Chapter Text
Ingrid does not return home.
She travels far into Faerghus, but only to deliver Sylvain and Felix home. Each and every fork in the road, she considers breaking off and heading for Galatea. As much as she sways in her conviction, Ingrid only gets so far as to cross the border into her lands. Just enough to see the rotted castle from afar, at the edge of the horizon.
Imagining how that conversation would go is simple enough. Her brothers would demand her fealty and submission, out of desperation and hunger. Her father would remind her of the sacrifices that the family has made, that her late mother made, and every word out of Ingrid’s mouth would be met with greater and greater rage. Things would escalate, eternally, until they inevitably realized that Luin is in her possession.
That Ingrid has both all the power and potential in the room. None would try and take it from her, lest she obliterate Galatea in an instant rather than allow time to do so in a fortnight. And then, she would walk away, taking the lance with her and sealing their fates with her narcissistic delusions.
She does not hate her father and brothers. She loves them dearly, which is why she can’t go home and break their hearts in person. They’d only regret what they say, after all.
Instead, she writes a very brief and blunt letter in response to yet another marriage candidate proposal. Her father begs, pleads, and demands that she accept this one, as the frozen wasteland that is Galatea chokes them more with each passing day. So many paragraphs about how noble and righteous this man surely is, all of his feats and wealth, his promises to ensure an entire barn worth of children, and of course his defunct crest bloodline.
Thousands of reasons to give up and lie down.
If there is a response, Ingrid does not provide a return address to make that possible. She has made plans to plead her case to Rodrigue to allow her to fight in the army, but she sets those aside once she recalls how this would allow her father and brothers to hunt her down. Her options are rather limited, and she has done this to herself.
Ingrid debates writing to Dorothea, to at least inform her that she is alive, but decides against it. That can change in mere days, if not hours. She is a knight without a king, after all. All she has left to live for is herself, and Dorothea would find that disgusting.
Less than a day later does she change her mind, for she has such a profound need to remain in touch that it nearly breaks her entirely.
Dorothea,
I hope this letter finds you safe and well. As should be evident, I took your words to heart. I now find myself at a fork in every road, unsure and unsafe in the next phase of my life. I am without a banner, a king, and even a cause to swear myself to. I am rudderless, yet free.
I do not know yet if this will bring me happiness, or merely the illusion of it. My dearest friends, Felix and Sylvain, have been returned to their homes, and have chosen, impossibly, to love me still. Even as I condemn my father and brothers and ancestral lands to starvation, I feel as though some unnoticed fog has lifted from my soul.
There is bitterness in possibility, as well as in choice. My name is my own, and all that I tie it to now is my lance. I do not know if our paths will or even can cross again, or even where I will be tomorrow.
I hope they do, for every breath I draw not until my last is by your hand.
Ingrid Brandl Galatea
It is an over dramatic heartfelt slop of a letter, but Ingrid sends it off before she can rewrite it. Would Dorothea even care to receive it? That her words and efforts saved a life? And, just as relevantly, that the woman whose life she saved cannot, despite her best efforts, stop thinking about how she did that?
Ingrid is uncertain if she deferred to a pretty face, betraying the roots of her being, or if the stunning beauty in her words was what broke through.
Before she can wallow or spiral even more in her self-destructive freedom, her camp is invaded by Claude von Riegen. She turns her attention to the deer she is skinning, and when she looks up he is sitting across from her, roasting a kebab by the firelight with a dangerous glint in his eyes.
“I’ve got a lot of little birds, but none of them told me what happened to mister tall, blonde, and stabby.” Claude catches her flinch, and he smiles. “Except this one songbird, who said that you might know.”
“How did you find me?” asks Ingrid, setting her very sharp and very bloody knife down on exposed bone, the flat edge glistening in the moonlight. “No one should know where I am.”
“We were at the academy together, Ingrid. Shared some laughs, had some fun, and, well, you are not hard to read.” Claude shrugs and almost takes a bite of his kebab, before thinking better of it. “Almost did something super rude; want some?” he asks, offering it to her. “It’s fresh, I promise.”
“No.” Ingrid’s stomach snarls, as it looks delicious. “I am not about to risk poison from a man who used to boast he was a hobbyist.
“Those were for pranks,” defends Claude. “Come on, peace offering. Take a bite.”
“You first.”
“What’ll that prove? I could have the antidote on me, or I’ve developed a resistance to whatever this mystery poison is.”
“In that case, go away.” Ingrid does not blink or take her eyes off of him, even as he chomps down on the wonderful looking kebab. “We have nothing to discuss.”
“We do, actually. Info’s how you survive in the long term, and I’d like to think there’s no reason we can’t be on good terms.” Claude is still chewing, and it is obnoxious. “I’ll make it fair, okay?”
“I doubt that.”
“Tell me what happened to Dimitri, and I’ll tell you what happened after that.”
“What?” Ingrid flinches, again, and Claude catches it, again. “He’s dead.”
Claude just shrugs.
“He’s dead.” Ingrid scowls, clenching her teeth. “I saw the empire march on his position, that’s simply not possible.”
“Wow, so you were right there,” surmises Claude, easily, and Ingrid wants to cut out his tongue and his hands, and now she is disgusted by her desire for violence. “All’s fair in love and war, so for you, Lady Galatea…” He licks his fingers clean. “I’ll say this: he’s alive.”
“Then Faerghus is saved,” hisses Ingrid, grasping onto Luin at her side, the wisps of blood orange glowing angrier. “Allow me to celebrate in private, won’t you?”
“You don’t want me to do that.” Claude doesn’t really do anything except smile again. “Seeing as how you left him to die, and, at least in the Alliance, and Almyra, when you leave your king to die, that’s a pretty nasty case of treason.”
“He wanted to die there, to kill them all—it doesn’t matter what I say, I suppose,” sighs Ingrid. “There is nothing to blackmail me with. I have abdicated. I have nothing left but my life and my lance.”
“I didn’t think you gave yourself that much credit, or any at all.” Claude stands back up. “Blackmailing you won’t do much, you’re right. I’ve got a much better idea for the both of us. Assuming you’ll hear me out.”
“Against my better judgment, I’m listening.”
“As far as I can see, you’re at a sticky crossroads,” continues Claude, too calmly. “You’ve got a Crest of Daphnel, right?”
“Minor, yes.”
“What do you think of serving House Daphnel as a general for the Leicester Alliance?”
“That’s—that is not what I expected. I honestly expected death.” Ingrid doesn’t hate the idea; it’s better than becoming a mercenary. “Why are you extending this kind of offer to me?”
“Were you born yesterday? The Crest of Daphnel.” Claude waves his arms about. “Not even ol’ Judith has one of those, not that she needs it. And, hey, maybe you could repair that silly schism in your off hours.”
“I’ve no desire to do that.” Ingrid sincerely wishes it were for any other reason—oh. She is ‘free’, isn’t she? She can voice that complaint. “I sincerely wish it was for any other reason.”
“Can’t help you there, but…” Claude puts his hand on his heart. “If we win, you’ve got my word that you can tell historians whatever you want.”
“I will tell them the truth.” Ingrid grasps Luin once again and raises the lance, showing Claude her literal and figurative point. “As we all should.”
“Then you better work some real miracles, Ingrid.” Claude sighs. “We’re not going to change a whole lot otherwise.”
Ingrid is at the front of every offensive. She is far more ferocious than she was at Garreg Mach, armed with the knowledge that there is nowhere else for her or anyone else to go should the Alliance fail. Luin serves her dutifully, and she cuts down hundreds of red eagles with its truly horrifying power.
She pushes herself to her breaking point, but she can’t go further anymore. It is enraging, blood on her dented gauntlets and stripped saddle, to know that her body and mind refuse to entertain death as a weapon. That Dorothea has somehow managed to impart so much.
If she wishes, she could blame Dimitri for her newfound self-preservation instinct. She won’t, though. She’d much rather give Dorothea the credit, even though Dorothea disagrees with that sentiment.
Ingrid,
I am relieved, but not surprised, to receive your letter. I was hoping that I’d hear a few things from the officers who frequent Mittelfrank, that this gallant and ferocious valkyrie soared above everyone else and couldn’t be taken down, but this is a much better way to find out you’re alive.
And, not a week later, when trying to figure out how to respond, I heard that the Galatea heir absconded and ran off to join the Alliance in disgrace. I didn’t hold the highest opinion of Claude at the academy, but if he wanted you on his side, he might not be hot air.
The mood in Enbarr is awful and cyclical. The nobles don’t seem to realize that Edie wants to slaughter them all after she wins. All they hear is that they won’t have to pay the church anymore, and will have more unchecked power. And then Edie says something about revolutionary reform, and they get mad, she promises them more, they calm down.
I want her to be telling the truth, mostly. I think she is. But that means she plans to conquer Fodlan, and then continue that same war by marching on the nobles she just forced to surrender, as well as the ones who helped her win.
I don’t know when or if we’ll see one another again, so I think we should continue correspondence as much as we can. There’s something beautiful about my day-to-day being an exciting conversation for someone so dear to me halfway across the continent.
Your newfound freedom isn’t because of me, and I think you have a lot more direction than you give yourself credit for. Do you think I’m that great at following a moral compass? All I was trying to do was find stability and get out, with very little thought to anyone else.
Please try to remember, every so often, that your genuine kindness and selflessness, as twisted as it became for a time, has made me take a step back and think more of how I can pull others out of the same hell that I was in.
I look forward to your reply, but do try to keep any military secrets out of this.
With love,
Dorothea Arnault
As a general, Ingrid tries to be compassionate. To little effect. Soldiers under her command rarely have any familiarity with Faerghus, so they are almost always confused as to her presence. While she leads with valour and grace, she is so often the sole survivor of an assault.
She and her former king share a kindred spirit, to Ingrid’s frustration. When surrounded by certain death, they fight their way out to salvation at the cost of everyone around them. The difference, she prays, is that Ingrid is trying to create a way to live for her soldiers, while Dimitri simply lusts in the bloodshed.
Each month that passes, Andrestia gains the ground that Leicster lost, and vice versa. It is a seemingly endless cycle of burned hills and salted rivers, each victory more pyrrhic than the one a week prior. This is not surprising to anyone fortunate enough to have been taught the most minor amount of history, but books do not prepare you for the incomprehensible human suffering and violence that comes with war.
Felix’s rage at his father, at everything, becomes more sensible with each passing day.
Andrestia ravages the towns and villages they conquer, and Leicester often does the same when advancing into their territory. When Ingrid is present, she can stop it with a show of raw power. Intimidate with overwhelming force and a booming voice atop the smog of their flames. But she cannot fight what she cannot see, what she is not present for.
Claude chastises his other commanders for indulging in pillaging, but it all just circles back to routine a few weeks later. It is only when Judith of House Daphnel cuts one of them down in the middle of a war council that they stop.
“Let that be a message to the rest of you,” huffs Judith, elegantly pulling back her rapier from the dead man’s chest, allowing his corpse to collapse in a heap at her feet. “If you’re going to act the part of brigands, then the rest of us will treat you appropriately.”
Ingrid exchanges letters with Dorothea more and more often, taking great care to obscure military intelligence with vague and false descriptions. Even then, the importance of Dorothea’s thoughts are amplified with each paragraph. It is as if she knows exactly how to reach the deepest pits of Ingrid’s heart and mind.
It is Dorothea’s suggestion that Ingrid leads by example more outwardly. After that, Ingrid flies the Daphnel banner herself, and grows quite fond of Judith the person, not just the idea. They are, distantly, born of the same blood. She is noble, valorous, dutiful, quick-witted, and beautiful in a peculiar sort of way. It is hard not to be envious of her, too. Of her position and station. Of her supposed freedom that she did not need to abandon her family to achieve.
A storied and respected general who just so happens to take other women as lovers.
That revelation in particular shakes Ingrid the most. She, notably, does not inform Dorothea of this. All of that independence, the ideal dream of a life that Ingrid can never achieve, and she pushes it all infinitely further. How can someone be so confident, and so accepted in her role? What world is Judith living in, and how can Ingrid infiltrate it?
One where she has no crest, and thus far less obligation.
Ingrid almost asks her just that, but ultimately doesn’t. Instead, roughly a year into the war, she succumbs to her vices. It is all she can do to keep her sanity in the face of the eternal blood marches.
At first, Ingrid drinks heavily before indulging in flesh, as she so crassly thinks of the practice. Leonie is the one she takes to bed, incapable of shame with so much wine in her belly, and crumbles into a mess of limbs and sweat.
Karma works wonders, as the very next morning is the day that Felix and Sylvain arrive in camp, offering their stations and fealty. She knew they were on the way, since they wrote to her about the possibility of treason, but she was so certain they had another week left of travel.
Faerghus cannot unite under a regent or banner, as she assumed it could not. The only way to defeat Andrestia and Edelgard is to jump ship, and of course it is during that conversation with Claude that Ingrid all but stumbles into, attempting to sneak back to her tent just before dawn.
Ingrid is not quite disheveled, but the stink of they-know-what cannot be obscured quickly. There, her greatest friends stand, no worse for wear aside from minor exhaustion under their eyes, and all she can do is gape and stammer nonsense while Claude struggles not to fall over in laughter.
“Living life literally and to the fullest!” teases Sylvain, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pulling her into a hug. She can’t stop herself from smiling. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“That’s not important,” spits Ingrid, still smiling. “I’m so glad you two are okay.”
“We’re not; Faerghus is completely doomed,” rumbles Felix, that frank pessimism so refreshing in his voice. “If we were okay, we’d be here to drag you back.”
“You’d have to kill me.”
Felix shrugs; it’s a non-issue, and he’s right.
“I don’t think we even know how to do that.” Sylvain has that devilish smirk, and it is so easy to imagine that they are back home in Faerghus, and none of this ever happened. “So, are we all squared away, Claude? Or do you have a formal welcome aboard speech.”
“I’ve got a great one, but that’s reserved for those who need the show,” drawls Claude, grinning with his eyes. Oh no. “General Galatea, who’d you roll around in the hay with?”
“That’s still not important!” Ingrid scowls, pushing Sylvain away. “And, you should be a bit more grateful that I was able to secure the scions of Gautier and Frauldarius for the war effort.”
“You told your playmates that a sleepover was in the cards; don’t make this something more than it is.” Claude crosses his arms, sighing. “Who’d you bunk with, Galatea? How big of a problem is this going to be?”
“Why would that ever be a problem?”
“It wouldn’t,” cuts in Felix. “He’s just being an ass.”
“Then Sylvain is in wonderful company.”
“Real funny.” Sylvain rolls his eyes. “So, seriously, who—”
“That is not anyone’s business.” Ingrid shakes her head. “Drop it. I’m not divulging, and this is ridiculous.”
“Okay, well, try not to become romantic wartime lovers, or anything similar.” Claude shrugs and walks away. “I’d prefer my walking weapons of mass destruction die after we win.”
“Wow, I guess the rumors about you are true.” Sylvain whistles and pats Ingrid on the back. “Good going.”
“I take no pride in slaughter,” grumbles Ingrid. “I am only doing what is as close to just as I can.”
“It’s war. There’s no justice here.” Felix frowns. “But it’s good to see you’re still pretending.”
“I missed you, too, Felix.” Ingrid smiles. “It’s been much—”
“Who was it, you gotta tell us,” whispers Sylvain, so giddy and enthusiastic that it was actually infectious. “Come on, come on, we’re happy!”
“You won’t be.” Ingrid glances at Felix, who does not do anything. “Do you even care?”
“I care,” snorts Felix. “You shouldn’t care that I care.”
“We’re friends, Felix. Of course I care.”
“Stop stalling, Ingrid,” demands Sylvain, not too forcefully. “Who’d you let get that close?”
“Leonie,” admits Ingrid, head held high, as there is nothing to punish her with anymore. “She’s very charming.”
“Wow.” Sylvain whistles without hesitation and Ingrid does not know how to react to that. “When you ran away from home, you really ran away from home!”
“Shut up!” Ingrid giggles and shoves him playfully. “You’re such an ass.”
The truth is a little more complicated, but Ingrid has no desire to inform them of everything. Because, initially, Ingrid could not feel anything that Leonie was doing. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but it felt more deeply rooted than that.
She couldn’t meet her desires where they were headed. There was a disconnect, a vast one, between satiation and the act itself. Not that reciprocation was necessary, though she’d feel incredibly guilty if she didn’t allow her lover to enjoy what she already had.
So, in an act of embarrassing desperation to give Leonie validation and herself some semblance of satiation in her stupor, Ingrid imagines that she was Dorothea. This isn’t exactly new territory, since Ingrid has been doing that when indulging herself for many months.
Dorothea stands as the assumed woman of, and in, her dreams. Never does her mind’s eye imagine herself laying with anyone. Only Dorothea, with men and women alike. Even though those men were rather…soft in appearance, without being too crude. Ingrid was a ‘hard’ woman, after all, so who was she to judge?
When desire overwhelms her, it is once again Dorothea who enacts lurid fantasies and whom Ingrid lives vicariously through. At first, it was mortifying to be using her friend in such a way, but each time she spoke to Dorothea it became more clear that she would likely welcome it. She is very affectionate, both physically and otherwise, and always a delight to engage with.
From then on, it is the only way Ingrid knows how to be present with a lover. And it’s something she partakes in increasingly often. So common does it occur that Ingrid finds it necessary to write all of these feelings down in filthy love letters she will never send. Or reveal to anyone.
They ramble and rant about nothingness, about the curve of Dorothea’s chin, the warmth of her neck, her goosebumps prickling on the calluses of Ingrid’s hands as she adores her, with lips and breath. Days of whispers and sighs, evenings of musical laughter, and the eternal night of their shared sense of place.
Her mind wanders with a calming joy, easing Dorothea’s in much the same way, attending to every part of her until she melts into her chest, stunningly beautiful eyes fluttering into a kiss that should never break. They fit together famously and perfectly, because of course they do.
They are both Dorothea in Ingrid’s heart, aren’t they?
Ingrid is unable to focus on any aid that is not the rather absurd imagery of Dorothea making love to Dorothea from the perspective of, well, one of those Dorotheas. The smooth, measured way she shows her appreciation for every part of herself, including her other self, is as comforting as it is confusing. Because Ingrid is the one concocting these fantasies, so where is she getting these ideas?
Why does the Dorothea in her mind flow more naturally than a river at her lover’s behest? How does Ingrid know to imagine Dorothea taking careful, deliberate inventory of pore and goosebump on the other’s skin, as if she is attempting to soothe the entirety of her soul and not just her body? How in the world did Ingrid even conceive that physical intimacy could, in any reality, result in something relaxing?
Insanity, in the privacy of her own mind while present with another body. Witness to the enchanting and alluring ministrations of a fictitious idealization of a friend. Barely off from the truth, though, if she were being honest.
Dorothea was simply that calming, thoughtful, and loving.
This practice reaches a point where Ingrid is unable to remain present during those rare bouts of physical intimacy without imagining she was Dorothea during those acts. Confidence and beauty, that playful musical lilt in her voice—what was there not to admire? Surely, her bed partners would prefer a stunning example of femininity rather than the muscled blob of whatever Ingrid posits to be.
Yes, of course they would.
Ingrid would as well, were Ingrid not, well, Ingrid.
As the war continues, Ingrid finds herself less and less guilty over her cowardice. She believes, rather strongly, that this is due to the fact that she has not needed to face her consequences directly despite the fact that Felix and Sylvain are constantly buzzing around. They serve as living reminders of what she has forsaken, yet they never imply nor state anything of the sort.
Is it because they are in similar circumstances, or because they do not wish to hurt her? Ingrid does not investigate, since she is trying her best to focus on ensuring her decision is not meaningless. Even if the most direct beneficiary is herself.
Through it all, she exchanges hundreds of letters with Dorothea, and somewhere down the line things progress. Ingrid cannot recall when exactly that happened, only that she is certain that she is the one who, somehow, instigated that transition.
Ingrid has run out of reasons to deny herself so many things, so long as she exists in this bubble of ethical madness when death could be around every minute. She can justify all of her love due to her possibly imminent demise, and the blood she spills numbs her more and more.
Often, she is disgusted by how quickly she has taken to being selfish. How breathing no longer hurts nearly as it did before. The Alliance is far from an ideal, well, alliance, but Ingrid’s place among it makes sense to her. She knows what she must do, and that it is as close to morally sound as anything can be.
My dearest Ingrid,
Well, it finally happened. Edie’s trying to weaponize Mittelfrank so she can spread her ideals and propaganda with art. I keep telling her that if she pushes this, I’m leaving, but she just won’t listen.
I refuse to use art, my talent, and my soul to support this ridiculous war of hers. I know I have power, I know I am a threat, I know my voice will lead to more death, so with that in mind, would you be a dear and pave the way for my entrance to Leicester?
It might seem a bit hypocritical, but supporting the Alliance in this endless madness doesn’t seem too horrible an idea when the other side is the Faerghus’s crumbling everything and Andrestia’s growing delusions of a utopia.
Two years of this and she’s still not letting up or willing to compromise. I don’t think there’s a single person left that is truly on her side, except Hubert. It breaks my heart to flee, but I’ll do my best to bring as much as I can with me.
Oh, and I am of course greatly looking forward to reuniting. We have so much catching up to do.
With all of my love,
Dorothea Arnault
Claude, predictably, teases Ingrid about her knack for recruiting strays, but ultimately accepts Dorothea’s defection without much fuss. In two weeks time, she is marching into a war council meeting, and is even more beautiful than she was two years ago. And, somehow, twice as confident.
“If you really want to get under Edie’s skin, you should lean as hard as you can into academically proving that she’s full of it,” suggests Dorothea, discreetly touching Ingrid’s arm as she joins her at her spot at the table with such grace that it is as if she’s always been there. “Show her numbers she has to instruct her staff of big headed idiots to disprove that instead of the war effort.”
“Why would anyone care about that?” asks Felix, and Ingrid finds herself wondering that, too, as smitten as she is. “If it’s not in practice, it may as well not exist.”
“No, Dorothea’s got a point,” agrees Claude. “Edelgard’s the type to need to prove she’s right on every level. It won’t stop the war, but it’ll distract her and a whole bunch of people around her. It could make a difference in the long run.”
“Then it might be a good idea to focus on the most basic necessities,” adds Ingrid, her smile much too wide for a war council. “How is she planning on keeping everyone fed in a meritocracy when that is already a problem for the system we currently have?”
“Yeah, but then she might promise free food for everyone, and she’d be lying. Except most people would believe her,” chirps Sylvain, unsurprisingly chipper now that Dorothea is present. “Now that I say it out loud, it’d actually be worse if she wasn’t lying. We’d look greedy, and I get the feeling a lot of commoners would run over to her side.”
“Can we promise free food before she does, and then criticize her for not doing that?” considers Ingrid, and Claude gives her the most exhausted look possible. “Don’t look at me like that; it’s a perfectly reasonable idea.”
“Not if we’re actually planning on following through,” groans Claude. “I don’t even know how we’d make that happen if we wanted to.”
“You could just say one meal a day, not all three.” Dorothea shrugs. “That’s still a huge change, and one that, when I was younger, I’d do anything to have.”
“Can we do that?” asks Claude, glancing at Judith. “Is that actually possible?”
“If we keep the supply lines we’ll have to make for the war effort, it’d be expensive, but possible, yes,” confirms Judith. “It’s unprecedented, but then so is quite a bit of what we’re dealing with.”
Dorothea is pulled away once the meeting ends, and Ingrid does not wait for her, feeling that such an act would be presumptuous and overbearing. Instead, she continues upon her routine and into the stables, set on tending to her pegasus.
She’s lost several by then, but that doesn’t mean the new ones should be neglected.
It is just before noon when Dorothea formally re-enters Ingrid’s life in the flesh, standing in the center of the massive, open barn doors, the sun blinding right above her head. Ingrid has seen how her beauty has grown just hours prior, but somehow she did not appreciate the full scope of how uncompromisingly stunning Dorothea truly is now.
There is something so unique about the way Dorothea looks at her that soothes Ingrid’s very soul. It feels distinctly different from admiration, infatuation—from really everything. To Ingrid, Dorothea is so calming that it is as if a fever she has no clue she has breaks and burns away in an instant. She can’t quite pin it down, and all Ingrid can say about the feeling is that she needs it for the rest of her days.
Just as much as she needs air.
“You do look different,” gasps Dorothea, almost immediately bouncing across the stables towards Ingrid, scooping her into a hug with perfect fluidity. “But this is the same.”
“I hope I’ve improved,” hums Ingrid, hugging her back. “You look different, too. As if you could get even more stunning. I can’t ever seem to tear my eyes and ears away.”
“From anyone else, I’d say that’s cheesy, creepy, and awful.” Dorothea snatches the brush out of Ingrid’s hands and gets to work on tending to her pegasus, the proud animal leaning into her touch. “Is this the same pegasus? She looks different.”
“Unfortunately, no. I’ve lost several.”
“You never mentioned that in your letters.”
“I hadn’t fallen from the sky, so I didn’t think it that interesting of a tale.”
“Right.” Dorothea breaks into a bright laugh. “You know, I knew you were here, but I almost didn’t recognize you. It’s surreal that you are here.”
“I took your advice much more to heart, as I said,” reminds Ingrid. “I’ve given up trying to fight your influence. You’re far too powerful to resist.”
“If I’m that convincing, Edie would’ve backed off from quickly becoming a despot.” Dorothea slips back into her arms, her incredibly flattering dress allowing for a freedom of movement that Ingrid hadn’t noticed at first. “You’re probably just my most attentive audience.”
“I don’t doubt it. Is something else different?” asks Ingrid, bizarrely optimistic for an undefined answer. “In a good way, I hope?”
“Who can say?” Dorothea shrugs, and her luscious hair bounces just a bit. “At the very least, you look a whole lot less worse for wear than I thought you would, so that’s a good thing.”
“I’d likely be a lot more downtrodden if I’d ever gone home.” Ingrid takes a deep breath, swallowing down the guilt and rage bubbling in her stomach by keeping her focus entirely on Dorothea. “I’d already left Dimitri to die the death he wanted, that he failed to accomplish, so going back felt more wrong than moving forward with treason.”
“If it’s treason to live, Ingrid, then what you’re serving isn’t worth a damn,” grumbles Dorothea, her eyes darkening. “The fact that I didn’t bring an army with me should tell you how people feel about that back home.”
“You got through to me, Dorothea,” reminds Ingrid. “And I was an utterly impossible sell. Not everyone is so blessed as to receive your individualized instruction.”
“Are you backed up for flattery? Where is this coming from?” Dorothea chuckles, and it is as always the most perfect sound. “Oh, I see. You missed me that much.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever hidden that, despite my best efforts.”
“You didn’t try very hard, and you certainly aren’t now. Do I really need to remind you that, you, Ingrid Brandl Galatea…” Dorothea pokes Ingrid in the chest with a smug smirk, leaning forward. “Are human, just like the rest of us?”
“Every now and then wouldn’t hurt.” Ingrid, before she can stop herself, takes Dorothea’s hand. It is far too natural an action, but she ignores that thought. Her instincts are shaken, except this. “You have a way of putting everything into proper perspective.”
“Nobody else thinks I do that, so thank you.” Dorothea smiles and squeezes her hand. “You really are different than the last time I saw you, Ingrid.”
“I promise, the disparity was not nearly so drastic before you arrived.”
“Wow.” Dorothea takes her other hand, holding them together. “You—you look and sound more like you, if that makes any sense.”
“It doesn’t, but I believe you.”
“Meanwhile, I haven’t changed at all.”
“Why should you? You’re perfect.”
“No, Ingrid. No one is, least of all me.” Dorothea pushes forward, a bit tentative, and kisses her. It is familiar and fulfilling, infinitely more than anyone else. “But maybe this altruistic act of mine will end, and some of that noble righteousness you’ve got will rub off on me for good.”
That evening, and well into the morning, Ingrid attempts to translate her fantasies into reality. She fails, completely, but that isn’t so important with Dorothea. Even if, frustratingly, Ingrid still finds it necessary to perceive herself as Dorothea when she is quite literally making love to Dorothea.
A bizarre quirk of Ingrid, like so many others. Just something to live with.
Not that it matters when she has someone like Dorothea, of course.
History repeats itself so often that Ingrid worries it is impractical to learn from it, let alone remember it.
Over a thousand years prior, centuries past, and barely five, a decisive battle was waged among rolling hills of wheat. The first was Nemesis against Andrestia. The second through tenth were wars much like this one. Most recently, a mock conflict between the houses of Garreg Mach. And now…
The Battle of the Eagle and Lion rages once more, as the Deer has joined the slaughter.
Again and again, the war raged throughout Fodlan, territory changing hands back and forth. Stalemates of growing months, of fires burning brighter, and diplomacy failing more catastrophically. Without a clear end in sight, or even a path to one, it was all Ingrid could do to focus inward and ignore the rest of the nightmare until she breaks.
She has yet to crumble, and Dorothea is propping her up. Now, finally, after having avoided the inevitable for so many years, she must face the consequences of her actions. Of her desire for freedom.
Of her decision to live.
Ingrid’s heart stops when she spots the banner of Galatea flying proudly at the front of the Kingdom’s forces, the pristine flag tattered by the windsong of trumpets and vicious war chants. Her family has nothing left to give, and still they manage to scramble together enough to lend their strength to her former king’s pyrrhic madness?
Is her father there? Her brothers? She’s accepted that she must leave her family to die, but to murder them in battle, to do so herself? She can’t. That’s too much, too personal. Too cruel.
But then she notices the Gautier banner beside Galatea, and Frauldarius beside that. It is psychological warfare, then. Her former king wants his traitors off balance and conflicted to make for easier prey. Of course, they did deserve such treatment.
“My father would never set foot at the front,” spits Felix, spot checking one of his far too many swords, his eyes flicking up to his family flag at the other end of the field amongst the sea of steel and bone. “It’s a trick, and about what I’d expect the boar to try.”
“It’s probably just our house soldiers,” added Sylvain, gravely, his eyes darkening. “I knew we’d have to turn our swords on our friends, but I didn’t think they’d make it so impersonal.”
“If we hesitate, he wins, and this was all for nothing,” reminds Ingrid, grabbing Sylvain’s arm, frustrated that the ghoulish idea that had just popped into her head was possibly an excellent one. “Perhaps you’d have an easier time cutting down my banner, while Felix takes yours?”
“No,” pushes Felix, his voice as unmoved as stone. “You two can switch places, if you want, but my family is my responsibility. I need my father to know it was me.”
“You just said your dad isn’t with them,” reminds Sylvain. “Doesn’t that make it kind of pointless for you to do it anyway?”
“My father claims to feel the death of every soldier as painfully as losing a son,” snarls Felix. “I want to prove he’s a liar, to make sure he knows he’s a liar, before anything else.”
“If that’s the case, would it not be more effective for someone else to engage his regiments while you seek him out personally?” asked Ingrid. “You can’t be in two places at once.”
“I don’t need to be. I can cut my way through their lines until I find my father.” Felix crosses his arms, tensing further. “Leave a trail bloodier than his.”
The clash of armies is madness for days on end, yet somehow Claude and Professor Byleth manage to maneuver so deftly that both the Kingdom and the Empire are forced to retreat with heavy losses. Gronder field itself is seared to ash, only the surrounding forest gives any credence to the fact that there was an expanse of land within the flames.
Ingrid volunteers to remain in order to search for survivors during their withdrawal from the area, as she hopes in vain to find the bodies of her brothers and father from above, assuming they were even present. Felix did not cut down his father, and Sylvain swapped families to face with Ingrid.
If he faced the Galateas, he did not share that. But, Ingrid must know for certain, as much as she trusts Sylvain to tell her the truth.
For hours, she searches, well past noon, until she sees something flicker out of the corner of her eyes, among the trees. It’s not a hail of arrows, and it is not a trebuchet. A campfire? What could it—
A roar of inhuman rage cuts through the sky mere moments before Areadbhar comes within a hair’s breadth of goring Ingrid mid-flight. The scorching blood orange tip of the lance digs into the edges of her cuirass, the otherworldly haft having run through her pegasus in what was hopefully a swift death. It is only by divine intervention, or luck, that Ingrid is not slain right then.
Instead, a few seconds later, she falls out of the sky, end over end, barely holding on to the corpse of her pegasus, the wind violently whipping through her hair and eyes as the ground rapidly approaches. She, in a panic, judges that the forest will be the softest landing, and uses the body of her fallen friend to slow her descent, impaling the loyal beast a second time with a towering oak.
Ingrid loses her grip as terminal velocity is suddenly reduced, crashing into another trunk, through dozens of branches, and tumbling over herself with restrained yelps and curses until she finally hits the ground. A pile of dirt and leaves are a minor cushion, but it is enough for her to survive, albeit with more bruises and cracked bone than skin.
A broken body will only heal if she sees tomorrow.
She cannot find her bearings; Dimitri is already on her, charging forward and ripping Areadbhar out of her mount, pegasus blood splattering across them both as well as the forest. He lunges, and his strike would ring true, into her heart, if, on instinct alone, she didn’t deflect one relic with her own, the powerful reverberations cracking the topsoil beneath their feet.
“Kneel, and I’ll make it quick,” orders Dimitri, his one good eye glossy and dead. “Otherwise, I am going to make you beg for death.”
Ingrid refuses to kneel, which is easier said than done with the blood flowing down her body, pooling inside her gauntlets and seeping through her boots. Her crest is reliable, but it is nowhere near as destructive as her former king’s. She does not have a hope of reinforcements, and she is reasonably sure that his are close behind.
What hope does she have against his raw, unrelenting power? The totality of a thousand years, of a thousand more, and countless dead generations of fealty? Of his entire scope of reality?
“You did not pluck me from the sky to show mercy,” chokes out Ingrid, spitting blood and trying to find her breath. “I am surprised you took such a great risk to begin with; the Daphnel crest might very well end with me.”
“I would burn all of Fodlan to cinders to see you and Edelgard dead,” snarls Dimitri, his arms rippling so powerfully that the umbral steel haft of Areadbhar begins to creak. “Oh, but to calm your so-called fears, you do not need to live for Daphnel to pass on.”
“Daphnel dies with me.” Ingrid forces herself upright, terror and disgust flaring through her draining blood. “Daphnel dies with me!”
Dimitri responds by lunging at her once more, and once again Ingrid is just barely able to guide the monstrous edges of his relic away from her head, felling ancient trees into one another around them. She is too shaken by the mere suggestion that her body, or her blood, some part of her can be cultivated even beyond death to do more than evade and deflect. The hatred and single-minded bloodlust in his eye looks nothing like him, as he truly is more beast than man now.
He is not a shadow in the light, Ingrid realizes, the sparks and flames of their grotesque heirlooms mauling each other igniting the already drought dried forest around them. Hard angles and scarred, but in the fires he remains as regal as ever. There is something implacable that appears worthy to rule, or perhaps it is merely Ingrid’s guilt drowning heart that believes this.
Would it be so terrible to fall right here? After the war is sure to be won? To condemn her family line to extinction is unconscionable. What more use does she have of her flesh, now that she has taken such simple joys from it? It’s not as if she can even see what they will take to begin with.
Ingrid should kneel.
But, then, she’ll never know what stares back at her. She’ll never know what becomes of Fodlan. Dorothea. Felix. Sylvain.
Ingrid will never know herself.
It is that precise moment, of renewed determination, that Dimitri pierces her cuirass with Areadbhar, melting the shaped steel into her chest and digging deep into her flesh. She can feel it, pulsing, in opposing time to her own heart, and, with an agonized scream, kicks him away, stumbling backward and into the haft of his lance, her chin cracking from the strike and sending her reeling.
He does not stop, gouging out the side of her head and cauterizing the wound closed in the same moment, leaving her hair in a mangled mess and blood flowing from nearly every angle of her skin. She can barely breathe, let alone see, and she has never feared death so acutely in her entire life.
“Why?!” demands Dimitri, his throat hoarse with strain. “The greatest of knights in generations and you abandon your king! Why?!”
“Because—” Ingrid finds her footing, barely, as this central focus is her guiding light. “I am no use to you alive! I am to live so that I can die, I do not get to grow old, either by—” She pushes him off and back, growing in confidence. “—by endless child bearing or by a sword, maybe even my own! I tried to give you everything, and you did not care. I am nothing but my blood to you; knighthood is a fanciful costume and a broken dream you dared to mock!”
If he hears her, he doesn’t react. Just as quickly as Ingrid resists, she falls once again. It is all she can do to block Areadbhar once more, his fury radiating through its blood orange spine and shaking Luin, as well as her bones to their core. He hammers away at her in a frenzy of animalistic swings, with no technique behind them, pummeling her backward and down into the bloody mood at their feet.
“You’re nothing!” he roars, scratching metal and bone nearly deafening them both. “You’ve nothing left! You have cast aside a thousand years of sacrifice and suffering for what?!”
And then, the unthinkable. Dimitri, this king among men, shatters the unbreakable core of a hero’s relic. His hatred, his rage, all of who he is has destroyed a holy weapon, the fading fragments exploding inward as shrapnel, burrowing through his armor and into his body. He stumbles back with shock, and Ingrid does not hesitate.
She must know herself.
Ingrid gores him in the chest, Luin missing his heart by so very little, shoulder into his neck, and impales him down into the blood soaked leaves, his death howls scattering the few brave birds who had remained through their struggle. She holds him there, as he struggles, snarling like the beast he has become, though she does not meet his rage with her own. She watches him wither, tears welling in her eyes while she twists her lance, to make this quicker.
He tries to stop her, using far too much strength than he should have to pull Luin out of him. And he gets close, lifting the relic more and more out of his chest. It is only when she calls upon her own crest, out of desperation, that his hold falters.
A snap rings out, and he is gone.
Ingrid has slain her king.
She is frozen there for minutes, the forest still burns, the drumming marches of horseback in the distance the only sound she can hear over the ringing in her ears. She’s still bleeding, though not as much as him. She twists her lance again, and again, and again, until she is sure he is dead.
And then, she all but collapses, supporting herself on Luin as if it is the mother she’s never known, her legs giving out from numbness and fading adrenalin. She knows what she has done, she knows there was no choice, she knows this. She knows it all, so deeply.
Ingrid knows, for certain now, and by her hand, that Glenn died for nothing.
She does not know how she is able to move, let alone breath, but she walks to where she is needed. One foot, then the other, leaving a trail of blood and tears longer than her body can sustain, until she crumbles into nothingness. It is enough, though.
Ingrid does not die protecting anyone.
She does not die, in general.
When Ingrid wakes, she can barely sit up in her bed. She knows she is in the infirmary, back at camp. Excruciating pain flares through her chest and abdomen, and it is a balm to her panic. It means she can still walk. She is not yet useless, as free as she is.
“Don’t you dare move any more of those torn up muscles, Ingrid,” scolds Manuela, halfway singing well enough to entertain quite an audience. “All that thrashing while I was stitching you up wasn’t easy to operate around, you know.”
“I apologize,” whispers Ingrid, managing to squeeze out a raspy, exhausted cough of two words. She has never been this quiet. It sounds wrong. She sounds wrong. “Thank you for saving me, Manuela.”
“No one ever taught you to let the doctor dole out the bad news before you’re kind to them, I see.” Manuela takes her hand, as delicately as glass, and Ingrid reflexively wiggles her toes to confirm that, yes, she can still move her legs and feet. Both arms are present. “The good news is that you’re not going to die.”
“That’s very good news,” agrees Ingrid. “I’ve lost most of justification for dying in battle, so—”
“Good Goddess, that chivalric streak just keeps going. Ingrid, dear…” Manuela takes a deep breath, and Ingrid cannot imagine what is so important that is not imminent death or dismemberment. “I’m so sorry. There was too much metal in you, and it’s a miracle none of it pierced your heart. I did the best I could, but no one could have done better, I promise.”
“I don’t understand.” Ingrid sincerely doesn’t, even though she can tell that she should. That the expectation is that this is extremely obvious. “If I can still walk, and I have all my limbs, I’m not blind, what’s so dire?”
“I’ll just come out and say it.” Manuela squeezes her hand. “You’re never going to have children, Ingrid.”
“I see.” Ingrid does not feel relief, and it is almost impossible to not be violently enraged by her own bizarre apathy. “And you’re certain?”
“I don’t want to be too blunt, but—”
“Be blunt,” growls Ingrid, instinctively sitting up and ignoring the striking pain through her mostly broken body. “Tell me exactly how you know that.”
“Alright, alright!” Manuela took a deep breath. “I’d be surprised if you can even get pregnant after a hit like that.”
“Of course.” Ingrid immediately starts to cry, not that her body knows it. She is not wracked with sobs, short of breath, or swallowing vomit. Still, snot and tears flow freely down her face. “Thank you for saving me, Manuela.”
Dimitri has killed her, and yet she lives.
Ingrid’s new scar is her deepest and most grotesque.
What is she now, without the nightmare contingency that is the Galatean legacy? Even in rejecting it, that’s who she was. There’s nothing left of her that can be used by anyone. The endless war for herself is over, with decades left for her to live. To do whatever it is that barren lady knights do for the rest of her days.
The zenith of femininity is, obviously, the practice of king slaying.
But, how much of a woman is she now? Despite her rage against the practice, it is an inescapable part of the experience. She no longer bleeds in spite of abandoned infants. A vestigial, obsolete process that will eternally remind her of her failures and liberation.
Ingrid has spent her entire life thrashing against the expectations and obligations of her station. Wouldn’t it be poetic if she took all of those cruel, hateful things slung at childless noblewomen to heart? Make them oh so very literal, now that no one can hope to stop her?
What if Ingrid stopped being a woman?
It’s an enchanting idea. An overwhelming one. There is nothing left for her there. She can walk away. She can. She really, truly can.
Who would, who could, stop her?
Ingrid laughs, part of it painful wheezing, at her own reflection at the absurdity of the idea, as wide as her smile continues to be. What is she, then? A man? Ugh, absolutely not. Neither! Both are simply terrible options filled with misery and matching steps with arbitrary nonsense.
No longer a woman; never a man.
If only she could be nothing, and recuse herself from this entire ordeal.
She sinks down to the floor, rattling the mirror with her weight cracking the hardwood floor, unable to breathe from her unrestrained and deeply terrifying joy. It isn’t stopping, or fading. Her heart is slamming into her chest, desperately trying to burst from her breast as she nearly keels over completely.
Ingrid pushes herself up and, for the very first time, sees beautiful blue eyes.
Have they always been so bright and wondrous? That nose so sharp, a chin and jaw so strongly defined? Cheeks gaunt yet warming. Sticky, lustrous blonde hair framing a face that is really quite kind and righteous.
Rough skin stretches and relaxes around Ingrid’s skull, tightening around itself like satin. Imaginary scars burst from the depths, bleeding blood clots through every pore, the strokes Ingrid will now never have flowing down and mixing at her knees with the tears of well-intentioned lies imbibed to the point of a lifetime of anaphylaxis.
Ingrid sobs, grasping fruitlessly at every known piece crumbling through every finger. Headfirst, into the unknown, entirely alone and confused beyond all conception.
She tries anyway, to go back. To ignore her absolute boundaries. Like a child reaching for a hot stove, she should pull back from the flames. She doesn’t. She pushes more, harder, searing her flesh to the iron, screaming inside her shattered skull to plug the leak and retreat. Salvage what little is left of the nightmare and vanish into the horizon.
Mercifully, Ingrid fails.
There is nothing to cobble back together; the lie was never real.
Ingrid cannot think or make sense of reality anymore, so instead focuses on the only concrete thing left: those beautiful blue eyes in the mirror. Who do they belong to? A nameless monster? A confused scoundrel? An amalgamation of pain and love?
Perhaps those eyes have several owners. Stolen from men and women across Fodlan, combined into the stunning pair staring back at Ingrid. Oh, how tragic a fate for them.
They deserved better.
In an instant, Ingrid feels blinding clarity, their shuddering eyes clearing the fog with sweetened tears. Every thought and spiraling intrusion vanishes as if they were never there to begin with. The sun, their own, bursting out from behind a stormy sky, those damned clouds a mocking illusion.
The world is so quiet, Ingrid thinks, for the first time in their life.
All of the sharpened noise of life and existence is silent now. How much of that was a delusion? What was any of that?
Ingrid sits on the floor of their quarters, muscles and bone snapping into their proper place with each breath, the unknowable angles and shapes of their form finally flowing into reality. They inspect every part meticulously, as it is brand new to them, squeezing and stretching skin around new contours and curves. Light catches their nose and shoulders in flattering ways.
Such a thought is equal parts insane and blissful.
“Ingrid?”
Dorothea is in the doorway, looking down at Ingrid with love and concern. She is, and always has been, the single most beautiful woman Ingrid has ever seen or can imagine. But that’s not why Ingrid is so taken with her. There’s something else, so clear to them now.
So simple, so obvious, and nearly invisible.
Dorothea, beyond all impossibilities, expects nothing from Ingrid. She asks nothing, demands nothing, and does not seem to see Ingrid as anything else but Ingrid. There are no layers, no complications, no agonizing clarifications.
Ingrid is Ingrid.
Dorothea has the heart of a saint, and that is why she is so beautiful.
Ingrid dries their eyes and feels their cheeks begin to burn. Words fail them, and so they stop trying for the moment. They take a very deep breath and shrug.
“What are you doing on the floor?” asks Dorothea. “And—you’re crying.” Her eyes widen. “Oh, that’s a lot deeper than I thought it would be.”
“Hm?” Ingrid looks down at their open shirt, at the enormous scar across their center. “It’s far from flattering, I know.”
“You make everything look stunning, you stubborn idiot.” Dorothea joins Ingrid on the floor and hugs them from behind, draping her arms over their strong, broad shoulders. A desperate embrace at first, but it softens once she seems to realize that Ingrid is in no agony. “One day you’ll see that; I promise.”
“I can no longer have children,” whispers Ingrid, a smile creeping across their lips and voice. Were they not so excited, perhaps they would have considered more gravitas. “There was nothing they could do.”
“That’s—okay. You’re okay, Ingrid.” Dorothea hugs them tighter. “You’re going to be fine.”
“Yes. A full recovery,” tests Ingrid, and the uncertain bristling that is Dorothea shifting behind them nearly kills them. “A full recovery.”
“I don’t care about that.” Dorothea swallows, taking a deep breath. “I just need you to be okay.”
“I think…” Ingrid chuckles. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“I know.” Dorothea hugs them tighter still. “Will you try listening to me now? For some pointers?”
“I’d like that.” Ingrid turns around and takes Dorothea’s hands, smiling softly. “I…ah.”
“You…” Dorothea studies them closely. “You look different. Good different, which is impressive considering you were just gored.”
“You see it, too?” Ingrid brightens up. “I thought it was just in my head.”
“No, you definitely look more…” Dorothea furrows her brow and hums. “I don’t know. I can’t quite place the word.”
“Well…” Ingrid smiles again. “Perhaps I just look more like me? Again?”
“That must be it.” Dorothea smiles back, a bit uncertain. “Yes. Yes, you’re right.”
Ingrid kisses her, and it is what they imagined a first would feel like. Warm and splendorous. Calm and exhilarating. There is a peace in that moment that cannot be replicated in any other way. All of the sounds of existing, of daily toil, already silenced in revelation, grow somehow quieter.
This is the first thing Ingrid has ever truly done.
And it is far from the last.
“Wow, hello,” teases Dorothea, giggling and cupping Ingrid’s face. “Who are you, bright and blue?”
“Me,” answers Ingrid, hoarse but without a moment of hesitation. “I’ve always been me.”