The principal residence of the Gautier estate was an opulent sanctuary in the eye of a perpetual snowstorm. Tree branches and sleet battered its grated windows, no doubt the work of howling winds, but the fireplace crackled in a calming reminder of the safety found indoors. It had been that way since its very beginning. Many things had changed with the remorseless flow of time, but at least those sounds remained untouched.
Sylvain wished everything else in his life could have been so lucky.
Letting out a tired groan, the house's master lay down on his writing desk and stared at the piece of parchment with the Crest of Daphnel in his hand. It was different from the other letters that arrived routinely at his doorstep.
It was an invitation to meet Ingrid's second child, whom she would likely give birth to within a month.
He loved to visit the little family. Nothing beat seeing their faces light up whenever he stopped by with the storybooks he had recovered from the depths of the margravate's library. It felt strange not giving them extravagant gifts as per custom among Faerghus nobles, but Ingrid was an avid saver. She had even valued his subpar attempts at restoring the toys that they had shared and promptly wore out long ago, though not without a bit of teasing first, of course.
Oh, but if she appreciated the efforts, Isaac adored them. That was when he realized that the kid had not only inherited his mother's piercing green eyes, but her silvery laughter that could make him forget his woes.
And yet nothing could drive away a crushing guilt that only grew whenever he saw them. He never lingered in Reiner territory for more than a few days, and once he left, a worrying relief clung to his heart. You can't do this to yourself anymore, it whispered in grating tones. It's better to leave them be.
About two years ago, on the day he met her son, Sylvain made a promise to them. No matter the circumstances, he would come running if they needed him. He'd be damned if he let Miklan's fate befall on Isaac, or the life of a disposable puppet consume Ingrid. He would be there for them.
But he was exhausted. He supposed he always knew the reason why, though he refused to verbalize it. Keeping it hidden allowed him to forget about the pain.
A knight of Faerghus never goes back on his word. Then again, Sylvain hadn't ever been great at following rules. It would be so easy to just send a message saying he needed to secure the border or supervise the coastal towns…
Several knocks on wood jerked him back to reality. Before he could speak, his door creaked open.
Instead of a servant with awful timing, his father stood at the entrance.
The former margrave looked out of place in Sylvain's quarters. He always envisioned him sitting quietly on the other side of the great hall's table or kneeling before the altar in the chapel. As the man plodded towards him, he wondered if he was drowsy, uncomfortable or both. Without warning, he set down a mountain of papers that tumbled over, spreading letters all over his desk.
Sylvain waited for an explanation. It didn't come.
"Um, what is this?" He already had a guess. He just had no idea why the hell his dad would be the one to deliver them.
"The most recent marriage proposals."
He rubbed his temple. Being correct didn't lessen the frustration.
His father coughed lightly. "My son, you have grown into a hardworking, devout leader. Certain clans of Sreng still show signs of hostility, but we are headed in the right direction. That is why I saw it appropriate to give you this."
He pulled out a velvet pouch from his coat. Trying to discern the ulterior motives, Sylvain stared at him as he cautiously received the gift, but the unbearable expectancy in his father's eyes forced him to reach into the bag.
The Gautier heir's breath caught in his throat. He was fiddling with a gold ring set with emeralds and engraved with his Crest.
"I've noticed the changes in your behavior," his father said. "You don't indulge in nightlife often, nor…trifle with the maids or noblewomen."
Sylvain placed the antique wedding band on the desk. "I thought you'd be happy about that, old man."
"Don't misunderstand. I came here to—"
"I know," he grumbled. "I know I need to get married soon. I know one of these strangers will become my wife for the sake of our territory or our country or whatever. You don't need to tell me again. Having this talk over dinner is enough, already."
The elder lord blinked. Sylvain couldn't care less about his blatant disrespect, and instead braced himself for an interminable lecture.
It didn't come.
The sigh that escaped his father's lips wasn't so much exasperated as it was sad. The gray spots in his hair and the wrinkles that formed an eternal frown on his face became much more apparent as he walked towards the window, his hands behind his back.
"Yes," he said. "I have given much thought to the matter. And…" His gaze got lost in the niveous haze that enveloped their home, as if searching for something. "I understand now that, for whatever reason it may be, it is not the time. You have dedicated yourself to our people and sacrificed much along the way. Who you marry… If it will bring you some comfort, you may reach a decision yourself."
Sylvain wasn't sure he heard that correctly. He turned to fully face him, expecting him to correct himself. When he didn't, he examined his face for signs of restrained laughter, although that was improbable at best. His father would make a joke the day Felix gave up swordsmanship to become a healer.
"OK, what's this about?" Sylvain huffed, unnerved. "All these years you've been saying you'll marry me off, and now you've magically changed your mind?" He glared at him from where he sat. The imposing figure of his father had intimidated him when he was younger, but he could now see the pitiful soul that lurked within. "At least tell me what you're planning so I won't have to figure it out."
To his increasing confusion, the stunned expression melted into a weary grin. "As perceptive as ever, I see. Very well. I consider it part of my penitence, so to speak."
Sylvain waited for him to elaborate. The man was not hyper religious by any means, but in recent times he had developed a habit of lingering in the oratory for hours on end, leaving him to wonder what he could possibly be praying for.
Before he could delve for answers, the former margrave continued. "I have made…terrible decisions in the past. If the goddess allowed us mortals to turn back the hands of time, believe me, I would in an instant. But all that we can do…" He closed his eyes for a second only to contemplate the horizon again. Sylvain could have sworn he saw a hint of hesitance in his movements. "All that we must do is remember and live with the consequences of our actions. That is, until the day when we can make amends."
Sylvain followed his father's gaze. Beyond the walls of their castle and the rampart that protected the city, beyond the hills and frozen rivers, lay the abandoned Conand Tower.
Bile filled his mouth. Not even sleep could shelter him from the dreadful memories that tormented him. The Lance of Ruin pulsating in Miklan's hand, the deafening screams, the way his body writhed as the Relic's fury disfigured it.
The monster that stood where his brother had drawn his last breath.
Sylvain hadn't ever loved him. How could he, when all that he brought upon his life was misery? When he would push him off trees, poison his food and shove him in wells?
Despite that, a voice in the back of his head yearned for the care of an older brother. Felix's and Ingrid's would climb, eat and play with them. They would recite stories with exaggerated hand gestures and silly voices and teach them how to wield weapons so they wouldn't get hurt.
As he watched, Sylvain thought that he maybe wasn't doing things right.
And so he never confronted his brother nor revealed his misdeeds to his parents. If he let out all the resentment he bottled up, if he stopped seeing him as a threat, perhaps he would warm up to him. He could honor him with his love.
After all, Miklan was the one without a Crest. He had every right to be angry at him.
His father smiled, entrusting him with foreign vulnerability. "I suppose it is selfish of me. Perhaps, by allowing you to forge this piece of your future, I can begin to atone."
Sylvain stared at him. The elder man constantly emitted an aura of cold composure and kept even his loved ones at a wary distance. That's why, on the night of Miklan's exile, Sylvain thought his eyes were tricking him. He only realized that he had truly seen the revered lord cry when he returned home shortly after the declaration of war. It could have been because of stress or worry, but an aching sorrow shadowed his every move.
Now, as he looked towards the south, his regret became almost tangible.
It was oddly comforting to know that his dad also wondered about how things might have turned out differently.
Sylvain grasped the ring. "I think you can, father."
He began his preparations as soon as morning came. The journey to the Reiner Barony wasn't a short one, after all.