I woke up this morning experiencing a variety of sensations, but feeling rather hollow in spite of them all. It's a disjointed condition which I've been under the pall of more frequently lately, especially when I'm not around the Eagles.
As I rouse myself, the most prominent and immediate sensation that I can feel is the pressure of two, firm, bouncy spheres pushing into my back. The second is a regular, warm, cyclical breeze of hot air cascading down the back of my neck. I also feel what must be an arm wrapped around my chest. A delicate hand also appears to be wedged between my neck and my cheek.
I start to piece together the culprit behind these sensations rather quickly once taking them all into stock. It's clearly Hilda. But following this discovery, a number of questions begin to rattle around in my head, all noisily competing for prominence.
How did we get into this position?
Why is she doing this?
And most pressingly:
What am I going to tell Holst?
Quickly opening my eyelids and examining myself, I note that I'm fully clothed. Craning my neck to inspect Hilda, who in spite of just wearing the low-cut, silken, pink negligee – is as close to fully clothed as one can expect under the circumstances. Her ample, pushed up cleavage would protest this, but I was really never much for debate. I do recall that she had slipped into that revealing sleepwear yesterday evening following her miserable experience with Claude.
Did she take the Silphium, I wonder? No– that was not my place to ask or to know.
As follow-up questions of a moral and ethical nature fire through my head, I close my eyes again in an effort to chase them away.
Could I be overreacting? This is rather strange in itself, because I rarely overreact. Or react at all, really.
I shouldn't be surprised, though. I've seen this sort of thing before.
In fact, it seems rather natural to seek out comfort in someone else after emotional trauma of some kind. I've seen it enough. Sometimes, I'd see entire families or clans of mercenaries on the Throat. Husbands, wives, children, relatives, et cetera. When one of those people in those close-knit bands died, they'd seek out the nearest physical succor they could find. Hilda was probably experiencing that trauma on a lesser scale.
It was a natural thing to feel those emotions, I suppose.
And I'm probably quite unnatural for not feeling them, even though I want to, I think.
Naturally, it's not hard to imagine that His Deceitfulness, for example, would be quite envious of this position I find myself in right now, given that he was motivated enough to have sexual relations with her the night before. But here I lay, feeling nothing at all from this encounter. There are broader strokes of knowledge, sure – I'd be sad to know Hilda came to harm, and her safety is something I care about in a parochial sense, not even counting my old comradeship with her brother – but nothing about this embrace right now feels meaningful to me. And I feel like it maybe should, and that there is something deeply wrong with me.
This isn't the first time I've been this physically close to a woman, either. The Dagdan girl, after pinning that carnation on my cloak, brought her face very close to mine – eyes alight in drunken passion. I retreated before our faces came too close. Sensing rejection, she slipped away into the evening as my father stared at me with an expression of regret seeping into every furrow and wrinkle in his face. As I learned recently, she died a week later.
It's a silly thought – but would Hilda die too if I pried myself away like this?
Regardless, I claim back my vision and find myself reflexively attempting to slip free of her hold. Eventually, I'm able to pry myself loose from her iron grip around my chest and slip out of the tent. I walk over to check my own, and after I unbutton the front, I notice that Claude is drooling on pillow. Additionally, Hubert has already roused, leaving an empty sleeping bag behind.
It occurs to me at first to either try and find Hubert, or cook breakfast for the two sleeping Deer in an effort to rouse them. Neither of those choices two end up being as appealing as a third option that creeps to the back of my head, which is to immediately head off and inspect the canyon on my own.
"I agree. I sense a strange energy emanating from that place." Sothis chimes in.
"Is that the first time we've agreed on anything?" I ask.
"It certainly does feel like that, does it not? Whatever will I do with you…"
Reconnaissance is chief among the tasks necessary for making war properly – at least, that's my opinion, anyway. That opinion is why I ceaselessly volunteered for scouting parties when fighting with my father under Holst's command. Today is no different, and in the wake of my general lifestyle change in the past few weeks – proves rather comforting. As I clear past the woods and towards the barren, rocky canyon, I bring myself low to the ground, chin meeting the dirt and crawl along prone to a small rocky outcropping offering an excellent view of the ground below. As the forest recedes, the red sand begins. In that sense, it reminds me of the Throat.
My initial estimate is that Zanado seems better suited for a last stand of brave warriors, rather than as a base of operations for a bandit gang like this. Reaching for my journal, I scribble a few notes down regarding the terrain:
The Canyon appears to resemble an impact crater rather than a natural valley dug by a river. Totally devoid of water or vegetation, I get a sense of deja vu while inspecting it further. I'm reminded in particular of the calderas that dot the entrance to Almyra, which were rumored to be left by Dragons thousands upon thousands of years before.
They're quite different from the canyons further up the locket, which are deep, narrow, and give the impression of being dug in by ancient, long-lost riverways.
The Almyran calderas tend to all have a similar cut to them: one that mirrors that of the Red Canyon – deep fissures cutting into the ground around the perimeter of the feature, eventually softening and rising up steadily towards a flattened "peak" in the center of the terrain. That peak appears to be where the bandits themselves are holed up.
It'd be a fine defensive position if we weren't so eminently asking to be besieged.
In that sense, it reminds me of Garegg Mach – if Garegg Mach were built from leather tents instead of masoned stone.
Reaching for a pair of field spectacles under my breastplate, I decide to take a closer look at the camp itself. Before applying the magnifying glasses to my face, I check my 9-o-clock, 3-o-clock and 6-o-clock positions. Field spectacles are always a risky affair because the optics of the lenses often causes you to lose peripheral vision.
After focusing in on the camp, I can see that it is indeed occupied. About fifty ratty-looking bandits are milling about the site, poking at morning campfires and preparing what looks like typical breakfast of gruel.
What draws my attention next is a sudden flash and appearance of a rather unique individual. Materializing right next to the bandit leader from Remire, this visitor cuts a rather comical figure even when next to the balding bandit king.
Where to begin? The massive red scythe jutting out from the back of the helmet? A Dramatist's mask resting on the face – painted red of course. Quarter-plate shoulder guards with red frills descending from them?
Absolutely cringeworthy.
The campiness of the whole affair is increased when I add another magnifying glass to the lens and realize that there are little white flames embroidered on each of the frills. Topping it all off is a massive black leather cape with – could one have guessed otherwise – a red satin lining and what look like red-painted pheasant feathers sticking out from the top of the cloak.
If you showed this getup to Lysithea in the dead of night, I doubt she'd even find it a convincing demon.
Even more absurd is the bandit leader prostrating in front of this clown.
Reflexively, I slide closer to the canyon walls in an attempt to pick up echoes bouncing off the massive cliff faces. Little trick I picked up on the Throat – while it's hard to catch everything that's said, one will often gather enough. It turns out that I don't even need to, as the two are quite audibly screaming at each other anyway.
"…We're getting starved out here! You and I had a deal, remember?! All I was told was to kill as many noble pipsqueaks as possible! No one said anything about the Knights of damned Seiros being on our trail! " The bandit leader yells.
Fire-Frill Feather Figure shakes its head.
"You have proven yourself truly worthless… Distracted by something so trivial! I had hoped you would achieve your goal despite the setback. But… Now, a child of the knights' former captain is in play. He will doubtlessly overcome the rest of your troop like he did two weeks ago."
I suppose I should've expected to have an undetectable gender. The voice sounds like a toddler's attempt at an adult-sounding-voice coming through a conch shell.
"Hey! This isn't what I agreed to!"
"Hiring a mercenary as a professor… What was that woman thinking…?!"
Fire-Frill Feather Figure seems to know about my existence. Curious.
"Are you listening to me?! How do we finish this?!" The bandit leader gripes.
"I needed you to act decisively in order to finish the task I gave you. You failed, so I am forced to use you as bait, now."
This tidbit of information is certainly more interesting. The bandits as diversionary forces would be an excellent way to trap the besieging force inside the canyon on the day of the attack, and in effect make them the besieged. All they would need to do is…
"...Bait? What in the fuck?"
"-Metodey."
A tall, wiry – almost sickly looking figure warps into view next to Fire-Frill Feather Figure. Hair cut in a parted bowl, I notice that he is wearing a red cloak with the insignia of a white rose embroidered in the front. He strikes me as another noble of some stripe.
"...You've summoned me to rescue this nuisance, Your–?"
Metodey's summoner strikes the fellow across the face with the handle of its silver axe.
"Silence! Before you commit grave dishonor to yourself and your master in front of this Brigand."
"Of course…"
"Introduce yourself, and only yourself."
He nods and turns back to the bandit leader.
"Sir Guillame Metodey, Captain of the Company of the Rose – I look forward to watching you suffer…!"
The bandit leader gulps audibly.
"I-Is this guy gonna help us or not?"
"Captain Metodey will assist you in completing your mission – whether you survive it has become of secondary importance. Perhaps you will be able to redeem yourself." The Feathered one utters.
This brings the bandit leader right back to his previous intensity.
"So what, you're just gonna leave us here to starve until the brats show up again? What kind of plan is that?!"
"I see that there are about fifty of you. I would suggest rationing your supplies wisely. Since you are their leader, I will leave such responsibility to you."
Did it ever occur to anyone here to just send foraging parties out? Two or three hunters could easily slip through a siege line. It happened all the damn time when we were fighting Almyra.
And with that, Fire-Frill Feather Figure disappears in a wall of warp magic.
"Hey– that's not good enough–!"
Desperation creeps into the bandit's voice. In a few weeks' time, this fellow will be an easy mark for my blade if that mental state ends up dominating his psyche.
Metodey, perhaps realizing the same thing that I do, begins to cackle. It's an intriguing sound. This captain seems to enjoy the plight of others, that much is clear... But I suspect that such enjoyment isn't purely sadistic. Somewhere below that, as his laugh reverberates across the canyon walls, I suspect he's already experienced what this bandit leader shortly will. Failure of a fatal variety. A question strikes me at that moment: can a laugh like that come forth from a place of twisted empathy, as well?
"If you live, you'll let me know what flesh tastes like, won't you? I've always been curious!" he asks before disappearing in a warp of his own.
As the bandit leader throws a tantrum, I opt to slip away. I've seen enough.
I return to the campsite and take note that Claude and Hilda are still fast asleep. Hubert is still nowhere to be found. I resolved to set out to find him after breakfast, but he surprises me by appearing out of the woods shortly after I start cooking today's round of camp-cakes.
"Professor." He grunts in acknowledgement as he sits by the fire. I notice that he's only wearing his shirtsleeves tucked into his academy pants.
"Hubert." I reply.
"Would you care to explain how von Riegan ended up in your sleeping bag last night, or should I be left to draw my own conclusions?"
I leave Hubert to stew in his question for a few moments while I try to formulate a response that is neither too generous to Claude nor too revealing – for Hilda's sake. I did promise her to keep the details to a minimum, after all.
"There was a socially compromising situation."
Hubert smirked ever so slightly at me re-use of his term from a week ago.
"...This occurred after I had retired for the evening, I take it?"
I nod.
"And you separated them?" he asked.
I nod again.
"...Then how did you end up having the younger Goneril splayed all over you this morning, precisely?"
He must have opted to check Claude and Hilda's tent when he realized that von Riegan was his new tentmate. That also means that Hilda probably decided she wanted to go spooning shortly after I fell asleep.
"I have no idea." I say with a shrug.
Hubert holds my gaze for a time, judging the evidence and my testimony in magisterial silence.
"...Against my better judgment, I'm willing to accept your side of events – for now… But be warned that gallivanting with other female students like that will not win you any favors with Lady Edelgard."
I stare at him with the blankest expression I've ever been able to muster.
"...What?"
Hubert shakes his head.
"I refuse to recapitulate myself."
Flipping over one of the camp cakes in the skillet with my dagger, I return my attention to the food for a time. Hubert's gaze follows until he pipes up a few minutes later.
"Did you intend to go on reconnaissance this morning?"
I look up after flipping the other camp-cake.
"Done." I reply.
At this, his eyes narrowed.
"...Is that so? Did you see anything that may have caught your eye?"
I plate one of the camp-cakes and offer it to Hubert. He declines. I shrug and take a bite for myself, contemplating the tone in which Edelgard's retainer asked that question. Did he make his own advance into the valley, I wonder? Does he suspect that I'm working with them, perhaps – or…?
"You should check it out yourself." I suggest.
"You should answer my question, Professor."
Interesting that he's pressing on this. I tease out a reply for a time in between bites of the campcake.
"I find bandit defenses more interesting than bandits themselves."
This seems to satiate him.
"...And there are precious few of them at the moment, wouldn't you say?"
I suppose he's trying really signal that he reconnoitered the area as well.
"For now. As their situation becomes more desperate, they may start erecting them."
Hubert grants this.
"That is certainly a possibility... I suppose you've seen as much fighting on Fodlan's Throat?"
I shake my head.
"Not really. The Almyrans will take every opportunity they can to attack. Even if their odds don't favor an assault, they'll attempt to carry one."
"Did the Forlorn Hopes of Holst not take grand, gold-laden citadels of Almyra? That was the story offered to wanderlusting nobles in the halls of Enbarr."
Unaware of Holst's marketing efforts, I pondered his query for a time.
"We took the citadels to rob them of supplies, not to take land. There were never enough troops to hold the places we took."
The Marquis of Pickled Sausage and Beet Juice seems to find this extremely amusing.
"Ha…! The Ashen Demon, reduced to raiding? I suspect that they'll make a fine enemy for me to squash someday, then."
I raise an eyebrow at this statement, given how the Alliance is sitting squarely in between the Adrestia and Almyra?
"You plan on joining up with Holst…?"
Hubert squints at me.
"Don't be a fool. I have a role to play, something that must be quite unfamiliar to common folk like yourself. To fulfill that role means that everyone and everything must be assessed as an enemy. That could be from a remote place like Almyra, or as close as this very campfire. If there are challenges laid before Lady Edelgard's path en route to becoming Emperor, I will be ready to clear them."
As he says those words, I feel a very strange kinship with him. I realize he probably won't ever see my view of it, but I have no interest in denigrating that goal of his.
"She's fortunate to have you, Hubert."
Hubert smirks bitterly and shakes his head.
"I sensed that you were being quite genuine there, Professor. It's a pity that your sentiment is so wrong."
I offer him the second camp-cake in silence. He accepts it, his head falling as he does. It looks as if a deep stormcloud of shame has overtaken him.
"...If you prove your utility to Lady Edelgard, perhaps someday I shall endeavor to explain why the exact opposite is true."
Hilda and Claude eventually wake up and complete their surveys of the Red Canyon in rather short order, probably because they don't have the foggiest idea of what they're actually supposed to be doing. Claude's assessment of the enemy force was "they're there, and they look hungry". The second statement struck as pure projection given the knowledge that the bandits had already taken their breakfast, and that Claude hadn't eaten since sundown yesterday.
Let it be known that Claude ate his fill today. Hilda didn't bother taking one of the camp cakes, citing a sudden stomach ailment.
Although the breaking of camp took longer than expected because of my companions' inexperience, we were still on horseback by noontime. If all held, we'd be back at Garegg Mach by midnight thanks to the pony express station. The Arundel highway was a fine piece of stonework engineering, and it allowed for the mounts to break into a run at full gallop on a perfectly level mason platform.
At one point in the late afternoon, Claude brought his mount along mine.
"Yo, Teach."
I look over at him.
"Hildie's gonna invite you to the bar tonight, but would you mind if I asked a favor?"
Shrugging, I wait for him to continue.
"...I'm gonna try to apologize to her over a drink, I think. Mind if I ask you to politely decline?"
"Are you going to try to fuck her again?" I ask matter-of-factly.
The frankness of my question seems to take His Deceitfulness back a few paces. He digs his spurs into the horse's side to compensate.
"-Woah, Teach! Who do you think I am?"
I think of comparing him to Sylvain, but Sylvain claims to have quite a bit of stamina due to some form of elite, whole-body physical training known as "jelqing". I haven't the slightest idea of what it actually entails, but according to Sir Gautier, it is supposedly quite intensive. I suspect I'll never engage in an activity like that, but it's always interesting to hear about the results of people's workout regimens.
What I mean to conclude here is that Sylvain appears to have discipline. Comparing Claude to him would be extremely unfair to the former's efforts at self-improvement.
"I think you're you, Claude."
His Deceitfulness shakes his head, clearly at a loss for a witty riposte.
"Remind me to swing that back right at you next time you make an honest mistake…! But no, I don't have any plans of a romantic variety this evening."
"If you say so."
"Thanks, Teach. I appreciate it! How about I treat you to lunch tomorrow?"
I shake my head.
"I might have plans."
Claude winks.
"I get it. Edel's due back tomorrow, right?"
Edelgard is indeed due back tomorrow, but I don't have any plans with her, as I don't think she's due back until later in the day. At this point however, I'm starting to realize that the quickest way to shut Claude up is to just confirm what he thinks he knows, even if it's actually totally incorrect.
"Something like that."
"Aha! I knew my performance last night got you thinking!"
I shake my head.
"I'm not looking to get fired just yet."
"You know, Teach, if Seteth bounces you two, she can always just take you back to Adrestia as a consort. I heard that's what her mother was. Not a bad life, I bet."
Claude raises his eyebrows at me, expecting me to know what a consort is. I think whatever innuendo he's making is based on that knowledge that I don't actually have.
But he brings up a point of consideration – I suppose that's something I'd have to just accept someday – the students only attend the officer's academy for a single year. I figure this year is the only year I'm likely to be employed here, anyway – given Hanneman's grim assessment of my career prospects, and my frosty relationship with Seteth, the Academy's director.
It feels strange to know that the time I'm spending with the Eagles has such a firm, fixed date on its conclusion. For most of my life, days blended into weeks into months into years. I never found myself feeling betrayed by the fixed nature of time until very recently.
Even after knowing the kids for such a short time, I feel so incredibly close to them. And I've never really felt anything like that before in my entire life.
Perhaps going to Adrestia with her wouldn't be so bad?
But I'm not sure how I feel about the future. It seems like I've only just figured out that it exists as a concept.
Even so... since the twentieth of the Great Tree Moon, it seems eager to remind me of its presence.
And that's… frustrating? Is that the correct emotion to describe it as?
Really, I'm not sure how I feel about anything lately.
It's probably for the best that I don't.
