Chapter Text
When Ingrid was little, she indulged in all sorts of dreams about her wedding.
Her wedding, she decided early on, was going to be frilly and glittery. She never had the chance for lots of frills and glitter; such dresses were reserved for staying in shop displays with exorbitant price tags, taunting every little girl who dared to behold them.
And the banquet, of course, would be full of meat. Not the tough skins of starving hares or gnarled mountain goats—herb-seared venison, buttery lamb shank, prime boar roasted to perfection.
And above all, Ingrid’s wedding would be with someone she loved. Someone who she adored singlemindedly, just how the knights adored their princesses in her storybooks.
But now, like a hunting dagger or a wooden arrow, Ingrid saw matrimony as a simple tool: necessary for survival and for peace, emotions be damned. The wedding was a sale, the honeymoon a transaction, the groom an asset.
Ingrid wished that she could’ve held onto that pure, tender view of marriage from her childhood. But she couldn’t. It made her hope for too much—vulnerable to too much. It was easier to see it as a job, safer to take it as a sacred duty. She would love for her family and not herself.
And now, sitting in the bridal waiting room with her bouquet clasped in her gloved hands, Ingrid waited obediently as Dorothea threaded the final pins into her hair.
“It’s the big day, Ingie,” Dorothea said softly. “How are you feeling?”
She was smiling, but her voice shook with emotion—pride, happiness, encouragement, concern. An ironic contrast from Ingrid, who only felt numb inside.
Ingrid managed a blithe smile. “Wonderful,” she lied.
Lying had become second nature to her. That scared her. It wasn’t the kind of person she wanted to become.
Dorothea threaded the last pin into place and spritzed something in her hair—a delicate, smooth scent like rose petals, and so unlike Ingrid.
“You look so gorgeous,” she murmured. “You’re going to knock Sylvain dead at the altar.”
“I hope not,” Ingrid said dryly. “To be widowed at 17 would be quite tragic.”
Dorothea only laughed and returned to the pins.
For one terrifying moment, Ingrid was overwhelmed with the urge to seize Dorothea, spill everything, beg for advice. Dor, I don’t love him. Dor, this is all a lie. What do I do?
But the urge died just as quickly as it rose, and Ingrid was left with nothing but a deep sense of shame. She couldn’t possibly ask that of a woman with Dorothea’s pain. She couldn’t ask that of someone who had to smile certain smiles and swallow her retching behind glasses of champagne, all to earn patronage to the Officers’ Academy. She couldn’t ask that of someone who was worshipped onstage and assaulted off of it, someone who had to pick up a sword not for knighthood, but for survival.
Love was a privilege. And Ingrid wouldn’t be the one to remind Dorothea of that.
So Ingrid pressed her lips together and tilted her chin up. Honor, stability, security. Those were reasons enough to step forward.
“All done.” Dorothea's face lifted into a gentle smile, enchantingly kind. “My. Aren’t you a work of art.”
Ingrid turned to the mirror.
A silver tiara was set on her brow, twined into shapely leaves and silver feathers, and fastened to a snowy veil. Layers of sheer fabric, inset with trails of glimmering diamond dust, swathed from her hips to her ankles, pooling behind her in an elegant train. Under the sun, the fabric glowed in a luscious ombre river from forest green to mint.
She looked like a woodland princess, straight out of one of her favorite novels: Tales of the Starland Wood.
Unbidden, Ingrid felt tears rise to her eyes, prickling the back of her throat. Goddess. She’d never felt so beautiful.
“Like I said,” Dorothea said softly, “I think it's time to buy Sylvain a coffin.”
Ingrid nearly rubbed her palms against her eyes, swallowing the dull pain—but Dorothea grabbed her wrist.
“Now, now,” Dorothea chided with a smile. “Watch the makeup.”
Ingrid spluttered out a weird, aching laugh. That’s right. Annette had been hell-bent on doing her makeup, which glided shimmery, satin silver on her eyelids and blossom-pink blush on her porcelain cheeks. And Mercedes—she’d treated her hair with exotic oils and herbal shampoos, pampering it the entire week before the wedding.
Ingrid was a patchwork quilt, stitched together by the hands of her kindly friends.
She was thrilled to be beautiful, desirable, drop-dead gorgeous for once in her life. Someone worth marrying.
And yet—
She was crushed to waste this effort, this love, this enthusiasm, all on—
A lie?
No, worse. A scam.
Dorothea watched her expression crumple, and she offered a flowery handkerchief with a teary smile.
“Oh, Ingie,” she said. “You act so tough, but your heart is just as soft as the rest of us.”
Ingrid carefully dabbed the handkerchief beneath her eyes—careful of the liner, avoid the concealer—and laugh-sobbed again. “Thank you for all of this, Dor. You’re a saint, I swear.”
A light rap on the wooden doorframe made her quickly lower the handkerchief and glance over her shoulder.
Felix was leaning against the entrance, his face stoic and unreadable. Two knuckles were raised against the frame. He lowered them, his gaze flickering away.
Dorothea rose in her teal bridesmaid dress. “I’ll give you two some space,” she said, raising a brow.
She strode out the door without a backward glance, leaving them alone.
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What are we going to do for the best man? Ingrid pondered several weeks prior, stooping over a stack of papers with Sylvain. Felix and His Highness are both great options. His Highness would make a better speech, but the one who’s been at our side...
Clearly, Felix just needs to be the maid of honor, Sylvain responded. There. Problem solved.
Ingrid hit him on the shoulder.
The problem was not solved.
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“How do I look?” Ingrid asked as Felix slid into the room.
She smiled to lighten the mood, and even managed a playful twirl. Heavy layers upon heavy layers swam about her hips, luxurious and coursing.
Felix looked away. “Very green,” he said bluntly. Then amended: “Green and white.”
That wrestled a genuine chortle out of Ingrid, who slapped him on the shoulder.
“You know just what to say to a woman,” she said dryly.
Felix rubbed his shoulder. “Does it matter?”
“Just, during the procession, do me a favor.” She sighed. “The groom’s party and the bride’s party walk together in pairs. Please just quietly take your partner’s arm and walk her down. No glares or hissy fits of disgust. It’ll just be for five seconds, I promise.”
Felix’s gaze shifted, and he looked oddly distracted. Ingrid frowned.
“Did you hear me?” she tried.
“I’m not deaf,” he snapped. “Of course I'll do that. It’s your wedding.”
He made it sound so matter-of-fact—of course, it’s your special day, I’ll do that for you, I’ll do anything for you today—that she almost burst into tears from hearing it. Even Felix was being considerate, almost downright sappy.
Goddess. She was embarrassingly emotional right now.
Felix folded his arms, looking anywhere but her. “I was thinking,” he said, clearing his throat. “What’s the order of the procession?”
“The order?” Ingrid frowned. “I’m not certain. I think it starts with the flower child...”
“Not that,” Felix said sharply. “The wedding party.”
It clicked, and Ingrid snapped her fingers.
“You want to know who you’re walking with,” she guessed.
Felix snorted. “Why would I care? It’s just five—”
“Annette Fantine Dominic.” She settled back on her chair, satisfied. “A housemate. You’ve even fought side-by-side. That should be enough to stay civil, right?”
Felix was dead silent, his face unusually expressionless. He nodded curtly and turned away, hands stuffed in his pockets.
That was as good as an enthusiastic cheer from him. Ingrid couldn’t tell whether it was because of his assigned partner, or because he was trying to be amicable on her wedding day.
It made her want to give him something in return. Anything.
Ingrid’s hands tightened on her bouquet. She stepped towards him, maneuvering her foot around the cumbersome train of her dress.
“Felix,” she said softly, “you know that this—all of this—won’t change things. Right?”
Felix looked at her, blinking. “What?”
“You’ll always have us.” She stepped forward again, carefully, as if on eggshells. “We’ll always have your back. That will never change, no matter what comes.”
Felix watched her face. She wondered what he was looking at; the canvas of perfect makeup, perhaps, or the hair tucked and tied just so, or maybe the pristine trappings of her dress.
He finally shook his head. His hand tightened as he leaned against the window, staring into the cold blue sky.
“Maybe it’s better for things to change,” he murmured.
That was not what Ingrid expected, much less from Felix. She gawked.
“What?” she said.
“It’s good,” Felix said bluntly.
His gaze turned on her: sharp, burning amber.
“That you got over him. He would’ve wanted you to move on.” He scoffed quietly and looked away. “Not that you should give a damn what he thinks. He's dead.”
Ingrid stopped breathing.
Glenn.
She felt ice prickle all over, freezing her to the chair. Her lungs constricted painfully, panic holding her chest in a vice grip.
Glenn. How had she forgotten? The past few months had been a whirlwind, but Glenn, what would Glenn have thought? It was only a handful of years after his death, and here she was, throwing herself into a wedding—a fake, loveless wedding that spit on the very idea of matrimony—with Sylvain Jose Gautier. Once Glenn stopped laughing, he would’ve beaten their asses to Enbarr and back.
How had she forgotten the innocent, careful love between them—brushed pinkies and rakish smiles and don’t worry about an old fogey like me, you take your time—and replaced it with such empty, scheming, self-centered intentions?
How had she forgotten Glenn at all?
Ingrid’s fingers tightened, and she heard them crumple into the bouquet. She bit her tongue until it sizzled painfully and a drop of blood swelled from the tip.
Felix’s scowl darkened. “Don't cry,” he muttered. “Shouldn’t have said anything.”
No, he shouldn’t have. He should have let it lie. He should have let her forget.
Faintly, in the distance of the monastery, the bell tower tolled—once, twice, thrice—to call her for the ceremony. Ingrid’s fingers dug so tightly into her flowers that she heard a stem snap. Suddenly, she wanted nothing more than to run, run to the ends of the earth where no one could find her, not even the spirit of Glenn.
Four Saints, what have we done?
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The cravat was a noose around Sylvain’s neck.
He grimaced as he adjusted it in the mirror, satin white tumbling over his shaking fingers. The knot was sloppy at the base of his collar; he redid it, stifling the urge to gag.
“Is something the matter, Sylvain?” came Dimitri’s voice from the other side of the room, polite and poised. “Do you require assistance?”
Sylvain watched as his grimace immediately tipped upside-down into an effortless smile. “No, no, Your Highness,” he called. “I could hardly take any pride if I was incapable of tying my own cravat.”
“Very well,” Dimitri said uncertainly. “There’s no need for shame, should you ever need any help.”
Sylvain laughed, light and free.
He wouldn’t tell Dimitri that he wore his blazer open for a reason—that every time a tight collar constricted his neck, he felt Miklan’s hands where only fabric was supposed to be. That thought was much too dark for Sylvain Jose Gautier to share on a day of blissful matrimony. Or ever, really.
Finally, Sylvain’s trembling fingers obeyed, and the knot was fastened. He closed his eyes and breathed through his nose, letting the air swell in his lungs and push down the rolling nausea.
Dimitri, thank the Goddess, seemed far too occupied in reciting his speech through silent lips to notice anything amiss.
“You’re really fine with being the best man?” Sylvain tried, turning to his friend with a glib smile.
Dimitri started slightly and cleared his throat, a gloved hand rising to adjust his own cravat. “I’m only sorry to take it away from Felix,” he said.
“Oh, Fe was adamantly against it.” Sylvain waved a hand. “Said that if we tried to put him on a stage and make him give a speech, he’d, ahem, shit all over us. Air out all the dirty laundry, so to speak.”
Dimitri blinked. “That doesn’t seem to be his style.”
Sylvain’s mouth tugged upward. “Yeah. It’s more likely that he’d just run away. Avoid it.” He clapped Dimitri on the shoulder. “As we need a truly stunning speech for a truly stunning couple, Ingrid and I decided not to risk it. You’ll deliver, won’t you, Your Highness?”
Dimitri’s eyes brightened, almost puppy-like, and he cleared his throat. “Of course, Sylvain. I’ve read several volumes of instruction by Hector von Ostia, a hearty fellow and beloved entertainer, in order to thoroughly prepare.”
“Oh, Goddess, reading. Not necessary.”
“Firstly, a speech made by the best man must uplift the newlywed groom and bride, whether that be through humor, edification, or anecdotes. Secondly, a proper speech ought to open with gratitude and close with a heartfelt toast. Thirdly—”
“Thirdly, have fun,” Sylvain cut in, laughing. “It’s a speech, not a science, Your Highness. I mean, S+ for effort and all, but try to enjoy yourself.”
Dimitri cleared his throat, looking slightly abashed. “But of course. Two of my best friends are to be wed. It's a momentous occasion.”
Sylvain’s grin lost some of its color. Dimitri hadn’t shown it, but the news must have been sudden indeed. He wondered if Dimitri had been blindsided, or maybe even resentful—like Felix.
“Sorry,” he found himself saying. “Was it... shocking?”
Dimitri frowned lightly. “Being asked to speak? Well, if I must be honest, no slim part of me was hoping that you might—“
“Ingrid and I,” Sylvain said, too nervous to realize he'd just cut off the Crown Prince. “Getting, uh. Married.”
He watched Dimitri settle back on his heels, thinking quietly. Flecked blue eyes drifted out the window, calculating something that Sylvain couldn’t see.
“I can’t say either way,” Dimitri said quietly. “On paper, the match has always been ideal. Compatible stations, a close bond of mutual trust, shared cultural understanding, with similar levels of intelligence—”
“Ooh, don’t let Ingrid hear you say that,” Sylvain said with a low whistle. “She’d be livid.”
“Do not sell yourself short, Sylvain. I’ve seen your chess matches against the professor herself.” Dimitri’s gaze fell on him, the ice in his eyes shining through. “I was caught unawares in the... strength of your feelings, as it was something I had never sensed. However, I never doubted that should the two of you want it, you would have made a fearsome couple.”
He sighed, and a hint of sorrow touched the weight on his brow.
“Perhaps it should come as no surprise that I missed such a development,” he murmured. “I have been too wholly focused on myself.”
The guilt was pounding harder now, deeper in Sylvain’s gut, where it started to hurt.
It wasn’t Dimitri's fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. The whole thing had come out of left field because he and Ingrid had planned it that way.
Dimitri’s hand clapped him on the shoulder—with a bit more force than intended. Sylvain doubled over, gagging.
“For what it’s worth,” Dimitri said solemnly, “I’m glad that it’s you and Ingrid.”
Sylvain grimaced at the throbbing in his shoulder, but managed a nod. “Thanks, Your Highness,” he wheezed out. He’d have to check his back after that blow.
A knock sounded on the door frame—prompt, businesslike, and perfectly spaced apart. Sylvain looked up to see Professor Byleth Eisner sweeping into the room, the hard soles of her boots clicking against the floor. She was draped in the loose, high-collared robes of Seiros clergy, and the alien sight made Sylvain stare for a good minute at this unrecognizable creature.
Dimitri instantly stood and offered a quick, courteous bow—partially to hide the slight flush on his cheeks, Sylvain assumed.
“Pardon me, Professor,” Dimitri said. “I’ll give you a moment.”
He slipped out the door and shut it behind him, leaving Byleth and Sylvain in silence.
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How should we invite your parents? Ingrid asked several weeks prior, the quill in her hand hovering over a neatly penned list of names.
Sylvain snorted. Don’t bother, he said, the lower register of his voice thick with derision. Gautier is too far and my father doesn’t care for weddings. He’d rather skip the whole affair and have us jump to babymaking, and my mother will follow him, like she always does.
Ingrid’s eyes softened, green and dewy as grass. It’s your wedding, Sylvain.
Exactly why I don’t want him there.
Maybe they should attend for image’s sake. The surrounding houses will talk—
Ing, Sylvain said, and his fingers were shaking. Please.
Ingrid was silent for a long moment. She reached over, and her fingers twined in his. Warmth pulsed in his palm and settled on his hand like a blanket.
They proceeded down the invitation list.
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“I’ll have you know,” said Byleth blandly, “that there’s a 50% chance that I’m going to forget something very important, execute unintentional blasphemy, and irreparably offend your entire audience.”
An odd feeling bubbled in Sylvain’s chest, and he picked it out as genuine laughter. “But there’s a 50% chance that you’ll get everything just right, Professor. You’ve taken worse odds on certifications.”
“Certifications can be retaken,” Byleth said. “Wedding shouldn’t. Ideally.”
And Sylvain did actually laugh at that one.
The empty side room of the monastery felt different with the professor’s presence. Not exactly lively, or sunny, or even comforting—but it felt full, like a bustling town or a marketplace at midday. Right was the word, he supposed: the room felt right with Byleth Eisner in it, like she belonged there, and so did he.
“So,” he said casually, “did you come here to impart some final words of advice to this ignorant bachelor?”
Byleth glanced at him, the collar of her habit swallowing up her neck in a near-comedic way. “Not advice, no,” she said. “Just company, plain and simple.”
“Oh?” Sylvain crooked a brow. “Then pardon the prying question, but why aren’t you in Ingrid’s room?”
“Ingrid will have support,” Byleth said. Her eyes turned on him. “I could be wrong, but I feel like you don’t.”
Her words hit him in the back of the throat. Her gaze remained enigmatic and blank—no, not blank, carefully masked—but he felt her concern like a blanket on his shoulders, warm and tender. If he were Felix, he would’ve blustered some insult. If he were Dimitri, he would’ve quickly denied her observation with a polite smile.
He was neither.
“I’m deeply wounded, Professor,” Sylvain said, laughing without meaning. “Do you mean to imply that I have no friends? Shocking, honestly.”
“Rather than that,” Byleth said, measured, “I think you may have too many.”
Sylvain felt his jaw lock. And there it was: that spark of irritation, the emotion with no name, that the professor always managed to rise out of him without effort.
“Wise words from a traveling mercenary,” he said. A barb to her own isolation from society.
Byleth was unfazed. “I learned to discern my allies from my enemies.”
His jaw slackened.
Goddess. She didn’t pull any punches, even on his wedding day.
“What are you saying, Professor?” Sylvain said sharply.
She didn’t even spare him a glance. She sat there in all nonchalance, her tone as flat as the lack of emotion on her face.
“I’m just sitting here,” she said plainly. “And if you need an ear, I own two.”
And Sylvain’s mind was roaring between his temples, screaming in silence, rolling with the frenzy collecting in his stomach—
What the hell would you know, people never tried to use you for your Crest, you knew your friends from your enemies because people never tried to trick you into thinking they were the other, you’ve never had to marry someone for a lie, you’ve never had to pretend—
But then Sylvain’s fury died as quickly as it rose, leaving only a dull, numbing sense of self-loathing.
He was pathetic.
“Nah,” he said distantly. His fingers pulled tight at his gloves, tight until they dug painfully into his nails. “I don’t think you’d get it.”
If he was aggravatingly dismissive, maybe she’d leave him alone. Maybe she’d get out of the room.
But Byleth didn’t move. She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze piercing and unmoving, relentless.
Outside, the wind sighed into the courtyard trees.
“I never knew what a good marriage looked like,” Byleth finally said. She paused. “My mother died. My father... he didn’t marry again. And the mercenary cartel, we were a rough bunch of people. Whenever the others talked about their families, it was always about ex-wives or bastard children.”
Unbidden, Sylvain’s gaze slid to her. “Really being a shining beacon of hope here, Professor,” he said with a rueful grin.
“I’m saying that you and Ingrid aren’t like that.” She looked him straight in the eye. “The bond that you have is something different. It’s something special.”
It’s something fake.
“It's obvious that you two love each other. It’s incredibly genuine.”
It’s really not.
“So you don’t have to worry what your relationship will or won’t be like. The important thing is that you’ll fight for it together.”
Because it’s a symbiotic exchange. A business deal.
Sylvain pushed those thoughts away. They weren’t like him. He was an optimist, a romantic, a dreamer. He smiled charmingly at Byleth, ignoring the knot of unease still in his stomach.
“Thanks, Professor,” he said.
Byleth gave him a flat look. “I can tell when you're faking it.”
His smile dropped.
“I don’t know much about comforting people,” she said. She paused, then added: “I’m sorry.”
“No, it wasn’t—it’s not because you were bad at it.” He just couldn’t tell her the truth. And because of that, he was starting to realize just how lonely this path would be. Even the few people who tried to understand him would never be able to.
If there was anyone who knew the weight, the curse of a Crest, it might be Ingrid. Ripped away from a life of stability and joy, she was thrust into an auction, destined to be sold off to the highest bidder.
And that was partially why he respected her so. Because she hadn’t become embittered. Instead, she raised her chin, took on the burden with grace and dignity, and grew with it.
He wished he could be like that. Or maybe he wished he could be like anybody but himself.
Byleth tilted her head up to stare at the cobbled slats of the ceiling, earthy and uneven, jutting out against each other like sore thumbs. “Sylvain,” she mused, “what is true love?”
Sylvain blinked, then laughed a little out of instinct. “Whoa. Big question to lay on a kid, Professor.”
“Really?” said Byleth, and when she looked at him again, her eyes were sharp. “Because I think you know. I think you’ve always known, and that’s why you run from it.”
Sylvain’s breath fell out of his lungs, replaced by a dreary cold that refused to budge.
Finally, he knew what that emotion was, the angry heat that Professor Eisner stirred in his gut, the defensive, vicious resentment.
Vulnerability.
The knowledge that someone could see right through his defenses.
The awareness that he was known.
The realization that he was entering into something where he would be known, completely and utterly, and he couldn't escape it.
And outside, the bell tower tolled—
once,
twice,
thrice.
Four Saints, what have we done?