Chapter Text
He couldn’t move, and he didn’t understand why. How strange, he thought, trying to look himself over, only to discover his sight lagged behind his thoughts, blurred and confined. As unusually odd the former was, the latter, at least, made sense after a moment of arduous consideration; his helmet was still on. Though even with it, he should be able to lift his head, shouldn’t he? He could swear he should be.
He tried to reach for the helmet. The command went out clearly enough, but what came back was wrong. His hands twitched instead of rose, fingers fluttering weakly against his sides like they belonged to someone else. When at last one arm dragged upward, it moved through metaphorical mud, wobbling, overshooting, then falling short. He couldn’t make it go where he wanted.
He spent the next several moments - seconds? hours? - trying to get hold of the rim. Each attempt was clumsy and delayed. His fingers brushed metal, slipped, fumbled, clawed at empty air. They trembled violently when he tried to grip, strength draining away as quickly as he gathered it.
Everything below his upper chest felt impossibly heavy, as though buried under wet sand. Could it be his armor? It had never been this heavy before… Yet breathing took effort. Thinking took effort. Even trying felt taxing.
Perplexing indeed, he pondered, wondering if getting out of this conundrum was worth the effort. It wasn’t so bad, that possibility of just closing his eyes for a bit. Maybe he could just wait, see if strength returned to his tired self on its own.
Or maybe he shouldn’t. Something deep and urgent within him insisted that he shouldn’t. But it was a quiet, distant thing, and he felt so tired already...
Just as he was about to decide, an anguished cry of despair in the form of his name cut through the haze wrapped around his thoughts.
He knew that voice, and that was enough - perhaps the only thing that could be enough - to pull him back from the brink. He drew in a sharp breath, the gates burst open, and pain flooded him whole.
Even deep into summer, Garreg Mach never quite lost the chilling edge to its wind. It was a constant reminder, those biting kisses, that the seat of the Central Church was no Adrestia - if only because no proper Adrestian would be caught dead hosting a grand event of any kind this high into the Oghma Mountains.
Then again, that was likely part of the point. No matter the time of year, the Great Monastery was always just a tad too cold for the Imperials, its mornings sharp enough to sting bare fingers, and just a bit too warm for those of the Holy Kingdom, once the sun climbed up and the stone began to hold its heat. And, of course, as was so often the case, both statements proved true at once when it came to the people of the Alliance.
It was nothing more than a simple fact born of geography, to be sure. Yet the young rider still found himself wondering whether this ever-present, minor discomfort might have played some role in the Monastery’s chosen location, right before dismissing the thought with a resounding no. The fortress’s construction long predated the fracturing of the Empire. That it now, fittingly, felt ever so slightly foreign to all who visited was mere happenstance, and little else.
There was some semblance of symbolism to appreciate about it all the same. It was a true neutral ground, even in its most prosaic respects.
“I must admit, I hold little fondness for this place,” his companion said, breaking the silence that had been filled only by horseshoes striking the dry dirt road below them. It was right on time, too; it had been at least ten minutes since he had voiced some manner of similar sentiment, and any longer than that just would not do, would it now?
Still, the noble decided to humour his compatriot, if only to keep his own thoughts at bay. “Why that may be, my friend?” he asked, using the opportunity to glimpse over the retinue that followed. Sunlight filtered through the tall trees lining the road, dappling riders, horses, and wagons alike as the forest closed in around them.
When he announced his journey, some had called his decision to bring a mere dozen men unwise, but he had none of it. The Mullach Field would be packed as it was. Besides, he preferred the company of his own knights and servants to a larger escort, one that would be handpicked by Her Imperial Majesty. Because, inevitably, that would include people that answered to her inseparable shadow first and foremost.
Were constant observation and scrutiny a desire of his, he would have remained in Enbarr.
“Oh, I don’t know,” came the response, laced with dry wit. “Who, after all, doesn’t simply adore being made to rub shoulders with the heirs and vassals of your rivals? To listen to their dull jabs and boastful speeches first thing in the morning? Or better yet, to be thrown into the same classroom with them, so that you can feel their eyes on your back. Truly, such a marvelous time that was! I simply cannot wait to be reminded of those days!”
It was unfortunate, if interesting, how at odds their thoughts, usually so similar, were on this matter, Ferdinand thought. The memories of the Officers Academy were not of the worst sort, and to paint them as such did more harm than good, he believed. But considering the current bickering within Leicester reached yet unseen heights, he could not bring himself to blame the companion for those misgivings. It had been less than a month since the houses of Gloucester and Phlegethon declared an uneasy truce over their dispute concerning which side of the valley belonged to whom - and who held the right to tax the river that went through. Were his and Lorenz’s positions reversed, he too would find it difficult to behave with courtesy and honor in the presence of someone who not only was his most recent adversary, but also, supposedly, had insulted his mother most grievously.
Yes, Viscount Acheron lack of subtlety reached even inner Adrestia. Quite impressive, that.
At any rate, it was not as though he himself lay on a bed of roses each night either, now was it? His Emperor ruled with a stern hand, and few felt it more deeply than Duchy Aegir. But was he overflowing with acid doom and gloom?
...
Perhaps to a tiny degree, if he were to be honest, for he shook his head at the words, unable to stop the mild frustration that was clear in his voice.
“Come now, Lorenz, it was a good year. Not everyone gets the chance to study within those walls, under the gaze of the archbishop herself. That is to say nothing of all the friendships you forged. Surely that made it well worth it. Few things are more important than knowing whom you can rally upon, is it not so?”
The sentiment might have rung hollow if it had come from someone else, but not from him. Not when it came from Ferdinand, who had stayed true to him through all those years. Even in his dejected state, Lorenz was aware of that.
“Perhaps,” conceded the Gloucester heir, a bit of edge still present in his voice. He was idly playing with one of his cape clasp as he rode, Ferdinand noted. He had not seen him fall prey to that nervous habit since their Academy days. That said, they did not see one another often, too busy with the duties of their respective lands. “But one also can't disregard that only a handful of those friendships proved enduring.”
“All the more reason to treasure those that did, I would say.”
“That much is true.”
Lorenz’s answer was genuine and accompanied by a small smile, but the shadow behind his eyes remained. The somber disposition of his friend nearly drew a sigh from Ferdinand, but this time he restrained himself. There was no point in encouraging such cynicism. The Goddess knew he indulged in it enough himself.
Truth be told, he also understood the main reason why Lorenz grew more and more cheerless the closer they came to the forest’s boundary. Thus he was not surprised that, that after some more smalltalk, Lorenz had finally decided to tackle the question head on.
“Do you think she will even bother to attend?” he asked, something dangerously close to dread tinting his words.
It was a fair question, and the irony that both of them were troubled by the same worry was not lost on young von Aegir. He was very sure, at least, that the focus of their thoughts was not on the same person. Another had already stolen the future count’s heart, though he would never admit it aloud. Not that it helped in hiding the obvious.
“I see no reason why she wouldn’t. It is customary for Academy graduates to be present on the first occasion following their graduation. And considering Lady Rhea hasn’t called for any larger gathering in the five years since our studies concluded, it stands to reason that she will indeed be there.”
“Customary it may be, but only for us of blue blood. She no longer counts herself one of our own, by her own admission,” Lorenz pointed out, only to pause before speaking again, more to himself than his companion. “And little wonder. No lands, no title, nothing left to her name but a Crest. Who would court someone of no real benefit to their house?”
Not that a Crest (of venerable Lamine, no less) was a trifling matter. But during his time at the Academy, Ferdinand learned that the subject of bloodlines and their gifts was a sore point for many. Some showed it more openly than others.
“For your sake, I hope you do not intend to say that to her face. As far as I was taught, courting ought to be composed of flattery, not of spelling out perceived flaws.”
His comment was met with silence, and that silence stretched further, filling the space between them. Oh no.
“Lorenz, you didn’t tell her that. You wouldn't.”
With a sigh that might as well have been an eulogy in its severity, the scion relented, pinching his nose between pale fingers.
“I fear I may have.”
By all that is holy, this man...!
“Goddess above, Lorenz, why? It is one thing to mull over these things in the privacy of your thoughts, but to throw them into another’s face? Duels were declared for less.”
“I wish I knew why I did it. Believe me, I meant no ill when I pointed that out. It just… slipped through, is all.” His body language was full of uncharacteristic, heartfelt embarrassment. “I can only hope she has forgiven my lack of tact.”
If they spoke about anybody else, Ferdinand might have advised to temper his expectations. Few aristocrats, former or not, would overlook being told that they were ‘of no real benefit’. In fact, anybody would be justified to feel insulted by such claim.
Fortunately for Lorenz, Mercedes von Martritz was an immensely merciful soul. Not to mention that there always were ways to improve your chances.
“Well,” Ferdinand began, a smile tugging at his lips, “if you approach her on your knees and beg for that forgiveness, who knows? Maybe that will be enough to soften her disposition. From what I gathered, she would most welcome the sight, doubly so now.”
In reaction, Lorenz made the most peculiar expression, somewhere between outrage and consideration. That conflicting face was enough for Ferdinand to finally let the bubbling laugh out of his chest.
“Calm, my friend! I was merely joking.” Mostly, at any rate, but he was not about to admit that. Unlike some, he had painstakingly learned the skill of not letting his mouth run uninterrupted. “But to answer your original question, you will get your chance, I think. I know for a fact that Lady Dominic will attend. With Annette present, it is a safe bet her close confidant will not be far behind.”
Lorenz only gave a noncommittal hum in response, not showing much of a reaction. Not surprising, for if there was one thing Lorenz disliked (among many other numerous things), it was uncertainty. He will rest easy, or as much as possible given his, ahem, misstep, only when he sees her with his own eyes. And to that, Ferdinand could relate. See, unfortunate as it may be, he could not take consolation in any speculative hope himself. In spite of his best efforts to secure information that would prove otherwise, he came up empty-handed. He simply had no way of knowing if she would be there as well. To say this troubled him would be naturally an understatement.
It was regrettable how few avenues he had for gathering information beyond the Aegir duchy, and he had not dared ask Hubert whether his spies had heard anything, although it was most assuredly within his ability to secure this information. Their relationship might not be as antagonistic as it used to be - due in no small part to their shared duty to the Emperor - but regardless, the less insight the Minister of the Imperial House had into Ferdinand’s inner thoughts, the better. Credit where credit is due though: those Almyran Pine Needles Hubert got him? Unexpectedly excellent surprise.
Alas, that did not mean he felt entirely at ease around the man, much less inclined to ask for something that might later be counted as a political favor. No gift of utility from von Vestra came without a string attached; the price was simply named later. For that reason, Ferdinand's concern closely mirrored Lorenz’s. He believed he concealed it better, yet the same worry gnawed at him - that the journey might prove for naught.
But nay. It would not be for nothing. He would make something of the visit, of that he was certain. Since childhood he had dreamed of attending this ancient festivity. One way or another, it would prove a grand occasion. Yet neither could he deny that a larger purpose sustained him as well; were it to vanish with her absence, much of the practical justification for the journey would dissolve like morning fog beneath the noon sun. As it pained him to admit - to think of her in such crude terms - he needed something of value to show for his time away from the Imperial heartland.
The thought detested him, but that's how things were.
Speaking of journeys, they reached the forest’s edge at long last, and something jumped in Ferdinand’s heart at the view, bringing much needed peace into his mind.
Lorenz could proclaim his dislike for the place as often as he desired, yet Ferdinand could tell his eyes, much like his own, lingered on the immense walls of Garreg Mach with unmistakable fondness. Rising from the mountainside as if hewn from the rock itself, the pale stone ramparts caught the sunlight in sharp lines and softened arches, their age-worn surfaces bearing quiet testimony to centuries of devotion and discipline of the order that resided within. Above, towers crowned with white banners and high bridges overlooked the field below, outside the citadel proper.
It would be a familiar picture, if not for the Mullach Field itself. Ordinarily empty of any structures or flora to provide a clearly visible approach in the case of an unthinkable siege, it was anything but today. Today, the sight that met the duo of nobles was vastly different.
“Sometimes it can be easy to forget, at least from a distance, that these are supposed to be a festivity,” stated Lorenz, his eyebrow arched high. “How often they appear more akin to an army gathering rather than any other jubilee I know of.”
Ferdinand couldn’t agree. Where war camps were cold, impersonal, and as practical as one could envision them, this was entirely different. Instead of a plain grassland, dozens of tents stretched, small and big, simple and ornate, with countless colourful flags and pennants stretched between them. These were no undecorated linen and leather shelters, just as those heraldic banners were not of the unsophisticated sort one could see on the battlefield. Further still, where camps on the eve of battle buzzed with nervous energy, this one was full of music and laughter that could already be heard even here.
Knightly tournaments, after all, were supposed to be as much about training as about entertainment. Colours, laughter, and music were all part of that. Alongside courting, naturally.
But that, as was already once lamented, wholly depended on circumstances outside of Aegir’s control.
A light exhale followed the thought as he attempted to banish it. What would be, would be. For now, the young man fixed his look on the cascade of hues that extended across the field.
“Well then, my friend. Let us see what the Monastery has in store for us this time.”
***
Rain and mud. Battlecries and screams. Victory and death. It was a song and dance she became familiar with, bit by bit. But familiarity wasn’t fondness. Duty ordained her to be here, to ride into battle, Blutgang in hand. Were she to reject her responsibility, she would lose the little she had. To forsake that which was required of her by her birthright would be an affront to the Goddess. All of this was true, and yet it was not what drove her now.
“Where is he? Where is he? Where is he?” became her mantra as her steed waded through the blood-soaked mud, the ever-present smell of iron and filth on her tongue. She tried to steer between the bodies, but it was difficult, as this was where the fighting grew thickest. Countless forms littered the ground, both man and animal. She didn’t recognise many of the surcoats the fallen wore, but the unfamiliarity provided little comfort; the carnage clawed at her nevertheless. Likewise, the scene of fallen foes, their exotic scale armour equally ruined by bloodshed, roused no happiness in her. To take joy in this would be monstrous, and she was no monster. He told her as much the evening before, as he had many times before, when darkness threatened to consume her.
“Where is he?” blurred together now as her eyes moved from one corpse to the next, until finally a familiar red and black stood out amidst the rest.
She already knew the Imperial knights had paid dearly for their charge, but to witness the flower of Adrestia littering the ground nearly proved too much for her. Nearly - but she couldn’t relent. She dismounted, moving from one body to the next, the skin beneath her plate glistening with sweat drawn forth by her racing heart. The near-uniform black armor the Empire was so proud of made her search all the more difficult; details were hard to discern in the dark, even with an illuminating ball of white magic floating above her. Terrible minutes passed, and her resolve began to crumble.
“Perhaps he escaped and is already resting in the camp, worried sick?” a small, hopeful voice suggested, only to be followed by the more familiar grim part of her mind. “Or he was captured, or drowned in the nearby river. He wouldn’t be the first.”
She ignored the thoughts with a snarl and was about to turn to search those lying down the hill. Then, at last, she saw a white horse, its once well-groomed coat now, like everything else, stained with crimson. She choked out a sob at the sight.
It was often said the horse reflected the rider. Noble and brave, Palas proved that beyond a shred of doubt.
At first she didn’t see him, an inkling of hope and desperation taking root in her heart, only to be crushed most violently a mere moment after. He was there, after all, beneath Palas, pinned down by her carcass, moving in a fashion so unlike himself. The motions of his hands were slow and confused as he attempted to free himself of his helm, even though his bloodied fingers kept slipping on the metal surface.
He was there, broken and dying.
The battlefield seemed to narrow to that single man beneath the fallen horse then, the rest of the world fading into distant noise and colorless motion. She ran toward him then, thunder in her ears, a sound of his name escaping her lips.
It was peaceful here.
She almost didn’t expect it, with how charged the atmosphere outside was. At the same time, it was only fitting that this place would remain calm, untouched by the moving world outside, as it always was.
“May She who watches from on high grant me steadiness of hand and peace of heart.”
To claim she wasn’t apprehensive about entering the Cathedral after so long would be a lie. It held memories - be they pleasant or not so pleasant. As a matter of fact, this sanctuary used to be a comforting blanket of sorts to her, though not for the reasons others would assume. Indeed, it wasn’t the sermons of the priests, nor the tranquil aura of the sacred that permeated from all sides. It wasn’t even the sensation of closeness to the Goddess herself that she felt when within these walls.
“May She provide me with clarity of mind, through which kindness within us arrives.”
She appreciated those aspects of the venerable temple immensely, of course, now more than before, but they weren’t what gave her peace of mind back then. Not entirely, not really.
The truth was that here the curse of her blood did not loom over her like an executioner’s axe, its edge hanging above her neck, just as she no longer longed for it to finally fall and grant release. It was here where she felt neither examined nor weighed, where she could simply be herself. Why that exactly was, she couldn’t say. Was it the Goddess, giving her a reprieve from her misery? Was her affliction weakened by this dwelling of white magic?
“May She give me strength to endure and wisdom to prevail.”
Or was this the only space in which she allowed herself to open up to others, even if only a little?
“May She always be Beginning and never the end, oh praise be Her name.”
It had been years since Maurice’s merciful demise and the solace it had given her. Much had changed since then - most of all herself - and yet within these walls she continued to find refuge. She had no right to be surprised; she knew the Goddess’s mercy was without limit. Even so, some small measure of surprise remained. She asked too much of Her as it was, and yet She continued to provide.
“Your devout diligence is remembered fondly around here to this day, you know,” spoke an even voice next to her, pulling her away from her reflections. So absorbed was she in her thoughts that she didn’t even realize someone had taken a seat on the pew. “And, might I add, so is your gentle nature. Flayn still occasionally laments that so far nobody has managed to rival your insights at the animal sanatorium.”
She stilled, absorbing the unexpected praise. While she had grown better at accepting compliments, hearing them so suddenly still left her wanting to cover her face with her palms. However, she bravely resisted the urge. “Sir Seteth! My apologies for not noticing you. I was absorbed in thought.”
The green-haired man gave her a courteous nod with a smile. “No need, Lady Marianne. These halls are, by the Goddess' grace, dedicated to contemplation. I should be the one to apologize for intruding upon your prayers.”
“Oh, not at all! Your presence is always welcome,” the heir to von Edmund replied, placing her hands in her lap before giving him a small smile of her own. “And thank you for your kind words. I also miss helping at the clinic. It was one of the few times I felt useful.”
“That I am sorry, but unsurprised, to hear. I know you always carried a great burden on your shoulders. Fortunately, you seem much… lighter now, for lack of a better word.”
His words were accompanied by an odd glint in his emerald eyes. She blinked, and it was gone. Still, she knew she hadn’t imagined it…
“It is true that I am better now,” she confessed, weighing her words carefully. “A lot has happened since I left the Academy. Someone helped me find my purpose, and things have been steadier since then.”
She tried to ignore the way her heart jumped at the admission, and the half-lie that accompanied it. To call her current emotions “stable” would be something of an overstatement.
“I am glad. Trust me, nothing is more important than knowing where you are headed,” remarked Seteth with deep sincerity that belied his years. “Speaking of which, I assume you are here for the great tournament?”
Marianne welcomed the change of topic, albeit it still rang too close to her current sorrows.
“Yes. My father said it would be proper to attend at least the opening ceremony.”
“Ah, that’s right. You are from the year that hasn't yet had a chance to partake. Considering the Archbishop is fond of ceremonies, your father spoke the truth. Your presence will be both noted and appreciated, of that I am sure.”
“I didn’t know Her Holiness was so involved in the celebration. I read she blesses the participants at the dawn of each day until the festivities are over, but the text didn’t mention she has other responsibilities.”
At that, the older man made a pensive sound. “That is because she doesn’t. But this whole tradition celebrates Saint Seiros and Emperor Wilhelm’s victory over Nemesis at the Tailtean Plains. She has, let’s call it, a personal investment in being seen, as a manner of honoring the founder of the Church.”
“I see,” she said, not having much to add. She always tried to absorb new information, but for a good portion of her life it had been difficult, with parts of her mind occupied with darker thoughts. Unfortunately, it sometimes resulted in situations such as these, where she felt her ears burn red at her lack of knowledge.
Although the advisor to Her Holiness didn’t seem to mind. Stern and kind, in equal measure, without fail. Unlike other students, she never feared him, perhaps because she could see the latter, even if she believed herself unworthy of it.
“In any event, if I understood your intentions correctly, you intend to leave after the first day?”
Marianne nodded, absentmindedly smoothing invisible wrinkles in her dress. “I am not overly fond of crowds, and I have no interest in competing in the trials of arms.”
“I understand the sentiment, but I would be remiss not to point out that there is more to tournaments than just jousts, melee, and whatever other ways the knights find to feel good about their skills.”
At this, she had to restrain herself from her mannerism once more. No sighing, no fidgeting. She was beyond that. “I cannot deny that, but I am not interested in that either.”
In spite of her efforts, he must have caught the hesitation in her voice - but then, it was highly unlikely he wouldn’t, as Sir Seteth’s perception was (in)famous among the monastery denizens. He opted to say nothing of the matter, though. If out of politeness or something else, she couldn’t say. Instead, he rose to his feet, gesturing that there was no need for her to stand up.
“I fear I have to go now; today is unsurprisingly rather busy. It was nice to see you again,” he stated, true warmth in his voice. “And should you decide to stay for the duration of the celebrations after all, I’ll be pleased to have a cup of tea with you.”
She responded in kind, her eyes soft. “I was happy to see you again as well, Sir Seteth. Be well.”
A moment later, once she turned her gaze back to the stained glass at the forefront of the Cathedral, she sensed him stop in a seemingly mundane manner, as if he had just remembered something. “Oh, and by the way. Duke Aegir asked after you, though I thought it best that you should inform him of your presence yourself, should you deem it preferable.”
Her head snapped toward him, speechless. Again, he seemed unconcerned. “He and his men are encamped at the south portion of the field. I am certain you will have no trouble spotting his banner,” he said as if he were discussing the weather. Which, admittedly, he might as well have been, as far as he was concerned… but then why did she suspect it wasn’t the case at all?
Having said what he wished to say, he bid her a good day and made his way through the pew row, leaving her speechless. She watched him go, before her eyes slowly returned to the window and the light that streamed through it. This time she didn’t restrain the sigh that left her body.
The question of whether to stay was no longer one she could answer lightly.