There's no such thing as a quick retreat from the field of battle.
That was one of the first lessons I learned when serving in my father's company. Multiple forays across the Locket and into Almyra have taught me that there's no way to pull back in good order from any campaign that isn't exceptionally fraught and time-consuming. The alternative to a slow, organized retreat of course… is a rapid, disorganized rout, or to stay behind and die. I had no interest in teaching the Eagles either of those lessons, even though such an experience that illustrated both was fresh in my mind. Needless to say, I wasn't eager to review it.
I should begin by noting that Holst's habit of relentlessly attacking the Almyrans with ever-thinning numbers had alienated a good portion of my father's company, and he had resolved to sit out the next campaign with some of the dissenters – putting them to work on improving the defenses along the Locket. This was technically the sole purview of Holst's Marshal-ship – a fact which many of his more reticent subordinates were always quick to remind him of. Holst's principal disagreement with these fellows was the manner in which one could best to defend the Locket. In spite of his superior defensive position and tight supply lines – the Goneril preferred to take the offensive. These constant forays into Almyra actually went explicitly against the consent and advice of the other Alliance Lords, however – and this was beginning to invite consequences.
Apparently, this – along with other reasons that I cannot recall – was a contributing factor in the assorted nobility of Leicester choosing Claude to inherit the title of Grand Duke instead of my erstwhile employer. Not that I knew of Claude at the time, of course – and I am thankful for the past 20 years of naivete. Frankly, I can't wrap my head around politics enough to really understand or care, but… considering all His Deceitfulness seemed only to be good at scheming and running away – I'm forced to question the wisdom and motivation of the Alliance nobility in this regard.
But that's politics, and I prefer tactics.
Offering command of a somewhat reduced company to me, my father then grimaced when I accepted the brevet promotion without a word. His advice to me at that moment was to try to return with a few of our comrades. I shrugged in response to this.
On the night before we were to begin the campaign, Hilda's Brother assembled the various commanders in his headquarters tent – my first time at such a meeting – and pointed at the largest and most detailed map of Almyra that I had ever seen. Tapping his glowing-axe-thing on a point on the map where a star resided, the attention of all the mercenary captains – including my own, followed.
That star indicated the city of Apameia, capital of our enemy – constructed on a series of islands in the delta of the Derna River. It is supposedly a lush, temperate, and cosmopolitan metropolis, featuring the largest bazaar on the continent, along with royal gardens connected by drawbridges, spanning a waterway that is twice the width of the River Myrddin. According to several Imperials who had visited on the "Baron Ochs diplomatic mission of 1171", it is effectively Enbarr, but bigger, and with palm trees. To take Apameia – or to merely even approach the banks of the Derna – would earn Holst a place in legend.
The issue, according to most of the warriors who joined Holst was not the city itself – Apameia had a world-renowned reputation for eschewing walls – but the 930 miles of desert in between the Locket and Apameia. That near-thousand miles of sunbaked sand was ringed with citadels built around oases, meaning that steady access to water necessitated conquest. Sieges in a desert being a tall order in even the best of circumstances – nature itself was considered to be a sufficient wall for Apameia during the past millennia.
The Almyrans, however, had not considered Holst in their calculus.
The Youngest Field Marshal in the history of Leicester rarely considered the possibility of Almyrans in his own grand schemes, though – so maybe that was tit for tat?
His glowing-axe-cum-pointer then moved towards the ring of desert citadels.
"Apameia is the goal, folks – as usual. But this time around… we're gonna approach it a little differently!"
As my employer said this, there was a great deal of groaning from the retinue captains of the various Alliance lords. The loudest groaner in particular was Knight-Captain Dandolo, who is responsible for the retinue of the Guildmaster of Leicester, a fellow who apparently looks after the political interest of the Alliance merchants.
Why merchants need to get involved with politics is beyond me, but I'm neither a merchant nor a politician.
"Instead of our usual tack, we're going to try approaching Apameia in three columns, taking three citadels at once, and then linking up at a concentration point on the First Derna Cataract…" Holst continues.
He then tapped three citadels in particular, going by the names of El-Alghelia, Cyrenicia, and Bardia. The first was a familiar name – I've liquidated its headquarters of officers many times before, and am even able to vividly recall particular bloodstains on the ebony floorboards. The oasis-fortresses also happened to be the closest to the Locket in proximity, and followed a direct diagonal route towards the Almyran capital.
Leicester's flag has flown high over El-Aghelia's ramparts at least eight times in the past five years. But each time that flag rises, it falls – usually because Holst is either summoned back to the Alliance due to policticking from Derdriu, or due to the Almyrans arriving in force from Apameia to take the fortress back.
There was a red arrow scribbled onto the map approaching El-Aghelia, and it was labeled with the name "Holst". No doubt, he intended to lead that column himself.
About 110 miles North of that arrow is another red arrow, labeled "Balthus" – Holst's friend who sometimes emerges from what Holst calls "retirement underground". I'd never spoken to the fellow at any length – impossible given how much he drinks with his old academy pal – but I was told he would occasionally emerge from this "retirement" to pay down an outstanding debt or two. Unfortunately, he never seems to get out of the red. The idea of retiring while in debt seems rather confusing, though. How does one "retire" with no money?
In any event, that arrow was driving towards Cyrenicia. Balthus, no doubt – would be leading that column. The last time I saw him was the campaign season three years prior, so he must be itching for another go. The third arrow, 90 miles South of El-Aghelia, is directed towards the citadel of Bardia, and covers an expanse of desert labeled as the "Nefud" – particularly well known for its susceptibility to sandstorms.
That last arrow was labeled "Jeralt" – but the "Jeralt" was struck through rather recently, it seems. Its label now was "Byleth".
"You ready for your first taste of command, Byllie?" Holst asks me, bringing the attention of all the various Lords and Knight-Captains squarely upon me.
In response, I shrug.
"Fuckin 'ell, that's why Holst loves ya, Byllie!" Holst exclaimed, referring to himself in the third-person as he often does – and referring to me as "Byllie", which I never really even thought about at length until recalling this story. It was the first nickname I had ever received – one well before the Ashen Demon became my moniker.
Knight-Captain Dandolo then stepped forward.
"Marshal – how can you trust command of an entire wing to such a youth? He'll be responsible for at least five hundred soldiers. Do you really expect him to lead?"
"Holst just expects you to follow 'em, Cap'n Dandy." replied the brother of Hilda.
The Knight-Captain frowned, and then he turned to me.
I stared at him blankly.
Holst laughed.
The Field Marshal's laugh was one that echoed and reverberated across walls, and seemed to be one of those features that just completed the rest of his essence. There was nothing duplicitous about it – no chuckle of his seemed to have ulterior emotions behind it. That's what I can appreciate about Holst, looking back on those days on the Throat. I never had to watch my back when he was around – in reality, I found myself watching his.
Was Holst a friend?
He couldn't have been, because I find comparatively little about him memorable or noteworthy– in spite of everything.
I remember physical features, of course – now that I'm compelled to write about the fellow in detail – particularly his bizarre hair style. Particularly, I remember the garishly shaved sides, and the long ponytail that fell from the back of his head which always seemed to rest in a forward-flowing mess around one of his broad shoulders. It had a terrible habit of getting caught up in his rounded, silver cuirass, blocking his field of vision and oftentimes requiring my intercession to cover his blindspots in battle.
Even on a frame as large as Holst, though – that cuirass of his that constantly was claiming his hair just looked comical. Apparently it was his father's – at least according to Fallstaff, who had apparently met the man. As it happens, the Senior Goneril – a giant by the measure of Foldan at seven feet, three inches – had married a woman who checked in at four-foot-eleven. Fallstaff added that the two attended the Officers' Academy during 1145 – and then quipped that an unplanned pregnancy had resulted in their expulsion during the Ethereal Moon. Apparently, this was not Holst – meaning that a third Goneril was walking the world somewhere. Fallstaff added in his usual nostalgic tone that Papa Goneril had a massive growth spurt during the summer months, and had picked up two feet only a few weeks after getting his uniform fitted.
This resulted in him attending his classes in a tank-top for several weeks.
Holst, at a clean six-foot-two was still a tall man, but wearing oversized armor around the shoulders was just ill-advised. The fact that the cuirass's breastplate ended at his belly button was yet another cause for concern.
When my father pointed out that wearing armor like that was neither conducive to fighting in the sandy desert of the Throat – or maintaining that hairdo of his – Holst just laughed.
But these are just aspects of Holst that anyone could observe.
He was large.
He liked to laugh.
He was aggressive and jovial.
These are just… features, at the end of the day – and ones that I never considered until writing this diary myself – and remembering this campaign as a teaching moment for my Eagles.
What does this all mean?
That's a question I found myself asking when Holst was yucking it up in the command tent. Putting a comradely hand on the short and portly Dandolo, they struck quite a pair until The Marshal kicked Dandolo in the shin and sent him down on his knees – cursing all the way down.
The Knight-Captain and I didn't talk much until we arrived outside Bardia. I can say quite definitively that we never became friends, Dandolo and I.
While I can claim credit for conquering the citadel of Bardia single-handedly – this was not much of an achievement, in reality. I suspect this is because the Almyrans were so committed in the defense of El-Aghelia that they had left a skeleton force behind in Bardia.
Holst's conquests of El-Aghelia typically drew in enemy soldiers from the capital and surrounding fortresses in order to take back the fallen fortress. Given the treeless desert, one could easily see the relief columns approaching from miles and miles away. They invariably came from the stone-paved highways from the northwest, South, and northeast. Since Holst so rarely deviated from his custom of starting the campaign season by striking our usual target, the strategists of Almyra must have made the decision to leave Bardia, a rather insignificant ring of poorly-maintained stone around an oasis facing naught but the Great Southern Desert, a bit understaffed.
After crossing the sunbaked, cracked, reddish-clay ground of the Nefud Depression – an endeavor free of the sandstorms that were so often rumored – Knight Captain Dandolo had finished organizing a mutiny against my leadership once the sun had set that evening.
His crossbowmen, seemingly losing their guts after seeing the pathetic visage of stone on the horizon, informed me of their resolve to not participate in the coming battle. Curiously, my father's mercenaries, along with the almogavars from the Marquisate of Edmund, and a pike contingent of House Daphnel had also told me that they had lost their nerve.
Knight-Captain Dandolo then approached and noted that on account of my taciturn nature and total lack of consideration for my subordinates, he was relieving me of command.
I shrugged at this, and he seemed totally incensed.
"I'll take the citadel alone." I noted as I stared right past him. A plan was coming into place, informed by the lack of guards posted on the walls.
"Look at me when you're speaking, boy!" Dandolo commanded, even though he lacked such latitude.
That was the second-to-last sentence he ever spoke to me, and I began to walk towards the citadel as a gambit came to mind.
Reaching the front gate of the citadel in the wee hours that night, I rapped on the wooden door and was greeted by a sun-kissed Almyran guardsmen with beady, hungry-looking eyes. The area around them was totally blackened and baggy, indicating to me that he had been on watch duty for far too long.
Fortresses with full garrisons don't typically request that sort of exhaustion from their watchmen.
"Why do you appear before the citadel of Bardia, boy of Foldan?" he asked in Almyran.
"To receive your surrender." I replied.
The guard looked at me first in shock at my response in Almyran, and then after processing my words in his tongue – he looked at me as if I were a madman. In spite of all that, he allowed me inside the fortress after I voluntarily disarmed myself shortly thereafter. A blindfold was applied to my eyes for good measure, as per the custom of parley.
The garrison commander of Bardia looked as if he was sitting on the edge of a knife. Flanked by two scrawny-looking bodyguards with deadened eyes – perhaps he knew that I knew that the jig was up. The bags under his tanned skin relayed a message of exhaustion to me similar to the watchman's, at least. Upon arriving at the blockhouse headquarters, I repeated the statement that I had made to the watchman – who had since been commanded to return to his post – after the blindfold fell from my face.
"You speak Almyran?" the castellan asked in response to my query. He was hiding his nervousness.
I nodded. I didn't speak Almyran as well as a native – of course – but I knew enough of it to be useful in military capacities like these – and that was enough, wasn't it? If the fellow before me quoted Almyran poetry (do they have poetry?) or started talking about politics with me, I'd be shit out of luck… but I suspect neither of us are much for such things. He's a garrison commander on a far-flung oasis, and I'm a mercenary.
"Would you like a drink?" he asks. His eyes begged me to decline.
Under most circumstances, I would be wary of such hospitality… but I know this is an Almyran custom. Many of the Princes that I've strangled have begged me for the opportunity to allow them to offer me a drink before life escapes from their eyes. No Almyran, I suppose – wants to be killed indoors by an unwelcome guest. It is just their tradition – and I find myself agreeing with Claude that no one had any right to criticize such things. This should not be read as an endorsement of His Deceitfulness, though.
"Yes." I reply.
Wincing, the commandant snaps his fingers.
The soldiers do not move.
"Go!" he commands, in sharp Fodlanese.
The men pretending to be guards are in fact, slaves. They exit.
"My apologies… These men are quite green, you see – and from the lower classes – but they are many. Far more than yours." He says with absolutely zero authority behind it.
Shrugging, I wait for him to continue.
"I will not surrender, and look forward to your challenge. It is rare that a fellow of Fodlan can speak our tongue, however imperfectly. Be warned that a relief column approaches."
Another lie, of course. This fortress has most likely stripped its walls of its main complement in order to relieve El-Aghelia.
The two slaves playing dress-up arrive with a latched crate covered in condensation. Upon opening it, pinkish-hued crushed ice is revealed. It is clearly made with rose water. The commandant fetches a chalice from his teak executive desk and scoops it into the rapidly melting ice.
Sliding it across the table, he says to me:
"Drink."
Nodding, I oblige, and hand the chalice back to him. He drinks as well. After taking one more for good measure, he nods at me. The play is over.
After getting the go-ahead, I lunge across the desk, and wrap my fingers around his throat. He dies quietly. The slaves do not intervene. When the deed was finally done, I asked the two thoroughly broken men how many remaining enemies were present. They suggested a century's worth. That unit indicates roughly 80 fighting men accompanied by twenty slaves.
Later that night, I killed forty-five Almyrans with my sword, twenty-seven Almyrans with my dagger, and the remainder via strangulation. This was quite easy, as only about twenty were guarding the walls of a citadel that could've garrisoned a thousand. I had enough time to kill each of the watchmen silently and at a leisurely pace after isolating them. Most of the forty-five sword-kills were simple run-throughs of sleeping soldiers. The dagger kills were sentries. The strangulation I reserved for the remaining officers – the primus pilus, the quartermaster, the standard bearer, and the four tribunes.
Upon informing the proceedings of the evening to Knight-Captain Dandolo the following morning, he and his soldiers set about looting the fortress with gusto. They were so busy casting lots for booty that the troops had entirely ignored the arrival of Holst's messenger, leaving me to speak with her.
The woman, who was one of Holst's twelve female bodyguards, approached me with a smirk.
"...You have taken Bardia, I see?"
Her accent was foreign, but this wasn't surprising. In spite of having a reputation as a womanizer – which my father said was a quality that women didn't like – Holst kept a number of successful and intelligent women around him at all times… making me wonder if womanizing wasn't such a bad thing, after all.
I'm still obvious unclear about what womanizing actually entails, of course.
This earns a nod, and I get the impression that my lack of interest in her is in fact interesting to her – primarily because she dismounts from her horse and gets very close to me.
"I see..." She says. She must be nearsighted.
"Status?" I ask.
"...Yes, sir. We have failed to take El-Aghelia. Marshal Holst has been wounded."
"His orders?" I asked.
"To hold position unless a relief force was spotted, in which case you must fall back to the Locket immediately. Unfortunately, captain, on my ride here, I spotted a column of Almyrans marching to relieve the fortress."
Shrugging – I can't say I was really sure what she expected me to do about that. It should've been clear enough that I wasn't calling the shots anymore.
"Tell Knight-Captain Dandolo."
The Lady Knight frowned.
"Captain Byleth, are you not in command of the forces here?"
Beckoning her over to the epicenter of the looting spree, I said haltingly:
"Dandolo mutinied. The other troops joined him."
"How did you take this place, then?" she inquired.
After a deep breath, I reply:
"I took it myself."
And this provoked a Holstian laugh from Holst's bodyguard. I suppose that it must be second-nature to him to recruit women of like mind.
"The Marshal will be most entertained by that story. I will inform Knight-Captain Dandolo of your new orders, then."
Appreciating that the woman seemed to understand my total lack of interest in leadership, she rode off to the epicenter of the looting. This was not hard to find, as it was directly next to the bonfire where Dandolo was in the process of cremating the bodies that he had stripped of valuables and wrenched the gold teeth from.
Dandolo could not be convinced to withdraw until the pillaging was concluded. While the mutinous troops looted the warehouse stores well into the evening, feasting on salted meat and guzzling down Almyran liquor, I prepared my own retreat from the fortress. Looting canteens off the dead – one of the few items not picked clean by the soldiers – I filled them with water from the oasis in case the return trip was bogged down by sandstorms.
The messenger spent most of her remaining time with Dandolo attempting to convince him to follow orders. He refused, at least until the column of Almyrans appeared over the dunes, the vanguard riding their wyverns. Then the chaos began. Five hundred men desperately attempting to gather themselves after a hangover, climbing on top of one another to fill their canteens or replenish their ration boxes.
I did not stick around, and opted to begin my retreat alone. That head start and degree of preparation saved my life, for I was the only one to return to the locket alive two weeks later. By that point, after being bogged down by sandstorms, I had eaten nothing for four days. The cigarillos kept the hunger at bay, though.
The messenger, thanks to her dromedary, had linked up with Holst and reported my conquest of the castle. When I returned, Holst seemed none too displeased at being free of the mutinous battalions.
I mention this rather long and winding story of mine in an effort to explain why I insisted on adequate preparation for the retreat of the Eagles and Deer. The Caravanserai was roughly twelve hours' march away. What's more, I expected that twelve-hour walk to be a force-march, and to successfully force march… you need to first have the principles of marching down.
Unfortunately, the only two people who took marching with any seriousness at all were Edelgard and Hubert. Unfortunately, Edelgard was practicing a Srengian goosestep most unsuitable for a retreat, and Hubert… gave me the impression of not being particularly invested in the whole affair at all, preferring to commune with his owl instead.
So I ensured that the students prepared as best they could, as my ride towards Remire would leave me too far outside the appropriate range to intervene if they ran into trouble.
To that end, I've included an assessment of their preparation for retreat below:
Lorenz, Ferdinand:
Preliminary scouting of withdrawal route
Two of the pack horses seemed fit enough for a gallop, so I sent off the two noblest of nobles to inspect the first five miles towards the Caravanserai as the Eagles broke camp. Ferdinand, who thought the idea of ambushing an enemy intolerable, reported that he had spent most of the ride shouting his name, title, and various opinions about the dishonorable nature of ambuscade to any potential enemies. Lorenz gave me the impression of being very distracted – but his distraction brought to my attention an excellent point – that there might be entrapments along the road that might slow down transport of the ballista to the Caravanserai. When I suggested scrapping the weapon, he turned very, very white. Whiter than he usually is, at least.
For the first time, I noticed that the Deer's Lancer was wearing a rose on his academy jacket, similar to the carnation that Edelgard and I wore. When I asked him about this, he claimed that he appreciated our sense in fashion, and wished me to save my reasoning for wearing it, as he wished to try to convince My Student about the superiority of roses on the march back.
This bothered me somewhat, but I would still grade the effort as "B" worthy.
Linhardt, Marianne:
Preparation of vulneraries
Giving express directions to the two healers to avoid spending magical energy if possible, I sent them back down to the barber's tent in the canyon to retrieve various tinctures used for the preparation of wound salves. As it happens, one of the more "basic" vulnearies just requires the addition of honey to a popular liquid shave balm.
Does it taste good? No.
Does it promote the restoration of lost blood? Absolutely.
Linhardt expressed a desire to ride in the wagons on the retreat. I reminded Lin that I had burned the wagons, and he said that he had already fallen asleep at that point in the lecture. He had apparently slept so soundly that the sound, smell, and warmth from this spectacle had not roused him. I wonder if bringing along coffee beans would be a proper way to keep my sleepy sage focused, in the same way I "juice" Caspar's tea.
Marianne told me that she is content with dying if the situation called for it. Because Ferdinand had already ridden off with Lorenz, and realizing that I had not sent a hugging crew over to attend to her after her brush-up with Sylvain – I took the opportunity to hug her myself. She looked absolutely shocked as I went in for it, but seemed to relax after I called Linhardt in to join us. Lin, for his part, started to fall asleep in my arms after collapsing into our group effort.
My very reserved – and very unsuccessful – attempt to wake him provoked a sort of laugh from Marianne that I had never heard before. I must have raised an eyebrow in surprise, because she immediately clammed up after I looked at her, spouting a font of "Ah… Uhms" as soon as I did so.
In total, they prepared fifteen vials. I couldn't have asked for more under the circumstances, and grade their effort as an A.
Petra, Leonie:
Assembly of caltrops
Using the spokes of the wagon wheels, I had Petra and Leonie whittle down the edges of each and line the roadway with each in an effort to stymie any potential cavalry forays by the enemy. Although the force was reported to be longbowmen, there was an off-chance that more mercenaries could be operating in the area. Metodey, the mercenary captain of the Fire-Frill Feather Figure could have gotten word about the canyon by now, and may have other troops available to seek revenge on my students.
If I did not kill Metodey myself, I needed to ensure that any attempt at interdicting my wards would be waylaid for long enough to correct such an issue. Petra took the task without complaint, and even informed me that such an obstacle was used by the Brigidians to block the maneuvering of cavalry during the Empire's invasion. Leonie then soured the affair by informing Petra that she was "basically a prisoner" – which Petra then corrected, noting how honored she was at the opportunity to attend the officers' Academy as a guest of the Empire.
I then corrected both of them by noting that if Petra was held against her will anywhere, I would first free her and then murder the people who were holding her against her will very slowly. As I said the word "murder" – my eyes fixed on Leonie. She recoiled a bit after I completed delivering this information, and put together the caltrops with renewed vigor.
I would be inclined to grade them both at an "A" level, but I do have some issues with Leonie attempting to bait Petra. I should leave a memo for Manuela on this topic.
Caspar, Hilda,
Acquisition of Extra Halite & Charcoal
I was initially of two minds about pairing Hilda and Caspar on this task, primarily because Hilda approached me and requested to be assigned a task with Caspar specifically – instead of Claude – who I hadn't intended her to pair up with anyway. I wanted to pair her up with Dorothea, actually. Anyway, shortly after the lecture, the Deer's House Leader and Holst's Sister got into some kind of argument, the nature of which was unclear to me. I did catch Claude utter something about an "open relationship" which was extremely confusing to me, as I found myself unclear about what the material differences between an open relationship and a closed relationship were between two people.
Did he even mean that romantically?
I can't imagine, since people are supposed to pair off for life, aren't they?
My father never remarried.
So naturally, Claude isn't talking about romance, I hope.
Since that was decidedly not romantic, it must be regarding his collaboration with Hilda on other matters. In that sense, I wonder if my relationship with Edelgard is open or closed?
In any event, in an effort to be accommodating to Hilda after having my own plans for her dashed, I opted to assent to her request, and send them off into the Canyon floor to gather more materials to assemble the nerve gas fires with. While Caspar returned to me with a full bag of materials, Hilda did not. Since I am grading the effort as a group, I have to give the Caspar/Hilda pairing a "C".
When I asked Hilda what she was doing while Caspar was working, she simply told me that she was talking with Caspar. Her academy uniform was also undone around the bust, and my pointing out of this fact was met with "do you like what you see, Professor?".
When I informed her that her skin appeared very soft, she seemed very enthusiastic and detailed her skincare routine to me. This ended up delaying many of my own preparations, which leads me to believe that Caspar must be quite focused to have gathered as much as he did. For that, I am both thankful and impressed.
Lysithea, Hubert
Relay of Intentions to Cardinal Seteth
For a time, I wondered what the best approach would be in communicating all of these changed plans to the Cardinal. Naturally, I had no intent to respond to Seteth either verbally or in writing, so I would need to delegate the actual act of expressing my intentions to someone else. Under most circumstances, I would default to Edelgard.
The letter from my father, however, indicated that My Student may not be particularly-well suited for such a task, however. While she is very good at reading my mail – apparently Seteth would have not liked her reply, at least according to my father. I do have another white-haired woman who reports to me, however, and she is equally if not more studious than the Heir to Adrestia. She also seems quite flattered at the prospect of doing this for me, which is a pleasant surprise.
"It's obvious that you selected the hardest worker and most intellectual of all your students for such a task, right Professor?" inquires the Heir to House Ordelia.
Does Lysithea like being relied upon?
"Lend me your intellect, Lysithea."
My words here seem to have the same reaction as candy, or the heavy cream with sugar and coffee that she drank on St. Macuil's. I should note that this is in fact a good thing, and something that warms me slightly upon seeing her expression.
The particular expression she makes is perfectly Lysithean – those ginormous pink irises of hers growing to the size of tangerines and the slightest smirk curling up on her lips… as if I had pulled out a package of Enbarr Delight Bon Bons that I had been secretly saving until this very moment.
"Honestly, where would you be without all of my hard work this week?" she asks.
"Dead." I answer.
Perhaps I wouldn't be, but I suspect she likes the explanation, regardless.
"Clearly!" she yips confidently, and sets about her task.
Ten minutes later, I have a letter that Lysithea hands me with ink-stained figures. As she hands it to me, I notice that an ink splotch has taken up residence on her cheek. Wiping away the stain with my thumb, Lysithea's skin color on her face ends matching her irises. She also grows very quiet, which allows me to proofread her letter in peace:
Cardinal,
I am writing to you because the Professor is quite helpless at certain tasks; therefore it is incumbent on me to apply my hard-won talent in literary composition to the challenge before me. Since I prefer not to waste time, I will express this frankly: he thinks it best to have both classes retreat to the Arundel Caravanserai.
Obviously, I consulted with the Professor about this plan, well before Edelgard or Claude, and I am in full agreement with him. I certainly have no interest in dying at this time, and without any training in riding or warp magic, it is highly likely that both classes will fall to a hail of arrows well before we have the ability to engage with the enemies ourselves.
I should clarify that I am in no way afraid of Lord Lonato's forces. When the Professor approached me to receive my opinion about the coming battle, I initially expressed a desire to attack. But after listening to a lecture about the use of poison gas (which I would normally disagree with) – I am willing to grant that the Professor is trying to protect us as we withdraw to neutral territory. Not everyone is as capable as I am, primarily because they do not work as hard as I do.
Here is his stratagem: The Professor plans to ride to Remire alone and assemble campfires to release a nerve agent on Lonato's levy that is attacking the Lions. This will relieve the Lions of a large portion of the attacking force, and allow us sufficient cover to withdraw in good order further into Arundel.
You should understand, however, that I already instructed the Professor to not sacrifice his life in order to buy us more time. Honestly, I think we can withdraw in a manner that would render the whole diversion unnecessary… but I can appreciate his desire to protect us. I certainly would not be opposed to him protecting me more in the future.
As you know – last week I had expressed my wish to transfer into his class, preferably at the start of the new moon. It would be a waste of time to consider the decision any further – as you had suggested, Cardinal – because I have made up my mind. There is so much more that I intend to learn from Professor Eisner, and he knows how frustrated I would be if he were to die pointlessly. I would never, ever forgive him.
On Behalf of the Professor,
Lysithea von Ordelia
"I didn't consult you." I say – and would do so in a guilty manner – if I could express that emotion. Although, given Lysithea… it's probably best that I cannot offer such a sentiment.
"Honestly, you should always consult me from now on. My opinions are far better than Princess Edelgard's or Claude's. I had to work for mine."
When Lysithea tells this to me, I'm compelled to defend My Student – but a massive pair of magenta eyes stare at me derisively and instruct me about the futility of such a measure.
"You want to be my student?"
While I suppose I shouldn't be surprised about that given her constant complaints about Manuela over the past week – I've yet to really clarify why she thinks I'd be any better. Knowing a grand total of one offensive magic spell, I'm even more functionally illiterate in black magic than Manuela, who is a healer by trade. The person she should be seeking the educational wisdom of is Hanneman, right?
"I am the only child of House Ordelia, Professor. Since I will be inheriting the family title, I must prove my value before taking on those responsibilities. My parents… have lost a great deal in the past decade, and it will be incumbent on me to recover those things. I can only do that by understanding how to defend myself and what I currently have with the time that I've got left."
Lysithea is definitely a person of contrasts. I'm not sure what else I expected – given that I didn't really have expectations of people until roughly forty days ago – but it's hard not to see the inherent contradiction between the frail little girl who likes sweets and the meteor-dropping black magic practitioner who has a drive to correct the flagging fortunes of her family as soon as she possibly can. And that last component of it all seems to raise its own series of very confusing questions.
"Time…?"
"Never mind that, Professor… We don't have any to waste on such a conversation now."
I'm willing to grant that, of course – but Lysithea just answered that in a very Edelgardian manner. And that can't be good, because the Edelgardian replier that I currently am responsible for is an endless source of frustration for me, only aided by the fact that I can feel feelings around her that I could never with anyone else.
Nodding at that sentiment, in spite of all of the questions that it raised, I summoned Hubert. After explaining Lysithea's assumption of secretarial duties, Hubert seemed to take offense. Every move I make lately seems to offend Hubert, however – so I'm not sure this is even worth commenting on further in the future.
"Do my letters not strike you as sufficiently detailed?" He asked with a raised eyebrow.
Was Hubert volunteering to compose a reply to Seteth? He had a terrible habit of volunteering for tasks long after their completion. Shaking my head, I reply:
"I need you to focus on signal relays with the scouting parties in case enemies are spotted."
And that's the truth, of course. Apparently he got distracted by playing messenger for some gossip hound who was lying about myself and Edelgard in some way that aggravated the Cardinal.
"Is there a reason that you're being so cautious for an uncontested withdrawal through Imperial territory?" the Marquis of Pickled Sausages pressed.
This is a question that I'm willing to grant some credence to, but informing Hubert about the very conditional nature of his field intelligence would probably just offend him at this stage. If that information does not regularly kick up to me... I have to treat it like the irregular gift that it is. This is of course ignoring that they'll all be very vulnerable without my presence.
"I won't be there to protect you all." I note.
"Be that as it may–"
Before Hubert can finish that thought, though, Lysithea cuts into our discussion and flicks my elbow-greave to get my attention. She's still quite pink around the cheeks.
"You should tell Hubert to stop wasting time." She informs me, in an Edelgardian but also very Lysithean fashion.
The Heir to House Vestra clears his throat at this, returning my view to him.
"You should stop taking orders from anyone but Lady Edelgard." He informs me.
If your Lady would talk to me… that wouldn't be an issue.
All that said, I should leave before a nothing argument occurs – that was what I was thinking before I found myself knee deep in a nothing argument that Hubert's quip brought on. Unfortunately, I found myself roped in far too tightly before I could extricate myself.
In spite of this, I would grade both their efforts at an A.
Dorothea
Decryption
Since realizing that I had read the letter intended for her eyes alone, Edelgard hasn't spoken a word to me. I suppose that she's entitled to not speak with me at all, but the whole situation doesn't exactly sit right with me given the past month-and-a-half that I've known her. Because I don't possess a Hubert to explain such intrigue to me, I opted to consult Dorothea, who is of course – my Hubert of the Heart.
After transcribing the two letters from memory, I presented them to the Songstress for decryption. Perhaps she could understand what my father was talking about – or why Edelgard seemed embarrassed about topics she had told me already – such as a lack of interest in romance. I admit I was also a bit curious about why Edelgard thought that I was too unattractive to continue the Hresvelg line as well – considering that was at odds with her comment on my desirability during the St. Macuil's fracas with Lysithea and the missing garland crown. Had something occurred in the interim to modify My Student's opinion on that so dramatically, I wonder?
When I explained the gravity of the task before Enbarr's Most Eligible, however, Dorothea displayed an insubordinate streak that I did not realize she possessed.
"Professor, is this really urgent?" she inquired.
Considering my highly competent House Leader who I delegate almost all of my important tasks to won't speak to me accidentally reading a letter addressed to her… well, yes Dorothea, this is incredibly urgent.
"Edelgard won't talk to me." I reply.
"And that's urgent…? I mean… you can talk to me, can't you…?"
You are not my House Leader, Dorothea.
"It's urgent." I confirm.
If I could make a truly exasperated or pained expression, I would make it – but I can't – so I opt to raise an eyebrow and place my hand on my chin.
"And what did you want me to do, exactly...?"
Dorothea asks that question with rather mischievous emerald eyes, but I have to grant that it's a fair question. The fundamental issue with specifying what I want to her to do is that I haven't the slightest idea of what my father was talking about in regard to Edelgard... or what she found so embarrassing given she that she had shouted such things at people previously.
"Summarize the unclear parts." I command.
An eyebrow rises.
"And those are...?"
"Everything that my father wrote to Edelgard." I clarify after running a hand through my hair.
"Oh… so that's why you're so troubled by it, huh? Because you're worried that your dad doesn't like Edie…?"
"...He doesn't?"
"Well… I guess the whole situation is pretty hopeless, isn't it? I guess I can give you the dish though, Professor..."
I'm about to take solace in her surety until she adds:
"...But it'll cost ya!"
"I'll be receiving my salary of 25,000 next month. You are entitled to that plus the 4,000G I have remaining for this month."
"...I was just thinking dinner at Celica's…"
Unfortunately, I realized that my ever-stoic expression could not express the cocktail of relief and thankfulness I felt from the very depths of my soul. After thanking Dorothea all-too-tersely in relation to the passion I found myself experiencing as a result of all this drama with my father and Edelgard, my attention was called to the activities of my two conflict-averse archers.
Bernadetta, Ignatz:
Attempt at Game Hunting
In most mercenary troupes, archers are responsible for provisioning meat on behalf of the company. For whatever reason, though – my most competent archers (I consider Claude incompetent) – Bernadetta and Ignatz – seem to detest the idea of hunting. Getting Bernadetta to claim a few pheasants on the campout was like pulling teeth, and a recent interview of Ignatz allowed me to gather a unique piece of information – that he is considering going vegan.
While I respect dietary discipline, I am left to wonder why he took up archery as his preferred weapon proficiency. Bernadetta's preference seems to be inherited through her father, at least.
As I sent them off to try their best – they both seemed very uncomfortable. When they returned, however – both seemed to be in a heated discussion about color theory. I was, of course, unaware that such a thing existed until this very moment… and in spite of them not actually coming back with any kills – I am inclined to grade them favorably for granting me such an intriguing philosophy of art.
They will receive a B-, mostly because I learned from them today.
Edelgard, Claude
Analysis of Retreat Route
As Dorothea worked on decrypting the transcription – snickering the whole way through – I summoned the two House Leaders for a last-minute consultation on the withdrawal path. Edelgard was dead silent and refused to make eye contact with me. Claude was lively and chatty when he realized that the two of us were in the midst of a nothing argument – perhaps feeling relieved that he and Hilda were not alone in being subjected to this strange pallor over otherwise constructive relations between the sexes.
"What's the reason for this little lover's quarrel, Teach…?" Claude asks – to me – very directly, as if Edelgard and I are lovers.
This quip of his earned a shrug as I unfurl a topographical map of the Arundel Lordship on a tree stump.
Edelgard seemed to react for me – of course – but did so as if I wasn't even there, which was a bit strange. As soon as that question is uttered by the Heir to House Riegan, a pair of purple orbs squint and a delicately curled down mouth opens.
"Any… issues at this moment have absolutely no bearing on our ability to execute the mission. We are not a group of bickering children like the Deer. If My Teacher has advice, I would listen to it intently."
"Ok Edel, now try telling Your Teacher that."
Two purple orbs seem to be doing their utmost to avoid meeting my teal ones. Under most circumstances, I would feel pretty offended… but I'm willing to grant that Dorothea might be able to access some secret knowledge hidden within those letters from my father that might indicate why her mood soured so suddenly.
"I'd prefer if you two could point out defensible positions." I reply for My Student, bringing my right index finger down onto the map.
"Aren't we supposed to be retreating, Teach?" Claude asked, raising his eyebrow in a very Bylethian fashion.
Giving his question due consideration, I reply.
"If you're interdicted, I expect you to stand and fight."
And I mean those words. They'll have a better chance at survival with their weapons facing the enemy than by turning tail at first contact. That is the ultimate difference between a retreat and a rout. You can always turn a retreat around to face pursuers. Routs do not offer that luxury.
Claude and Edelgard took to this serious task with requisite stoicism, perhaps realizing the gravity of my statement. Claude – as I expected – had an eye for particular bends in the road that would allow for ambushing a pursuer. Edelgard, much to her own nature – took an eye to superior terrain granting line of sight and maneuverability of melee troops. For once, they also seemed to appreciate each other's perspective.
I even found myself appreciating Claude's.
After marking the map with various ambush spots and suitable bottlenecks, I looked up at the sky and realized twilight was upon us. For about fourteen hours, Edelgard and I had not spoken a single word to one another in spite of our relatively close proximity. What a strange circumstance that was.
Of course she had run off to visit her uncle in this very county before… but I had never once given much thought to what she did in her time away from the Academy… mostly because her waking hours inside Garegg Mach were spent attending to the Eagles, efforts which I invariably heard second hand from the subject of her interidictions, or her studies – of which I received constant messages regarding… or engaged in direct conversation with me.
In spite of living my whole life in a sort of observed silence… Edelgard's was terribly uncomfortable. As was her refusal to even look into my eyes. Dorothea couldn't finish decrypting those letters soon enough.
As I slung the last bag of halite on the warhorse, however – fate intervened. But fate, I think – is kind of a fickle person – if she is a person – because a certain white-haired woman said these following words to me:
"I-I don't wish you to walk that path alone…!"
And at that moment, all my plans fell to ash.
Author's Note:
If this chapter seems a bit disjointed – it's because it's me colliding two together in the interest of time. Initially the first half was a chapter of its own that was supposed to touch on some Holst/Balthus/Byleth backstory, but I decided to kick it down the road a bit considering how both Balthus and Holst are making their first White Clouds appearances in the next moon instead of this one.
Anyway, I was going to use this author's note as an opportunity to reply to everyone before PRT-Reply King review-bombed the comment section over the past week.
But quickly – to Winter – I want to address the Doro/Edel/Byleth relationship in more length in my next author's note. I'm in agreement with most of what you said and I'll expound on that later.
PRT: First off, I want to express my thanks – you were obviously the Reply King in terms of wordcount. Unfortunately, the two of us seem to be at an impasse. Right now, I want to lay down some ground rules before you start commenting again:
First, and this is non-negotiable: stop using guest accounts to try to pretend that you're more than one person. You can get away with that shit when you're commenting on the "Last Scion of House Ordelia", "Love in the Dark", or all of the other fics that you like to bitch about. Not on mine. All of the regular and semi-regular reviewers – who you keep trying to gaslight – can tell that you are the one doing that. In light of that, I've nuked all your reviews. Try harder next time.
Specifically, I can identify your behavior because you keep making the same spelling and grammatical errors even when you're pretending to be someone else. A fast fact about me: I'm an American economics professor who works at a university in the People's Republic of China. I teach my classes and assign homework in English to ESL speakers. It is my job to figure out when non-native English students are writing in their own voice or simply plagiarizing.
I know how you write, buddy. Obviously, I can tell when you're attempting to cape as someone else and troll my readers. I can't have you brigading other commenters. I think I've been very lenient with you when you're attacking my own work, because I enjoy negative critique as much as I enjoy constructive critique. There's no ego that I have to protect here. That leniency ends when you start attacking other readers and reviewers like you did in your most recent comment. I rely on them for feedback and useful advice, and I want them to feel welcome to comment. That is a hard and fast line. You attack them, and I will unperson you so hard that Stalin would make me a hero of the Soviet Union if he were still alive. Mark my words, comrade.
Next, I am going to delete all of your future comments until you either stop being a sniveling little coward and register a damn account, or apologize to the readers in a comment in which you identify yourself as "PRT Reply King". That should indicate how serious I am about moderating my review section. Now, before you go whining about me removing negative critique – there is plenty of negative critique still up there, particularly negative reviews that don't attack other readers. Take note of that. I did not report or remove any of those comments because they focused on the work itself.
In the future, you need to actually reply to what's been written instead of losing your cool over the canon route, or people liking the canon route that you dislike. Jeralt is not dead yet, but you're already blaming Edelgard and calling the people here "fanboys" – in addition to an accusation that I am molding the story to meet their wishes. I then told you that Byleth will be killing Jeralt because he has daddy issues, and you then blamed Edelgard and called Byleth a simp after attacking other readers. That's not how this is going to work, pal.
I am fine with you doing the first thing. On the second matter, the party is over and will be over for the foreseeable future. The ball is in your court now. Act like a reasonable adult in the reviews, have the courage to troll behind a real account, or have all of your rants thrown into the dustbin.
The choice is yours, PRT. Are you feeling my fingers around your throat, yet?
