Chapter Text
Sylvain hummed softly to himself, toying with the folded page of the book in his hands. The histories did little to keep him awake, but they were important; after all, if he was going to marry into Galatea, he needed to know everything. Sure, there was the history they all knew simply from being raised in the Kingdom, but repackaged histories and tales of glory never gave enough useful insight. They never told him what he needed to know about former allies, strengths, centuries-old weaknesses—anything that could possibly be a threat in the future.
A small sigh sounded below him, the sound blissfully content. Ingrid’s breath blew over his knee, cheek nuzzling softly against his thigh as she muttered in her sleep. Her fingers fisted into his coat, draped over her hours ago when she looked cold.
Sylvain smiled, hand moving from the old tome’s pages to her hair. He gently pressed his fingertips against her scalp, massaging there. Periodically, his fingers ran through her curls, though they had fallen to disarray hours ago from time, naps, and his ministrations.
Perhaps it was strange to spend the night in the library. But he had little confidence that a locked door would protect her while she slept, and she had no faith that she’d see him come morning if he went to his room alone. Staying in either of their own rooms together, though, was just as dangerous. Perhaps not for his reputation, but certainly for hers.
And so the library was the perfect compromise between public and private.
Steps drew his attention to one of the doorways. A small group of nobles walked by, chattering amongst themselves. His eyes followed them, not ignorant to the way their steps slowed the moment they were visible in the doorway. And then they went on their way.
They could pretend all they wanted, but they weren’t subtle. Subtle was doing something once; they’d been passing by several times an hour. Just waiting for the one time when Sylvain and Ingrid weren’t together.
“Sylvain?” Ingrid turned her head, cheek red from where it had pressed against her impromptu pillow. She blinked blearily at him, as if still half-asleep. “Do you need to rest?”
Sylvain smiled, “I got enough earlier. Go back to sleep.”
She turned onto her back, legs stretching as far as the couch would allow, an arm reaching up to play with one of his errant locks. Nails scratched softly at his scalp, earning her a pleased noise. “You only slept a couple hours.”
“More than I usually get.” He took her hand in his, kissing her wrist.
Ingrid rolled her eyes. “You can’t charm your way out of everything.”
He hummed against her skin. “Why not?”
“You might not have noticed, but I won’t humor you like the other girls did.” It wasn’t accusatory, just a statement of fact.
Sylvain shifted his attention up, pressing a kiss to the pad of each fingertip. “I’m aware.”
“Then why are you trying to kiss your way out of sleep?”
“I’m not.” He let his lips linger at the scar on her thumb as he finally looked at her, letting himself get caught in her gaze. Her expression was an enjoyable mixture of pleased and irritated, the whole thing muddled by her exhaustion and by the flush on her cheeks. “Maybe I just want to kiss you.”
And he did, more than anything else. A part of him wanted to blame habit—it was exhilarating to use such a simple method to get someone’s complete attention. To, for even the briefest time, have their attention on him. But there was something else behind kissing Ingrid, something different than what he used to do for the fun of it.
With the other girls, there were certain barriers he could not—would not—cross. There was an unspoken language to the press of lips, to the things that one did with another. It was written in a hundred tales, sung in a thousand more songs. And, if he wanted to stay free, he would not cross that line. And so, every kiss with them was kept to the realm of want. His kisses were restrained to their lips, jaw, and throat—places that only translated to pleasure and enjoyment, not emotion or affection.
With Ingrid, though, he wanted to kiss her temples, nose, hair—to make her giggle and shove at him as he smothered her with affection. He wanted to kiss the hands that had kept her alive. He wanted to kiss the feet that brought her to his side. He wanted to kiss her with reverence, kiss her with adoration.
He wanted—dare he even think it—to kiss her with love.
Ingrid pulled her hand away and propped herself on her arms as she scowled at him. Her face was still so close. Her breath mingled with his.
He leaned in to kiss her, and she pulled away.
“You want to kiss me?” She slid her arms into those of his coat, the garment adorably large on her. She sat up straighter, legs shifting to hang properly over the edge of the sofa they shared. Her fingers tapped on her lap. “Then sleep.”
Sylvain couldn’t deny the appeal. His earlier nap had been restless, constantly having to shift his position while resting his head on his shoulder. Even now, he was fighting the lingering ache in his neck. Resting his head in her lap, though, that would probably grant him the best pillow in all of Fodlan.
She raised an eyebrow, the remnants of sleep entirely gone in her expression. “Well?”
With a sigh, he shifted, laying his head on her lap and hooking his knees over the armrest. He looked up at her, his smile wide.
Ingrid smiled, bending to catch his lips with hers. It was gentle and sweet, adoring in a way that left a lingering buzz in his head long after she pulled away.
“Go to sleep.” She whispered, fingers running through his bangs. One of her hands reached to the side, opening a book of knights she used to love as a child.
“Read to me?”
“You’re not a child, Sylvain.” She sighed, shaking her head. Nevertheless, she started to recite familiar words, her voice a melody in the silence.
It was a tale of knights and dragons, of warriors fighting to protect the ones they loved. A tale he had memorized from childhood, that he had read to Ingrid a hundred times before she knew how to read.
He fell asleep well before she reached the end.
Sylvain yawned, leaning against the wall just outside Ingrid’s door. While they had agreed that they couldn’t stay in their formal wear when they met with Count Galatea, he felt that this was perhaps a bit excessive.
It was a precautionary measure more than anything. For him, it was for a lingering concern that everything would change if he was too far away—that she’d come to her senses and rethink this whole thing. For Ingrid, though, he was sure that she was worried that their concerns in the night could just be as easily replicated in the day.
At least, that was the only explanation he could think of for why she had reacted so drastically when his foot got caught in his pants as he changed—his face hitting the floor. Ingrid had burst into the room, yelping like she’d been burned the moment she saw a half-dressed man crumpled on the floor. He’d expected her to be mad at him being a fool—and yet she had laughed, falling into poorly-contained giggles as she knelt by his side. He smiled up at her, too enamored by the brightness in her expression to be embarrassed. He didn’t complain as she caressed his face, kissing his forehead.And, before his embarrassment could crawl in once more, she promptly left the room to leave him to his privacy as he finished dressing. Though he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have minded if she’d stayed there.
He rubbed at his forehead, the area sore but at least not forming a lump.
“She dump you already, Gautier?” A noble jeered, stopping just out of Sylvain’s arms’ reach. A few others were behind him, all of them clearly friendly now that there was no competition.
One of the others scoffed. “Only he could be engaged then single in the span of a day.”
Sylvain yawned again, crossing his arms and tilting his head to better hear Ingrid. The shuffling was almost done. Which meant soon he’d have to face the wrath of her father.
“Gautier,” one of them stepped closer, “are you ignoring us?”
The door cracked open, and the distance between him and the nobles immediately grew.
“Sylvain,” Ingrid slid her arm into the nook of his elbow, sliding her hand down his arm till their fingers could lace together, “are you ready?”
He kissed the back of her hand, watching as the former suitors scampered away. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
The journey to Count Galatea’s office was a surprisingly quiet one. There were no servants moving, no nobles skulking in the corners. It was the sort of peace Galatea had before the war—before everything had fallen into a whirlwind of chaos. It soothed his threatening anxiety, making him think that—for once—things might actually go normally.
That was until they heard shouting through the door of the office. The content was muffled, words indistinguishable, but the feeling was there enough to know.
He squeezed Ingrid’s hand and walked inside.
A remarkably small number of nobles occupied the room with Count Galatea. Not even the council was there, the activity far too early in the morning for their attention, meaning that all of the rage centered directly on the Count. These men completely disregarded decorum, pounding their fists against his desk, leaning over him, and simply yelling.
Based on the bags under Count Galatea’s eyes, they had been at this since before sunrise.
“This,” one of the men jabbed a finger toward Sylvain, “was not what we agreed upon!”
Count Galatea rubbed at his temples. “The agreement was that you could stay in Galatea so long as you provided resources. Sylvain hardly has any influence on that.”
“To stay in Galatea and have an opportunity to marry your daughter into one of our families!”
“I did let you try.” The Count leaned back in his chair. “For two months, I let you try.”
“And yet you conveniently let him interfere.”
“History would show that Sylvain’s visits are hardly ever convenient.” Count Galatea sighed. “Besides, I believe it to be more reflective on you that you had so much time, and yet still you lost to a known philanderer.”
“For the breach of contract—”
“—what breach?—”
“—we demand our resources back.”
Count Galatea exhaled sharply through his nose. This was the precipice that the man had clearly been dreading. The reason why he wanted so badly for Sylvain to be joking. To deny the Dukedom and Adrestia would only lead to war. But Galatea could not return what had undoubtedly had been mostly consumed by his ‘guests’.
Ingrid’s fingers clenched tighter around his.
“You’re welcome to try,” a deep voice drawled, the sound so familiar that it sent a chill up Sylvain’s spine, “if you wish to spill your own blood for it.”
Sylvain’s attention snapped to the doorway behind them. There, standing in the path, was his father. His expression was stern—it always was—unfazed as he strode into the room. Sylvain barely pulled Ingrid out of his way, keeping her as close as he could.
He eyed his father. The man wore the cloak of the Margrave, the Crest of Gautier woven into the fabric. His regalia shimmered with the candlelight, the wide frame of the armor making his form all the more intimidating. The man’s gloved hand rested on the pommel of his blade, fingers pressing into the metal. Subtle, but Sylvain knew how to translate the rage boiled beneath.
“Who do you think you are?” An Adrestian noble hissed, teeth gnashing. “This is a private matter!”
Margrave Gautier glanced at him, but it was hardly for more than a second. It was as if the man wasn’t worthy of licking his boot, let alone garnering his attention.
“Lord von Richter. Gentlemen.” Count Galatea cleared his throat. “May I introduce you to Margrave Gautier?” The man’s smile was weak. “I admit, I did not expect you here, not after you sent your son.”
The Margrave hummed, golden eyes falling on Sylvain, lips drawn into a fine line. “My son has a penchant for stirring up conflict.” His attention shifted to Sylvain’s fingers entwined with Ingrid’s. His eyes narrowed.
Lord von Richter growled, lip curled into a sneer. “Your son is instigating by pressing this matter. If I knew no better, I would think he wished to court war, not Galatea’s daughter.”
Sylvain watched the smallest trace of a smile pull at the corner of his father’s lips. Anger boiled in his blood at his father’s smugness—at his victory—but this was not the place. He had to disregard his pride if they were to stand any hope here.
“From what I can tell,” the Margrave said, turning his attention back toward Galatea, “it appears the matter is already settled.”
“It is not.” Lord von Richter hissed. “You should drag your son home and let us continue our business!”
“Allow me to extend you another offer.” The Margrave said, voice chilling. “Leave with your life intact, or try to recover your pride and I shall make you leave in a casket.”
“Are you threatening me?”
Margrave Gautier smiled.
“Lord von Richter,” one of the men hissed, pulling at the noble’s clothes, “please, drop the matter.” Sylvain recognized him as a lesser noble of the Kingdom, one of the first to turn to the Dukedom. “If Gautier invests himself, I guarantee hell will be upon us.”
Lord von Richter’s lip curled. With a flourish, he turned, stomping out of the room. His men turned tail and trailed behind him.
And then it was only the Kingdom’s men who remained.
“Ha . . .” Count Galatea fell back into his chair, rubbing his eyes, “I do hope you two realize the seriousness of the matter. You have put us in a very fragile position.”
The Margrave snorted. “Don’t be so dramatic.”
The Count eyed him thoughtfully. “I am surprised you left so much faith in your son. But I am glad for it. Our families have long since been due an alliance.”
The Margrave took the seat across from the Count, resting his chin on his knuckles. “You mean since Fraldarius is no longer amenable to arrangements.”
“Be fair, Gautier. Our families’ best interests are not so different.” The Count smiled. “If we secure them appropriately, that is.”
The Margrave’s head tilted. “You mean quickly.”
“Well,” the smile widened, “would it not be best to secure a . . . legacy . . . in the winter to come?”
Ingrid and Sylvain glanced at each other, expressions grim.
“That is fair enough.” The Margrave shifted, hands steepled together. “Perhaps in the late summer, then. That way, when winter comes, Sylvain can appropriately handle his duties with Sreng and—”
“Wait.” Ingrid said, voice nearly a squeak. Sylvain had to give her credit that she did not flinch when both men stared at her.
“You cannot tell me you are serious, Ingrid,” the Count said, scowl growing, “then refuse to marry.”
“I-I’m not refusing.” Ingrid stammered. “Just, I want to delay till after the Ethereal Moon.”
The Margrave scowled. “Why is that?”
Sylvain chewed the inside of his cheek. “We were going to meet Felix then. And, Dimitri, if Felix finds him.” He didn’t miss his father’s eyeroll. “I would want their blessing—or at the very least, have Felix agree to be my witness. He’s the only man I trust enough.”
The Margrave opened his mouth to argue, to ridicule them for their foolishness—what was a promised meeting to a legacy?—but Galatea interrupted. “I understand. But, after that time, you two will marry. We can not afford it to delay more than that.”
The Margrave sneered. “Galatea—”
“We will need the time to make the arrangements and write our agreements. A couple months longer to wait will not ruin us.” Her father looked at Ingrid, a slight smile on his face. Perhaps this was the only kindness he was going to grant her. “You two may leave us.”
Sylvain didn’t need to be asked twice—he dragged Ingrid out of the room, quickly shutting the door behind them.
He laughed on a shaky exhale. “I thought my father was going to skin me.”
Ingrid sighed. “There’s still time for that.”
“Oh, thanks.”
She laughed, her hand squeezing his affectionately. Rather quickly, though, the laughs died down, her expression shifting into something both thoughtful and concerned. “So . . . what are we going to do?”
Sylvain hummed. “Depends. You still want to marry me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. So . . . come the Millenium, we act normal. Normal as we can, anyway.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “If no one comes, then it’s just you and me. We get married, we look out for each other.”
Ingrid nodded.
“If someone does show up, and it’s Felix, we get his approval. If His Highness comes, too, then we get his, too. Of course, he might have had a thing for you, and—ow!” He winced, rubbing at a definitely-bruised rib.
“We get their approval,” Ingrid echoed, “and we help them—whatever it is they’re doing next.”
Sylvain exhaled sharply. “Yeah. And . . . knowing them, they’re going to go on the offensive. And . . . and whatever becomes of . . . of us . . . depends on if we make it through the war.” He laughed, the sound weak and harsh. “If we make it.”
His stomach churned with the thought of losing her. Of coming this far, only for her to be taken away.
Ingrid pulled him down by his collar, kissing him in a way that was attractively demanding. “Stop that.” She muttered against his lips. “Whatever happens, we’ll make it—together.”