all out, she couldn’t risk the tiny body on her back.

She failed to escape in the end.

The babe is most certainly taken from her after that, relocated to a nursery and only allowed supervised visits every day. Byleth isn’t even sure if she’s angry or not, because she showed her child the sky, and they get to see it all the time now, the get to see something other than this damn room, and she still see them every day.

Still, ever day she holds them close to her chest, when it’s time for them to leave her, those small hands clutching her clothes and fat tears rolling down their chubby cheeks. All she can to is hold them so close in a warm embrace and whisper promises in their ear that she’ll get out someday, and when she does she’ll come get him, and they can go away and find their father, and the Blue Lions, and then they can all finally live together under the sky.

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tsunnychan · 4 years

Text

chasing daybreak: the color of your hair

iii. after a while I give up trying to guess if the color of your hair means anything

ao3

now back to my (ir)regularly scheduled fluff @nicolewrites @shining-jul-of-hope @mishspelled

Sylvain doesn’t even wince as the blonde sitting across from him shoots up and empties her entire iced coffee onto his head and storms out the door. He blinks through his dripping hair and calmly reaches for the towel in his bag that he specifically prepares for this.

He watches the disgruntled pink-haired barista behind the bar throw up her hands in frustration and disappear into the backroom for a mop. Sylvain smiles. She’s so easy to rile up. Sure enough, she reappears three minutes later with her bucket and approaches him, eyes glaring holes into the side of his head.

Water splashes over the edge of the bucket with her mop and she growls at him, “that’s the fifth drink this week alone, and it’s only Wednesday. What on earth is your—”

Sylvain hides his amused smile. He can tell she’s bitten back her scathing words because they don’t actually know each other. It’s considerate of her to try anyway.

Instead, she sighs heavily and wipes away the coffee dripping down the table. “How many more times are you going to make me clean up these messes?”

He leans back and presses another napkin to his face. “Nobody asked you to do that. Heck, I thought you enjoyed it. Besides, you’re real good at it. I’m excited to continue working with you,” his eyes dart to her name tag and he smiles, “Ingrid.” Huh. He feels like he should’ve remembered that name considering all the times he’s been here. And all the times she's cleaned up after him.

Ingrid’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline and she explodes, “do you mean to imply you have no intention of acting a bit more respectably?”

Now he winces. “Please don’t yell like that. Everybody’s staring at us.”

She’s fuming and he just knows she has another lecture on the tip of her tongue. He glances worriedly around the coffee shop, though he’s not sure why. He makes a scene of himself here almost every single day, considering he takes all of his dates here to break up with them. Sylvain couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something about this place felt familiar… made him feel safe. Despite the raging barista who looks like she’s about to kill him—

To his surprise, he watches her straighten up and take a steadying breath. “Nobody asked me to do this? This is my job, Sylvain. Now, if you would kindly make my job easier,” her eyes flash to his. “Stop breaking up with girls here, hm? Or at least try to be a little more courteous to the other customers here.”

He blinks at her. “How do you know my name?”

She stares at him like he’s stupid. “You’re in here almost every day with a new girl who curses your name in some shape or form. As much as we all love reality TV, some of us come here to get some work done, not be your live audience.”

The glint of her hardened green eyes stirs something in him, and he stamps it down quickly. Instead, he gives her a sickly sweet smile. “Fine, I promise I’ll try to change. Are you happy now?”

She scowls at him and rolls her bucket away without giving him with a response. Sylvain smiles watching her back walk away from him.

Oh, he’ll change alright.

In the next week, Sylvain has doubled the amount of girls he’s brought to the café and has doubled the amount of drinks dumped onto his head.

He internally dances with glee as Ingrid becomes more and more furious at him with each passing day, muttering under her breath how she’s spending her entire allotted break-times to clean up after him. He always greets her with the most infuriating smile he can muster when she trudges over, mop in hand.

Except for today.

Today, the brunette he’s breaking up with decides to put on more of a show than the others. Funnily enough, he still doesn’t remember her name. He already grew cautious when he saw her order a scalding hot coffee in the middle of summer, so he dragged this out as long as he could.

But as soon as her hand brushed along the inside of his thigh under the table—his hand wrenched her wrist away from his leg, eyes cold. “I think we’re done here.”

Of course, the girl spluttered in anger as the other customers in the shop start to whisper. Breaking out of his grip, she predictably reached for her hot coffee and threw it in his face.

He did not expect it to still be so hot. “Ah, fuck—"

“You’re a prick, you know that? A real piece of work.”

Sylvain is still wiping the hot liquid from his eyes when he gave her a cruel smile. “Ha, that’s rich. Doesn’t really mean much coming the person who wanted to bleed my bank account dry.”

The other girl paled and clutched her empty cup harder. “You’re an asshole—”

He scoffs and fixed her with a glare. “Please. Save your breath. Texting your friends about the ‘Gautier net worth’ on the first date? Don’t make me laugh.”

The girl flushes a bright red and the whispers around them grew louder. In one last ditch effort, she threw the cup at his head and stormed out of the store.

Sylvain let the paper cup hit him and clatter to the ground. He grimaces. He left his towel at home.

A few of the other regular customers send him concerned glances, but ultimately, none of them move to help him.

To his surprise, a white towel falls over his head and he sees a familiar mop by his feet. Her wry voice sounds closer than he expected. “Are all the girls you date like that?” His heart skips a beat.

He forces his arms to move and he clears his throat, bringing the towel to his face. “More or less.”

Sylvain peeks at her from behind the towel, chest tightening oddly at the frown on her face. “You need better taste in women then.” Her eyes dart to his and he is thankful for the towel blocking the sudden blush that floods his cheeks. “And a lot more tact.”

He shrugs and keeps his burning face hidden from her. “What, you have any ideas about that? Taste in women, or otherwise?”

He just knows she’s rolled her eyes at him, despite not even facing him. He smiles at her scoff. “Have some dignity, will you?”

With her back turned, Sylvain runs the towel quickly through his hair and down his front where coffee was still dripping. He doesn’t expect her to whip around and study his face, eyes softer than usual. His throat dries. “You know, this wouldn’t keep happening if you were even the slightest bit genuine. Try it sometime.”

Sylvain watches her walk away, his heart beating strangely in his chest.

Over the next few months, Sylvain enters the coffee shop with less and less girls, but with more and more heart problems.

Now that he’s not having drinks dumped onto his head, he actually has time to sit at the bar and watch Ingrid make drinks, even chat with her when she’s not taking orders at the register or drive-through. He’s learned that she has several older brothers, that working in this coffee-shop is only one of her many jobs to support her family, and the only reason she even remotely sympathized with him about his dates was that she had her own fair share of disasters, set-up by her father.

Then, she began to sit with him during her breaks. Those are the times when his chest hurts the most.

Today, he doesn’t see her pink hair behind the counter, so he takes a seat in a booth and pulls out his laptop. He may not care for his family, but he damn well won’t let some Gloucester intern outclass him in his own division.

Just five minutes into revising his proposal, he catches pink hair in his periphery as it slides into the seat across from him. He doesn’t bother trying to hide his smile. “On break already?”

When she doesn’t answer, Sylvain looks up and is only slightly embarrassed to find, not Ingrid, but another pink-haired girl with pink eyes, smirking slyly at him. He gulps and his grimaces when he doesn’t see a nametag. “Sorry. Wrong person. Can I help you?”

The other girl’s smirk widens and ignores his question completely. “You know, I’m only saying this because you’re one of our best customers by buying an absurd amount of drinks to just get them dumped all over you—but there are better ways to get her attention than sitting at the bar staring at her like a lost puppy.”

Sylvain splutters, “I-I don’t know what you mean. Who are you anyway?”

The other girl waves her hand dismissively. “Right, and my hair is actually green. Face it loverboy, you like Ingrid.”

He feels heat climb the back of his neck and he wills the blood to stop pounding in his ears. His eyes scan the coffee shop quickly and grimaces. “You still haven’t told me who you are, and I don’t like her.”

Sylvain watches this mystery girl sigh and shake her head. “I’m Hilda, Ingrid’s roommate. I normally only work weekends, but she wasn’t feeling well today so she asked me to cover for her. As for you, Mr. I-come-to-this-café-every-day-to-see-her-smile, just admit that you like her and this’ll be easier for all of us.”

His flush spreads across his face and he resolutely continues to lie through his teeth. “I don’t like her. She’s not my type.”

Hilda raises a lazy eyebrow. “And your type is blondes and brunettes who don’t give a shit about you?”

His jaw drops and Hilda sighs heavily. “Well, if your shallow, stubborn ass needed confirmation, her hair isn’t really pink. She lost a bet to me last summer and I get to color it whatever I want for the next two years.”

He still hasn’t picked his jaw up off the table and Hilda brushes off her skirt as she stands. Glancing back at him, she winks. “She’s actually a blonde, and she does give a shit about you.”

Sylvain stares at Hilda’s back as she walks away. When she disappears into the backroom, he turns to stare blankly at his laptop, his heart fluttering violently beneath his ribs.

Next week, Ingrid gets to work two hours later than usual at Hilda’s insistence. Hesitant at first, especially because Hilda had already covered for her last week, she was adamant about going. Plus, she hadn’t seen Sylvain in a while—

Her roommate leveled her with a knowing smirk and waved off her concerns, stating that she would cover the opening shift, so Ingrid could sleep in. Still exhausted after being out sick, she was grateful for the extra rest and she didn’t think too much of it…

Until she saw Sylvain sitting at the bar with two drinks in front of him, leg bouncing restlessly on the stool. She couldn’t help the frown that formed on her face and the sudden tightness of her chest. Is he dating again?

After that one particularly nasty encounter with hot coffee, Sylvain had actually taken heed of her words. Less and less drinks got dumped on his head and slowly, they stopped altogether.

He started sitting at the bar so he could watch her work. He told her about his stifling family, briefly touched on his disinherited brother, how he had trouble making lasting connections because of his family’s reputation, and to his own surprise, he tells her how oddly detached he felt from everyone and life itself. Until he found this café and its dark blue walls. Something about it, making his heart ache, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

She was too struck by the gold in his eyes in that moment when he smiled at her, ‘isn’t that weird?’

Ingrid was far too busy willing the churning in her stomach to stop to tell him that she felt the same.

Sighing heavily, Ingrid pushes through the door and strides straight to the backroom, despite hearing Sylvain call after her. She finds Hilda lazily scrolling through her phone and idly greets her as she sets down her bag. Hilda’s eyes flash up to hers and she grins, her eyes pointedly darting out to the redhead Ingrid brushed past.

Flushing brightly, she hastily grabs her apron and walks back out front, still tying it as she steadily avoids his gaze. She briefly thanks her lucky stars that two new customers had walked in after her, so she could busy herself with their orders…

But Ingrid feels his eyes burning into her back as she pretends to ignore him.

She’s granted another twenty minutes of respite due to the morning service, but eventually, she runs out of customers and she runs out of excuses. Sighing shakily, she turns to him and finds him tapping his fingers against the wooden counter, eyes staring blankly at the two cups in front of him. Still no date in sight.

She clears her throat and his eyes jump to hers. “Hi.”

A small smile forms on his face and it is not fair how it makes her pulse spike. “Hi.”

Ingrid fidgets in place as he continues to study her face in silence, like he hasn’t seen her in a lifetime. Her eyes fall to his drinks because she does not want to think about how the open collar of his shirt affects her breathing. She clears her throat again. “Date today? I haven’t seen you with two drinks for months.”

Sylvain blushes curiously and his eyes drop from her face. “Um, not exactly? Well, it’s not not a date… b-but I also don’t want to assume anything! Oh Goddess, this is a terrible idea—”

Ingrid raises an eyebrow as his blush spreads down his neck, biting back a smile. “You’re being weird. Have you always been this weird, and I just never noticed?”

“No! I’m pretty sure. I don’t think so?” He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes looking everywhere but her. “By the by, have you, you know, fallen for anybody recently?”

She snorts. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve been out sick. What are you even bumbling on about?”

She watches him make eye contact with someone over her shoulder and groan, covering his flaming face. Ingrid whirls around, but Hilda is still on her phone, twirling one of her pigtails around her finger. Slowly, she turns back to Sylvain in confusion, only to find one of his drinks pushed toward her.

Her heart stops.

“Sylvain?”

She looks at him and he’s still covering his face, but his ears are as red as his hair. His muffled voice comes from behind his hands. “Read the label.”

Blood pounding in her ears, Ingrid reaches out and turns the cup toward her and she inhales sharply.

Go out with me?

Yes: drink it

No: dump it on my head

Her eyes jump back to him and she finds Sylvain peeking at her through his fingers, taking in her expression. The longer she stares at him in silence, the more tense he gets, and he finally lets his hands fall away from his face. “Look, I’ll clean up the mess this time, so just—”

Ingrid brings the cup to her lips and takes a small sip. Chamomile. Her favorite.

Humming lightly, she sets the drink down and smiles, warmth blooming in her chest as she meets his gaze. “My lunch break is at 1.”

She turns to greet the new customers that walked in and misses the gigantic smile that spreads across his face.

#sylvgrid #sylgrid #sylvain jose gautier #ingrid brandl galatea #fe3h #i thought they would leave me alone #and yet #here we are again #my writing

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