Work Text:
Stars
In your multitudes
Scarce to be counted
Filling the darkness
With order and light
You are the sentinels
Silent and sure
Keeping watch in the night
Keeping watch in the night
You know your place in the sky
You hold your course and your aim
And each in your season
Returns and returns
And is always the same
And if you fall as Lucifer fell
You fall in flame
And so it must be
For so it is written
On the doorway to paradise
That those who falter and those who fall
Must pay the price
-Stars, Les Misérables
The ring burns a hole in Sylvain’s breast pocket. His palms feel clammy and cold, and his stomach somersaults unpleasantly. It would be a shame if he vomited now – after all, he had spent so much time preparing the perfect picnic spread and this also happened to be his favorite blanket.
He exhales out his nose and looks up at the stars. They twinkle gently and offer quiet encouragement like old friends, steady and calming. He takes a deep breath and wipes his hands on his trousers.
Sylvain has always loved the stars. When he was young, he used to look up at them and wish he was there – far, far away from Gautier and far, far away from responsibilities and guilt and Miklan. The stars would twinkle merrily down at him, almost as to say someday.
He’d reach out as if to touch them. If he could hold onto one, he dreamt it would pull him up and away, whisk him somewhere happy.
Mercedes hums pleasantly beside him and sets her teacup down. “This is a beautiful place for a midnight picnic,” she says cheerily and places her hand over his. It’s soft and warm and small against his. “I was beginning to feel a little cooped up in the monastery. You always know just the right thing to do.”
“I figured it would be nice to get away and spend some time together. After all, who knows when we’ll be able to have another moment like this again,” says Sylvain. The night air is cool on his face, and he smells Mercedes’s lavender perfume in the breeze.
It had started out as a casual flirtation; Sylvain liked beautiful women, and Mercedes was a beautiful woman who indulged him. She was kind, and he found that he liked talking to her. Moreover, she liked him despite his Crest, and not because of it. One day after liberating Fhirdiad, Mercedes had told him she liked him best with honesty on his face, and almost every evening thereafter they would have tea together. Sometimes, she would bring homemade treats up to the parapet and keep him company during his evening watch, and after he had been relieved by the next guard, she would let him kiss the honey from her lips until sunrise.
“It feels like there’s so much to do now that the war’s over, but not enough time,” Mercedes agrees serenely and follows his gaze. “It must be nice to be a star – all they do is come out at night and keep us company, and they have all the time in the world to do it.”
As children, Felix hadn’t cared much about the stars and would scoff at Sylvain that if he had time to think about such nonsense then he had time to train. Dimitri had briefly entertained him, but Sylvain could tell that the prince thought the topic uninteresting. Ingrid thought stars were useful tools for navigation, and she admitted a little sheepishly, a romantic place for a confession of love.
Sylvain thinks of Ingrid in the library the previous moon, snatching a letter with the Galatea seal out from his hands. She had left earlier that morning, returning to a family who was desperate to marry her off to the highest bidder, soaring off like a silver star in the daylight. Ingrid’s eyes had been glassy as Sylvain told her his intentions to propose to Mercedes, and she stuttered her congratulations.
He had thought her reaction rather odd, but if Ingrid’s smiles were a little too bright and a little too forced these days, well…most people were feeling a little anxious about what to do now that the war was over, and maybe she was feeling a little lost, too.
“What are you plans after this?” Mercedes asks, her voice gentle and warm like sunlight. She squeezes his hand, breaking him out of his reverie. “Will you go home to Gautier?”
Sylvain fixes his gaze on the North Star, the brightest and most luminous in the sky. In a week’s time, it would help guide him home. He couldn’t run any longer from his responsibilities, but he wasn’t alone. Perhaps he never was. The North Star winks down at him and his stomach settles, and Sylvain feels at peace. He swallows the lump in his throat and reaches for his pocket.
“Well, yes,” says Sylvain. He pulls out the little wooden box. “And I was hoping you would come with me. What do you say, Mercedes? Will you marry me?”
#
24th Day of Horsebow Moon, 1186
Dear Ingrid,
She said yes!!
I’ll spare you all the details for now, but I just wanted to tell you the good news. I heard from His Majesty that you’re going to be a knight in his service! I’ll be sure to be on the lookout for an invite to your knighting ceremony. I’m happy to hear that you’re going to be chasing your dream. You were always too good to be trapped in Galatea in a loveless marriage anyway. No one in all of Fodlan deserves you!
Anyway, I’ll send you a longer letter later this week. You know I can’t keep all the hot gossip to myself.
Your best friend forever,
Sylvain
#
The Margrave’s brow wrinkles when Sylvain tells him the news.
With a grunt, Matthias throws a javelin across the training hall at the practice target. It hits dead-center.
“Oh,” says the Margrave.
“That’s all you have to say?” Sylvain picks up a javelin and weighs it in his hand, finding its center of balance. He winds his shoulder back and aims for the target. “I tell you that I’m going to get married, and you just say ‘oh’?”
“I am just surprised,” the Margrave says impassively. His arms are crossed as he scrutinizes his son’s throwing form. “It’s unexpected considering your past behavior. I was worried you’d never settle down, let alone so soon.”
Sylvain misses, and the javelin lodges itself in a hay bale. He laughs, looping his hands behind his head as he turns to his father. “Yeah, well I guess I deserve that.”
“You say she is a woman of the church?” Matthias arches an eyebrow, still studying his son. “She must be very forgiving to look past all your past…indiscretions.”
“Yeah, she’s amazing,” Sylvain smiles, whistling casually as he walks across the hall to retrieve the stray weapons. “You’ll see. She’s wrapping up a few things at the monastery, but she’ll be here at the end of the moon. You and Mother will like her.”
“And what do your friends think?” probes the Margrave, following his son down the range. “His Majesty, Felix, and Ingrid?”
Sylvain frowns a little, pulling stray javelins from the hay bales to return to the weapons rack. “I’m not sure what you mean. Of course they like her.”
“I see,” says the Margrave, nodding curtly. “Congratulations, Sylvain. I am happy for you, my son.”
#
5th Day of Blue Sea Moon, 1187
Sylvain,
I am glad to hear that your engagement is going well, and I am honored that you plan on having Duscurian desserts at your wedding. I have enclosed the recipe for the traditional cake you inquired about, as well as another for cookies if the ingredients for the cake prove too difficult to find in Faerghus.
Looking forward to your wedding,
Dedue
#
Sylvain looks around the reception hall, a glass of champagne in his hand. Damn, the Gautiers sure knew how to throw a good party.
The whole thing is a glamorous affair. Sylvain was right – his parents had instantly taken to Mercedes. His mother had been delighted to have another woman in the household, and promptly dragged Mercedes off to plan the wedding details. The Margrave seemed relieved that Sylvain had chosen a decent woman to marry.
The day is perfect, and Sylvain is floating in a cloud of euphoria.
“Nice party,” Felix says dispassionately, which is the highest compliment Felix could possibly give.
“How are things with you and Annie?” asks Sylvain. The couple glasses of champagne make him feel bold, and he’s also sure there’s a rule not to murder a groom on his wedding night. “You two seemed awfully cozy the other day at the rehearsal dinner.”
Felix rolls his eyes. “Fuck off.”
“Well, she should be back soon,” Sylvain says with a wink. “I think she’s helping Mercie into her reception dress. Can’t dance in that big ceremony gown, and I’m sure all those layers make it even harder to—”
“I’m sure there’s a rule to not murder the groom on his wedding day,” says Felix. “But I’ve never been very good at following rules.”
“Alright, alright,” Sylvain concedes. He watches Dimitri and Byleth sway on the dance floor, clutching each other and completely off-step the music. “Say, where’s Ingrid? I haven’t seen her for a bit.”
Felix makes a noncommittal noise and sips at his wine. “Well, I’m sure she’s around. There are quite a few ladies who were upset you’re off the market, I’m sure she’s consoling them or something.”
“My hero,” says Sylvain cheerfully, and he raises his glass in salute. “Remind me to thank her after all this is over, will you?”
“Only because it’s your wedding day,” Felix sighs, ever long-suffering.
“You’re the best,” Sylvain claps him on the back. “Oh, and there’s our gorgeous ladies! You’ll have to excuse me while I go dance with my lovely wife.”
He swallows the rest of his champagne and hurries off to meet Mercedes at the foot of the stairs. She steps down and into his arms in a shimmering golden gown, and her smile is as warm and bright as the sun.
-
Later, when Mercedes and Annie are scouting the dessert table, Sylvain wanders around the reception hall chatting casually with guests. He spots Ingrid across the dance hall, her gown resplendent in crystals glittering like tiny stars.
She is standing with some minor lord of Gautier, a handsome man with an earnest (and punchable) face. She looks pale and tired. He sees her close her eyes and take a deep breath; she drains the champagne flute in her hands in a single gulp. Her eyes flutter open, and she sets her jaw and squares her shoulders. She sets the glass down. Sylvain holds his breath – he is sure she will rebuff this other lord.
Ingrid turns to take the man’s extended hand and she offers a radiant smile.
Sylvain looks away.
#
2nd Day of Wyvern Moon, 1189
Dear Ingrid,
I’ve got big news – I hope you’re sitting down! (This is your cue to find a chair.)
I’m going to be a father!!
Isn’t that crazy? It’s definitely crazy. Or at least I thought I was going crazy when Mercedes told me. She’s a little over one moon along now (and figuratively over the moon!).
You’re the first person I’ve told…don’t tell Felix that, he might get a teensy bit upset. But even if he does find out, that’s how things were like when we were kids, right? He can’t get too mad about that.
Usually, I talk to Mercedes about a lot of things, but I’m not sure how to tell her this so I’m writing to ask for some advice. Listen, you know my dad wasn’t the best. I’m afraid that I’m going to be a bad dad, too, and I guess I’m just scared. What if I’m just like him? What if I do the total opposite of what he did? Will that still mess my kid up? What if Mercedes realizes I’m not cut out to be a dad? She’s so good with children, and I’m afraid I’ll disappoint her.
I’m coming to Fhirdiad at the end of the moon in my father’s stead – His Majesty has asked for a formal update on the developments along the Sreng border. The doctors have advised that Mercedes not travel in the winter if she can avoid it due to the pregnancy, but she says hello and I’m sure she’ll send me off with a tin of your favorite tea cookies.
Can’t wait to see you!
Sylvain
#
Ashe wiggles a wooden crib and Sylvain examines several changing tables.
“This one’s pretty sturdy,” says Ashe. “I will say, I’m a little surprised you’ve asked me to help. I’m honored you even thought of me.”
“I figured you’d know best, having raised your younger siblings and all,” says Sylvain, a little sheepishly. “Thanks again for spending your afternoon with me. Mercedes sent me with a list, but I honestly have no idea what I’m looking for. I’m only here for the week, so I have to get this right.”
“Well, I’m happy to help,” Ashe says pleasantly. “And it’s been a little while since I’ve seen you! You should get that changing table – it’s got remarkable craftsmanship. How’s Mercedes?”
“She’s well,” Sylvain gestures to the crib and changing table, and the shopkeepers quickly move it to the back of the shop. “And thrilled – you know how much she loves children. She’ll be coming to Fhirdiad once the road begins to thaw.”
Ashe brightens, setting down a swaddling cloth. “That makes sense. We have the best doctors here. Plus, she’ll be in good company – it’ll be just like old times! All the Blue Lions will be in Fhirdiad together again.”
“Oh? Will Felix be in town?”
“Yeah,” says Ashe, and he scratches the back of his head. “He didn’t tell you? He’s here every other moon or so. He, Annie, Ingrid, and I had tea together a couple weeks ago. I think he and Annette are courting now.”
“Felix, that sly dog!” Sylvain hands the shopkeeper a small coin-purse and hastily scribbles an address for the delivery. “He didn’t tell me! And how’s Ingrid?”
“Ah, well…,” Ashe says slowly, chewing on his lip. He is silent a moment as they exit the shop. “Well, we’re in separate battalions now, so I hardly see her. But honestly? I think she’s been pretty stressed out lately. She’s got a lot of responsibilities, and she’s really wearing herself thin. You should talk to her, maybe tell her to take it easy.”
Sylvain sighs and runs a gloved hand down his face. He inhales sharply through his nose and exhales a puff of white condensation. “I was afraid that was the case. His Majesty said he sent her to Adrestia on urgent business…maybe I’ll see her next spring.”
#
22nd Day of Harpstring Moon, 1190
Sylvain,
I am glad to hear that you and Mercedes have settled into your Fhirdiad apartments well! I trust that our doctors here (and, certainly, Annette) will do their utmost to provide the best care for Mercedes and your child up to and during the birth. I am certain that if you and Mercedes should desire to stay longer, many of us would enjoy the company!
To answer your question, I do regret to inform you that Ingrid will be on assignment for the remainder of the year, and possibly well into the next. The restoration of Duscur is critical, and there are few that I trust with such an important task. I hope you’ll understand.
Dimitri
#
Felix puts on a good show of looking irritated, but Sylvain knows better. Felix’s eye twitches when he’s well and truly upset, and right now he merely looks surly as Annette plonks a slice of cake in front of him.
Sylvain’s heart is full, and he isn’t sure if he’s feeling giddy from the wine or the company. The Blue Lions are back in Fhirdiad to celebrate Felix and Annette’s impending wedding and the birth of Dimitri and Byleth’s first child. Dedue uncorks another bottle of wine and pours Ingrid a tall glass.
“Children are such a blessing,” Mercedes pats her pregnant belly, and Byleth smiles and nods in agreement. She’s in the final months of her second pregnancy and is practically glowing. Sylvain squeezes her knee affectionately under the table. “How many do you and Felix plan to have?”
“A bunch!” Annette says through a mouthful of cake. “Well, I guess we’ll have to figure out the timing between running the Dukedom and teaching at the School of Sorcery.”
“I’ll never hear the end of steaks and cakes,” grumbles Felix, a smirk tugging on the corners of his lips. He pushes the cake off his steak with his fork. “Or crumbs and yums.”
“One can only hope they’ll inherit your temperament, Annie,” Ingrid smiles across the table. Sylvain notices she has dark circles under her eyes now, and her cheekbones protrude sharply from her face. She used to have such chubby cheeks as a child, and he thinks of when they would all sit in the kitchens, sweet buns stuffed in their cheeks.
“Maybe someday we’ll have a new ‘Faerghus Four’,” Sylvain winks at her, picking up his own wine glass. “Think of how much fun we had as kids. Now all we just need to do is get Ingrid hitched!”
The smile freezes on Ingrid’s face, and Dimitri’s knife squeaks loudly against his plate. Sylvain sees Ingrid hold her breath for a moment and then sigh. Mercedes squeezes his hand under the table but says nothing. Felix looks as if he would throw his cake across the table at him at any moment, and Sylvain wonders if Ingrid is still thinking of Glenn.
Ingrid takes a drink of her wine before speaking. “I’m not sure that’s in the cards for me anymore.”
“’You’re wonderful with children, Ingrid,” Mercedes says kindly. “Anyone can see how much our little one adores you, too.”
“I suspect I keep her quite busy as well, with all the things I break,” says Dimitri quickly. “I might as well be one of Ingrid’s children with how often she must fix my mistakes. I’m sure you can also attest to this, Dedue.”
“You do break quite a lot of quills, Your Majesty,” says Dedue calmly, and they all chuckle at the image.
Ingrid smiles and pours herself another glass of wine as the conversation shifts.
“Is there something wrong with your food, Ingrid?” Sylvain hears Ashe ask quietly, his freckled brow furrowed with concern. “You’ve barely touched your plate.”
“Ah,” Ingrid blinks and takes a slow sip of her wine. “I guess I’m just not very hungry today.”
#
26th Day of Red Wolf Moon, 1192
Dear Ingrid,
Just leaving you this quick note before the trip back to Gautier. His Majesty says he sent you on a diplomatic mission to Almyra. Sorry to have missed you for Faerghus’s Founding Day – they had all your favorite meats at the feast.
The kids miss you, and Mercedes says hello. Wish you could’ve been there!
Next time,
Sylvain
#
Claude von Riegan is a name Sylvain has not heard in a long, long time.
Coincidentally, Claude is standing before His Majesty in the throne room as if he owns the place, casually waiting for Dimitri’s reply as if waiting for a pot of tea to finish brewing.
Sylvain sees Felix tense from out of the corner of his eye, each of them flanking one side of the throne like a pair of lions. Ingrid is as still as a statue, her face unreadable.
“This is an interesting and unexpected proposition, no doubt,” Dimitri says slowly. “Forgive me. it is not often I am caught off-guard.”
“I know what you’re thinking, Ing,” says Claude, shooting her a flirtatious wink. A shiver runs up Sylvain’s spine; her nickname sounds wrong on Claude’s tongue. “Don’t think of it like turning your back on Faerghus, but rather like an old family reunion with added benefits. Everyone gets something they want.”
Felix catches Sylvain’s eye and shakes his head imperceptibly before he can speak.
What audacity you have, to strut into the Kingdom and suggest such a stupid thing, Sylvain wants to shout. How could you possibly know what Ingrid wants?
Claude returns his gaze and lifts an eyebrow. Do you?
“I will, of course, support Ingrid in whatever decision she chooses,” continues Dimitri, seemingly oblivious to the tension in the room. “My only wish is that her decision brings her happiness.”
“Why is the King of Almyra involving himself in Fodlan’s affairs?” says Felix. “If memory serves me right, you gave up your claim in the Alliance and left Fodlan altogether.”
Claude rebuts smoothly, and Sylvain is reminded of the few chess games they had played as students. While Sylvain was a skilled player, he always had the inkling that Claude was toying with him, like a cat might with a mouse before gobbling it up. “What, can’t a guy drop in to say hello to his old classmates? Besides, Judith and I go way back.”
Judith von Daphnel clears her throat and steps up next to Claude. Her hair is tied back like a long, silver waterfall down her back, and she holds a thin wooden cane that Sylvain suspects is actually a rapier. Despite her age, the Hero of Daphnel carries herself like a queen. She carries herself like Ingrid.
“Perhaps I should rephrase the boy’s proposal,” Judith cuts in, and Claude rolls his eyes. “This isn’t a request to merge our Houses. House Daphnel has no heir. To be blunt, House Galatea no longer needs you, Ingrid, since your brother’s wife gave birth to a Crested heir. However, while House Galatea is far from where it was before the War, they are still not financially stable. Daphnel can offer the gold Galatea needs.”
“Come to Leicester, Ingrid,” Claude extends his hand to her, almost pleading. “Please.”
Sylvain doesn’t understand. He watches this bizarre scene as if detached from his body, his heart hammering in his throat. What the hell is Claude talking about, and why isn’t anyone else saying anything? Did they want Ingrid to leave? Did she want to leave?
“What do you say, Ingrid?” Dimitri says gently, startling Sylvain from his racing thoughts. “The choice is yours, my friend.”
Ingrid steps close to Claude and takes his hand in hers. Sylvain’s heart stops.
She smiles up at Claude, holding his hand in hers for a moment. Then, she closes his fingers into a fist. Her eyes are soft as she holds his hand close to her chest.
“Thank you, Claude, Judith,” says Ingrid, her voice quiet but clear. “But Faerghus is my home.”
Claude chuckles sadly and kisses Ingrid’s hand. “I thought you’d say so.”
#
13th Day of Guardian Moon, 1193
Dear Sylvain,
Thank you, thank you, for the gifts!! Don’t listen to Felix – I’m sure any baby would love to have “Magical Theory: A Picture Book” read to them. The fact that you and Mercedes wrote and illustrated this together makes it even more special to us. Felix won’t admit it either, but I could tell he really liked the stuffed animals too (especially the boar one).
Speaking of Ingrid, it was so good to see everyone again in Fhirdiad for her birthday. It felt almost like old times back during the war! It’s funny, out of all the Blue Lions, who would’ve guessed Ingrid would be the best with children? Yours must have inherited Mercie’s sweet side, because I can’t imagine anyone would be so patient with miniature versions of you.
When the baby is born, yours better watch out – we’ll be Auntie Ingrid’s new favorites! Muahaha!
Lots of love,
Annie
#
“I still don’t know why you picked me,” Sylvain hands a flask of whiskey to the King.
It had been a long day’s ride, and they’d only just finished setting up camp. Sylvain sighs and looks at the inky, starless horizon. Tomorrow, they will be in Adrestia to meet Count Varley and the remaining major noble houses of the Empire to discuss their future.
“You know why,” says Dimitri, taking a long swig. He looks tired, and there are lines now on his face and silver in his hair. “Your silver tongue and penchant for diplomacy will be most valuable here. Adrestia is in a very fragile political landscape, and I need someone like you by my side.”
“I understand,” Sylvain idly plucks a few blades of grass from the ground. “Yeah, I bet Felix might cause some problems with some of Adrestia’s noble houses. Plus, I think Annie’s due with twins soon…poor guy’s going to be busy.”
Dimitri chuckles, and they lapse into a comfortable silence.
“Today is my son’s birthday,” Dimitri says finally. He takes another drink from the flask and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’ve missed many of my children’s milestones. Byleth and I try to spend as much time together as possible, but it is not easy with her at Garreg Mach and myself in Fhirdiad. We both try to be a present as we can for our children and we frequently travel to each other, but sometimes these things cannot be helped. The Kingdom and the Church must always come first.”
“Do you ever wonder if there’s another you out there in a different timeline, living a different life?” asks Sylvain, his brows furrowed. He accepts the flask back from Dimitri and lays it in his lap. “I sometimes wish our lives played out differently. Don’t get me wrong – I love my life now, Mercedes and the kids. But sometimes late at night I wonder what our lives would be like if there were no Crests. No wars, no duty, no deaths. I’d imagine we’d all be a lot happier.”
His Majesty had mentioned that he had sent Ingrid ahead to the Capitol to meet with Dorothea, and Sylvain wonders what Ingrid was up to these days. She rarely wrote anymore. Would she be happier if she was not burdened by duty? Certainly, Sylvain thinks, she’d be happier if Glenn was still alive. No Crests, no duty, no war, no deaths.
“It is hard, yes. Most days, I wish I born a commoner. I could live a simple life, and Byleth and I could live our days in peace in the countryside with our children. But that is not my life, and I must carry the weight of the kingdom on my shoulders, and she must lead the Church. But,” says Dimitri, “with my beloved at my side, our burdens are easier to carry. Wouldn’t you agree?”
Dimitri claps Sylvain on the shoulder and the twigs crunch underfoot as he leaves. His footsteps fade into the distance, and Sylvain is left alone with his thoughts, staring into the inky black sky.
#
20th Day of Great Tree Moon, 1194
Dear Ingrid,
Word has it you were hurt in the last skirmish against bandits near the border. What were you thinking, doing something so reckless? Mercedes and I are coming before the end of the moon. She’s the best healer in all Faerghus, and I’m sure she’ll have you sorted in no time.
Please be more careful next time. I don’t know what we’ll do without you.
Be there soon,
Sylvain
#
“You look like shit,” says Felix, carefully prying open his toddler’s chubby ham fists and extricating his hair.
“Yeah, well you try to have two kids,” Sylvain watches amusedly as his children and the oldest Fraldarius child totter about in the yard, giggling like little maniacs. He didn’t remember Matthias, his own father, around much in his youth except to scold Sylvain for his studies or for his lackadaisical behavior, and Sylvain resolved to be a more present and loving father.
“I have three kids,” grumbles Felix, comforting and shushing his screaming toddler. “Come on, you can’t get mad at me. I should be the one crying when you pull my hair.”
Sylvain and Felix are on dad-duty again, their wives taking the afternoon to shop in Fhirdiad. It wasn’t so bad – dad-duty typically entailed letting the kids run wild and hit each other with sticks, and so long as nothing valuable was broken and there weren’t too many scrapes and bruises, their mothers were none the wiser.
Felix’s other toddler pulls on Sylvain’s trouser leg, and he bends over and scoops the twin up into his arms. The toddler squeals in delight and reaches for Sylvain’s face with grubby hands. “Who would’ve thought grumpy Felix would be such a doting dad?”
“I could say the same about you,” responds Felix, reaching for sliced Noa fruit with his free hand. “You’ve turned out to be a better husband and father than anyone expected.”
“Aww, thanks buddy,” says Sylvain cheerfully. The eldest Gautier child materializes and snatches a few slices of fruit off the plate. Sylvain does a quick once-over: shirt, shorts, shoes – check, all good.
“You talk to Ingrid lately?” Felix holds the slice of Noa fruit to his toddler. “Say ‘please’.”
“Not really. She’s been busy and I haven’t heard from her much,” Sylvain says, bouncing the Fraldarius toddler on his hip. “She seems sad though, but I don’t know why.”
The last time Sylvain had seen Ingrid, she had been hurt in a bandit skirmish. She had laid there under the sheets, a pale thin slip of a thing. Ingrid had always looked more robust than Mercedes, even when injured during the war, but Mercedes had more color in her cheeks and looked healthier these days. Mercedes had healed the remainder of Ingrid’s wounds, chatting casually in a low, comforting voice. Ingrid seemed exhausted and wasn’t in much of a talking mood.
“Maybe she realized her dream wasn’t all that it was cracked up to be,” says Felix, wiping fruit juice from his child’s chin with his sleeve.
“All she ever wanted was to be a knight,” Sylvain frowns and reaches for a fresh wet napkin to wipe the child’s dirty cheeks. The toddler squirms evasively in his arms, and Sylvain sets the child down. “And now she’s the best knight in all of Faerghus.”
“Yeah, but there was also a time where all I ever wanted was to be out of Glenn’s shadow,” Felix lowers his child to the ground; the twins stumble off on unsteady legs to join the other children, squealing in delight. “And all you ever wanted to be was a philandering asshole.”
Sylvain is quiet for a moment. Felix is right, and he has no rebuttal. “Do you think she thinks about what her life could have been like if Glenn was still here?”
Felix sighs. One of the children falls in the grass and begins to cry. “Maybe. But I think it’s just hard for her to see that everyone else has moved on.”
#
17th Day of Verdant Rain Moon, 1195
Hello Sylvain,
I wanted to thank you for the opportunity to accompany you to Sreng. I’ve always wanted the opportunity to see what lies outside of Faerghus – it’s exhilarating to learn about new cultures and experiences outside of Fodlan. It’s a reminder that there’s so much more out there, and there’s so much I haven’t seen yet.
Thank you for the motivation to resign from His Majesty’s service. It’s because of our conversation that I felt bold enough to take this next step in life. Don’t mistake me – I have enjoyed my time serving His Majesty, but I want to see what else is out there. My siblings are all grown up now, and so I feel like this is the right time to do it. If not now, when?
Petra and I have been exchanging letters ever since the end of the War, and sometimes we get to see each other…I think I’m going to take my chances in Brigid and see what life might have in store for me there.
Wish me luck,
Ashe
#
Dawn breaks across the stone walls, and Sylvain hears the faint call of birdsong. He lays on top of the covers of the bed, unable to sleep, in the same clothes from the previous day. His eyes are ringed with dark circles, and he feels as if his limbs were made of lead.
Truthfully, Sylvain didn’t know how long he had stood staring at the door to Ingrid’s room. He remembers when he used to be the only one able to coax her out from behind a locked door, and now he had driven her behind one instead.
He thinks of Ingrid, and of the startled look on her face when she saw him waiting outside her room the night before. The starlight shone across her mussed platinum hair, partially hidden underneath the hood of her cape, and she wore the salt-smell of sex on her skin.
“Ashe wrote me,” Sylvain had accused. “He says you’re unhappy.”
“It’s nothing to worry about,” Ingrid lied, her eyes bright and glassy. “I’m alright. Really, I am.”
“Ingrid,” Sylvain’s throat was tight, and his eyes burned. “You didn’t use to lie to me.”
Sylvain can’t remember if he’d ever had an argument with Ingrid where she had run from him. If anything, he used to run from her, and she used to chase him down. When had Ingrid set on this path, the same path he had walked long ago in his youth, and why? Why wouldn’t she tell him?
“It’s late, and we should both get some rest,” Ingrid’s hands trembled as she twisted her doorknob, and Sylvain heard her voice crack. “You’ve got a long ride home tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning before you go. I promise.”
Lately, he had glimpsed more and more cracks in Ingrid’s stalwart veneer and seen a faraway, desperate look in her eyes – like a woman drowning. She had the same lost look in her eyes when she had lied to him with a brave, sad smile, and then she had shut the door in his face.
Sylvain didn’t know how long he stood outside her door, listening to her cry. His chest burned with a vortex of emotions he couldn’t place, and his stomach was a sour pit. Eventually, his feet began to move, and he trudged back up the lonely, winding halls to his room.
Now, he watches the sun break across the stone in great, orange streaks and peels himself out of bed. Ingrid had never shut him out like that before. Sylvain sifts through all his emotions like Mercedes taught him, looking at the tiny cracks in the old ceiling like the cracks in his heart. He knows now that underneath all the vicious hurt is an emotion he hadn’t felt in a long, long time – jealousy. Who was this mystery man that Ingrid had been with? Sylvain had tried a long time ago to tell her his own feelings, and she had stood there in the Cathedral when he ran away like a fool.
There was no point in trying to get any sleep now; his men will be prepared to leave for Gautier after breakfast. Sylvain drags himself down to the Great Hall. His eyes are dry with exhaustion, and he feels them burn in the back of the sockets. The hall is lively with activity, and the Gautier troops are energetic and excited to go home. A squire tells Sylvain that his saddlebags are packed and that his horse is ready for him.
True to her word, Ingrid materializes in the Great Hall. There are dark circles under her eyes, and she looks as if she hadn’t slept. She holds a warm packet of sweet buns.
“I re-shod your horse,” says Ingrid without preamble. She smells like citrus soap and clean straw. “She’ll be more comfortable that way, and it’ll be safer for the both of you. Have a safe journey, Sylvain, and tell Mercedes and the kids I say hello.”
Ingrid thrusts the packet of sweet buns into his hands and hurries out of the Great Hall.
#
4th Day of Guardian Moon, 1195
Dear Ingrid,
Happy birthday. Please write back. I haven’t heard from you in moons, and I’m worried about you. Mercedes and the kids send their love.
I miss you,
Sylvain
#
Sylvain watches from the Training Ground alcove as Ingrid corrects the posture of Dimitri's son, tapping her lance across his knobby knees. Sylvain's own children snicker at the prince, and Ingrid shoots them a glare that instantly shuts them up. She's teaching them basic lance-work today, and she prowls around them in circles like a lioness watching her cubs learn how to hunt.
“Ingrid and I had tea this afternoon,” Mercedes’s voice is like tinkling windchimes. “She really is amazing. It’s easy to see why everyone loves her.”
“What did you talk about?” Sylvain asks, unsure of where the conversation was heading. He watches Ingrid demonstrate a jab. Her form is elegant and graceful, like a dancer. Ingrid is older now, but she still moves with the same lightness in her youth, her long golden hair plaited down her back.
“You,” Mercedes says easily, and Sylvain tears his eyes away from Ingrid to turn to his wife, puzzled. “In all the years I’ve known her, we’ve never really talked about you before.”
Mercedes has laugh lines around her eyes now, and she has a few noticeable silver hairs. She has the look of a woman who has borne a few children, and Sylvain thinks she is even more beautiful than the day he first laid eyes on her.
“Oh,” he says dumbly. Out of the corner of his eye, Sylvain sees the children attempting to copy Ingrid's fluid motions.
Sylvain has never admitted this to Mercedes, but Ingrid was his first real love. He never really stopped loving her either; he just settled for loving her from afar, content to let her starlight shine down on him from between his fingers, so close but always out of reach. Mercedes's love was tangible, warm and sunny and constant. She made Sylvain happy and gave him a loving family, and they built something strong and lasting. That had to mean something, that did mean something.
He feels wretched. Sylvain has everything he's ever wanted: a loving wife, healthy children, power, influence, wealth. He would never dream of tearing this life apart, but his traitorous, fickle heart sometimes would wonder what a life with Ingrid would have looked like instead. More than once, when he made love to Mercedes, he closed his eyes and imagined Ingrid beneath him instead. Would his children have green eyes instead of blue? He sometimes imagined warm citrus-scented kisses in the dark instead of lavender, and felt like the worst person in the world.
“Mercedes,” Sylvain says thickly. “I have to tell you something.”
“No, you don’t have to say. It’s okay,” she says gently, squeezing his hand. “I know.”
#
9th Day of Lone Moon, 1197
Sylvain,
Sorry to hear about your father. I’ll be there at the end of the week.
-Felix
#
Sylvain stares down at his father’s headstone. Out of all those who had come to pay their respects to Matthias Gautier, only Sylvain and the former Count Galatea remain.
It was bitterly cold, and Sylvain wrapped the green plaid scarf tighter around him.
“I never thought that I would be the last one alive,” Gunnar Galatea sighs deeply, leaning on a simple, wooden cane. His hands are like gnarled roots, arthritic and aged. “Lambert, Rodrigue, Matthias…”
Sylvain wonders out of his childhood friends, which one of them would be the last to die. He hopes that it wouldn’t be him. He didn’t want to bury any of them, let alone all of them. You were always selfish, he thinks bitterly. Just like Count Galatea.
Despite Sylvain’s reputation during his youth, Gunnar had always treated him and Felix like sons. Sylvain suspected it was in large part due to his being able to coax Ingrid out of her room following Glenn’s death, but compared to Matthias, Gunnar had immeasurable patience with Sylvain.
“Your father had ambitious plans for you,” Gunnar says heavily, like he’s sinking into the earth. “Tell me, Sylvain. Is this the life you wanted to live?”
“I’m not sure,” he answers honestly.
“Are you happy?” asks Gunnar. He sounds afraid.
“Yes.” It’s the truth.
“Good.” Gunnar sighs in relief. They are both quiet a moment, staring at Matthias’s smooth headstone. Then, softly, he continues. “I worry that my choices as a father have made my Ingrid terribly unhappy.”
“Why would you think that?” asks Sylvain, and he attempts to cheer Count Galatea up. “She wanted to be a knight, and now she’s the most revered knight in Faerghus.”
“This is true, she always had aspirations for heroics,” says Gunnar. “But I wonder if I hadn’t pushed her so hard to get married and save Galatea, would she have run so far away from me? You and I, we were the same. We both relied too heavily on Ingrid, and now she hides away from us both.”
Sylvain’s tongue is thick as lead, and he stays silent. His heart pounds in his chest.
“How curious it is,” continues Gunnar, his voice trembling with emotion. “How life plays out. If you had asked Matthias and I years ago, we thought that perhaps…” he trails off, searching for the right words.
“Perhaps what?” prompts Sylvain. Blood roars in his ears, and he feels faint.
Gunnar takes a long time to respond. “Perhaps life would have played out differently.”
#
8th Day of Wyvern Moon, 1198
Dear Ingrid,
It was great seeing you again! I know you already know this, but the kids absolutely adore you. They rave about their Auntie Ingrid for weeks!
Mercedes and I wanted to thank you again for the pegasus – wow, what a birthday present! The littlest one’s in the terrible two phase, and I can tell they’re really starting to bond. Who knows what sort of mischief they’ll get into? You’re definitely onto something with starting them young…I’m sure they’ll be as inseparable as you and your first pegasus. But as a father, it does secretly make me a little nervous when my child is beginning to exhibit the same sort of fearlessness as you. Don’t get me wrong – I’m proud of all my children, but I just don’t want them to grow up too quickly, you know?
You’re the best,
Sylvain
#
Dimitri grins broadly and folds Ingrid into his arms for a hug. Ingrid winces at his freakish strength, but she smiles nonetheless.
"You're going to break her back, Your Majesty," Sylvain says, rubbing the back of his neck.
Sylvain is in Fhirdiad to update Dimitri on the latest events in Sreng, and he scuffs his boot on the familiar old carpet in His Majesty's office. It still looks like King Lambert's old office with exception to the small knick-knacks on the desk: a golden lion paperweight Sylvain recognized as a Saint Cichol's Day gift from Byleth, an ornate Almyran ink pot, and a gilt dagger lay scattered across the surface with stacks of parchment.
“I’ve been waiting for this day for a long time,” Dimitri says, releasing her from his hold. Ingrid rubs at her shoulders. “You’re the best knight in Faerghus, but we’ve all been hoping for some time that you’d want to move on.”
“It’s about time,” Felix crosses his arms, a small smile on his face as he leans against the bookcase. "Our kids need a break from getting their asses kicked by you."
“They've come a long way. You'd think your children would be adept fighters with you as their father,” Ingrid teases, her wit as sharp as her lance. Felix rolls his eyes and holds up his hands in truce. “But after seeing their performance, I know it's time to retire."
"What are you going to do next? You're not going to take Judith up on her offer in Daphnel, I hope?" asks Sylvain, and Felix groans. Sylvain knows he and Ingrid have been out of sync for years, but it doesn't stop him from trying. When they were much younger, she was like an open book; one day during the War, he found that he opened the Book of Ingrid and could no longer read the language. "Or abscond to Almyra?"
"Please," Ingrid rolls her eyes. "Honestly, I haven't given it much thought."
“You have a few moons to figure out what you want to do next," says Dimitri gently, like an older brother reassuring his younger sister. "There's no rush."
"Well, I feel like this is cause for a toast," Sylvain shrugs and reaches for the set of glasses and a decanter. He uncorks the decanter and pours four tall glasses of wine, and he hands the first to Ingrid. Dimitri and Felix each take one, and they raise their glasses in the air in salute. "To new beginnings."
Ingrid clinks her glass against theirs, smiling. "And to old friends."
#
1st Day of Great Tree Moon, 1200
Sylvain,
I’m sure you’ve already gotten word, but His Majesty has approved your request for reinforcements. It must be your lucky day that he’s assigned the best Faerghus has to offer to this mission! I’m told that Sreng has gathered their largest force to-date, but I am confident that we will be able to defeat them once more.
I hope you have a bushel of apples waiting to make amends with my pegasus – she has a long memory.
See you soon,
Ingrid
#
Sylvain is piling cold roast pheasant on bread long after dinner hours when Ingrid appears in the tent. Tomorrow, they will ride north to Sreng.
“Hi, Ingrid,” he says awkwardly, like a guilty child caught sneaking cookies.
“Where’s mine?” she jokes, lifting a blonde eyebrow. He smiles and hands his sandwich to her.
“With any luck, we’ll be back in time for my birthday,” Sylvain grins at her as she takes a big bite, and he begins to prepare another for himself. “You wouldn’t miss that, would you?”
“Don’t kid yourself,” says Ingrid between mouthfuls, crumbs on her face. Some things never change. “I’m only going for the birthday cake.”
She quickly finishes the sandwich, and Sylvain prepares her another. They sit next to each other on the kitchen floor, so closely that Sylvain can smell her citrus soap. He is reminded of when they were children, long before the Academy and the War, when they would pretend to be thieves on a secret mission to raid the kitchens.
“What’s the first thing you’re going to do once you’re retired?” he asks, bumping his knee against hers.
“Spoil your children rotten,” Ingrid answers quickly, an amused smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. She wipes the crumbs from her face with her sleeve. “I’ve got to make up for all the time Annie’s got on me.”
“Well, I’ve got news for you, but you’ve got to keep it between you and me,” Sylvain winks conspiratorially. “You’re their favorite aunt.”
Ingrid rolls her eyes and smiles, licking her fingers.
“But in all seriousness. What’s next, Ing?” Sylvain’s voice is tender.
“I don’t know,” says Ingrid. She draws her knees to her chest and is contemplates for a moment. Her voice is soft when she continues. “I’ve spent so much of my life running towards something or running away from something. I’ve been running my whole life, and now I don’t really know what else there is to do except run.”
“What’s that saying from Brigid? The one Ashe told us,” Sylvain sits back against the counter and rubs his hand on the back of his neck. His eyes are fond. “‘The world is your oyster’ or something. I think it means you have a lot of options.”
Ingrid is quiet, fiddling with the sleeves of her tunic. “It’s kind of nice not knowing what to do,” she says, suddenly shy. “Scary, but nice. It’s a little bit like falling, but I know you and Felix and everyone will be there to catch me.”
“Of course, Ing,” Sylvain’s voice is gentle.
Then, he smirks playfully, and Ingrid’s expression darkens.
“You know,” Sylvain begins, his eyes gleaming mischievously. “I bet you could make a fortune in competitive eating – oww!”
Ingrid winds her arm back for another punch, but Sylvain has never been one to be deterred. Grinning cheekily, he suggests more and more ideas regarding Ingrid’s retirement, each more ludicrous than the last. They sit side-by-side long into the night, and he makes her laugh until tears roll down her face.
Sylvain feels light, almost as if he is soaring through the night sky, and he wishes he could hold onto this moment for just a little longer.
#
5th Day of Garland Moon, 1200
Sylvain,
Ingrid’s hurt. Eastern flank. Bad intel – Sreng has a navy. Archer fusillade, we need reinforcements. Hurry.
-Felix
#
Mercedes moves slowly these days. She’s due soon with her fourth child, and she’s not as young as she once was. Her ankles are fat and swollen, and her back hurts.
She is kneeling at her prie-dieu when she hears a commotion at the gates; she sees through the windowpanes the house staff scurry down the dusty path and Sylvain dismounting his horse. His shoulders are slumped, and his riding cape is covered in dust.
With a groan, she struggles to push herself to her feet and waddles down the stairs to the foyer. Most of her children have already arrived, alerted by the fuss. Her youngest shyly materializes behind her, clutching at her skirt and eyeing Sylvain curiously.
By now, news had spread throughout Faerghus that Sreng had been defeated and as result, they had no choice but to sign a peace treaty. This was historic – no Margrave had managed to accomplish this in over two hundred years. The battle was fierce, that much was for certain, for Sylvain was gone for quite some time. He had been due to return before his birthday, but that day came and went without a word from Sylvain, and the next letter Mercedes received explained that he would proceed from Sreng to Galatea, and back to Sreng before returning home. And, well, rumor had it…
It's clear that Sylvain is in no mood to explain.
“Is it true?” the eldest asks gravely, arms crossed. “That we signed a peace treaty with Sreng even though they killed Aunt Ingrid?”
“Nuh-uh, Auntie Ing is invincible,” says the middle child, face scuffed from training and hair unkempt. “She’s the best warrior in all Faerghus! There’s no way she could’ve be taken down by those losers. Come on, Papa, tell us the truth!”
Sylvain hesitates, then sighs. His lower lip quavers as he tries to find words.
“Your father needs to rest,” interrupts Mercedes swiftly, stepping forward and placing her hands on the shoulders of her two eldest children. “He’s had a long journey. Sylvain, the Archbishop and His Majesty sent a few letters to you. They’re on your desk.”
The youngest child, not quite four, dashes from behind Mercedes’s skirts and up to her father. Sylvain stoops down tiredly to hug her and when she wriggles free from his embrace, he holds her close. She has golden curls and honey-brown eyes. Her name is Ingrid.
Ingrid doesn’t understand death. There’s no war, after all, so the children were still children.
“Auntie Ing is a story now,” she says, lisping her words. “In the books Mama reads to us. That’s where all the heroes go. Right, Papa?”
The look on Sylvain’s face breaks Mercedes’s heart. He is silent a long, long moment.
“Yes,” he says quietly, so quietly it’s almost as if he said nothing at all. “Ingrid is a story now.”
Then, without another word, he stands and walks into his study. Mercedes glimpses the tears in his eyes before he shuts the door.
#
Ingrid was always curious about what Papa did when he spent all those hours in his study. Mama always said it was because Papa needed time to write letters.
“Letters to whom, Mama?” Ingrid would ask. Who could be so important that Papa wrote letters to them every day?
Mama’s answers were always frustratingly vague. “Someone very important to him.”
Ingrid had a wonderful childhood – she discovered later in life that it more wonderful than most. Her parents loved each other and loved their children. The Gautier household was full of laughter, and Mama and Papa’s friends would visit often. Sometimes, though, when Mama and Papa thought no one was watching, Ingrid would peek out from behind the window curtains to find them stargazing out on the front porch at night. Papa would have a faraway look in his eyes. Mama would squeeze his hand, but she would say nothing more. Sometimes Papa was alone, and Ingrid would see him wrapped in a blanket of grief in the darkness, tears streaming down his face.
Papa’s study looks the same. It still smells like bergamot and leather, and Ingrid feels like any minute now he will come strolling in with his long, lean legs and sit at the big desk with a pot of chamomile tea. She could see him as she had a million times before, his glasses dipping over his nose, scribbling letters with his favorite owl-feather quill on his citrus-scented stationary.
Ingrid’s heart aches. Papa would never come in this room again or write another letter or tell her that he loved her. She still remembers the day she became a pegasus knight in the Kingdom’s service. Papa had hugged her close and told her that he was proud of her, his honey-hued eyes equal parts delighted and sad because it meant she would move to Fhirdiad.
No, Papa will never hold her again because Papa is gone now, and Ingrid is tasked to clean out his study.
Ingrid starts with his desk. She collects all the standard items – quills, pots of ink, sheafs of paper, and a pegasus charm that Papa used as a paper weight – and then she moves to the bookshelves.
Here, she finds a small box filled to the brim with letters. At the top is a letter dated from Blue Sea Moon 1186 in a handwriting Ingrid does not recognize. It is worn and faded, and Ingrid can hardly decipher the words on the page. She sees at the bottom of the page the words “Love, Ingrid”.
Her older siblings spoke often of Auntie Ingrid, but Ingrid doesn’t really remember much about her. If she closes her eyes and thinks hard, she can summon only one memory, fleeting as a dream or a ghost. She remembers a slim, blonde woman helping her into the saddle of her first pegasus pony, her cool hand bracing and firm against her back, and her voice soothing as she led the pegasus by the reins across a grassy knoll.
What Ingrid does know about Auntie Ingrid is from Mama’s stories, and from the books Papa helped write. Auntie Ingrid is a hero – a knight on the same caliber as those in the storybooks about Kyphon and Loog – and one of Papa’s closest childhood friends. Auntie Ingrid was loyal, gallant, stubborn, fierce, unyielding, beautiful, and beloved by all who knew her.
Mama said Ingrid was a lot like Auntie.
Ingrid sets the letter back down in the box and moves to the rows and rows of journals. Papa was a meticulous diarist; ever since she could remember, Papa would write almost daily in his notebooks. Mama said it was because Grandpa Gautier started to forget things when he got old, and Papa didn’t want to ever forget the good things in his life.
She hesitates for a moment, but then pulls a worn leather journal from the shelf. Ingrid feels like she’s intruding as she opens it to a random page, like she’s violating Papa’s trust. Not even Mama read Papa’s journals.
She begins to read Papa’s familiar scrawl, and her heart stops – was Papa writing to her?
Her heart racing, Ingrid flips through the journal; each entry begins in the same fashion. It quickly becomes clear that Papa is not writing to her, but instead to Auntie Ingrid. She frowns – Auntie Ingrid died long before Papa wrote this.
Most of the time, Papa writes about his day. He writes about a conversation with Mama or an observation of one of his children or grandchildren, and sometimes about Uncle Felix and Auntie Annie, or about His Majesty and the Archbishop. Frequently, he reminisces about a memory from their youth, and at the end he scrawls “I miss you”. On rare occasion, he grows bold and writes “I love you”. The entry on his birthday simply states, “I was such a fool.”
There are volumes upon volumes, written throughout Papa’s long life, and each entry begins the same: “Dear Ingrid.”
By now, the sun is low on the horizon and the first evening stars have begun to glow. Ingrid peels open the first and oldest journal, determined to understand. It is dated from Year 1200, and the pages are yellow and fragile.
Ingrid lights a candle and begins to read.