Chapter Text
There was always a jarring shift between roaming the Gautier-Sreng border and returning home. Sure, the halls were warmer than iced-over trees and the beds were more comfortable than hard soil. And, true, there was something satisfying about Sylvain getting his fill rather than cautiously picking at his rations. And the whole ‘not constantly under the threat of death’ part was always a bonus.
Of course, there was a lot that was the same. People were still hostile to his presence, though for different reasons. The central villages of Gautier were just as prone to bandits as the villages on the border. Their weapons weren’t much different, and their skills were comparable. The only real difference was that the Srengi bandits wanted better access to resources, while the Gautier ones wanted resources and desperately wanted to declare how much they loathed their lord.
Admittedly, the Margrave would never admit that the internal wounds festering could be just as bad as anything Sreng did. No, to him Sreng was always worse. It was as if he was terrified that they would come en masse the moment that Gautier turned his attention from the border.
And so Sylvain kept finding himself out there, knee-deep in snow, path lit by the glow of the Lance of Ruin.
Realistically, it was the Lance of Ruin's fault. If his father hadn't given it to him, or if the Professor still had it when they'd disappeared, he wouldn't be in this mess. His father would be doing this, leaving Sylvain to go as he pleased. Sylvain could help the nearby villages reeling from the war, sneak into the capitol and get an idea of how badly the Kingdom stood, and (maybe) even help Felix search for Dimitri. He wouldn't have to concern himself with people who saw the war with Gautier as a hobby. He wouldn’t have to endure listening to the father who would let Faerghus burn before he ever let Sreng have a step more land.
As if they'd even want this ice-covered rock with war-tired people.
With a sigh, he fell back into his bath. The water was hardly warner than the air—it had probably been a pleasant temperature at one time, but the frigid nature of the manor always sapped the warmth from anything comforting.
His fingers brushed over the side of the tub, fire magic thrumming into the metal. It mildly improved the temperature, but he couldn’t push it to be anything more than lukewarm. He had little faith that he could avoid boiling himself alive.
At least somewhat relaxed now, he dipped his head under the water. He could feel his hair slowly begin to shift with the flow of water, softening as ice melted off each tip. Warmth seeped into sore and drained muscles, gentle like a warm embrace. Gradually, he found it easier to move his fingers, relishing in the now painless sensation of clenching and unclenching his fists.
With the water above him like this, it seemed like the world stopped spinning.
He knew it was selfish, greedy, asking for a moment like this. He knew he was lucky. He only had to deal with bandits, limited resources to control, and an overbearing father. The others, he knew, had that and Adrestia bearing over them like a vulture waiting for an ill animal to die.
Then again, maybe not all of them. Mercedes was probably okay; it was possible she found sanctuary in a church that didn’t ask questions and could slide back into a happier life. It was equally likely that she was either dragged home or dragged into this war. Even if she tried to help with the church, healers were in short supply and skilled ones were even rarer.
It was likely that Annette and Ashe had fallen into the same pit. It had been no surprise that House Dominic had allied with the Dukedom early in its foundation. Annette, inevitably, had been forced into it by her family. And if Ashe was still acting alongside Lonato’s men—even if just for him and his siblings to survive—they would of course bear arms with Adrestia to fight the church. Even if they didn’t agree wholly with the purpose and methods, Annette and Ashe could soon enough fight on the front lines against the Kingdom.
As for the Kingdom . . . their allies' numbers were dwindling.
Dimitri was dead—executed before anyone could step in. And It was likely that Dedue had refused to accept such a threat to his lord, so he’d probably been killed, too. Maybe they were killed together—it wasn’t like Cornelia had really given the Kingdom any information, despite Rodrigue’s demands.
And while Rodrigue was trying the more traditional channels to regain their capital, Felix was searching for a miracle across the territories. Even when fighting bandits in his land and pretending to be a mercenary in any other, his search was constant, endless. From their last correspondence, he'd made it as far as Gaspard territory before the signs led the other way. He was following a trail weaker than a path of breadcrumbs picked apart by birds—but if it eased Felix's guilt and had the slimmest potential of helping, then Sylvain couldn't argue. Not that he put much faith in Felix finding a dead man.
Frankly, Ingrid was probably the only one who was still stable. Her letters were short, sentences unbearably curt and to the point. They practically rotated between 'everything's fine', 'we're doing what we must', and 'nothing new to update.' But even Sylvain knew that was a lot of nonsense. Charon had fallen to the Dukedom in the last year, which meant that it was inevitable that they and Fhirdiad would start prodding at Galatea's borders. Between that and a rather brutal winter, it was impossible that they were doing well.
Knowing her, she was bearing the weight of it alone on her shoulders.
Unable to ignore the burning in his lungs, he pulled himself up from the water. Hair clung to his forehead, tickling at his nose and eyelashes. It had gotten long in his travels, though it wasn’t half as troublesome as the wiry hair along his chin, jaw, and lips. He brushed his hand along his jaw, enjoying the scratch on his knuckles. It had been normal in the wilderness—the ladies of the remote villages liked the rugged look—but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t fit in here. Then again, he doubted the girls in Gautier would even see it when there was something so much more attractive pulling them into his orbit.
As the water was now colder than when he’d first entered, he pulled himself out of the tub. Goosebumps prickled along his arms, the hairs shifting in the slight breeze in the room. He sighed, quick to dry off with an unnecessarily scratchy towel. He took longer to dry his hair, ruffling it with his towel as he stepped into his bedroom.
He had to curse himself for not bringing his nightclothes with him. Not that they’d help much against the cold, but it was better than a hasty walk in a towel. But no, he couldn’t bear the thought of his clothes getting wet, and—in his infinite wisdom—had left them on the nightstand on the other end of the room. Still grumbling, he grabbed at the folded pile.
Fingers froze as his eyes slid toward the razor and scissors just beneath the fabric.
Subtle.
He ran his fingers through the short hairs at the back of his neck. Still-damp hair was no help against the chill in his bones, but drying it was about as pointless for warmth as the cold stew and stale bread that had been brought in for him. To be fair, it was probably a punishment for spending too long lingering in the bath instead of doing more useful things . . . like telling his father how many Srengi he'd killed.
He fell into his chair, nibbling at the crust as he flipped through the piles of letters that had been saved for him. The pile had diminished in the last few years; no one had the time to write in war.
In a few minutes, he had divided the letters up into neat stacks. There was no point wasting his time on the girls he'd flirted with at the Academy; their attention only lingered because Gautier was safe, or because they'd fallen on hard times, or because Gautier certainly had plenty of money in its coffers, or because they thought that Gautier might be desperate for an heir just in case Sylvain died.
Then there were requests for resources internally. Matters that his father didn't see worth his attention. Nobles asking for some more protections, or some more food, or some way to supplement their trade. He could rearrange a few things to keep them happy for now, but ultimately it would never be enough.
After that was one from Felix. There were rumors of a creature tearing Adrestian soldiers apart—ignoring any soldier who was allied with Leicester or the Kingdom. Men were shred to bits like they were made of straw. Maybe it was a demonic beast—but it seemed too much like someone they knew to ignore it. He was going to pursue it, but it would put him closer to Adrestian-controlled lands. Sylvain was to expect the worst if he didn’t hear from Felix again soon.
Next was a small letter from Ingrid. One was the same—just that things were fine and he shouldn't be concerned. Another told him to stop writing so often—things weren't going to change, and certainly he had better things to do. The third went right back to Galatea being fine, doing what they could to account for the winter.
With a sigh, Sylvain placed Ingrid's fourth letter on the 'ignore' pile. What was the point of reading them, if he couldn't even get her to open up? It didn't matter if he teased or flattered or even threatened a visit—it was just the same again and again. He could give up on the endeavor and she'd probably never notice.
But this one was different, unusual. His name on the envelope was written by a shaky hand, ink blotting in awkward places. Ingrid had very distinct handwriting—it was by no means elegant, but it was purposeful, letters clear. The features on this were unusual. If he didn’t recognize the curve of the ‘y’, he’d have thought it was from someone else.
He narrowed his eyes and brought it closer to his face; it looked like she had been trembling while writing.
Swallowing, he ran his thumb between the folds of the envelope. Held properly in his hands now, it felt far bulkier than her usual correspondence. Several pages slid out, their fold so haphazard that it was a miracle they fit into the envelope—even more a miracle that the letter didn't just burst at its seams while being delivered.
He sat up in his chair, fingers brushing over the pages to flatten out the crinkles. With any luck, he’d be able to read it all—though the smudges weren’t promising.
'Sylvain, you know I know better than to ask anything of you. But I need your insight. I don't know I can't think of anyone else who can help me. Who might see it from a different—albeit unusual—way.'
He blinked. There was never a time when Sylvain Gautier was the best choice for advice. Asking a rock would be preferred for ninety percent of the populous. Ingrid could only reliably expect to be disappointed.
Besides, there were a ton of people she could talk to. There were the servants in her manor. Or Mercedes or Annette. Or Dorothea—no, bad idea—correspondence across enemy lines was something that Ingrid would never consider.
'My father received a messenger last week. At first, they presented themselves as Kingdom men, though they never told us which lord they served. My father, of course, was open to any aid we could get. I worried it might be the Dukedom, taking advantage of our situation.'
Sylvain chewed on the inside of his cheek, rubbing his face. She was right (of course she was right—was Ingrid ever wrong?). The Kingdom had barely watched over its own people when things were stable. Even then, the nobles only intervened in their neighbors’ conflicts if there was some means of benefit—with few exceptions. Now, without any leadership, there was no way any lord would ever think of looking after their neighbors.
The Dukedom, former members of the Kingdom, would know exactly who was most vulnerable.
He sighed, shifting to the next page. Ingrid's handwriting was shakier here, not as subtle as the first page.
Galatea was invited to join the Dukedom. Their rationale was painfully reasonable: Galatea was close to Fhirdiad—which was now fully occupied by the Dukedom. In the same way, Galatea was also close to other non-Kingdom territories. For the safety of their people, it was only reasonable for them to change sides.
Ingrid elaborated on what they offered—money to fund their people, safe trade routes for their merchants, food to make up for the poor winter, even protection from Adrestia, the Kingdom, and Leicester (should they pick a side). It was clear here that the Dukedom’s game was just a formality, like holding a knife to someone's throat and pretending that they were only having tea. But even Sylvain had to admit that it was well-played.
And the price was simple: loyalty, ensured by Ingrid's marriage to an Adrestian or Dukedom noble.
The ink blotted. 'Father is considering it.'
His breath caught in his chest. Her father had always been aggressive regarding Ingrid’s eventual marriage, but this was different. It wasn't just marriage to get her people resources; he would tear her away from her friends, her people, her duty. He would let her become a pawn, rip away her knighthood.
'Sylvain, I don't know what to do. I know my people need this. I know they are proud members of the Kingdom. And I . . . I would do anything to make sure they're safe. But this—this would be betraying my country. Betraying everything I've ever stood for. Betraying you, Felix, Dimitri . . . I don't know if I can.
'But I don't know how much longer we can take this. We have not been well. We're low on resources, and our borders are constantly under attack. We don't have the same benefit of distance that Gautier and Fraldarius have. I don't know if we can reliably make it through the year.
'I don't know what to do.'
He swallowed, taking his time to absorb her words. Her thoughts were disorganized, scattered, like a tempest in her brain unleashed.
'I don't know why I'm telling you this. I don't expect you to help—don't expect you to even be able to. I just . . . wanted someone to know. I wanted someone to know what happened if I disappear or—or if we wind up facing each other on the battlefield.
'I'm sorry.'
And that was where it ended. No 'kind regards' or 'sincerely'—not even her signature. It was like she had to have it out of her sight before she changed her mind. Like she was worried that her loyalty would shift again and the letter would find itself ash in a fireplace.
He set the forgotten bread roll back to its plate, the thought of eating now nauseating..
Irritation bubbled beneath his skin. Like much of the nobility, his and Ingrid’s fathers had been adamant regarding marriage and connections, constantly pushing and prodding in the vain hope that their children would cave under the stress. When war struck, Margrave Gautier had eased up considerably on the matter; alliances seemed pointless when the entire noble structure was unstable. . . plus he was probably confident that Sylvain already had a Crest baby somewhere in the world.
Sylvain had hoped that Ingrid would be in a similar position. Not with a Crest child, but he’d hoped that the unstable political environment would make her father see sense. Instead, it seemed to send the man diving headfirst into a terrible decision that would destroy his daughter. And he still seemed to have the nerve to make it appear like a choice.
Sylvain rose from his chair, glaring down at his desk. Footsteps heavy, he stormed to his wardrobe. The wooden doors slammed back against the wall, their contents shoved aside as Sylvain dug through the garments. Galatea wouldn't be as cold as Gautier, but it was still just the start of Spring. There would still be some snow, maybe a cold breeze. With the land unstable, bandits would be more prominent. They would attack anyone with wealth, requiring something more simple and subtle. His fingers paused on some travel clothes that would probably do; he tossed the outfits onto his bed.
He dug into the wardrobe again, fingers pressing into the thick fabric of one of his cloaks. The weight would keep him warm, but its design was problematic. The clasp bore the Gautier Crest, the lines dug deep into the metal. It could draw bandit attention. But, if Ingrid needed a Kingdom presence, then nothing would scream it as loudly as this. And, if she made him leave, the bulk would make a decent pillow on the forest floor.
There was a good chance he’d be kicked out—he knew that. She didn't want his help; her letter had stated as much. Though it seemed more that she didn't expect him to be capable of it—which was just as deep a dent in his pride.
But when did Sylvain Gautier ever stop just because she told him to? He hadn't stopped flirting, and he hadn't stopped being careless. He certainly wasn't going to stop protecting his friends (even if he was wildly out of his depth).
Besides, it was the duty of any knight of Faerghus to save someone in distress. And, while he wasn’t exactly a knight yet, he was close enough. After all, he would have been one, if they actually got to finish their time at the Academy. And that had to count for something.
He dressed quickly, running his fingers through his hair to shake out the last of the water. When he was done, he tucked her letter into his glove. It would be safe there, for the most part. Maybe, if he reread it while resting, he'd realize he was being foolish and overprotective and return home. Unlikely, but maybe.
With a sigh, he slung his travel sack over his shoulder. He hadn't bothered unpacking it, which meant there was still plenty of trail rations, water, and healing items left for use. He'd been stingy about using them while at the border, since it was likely he'd find himself lost or trapped or injured in a way that would make it impossible to hunt for himself. In a situation like that, everything saved could keep him alive one more day.
The rations he had remaining would probably hold him for the journey to Galatea and back, with maybe a day or two of surplus. It would be enough to keep him alive while there, at least to avoid trouble if Count Galatea wanted him poisoned.
But, realistically, getting to Galatea and surviving in it wasn't the problem. It was getting out of Gautier. He knew his father wouldn't allow it. As restrained as the Margrave was with marriage, it was still exceedingly clear that the Crest was valued higher than anything else. It wouldn't surprise Sylvain to be literally chained to his room if he was caught—only allowed out to monitor Sreng or to advance the bloodline.
Sylvain stepped out of his room, movements excessively cautious. Slowly, he shut the door behind him. The click of the latch was barely audible. While his steps down the hall weren't silent—they couldn't be if he wanted to get out within the next week—they were as close as he could get.
His gaze flicked to movement off in the distance. A wisp of red hair, twisting around a nearby corner. Inhaling sharply, he gave chase.
As he rounded the corner, the owner eluded him once more. This time, just the flare of a dark skirt. He sucked in a sharp breath, quickening his pace. This was not good; he knew what his clothes implied. He knew what the satchel's presence said. If he was too slow—no, he couldn't be. He'd have to catch her, get her to stop. Do whatever it took to keep those lips sealed. His journey couldn't be stopped this early.
As he rounded another corner, his eyes caught the briefest shimmer of blue looking back at him. And then they vanished behind his father's office door.
"Damn." He hissed, trying to ignore the chill down his spine. Screw quiet, then. He'd just have to be fast.
So he ran. Without his armor weighing him down, his steps were lighter, faster. He could round the corners with ease, dodge around staff and maids. They tried to call him back, but it was easy to ignore them when he could disappear around another corner.
There was the courtyard. Then the stable. Then Ebony, his dark mare, filling herself on hay.
"Ah, my best girl. My loveliest girl." He cooed, affectionately petting the side of her neck. She huffed at him, nudging at his shoulder. "I know. We just got back, but . . ."
She shook her head, eyeing him as he went for his saddle and bridle. She didn't pull away, so at least he knew that she wasn't going to throw him the first moment she could. He could work with that.
He geared her up, putting his bag in one of the saddlebags. "You like Ingrid better, right? I'm sure she'll be happy to see you. Probably will spoil you rotten."
Ebony didn't perk up at that, not like she usually did whenever he mentioned Ingrid. Instead, her eyes were focused across the stable, gaze intense. He didn't have to look to know. She was really only like this in a few situations: strange territories, battle, and—
"I do not recall giving you permission to leave." Margrave Gautier's voice wasn't loud, but the depth of it echoed in the stable all the same. Sylvain stiffened, preferring to be at the receiving end of a blade over facing his father.
Sylvain swallowed, idly petting Ebony's mane. "You didn't."
"So then," he could hear the gravel shift as the Margrave stepped closer, his boots heavy, "why do I see you dressed to leave?"
Sylvain glanced over his shoulder, watching as his father neared. He wasn't angry—not yet.
There was something in the way the man held himself that always made him seem bigger than Sylvain, even though they stood shoulder to shoulder. Perhaps it was that intense golden gaze—always observing, always calculating. Perhaps it was the way that his lips were always curved downward into a harsh disapproval. Or it was the clothes he draped himself in—a dark thick leather as if he always expected battle. Or maybe the Crest he bore upon his cloak—proudly embroidered in the heavy fabric in his back, and engraved deeply into the silver on his chest. Or it could be the deep scar that trailed across his nose and cheekbones, so much like Miklan's and yet different in a way that made Sylvain shudder.
Margrave Gautier was a man built for battle, and Sylvain was just the boy who played knight in it.
"That's because I am." He said, mouth dry. He couldn't lie to his father—the man would see right through it—but that didn't mean he had to say everything.
Margrave Gautier snorted. "And what would give you the impression you could leave without notifying me?"
Sylvain swallowed. "I assume Count Galatea told you about the situation."
His father raised an eyebrow.
Ok. So he didn't know. Sylvain could work with that. "Ingrid told me. They're having issues with Adrestia and the Dukedom. I want to make sure they're still alright."
"Gautier has no reason to preoccupy itself with the issues of other lands. That is their duty."
"Gautier may not, but Ingrid is my friend. So I do."
That scowl deepened. "The Lance of Ruin will not leave Gautier. Not at a time like this."
"Funny, ‘cuz it won't." Sylvain shrugged, adjusting one of the saddle’s belts. "I'm not bringing the Lance."
Thick fingers dug into his shoulder, whipping Sylvain around. The Margrave's hands shifted into his collar, dragging Sylvain close. His expression wasn't yet furious—still there was that demeanor of calm and control—but it was close.
He shook Sylvain—as if that would shake sense into him. "I will not allow the only Gautier heir to get himself killed in his foolishness."
Sylvain scowled. "Oh, but you'll have him gallivant around Sreng?"
"If you were to die to Sreng, you are not worthy to be heir." The Margrave scowled. "But you are foolish enough to get yourself killed in Faerghus."
Sylvain barely resisted the urge to push the old man away. His shoulders shook with the strain. "If that's the case, then I'd rather die fighting now than let them kill me later."
The Margrave only raised an eyebrow.
"You can't think that they'll just stop with Galatea." He tried to keep his tone level, but all it did was make it sound lifeless and foreign to his own ears. It seemed to draw his father's attention all the same. "They'll keep expanding. And, eventually, they'll come for us."
"Let them come." The Margrave said. But there was a slight edge to his tone. Barely, his grip loosened on Sylvain's collar.
“You can't think that Edelgard will let us live. If we do nothing, we'll have no allies left to help us."
His father said nothing, but still his grip loosened. It was the only chance Sylvain would get.
Swallowing, Sylvain shoved his hands against his father’s shoulders, ignoring the way the seams of his collar snapped with the strain. His father was strong, but his grip was poor—and the moment his fingers lost hold on the fabric, Sylvain darted away. He dodged around his father's grasping hands, jumping up to Ebony. With a click of his tongue, she galloped away.
In little time, he was far enough from the manor that he could no longer hear the enraged shouts of his father.
The Margrave could yell all he liked. He could follow Sylvain and drag him home, lock him in his room. He could lash Sylvain into submission. But not before he reached Galatea.
Sylvain would pay whatever price, whatever punishment, if it meant he might spare Ingrid from more suffering.