Sylvain was on the northernmost coast of Gautier when he learned that Ingrid had gone into labor.
As soon as the news reached his ears, a fierce panic crept from the pit of his stomach and engulfed his body. According to the wyvern rider, who had left Reiner territory two and a half weeks ago, the birth hadn't been so premature to be a death sentence. However, the complications that arose had required the interventions of several midwives and physicians.
His blood ran cold. "Is— Is she alright?!"
The messenger opened his mouth, closed it, and then barely moved his lips to mumble that he had set forth before he could be sure.
Sylvain's feet seemed to move on their own as he climbed on the creature's back, surprising both the man and animal.
"Please, take me to the Gautier Margravate," he implored. When the servant responded with a firm nod, he turned his attention to the dumbfounded soldiers who had accompanied him on his mission. "Troops, keep surveying the villages of the region and prepare a report. I'll be back before you know it."
He scarcely heard their voices as the draconic wings launched them into the skies. Sylvain bit his tongue to contain his demand to head directly to Reiner Manor. Not only would his mount collapse from exhaustion within a day, but the people of his domain would suffer the consequences of his sudden absence. He cursed and clenched his frigid fists, noting no difference in how numb his knuckles felt.
Throughout the journey, he repeated to himself that she was fine, a mantra that kept him sane enough. Ingrid was the strongest and most capable person he knew. While at the monastery, she always rose with the dawn and trained despite her aching muscles. For the longest time, she hadn't indulged in things like stylish clothes and makeup to focus on knighthood, something he couldn't resist teasing her about. Just watching her was exhausting. If more than five years of war couldn't bring her down, how could this?
Despite his desperate attempts, the flood of anguish that had swallowed him only withdrew once he stepped through the Reiner gates ten days later.
The elderly servant that welcomed him in the courtyard assured him that Ingrid was all right, though still quite feeble and woozy. Sylvain bent down as he released a heavy sigh of relief, startling the tiny lady that had unknowingly freed him of an agonizing weight. He blurted out his thanks and almost ran to the entrance, but she called after him.
"Milord! I'm sorry. You can't see her right now. They are testing the little one, you see."
"Testing? What—"
And then it hit him. They wanted to see if the child bore a Crest. He had never witnessed one of those blood analyses, but plenty of nobles remembered the day their one-month-old relatives were examined. It wasn't an unpleasant nor long experience, but what stayed with them were the parents' reactions to the revelation. Some shouted and sobbed, others hugged and laughed. Even less showed genuine care for the child.
The whole of Reiner Manor held their breath, praying for a successor they deemed worthy.
Until the sound of the front door bursting open broke the tense silence.
A tall man stormed out of the manor, his hands running through his disheveled brown hair. Sylvain knew he was looking at Philip Reiner and leapt to his feet from the bench.
His heart sunk. There was only one reason Ingrid's husband could be so furious.
Behind him, a figure dressed in black strode down the stairs, barely sparing the frantic lord a glance. Sylvain's hand flew to his hidden dagger, but he caught himself and relaxed. Old habits die hard, he supposed. It wasn't the norm for a mage to carry out the test, but it was far from strange.
When the examiner did look at Philip, the few words he said to him fanned the fire. With no reply, he continued down the path to the stables, the soles of his boots pounding against the cobblestone. A few ways to grab his attention sprung to mind, the favored candidate being to throw himself in his way and berate him in a manner only Ingrid could have taught him. But the baron stopped dead in his tracks, his face darting to meet Sylvain's with cold precision.
The notorious philanderer had always been painfully aware of the phrase, "the eyes are a window to the soul". The few who saw behind his façade hadn't cared for his relaxed body language or lively tone. Instead, they had seen hate buried within his amber irises, although he had no clue how that even made sense.
In a second, he understood. Philip's eyes withheld a tempest of resentment, anguish, sadness and a thousand other emotions that battled for control over his mind and body.
A familiar twinge pierced his chest when he wondered if his father bore the same expression after Miklan's birth.
Philip's frown softened once he scanned the unexpected guest, though he couldn't tell if it was due to embarrassment or intrigue. He must have recognized Ingrid's friend, for he tilted his head towards the manor, as if entrusting the situation to him, and resumed his course before either spoke a word. Like he wasn't just abandoning his distraught wife, he heeded his wyvern's roar and set off to Goddess-knows-where.
Sylvain allowed himself to breathe and unclench his jaw, lest he damage his teeth. The servants' loud chatter confirmed his suspicions the moment he made his way to the door and through the corridors. As if he had travelled back in time and to the Gautier halls, maids lamented that the boy wasn't what their Lord needed. He had to restrict himself from punching a butler who grumbled that the Lady needed to give birth to a deserving heir as soon as possible.
A recurring scenario that saw Sylvain without his prized Crest surfaced in his mind. Despite what he tried to believe as a kid, his House would have tossed him aside if he hadn't been of use to them, like Miklan. His parents had never truly loved him, just as he was sure his grandparents hadn't truly loved them either. And Philip Reiner promised to perpetuate the abhorrent cycle that had ruined his family.
Burbling cries trailed by a familiar voice shushing them snapped him out of his thoughts. Following the sounds with almost hesitant footsteps, Sylvain arrived at an area that he recognized as Ingrid's boudoir. She had once mentioned that she preferred the humbler space over the great chamber since it reminded her of her quarters in Galatea and the Officers Academy. An odd feeling urged him to turn back, like he was interrupting something, but he ignored it.
As soon as he peeked through the door, he froze.
Ingrid sat on an upholstered armchair in the corner, her locks now long enough to fit into a simple updo. A few stray hairs and the bags beneath her reddened eyes betrayed the exhaustion of restless nights. Nonetheless, she gave the weeping bundle in her arms a weary grin.
Sylvain found he couldn't bring himself to call out to her. In all her life, Ingrid had never expressed an interest in becoming a mother, and he guessed being forced into the role could only further her distaste. He had never expected to find her admiring her unwanted child with a softness that had evaded him since childhood, yet one he recognized all the same. Fragments of it had sprung up before, mostly when dining with their classmates or when her brothers visited her. Now, he basked in the boundless amounts of unconditional love that the scene proved could exist.
Ingrid, sharp as ever, sensed the visitor shortly after. Her face lit up, compelling him to take a step into the room. Then another. And another.
In an instant, he was standing beside her, his hand clutching the back of the chair. She tugged on the blanket with her finger, uncovering the tiniest and squishiest cheeks he had ever seen.
"His name is Isaac," Ingrid whispered, although it did nothing to calm her babbling son. "Isaac Bardolph."
He quirked an eyebrow. "Bardolph? Like the hero in the poem?"
"You know I couldn't help it."
Sylvain peered at the legendary knight's namesake. By the goddess, he was so small. Ingrid hadn't ever been great at handling delicate things, but the way she cradled him like it was nothing amazed him.
He beamed. "Hey there, little buddy. My name's Sylvain."
The baby's green eyes widened in an almost comical way, taking in the sight of the stranger in front of him. He was worried he might have scared him, but the kid reached for him with his chubby arms as his lips curled up into a smile.
Rendered speechless, Sylvain let out a laugh of disbelief. He gave his hand for Isaac to take into both of his own. "Well, now! Guess we've got a charmer over here. You might even surpass me once you've grown up a bit, huh?"
He turned his head towards Ingrid, a look of similar shock spread across her face. "That… He has never done that before…"
"Done what?"
"Smile." She sat upright, as if now grasping what the situation meant. "That was his first smile! You— How did you do that?! I've been trying to get him to smile for weeks! And you just waltz in and accomplish it without even realizing?" She tried to keep a stern tone, but the happiness in her voice was undeniable.
Sylvain slung his arm around her shoulders. "What can I say? I'm irresistible."
She scoffed good-naturedly. The pair fell into a comfortable silence as they watched Isaac drift off to sleep. Even if their society valued Crests over his life, even if the system that had determined their fates would forsake him, for now, all that shaped Isaac's world were his dreams and the warmth of his mother's embrace.
Sylvain found peace in that fact, and held her closer. "You did fantastic, Ingrid."