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High in the sky, Ingrid flies, gazing down upon soldiers and steeds which look like ants and beetles scattered throughout Enbarr. The war is won. She is alive.
She never thought that she would make it out alive, but she is. She thanks the goddess that she is spared from the madness of war, and she prays that there’s never another that wrecks the lands as bad as this one has. Part of her is tempted to storm into the castle and spit on Edelgard’s body, but she decides against it. The dead already have their tribute—she doesn’t need to be disrespectful.
As she soars, she sees what remains of the Imperial Army flee into their homes and taverns like startled mice; it makes her angry. Angry that they could cause such calamity—to rip families apart sin by sin—and get away with it. Dimitri has too kind a heart in her opinion, but she understands there’s a reason why he’s the leader of the Kingdom army and she’s a general.
She tries to think about it as he does. She can, in part, understand. Despite their actions, these are people with families waiting for them to come back only for them to never return. These are people fighting for what they believe in; so was she…
Her anger turns to sorrow; once she can put names to faces of some of the people that have been on the other end of her lance, that feeling of misery only worsens. Ferdinand, Linhardt, Bernadetta, Petra, Dorothea. As much as she despises having pity towards the Imperial Army, remembering their faces brings tears to her eyes.
Caspar lost his closest friend, Brigid, their future leader. But as selfish as it feels, Dorothea hurts the most. Oh, how she misses Dorothea.
At the academy, they were such good friends. She even helped her to drive off one particularly dangerous suitor. Then another, then another. Dorothea taught her how to live for herself. She owes part of the fact that she even could gather the courage to become a knight. That’s why it hurts so much.
Ingrid slaps her legs against her steed, pulling on her reins as she navigates through the streets of Enbarr. It’s far from easy taking into account the ongoing warfare and that she’s being constantly bombarded with both arrows and fireballs alike. Her order is simple: get over to the mage on the fire orb and take care of them.
She could never have prepared for what she saw.
Dorothea.
Ingrid almost drops her lance at the sight of her. She’s changed—a lot. Her once flawless visage is plagued by scars that fall even as low as her shoulders. Her once spindly arms and legs are now toned, a change Ingrid is certain would only have occurred as a product of this war. But most noticeable of all is her expression.
Gone is the smile that she always seemed to be wearing—the kind of smile that could brighten up any room, much less anyone’s day. It’s replaced by an ugly frown that Ingrid’s sure would never suit her, no matter how much her appearance changed.
Dorothea doesn’t notice Ingrid flying near to her at first, too focused on Kingdom cavalry near the gates; it’s a perfect opportunity for Ingrid. She raises her lance, Lúin—the family heirloom she could only have acquired with Dorothea’s help—but hesitates. Dorothea notices her.
The two share a long, empty gaze as if searching for any semblance of the person they once knew. Ingrid finds it once Dorothea’s lips curl into a smile. It’s different; it’s a solemn, pained smile that still doesn’t look quite right on her, but it’s a smile she can recognize as Dorothea’s nonetheless.
“Well, it would appear we’re on opposite sides here, Ingrid,” Dorothea says, her voice dry. “It’s a shame this is how our reunion would take place.”
Ingrid knows the battlefield is no place for idle chitchat.
“It is a shame,” Ingrid says, closing her eyes for a brief moment before reopening them. “Have you been all right?”
“No.”
Ingrid doesn’t know what she expected Dorothea to say when she asked that question, but she knows Dorothea is speaking truthfully. In some twisted way, knowing that she’s suffering is enough of a push to get her to raise Lúin once more. For the good of Fódlan, the Imperial Army has to be stopped.
No matter what.
You won’t have to suffer from the horrors of this war much longer, Dorothea.
It didn’t matter if the cause of it was the war or not. She needs to do it. She has to carry out her orders.
Dorothea lets out a dry chuckle. “If you’re going to kill me, at least kill me—”
She goes silent as Luin pierces her chest. Ingrid can feel the blade rub against her ribs as she twists; it makes her feel sick. She grits her teeth and closes her eyes before turning away. Dorothea mumbles something before coughing and Ingrid feels something warm splash against her face over and over again. It takes a lot of restraint to not vomit right then and there.
The whole thing is maddening to her. She had done this over and over to many of her former schoolmates, but it never got any easier. The fact that it’s Dorothea just makes it harder for her.
She wasn’t sure what possessed her to open her eyes, but she wanted to claw them out after. There is… Dorothea’s smile. The smile that she is used to. Dorothea’s smile.
Tears fall from her eyes, mixing with the blood that splashed onto her cheeks. She pulls the lance out and doesn’t even look at it before taking off. For a moment, she can’t remember her orders. How could she remember them after something like that?
She’ll fly next to his highness and think about it later.
Ingrid is sobbing. She can barely see where she’s going as she’s flying.
It feels like she’s living in a nightmare. The image of Dorothea’s smile doesn’t leave her head and makes her feel like she’s going to retch over the side of her pegasus.
She decides to land before she does that—or worse, crashes. She dismounts and places her hand atop her stomach as she bumbles through the streets of Enbarr. A few citizens peek out of their windows to stare daggers at her, others draw their curtains. Ingrid doesn’t pay them much mind.
She walks for what feels like hours, fighting her sickness. She isn’t quite sure where she’s going, but moving helps her take her mind off of the pain. She’d thought that the more time that passed, the better she’d feel, but she only feels worse.
She hates that the tears wouldn’t stop. She hates feeling so weak.
Frustrated, she closes her eyes and drops to her knees. She lowers her hands to touch the pavement but feels something soft beneath her palms. It feels like… fabric. Ingrid opens her eyes and sees splashes of varying shades of reds, mixing like a rushed watercolor painting.
She dries her tears and the image is clear. It’s Dorothea, laying on the ground with a hole in her side. She’s found her way right back to where all this agony began.
Ingrid lets out a guttural scream that makes her lungs hurt; then another, and another. Simple tears soon became like waterfalls along her cheeks, splashing onto Dorothea’s body and the pavement. And then, Ingrid stops.
Her eyes shoot wide open once she feels a small pulse beneath her hands. Through a miracle, Dorothea’s heart is still beating. Ingrid knows that she isn’t out of the clear yet, but she smiles.
She is alive.
Ingrid can already hear her saying, You’re really loud when you cry, you know. It’s nice to know a girl is so loved, along with one of her giggles—sweet like birdsong.
Ingrid doesn’t waste any time after that thought. She picks Dorothea up and runs over to her steed, mounts, and flies as quickly as she could to the castle. There is something General Casagranda can do for her. There just has to be.
Hang on, Dorothea. You’re going to be smiling because you’re alive, soon.