Night slips away like black silk, cold and feather-light, from the grey face of dawn. The rumbling of distant clouds promise a dreary morning, interspersed with the lively dance of lightning. Gunther takes a deep breath and savors the faintly sweet scent of rain on the horizon. A gentle breeze teases the corners of his coat's upturned collar and tickles his cheek. The playful wind quickly dies as he leaves the courtyard behind.
His footsteps echo off stone walls still cold from the fading night. The lonely shadow at Gunther's feet multiplies in the light of lamps yet to be snuffed by the first rotation of servants. Deep within the structure is his destination, and though the distance is short, it feels much longer as shadows pour from the center of rib vaults overhead and press around columns at his sides. Despite all rationale rising in his mind, Gunther feels somehow colder than he did outside.
Light bleeds away when he turns a corner and follows a stairwell down into the growing dark. His descent ends in a narrow hallway where the illumination is feeble and air carries a musty smell of abandonment. Doors crowd the wall opposite his entrance, each clad in heavy iron, but there is one in particular he seeks. Gunther finds it marked with unlit lanterns.
He fumbles with a key in one hand while searching for its matching lock with another, the lamps surrounding him cold and dead. Gunther's fingers find a gap into which he quickly sets the key. A dull click announces his success and the door opens with a resentful groan. He steps into an abyss, the sound of his footsteps muffled by stale air. Gradually his eyes adjust and figures slowly form in the gloom.
A chamber pot sits in one corner much too full and producing a vile fetor that nearly tears a strangled gag from Gunther's throat. Across from it is a cot devoid of blanket or cushion, and at this revelation he does choke. Urgently, he twists in place, squinting into darkened corners until discovering a pile of fabric squeezed against the corner furthest from the filth and its overpowering stench. His muscles relax, but his heart struggles to slow down.
"Boy," he commands. "Corrin."
The pile of cloth answers through a soft whimper.
"Get up." His voice is stern and loud enough to rouse a wyvern from its rest, or it may simply be the oppressive silence that lends his words greater weight.
Fabrics hiss against one another as a gangly limb emerges from its nest. The boy rises, blanket sloughing off him like cooked meat from a bone, and he stands unsteadily in the dark. He's a pitiful sight even in the absence of light, all sharp angles and sunken pits.
Mindful of the quiet, Gunther continues in a whisper. "Come. You are being moved to a new room."
Placing bandaged feet in boots meant for a man twice his size and pulling on a shirt that hangs like a shroud from his bony shoulders, Corrin shuffles toward the open door. Gunther turns on a heel and leads his charge out of the foul pit.
A light shower is falling on the courtyard when he reemerges, blood-eyed cadaver in tow. Gunther pulls the collar about his neck tight before marching onto glazed stone. A weak sigh emerges behind him and he almost mistakes it for wind blowing over the stone wall. Twisting his head to peek past a shoulder he catches Corrin with closed eyes directed towards the mute clouds rolling above. His tiny chest expands with a deep breath until he looks ready to pop, releasing it in a quivering stream.
Gunther watches the process repeat, and though he detests how hair clings to his temple as the rain begins to drench them both, he cannot bring himself to interrupt. He cannot guess how long it had been since the boy last tasted clean air or stood in a light not drawn from burning oil. And so he waits until Corrin's eyes flutter open and drown in the expanse of soothing grey that hangs over them. The boy slips onto water-slicked tiles moments later; he's still staring into the rain when Gunther calls.
Ravenous is an appropriate descriptor for his ward, Gunther decides. Despite months of receiving a proper diet since his imprisonment, Corrin devours meals as only a starving man can, and while the king stresses the boy develop manners suitable for the royal table, Gunther feels it is a greater concern that his jutting bones are quickly buried beneath layers of flesh. The boy's fingers dance over a manuscript's pages like a scythe before wheat, the information therein quickly harvested, and Gunther struggles to supply him with sufficient training manuals. Apparently the gentleman responsible for educating him in politics and history experiences the same difficulty. Books from the library disappear into Corrin's room in such numbers that even the young prince Leo's desire for reading material fails to match.
When he is certain Corrin's ribs are no longer at risk of stabbing anyone who might give him a hug, Gunther drags his ward out of bed before the sun rises. As servants begin their daily routine he leads the boy to a small field of dirt lined with wooden posts. He tosses him a waster carved from oak and hides his grin behind a tight grimace as Corrin plucks it from the air. Wooden edge turning over in his pale hands, the youth aims a level gaze at his instructor.
"It is heavier than a proper blade," he observes, curiosity barely concealed by an even tone.
"Exactly," Gunther replies.
He leads the boy in basic forms and exercises by performing them with his own waster. The swish of morning air gives way to the clunk of wood against wood, Corrin carefully assaulting a pole that towers over him with measured strikes. Perhaps too carefully, Gunther notes; the boy steels himself for attacks that will never come, as though fearing his inanimate adversary might strike back. His attacks lack effort and Gunther announces as much. Corrin's swings adopt a greater intensity immediately.
Practice ends an hour after the sun lifts over the horizon. He passes his ward off to the next tutor, though not before finding them both a proper meal, a consideration the insatiable beast growling in Corrin's gut no doubt appreciates.
The regimen proves successful and Gunther watches with pleasure as a wiry strength builds in his ward's arms. It is not until Corrin struggles to emulate a new movement with a dagger that the aging soldier understands how much more the boy's education will extend beyond simple instruction.
Gunther moves to correct a mistake and circles his arms around the boy, matching limb for limb. The moment he settles into place something slams across his abdomen with the force of a battering ram. The pain is sudden and so wholly unexpected it sends a shock rolling through his limbs, numbness following in its wake. The knight stumbles back to find his feet before he can take an undignified tumble to the ground.
Heavy breaths echo in his ear, but looking up from his boots proves the resonance comes from an entirely separate throat.
The weathered point of a wooden dagger aims for his throat from across the training ground, trembling in a white-knuckled grip. Attached to it is Corrin huddling against a wooden post with wild eyes.
Memories of winter come swirling into Gunther's thoughts as he slowly rises. One step forward and he is a boy again, creeping through snow while icy wind bites at his skin. A wolf caught in one of his father's traps busies itself with gnawing on a leg, but its eyes, wide and feral, never leave his own.
"I won't hurt you," he says, though the knife in his hand stands at odds with his statement.
The wolf doesn't understand, can't understand, and stops chewing on its leg to give a low growl. It bares bloody teeth in a snarl while its eyes all but scream in desperation. Gales twist between barren trees and snowflakes slip around his fur-lined collar, burying their frozen fingers into Gunther's skin. The cold nibbles at his ears, promising a slow, lonely death, and he knows it is the crueler mercy.
For a moment, the world falls silent.
Gunther holds out a hand callused from years of combat and wrinkled from age, and the snow melts away.
"I won't hurt you," he repeats, and this time it's true.
Corrin's eyes focus as terror leaves them. Shame takes its place, and the dagger jumps from his palm, clattering against the ground. The boy curls in on himself, fingers lost in pallid bangs while he hides his face. Gunther remains standing, hand outstretched, content to wait until his ward works through the lingering fear.
He ends the training session early. Corrin skips his first meal.
The day passes and night slides a black veil over the sky as Gunther leaves the kitchen with a tray held in both hands. Venison from the evening meal bobs in thick gravy that gives off a heady aroma, contained in a silver bowl glinting like a knife in the half-light.
He navigates the narrow corridors of Krakenberg expertly, one destination in mind. Down a hall Gunther spots a familiar head of lavender, though the hanging lanterns paint it an odd shade of orange. A young girl, well into her adolescence, bites back a frown as he approaches, replacing it with a charming smile that speaks of sweetness and mischief in equal measure. Keeping a firm grip on the metal platter, Gunther gives a polite bow.
"Your Highness."
Camilla's smile tightens before she curtsies in turn. "Gunther."
"I take it Prince Corrin is still unavailable," he asks.
The princess' eyes soften and her smile falters ever so briefly. "He did not want to speak when our lessons ended. I've had little luck since," she explains.
Camilla casts her gaze to the door of her brother's room. A gentle light emanates between cracks and spills over the floor. Gunther can hear the muffled scratch of pen against paper as he stands just outside his ward's private domain.
"Perhaps you will fare better." The airiness of her words does not hide the worried set of her shoulders, or spite dripping from her eyes as the princess turns back to him. She leaves with only a nod.
Her departure is wrapped in the barest civility, and Gunther responds by bowing, even if she refuses to look back. The royal family is blessed with a sister so devoted to preserving their happiness. All the same, Gunther prays for the unfortunate soul that manages to aggravate her dangerous mood; more than one fledgling member of the aristocracy has been sent home with broken bones for daring to antagonize her siblings.
Trepidation buried, Gunther sets the meal aside and announces his presence with a knock. The scratching stops and the knight seizes his opportunity.
"Your Highness… Corrin… There is stew outside your door, if it is of interest to you." Silence answers, so he continues in a softened tone. "I know you have no desire to speak of what transpired, but it is unbecoming of a prince to cause undue worry in those close to him, least of all his family."
He waits a moment longer, for what he cannot say. Not a sound emerges into the darkened hall and the glow at his feet remains untouched. Hoping for an invitation is a foolish endeavor, even mere acknowledgement seems out of the question; no one is permitted into the prince's room, without his assent, outside of his personal servants or the king. So Gunther's heart jumps when a shadow falls over his feet.
The door issues a creak and he cannot decide between turning away or standing firm. Gunther holds his breath when a single red eye peers through the gap between wood and stone. Corrin stares and Gunther can feel each awkward second that expires like wax dripping from a dying candle. His gaze momentarily wanders past the boy, taking in the corner of a desk neatly stacked with books. A quiet sigh pulls his attention back.
"Thank you," Corrin mumbles.
Gunther's mouth parts slightly when the door swings wide. Not one desk but two are laden with books of every size and shape, meticulously arranged into pillars from largest at the base to smallest at the top; a part of him suspects they are also organized according to subject. Maps of various sizes hang along the wall, while some are spread across the desks, corners pinned down with yet more tomes. It seems more appropriate to label the prince's refuge a study than a room.
Corrin holds out his hands and Gunther composes himself before collecting the tray at their feet. The meal passes from one to the other, only a soft rattle announcing its delivery. His ward withdraws to deposit the silver plate and Gunther waits in the open doorway, curiosity pushing him forward while uncertainty weighs him down. Corrin resolves the conflict by resuming his position over the threshold. The prince holds himself completely still, back so straight it could put a quarterstaff to shame, and guards his thoughts with a blank expression.
"Thank you," he repeats. The words are cold and sharp, and cut like a hidden blade.
The door shuts, the child is gone.
As Gunther sits on his own bed, candlelight flickering from a nightstand, he stares into a steel pommel. His distorted reflection stares back, frown stretched impossibly wide. He does not belong in the capital; the walls of Castle Krakenberg are stifling for a weathered knight with more wrinkles than scars. He has slain more men than any has a right to claim, set foot on more battlefields than most soldiers will ever see, and pledged his sword to Nohrian sovereigns remembered only in textbooks.
His life belongs to Nohr, but not his heart.
Gunther cannot change the past; his love will remain buried on a lonely hill, and Corrin will always carry scars unseen.
He cannot return the prince his stolen childhood, but Gunther can protect his future.
Running fingers through hair more grey than black, Gunther leans over to blow out the only light.
The prince has learned his lessons well, not a moment wasted, every motion with purpose and every act calculated. If the murmurs among idle guards are to be believed, Corrin has become quite the impressive competitor. Victories are few and far between for the prince, but he never fails to leave his opponents more than a little sore. Many eager volunteers, the vast majority unfamiliar with His Highness' capabilities, walk away nursing swollen limbs and bruised egos.
Yet in spite of his own fatigue, Corrin calls for more, a command that rouses an unpleasant tightness in Gunther's chest. The prince draws breath like a man strangled, fingers curling tightly around his waster in much the same way a dying soldier grips their sword, and ugly splotches of purple and green peek behind the edge of his sleeves. He is trying to kill himself, or at the very least making a valiant effort.
Before another guard can set foot in the ring of spectators, Gunther steps forward. He scoops up the wooden sword inviting potential combatants from the ground and tests its weight. Corrin stares at him in mild curiosity, rising on unsteady legs.
It is a miracle to have endured for so long, but stubborn defiance in the prince's red eyes demand he continue. It is not the first time Gunther has witnessed his ward's hunger twisted to obsessive lengths, and it does not sit well with him. Something is pushing the prince, whether by carrot or stick, to test the limits of his constitution.
One step at a time, he circles Corrin. Gunther searches for an opening, an easy feat considering the prince's state. But ending the fight too soon could only draw ire, so he waits as one foot slides past the other. His Highness knows this game and follows Gunther's lead.
They stalk one another with careful strides, eyes firmly locked. To his credit, Corrin does not stumble, but his quivering legs can only last so long before they give out. An inevitability Gunther baits.
Corrin lunges, but not on his own terms. His exhaustion prompts action before it forces him to forfeit, and Gunther capitalizes on that desperation. He dances just beyond the prince's range, swiping the sloppy strike aside. One hand drops from his weapon to lock around Corrin's wrists and pulls him up. Momentum briefly holds the prince aloft before Gunther hooks a foot behind his knee and throws him to the ground.
Their exchange ends in the span of a breath.
"If you would like another match, it will be done with me."
The guards hear Gunther's unspoken suggestion and quietly disperse, leaving knight and prince alone in a field of dirt.
Corrin seems almost contrite when he finally manages to face him. "That . . ." he groans, "will not be necessary."
Gunther immediately calls for a servant and staff, but the prince waves them off. He wants to endure the pain, to build a tolerance that only comes from experience.
"You'll barely manage to leave your bed after four days of rest," he says.
Corrin simply nods.
He's on his feet in two.
Seasons change, the days roll by, and Gunther's bones creak a little louder.
Harvests yield unsettlingly poor numbers. The meager successes of struggling farmers are devoured quickly as many families cry out for more. Prices within the capital begin to slowly rise, and Gunther notices merchants holding their coins with an uncommon reverence. Bandits crawl from their holes in the wilderness to bleed already taxed citizens dry. Most disturbing though are rumors of border disputes intensifying between Nohr and the neighboring Hoshido.
Skirmishes erupt along the Infinite Chasm, though few details make it so deep into Nohr. Whispers reach Gunther's ears of mountain demons and white banners painted with the blood of fallen soldiers. Missives find their way into his hands that recount Hoshidon pirates skirting along the edge of trade routes in the south.
The clouds above Nohr twist under the agonizing touch of lighting, and Gunther fears a storm the people have not known for generations.
Now more than ever will the people look to the royal family for protection, and it is there his hope stands strong.
His mentoring of the young prince is deemed a success. Though slight of figure, likely a product of his confinement to the capital's depths, Corrin fights with precision and control. His motions are tight, efficient, and quick, making the most of any opportunity. Every spar is a testament to refined form that uplifts Gunther's wilting pride; his ward has grown, the lessons left can only be taught by experience.
It is with some reservation that he concedes a portion of the prince's time to other matters of education. Their morning exercises are left mostly intact, but it is a shadow of the time once shared.
The prince is passed from one tutor after another, territories, genealogy, and battlefield tactics are crammed alike into his skull. Most importantly, Corrin's schooling places him in the king's shadow. Evenings are spent in His Majesty's presence, whether it be commandeering the library or withdrawing to the king's private study.
While not entirely aware of each meetings' agenda, Gunther collects the evidence left behind; an unfinished game of chess waiting beside the fireplace, books split open like gutted fish, and maps, so very many maps of every size. It is all too tame for the king he knows to engage in quiet pastimes. Not since Her Majesty's passing has Garon even considered investing his attention outside of the country's well-being.
Gunther pokes and prods the prince as best he can without revealing his suspicions, but Corrin's casual explanations offer nothing conclusive. The lightness of his tone is a small comfort at least. Gunther knows the youth is starved for attention from the king. To say the prince is pleased would not do his satisfaction justice.
It is by accident Gunther's solace turns to dread.
As winter wraps the land in a chilling embrace, outdoor activities become less appealing, a circumstance Gunther adjusts to by raiding the castle's considerable volume of books. While the majority are dry works of historical or political significance, he does find some sources of considerable entertainment. Briol's tales of gallantry throughout the kingdom amuse him to no end; the knight's dedication to serving the people, despite his foolish mistakes, quite endearing. There are of course guilty pleasures he discovers with pleasant surprise, such as the Romance of Alyson and Elric.
Tale of chivalry in hand, Gunther stumbles on the king and Corrin engaged in soft debate, their silhouettes flickering as a fire burns.
Spread before them is a map, large and wide, pulled tight across a table. Small pegs of varying shape and color lie scattered over the chart in a hopeless mess- no, there is a distinct pattern. Gunther's eyes narrow as formations take shape. Cavalry, archers, mages, are all represented by wood pieces painted black or red.
The king catches his eye, offering a smile. "Looking to retire here for the evening?"
Though giant by most standards, Gunther's attention is not drawn to His Majesty formidable presence, but Corrin. The prince is pensive, a knuckle pressed softly against his lips, as he scans the mock battle. Gunther blinks and looks back to the king.
"Not at all," he replies. "I was only returning the book I had borrowed."
"Well, you're more than welcome to; we've nearly finished here."
Gunther observes his ward's actions with fleeting glances as he replaces the pilfered tome. Pale hands hop from point to point, pegs shift to new positions while others drop into a shallow tray. He picks up the low rumble of Garon's voice responding to Corrin's actions, and the prince's cool voice answers in turn. More pieces scrape along parchment, and when Gunther's eyes find the map again it is more black than red.
The king asks a question that causes Corrin to shake his head. In one sweeping motion, the prince pushes every red piece aside.
His Majesty's laugh booms unexpectedly through the library and nods, approval clear in his expression. A genuine smile spreads across Corrin's face at the reaction.
Gunther leaves quietly before either remembers his presence.
The path to his quarters is cold and empty, but his ward's gaze haunts him every step of the way. Gunther knows that hunger, that insatiable need. The prince has always held within him an exceptional persistence, a refusal to accept anything less than his utmost potential. But the way he gazes at images of the continent . . .
He drinks in the world like blood from a wound that pools in his eyes.
From imprisonment to princedom, Corrin has been confronted with expectations. The king expects him to fight with skill, to carry himself with dignity, to command the respect of his peers. Now Garon seeks to turn the prince's hunger towards conquest, and like an obedient dog he has been trained to be, Corrin will pursue it with restless zeal.
Gunther will be damned before he sees his prince molded into a tyrant.
He has one final lesson to teach.
Corrin suppresses a shiver as snowflakes dance over his cheek. The morning air burns his lungs, deadens his fingers, and bites his ears. It is wretched, and cold, and most unpleasant, particularly after leaving the warmth of his bed mere minutes ago. It takes every nerve not to pin his sword beneath an arm and breathe into chilled hands.
Gunther stands in the snow as if the summer sun is bearing down on his shoulders.
The old man is placid as ever. Corrin buries his frustrations and presses his lips together. If Gunther can endure the cold without complaint then so can he. Perhaps not quite so easily, but that can be overcome in time. Corrin plants his feet and waits.
"Why do you fight?"
The question is unexpected, and a puff of air lifts from his lips while words are caught in his throat. Everyone fights for something, whether it be money, power, love, hate, or violence for its own sake; the reasons are endless as the people who claim them for justification. Corrin suspects the correct answer is not so obvious.
What reason did he have to fight? Because it was demanded of him? Because it is expected of a prince? Was it a question of loyalty?
"I fight for Nohr," he answers.
Gunther says nothing, but he seems to sink under the weight of his coat.
The attack is swift, slicing through the air towards his shoulder. Corrin brings his own weapon up in time to deflect the blow. Needles dig into his hands when the impact rolls up his wooden blade. He barely has time to blink as Gunther's next strike slides along his throat.
"That is who you fight for, not why." Gunther pulls back slowly, resuming his stance a small distance away. "Why do you fight?"
Not a wrong answer, but not the right answer either. Corrin reconsiders the possibilities and works some life back into his fingers. Cold is seeping into his boots, though with any luck it might numb his blisters. It frees his mind, if only a little.
Why did he fight? To survive. If he does not fight, then who will fight on his behalf? Other men? Given time even the greatest army can be destroyed. The future is secure by his hands alone.
"I fight to live."
Gunther's next strike is no less quick, but Corrin is prepared to match it blow for blow. Their weapons clack together and come apart like lightning, the gently falling snow their only witness. Then his mentor takes an unexpected twist that forces him into an uncomfortable stance. Wood presses heavily against his ribs.
"Everyone dies," Gunther says. "Fighting only to live is a losing battle from the outset."
Rather depressing, but he grasps the logic. As Gunther settles in place to launch another assault, Corrin blows warm air over his fingers. What reason did he have to fight? To protect what is worth preserving; Elise, Leo, Camilla, Xander.
Family.
"I fight for my family," he says.
It is difficult to see, but Corrin is certain the corners of Gunther's lips rise ever so slightly. The flash of wood sweeping towards his chest is far easier to detect. He glides left and his mentor follows. They spin in a world of grey and white, weapons whistling through frigid wind. Each strike is answered with a counterstrike or swift movement of feet that carries them from danger but never to victory.
Try as he might, Corrin knows he cannot win. His arms are buzzing at the repeated cost of staving off focused attacks and his feet slip at a lack of sensation. A smack to his leg sends shocks rolling up his side. His weapon is knocked away. On one knee, he faces Gunther.
The sword comes down, but not to deliver the killing blow. Instead, his mentor brings the point against the ground and kneels, mirroring him. Corrin's eyes wander over a face divided into uneven sections by scars longer than his own fingers. Vapor puffs from a rigid nose, and he wonders if the bump near its top is natural or the product of a fearsome collision. Age has pulled Gunther's lips into a permanent frown. For reasons he cannot fathom, Corrin wishes he could make him smile.
"We fight so others don't have to," he whispers. "As knights, as kings, our duty is to defend those who entrust us with the power to rule. Our titles are a privilege, not a reward."
Gunther extends his free arm and Corrin takes hold. The old knight helps him to his feet.
They leave behind the cold, crushing winter, going their separate ways once within the castle walls. Corrin retreats to his room where a pleasant fire occasionally crackles and makes a note to thank Jakob for his consideration. Collecting his slippers, he moves closer to the source of heat, settling in a small chair. Carefully, he peels off his boots. He winces once or twice and lets out a pleased sigh when both feet are free. Replacing them with slippers, Corrin pushes himself deeper into the cushion of his seat.
Leaning over an armrest, he looks at his desk stacked with books and crowded with maps. The world is spread before him like an offering, a promise. It could belong to Nohr, the bounty of untapped soil and room to grow. The cost is what troubles him. Everyone dies. But what is a reasonable exchange, how many lives is prosperity worth?
Waves of heat gently roll over Corrin, his eyes beginning to droop under their caress. Just as slumber finds him, a series of frantic knocks jolt him from his reprieve.
"It's snowing! Big brother, oh big brother, you have to come out! It's nearly breakfast and no one has bothered getting out of bed. I don't understand how anyone can think to sleep at a time like this!"
It is common knowledge within Krakenberg that only two things precede a thunderous commotion: lightning and Elise. And of those two, one hardly gives its victims time to react, though someday Elise might actually slow down enough to give it a chance.
Despite his drowsy disposition, Corrin can clearly see in his mind's eye Elise bouncing on the balls of her feet just outside his door.
"Is there truly no other that can provide an escort? This does not speak well of your social skills, sweet sister."
"Oh, hush," she snaps. "Don't be so mean! You know how Camilla is about her beauty sleep, and Leo is being a fussy baby, complaining about how cold the floor is, or that I'll just dump snow down his coat."
Stifling a groan, Corrin begrudgingly reaches for his boots. "Very well . . ."
It is a wonder his door is not thrown from its hinges as Elise squeals in unbridled joy. Despite his fatigue, he musters a small smile, for her sake.
The world can wait.