Emperor,
If practicable, I would beckon you to come visit the training grounds before your departure for the coming battle. I have completed the training of the 88th "Lehr" Battalion – the first combat-ready unit of your New Model Army.
My intention is to affect a small ceremony in order to transfer the command of this force to you. As they have been trained by a Srengian in the manner of Srengians, it is only right that I see them off like a Srengian Drillmaster would.
With the completion of their training, I have also fulfilled my vow to your Professor, the late 3rd Captain-Major of the Victual Brothers – and my former pupil, Byleth von Eisner.
If possible, I would also like to include in this letter my formal resignation. There it is.
With due respect and honor,
Jean-Luc Ermenfrid zu Sion
Commands Held:
805th Companion-Captain of the Srengian Landschneckt Guard (1146-1157)
4th Chief of the Great Srengian General Staff, 63rd Revanchist Incursion (1157-1158)
2nd Expeditionary Force Colonel-General of the Almyra Volunteer Phalanx "Azul" (1159)
(?th) Captain of the Guard, Village of Saurin (1161-1174)
1st Quartermaster, Free Company of the Victual Brothers (1174-1181)
119th Praefectus Castrorum of Fort Merceus (1181)
Your Majesty,
Several potentially campaign-threatening comminques have been intercepted by my censors. All are addressed to our erstwhile Prefect of the Camp.
While the Commandant has not been trading in any sort of military secrets, he is openly seeking re-employment with Jeralt Eisner's former mercenary company, currently led by Leonie Pinelli. In case you were not already aware, they have been actively deployed by Claude von Riegan in the escort of refugees from Hrym City to Derdriu for resettlement. Apparently, a fire broke out in the midst of Alliance negotiations that consumed the city.
Caspar apparently allowed refugees free passage from Hrym's Gate shortly after seizing the Alliance's supply hub.
At this stage, both forces have likely linked at Gronder. I suspect our enemies will attempt to protect the refugees' withdrawal across the Bridge of Myrddin before engaging us. On the bright side, their logistical situation seems to be particularly perilous – an agent of mine reported the butchering of mounts yesterday evening to feed the townsfolk.
All that said – you and I are both aware that I have made use of the battalion's trainees for several black operations that would spell disaster for Adrestia's international image if leaked. The Prefect may be aware of said operations – and cannot say for certain without an enhanced interrogation. Due to the upcoming battle, however – I hardly have the time for such activities.
To put a finer point on matters – we cannot take the unnecessary risk of exposure before the curtain has fallen on Ferdinand's diplomatic play. If you have no qualms, I stand ready to take zu Sion's life. The Commandant must not be allowed to leave the Fortress alive.
Your Humble Servant,
-Hubert
PS: The smoking fire spell, for lack of a better term, is attached to this one. My agents found it hidden in a tree knothole just outside the fortress where the old man takes his morning walk.
Uncle Jean,
I sent those flowers along yesterday! I'm sure they can get a new arrangement together quickly.
Saurin's new florist (the apothecary's daughter – Emmeryn – remember her?) said that it's getting hard to import tulips from County Nuvelle because of the war, so they've been dressing Auntie and Cousin Junior's grave with wildflowers in the meantime. Grandma said Auntie loved wildflowers growing up, so maybe that's where they got the idea.
As far as the situation with Almyra… yeah, Claude's gotten that all settled. Nader even restored your unit to full military honors! Bounty's off your head, too, of course. I know it's coming awful late, but it must be nice to have that off your back.
Crazy we're allying with those guys… but compared to Edelgard? I'll take 'em. I guess you know better than me about that, though…!
I know the Claudester and Holst and a few others are going to be hitting you with questions… but I get the promise you made, even if it was to that bastard Byleth. I'll keep all those hotshots off your back if it gets too crispy at your welcome-back party.
What else is family for, right?
Love ya,
Leonie
Hubert,
Might you be claiming that you ordered Hrym to be set alight?
There would be no cause for concern if it were not the case that you did exactly that.
…If so, why did you do so without seeking my permission first?
-Edelgard
Your Majesty,
Yes.
I had several of the 88th's trainees wrangle two of the demonic beasts the Professor captured at Arundel and sneak them into Hrym through the port's tidal drainage tunnels. They were tactically released outside the city hall. It would seem that they caused sufficient damage to raze the entire city.
Hrym's destruction was not my express goal – but it works toward the same end of spreading chaos that can be squarely blamed on the Alliance.
Our town criers have already issued the propaganda narrative: that these were actually demonic beasts in Leicestrian service taken by House Riegan following our joint raid on Shambala earlier this year. After a breakdown in negotiations, they were released upon the citizens of Hrym.
There were a number of strategic considerations that justified my doing this – particularly regarding the nature of the revolt that was taking place there. Ignatz Victor was apparently quite close to negotiating Hrym's formal petition to join the Leicester Alliance as a merchant republic in personal vassalage to Grand Duke von Riegan.
Such a move would obviously be unprecedented in the history of Fodlan.
We needed to cut it off at the pass.
Additionally – as I implied – it will provide the necessary justification for Ferdinand's positioning of the hitherto neutral chess pieces… pending those in the know remain silent, which just includes you, me, and the six troopers I used for the mission. While myself and the soldiers in the 88th are completely and utterly loyal to you personally… zu Sion is clearly not. As his letter mentioned, his enthusiasm for your cause is wavering now that the Professor is dead.
That is why he must be killed, and be killed quickly.
I take full responsibility for these actions and submit myself to you for judgment.
I thought to not trouble you with the proceedings because I knew that you would be preoccupied with your health issues, which we still have yet to discuss.
-H.
Hubert,
It pains me to write this… but I am hereby placing you on one month's leave, effective immediately. Might I suggest that you make use of the Morgaine cottage, and invite your wife there at the conclusion of this campaign? You have the run of the house save for the master bedroom.
Please invest your time into general relaxation and becoming a suitable husband for the next month. You have spent the past two years working tirelessly, and I worry that you've overfilled your cup.
Your recent insubordination of Imperial writ – namely, by making military decisions without the permission of your commander-in-chief, is not something that I can simply ignore. Understand that such behavior cannot be tolerated in wartime. You may accept responsibility, but the burden ends up being mine to bear, regardless.
When your break has concluded, return to my side at the Monastery with a fresh perspective. There will be much to do – especially in regard to planning next year's campaign. As you know, I wish to begin an offensive operation against the Kingdom next year, preferably by the Great Tree Moon.
I value your insight always and we can keep in touch by letter, of course.
As far as the other matter.. I will see to zu Sion's request personally. We all owe him that much.
Your Friend,
Edelgard
Rather like practiced dancers, the troops in the battalion move in the perfect unison I had always dreamed of. Thoughts like these occupied my mind often when I imagined what warfare would be like in those dungeons of Arundel.
These ideas were reinforced when I read that book about the Srengians during the Harpstring Moon. That ancient tome was quite a struggle to pry from My Uncle's hands at the time… not least because the people of that land were the Agarthans' earliest attempt at re-molding a nation into a society strong enough to fight the Church of Seiros.
My Byleth… on one of my trips to visit my uncle… before you two became acquainted, I told him that you were Srengian. Imagine the look on that monster's face when I did…!
While there are many aspects of their nation that I cannot let taint my own project… Their martial-based meritocracy is one that I can appreciate. And I shall see to it that all Adrestia will, soon enough.
As the young men and women before me – largely common-born Adrestians all quite close in age to our Eagles, get into position to repeat their maneuvers on this parade ground… I find myself delighted by how wonderfully our plan has come together.
I suppose it falls upon me to describe this in more detail, so I will do just that:
First, before the movement starts anew, the soldiers stand before us in three distinct lines.
The back line is the row of lancers – carrying the long sarissa pike in lieu of the shortspears that have become a mainstay in Fodlan's ceaseless wars. These fellows – mostly youngish men, I should add – also wear steel half-plate armor, a morion helmet in the Srengian style, and carry a silver buckler shield. The last of these items amounts to a necessary bit of flair that we can grant to an elite unit such as this one. When these troopers eventually train their counterparts, they will be regarded as special – perhaps being referred to as "Silver Shields" or something to that effect.
…I'm still working on the name! You know that takes time, of course…
Many of these men were selected from my father's household troops – the forces who formerly were tasked with the occupation of Brigid. Most of those soldiers – troops that the conscripts now call "contemptibles" – followed us to battle on the Brionac as well, later joining us in the siege of Arundel. These are individuals who have risen to the occasion, and ones I will reward justly with knighthoods when our final victory over the dragon-priestess comes. They know this, and hail my name and House Hresvelg whenever I encounter them – except for now.
Now they stand at complete attention, and in absolute silence. Truly, it is almost eerie.
The middle line is composed of axe wielders, carrying the silver hafted polearms we looted from the monastery armory before making our trip to Enbarr. The gender ratio is quite neutral here, mostly because many troops in Ladislava's old "Amazon" Battalion eagerly volunteered to be retrained in this style of fighting. I find myself thinking that they add a sort of gracefulness to proceedings – which is even more important due to the necessity of shadowing the pikemen in matching lockstep as they shift formation.
The front row is composed of mages, trained in elemental magic. This line is mostly female, and lightly armored – mainly because Adrestia has just finished our inaugural women's draft. Sadly, the armororers in this country haven't yet gotten up to speed with my new vision of sexual equality in war. We can only equip them with gambesons, for now. Every girl – with the exception of already expecting mothers – has been brought forth from the countryside and screened for sensitivity to the magic arts.
Many more adolescent volunteers from the Enbarr streets and even Albinea have actually flocked to our colors. They're learning spellcraft each day, as well. Eventually, I will move these education operations to the former officers academy, like I told you I wished to do before our battle there. The chains of class will no longer bind those with talent and sufficient work ethic.
After a bugle call, the three rows before us then begin to shift formation in a surgical, flawless, sort of precision. The pikemen coalesce into a square and lower their sarissas, all while the axemen form wedges at their flanks – with the point of this formation pointing outwards, towards the imaginary foe. Between these prickly angles, the mages then glide into place – in front of and between the sarissa poles – preparing balls of fire and lightning to be hurled at an approaching enemy.
Your old teacher zu Sion has trained a working tercio for us – that ancient combined arms tactic that we accidentally re-discovered in our early academy days. A deployment style that has not been has not been used since the prehistoric battles of humanity against the Nabateans over a millennia ago.
This battalion, the 88th, will be the first of hundreds – and within two years, the entire Adrestian army will be re-trained in exactly this style. With the standardization of our New Model Army, I can redeploy our yeoman archers to defend various fortresses like Merceus, and perhaps someday… Arianrhod, when that citadel is taken. Our armies, arraigned like this, will be unstoppable. Our city walls would become impregnable, leaving their opponents dead in a sea of arrowheads. Our armies without weakness on the battlefield, standardized with a million glinting pike-points reflecting the summer sun. I find myself pensive… but also rather excited at the thought.
All we need is time – but I know all too well… that resource is always in the shortest supply.
"Do you remember what the standard of the Srengian army is?" comes the query of a man who I must deal with rather soon.
My Byleth… I always find myself a bit ill-at-ease around this fellow, from the moment I met him on the beach in the midst of Petra's paralogue last year. You always claimed to have trusted him while maintaining a justifiable suspicion regarding Fallstaff…
What convinced you that this individual was worthy of trust?
…For he is betraying us as well.
"...A scorpion, was it?" I answer distractedly.
He turns to me fully and looks me over with a dismissive gaze. Still, there is some sort of security I can take in that – for his reaction now is the same as when we first encountered each other on the shores of the Airimid River all those months ago. I clearly made a poor impression on him from the very beginning – and despite my efforts to the contrary, that impression of his has not budged a centimeter. In a way… it reminds of Thales, when galavanting in the skin of my Uncle.
Adding to this eerie sense of stasis, zu Sion has not modified a single bit of his dress or demeanor as well since our days at the monastery, unlike our Eagles.
To this day, he still wears the bucket-shaped bronze helmet, raggedy surcoat, and rusted greaves. Under that surcoat – the rusted chain mail whose right side has been wrapped tightly to account for his arm, amputated above the elbow. Just above where that stump ends is an armband that indicates his affiliation with your father's old mercenary company… in spite of the fact that Hubert offered him an Adrestian emblem shortly after he resolved to work with us.
That mercenary company whose emblem he wears is now led by one of our sworn enemies… Yet, he changes nothing. Leonie happens to be his niece, of course – so that quite necessarily complicates matters… but he still chose you. Curious that you never made mention of his familial ties before, but there was never enough time, was there?
There's hardly enough time for me to solve this issue now. Petra has just about finished her mustering of her clansmen, and we'll be marching off to battle in about an hour.
"The Scorpion is on top of something." emits his delayed, totally monotone correction – and I find myself immediately recalling the crescent that the Scorpion sits atop of. That crescent symbolizes a creature of some sort. I'm just finding myself a bit unsure on what sort of amphibian it was, specifically.
"...A toad?" I offer.
He shakes his head, and the long, reddish-gray whiskers of his beard seem just as long as they ever were. Do beards do that, I wonder? Stop growing, I mean.
I think I prefer you clean-shaven, so there's no need to research that, I suppose. Your cheeks are very soft, and I rather dislike the idea of a scraggly beard like your father's getting in-between my face and yours at night.
"A frog, but close enough. I'm surprised you recall that."
He is still pedantic as ever, too.
"I remember everything My Teacher says."
Looking back at me with a wispy, raised, eyebrow, he quips:
"Not much of an achievement." – and then spits on the ground between us.
When zu Sion insults people… that Srengian accent bleeds through, making him sound oh-so-mercantile. Almost like Anna. Almost like he's selling something – an acidic elixir of half-wittiness, perhaps.
…I'm tempted to arrest and court-martial him right there on the spot, but I simply ask:
"Might I request that you clarify your meaning…?"
"There's nothing to clarify. The boy wasn't big on talking."
With such a conversation partner… what else could one expect, precisely?
"Well, he's hardly reticent with me…" I note.
Especially when I'm on top, I must add…!
This does raise an interesting point I had been considering lately, however: we both prefer the other being on top. I spoke to Dorothea about this at length a few hours ago at brunch – such late-coming, nagging considerations occupy my free time when I'm stressed, as you're aware…
As it happens, she attributed this small incompatibility to our star-signs – like she does with everything else. I'm often tempted to believe her, but I always recall that you mentioned that the Almyrans – the originators of the horoscope – use an entirely different calendar than the Church's.
You and Dorothea have the same sign on the Church's calendar, of course – and she claimed to have already "topped" you, "mentally" – whatever that means…
But, as always, I suspect that she is just teasing the two of us again…
Still, I find it quite bothersome. When you return, we will have to do further explorations of that nature…
"Hm." an exhale of a contemplative sort is uttered – and not from me.
Zu Sion gives me a look that implies that he knows where my thoughts have drifted to… but that's yet another impossibility, is it not? How did he know the two of us were in a romantic relationship, even…? It certainly could not have been that obvious, could it?
"The lad could write. Always surprised me, given how old he was when I started teaching him the basics. Never would've imagined he'd end up as a Professor, though." he waxes.
From what I recall – the two of you were not even acquainted until well into your adolescence – raising a burning question.
"...Are you seriously implying that he was illiterate until you entered Jeralt's service?" I ask – somewhat flabbergasted at the thought.
A nod, provoking his wrinkly neck to flop about.
"...When do you think the Captain-Major should have found the time for phonics lessons?"
Admittedly, the former Quartermaster has me here. Truly, I never considered the issues your father would have in such a circumstance – a sellsword and fugitive of the church with a child in tow sounds… difficult, to say the least.
"Obviously, I lack familiarity with the hardships of parenting in such a career, but..."
"Summer of '74. Now imagine teaching a mute fourteen year old to read without a damn book for miles. Fucking Fodlan." Another spit drops from his lips and works towards expanding the puddle of fluid between us.
"Although you nobles seem to have your fair share." he adds.
In spite of that previous dig… I'd go as far to say that the Quartermaster looks quite nostalgic here.
…Is it possible even a gruff soldier like this one looks back fondly to his time with you?
Perhaps you should come back and cheer him up – as he's quite old, and probably doesn't have much longer than your El does, My Byleth…
"...I may know more than a few things about such hardship." I note softly – and I suspect I would've been much more bothered about that around this time last year. I simply don't have the headspace to get troubled by every little slight anymore, though. This war drains me more often than not.
…I rather hate fighting it alone.
This seems to take him aback a mite – and he goes course-correcting in his rambling manner:
"So you may… But…! Jeralt picking that little village in your Empire made it impossible. Right in the shadow of the biggest library in the continent, but the townspeople were illiterate – and that son of a sow banned the company from shopping there. Bollocks…"
With the way he speaks of your father at times… you would think that he would've been happy to leave that company, yet – he wishes to return there, and betray our dream…
Perhaps I could still reason with him.
"...Even so, the lack of available printed material and Fodlan's general Illiteracy is an ill that must be squarely blamed on the church. It is one that I've sworn to correct."
More spittle meets the dirt after I say this.
"Tolerating your preachiness is proof enough that he was Jeralt's boy, alright."
Squinting at this curious comment, I press:
"...You were acquainted with his family before, Prefect…?"
And – assuaging my own sudden flurry of uncomfortable considerations – he shakes his head.
"No. I would've suggested you track down Fallstaff for those stories – but he's long gone."
And those "stories" were almost entirely half-truths, like every word that passed through an Agarthan's lips. Still.. Those half truths are fifty-percent more honest than anything I've ever heard from a Nabatean.
"Then how can you speak truly on that subject?" I ask – perhaps a bit too freely.
Zu Sion tilts his head, keenly aware of my sudden self-consciousness. He had me so ill-at-ease during Petra's mission too, of course… so I find myself growing used to it, against my better judgment… especially when I know how this conversation may end.
"I saw how patient the Captain-Major was with my niece. More tolerant of her precociousness than I could've ever been."
Turning away from me – zu Sion gets wistful. I offer him the chance to continue with my silence.
"...Leonie ended up looking too much like my late wife for me to do anything but acknowledge her. She was quite sad when I left Saurin – although I guess she wanted to go along with Jeralt as well. Wasn't really paying much attention back then.. I was just happy to be free of her."
Well, you're not the only one, zu Sion…
…Even so – my curiosity gets the better of me, and inquire:
"You mentioned last year that your wife was killed by Adrestian poachers… is that correct?"
"Hm. Sharp as a spearpoint. She died along with my son. I was tracking the poachers alone, and then…"
I'm happy to let him finish this – as it gives me time to consider how best to handle the topic to come.
"...I came home to find them all dead from my own prey. Arval's a cruel master." he manages.
For most of my father's reign, poachers were a black eye on Adrestia's international reputation. My mother – in addition to her interests in art – was also a conservationist. Father was a bit too eager to please her whim in that regard and ended up cordoning off large swaths of Adrestia's forests.
Our own citizens, desperate and famished for any sort of protein – began crossing over into Gloucester territory to satiate that hunger in the form of poaching and banditry. Another relic of the past that I must work to erase, I suppose.
But for this fellow… I realize it might be too late. Such an empty gesture could not claim back what he lost. I suspect I'd need to start hunting down and executing large groups of poachers to give him any sort of solace.
…And while that's a fine idea, I cannot commit to it now in the midst of wartime…
"Is that why you wish to resign this post?" I ask, fishing for a confirmation of sorts.
To my surprise, a long pause follows this query. My eyes drift back to the formation, where the soldiers are practicing a wheeling maneuver. Zu Sion, however, remains in my periphery.
After the elderly man stretches in place, he turns back towards me with a very placid expression on his face.
"No. I would not blame you for an act you had no hand in."
…I almost am compelled to believe him here. He looks rather genuine when he says it, at least.
"...What might your rationale be, then?" I ask, trying to put a finer point on it.
"I'm an old man."
"If you wish to retire…"
I can offer this much, can I not…? Given how important he was to you, My Byleth…
Given how essential he was to our dream, as well…
"I'll die in camp or in battle, Emperor. Arval-willing." he utters while bringing his thumb to his forehead.
Arval – the mysterious progenitor Goddess of the Slitherers. Although, as I recall… the Srengians worship this Arval thinking of it as a masculine warrior deity of a more recent sort. Another twist of historical fact and circumstance by those long-gone monsters.
"Then–"
"You're not a Srengian. You don't understand – yet."
…Perhaps I would be able to understand if this blowhard let me get a word in edgewise.
I rather hate people like this, especially when they're described as teachers. Nothing about this fellow is conversational… all he does is lecture. Still – I must try one more time.
"...I've read a great deal about your martial culture and your wars against the Kingdom. Some reflect my own plans for future campaigns against them. In particular, your own victory over–"
Cackling interrupts my attempt at reasoning with him yet again.
"Every achievement of mine has already turned to dust." he corrects.
…And I find myself in the most pedantic of all arguments.
"We stand before an achievement of yours." I reply, sharply – pointing towards the battalion he spent two months drilling. This prompts him to bring his Boetian helmet under his shoulder and run a hand through his hair… in a manner rather like yours and Captain Jeralt's…
Waving a hand towards his erstwhile trainees, he says:
"This? Just reflux."
As I'm sure you recall… his traditional Srengian accent makes it a bit unclear here as to whether he intended to enunciate "reflex" or "reflux"... but given the saliva he produced and spit onto the ground as emphasis… I am led to believe that he meant the latter.
"I cannot envision why you so passively accept subjugation while you still draw breath."
…And that's the truth, to borrow your turn of phrase.
"You say you've read a great deal about us. Do you have any theories why Sreng has done nothing but claim defeat from the jaws of victory for a thousand years?"
I have a thousand, of course. Quite literally a thousand, piled into one of my old academy notebooks.
"Primarily, Sreng has a foolish habit of purging quality officers and exiling them to Almyra as soon as they triumph over an enemy force." – and that's just the first of them.
A nod follows, and I can just tell that I've hit a nerve in this man. My suspicion about it being the great failing of Sreng has been proven correct, it seems.
"Tell me – who purges the officers?" he asks.
"The Syndics." I reply without a second thought. I know that trivia like the back of my glove.
"Who trained those officers in the first place?" comes his follow-up.
…And while I'm not absolutely certain, I make a wild guess:
"...The Syndics?"
"You have your answer."
A terrible answer, I must say – one that raises so many more than it answers.
"Whyever then would you commit to such a foolish social order? Can your Syndics not see the value of educating the next generation?" Follow two from my lips without much thought.
"How did the Syndics become Syndics?" he replies with yet another query.
This is such a silly way to argue a point, I think. Your answers are always so concise, My Byleth.
"...By overthrowing their predecessors."
That smirk of his grows into a grin as he replies:
"Again, you have your answer."
…And I find that insufficient as well. Am I supposed to just simply understand that such a society has existed for a thousand years without a single attempt like mine to put down such madness?
"Has no one sought to correct such chaos?" is the best question that can summarize my thoughts.
"I did, once. As did many of my classmates. As did hundreds, thousands, of Srengians at one juncture or another. We read a lot of books there. We get ideas in our heads."
"And…?"
"I failed. I volunteered for Almyra like the rest who failed and lived to talk about that failure. I failed in that endeavor too, and like all failures, I fell in love."
"One cannot appreciate triumphs without love."
...And that I believe with all of my heart. Zu Sion doesn't appear to agree, however, and produces more spittle to decorate the dirt between his boots.
"Love is the most base of all capitulations. When it fades, nothing but nature remains."
Looking back towards the troops in the midst of another formation, he adds:
"On the bright side, death spared Byleth that lesson."
"He's not dead, Prefect."
"He is – because that was his nature. He followed his instinct."
"...And that was…?"
"Never mind that. We should commence the transfer."
"...I must count myself unfamiliar with the procedure."
"Not complicated. This is the command baton of a Srengian."
Staring intently, I see that the faded pinewood baton is covered in etched scorpions. Two rectangular knobs sit at either end that remind one of sword-hilts… a convincing enough decoration for a martial society like Sreng's.
"I see…" comes my reply.
A nod from the Srengian reinforces the gravity of the offering.
"Grasp it, Emperor. Not too long ago, I shared this custom with your teacher, too."
In deference to that, I grip the baton in my gloved hand, taking it from the top… just above the Prefect's own wrinkled fingers. As I do, however, those fingers slide down the length of the cylinder almost lifelessly, at least until they reach the bottom knob of baton.
Then those fingers twist it, separating the knob from the baton entirely.
And then I realize – that knob is no more knob.
It is the hilt of a dagger hidden within.
I scarcely have the time to unsheathe my own from my belt before that blade gets dangerously close to puncturing my throat…! Luckily, my blade intercepts his… just in the nick of time. For a few silent moments, the two of us stand there, daggers drawn and glaring into each other's eyes. His azure ones have never seemed so colorful before…
While this is not the first assassination attempt I've suffered… it is most certainly the one that got the closest to killing me. In spite of that – or perhaps because of it – I make one last go at reasoning with this man who you held in such esteem.
"...Is there no word or deed of mine that could ever convince you?"
A smirk tells me his answer before his lips produce:
"No. It's just our nature."
"Our…?"
"We're scorpions, you and I. We sting because we cannot help ourselves. One of us will kill the other – there is no sadness here."
"...I am–"
"-It's written all over your face, girl. I know. Yet… you speak of meritocracy. Show me merit."
Bringing his stump of his arm to the base of the dagger's hilt, he begins to press down on it, inching the side of my own dagger's blade closer to my throat. As he does this, I hear the popping sound of his scar tissue tearing open from the pressure – and realize that the wound inflicted on his arm must have been more recent than I expected.
Given the medical techniques available to Fodlan, it must only be around a year or two old, in fact…
With that in mind… after a great heave, I activate my crest and use the accursed, residual strength reserve it offers to shove this crone some distance away. No doubt this mark of the beast is part of what kept those incursions into Gautier territory so frustrating. The Srengian shakes it off, however… and after a final, bloody spit, he inquires:
"Byleth's mercy – unmerited, undeserved. That frog is dead now."
Suddenly, I find myself reminded of the parable… and pieces begin to fall into place.
"So, will you have the courage to finish what was started?" he asks.
And under most circumstances, I would…
But if he expects me to simply charge recklessly at him and expose the other life I'm carrying around with me to his blade again… he has another thing coming.
Turning to my new battalion, I raise the Srengian baton.
"88th! Strike down the Prefect!"
Shortly thereafter, zu Sion has seven sarissas stabbing through his torso. The color leaves his eyes a few seconds after, leaving him upright... but limp – looking rather like a marionette puppet.
But that is not the most eerie part, I must admit…
Curiously, My Byleth… your teacher dies smiling.
AN:
One of the rather amusing questions that used to bother me when playing the game was: "who taught Byleth to read?". While the logical, hand-wave answer is Jeralt… as a homeschool kid myself, I know well enough that educating a child is full-time work. There's no justifiable reason to believe that Byleth was taught by Jeralt, who had a whole mercenary company to start up from scratch and lead by himself. While my dad wasn't a merc, he was an Entrepeneur like Papa Jeralt, and I didn't see much of him growing up.
The next logical point of literacy would've been from like a Remire village schoolhouse or something – but the Shadow Library clearly states that there's no printing press in Fodlan… and rural places without a cottage printing industry tend to stay illiterate for a very long time: see Portugal.
In the 1930s, roughly 50% of their population was still illiterate. My wife and I had our honeymoon in Faro back in 2016, and one of the old women running a restaurant told us (I speak Portuguese, I should clarify) that she still couldn't read after I showed her some directions I had gotten from the hotel concierge. Quite a wakeup call as an effete American.
Zu Sion is an opportunity to both explore my own headcanon for Sreng, but also give a window into what an Agarthan-influenced society might look like. Although he's dead now, his specter will play into white clouds, like other subordinates of Jeralt's company. Hope you enjoy him.
Winter: glad you caught that reference, was waiting for someone to point it out!
DragonMaster: all of the Slitherers are dead at this point. Yuri's paralogue is going to happen in white clouds – and Myson isn't going to get a chance to retreat thanks to Terminatorleth. The corpse of Cornelia has a hand in why the Kingdom has an uneasy truce with Adrestia at the moment, leaving Claude to fend off Edel on his own. Long story short, TWSITD isn't going to just get coup'd lying down – they call in all their assets.
Recall that I mentioned that I'm moving back the assault on the monastery to 7/31/1181. Between Edelgard dropping out on 2/8/1131 and the siege, they'll be a civil war within Adrestia and elsewhere. That's all I can reveal now.
Ainz: I agree with your assessment of PRT for the most part… I just don't understand why he's still reading at this point. Imagine getting so-assblasted about a work of fanfic that you'd be 400,000 words deep and then still coming back for more! It's incredible to me. And thanks for the kind words, I appreciate them!
PRT:You failed to answer one of the two questions I asked of you – specifically "when did I say it was good writing?". I'm going to keep nuking your replies until you answer that question, King. Use your vaunted critical thinking skills! Show me how it's done!
Lord Tsu: It's absolutely too heavy to float, yeah – which is why Edelgard's dad failed at getting his copy of it built properly. TWSTID has a fun relationship with Thanatos gambits – I saw it as a situation where Ionius gets duped into building an impossible project: if he succeeds and figures out that it needs dragon-blood as a magic bullet, then TWSITD gets their death-ship rebuilt. If Ionius fails, they get a weakened Adrestia prime for takeover, puppet emperor and his children to experiment on. Hope that makes sense.
