The snow-clad hills of northern Faerghus greets a sunrise. A golden glow lights up the blanket of clouds above, but beneath its lofty velvet, the air is grey as far as the eyes can see. A flurry of snow befalls the land. Under the sky's embrace is a forest, leaves shed from the passage of winter. The withered and dull forest is sparsely spaced, dotting along the base of the mounds and spiraling into the heart of a ravine. Between the two tallest mountains, the upright wooden carcasses stood ever closer and ever more numerous until it formed a mass of blackness from a distance, obscuring even the snow.
A little boy, no taller than a steel greatsword, tirelessly tugs his bag across the snow, feeling the snow sink and crunch under his every step. The snow reaches to his knees; its intense white is blinding. A piercing cold pricks his skin. His blue, furred hood protects his head, but the chilly winds seem to penetrate through. The wind howls and turns around him. He focuses solely on the snow-fallen ground, eyes never leaving the pale white in front of him. One, two, another step…He drags his feet forward. The sack isn't very heavy; there are only two or three training swords in it. Regardless, he realizes something slowly, and he grimaces. I haven't trained enough.
He shivers. He doesn't mind the sub-zero temperature as he had spent most of his life acquainting the cold. Faerghus lands were infertile and often frozen by the dreary winters. His family's land, the Fraldarius County, was often freezing in the harsh seasons, too. But the Gautier woods was on another level of intensity, where virtually nothing alive or breathing was in range. He grunts as the sack caught itself on a dead tree-root and he yanks it forcefully. Unexpectedly, his Crest activated and its insignia appears and floats in the air. A brilliant blue light spills onto the snow before fading away entirely. Felix stares in wonder and amazement, hoping that he will one day control the usage of the Crest. However, of more immediate attention is the sack, as the roots clang onto it so tightly that the bag ripped in two from the stress of the Crest-induced tug. The training swords, juxtaposed and strange, stuck out from the snow. He puts down the tattered cloth bag and scrambles to the swords, kneeling onto the snow to pick them up. Stupid Felix, he told himself. Big brother wouldn't be proud of you like this. You're too weak.
He works silently and quickly. His train of thought is interrupted by a distant wail, but he doesn't look up. He continued focusing on his task until a high-pitched shriek alarmed him. The screech seems far away.
A vivid image came to Felix: Ingrid's grandmother had read stories about monsters of the frozen lands. She shared numerous tales about young villagers who ventured too deep into the woods, where they would inevitably encounter some sort of demonic creature. The one that had left the deepest impression on Felix was the Wendigo. It was a beast crowned with bones, wearing ornaments of human corpses. It had ashen skin tightly wrapped against its bones, ribcage exposing its rotting flesh. It was a creature of greed that revels in others' suffering and misfortune.
She continued describing the creature: its monstrous sharp claws, ragged breath, and shaggy fur would be the last thing the unlucky villagers would see before they meet their end. At this point in the story, Ingrid would wrap herself tighter in the blankets, Sylvain would let out a quiet little "eeep!" and Dimitri would've refused to hear anymore. Felix would attempt to mentally block out as many details from the story as possible, but that's only because he was irritated at his friends. Glenn pointed out that Felix had sweaty palms after story-time (in his defense, the fireplace was really warm). The grandmother's voice was like radiant fireplaces too, aglow with hope, so she could not keep the mood intense for long. Eventually, she soothed the children and gave them adoring hugs.
"Children, the Wendigo exist only to cause others pain. It takes away what rightfully belongs to someone else," Ingrid's grandmother explained, "But there are no such ill creatures. There are no Wendigos…"
There are no Wendigos, he repeats. Fear is just a distraction from the task at hand.
A scream rings from the forest again, though weaker this time. Felix jerks his head towards the source, eyes squinting to try to see anything. The crisscrossing lumbers obscured any secrets the forest would hold. His heart pounds at an accelerating pace, and pure intuition compels him to chase the sound. He charges across the shattered plains of ice and snow, still holding onto the blades and the ragged cloth.
There are no monsters, there are no monsters…
Felix almost loses track of the noise. The wind howls into his ear, and the sound is suddenly nothing more than a whimper. He was getting closer; he's sure of it. His experience in the wild tells him that intuition is of paramount significance, and it was intuition that has guided him so far. He remembers holding a sword ever since he could walk. His brother, Glenn, would often bring him out on hiking trips up the frigid highlands, often staying there for days...of course, after convincing Rodrigue that they had an adequate amount of everything.
He tries to recall the sound of the creature before realizing that the call of the creature is completely gone. In retrospect, the creature sounded almost human-like. Felix's mind buzzes in confusion, but he is immediately taken to a circular pit that grabbed his interest. Tall, withering trees encircle and overlook the hole, which makes its location seem like it was deliberately chosen to be here. Stacks of stones surrounded the pit.
It's an old well, he thought. Felix drops the sack next to an old tree. There's no one living in this Goddess-forsaken forest.
Then a sob came out of the well, startling Felix. Felix inches close but dares not to look. Holding a training sword in hand, he readies himself should anything jump out. Felix crouches next to the well, listening to the soft murmurs coming from within. It pauses in unnatural intervals with chattering teeth. "M-Miklan…you can bring me o-out now…"
"Sylvain?" Felix asks, flabbergasted. Out of all the possible people, he cannot believe that his friend was in the middle of the mountains. Sylvain would normally be tending horses in a random stable, frolicking in flowery plains, or staying over at House Galatea's place yet again, but not in a deserted well of the brumal woods. Worried, Felix held his practice blade tight and approached the pit. The snow crunches under his boots, eerily resounding amongst the trees.
"Miklan, I c-can hear you…I'm c-cold. I want t-to sleep now. Let's g-go home…"
Freaking Miklan. Felix's face curls in disgust at that name. Miklan was Sylvain's older brother, but Felix never liked him. He called Felix names like little Fraldarius and Glenn used to remark how Miklan would shove him with "the biggest fucking smirk" (as he phrased it) when they pass each other by in the Fraldarius manor, where Miklan was the guest. He once threatened Felix, Ingrid, and Dimitri to stay out of his way and to stop "spoiling the puny brat that is Sylvain."
The look of Miklan's grin after that statement has never left Felix.
Felix says nothing and peers over the walls of the well. Sylvain huddled and curled up into a ball, shivering and muttering something so susurrant that it was barely audible. The water reaches only to his ankle, adorned with pieces of floating ice. Sylvain was sitting with his arm covering his head and was partially submerged in the freezing depths. Part of his fiery orange hair, which Felix presumes was once wet, had crystallized into ice. Frost appeared on his eyelashes. The very sight burns into Felix's mind, filling him with worry.
"F-Felix?"
"Don't sleep now, Sylvain!" Felix calls out, earning a weak nod from Sylvain.
Felix looks at the materials he has on hand. Think, Felix berated, think! Sylvain's in trouble. You can't be useless now. Each wooden training sword was too dull and worn from over-usage, and they were never sharpened and never meant to slice. They would be too short to reach Sylvain. He quickly tests a few ideas in his head. He thought about dropping the swords—no, perhaps connecting the swords—wait, maybe the cloth, if—Felix turned his attention to the sack. He rushed to the sack and tried rending it into a precise, single long strip. His fingers start working meticulously, finding any weak spots within the fabric. He managed to find a hole between two intersections and tugged on it. Worry rushes him, but the stubborn fibers refuse to untangle.
Come on, stubborn bag! Felix yanks the rope to find the hole only a little wider than before. Anger began fuming within him and he hissed under his breath, his eyes now wet with worry. A single teardrop rolled down his cheek and, soon enough, he began sniffling. The thought of losing Sylvain here and now seems suddenly too close instead of a faraway event, like they've always thought death would be.
Felix continues to pull at the seams until in a fit of anger, he takes his training sword and pin the piece onto the ground, grasping the folds between his fingers and tearing it with all his strength. A crisp sound of fabric ripping caught his attention.
Immediately Felix checked the bag, which by the grace of the Goddess and immeasurable luck, was torn into only two separate pieces instead of shreds and tatters. He ties the fabric together, forming a sturdy rope. He knots it a few more times to give Sylvain the grip to climb. Grunting, Felix clears a patch of the ground near the well of the snow, exposing its earthen interior. He stabs one of the training swords onto the dirt, which did not penetrate far. His hands grip onto the sword's hilt tighter, twisting it from time to time while pushing it downwards. The dirt below loosened and the sword inched in until it was halfway engulfed by the earth.
"Hang on, I'm almost done!"
Felix stomps on the dirt to properly submerge his sword, his boots getting stuck in the mud. Only now did he notice the sharp, icy trail that pricks his cheeks, and he wipes the tears away with his thick sleeves. He secures the rope around the sword, praying to Sothis that it would be long enough for Sylvain to reach.
Felix looks into the well and feels a moment of relief when Sylvain's hand reaches the rope. He instructs, "Climb up!"
Sylvain clutches onto the rope slowly, his movements subtle and slow. From the other end of the rope, Felix feels him shivering.
"F-Felix, I can't..." Sylvain holds on tightly with his hands and legs, but he does not move.
"Then don't let go!" Felix cries, trying to wrestle the rope against the weight of Sylvain. He steadies his feet into the ground as he pulls Sylvain, imagining this scene to be the battle between Glenn and a mighty fish they've caught during one trip. Glenn's brow furrowed as the fishing rod bent and arched like a bow from the sheer force of the fish. Sweat dripped off Glenn's face, and little Felix waited in anticipation of his eventual victory. Then, with one grand reel, the fish soars into the air.
Yet Sylvain has not budged. Felix's meddling with the rope sends vibrations down the cord, but Sylvain remains exactly where he was. His attempts become increasingly frantic when he thinks of his brother again, then the peril Sylvain is in. Soon, Sylvain's vow from two nights ago repeated in his head. "Felix, I promise to stick together until we die together. You too?"
"Sylvain—" he mutters, tugging the ropes. A sob hitched from his throat.
"you can't—" his voice cracks and his fingers are numb and reddened.
"—leave me behind!"
A familiar blue light washes over Felix as he tumbles backward, collapsing onto the snow. As he falls backward, he sees the form of Sylvain and the rope being flung up, then falling onto the earth with the grace of an injured wyvern. The insignia of the Crest of Fraldarius appeared as quickly as it disappeared, leaving Felix, who, for the first time, did not stop and marvel at the sight of his Crest.
He embraced Sylvain tightly and refused to let him go. Removing his wet clothing and wrapping him in his own jacket, Felix then immediately felt the biting cold pierce his skin. Through gritted teeth, he speaks in a falsely confident tone, "I'll try to bring us back..."
Felix lifts Sylvain and carries him on his back, letting the weight of the older boy sink onto him. He takes a moment to steady himself, shifting Sylvain's weight to a balancing point. Preserving body heat is going to be a challenge; he doubts his words from a moment prior and fear twists in his guts.
With great uncertainty, Felix begins to trek into the snow.
When guards of Gautier go out for their daily patrol, the sun is just overhead. As usual, the horses are well-fed and the riders are clad in the thickest and warmest clothing. Before they head out to guard the northern woods, they bring their finest lances and the most filling snacks, such as bread. One could say that these guards are some of the most prepared in Fódlan. This is all because of their captain, who had survived multiple ambushes from the skilled assassins of Sreng, who seek to restore their annexed land. She would remind her men that in the wild, one can never expect what could happen: whether that be encountering the Wind Caller, or finding heaps of gold hidden amongst the trees. Then, everyone would laugh it off, and the captain would bring along a few more guards, a mix of veterans and new recruits.
They head towards the forest on the healthiest horses they had. The captain and the soldiers are on duty, and they are vigilant for anything that may stand in their way.
However, they did not expect to find the Margrave's heir and Duke Fraldarius' second son lying in the snow. Their little heir had collapsed atop of his best friend. The captain spots the two from a distance with her eagle-sharp eyes and raises a hand to signal the others to stop. With the pull of reigns and the neighing of horses, the group slows, and their captain dismounts her steed.
She turns the Gautier heir over, noticing how chilling to the touch he is. Concerned, she brings her head closer to his chest. He is still alive, although both his breathing and heartbeat are slow.
"Change of plans," she announces, "We're going back to the manor."