#The same way Glenn fought for Faerghus

[childofaura]

Look, I love the opportunities that Forging Bonds presents in giving us more content and character interactions for our favorite characters. I love seeing characters interacting from different installments, it’s great.

But holy crap, I’m starting to see a negative effect from the Forging Bonds giving us the same character depictions over and over without showing the more interesting aspects of a character.

Like look at poor Balthus. He’s got a hefty amount of lore; a man on the run because his mother was exiled for being a commoner and his step-mother is absolutely horrid. Even though his manners are loose, his code of honor is unbreakable and he refuses any kind of compensation for trying to do a good deed from the heart. He’d probably have some really good conversations with characters like Corrin, Saber, Jesse (IF HE EVER GETS ADDED), Joshua, etc. He’s crass and loud and rambunctious but he’s a genuine sweetheart who protects the people he cares about, and he cares about a LOT of people.

Instead all we get is “haha funny gambling man gets slapped around by everyone” (Don’t think I forgot about that Malice Forging Bonds, IS. See if people would still be laughing if a male character grabbed a female character by the ear and twisted their neck in doing so). And it’s not just Balthus, all the subplots with the Heavy Plate Corps and the CHOP stuff (or Team Horny, with everyone like Laslow, Soleil, Gatrie, etc), while I get it’s there for comedy, really end up shoehorning these characters into perpetual comic relief. I’m scared for when characters like Vaike or Jesse (SERIOUSLY IS, I GET THAT YOU’RE RUNNING OUT OF VALENTIA CHARACTERS BUT. JESSE.) get added that we won’t see any kind of meaningful dialogue with other characters. It seems like they reserve the best interactions for fan-favorites only.

[saviourkingslut]

hot take but just because faerghus' culture thinks about life and death differently from what we do doesn't mean it's toxic.

faerghus is a knight-and-combat oriented country, where the winters are fierce and the food scarce. we know for a fact that this even reaches the nobility, and i wager the people who live there are no strangers to losing sons and daughters to frost and hunger and the general hostility of the lands.

when faerghans praise someone for dying in battle, they do so because this means they died for a cause. they died for something they believed in, for something worth protecting. faerghans praise valour and strength and the glory of a warrior's death not because they don't grieve, but because it makes death meaningful, and the grief more bearable.

and of course this mentality affects different people in various ways! dimitri watched both glenn and his family be brutally murdered while he was still a child, and this makes it impossible for him to feel pride in the face of it. felix lost his brother at a very young age and his father handled his feelings in such a bad way that it made him bitter and estranged. and that's completely relatable, because that's what we would feel if we lost people. their experiences make us think that, yeah, actually, this is a terrible mentality to have toward death!

but if you ask me that's not at all the case. ingrid lost her fiancé while she was just as young as dimitri and felix (she wasn't there to see it, but neither was felix). but for her, glenn dying to protect royalty makes it easier to deal with his loss and bolsters her own dream to become a knight, to fight for the values and people he fought for. rodrigue lost his son, but the knight's-death mentality enables him to look at his death with pride instead of just the sense of loss - and both these feelings can exist at the same time. ingrid still feels sad when thinking of glenn too! but she chooses to let it be a source of strength for her

3h really tries to push the idea that the faerghan mentality is unrealistic or bad, especially because a lot of dimitri's and felix' support conversations involve talking people out of their conceptions of their loved ones' deaths. but i wish they had explored it more, because even though it might be an alien concept of dealing with death for many of us, it is not inherently wrong. just different.

[holy-kingdom-of-faerghus]

Ingrid’s Second Chance

Prompt: Ingrid betrays her country and her friends. She falls in love and dies for it. She fought for the better of Fodlan so why did she feel so much regret? 

The Black Eagle Strike Force marched ahead merrily, Byleth and Edelgard in the lead as they prepared for the incoming battle with Faerghus and the Church of Seiros. Victory from their last few battles filled them all with confidence, the end of the war on the tips of their tongues. 

Ingrid schooled her expression as the royal blue of Faerghus’s banners became visible in the distance. She knew who waited on the other side of the enemy lines, her close friends now enemies; Dimitri, Sylvain, Mercedes, Dedue. All of them had shared food and spent days laughing alongside each other. But not today she supposed as she clutched Luin in her hand. 

A sleek gray ribbon was wrapped around the lance’s shaft-- Felix’s hair tie. It had been she who slew her friend in Arianrhod, His harsh words echoing in her mind, he had called her a traitor, turning her back on her people, her friends, her word, and most of all Glenn. He couldn’t understand that she was doing what she thought was right. She was sure that Glenn would see from her perspective had he been alive. But then again she supposed that even if he had agreed with her views he would never help her-- help Edelgard. 

Her gloved fingers reached up to rub the ribbon gently, it reminded her of her past. Of days in the training yard in Fraldarius, Glenn helping her tie her blonde tresses back before they began yet another grueling training session. Tears pricked at her eyes as more memories flooded her head. 

She was in Galatea now, sitting on her comfortable bed, a letter from Felix in hand. He had written her promising that he wouldn’t be a knight. Telling her that all they were good for was dying for the sake of something so silly as chivalry. She remembers the white hot anger coursing through her veins as she read. 

Suddenly Edelgard’s demanding tone filled the air distracting her from her thoughts. 

“Right, there’s no time to be sentimental now Ingrid. You’re on a battle field.” 

Edelgard was warning her army that the battle would begin as soon as they neared the first squadron of Kingdom soldiers. This gave Ingrid enough time to clip any stray strands out of her face, steel her nerves, and reassure her steed. 

“Glenn would’ve loved you.” She thought solemnly as she patted the snow white pegasus below her. “Damn it.” She cursed, once again ridding her head of her somber thoughts. “Get your head in the game Galatea.” Her heart stopped as the name slipped off her tongue, her mind imagining the hungry yet hopeful people of her fathers territory. The smiles on their faces when she told them that one day she would bring them enough food for a feast. She remembered tussling in the dry dirt of her farmlands, easy laughter escaping her lips. 

“Ingrid.” The pained expressions her servants wore when they watched her eat her filling dinner. 

“Ingrid.” The neighing of the knights pegasi as they traversed the Galatean skies.

“Damn it Ingrid snap out of it!” A hand was waving in front of her face, bringing her back to reality. Caspar’s wyvern was hovering beside her, its rider leaning over so that he was very close to her. “There we go! Finally back with us yeah?” He smiled his ever present cheery grin. “We’ll be heading in a few minutes, make sure you’re here with us by then okay?” He then waved at her before soaring over to Byleth’s side, yelling some sort of joke as he went. The blonde sighed before gently nudging her steed forward, easily falling into formation. 

“Ingrid, you’re with me.” Byleth commanded from the ground, his voice clear and to the point, though there was a tinge of concern mixed in. He pulled something from his pocket and held it up to her. 

“Right, oh what’s this professor?” She lowered to the ground and reached over to take the item in his hand. “A-A ring?” It was a light silver band, it had many ruins engraved into it, but they were too small to decipher. A flush coated her cheeks, not believing it to be real. 

“It’s an evasion ring, I know how hard this battle will be for you so I’m hoping this will help you evade anything that comes your way.” Though his tone remained neutral, the look in his eyes was something akin to sincerity... or was that something else? “I’ll do my best to keep you safe but even I can’t promise that I can do the same for your heart.” She smiled at his well meaning words and allowed him to slip the ring over her leather clad finger. 

“Thank you professor, in turn I will watch your back. Please don’t worry about me, I knew what taking this route would entail.” Byleth gave her a look that said he didn’t believe her but refused to push. Edelgard’s war cry was then heard and they ran into battle.

Her armor was tattered, cuts marring her pale skin, rain drops sliding off her face and lips, the stench of blood and metal in the air. Despite the discomfort she felt, she charged onwards, never yielding. Not even when she pierced through soldiers that she trained with as a child, not when she tore her javelin from Mercedes’s sopping corpse. However the loud voice that called her name caused her hands to become clammy. She halted for a moment, paying no mind to Byleth’s worried glances. Her forest green orbs searched the bloody terrain until her gaze fell on the one who yelled her name with so much heartache.

It was Sylvain, riding into battle a top his beloved steed Berg (short for Bergamot, but he refused to let anyone besides his close friends know its full name). His wild red hair was matted to the sides of his face, rain drops cascading down his armor. His honey like eyes were filled with betrayal as he neared her. Gautier’s Lance of Ruin in his hand, glowing eerily in the cold light.

“Stand down Ingrid, I know you don’t want to die here.” He pleaded with her, his eyes swirling with desperation, heart ache, and love. The look had her grip on Luin loosening, though she clenched her hands, reminded herself that every action had consequences and that this was one of hers. Her own heart breaking within her chest she forced a hateful glare on her face and said the very words that caused Sylvain’s mask to crumble.

“I will not. I will never ally myself with the likes of you.”

His upper lip curled up in disgust (for a second she swore she saw Felix’s face instead) as he looked at her for the first time and truly saw her for the person she had become. A bitter smile formed as he raised his lance and prepared to strike. 

“Stubborn as always. I always did like that about you.” He lunged forwards, relic extending to pierce through her. But she was too quick for him and forced her pegasus to barrel roll out of the way. Breathlessly she huffed out her last words to him before utilizing her own relics full power. 

“And you never cease to amaze me with your false flattery. Don’t waste your breath.” Pushing as much of her spirit and strength into her strike as she could she then zoomed forward and pierced her friends heart in one fell swoop; her crest fading away as she realized what she had just done. “Oh Sylvain... it shouldn’t have come to this.” 

Sylvain fell from his steed, crumpling to the grassy field beneath him. Blood leaked from his fatal wound, a sharp cry escaping bloodied lips. His eyes were glazed as he glanced up at the sky above, his mouth muttering soundless words. Ingrid felt tears well up in her eyes at the sight, silently streaming down her face. As he exhaled his last breath she made out a few of his words. 

Felix, a promise, His Majesty, an apology, then nothing.

She hopped off her pegasus and knelt beside his corpse, gently shutting his glazed over eyes with two fingers. Not for the first time since she chose this path she felt her heart twinge with regret and she wondered again if she had chosen right.

“Ingrid are you all right?” 

Byleth slid to a stop beside her, the Sword of the Creator in hand. One glance at Sylvain’s body and he immediately knew. He moved to obscure her view of the corpse and placed his glowing palms on both sides of her face.

“Stay still and I’ll heal you.” A few seconds later the pain across her body dulled immensely. “Do you think you’re still in fighting condition? You may retreat if not.” She blinked at his words, letting out a shaky sigh before flashing him a determined look. 

“I can still fight... I just needed a moment to collect myself.” She promised, turning her head away from her teacher. “I-I came this far already. I need to see this battle through.” A sympathetic look flashed in the mans eyes before he nodded.

“Well then, come with me and we’ll finish this war with Faerghus. King Dimitri and the royal guard are the last obstacle before Rhea.” Ingrid nodded stoically, shaking the blood off her weapon and mounted her pegasus, following Byleth as she always had. For a split second she wondered where she would have been now if she hadn’t followed him into the Black Eagle house. Alas, she thought, it was too late for such thoughts, too much Faerghusi blood soaked her hands. 

She ushered her mount forward, adrenaline rushing through her veins. The man she had sworn to serve was just a little ways away from her, screaming at a newly killed Dedue as he collapsed to his knees, Dorothea’s Levin sword protruding from his chest. She couldn’t tell from this distance but she was sure that it was not just rain that soaked his face. 

How cruel, she thought, knowing all your friends died to protect you at the hand of a traitor. Her gut wrenched in horror as she realized how numerous her crimes were. 

Byleth was already forging ahead, swinging his whip like sword at the King. Dimitri dodged most of his slashes, but ended up getting a large slice in his cape. 

He twirled Areadbhar in his hands and expertly lunged at Byleth, his crest flaring up brightly behind him. Luckily, the professor saw it coming and rolled aside, the lance barely missing him. Their duel continued on for what seemed like forever (Ingrid was busy dealing with the royal guard so she wasn’t fighting against him yet), however, this also meant that fatigue was kicking in. For the first time during their duel (that she knew of) Byleth miscalculated his foes next attack and was about to be pierced by the legendary lance. Fearing that the strike would connect, Ingrid literally leapt from her pegasus, deftly threw Luin, then tackled Byleth to the side (knocking him unconscious along the way). Dimitri turned just enough that Luin only punctured his thigh, causing a guttural growl to escape him. This caused her to curl up and roll so that she could avoid further injuries. His gaze turned from Byleth to her, his sea blue eyes widening before narrowing again.

“Not only have you become the emperor's lap dog, but you have turned against your own people. How could you Ingrid, I thought you wished to be a knight? What would Glenn have said?” He heaved, yanking Luin from his thigh as if it were a tiny needle. It clattered to the ground beside him, it’s otherworldly glow slowly fading away. 

She gulped, picking herself up from the ground. The only other weapon she had was her javelin and a silver lance, her chances of beating him were next to none. Recklessly, she decided that she had to have faith in her allies and stall until they arrived to assist her. 

“Your ma-- no Dimitri.” She said thickly, sweat beading down her neck. “Edelgard has a reason for all of this, her war is to rid of the secret evil of Fodlan. G-Glenn would have understood why I did it. I know he would.” 

“So I see, you’ve become so desperate to believe you are seeing justice through that you’ve begun lying to yourself. Perhaps you and I are not so different my old friend.” He murmured lowly, an odd look in his wise eyes. Areadbhar’s crest stone gleamed evilly at his words. “Alas, no amount of lies can save you from the truth. You, Ingrid Brandl Galatea, are a traitor to the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. As your king... it is my duty to execute you for high treason.” 

The two battled each other for a long while, long enough that Ingrid soon began to lose hope about reinforcements. She was not suited for fighting on foot, both she and her opponent knew this, so fatigue soon found her. Suddenly a harsh blow from Dimitri’s lance split her own silver one in two. Obscenities escaped her lips as she struggled to avoid his onslaught. However, the wet concrete beneath her caused her to stumble, which led her to slide... straight into Dimitri’s next attack. 

Burning hot pain flooded her entire nervous system as Areadbhar was shoved into her heart. Her gaze began to waver and soon she fell to the ground, her king standing over her. A small, breathless, laugh escaped her lips as memories flooded her mind. 

Snow days in Fraldarius with Felix and Glenn, sparring in Fhirdiad Castle with Dimitri and the Kingdom knights, late night talks with a younger Sylvain, hidden smiles from her father, Glenn’s lessons, shared laughs with the Blue Lions, warm tea with Byleth, oaths sworn to her new Adrestian comrades, Edelgard’s private advice before a hard battle. 

All these things filled her mind as she laid on the hard tile. She briefly wondered if this is what Ashe, Felix, Mercedes, Sylvain, and Dedue had felt like when they died. Did it hurt just as much for them? What did they see before they breathed their last? She supposed that she would never know. Or maybe she would see them again. Wherever it was people went after death. Was there an afterlife that Sothis reigned over? Ingrid wondered if the goddess would accept her soul there. Perhaps not, she thought, for she had joined the side that wished to kill her children after all. 

Her minds eye had never been clearer, she mused, a new thought surfacing. Perhaps all this heartache and suffering she had experienced and caused could have been avoided if she had chosen the Kingdom. Damn her naive teenage heart; Byleth was a wonderful man, one she had been so set on following to the ends of the earth, but not even he was worth all of this. So that being said...

“Y-you always b-beat me in t-training...If only... I stayed...” Ingrid confessed as the life left her, words only heard over the sounds of battle by a few others. Dimitri met her eyes and smiled sadly, a soft good bye leaving his lips. Byleth blinked groggily from his place on the side lines, noiseless tears escaping as he watched the one he so loved perish before him. 

Her words didn’t fall upon deaf ears however, Sothis’s power humming beneath his skin. He had used all of his divine pulses but he would give all his remaining energy if it meant he could grant her wish. 

Dimitri saw his movement from the corner of his eye, Byleth dropping his sword in surrender. With a tired sigh, he nodded towards the blonde’s body, one last mercy before he killed his professor. 

“Thank you.” Byleth hummed softly, sitting beside Ingrid’s corpse and pulling it onto his lap. He pressed a kiss to her gloved knuckles, reaching into his pocket and retrieving his mothers ring. He slid it onto her finger and rocked her close, apologies escaping him as he channeled all his remaining power into a final divine pulse. Behind him Dimitri poised his relic and prepared to strike. 

“I love you Ingrid. Sothis please grant our dying wishes, let her go back and have another chance.” 

A sharp movement, a lance through the heart, a splatter of blood, Edelgard’s heartbroken screams in the distance, Dimitri’s soft cries, a mournful lovers dying plead to the Gods, thuds of falling bodies, a clatter of a lance, and a flash of green light. 

Ingrid opened her eyes, a slight pain in her gut and a relieved feeling in her heart. Today was the day that the Blue Lions would be assigned their new professor! She sighed happily, the feeling of life flowing through her veins more welcome than before. She had a good dream but couldn’t remember what it was. The only thing she remembered hearing was “stay and second chance.” But it was probably nothing important... What was important was today’s breakfast! Stomach rumbling with hunger, she left her room to join her new house mates for breakfast. 

[demethinkstoomuch]

The Lucky One, Pt 2

Imagine what a strange position this must be: You’re Sylvain Jose Gautier, you’re fifteen years old, and all you want is to get laid. But it was just the worst day in everybody you care about’s lives, the world is falling apart around you, and you’re completely unharmed by all of it. 

Content Warning: Blue Lions-typical Unresolved Grief

Read on AO3!

Part 1 | Part 3

None of your friends come to greet you. But for the most part, you kinda knew that already. Felix and Ingrid are with their respective families, after all; they didn’t come to the capital this time of year normally (neither did you, honestly; you were down here even less). Felix isn’t coming until the next day; House Fraldarius had its own worries, but he’d be there. But you’d ended up going just a bit out of your way to visit House Galatea. You’ve been too worried not to. Glenn had been Ingrid’s fiance, and while she probably couldn’t say if she loved him or not, they’d really cared about each other. That much was clear; that and the way she idolized him. She’d had a pretty little dream of the future as his bride and fellow warrior. It was all so sweet you had a hard time imagining it, but if anyone deserved something like that, it was Ingrid.

 And it was all gone now. Ingrid hadn’t come to greet you at her house, either. You hadn’t even seen her. Just the solid oak door to her room, barred from the inside. House Galatea’s house was the nicest thing they had; the land wasn’t great, but that fortress of a home could defend itself, and had the wealth of better days poured into it. Ingrid’s room most of all, and so there was no way to get around that old door that greeted you in place of your old friend. Her father had been hoping that she’d come out for you — he hadn’t said so, but he’d been so relieved to see you, which was an entirely new experience for you, and now that made sense. How long had she been in there? Since she got the news? You looked about for a clue on that, and saw that, hey: at least there was an empty tray of plates there. That meant she was still eating, right?

“I’m so sorry,” you told Ingrid through the door. “It’s really awful, Ingrid.” 

You wish you’d known what to say. You’d wish you’d known what to do. She didn’t answer.

“C’mon, Ingrid, talk to me. Would Glenn really want you to just —” Your words were cut off by thud of something hitting the door with all the force Ingrid could muster. 

And then, the first sound of her voice. But whatever words she meant, whatever breaths she took, broke into the gasps and hiccups of haggard weeping. 

“...I’m sorry, that was probably a little much, huh? Maybe it’d help to take your mind off of things?” That’s what a plan looked like. A good one, even. “Yeah, why don’t you and I take a nice walk? Get some sun.”

“No, Sylvain,” she eventually answered. She sounded so tired. “I don’t want to go anywhere.” 

So, that was a dud. What were you supposed to do, then? Say ‘well, if you want to stay in your room forever, sure thing?’ You paused, took a deep breath, and just stared at the door like the woodgrain could tell you what was in her heart. It did have a little face, but it was sort of a wailing one that you covered with your hand when you touched the door. Hadn’t you once, back when you were like seven, egged on Felix to draw on this door, so Ingrid’s room would have a pretty door? And then Ingrid went to get Glenn, and Glenn told you to stop being idiots and ruining it? And then even Felix had turned on you. Because Glenn had been the real boss here.

And then it hit you that he was gone. Not the way it hit Ingrid, probably not the way it hit Dimitri, almost certainly not the way it hit Felix. But it did anyway, in a way you couldn’t feel before. Your forehead tapped the door itself, just once, as you dropped your head.

“Man. What are we going to do?” You’d meant to just think it. You really had.

“That’s what I want to know!” Ingrid shouted at you. She gasped, gulping down air. She was crying without dignity, with the full abandon of a child. “What am I supposed to do now? Glenn was everything.”

And then, so weakly it took the air out of your lungs, too: “How am I supposed to go on? Glenn…”

You’d wish you’d never come. You stayed there for a long time, not sure you could say anything. You just let her cry through that door. Pathetic, right?

Eventually, you had to go. And all you could tell her is “I’ll be back after the funeral.”

At first, she didn’t answer. You told her some extra goodbye you don’t recall, not when you heard that lurching little croak sneak its way out of the cracks in the doorframe.

“Glenn’s body won’t get to have a funeral.”

So, you’re pretty sure Ingrid isn’t coming. Which left only His Highness as a possible greeter. And that one did surprise you, and it didn’t. On the one hand, name a kid more conscientious than Faerghus’ thirteen-year old prince. Sure, don’t trust him to handle an instrument or a pair of scissors or anything delicate you expected him to grip and manipulate at the same time and not snap to bits, and whatever you do don’t trust him to deal with girls that aren’t everyone’s favorite tomboy (you remember, once again, his little girlfriend. What had her name been? El? Probably Ellen or something, but it didn’t matter; what mattered is, downcast mood or no, you remembered the dagger thing and snickered to yourself), but there’s no one more earnestly dedicated to being a stick in the mud. On the other hand, you couldn’t guess what happened to him. Rumors are everywhere. Duscur is on fire, just the whole peninsula. The soldiers’ hasty revenge and ‘peacekeeping’ had gradually become a deliberate subjugation that didn’t end, and it sent shivers of horror down your spine. And most people were glad for it. All from what happened that day; centuries of peace thrown out the window. You could definitely give Dimitri about five million passes for not feeling up to coming down to see you, was your point.

But once you’re settled in, you ask where he is, if you can see him, all that. You’re told he’s in his room. He hasn’t left it. He’d gotten severely injured, the maid explains — healing staves a little too late to do him real good, and he seemed like he might have gotten sick from wounds and stress. And so, until the funeral, he’s confined to his bed.

When you’re taken up to the hallway in front of his chambers, what greets you is a strange scene: there’s a guard there, which is new. Guards aren’t uncommon, but there’s usually not one just right outside his doors like that. And there’s a very tall, kind of beat-up man standing there, rigid as the guard but with a totally different expression. His mouth presses into a tense line; his eyes, one bearing a fresh bruise, give him away. Those eyes are sleepless with a nightmare you can’t name and don’t want to. You’ve seen eyes like those before; when your father’s soldiers marched back from their first battle, their first real, hard battle, some of them had eyes like this guy. Just scared and hungry and lost . If you didn’t see that, you’d have gone on thinking this guy was way older than you. But he’s not; he’s younger.

That height that caught your eye? Sure, yeah, he’s gonna be a big guy, absolutely. Well, more than that,he is a big guy. But most of that’s just lanky, without having grown out into it or the breadth of his shoulders. His hands and joints are knobbly and outsized as a puppy’s paws, so he’s all elbows and knees and knuckles. And there’s not much mistaking where he’s from, either. His hair’s a moonlit silver-white, which had not helped your vibe that he was an adult, and the combination between that and his darker skin is so Duscur it might as well be waving a flag. So, you know what? He probably had lived a nightmare. You can’t even imagine.

But you’ve probably been staring too long, because he turns from your gaze, head down. His head turned away really shows off that shiner, more vibrant and angry than your own bruises. He’s got more scuffs than that, mixing ages and levels of treatment. But that’s the one that really draws your eye.

“I’ll see if His Highness can see a visitor,” says the guard with a bow. His eyes follow yours to the kid there. “Please keep an eye on him.”

“Sure thing,” you answer. Once he’s gone, it’s basically the two of you in that hallway, and friendly guy that you are, you try and strike up something. “That looks rough. So what brings you to this corner of the castle?”

His head jerks up from its own contemplation, and his jaw locks into place. Fixing for a fight, huh? No, not exactly. His hands are still open at his sides. Fixing to be fought, huh? You raise up a hand placatingly.

“Woah, I’m just making conversation! You speak Fodlani?”

“... I know some. They are ...close, sometimes..” His delivery’s sort of stiff and slow, but he must be right — he’s got a good, workmanlike Fodlani. While he stares at you seriously, his words faintly rumble with cold, slow hate, “I am ‘not to be trusted.’”

“That’s OK; I’d rather not worry about stuff like that,” you reply with a casual shrug. Judging by appearances just tells you who’d be nice to look at while they lie to you; most of those nice faces people show are hiding something rotten inside. You know that so reflexively that you kind of regret not just trusting him. “I’m Sylvain, a friend of Prince Dimitri.”

“I am Dedue. I wish...” His face is calm, but you notice the deep intake of breath as he tries to reach for what he wants to say. “To help Dimitri.”

“Help him? With what?”

“Everything I can,” the boy from Duscur answers, without a trace of doubt.

“Huh,” you say, because really, that sounds hard when there’s a guard posted just to stop him getting in the room. You are not even sure what he’s doing here, given the situation; someone must be vouching for him. Dimitri, maybe? But there’s bound to be a limit to what that can do when the prince is bedbound. Dedue’s shoulders sag, and you follow his gaze back towards the door.. It’s kind of depressing, really. So when the guard returns to say that His Highness will see you, you find yourself asking, “Hey, mind if he comes in with me?”

 Everyone stares at you, until the guard considers the boy from Duscur for a long while, frowning.

“If Lord Sylvain is willing to keep an eye on him...I suppose that will be acceptable,” he relents. As you cross the border into The Princes’ quarters, Dedue bows.

“You have my thanks.” 

“It seems kind of unfair to leave you there. But His Highness better actually want to see you.”

His Highness is waiting in his bed, a few more doorways in, and you are not prepared for it. If someone told you he was dying, you’d believe them. He’s got bandages around his head, slathered across a hand and his arms, and one of those is in a splint. And this is after a healer’s worked with him, taken the edge off day by day. You would have thought his injuries would be the hardest thing to take seeing. But no. His eyes look hollow, his whole face looks hollowed out, a thin mask over nothing at all. If he’s slept in the week since this all started, you don’t see it; really, if you hadn’t personally seen him sleep plenty of times when you were kids, you would imagine he’s never fallen asleep in his life. His big blue eyes are red-touched from rim to iris. Feverish, haunted, his gaze shakes a little while he traces over the two of you. Then he lets out a relieved breath like he’d been holding it for a while. Dedue, more ready for the sight of him than you were, nearly bowls you over to reach his bed.

“Dedue,” Dimitri says, voice a little hoarse and incredibly relieved. “You’re actually still here. But your face...I’m. I’m so sorry.”

“You did no wrong, and it will heal.” Dedue’s shoulders soften with relief. “And you, Dimitri?”

“...I…” His face scrunches in something like a smile. It’s made of mist, dissolving in the moment that it’s formed. He shakes his head. “I...I’m sure I’ll…” His voice quavers on its way out.. 

Eventually, he lifts up his head and looks back at you, with an expression that’s another game attempt at looking like something. You are not sure what that something is, an apologetic frown or a gentle smile or both at once, but he sure is trying.

“Sylvain, though! I’m dreadfully sorry… I’m sorry…” For a moment, there’s no more sound even though his mouth moves, just a tremor to go with the prince’s distant stare, but he eventually shakes off the train of thought and refocuses back on you rather than on something miles and miles away. “I didn’t mean to forget you. Thank you for coming to see me.”

“Your Highness, it’s not a problem,” you shrug. “You’ve got a lot on your plate at the moment.” You should probably say what you came here to say, mostly, but Goddess. You can’t help but think it’s so fake sounding. ‘Sorry your father died in front of you’ ‘Sorry everyone died in front of you.’ ‘Sorry everyone’s dead.’ See? That’s how dumb that sounds.  “I’m sorry for your loss, Dimitri. Anything I can do to help?”

But sometimes, dumb is all you have. Less often than you pretend, but, no, sometimes you really are just pretty dumb.

“There’s nothing anyone can do,” Dimitri says, his bandaged hand, the one on his good arm, gripping at his bedsheets so intently that you hear a subtle rip. His voice cracks, one part puberty and one part pure misery. “I should — I  should have been the one to do something.” 

“Dimitri! You’re alive, isn’t that doing enough? You managed to save your own skin, so at least someone walked out of that alive.” When you say that, just reaching for whatever popped into mind, his throat only makes a strange choking noise. Before you can touch him for whatever comfort that’d provide, he blinks off a fresh wave of tears.

“...That’s right,” he murmurs, looking thoughtful enough to take that comment seriously. Dimitri glances up at Dedue for a moment. Disentangling his fingers from the ripped covers, he looks down at his own hands and breathes shakily. “Dedue survived, too.”

“Yes. That is through you alone,” Dedue answers, warmly and gravely. So it’s something like that, huh? It does sort of sound like the most Dimitri reason to have met someone, you've got to say; he's pretty brave when the chips are down. Maybe it's why this is such a shock.

“There you go! Anyway, I just meant… To help you through this, Dimitri.” Now you pat him on the back, but he winces, so you withdraw your hand quickly. “Sorry about that. Got pretty beaten up, huh?”

“...I don’t mind,” Dimitri says quietly, his eyes flicking across the room. He leans back until his head touches the headboard. “Then...If it’s not too much trouble, Sylvain… Please, just? Stay here? Only for a while. Please. If...If you go, then Dedue will also have to...to go...And I’ll be alone. And then.. I won’t be—” he breaks off then, shaking his head to hide how much he’s trembling.You’re struck then by just how small Dimitri seems. You were shorter last time you saw him, and he’s not hit his growth spurt — the royal family’s a bunch of late bloomers, the king used to say (used to say, of course, but the reminder hits you and it’s weird) — but most of all… He just looks like a spindly glass sculpture of a person, so thin, so pale, so delicate that he might break apart at any moment. 

“Sure thing, Dimitri. Any time.” You pull up a couple of chairs to sit by the bed, so no one’s on ceremony for as long as he’d want you there.

An uneasy silence falls. Dimitri opens his mouth a few times, but can’t seem to manage. A million things crowd around his tongue, and his lips mouth the starts of something he can’t force the voice for. “I can’t think of what to say. I’m sorry. I’m —”

“I’m sorry. I… do not know what to say, either,” Dedue turns his face from the both of you to hide whatever expression could could make that tone, sinking slowly down as if to the bottom of the sea. Dimitri grabs his hand by means of comfort or apology, and you decide to put this whole socially awkward...situation… to its metaphorical bed.

“Don’t sweat it, you guys! Just let me handle the talking, and you can listen, Your Highness.” Subjects, subjects… None that include, um, anyone you actually care about — that is, your friends. That’s probably way too close to this. Or his old man. Or recent events. Or anything that involves talking about that time you kinda got strangled — remember that? You don’t want to, really, and for some reason that kind of stuff always upsets His Highness? So that leaves girls. Which is great, you love talking about a beautiful lady or some chaotic adventure in love as you’ve begun to collect them, except your audience is His Highness, who, need you remind yourself, honestly thinks a dagger is a suitable romantic present for parting with a girl he likes. This would be a good time to remind him of that. 

“You don’t have much skill in romance, Your Highness, so I’ve got some educational stories with hard-won life lessons. Listen close, OK? If I’d given a dagger to these girls, I might have gotten stabbed! It’s no way for a prince on a white horse to treat a would-be princess.” So you think, but it doesn’t draw embarrassment from him. It just sinks there.

 And you clear your throat and start some of the funnier stories of your misadventures.While you’re getting good at the adventure bit, some of them still end up with some mis-, particularly if, say, certain angry noblemen whose daughters you’ve been pursuing are involved. You’re hoping Dedue has something to say about girls at some point. Sure, he’s a little awkward, but he’s tall and he seems alright enough and, anyway, in a couple of years he’ll probably be so big he could fit a girl on each shoulder and that’s got to have an appeal (you have long suggested that, should His Highness want to pick up girls, he should try showing off how easy it is to physically pick up and carry several girls. Girls love strong guys. And it’s probably better than any of His Highness’ flirting game, which is so precious and pure and awkward. Good thing he has you). He does not have anything to add about girls — except, of course, for the far-away look in his eyes. You wonder what are the odds that he lost a girl he liked, or almost liked, or could have liked? Or just... all the girls he knew, for that matter, if he ended up here of all places. What a mess. 

You like to stay away from feeling like this, but waiting for that interjection that never comes, it just gnaws at you over whatever story about how much of a pain Lord Gwendal is that you happen to be telling. You don’t even get to the resolution because, oh, hey, Ingrid’s in that part, and you feel like if you summon the idea of her, the girl crying behind her bedroom door, the present would come slamming back into reality. Lucky you, your load’s light enough to run from it. That’s all you can do sometimes, right? Even if it feels like you should do more. Man, is this doing anything for anyone? How would you even know ? You’re not even sure His Highness is paying attention; his eyes aren’t really meeting anyone’s, and he eventually just sighs and tilts his head back, staring at the ceiling, its carved canopy of pine branches and curling ferns looming overhead. He’s not listening as much as he is just letting the sound wash over him.