Sylvain trembled, his feet felt like lead, his legs twitching as he stood still, stuck in place. The parchment crackled underneath his fingertips as he gripped it too tight. He felt all the blood rush to his face as he stared at the ink letters, his brow furrowed with his veins pulsing against the skin above, revealing the crimson shade of the blood flowing underneath his flesh. All of a sudden, his breathing began to become heavier and coarser as its rhythm dissolved into an uncontrollable, panicked hyperventilation.
He couldn't believe what he was reading, every accursed word seemed to swirl around the paper to mirror the thoughts in his head. His mouth dried and felt rough against his soft tongue, a sour taste covering his buds, making him shake his head in a futile attempt to escape the sensation.
His expression must have been fierce since the messenger let out a quiet squeak as they backed away.
All he could was sit on the bench, doing his best to compose himself. Somewhere deep down, he knew that he needed to keep himself together. No matter what cruel scheme his father had concocted, he couldn't let that get in the way of enjoying himself. His lips tried to reform into his practiced smirk, but they faltered.
"Sylvain? What's wrong?"
He crumpled the scroll into his fist. He ran his other hand through his ruffled hair, The presence of another cause enough to reform himself.
She would do the same, after all.
Raising his head, Sylvain met the charming face of one of his oldest friends. "Your Highness, good afternoon!"
"Is everything okay, Sylvain?" the prince asked again.
Towering over his shoulder, Sylvain made sure to flash a smile at the prince's bodyguard.
He nodded. "Of course, I couldn't be better on such a fine day," he said, gesturing to the clear sky above the courtyard.
Prince Dimitri didn't seem to buy his act, focusing on his balled fist. "What have you got there?"
Sylvain stuffed it into his jacket. "Just another love letter, you know how it is?"
His childhood friend shook his head, disapproving of his reputation. "Sylvain, perhaps it would be better if you just decided to pick just one girl to settle down with," he gave the playboy a stern look, hoping he'd see reason.
Sylvain frowned. An image of a golden goddess flashed through his mind. Beautiful and strong, stronger than he was. He didn't know if he could bear facing her after receiving the news from his father. "You know, you might very well be right, Your Highness," he clapped his old friend on the shoulder as he left.
He strolled through the courtyard, taking in all of Garrag Mach's beauty. He watched as a whole monastery of young noblewomen, just desperate to fall in love with a dashing knight, giggled and gossiped in groups as they passed by him. Over the last few years, he'd enjoyed flirting and toying with the vast majority of the monastery's female occupants. Pretty much all his classmates in the Officer's Academy reprimanded him for focusing on girls instead of his training, but he found them all a worthy distraction from the pain. All he wanted was to get as far away from that pit in his heart as he could manage.
There was no running away from now on. His father had made damn sure of that.
The metallic clanging of the monastery's bells echoed throughout Garrag Mach, signalling the start of the officer academy's classes. He didn't want to go. For the last few years, he had enjoyed learning from the newest professor, studying with all his friends and flirting with his pretty classmates. Even when the newest student had joined their house, he welcomed right in because she was just so fun-loving.
But now, he dreaded going to class more than anything. He knew she'd be there.
She might have her sword drawn the moment he stepped into the room. He could just imagine her having to be held back from murdering her new jailor by the combined strength Dimitri, Dedue and the professor. He chewed his lip as he debated with himself.
No. She'd face her problems. She always did.
Sylvain allowed himself to chuckle as he headed off towards the classrooms. He strolled through the stone pathways, shaking his head at the ridiculous volume that erupted from the Golden Deer's classroom. It was amplified by the deafening silence that flowed out of the Black Eagle's class. He wasn't surprised, Edelgard was terrifying on the sunniest of days. He came to a stop outside the doors to the Blue Lions' designated room. Hundreds of students from Faerghus had studied in this same room. Even his ancestors had enjoyed their spells of attendance here, as bloodthirsty as they were.
He took a deep breath before turning the corner, putting on his best smile. He scanned around, noting that he wasn't the last to arrive to class, unlike always.
She wasn't here.
But that wasn't possible. She was always there, one of the first to arrive and always eager to learn.
The professor called out her name, looking to mark her attendance down. She scanned around, resigning to note her student down as absent from the class. Her quill was a hair's breadth from crossing her name off the list when…
"I'm here!"
Sylvain copied his classmates, turning in his seat to take in the sight at the entrance.
Ingrid's golden mane hung over her shoulder in a loose braid. Hunched over her waist with her hands on her knees for balance, she huffed and puffed in the doorway. Her jade eyes shone with the intensity of diamonds, revealing her fierce pride as a punctual student.
Once the professor noted her attendance, Ingrid composed herself before strolling towards her usual seat. Sylvain's breath hitched with each of her steps. His heel tapped the floor in a nervy rhythm to match the beating of his heart.
They both stopped when she came by. In the corner of his vision, he could see her. She stood next to his chair, still as a statue. His breath hitched as he pictured her scathing glare above him. But all it took for him to remember to breathe was the cute sight her fingertips drumming against the books she clutched to her chest. She wasn't glaring at him; she was focusing on the empty seat next to him. Her usual seat.
He wanted to talk to her. No, he needed to talk to her. Yet whenever he tried to speak, his throat dried up.
He choked on his words, drowning in all the things he wanted to say to her. For what felt like an eternity, Sylvain wished for any form of response from his childhood friend. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end in suspense. It was as if the entire classroom was staring at their confrontation.
He heard a huff above him before he had to watch as Ingrid's boots spurred her over to an empty seat by Annette. The chair screeched against the stone tiles as she took her seat, staring ahead with her unwavering posture.
Sylvain didn't even register the professor starting the class's lecture until Ashe tapped his arm. It didn't matter, he still wasn't able to focus on a single word the professor uttered. Not whilst his head was swirling with thoughts of her feelings.
He must have been repulsive.
The monster who would keep her imprisoned for the rest of her life.
Maybe that's all he'd ever be. Just another one of those pathetic nobles who'd pay a handsome fee for some lesser house's daughter. All for some stupid crests. She didn't deserve some good-for-nothing nobleman as her husband. She deserved the chivalrous knight from those stories she read all the time. Like Glenn was.
He thought back to when he had died. She was distraught. All his friends were in a bad place. Dimitri had his parents ripped away from him. Felix had his brother taken, making him the next in line for House Fraldarius. And Ingrid lost her fiancé, a good man who she had grown to admire.
In Dimitri, something seemed to snap. Sylvain could see it, but he had hoped that he could help his friend and his king deal with his loss. He understood what Felix went through, trying to live up to a responsibility that he never expected to have since he was the youngest sibling. Yet that was where the similarities ended. Miklan was nowhere near the kind of man that Glenn was.
But, he couldn't have hoped to understand what Ingrid was going through. All he was able to think about back then was himself. He had been so used to having his childhood friend at his back no matter what. However, after she lost Glenn, Ingrid hid herself away from the world, and from Sylvain.
He never wanted to return to those days. He couldn't.
"Sylvain?"
Looking up, he noticed everyone packing up their things. The class was already over, and he wasn't able to recall anything his beautiful professor had tried to teach him.
He turned towards the quivering voice.
"What's up, Ashe?" he asked.
The boy shot a nervous look towards Sylvain's hand. Following his wide-eyed gaze, Sylvain found his quill snapped in half within his balled fist.
"Oh! Uh… oops," he gave the younger lad an apologetic smile. He was doing his best to clean up the mess he had made when he caught sight of Ingrid rushing past a confused Mercedes to disappear through the exit.
Concerned, Sylvain followed after her. He needed to confront her. He needed her help to find a way to solve this problem. For both of their lives.
Figuring that she might return to her reclusion after Glenn's death, he headed back to the dormitory. He found her door, steadying himself against its frame. He took a few moments to steady himself. Even he knew that it wasn't a good idea to barge into Ingrid's room without a cooler head. Under his breath, he let out a chuckle. It was almost reminiscent of all those times he'd been invited to other noble lady's rooms. He always stopped to give himself time to slip into the charming character that he'd used to seduce them.
He rapped his knuckles against the wooden door, soft but firm enough to echo around the hallway.
Silence was all the response he was given.
So, he knocked again.
Nothing, once more.
A growl rumbled in his chest.
He dispensed with any sort of the formalities his family had been trying to drill into him since he could walk and barged into Ingrid's room. He searched all four corners of the well-kept room, just to find no sign of anyone at all. There was no doubt it was Ingrid's room, the spartan layout enough evidence to support that claim.
Sylvain had to search a little harder through the drawers of her desk before he managed to find anything out of place. A crumpled letter. Sylvain recognised the identity of the broken seal's owner. House Galatea. He knew it was wrong of him to delve into the private conversations between father and daughter, but he also assumed that Count Galatea must have had a hand in their current problem, scheming along with his own father.
Unravelling the cracked paper, he answered his suspicions. Word by word, he had to relive through her father's betrayal. His heart ached for his childhood in that moment. It was as if he could feel her world crumbling all around her as she read her father's signature. Sylvain understood her pain, being seen as nothing more than just a crest and the value that it holds for the noble houses. His hands shook, his blood boiling to drown out the sounds of the letter tearing in his hands.
It took him a moment to focus on the two halves of the broken seal of House Galatea dangling in his hands.
He had to find her. That drive took him back out into the rest of Garrag Mach, undertaking a frantic search to find his childhood friSylvain raced to the one place that she was almost always drawn to with a primal need.
The dining hall.
Brushing past the crowds of students entering and exiting through the broad doors, Sylvain took in the scent of the kitchen's meal of the day. Perfumes of foreign spices wafted through the spacious hall, leading him to guess that Dedue was on cooking duty today. He'd had one lesson with him already and he couldn't wait for another someday. The king's bodyguard was a marvel with all kinds of food, always knowing the right herbs and spices to pair with various meats.
He saw a few of his other classmates dotted around the long tables as well as members of the academy's other houses, mixing and intermingling with bouts of hearty chatter. A cutesy giggle in particular drew his attention to one of the benches.
He approached without thought. His height allowed him to peer over the gaggle of students to find one of his favourite classmates.
"Hey Annette," he said, drawing her out of the conversation she'd been invested in. "You seen Ingrid around?"
She shook her head from side to side, her ginger locks bouncing with her vigorous movements. The girls she was sitting with, all unrecognisable to Sylvain, seemed to watch him with a shine in their eyes. He caught a few of them fussing over their uniforms and their hair, making sure to look as presentable as possible for him and he knew it was the same for the others. The only one who didn't seem to change in his presence was Annette, who was as bubbly as ever. He envied her. She never put on a mask, she was just kind to everyone. He didn't know how she managed it.
Did she have to try?
The mask felt like second nature to him at this point, he'd been putting it on ever since he was little.
"Is she alright?" Sylvain gave Annette a quizzical look, prompting her to explain. "She seemed like she was bothered by something… earlier. Like in class, she didn't take her usual seat next to…" she averted her gaze from him, flicking back as she came to a realisation about Ingrid's mood.
Sylvain ran a hand through his hair. "Well, if she isn't here then she must not be feeling much like herself," he backed away with an embarrassed smile, apologising for taking up her time before he left the dining hall to continue his search.
Aimless, he looked around, losing hope with every corner he rounded. He started to think that he was just being led around in circles, his chance of finding his old friend diminishing with each chamber he exited.
All his searching left him stranded in one of his least favourite places.
The cathedral.
No house of worship would ever forgive him for his sins.
Maybe she had come here in search of a sanctuary faraway from him. That thought was reinforced by the tingle that passed down his spine as he crossed the threshold of the colossal double doors. His footsteps echoed off the ancient tiles, piercing the silence of prayer.
He never understood how someone could believe in a goddess who allowed the world to segregate itself into a hierarchy based on the saints' bloodlines and crests. If the goddess was as powerful as all her worshippers believed, then how could she just standby as his friend suffered at the hands of her father's desperation?
She must have been thinking the same thing as he was since he couldn't find her.
He did find some solace, however, in the angelic face of the kindest soul he knew.
"Sylvain, have you come to pray to the goddess as well?" she smiled, her pearly teeth reflecting the heavenly shine in her eyes.
He cocked a smirk. "Maybe some other time, Mercedes," he said, trying his best to let her down easy.
Her plush lips pressed together in a frown that lasted a brief moment before returning to their natural smiling shape. "Yes, another time then," she brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "How can I help you?" she asked.
"I was wondering if Ingrid had come to pray at all," Sylvain shrugged.
Mercedes craned her neck to the side, as if to roll the answer from her mind. "Nope, I haven't seen her since the professor's lecture earlier," she said.
He let out a sigh of relief, as if he had somehow been absolved of his sins. Just knowing that Ingrid hadn't resorted to a higher power to aid her in this time of need was enough to give Sylvain some semblance of hope that, together, they could find a way to fight their circumstances.
"You seem troubled, Sylvain," Mercedes said, taking notice of his tense shoulders. "Is there anything I can do to help you?" she asked.
Sylvain couldn't help but let out a nervy chuckle. "No, it's fine I just…" he stopped himself as he allowed a smile to curl his lips. "You know what, I'd be grateful if you prayed for me. Just this once?"
"Oh Sylvain, of course I'll pray for your good fortune. But, you're welcome to pray to the goddess yourself, she accepts all prayers from her believers," Mercedes said.
He shook his head. "I know but I think my request for help would look a lot better being delivered by such an angel," he smirked, shooting her a devilish wink. It took a moment for her to register his words, but once she did, he revelled in her cute fit of giggling. Well-mannered as always, she brought her dainty hand to cover her face and gave Sylvain the well-earned sight of a flustered beauty.
As he strolled away, happy with himself, he could feel her gaze linger on his back. There was something exhilarating about the way her laughter echoed around the cathedral's ancient walls. Maybe it was the fact that he managed to fill the void of silent prayer with just a tiny inkling of joy for once. And if he could make a beautiful maiden like Mercedes laugh, then maybe he wasn't so bad after all.
He shielded his eyes as he stepped onto the bridge spanning Garreg Mach. The sun had just started to set on the horizon, which meant he was running out of time. He leaned over the railing, rubbing his forehead as he thought of all the spots Ingrid could be hiding from him in.
She wasn't hiding away in her room like she had when Glen died. She hadn't tried to comfort herself with her favourite foods in the dining hall. And, she didn't turn to the church to offer her salvation.
Then, she had to be…
"The training ground."
Sylvain almost jumped to an early grave, cursing the sharp tone that cut through the silence of his desperate thoughts. "Felix! You almost gave me a damn heart atta… what happened to you?"
Felix groaned as he rubbed his shoulder, trying to hide the worst of his injuries. But, he couldn't escape from Sylvain's caramel pupils taking in the plethora of cuts that marked his academy uniform and bore his blood to the cool air.
"Please tell me you didn't pick a fight with Prince Dimitri again," Sylvain palmed his face.
The heir to House Fraldarius shot him a hardened glare, locking their gazes. "Even you'll be able to guess who did this to me," he said.
Sylvain's jaw dropped. "Ingrid did this! Why would she try to kill you?"
"That was what I was hoping you would tell me…" Felix rolled his neck. "All I did was tell her to take a break from her sword training."
"Well, wasn't that kind of you?"
Felix growled at him. "She's been training since the end of class, even her hands have started to bleed!" he winced as his small movements elicited another round of pained grunts.
But, Sylvain wasn't listening to his friend's pain. He'd zoned out when Felix had described the torture Ingrid was putting herself through. His heart ached as he pictured her bloody body, crying so hard she had crimson tears staining her cheeks. She was killing herself, all because of him.
"Sylvain! What are you waiting for? Go to her!" Felix broke him from his trance. His body locked up, his muscles refusing to move. "Now!" his childhood friend barked at him with such ferocity that his feet took off in a sprint in fear of Felix drawing his treasured sword.
Wind rushed past his ears as he raced across the monastery. The guards watched him stumble through the doorways like a madman, but he didn't have time to explain himself. He sidestepped around a sharp corner, brushing shoulders with a vibrant blur of violet.
"Hey! Watch where you're going, you…" the booming voice of the academy's newest student called out after him, but he was too far for the rest of her colourful cursing to reach his ears.
As he came closer to the entrance of the training ground, he caught the breathtaking sight of Shamir, the church's premium mercenary, watching the giant doors with a cautious eye. At her thigh, she fingered the handle of one of her many throwing knives.
Even Sylvain knew that wasn't a good sign.
He slowed down as he came closer, stiffening up when she turned her unrelenting gaze onto him. She eyed him with a wary look for what felt like an eternity whilst he held his breath. When she flicked her eyes towards the training grounds, he let out a sigh of relief, slipping inside with her silent permission granted.
"Oh fuck…" Sylvain muttered as he took in the view. Pieces of armour adorned the ground, mixed with the life's work of a blacksmith. Lances lay in halves, splintered down the middle. Even if they were made whole again, the blunted tips made them useful only as firewood now. The blades of swords rested against the floor, dulled right down to the cross guards. Mirroring them, chipped axe heads were separated from their handles, long forgotten. Like needles, arrowheads glinted in a flood of hay spewing from the hypothetical guts of training dummies. The sacks of straw that took on the role of their heads rolled far away from their shredded torsos.
It was a battlefield.
And its sole warrior stood tall in the centre of the carnage. Her head hung low. Her uniform was patterned with tears and holes, yet it didn't seem like they were made with any sort of blade. It was as if they had been stretched and ripped apart just through sheer use. At her hip, her fists trembled. Drops of blood fell from her palms to mark the ground with her pain.
He watched her shoulders shake, her arms quiver around her sword. All he wanted was to wrap her in his arms, protect her from the cruel systems of Fódlan.
Under his boot, something snapped.
Like an animal, she spun towards it. When her steely glare locked onto him, he froze. Her eyebrows raised, and her eyes widened. For an instant, he could have sworn that he recognised an emotion he'd never seen in them before. He didn't think it was possible. She had always been fearless.
Her lips quivered and her eyes began to glisten. "Was… it you?" she asked.
"Ingrid, I di—"
She cut him off. "How could you?"
He grimaced.
"Were all those other girls not enough for you? Why'd you have to ruin my life?"
Sylvain took a step forwards, his hands raised in a disarming gesture. "Let's just calm down, Ingrid."
She stepped away from him. "What even am I to you, Sylvain?" she looked at him with tears trailing down her cheeks.
He took a deep breath, digging deep within his feelings to pull out an answer. "Ingrid, you're the strongest person I've ever known," he said.
Now he didn't expect any applause for his honesty, but he would never have guessed that pouring his heart out would get next to no reaction. At least her tears had stopped for the time being. An eerie silence took over between them as he waited for her reply. It was awkward, but he couldn't bring himself to look away. He needed to be strong, like she would be.
"So…" he held his breath. "I'm just a challenge for you then," she said. He tried to shake his head, but she continued. "A strong girl for you to conquer, is that right?"
Her gaze hardened, challenging him. He didn't know what to say. Her icy tone offered no warmth, no relation to their lifetime of friendship together.
"You're not even half the man Glenn was."
He gulped, his throat dry.
"That's not fair, Ingrid."
"Not fair?" she raised her sword to his chest. "My desperate father is forcing me to marry, to give up my dreams of becoming a knight. To bear the children of a monster! Is that fair enough for you?"
His chest ached. His lips began to tremble. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. "Ingrid, please," he reached out to her.
She pressed her sword against his pectoral. "No, Sylvain!"
He let out a groan as the tip pierced his skin.
"I will never love you, Sylvain," she said through gritted teeth, twisting her blade in his chest. "You're a monster," she pulled away, wiping her sword on his sleeve before sheathing it at her hip.
He felt the heat of his blood seep into the cooler air of the monastery. All he could do was watch as Ingrid barged past him, her stride matching in time with the beating of his heart. When the door slammed, he fell to his knees with his head in his hands.
Where did it all go so wrong? Why did his father do this?
He had already ruined his brother's life, now Ingrid's. She was right, he was a monster. Would he ever be forgiven? Could he?
He thought about his life at the academy. All the girls who flocked to him for his stupid crest. Were they just faking it, willing to risk a life with a monster for an easy life as a nobleman's wife?
And his classmates. Did they see him the same way? Did Mercedes pray every time they talked? Did Annette hide from him? Did the new girl choose to avoid him?
What did the professor think of him? Was he a failure in her eyes?
He clenched his fists.
How did he end up like this?
Why couldn't he change?
He didn't want to be a monster.
"Look what we have here!" a sweet voice sang. "Having girl trouble, Sylvain?"