Chapter Text
If it could be said that Celica was still acting weird (she was), then Fernand was acting even weirder. Alm swore that he had to be making it up, but it was kind of at a point now where it was even starting to look like Fernand might… begrudgingly… like him?
Or at least, for some reason, Clive had—subtly—been trying to give Alm less and less of a role in their strategy meetings and edge him out of advising Celica altogether, and Fernand—not so subtly—had been supporting Celica in putting her foot down and saying ‘no’.
Fernand actually complimented Alm’s swordfighting the other day. Actual complimented, not back-handed or anything. Clive had gaped at him open-mouthed and in complete honesty Alm had probably looked even more shocked.
...It was beginning to make the strategy meetings uncomfortable, even though Alm knew he should be pleased by this development. Maybe he would have been pleased if Celica had looked as inspired by Fernand’s character development as Alm expected; instead, she looked kind of exasperated and wary, which made Alm suspect there was some kind of Noble Political Shenanigans going on behind it.
Those were quickly becoming Alm’s least favourite Significant Capitalised Words. And he was using them a lot lately.
“Luthier has been a huge help to us,” Celica was arguing, “and mages of any talent are rare, let alone the prodigy that Delthea is reported to be—”
Clive waved his hand. “Hearsay. I understand why Luthier would exaggerate his sister’s talents under the circumstances, but that can’t be enough to—”
“—she’s a thirteen year old girl, Clive—”
“Regardless of age, we can’t save everyone—”
Alm didn’t know why Celica didn’t just announce they were saving Delthea and that was final, end of story. Of course, he understood that being Queen wasn’t just as simple as issuing orders and having them be obeyed.
...Except it totally could be in this circumstance. Clive and Fernand and even Lukas might have more experience than Celica, but sometimes he thought Celica forgot how valuable her own opinion was. Her compassion, her kindness—the fact that she’d lived as a commoner, and knew how often their lives were taken for granted, unfortunate collateral even amongst the best nobles.
Saving Delthea was about saving one girl, yes; it was about the potential of another mage in their army, yes. It was dangerous and they might get hurt. Yes.
But it was also about hundreds of young girls who’d never had some knight in shining armour willing to ride to the rescue. In a strange way it was about those women King Lima IV had claimed, many of whom had never had any choice in the matter, living in a court practised at avoiding any acknowledgement of their pain.
It was about saying that they mattered.
“This argument is pointless,” Alm said. “You’ve heard the queen’s opinion, so now all there’s left to discuss is how to implement it.”
Clive regarded him with a certain coolness that Alm was, frankly, tired of. “With respect, I don’t think you understand how risky this operation is.”
“With. Respect.” Alm managed to keep his voice steady as he spoke, throwing the lie of those words back in Clive’s face. “I don’t think you understand how important this is.”
His hand was starting to cramp from how tightly he was clenching it, but he needed some kind of outlet otherwise he would start shouting and never get taken seriously again; nobles hated it when emotions came into arguments they had no personal stake in.
“You let the queen personally partake in a scouting mission on the chance that it might save your fiancée.” He shot Lady Mathilda a brief look that he hoped was apologetic. He didn’t have any personal quarrel with her, but there was simply no better example of the hypocrisy around the table.
Clive bristled. “I strongly objected to—”
“But you never flat out refused,” Alm interjected. “You didn’t stall Celica with objection after objection, hoping to wear her down until she agreed with you to keep the peace.”
Fernand drew in a sharp breath and even Clive winced. Whether he’d meant to do it or not, that was definitely what he was doing.
“If the scouting mission had gone wrong, it wasn’t just Celica’s life at stake—it was the whole damn campaign.” Pain flared up from Alm’s hand and his voice shook with suppressed anger, but he had to keep going. “This isn’t like that at all. Celica isn’t asking to personally intervene. She’s asking for someone to do it. She’s asking for someone to consider Delthea worth saving, just like Lady Mathilda.”
Clive frowned. He hesitated, before saying, “The situation is slightly different now, Alm...”
“Because Delthea isn’t a noble,” Alm said.
“...Yes.”
Alm was surprised to hear him admit it, and so was Mathilda. “Clive,” she hissed, scandalised. “She’s just a girl!”
“And I’m sorry for it, but we must think to the battles ahead,” Clive said. “To subdue an opponent safely is much more difficult than to kill one, and as Delthea is powerful—”
A hair’s breadth away from rolling his eyes, Alm wondered if there was some sort of illness that prevented nobles from hearing what they were actually saying. The Pigheadedness Plague, maybe. Yes, now that it’s convenient for her to be powerful and dangerous, he can admit she is.
“Like I said,” Alm said acidly, “your objections are irrelevant, as the queen has already made her choice. But if it comforts you to know that no noble lives will be at risk, I’ll volunteer to save Delthea.”
“Alm...” Celica sighed, but she didn’t object to his hostility or to his volunteering, so he decided to take that as a win. “Just be careful. Please.”
...He did kind of volunteer for a dangerous task mainly out of spite… which wasn’t the smartest thing Alm had ever done. Still, Delthea wasn’t well trained as a soldier by the sounds of things, even if she was powerful; Alm was familiar with magic and had been taught disarming techniques by Grandfather, so he was quite well equipped to handle the situation, he thought.
Then Fernand chimed in with: “If your majesty is concerned, I would be happy to join with Alm for this task.”
Does he have to? was Alm’s first thought, which was silly, and he was glad he didn’t say it out loud. But also. Did it have to be Fernand?
He didn’t quite look at Celica plaintively but he was sure his expression conveyed some amount of ‘what the heck?’ – not difficult, since everyone around the table just looked like the world had been flipped upside down.
Celica only peered at Fernand carefully, however. He raised an eyebrow at her, and she must have seen something in his expression that Alm didn’t, because after a moment she smiled faintly and nodded. “Alright. That would bring me some peace of mind. And I believe our forces can accept two soldiers being directed for this task.”
“...Certainly,” Clive said, looking a little like he’d just bit into an unripe orange.
Maybe it was silly considering that he was still kind of mad at Clive, but Alm felt kind of bad for him. After all, Fernand was meant to be one of his closest friends, and here he was, refusing to back him up in an important meeting. Making Clive look actively bad, even!
Alm took that to mean that Fernand’s personal loyalty to Celica won out over his friendship with Clive. Whatever else Alm could say of him, he was glad of that, at least.
*
When they reached the border, Grandpapa—no, General Mycen, she had to remember to be thoughtful—was waiting with a detachment to meet them.
She longed to simply run into his arms and tell him all of her worries, just like when they’d been at Ram. He always seemed to know what to do. But it wasn’t proper for a queen to do that, and there was a formal ceremony of introduction they had to go through before she could so much as wave at him. Being royalty really was tedious sometimes, but Kliff said it would be unwise to go about ripping all the traditions out at the roots whilst they were at war.
(Celica hadn’t even asked. Kliff knew her too well.)
Even though she couldn’t be as familiar with him as she wanted to in public, relief still flooded through her when they finally got to speak face to face.
Mycen’s lips quirked. “Your majesty.” Celica tried to smile back, but her smile must have been strained, because he only leaned in closer, suddenly frowning and worried. “Celica?”
“It’s… alright. We can talk about it later.” Fernand was still at her shoulder and he was watching Mycen like a hawk. She hoped he wouldn’t say anything; he had been getting quite good at remaining civil, recently. “For now, we should focus on the coming battle. And how fare the troops at the border?”
He didn’t answer immediately, studying her intently. “You look tired,” he said, rather than answer her question. The lines around his eyes softened. “Do remember to take care of yourself, your majesty.”
Everyone seemed to say that, but Celica wasn’t quite sure what she was doing wrong. She made herself eat, she kept herself in shape, she was still finding time to improve her magic, she slept—well, she didn’t sleep enough, in truth, but neither did any of her advisors or their direct subordinates, and she couldn’t ask them to take on more burdens than was healthy whilst making sure she personally got her eight hours of beauty sleep.
Mycen offered her his arm, and Celica took it gratefully, resting her head on his shoulder. She was tired, but so was everybody. That was what war was like, it seemed. After a while it had even stopped being horrifying, hearing of all the people dying in her name—and instead she just felt so, so tired.
But if so many people were willing to put their lives on the line for her, she couldn’t disappoint them.
“You didn’t answer me about the army,” she said, trying to sound playful so Grandpapa didn’t think she was annoyed with him. “There isn’t bad news, is there?”
“Not yet,” Mycen admitted, which made her giggle. He’d always instructed them to be prepared for the worst. “We’ll have to march on the Sluice Gate itself soon, though, and that isn’t going to be a fun battle for anyone.”
“The Deliverance will take care of that,” Celica said. “Most of the soldiers here have been in constant fighting for months, haven’t they?”
“A forced march is quite exhausting too, your majesty,” he answered dryly. “I’m sure the men will be grateful, though.”
“We can have a few days rest before we assault the gate itself.” She peered at him carefully. “Unless it’s worse than I thought?”
At that, Grandpapa laughed. “Far be it from me to tell Kliff that his estimates were wrong! I know that boy too well.”
Celica laughed too. “I didn’t sound like him, did I?”
“No, but I know you’d rely on him before you made a final decision.”
“As if he’d allow anything else. Did I mention in my letters, we managed to both find a tutor in magic?”
“Luthier; you mentioned. He comes from a notable and ancient magical family. You’re lucky to have his instruction.”
“Kliff is not quite so pleased,” Celica said, smiling at the memory of her last lesson. “He thinks Luthier’s theories are outdated and keeps trying to get him to order some new works from Archanea...”
Mycen laughed so hard he began to wheeze. “That boy,” he said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, “never fails to disappoint. That project might have to wait until the war is over, though.”
Fernand cleared his throat meaningfully. Celica turned to ask him why, but then she saw that her other bodyguards—and Grandpapa’s—had dropped to a respectful distance.
Her heart sank even though she’d been desperate to have this conversation for days. It always seemed like there was something in the way. Could she not just be happy with Grandpapa for one minute?
But no; this was to ensure Alm’s safety. She would be selfish to delay when she might not get a better opportunity to talk to Mycen alone for several days. The demands on her time seemed so endless.
“Celica? Is something the matter?”
She squeezed Grandpapa’s arm, trying to draw courage from his strength. He’d always been there to protect her and Alm. Even if he’d been lying to them, he must have a good reason. She wanted there to be a good reason. “It’s about Alm’s Brand,” she said carefully. Mycen’s eyes cut to Fernand, and she hastened to reassure him, “It’s alright—Fernand has been my confidant in this matter.”
“Has he?” Mycen said; he did not sound impressed, but he had not seen the best parts of Fernand. “If you say so, then. What troubles you?”
She didn’t appreciate him toying with her in this manner. “Grandpapa. I am not a fool. I’m the Crown Princess because of my Brand. If Alm has one too...”
He stopped and sighed. “Old habits die hard. Please forgive me, Celica. Let me ask this instead. What has happened?”
“He picked up the Royal Sword,” she said. “He didn’t—well, he didn’t know what it was, and I had to have the chest put away without being opened or someone else would see it and tell Alm what it was, and he would start to realise—”
“Desaix just left it lying around in a chest!” Fernand protested, as though this was the worst part of the story.
Celica was exasperated to see Mycen scowl at hearing that, muttering something uncomplimentary about Desaix under his breath. It was the ancestral sword of her family, but it was still just a sword. But it was nice to see them bonding over something, she supposed.
“...And we’ll be entering Rigel soon, if they don’t agree to peace talks—which it doesn’t seem likely that they will… if someone were to see Alm’s Brand, to recognise it...”
She hoped otherwise. She hoped that there could be peace, that Alm could find out about this and come to terms with it in his own time, that her friends could go back to their peaceful lives. But she was too worn down from all this bloodshed to hope that Emperor Rudolf would see sense on the matter.
“You worry that Alm will find out soon enough anyway,” Mycen said gravely. “Or that worse trouble will come of it if some Rigelian recognises the Brand.” He ran a finger under his moustache, thinking. “I had hoped to spare you both from worrying about this, but… well, you’ve guessed right. Alm is of the royal line of Rigel. He is, by blood, not my grandson at all.”
“Did you know his parents? How closely related is he to the royal line? Does he have family?” Mycen continued to frown thoughtfully and remain silent. “He deserves to know, Grandpapa,” Celica insisted. “He—I know you must have had your reasons. But he’s going to be hurt that you didn’t tell him any of this sooner.”
“Oh, I’m well aware.” Mycen so rarely looked his age, but he seemed worn down by every year of it then – shoulders slumped and every wrinkle of his face creased with worry. “I’ve been trying to protect the both of you, but I always knew Alm would feel betrayed in the end. If the fates are kind, there will be time enough for him to forgive me yet.
“But I think that this is something you ought to hear together,” he said. “The full story.” He laid his hand over Celica’s. “Would you let me keep my secrets a little while longer, your majesty?”
“If you think it’s for the best, Grandpapa.”
“I am sworn to your service, my queen,” he replied gravely. “It’s your decision.”
Celica hesitated. She wanted Alm to know, but—oh, it would be so hard for him to hear. A part of her wanted to spare him from that pain, but that wasn’t fair. Perhaps she would’ve been happier living in blissful ignorance, but Alm would always want the truth, even if it hurt him to hear it.
But there was also the coming battle to think of. Alm volunteered to personally seek out and rescue Delthea, a dangerous mission. Celica had regretted every day since then letting him put himself forward—if she’d been more forceful with Sir Clive, maybe Alm wouldn’t feel like he had to defend her!
If Alm got hurt because he was distracted… because he’d only been trying to do what Celica wanted… she could never forgive herself.
“Perhaps… after the battle,” she said, slowly. “Alm is… I don’t want him to be distracted whilst he’s fighting.”
Mycen bowed his head. It still felt strange for him to treat her so formally. “Very well then, your majesty. I will be at your disposal when you are both ready.”