Part 2 — Guardian Moon

As days go by, the steady steam of visitors to Garreg Mach begins to slow, but it's a mostly unnoticed change to the Monastery's residents. Former students and mercenaries alike were wrapped up in their daily activities and gradual reconstruction efforts. At times it was difficult to remember that any sort of threat was looming in the farthest reaches of Fódlan. Perhaps their more stagnant population should have been a sign for what is to come.

Marianne leans into the void, nose in her clasped hands and elbows in her lap. She feels a shiver tingle up her back. For a brief moment, she tricks herself into believing this was a sign the Goddess was validating her devotion. Then she leans back into the cathedral's pew and opens her eyes, reminding herself of that damned hole in the ceiling. No wonder it was so chilly.

Just as the dread of isolation begins to creep down her neck, the blue-haired girl's attention focuses on the only other person in the room: Dimitri.

The once spry heir to the throne of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, now perpetually lost in the recesses of his mind. More often than not he stood in the same spot, muttering to himself. Moments of clarity were few and far between, and even then they were mostly spent pushing away everyone who cared.

At least his cloak looked nice and warm, despite its grimy veneer.

"Any chance you'd be willing to share that cloak, Dimitri?" Marianne's voice echoes in the large chamber, though she tried to downplay her desperation to work something — anything — out of him.

Silence.

"I suppose not."

The soft-spoken girl smoothed out the wrinkles around the knees of her blue dress before standing. She hesitantly approaches the brutish statue of a man, focused on his head of knotted yellow vines that give way to that unblemished eye, forever haunted and distant.

Only when she ventures to stand directly beside him does Dimitri's eye dart in her direction, ever so briefly. She took that as a sign to come no further.

"Do you pray, Dimitri?"

More silence.

Marianne glances up at the Prince.

"I can't imagine what else you must be doing while standing here, day after day." She smiles. "I hope she listens do you more than she does me."

Dimitri's breathing is heavy and labored. Marianne's smile fades, and she moves her gaze back to the pile of rubble before them.

"I used to hate it here," she continues with her eyes closed. Any attempt at sounding cheery had washed away. "The whole Officers Academy, to an extent. But mostly the cathedral."

She pauses, hoping for some acknowledgement. Echoes of cold peaches rot her taste buds with bittersweet memories.

"All I ever wanted was to hear Her voice, or see some flash of that fabled green hair. Something to tell me I was on the right path — though at the time, all I could imagine was cosmic retribution for straying too far from it. Or being struck down as some anomaly, just a hitch in someone else's road." She huffs a dispirited chuckle out her nose. "I hated the constant gaggle of people moving in and out of this place. They were a distraction, especially when it was one of our classmates trying to chat. I couldn't help but wonder why they wanted to talk to this living nuisance."

Marianne sniffles, rolling her head to the left so she could keep the tear blurring her right eye to its duct. "I would give anything to have those days back. To chat with Ignatz about his latest painting, or ask Mercedes how she kept her hair so shiny, or even let Linhardt bug me about some rumor he heard from Professor Hanneman."

She levels her head, and then bores her vision into Dimitri's side. "They were the sign. They just weren't as easy to understand as the horses."

Dimitri closes his eye. Marianne is surprised for a moment, and instinctively reaches out her hand. She stops before her fingertips brush against his black vambraces. She clutches her fist and brings it back to her bosom, afraid to provoke him.

"I hope the silence is more peaceful to you than it is to me," she says hoarsely.

Her footsteps rebound through the chamber as she hurriedly walks toward the exit, doing everything in her power not to look as pathetic as she felt scampering away.

"… Wrong."

Marianne freezes at the sound of Dimitri's burgeoning, gruff voice. She pulls her step back and glances over her shoulder.

"Pardon?"

"The only voices I hear are ghosts, not deities." Dimitri's gravely voice grates her ears. He's more grounded than usual, but his presence is no less ghastly. He glances back at her, but only with his eyepatch — itself barely visible behind a curtain of blonde hair.

Marianne swallows hard. "Ghosts?"

"I am the speaker for the dead," he utters in a sinister trance. "Every rat I slaughter adds to my conclave, and they demand yet more. Perhaps once I've taken her head, there will be peace. Peace in the land. Peace in my mind. As I've always wanted."

He turns back to the pile, and Marianne can practically hear his neck creak with the strain. "Maybe then I will deserve their forgiveness."

The Alliance maiden is awestruck watching Dimitri revert to stone under the column of light. When it becomes evident his conversation has run dry, she continues her arduous journey to the exit.

After pushing the double doors enough to slip outside, Marianne finds a redheaded knight in dark armor kicking back against one wall of the great bridge. He stares up at meandering clouds, collar of maroon fuzz around the rim of his armor brushing against his neck.

"Sylvain?"

He looks to Marianne and sharply grins. "In the flesh."

"But I thought…"

"Felix was here?" Sylvain cuts her off, and then pauses with a brief grunt as he clambers to his feet in the somewhat awkward suit. "He was, but now he's off getting some food. Hopefully."

Marianne teases her blue bangs as she makes her way to the base of the stairs. "Hopefully?"

"Who knows what he decided to actually do." Sylvain shrugs, and then runs his hands behind his neck. "But I told him if he's going to spend all this time watching over his Highness, he should take care of himself too."

The girl giggles and twiddles her fingers daintily before her waist.

"That's awfully kind of you, Sylvain. I'm sure he appreciates it."

Sylvain rolls his eyes. "I'll take your word for it."

They let the breeze pass over their unspoken dialogue. Sylvain can see Marianne's energy fading, and figures guard duty can wait. He turns to the Monastery proper like a toy soldier and holds out his right arm, offering her an escort.

The redhead only has to suggestively gesture for a moment before Marianne breaks, and hook their arms with a reserved smile.

"How is your wound healing?" Marianne asks as she juts her head forward to see.

Sylvain proudly stretches his neck to point out the scar.

"Honestly, Mercie has magic hands. It's better than ever." He grins. "I'm starting to think I should get hurt more often if it means she'll be patching me up!"

The girl giggles, shaking her head. "I'm not sure she would like that quite as much as you, Sylvain."

"I don't know," he laughs. "I've been told I make for good company when you have literally nowhere else to go because you're performing a healing regiment."

As the future Margrave's laugh dissipates, his expression also turns more serious.

"How is he back there?" Sylvain asks, shifting his tone to match the new topic. They march past missing chunks of wall that once held a pattern of banners inviting guests to their place of worship.

"I don't have the faintest idea how to answer that question." Marianne sighs. "It's like I can sense him, but he's buried underneath so much armor — literal and figurative."

The male knight nods, thinking it over and clicking his tongue a few times.

"Know what you mean. It's hard, when all you really get to see is the 'Boar Prince,' as if that's all he's ever been."

"Must we call him that?" Marianne says with a bit of a droning whine as she looks to Sylvain. He shakes his head.

"I don't want to give Felix credit as much as the next guy, but he's not entirely wrong." The redhead rubs the back of his neck with his free hand. "You should have been there when we first found him. The way he fights with such disregard for life, especially his own… It's something else."

Marianne swallows hard and gazes down at her feet, barely kicking out from the base of her long dress.

When Sylvain sees the downer expression he brought about, he clears his throat. "I miss him too."

Marianne looks back up, curious.

"The old Dimitri," he continues. "Goddess knows he had the emotional intelligence of a stump half the time, but he made up for it when he needed to. Idealistic, strong, wise beyond his years…"

"Compassionate," Marianne finishes Sylvain's list for him. The two stop at the far end of the bridge as she unhooks their arms, that way they can face one another. "I think that's what hurts the most, seeing all his energy sapped away."

Sylvain's eyes dart all about her face. He was clearly stunned, even melancholic. Just when it appears he's about to say something, the knight looks off at the cathedral.

"He reprimanded me on this bridge once."

Marianne looks confused. She glances between Sylvain and that nebulous spot in the middle distance he was so drawn to. "Who, Dimitri?"

Sylvain nods. "Tried to convince me all the flirting I do was 'unbecoming' for a man with my position, or whatever. Talk about rich, coming from a guy who never understood his own feelings enough to reckon with them."

Marianne's eyes dilate, and her hands go clammy. She dries them on her dress. "What do you mean?" She manages to squeak out.

Sylvain's forlorn expression cracks with a slight wince; his lips tick into a grimace that immediately subsides. Then he returns her gaze, stoic.

"I'm not sure it's my place to say, Marianne."

She could appreciate his reservation, but it drove her up the wall. She wanted to scream at him, beg him to confirm the implication in his words that got her heart racing. Instead, she gives him a half-hearted bow. "I understand."

In the quiet moment that follows, the two become aware of an approaching sound: boots slamming against stone in a breakneck flurry. Before they can figure out it was coming from the direction of the graveyard, a figure races through the passage between there and the old classrooms.

Both Sylvain and Marianne stare at the space, finding a few other passersby just as bewildered. Sylvain scoffs.

"Wonder what that's about."