Chapter Text
“Home sweet home.”
Sylvain shoves the double doors of Galatea Manor open, and Ingrid is immediately struck by the stale, familiar stench of mildew. Neither her father nor her brothers were particularly good at cleaning; Ingrid can't imagine they’ve improved since she'd gone to war. A cloud of dust billows through the air when Sylvain steps on the faded carpet, confirming her suspicion. He squints into the dimly lit hallway.
Every bone in Ingrid's body aches from the long journey home from Fhirdiad. Life feels like it's been drained from her every limb. Yet there's a voice at the back of her mind screaming at her to fix it, to fix this. She reaches out to squeeze Sylvain's hand softly, lips starting to form reassurances before she’s hit with the warmest of smiles. Sylvain bumps his arm against hers.
“Hey, relax. I don't know about you, but I'm absolutely exhausted. Let's do the charade of saying hi to your folks and then head to bed and pass out. How does that sound?”
A wave of relief washes through Ingrid, flooding through her muscles to unravel the knots in her back and shoulders, crashing through the pit of nerves in her stomach so it scatters and dissipates. Sylvain winks back at her and marches towards the parlor, booming trained hellos at his future in-laws as they scramble on their feet to greet them. Ingrid watches as he laughs and banters with her family, making a great show of being “so excited to be here”, bewitching them with the same effortless charm that had captured her as a young girl for the first time so many years ago.
She’d thought herself immune to Sylvain’s magnetism in her teenage years, exempt from his attempts to seduce every person in his immediate vicinity regardless of status or gender. Yet when they’d been fending off the Empire as soldiers at Derdriu, Ingrid flying with her pegasus knights into battle while Sylvain led a troop of horseback mages on the ground, he’d turned to her and smiled-- dark armor battered, caked blood on his face, hands lined with burn marks and fire dancing from his palms. He’d dared to mouth the words, “Never doubted you,” and in Ingrid’s chest twisted a strange feeling she hadn’t felt for him since she was a child; a rush of sudden joy that transcended common sense or logic.
Ingrid must not have much sense, considering her choice in partners of Sylvain, but he’s done so much growing in the last five years.
The twin throes of war and time have tempered Sylvain into the man she sees before her. He's a born diplomat, parrying her parents’ questions with witty quips, bending over so her young niece and nephew can climb on his shoulders to give them a ride. Ingrid had expected far more resistance from Count Galatea when she'd announced she was bringing Sylvain home-- she wonders if her mom and dad have forgotten what Sylvain was like as a messy teen. Or perhaps Ingrid is the only one who holds memories of the serial cheater, the insatiable flirt, the sweet-talker who she'd spent so much of her youth loving and resenting at the same time.
She bites the inside of her mouth, shelving the thought away. It really would have taken nothing less than a continental war to bring them together, but she's glad to be here. She's even gladder when Sylvain yawns theatrically, and Ingrid takes that as her cue to announce their leave; she drags him and their luggage up the creaking staircase to her childhood bedroom. Sylvain immediately rushes to the window and throws it open, taking in a gulp of fresh autumn air. He turns around to beckon Ingrid over, and when she slots herself next to him he gives her shoulder a little nudge.
“See that?” Sylvain muses, pointing into the star-covered sky. “That bright star over there, between the two dimmer ones? That's Polaris,” he says. “The North Star. When I was a kid, I read a book that said that if I got lost, all I would have to do was follow Polaris for long enough and she would lead me back to Faerghus. That's you,” Sylvain says, and he leans to give Ingrid a kiss on her cheek. “You're my North Star. You've always been there for me, even when you didn't have to be. Feels right that I ended up following you home.”
“Seriously, Sylvain?” Ingrid rolls her eyes, but there's no denying the force that tugs her lips upwards. She inches towards him, relishing in the warmth of his body heat, and how he still manages to be effortlessly handsome despite the scar on his lip and the circles around his eyes. He chuckles in response.
“Even when the other stars dance around it, flickering in and out of sight, Polaris stays where she is all year round. It makes her a great guiding light for travelers. That's you out there with your unwavering conviction. Always wanting to do the right thing, even when it's hard.”
“Unwavering conviction, huh...” Growing up, he would have called her stubborn; this was certainly a nice way to rephrase the term. Ingrid props her elbows against the windowsill, resting her face against her palms. Sylvain runs his hand through her hair, ruffling it gently, and her freshly-chopped locks cascade in a mess around her face.
“Let's go get cleaned up. I don't know about you, but I don't want to smell like this in the morning.”
“For once, I agree.”
Ingrid pulls herself up straight and stretches, cracking every vertebrae in her back. Sylvain lets out a loud whistle of approval before turning tail, bolting out the room and darting down the corridor, and yelling “Race you!” back in her direction. Ingrid lets out a yell her father would have deemed unladylike before rushing up after him. She speeds past him into the bathroom, tearing her clothes off plummeting into the hot bath her eldest brother prepared for them with a splash. When they're done cleaning up (and Ingrid's finished lording her victory over Sylvain) they tumble into bed, talking and laughing while wrapped in each other's arms. They're hotly discussing the merits of Gautier-Galatea versus Galatea-Gautier as a hyphenated last name when Sylvain begins to doze off. Ingrid turns around to blow out the candles on her bedside table.
“Good night, my love,” Sylvain says to her half-awake, and she can barely make his soft smile out in the dim moonlight. She can't help but beam back.
For the first time in all the years she's known him, Sylvain doesn't complain when Ingrid shakes him awake at the crack of dawn. His hair is a rumpled mess and there's gunk crusted in the corner of his chestnut-colored eyes, but he stumbles out of bed with a yawn when she says “let's get to work.” They've got plenty to do as the future Lord and Lady of the house; Sylvain and Ingrid had made the conscious decision to return to Galatea over Gautier first upon the war's end. War had depleted Galatea of whatever resources that they might have once had, and it's only with Gautier's help that they're still left standing.
Sylvain gets to dusting and mopping while Ingrid peruses the shelves of her father's study, gazing over the books about irrigation systems and building sustainable communities around food. The memory of famine casts a dark cloud over her childhood's halcyon days. She recalls a single Airmid Goby lying listlessly on a plate, her father smiling sadly when he said it was for her and her three brothers to share. Ingrid recalls how loudly her mother's stomach had growled that evening when she said their thanks to the Goddess, and how her father had apologized when her brother had asked for more.
Things have improved in Galatea since the worst days of her youth, but it isn't enough. Famine will sweep through her territory once again if they don't take action, and that's only the most immediate thing they have to address. She gets on her tiptoes to pull out a few tomes, then bends down low to grab a few more. When she's done skimming through the books she thinks they'll need, she brings them to Sylvain who's sprawled in her father's velvet chair, staring into the ceiling, sweat dripping from his brow. He sits up straight as she approaches.
“Let's dig in,” he says, yanking the first book open and holding it close to his face. Ingrid picks up the book below it, and the two of them spend the rest of the morning discussing theories and ideas and solutions for what may work. They're still chatting about the famine over lunch with her family. Her niece and nephew grimace when the food is set down in front of them, a single Albinean Herring and two small potatoes.
Little Alva sticks out her tongue, making a gagging sound.
“Again?” she whines, and Ingrid feels a harsh, wrenching feeling in her chest. She turns to Sylvain to mouth an apology, something about the food being nowhere as good as it would be in Gautier. He takes her hand under the table before she can say anything about it; he shoots her a tender smile, turning around to address her father.
“So, Ingrid and I were looking at irrigation systems. I had an idea about something that might work--”
It's amazing watching Sylvain at work. She's always known he can be brilliant when he's focused, and she's seen this side of him when they were sitting around the war room in Garreg Mach, but it's strange to hear him discuss agriculture like he's been studying it his entire life. She chimes into the conversation, supplementing his points with some of her own. The chatter gets lively soon enough, Ingrid, Sylvain and her brothers taking turns to speak till their conversation reaches a fever pitch, her father nodding at their suggestions while her mother takes notes. Before they know it, Alva and Albert are taking turns to release groans of boredom, whining about being stuck at the dinner table and being “so bored.” Sylvain takes that as his cue to get up, putting his hands behind his head.
“All right, you got me there,” he says. “Why don't I take you guys outside?”
The children cheer in agreement, sprinting out of the dining room with Sylvain at their heels. It's just Ingrid, her brothers and her parents at the dining table now, and the spaces between her fingers where Sylvain's once were feel hauntingly empty. A sense of dread begins to creep up on her, and Ingrid can't imagine why; she should be delighted to be alone with her kin. But they've always cast high expectations upon Ingrid, and now Sylvain is gone she can feel the shadow of those standards loom upon her like a specter. Five pairs of eyes bore into Ingrid. Their gazes pierce through her as her father speaks.
“I knew you'd make the right decision and get married,” he says, a smug grin curling onto his lips. A chill rushes through Ingrid like she's been stabbed in the chest.
*
Her father's words haunt her for the rest of the afternoon, lingering throughout the evening til the light of the setting sun. Ingrid recalls the lilt in Count Galatea's voice when he'd smirked at her, reducing Sylvain to a marriageable prospect, the last hope for their homeland's survival; she grits her teeth as she mops the floor of her father's study. This is what Sylvain fears most: to be reduced to a prize for his Crest or his family name, to be a cog in a twisted legacy he'd sworn to destroy.
Guilt pierces through her like a knife, and she grips the mop's handle so tightly it could break. Sylvain speaks up, nothing but perceptive.
“You doing all right?”
Sylvain runs a finger along the spine of an old book and sets it on her father's desk. It's his turn to do the information-gathering while she cleans, and Ingrid's always wondered if Sylvain was touched by the Goddess upon birth, so effortlessly talented that he's better at her than both the aforementioned tasks. Sylvain leans against the table, propping his elbows on it, casual.
“You've been a little listless since you got back from lunch. I'd have expected the opposite considering how food always cheers you up.” He raises an eyebrow.
“I'm fine,” she mutters. Ingrid stabs the mop handle into her father's hardwood floor, rubbing it rapidly on a dark spot that won't fade. Sylvain sighs, picking himself up to stride towards Ingrid, leaning over and draping his arms around her neck. She sinks back into him, basking in the glow of his body warmth; the temperature in Galatea Manor isn't particularly well-regulated, and she's fortunate to be dating a walking human fireplace.
She's struck, suddenly, by how he seems so much smaller than she's used to now he's not clad head-to-toe in armor. He's always been a captivating presence, radiant and charming and larger than life, but when Sylvain's wrapped around her like this he feels so much more human. She wonders how many people have been taken by the concept of Sylvain as opposed to Sylvain himself, the idea of a captivating Casanova that they could reign in and tame. Ingrid's known him long enough to know better: Sylvain in concept is pretty overrated.
It's the real Sylvain who she loves, the man who rests his chin on her head when she's fretting and who just knows when tears are starting to spring to her eyes. Ingrid has no delusions about Sylvain's character; when he'd first started courting her she'd had him run around in circles to prove his true intentions. But she's known him for long enough to tell when he's being sincere despite his posturing, to feel safe melting deeper into his arms when he coos, “I can read your mind, you know. Something's wrong. You know you can tell me, right.”
For someone whose public persona revolves around flirtations and frivolities, Sylvain can be shockingly perceptive. The tension in her shoulders eases slightly, and Ingrid lets out a resigned sigh. “What else would it be?” she grumbles. “It's my father.”
“Ah,” Sylvain says, his voice taking on a darker lilt. He wraps his hands around Ingrid's, and she brushes her fingers against the rough skin and burn scars. “What is it this time?”
Ingrid bites the inside of her mouth. The idea of repeating her earlier thoughts to Sylvain crosses her mind, but Ingrid shoves the notion away-- Sylvain's incredibly sharp. He knows he's got a role to play on Galatea's grand stage, and he's delivering a performance that's left her family star-struck. So she shares the words that sent her down this spiral.
“My father's delighted that I decided to get married instead of becoming a knight. I didn't know what to say in response. It feels like...” Somehow, it feels petty to say that she feels like her father won in the end. Her destiny can't be reduced to a game of chance, a joust where the end results are boiled down to victory or defeat. Yet she can't help but wonder if she and Sylvain have been torn down to mere pawns in Faerghus' machinations. They might have pushed back against the Adrestian Empire and fought for their country's freedom and pride, but-- Ingrid is choked with pure terror at the realization, feels a punch to the gut far worse than any she's sustained during training-- perhaps they've fixed nothing at all. Sylvain leans down and presses a soft kiss to her forehead.
“Shocker, Count Galatea. Ingrid gets to do whatever she wants once we’re married. You could go run off to be a knight whenever you want. And if your father’s got something to say about it, he can take it up with me.”
“You know that's not why I didn’t become a knight, Sylvain,” Ingrid says, shaking her head. "This country... The systems it's built on, they're diseased. We're diseased for having grown up here. Not just the famine, but the Crest system. Relations with Sreng. How people-- how I once felt about Duscur.” Ingrid tears herself from Sylvain's grip and turns around to trail a hand against his cheek, rubbing her fingertips against the first hints of stubble. A tense, sour feeling springs to the back of her nose, and then her eyes. Ingrid squeezes them shut. She should be too mature for tears. “You showed me all this, and I want to fix this with you. Call me selfish, but I just wish I could do it all without being reduced to Margravine.”
“I’ll make sure you get credit, you know that right? I won’t let people see something you’ve done and put my name behind it.”
“What of how we’re perceived in the streets? In court at Fhirdiad? At the end of the day what I do, where I go, what I choose... I’ll always need someone's permission. Growing up it was my father. When we get married, people will look at me and see you instead. See your choice in a lover, your choice in a wife. Growing up, I was Ingrid Galatea, a name I inherited from my father and then his father before him. We joke about combining last names but once we're married I'll take a name I adopted from you. Will I never get to stand as myself? As Ingrid?”
“Hey,” Sylvain says, taking both Ingrid's hands in his. “I wasn’t actually kidding about the last names thing. Our family’s legacies could burn for all I care. We can be Sylvain and Ingrid Gautlatea. Galatier. A middle finger to both your old man and mine, whatever you'd like.”
Her father wouldn't approve of how loudly Ingrid snorts, but she can't bring herself to care. “That sounds better than Galatea-Gautier. But that's not really the point--”
“It could be a lot worse. Imagine being Fraldarddyd.”
Ingrid groans, though she can't hide her rapidly-growing grin. “Sylvain.”
“I know,” Sylvain says. His smile is a little hopeful, a little sad, and while it creates genuine crinkles around his eyes it's hard to mask the fog of resentment that clouds them. She can't help but wonder what's really running through his mind when he lifts Ingrid's hands to his chest, but that's the thing about Sylvain: within him there's always been an undercurrent of something she can't quite place, a force that's dark and powerful and revolutionary all at once. “But I for one am glad you’re here with me. Gotta start somewhere with systemic change. At least we’re in a position to help, y’know? Dimitri’s a good guy, he just needs some good court advisors.”
He winks, and in the span of half a second Ingrid feels the tumbling, tumultuous warmth of falling in love with Sylvain all over again.
“You’re right,” Ingrid nods. “I know you are... We’re in a very, very privileged position. There are more unfortunate people who we can help. It just all feels so daunting sometimes, but hopefully we can take steps to improve things. For the people, and for us.”
Sylvain leans down to press a soft kiss on her lips. He bumps his nose against hers, and she can feel his warm breath on her skin as he speaks.
“Someday, it’ll be your and my world, not our parents’. We'll change the system when we're in power, okay? You and me, together.”
*
Reform begins from the ground up. Ingrid's used to spending her entire day training, riding her pegasus and spinning her lance. Farming drains her in a completely different way; there's an undeniable monotony that comes with sowing every seed and watering every crop, with no real challenge or immediately achievable end goal that she can reach. Her back and neck are throbbing after a whole day under the scorching sun and her joints feel like they're being ripped from her body, but Ingrid somehow manages to squeeze out a smile.
Sylvain leans back against the tool shed, chatting with some farmers like he's known them his entire life. Somehow, he still manages to be handsome when he's clad in a loose peasant's shirt and burlap pants, wiping drops of sweat away with his forearm. An older, hunchbacked man named Albert grunts about Sylvain being a noble brat, and Sylvain just laughs in response.
“You aren't wrong on that count. That's why Ingrid and I are going to start working in the fields with you guys. Once we've got some experience on the ground, it’ll help us work out better irrigation systems, see what we can bring in from Gautier. Hope we end up being more help than harm.”
Albert clicks his tongue and turns away, but the rest of the farmers nod and mutter in agreement. A middle-aged lady who'd introduced herself as Ysolde earlier hands Ingrid a flask of water, and she chugs it down, cherishing the cool sensation of the liquid dripping down her neck and throat. She sets the flask on a nearby table.
“Thank you,” she says. Ysolde nods.
“The Gautier boy's very charming, isn't he?”
Ingrid watches as one man slings his arm around Sylvain's shoulder, and another one grabs the towel off his own back to hand him. Sylvain lifts both his hands, saying something about how the farmer should keep his towel for himself, and the man laughs, telling Sylvain he “doesn’t have to be so kind.” Ingrid suspects that Sylvain’s aversion to grime likely overrides whatever charitable instincts might be within him. She turns back to face Ysolde, a small smile curling on her lips.
“He certainly is.” Ingrid does her best to keep her voice level. She has to admit that Sylvain’s playing the part of a bumbling noble all too well, considering how he’d whined to her about having to go into the fields last night, groaning about being in the hot sun and getting covered in dirt. It might have been Sylvain’s idea to try and get some hands-on experience in the fields to build rapport with her people, but it certainly hadn’t stopped him from moaning about it for hours on end. Ingrid had tried to silence him by hitting him repeatedly with her pillow. It hadn’t succeeded, but no attempt to keep Sylvain quiet ever would.
Ysolde nods solemnly, taking a drink of water from her flask. “A little too charming, I would say. Bet that’s gotten him in trouble. I’d tell you to be careful, but he looks at you like you’re his entire world.”
Ingrid flushes, and this time she can’t blame it on the burning heat. “Thank you. I’ve been friends with Sylvain my whole life. He means a lot to me.”
“I know,” Ysolde says, and mischief dances in her warm brown eyes. “Just don’t spend too much time cleaning up after boys like him, you know? You seem like the responsible type. Sylvain’s a trailblazer. But you need a spark to start a fire, and I’d daresay you’re his flint. He’d be nowhere without you. Don’t forget that, and don’t let his light burn your own out.”
Ingrid’s lips part to say something, but she isn’t able to formulate a response before she hears a raucous laugh. She looks up to see Sylvain lounging in a wicker chair, holding a hand of cards close to his face; he squints at them before sighing and setting them on the table. The woman next to him beams, scooping a pile of gold into her pocket. Sylvain walks up to Ingrid and places a hand on her shoulder.
“Hey Ingrid,” Sylvain says. “We should get going soon. Your father will fistfight me if we aren’t home in time for dinner.”
Ingrid laughs weakly, passing Ysolde’s spare flask to her before waving the farmers goodbye. “Thank you for having both of us,” she says. “We appreciate it very much, and hope to learn plenty from you.”
“With some luck, Ingrid and I will be able to work something out,” Sylvain says. “No promises, but hopefully the feast this year will be more bountiful than the last.”
The farmers send Ingrid and Sylvain off with loud cheers, hooting and hollering with shouts of “Come back soon.” Now her smile widens a little; it’s nice for their work to be acknowledged like this, even if it’s just the beginning of a long, long road. Sylvain slides his arm into Ingrid’s, lacing their fingers together. She turns towards him, raising her brow cheekily.
“I always knew you had it in you. Where was this motivation when we were young?”
“Wasted on chasing after people who weren’t you.” He frowns, leaning in closer to speak with Ingrid. “You doing all right? You’ve been acting kind of weird since we got back here.”
“I...”
Ingrid thinks of how Sylvain had cradled her in the library. How warm and gentle he’d been, how his eyes had clouded with concern when he spoke. How he’d held her in his arms and promised that they’d make things better for her, for him, for everyone. The ideas, the comfort, the big plans had all spouted from Sylvain, and when he’d addressed the farmers he’d been bright, radiating light.
Yet she’d been the one to walk him through Galatea’s farm maps, had chided him to go to bed. Ingrid had drawn up a schedule of which farms they’d visit and when, while Sylvain pored over stacks of books, deep in research. She’d been the one to wake up first this morning and shake Sylvain awake, and while Sylvain was still fumbling with his rake in the fields she’d already started sowing rows of seeds into the dirt. He’s always been an ideas person, but he’s never been great at laying down the groundwork. This is what she stayed for; for progress, no matter how slow.
She just needs to keep that in sight. Until then, she’ll have to deal with the grind and the toil. Ingrid bumps her shoulder against Sylvain’s.
“I think I’ll be fine.”
*
Ingrid’s curled into a ball under thin sheets, waiting for sleep to wash over her. She’s been stricken with insomnia since the onset of the war, and while it had abated over the last few weeks it seems to have once again reared its ugly head. She blinks into the night, shifting uncomfortably on her sheets while Sylvain is pressed up against her back.
Part of her training routine had once been to tire herself out so much that she could scarcely stay awake at night, but there’s no war on the horizon, no cause to fight for any more. She’s mostly left doing practice drills with Sylvain in the courtyard as a “just-in-case”, but Ingrid would rather that it was “never again.” When they’d first returned, the initial exhaustion from travel and farming had been enough to send her to dreamland, but Ingrid’s body now demands more stimulus, more fatigue than what peacetime can offer. So she’s left staring into the darkness, wondering if Sylvain will stir if she gets up to use the bathroom, or to get a glass of water. He’s not the soundest of sleepers, and for once he’s breathing peacefully, his chest rising and falling in slumber.
Ingrid sighs, unfurling herself so she’s lying flat on her stomach. The faintest hint of moonlight pours in through the window, just barely enough for her to make out the individual planks on her wooden ceiling. She wonders if her home is strong enough to weather a storm, and is struck with how fortunate she is that the worst of the battles never touched Galatea; they would have been razed to the ground.
Next to her she feels motion, a shift. Sylvain’s eyes flutter open to meet Ingrid’s, pools of warm amber gazing into hers, holding a softness she knows is saved for her and her alone. She swallows the lump in her throat, trying to suppress the guilt bubbling in her chest.
“Did I-- did I wake you?”
“Maybe,” Sylvain says as he sits up in the bed, drumming his fingers on the blanket. “I wouldn’t worry about it too much.” It’s only then when Ingrid remembers what a great actor Sylvain is: he could have been faking sleep the entire time and she would have never known. She’s too exhausted to give him a lecture on honesty. More than anything else, she knows she can’t stop Sylvain from lying out of concern. She sighs.
“You should sleep, Sylvain.”
“Nuh-huh, too late. I’m already up. Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Will you tell me if you were really asleep?”
Silence rests between them for a while, so loud it drowns any thoughts out. Ingrid knows this is a test of wills; the first one to budge is the first one to lose. Fortunately, she’s nothing if not stubborn. A few minutes pass and Sylvain lets out a defeated groan.
“Fine. You got me there. Yeah, I was awake. I didn’t want to worry you since you’ve been sleeping so well since we got back, but I figured I’d show myself since you were still up anyway. Is it good old regular insomnia, or a new and exciting affliction I should know about?”
“Same old, same old,” Ingrid says. “I was hoping it would be behind me, and yet...”
Sylvain shakes his head. “Somehow, I’ve got a feeling it’ll take us a while to cast off the scars of war. Though I’ve got an idea. How do you feel about slacking off tomorrow?”
Ingrid’s eyes widen. “We’ve got so much more to do. Research to dig into, bills to draft about Crests...”
“We spent all of yesterday and the day before reading the Duscur Reparations Directive. If I need to copyedit Dimitri’s writing again tomorrow I’m going to lose my mind. School was six years ago, and he still writes like he’s trying to fluff an essay up with as many big words as he can find.” Sylvain sticks out his tongue, pretending to gag, and Ingrid can’t help but laugh despite herself.
“Sylvain!”
“You know I’m not wrong. Besides, we’ve been working so hard for the last couple of weeks. I think we deserve a day to cut loose and have fun. Come on, Ingrid,” he says, grabbing her hands, “We can’t sleep, and we’ve been working hard. There’s clearly a lot on both our minds. I think we deserve an adventure.”
She blinks back in disbelief. “Right now?”
“That works for me,” Sylvain says, shoving the blankets off himself and leaping out of bed. “Come on, get changed. The night won’t be young for much longer, and neither will we.”
Ingrid would be lying if she said her curiosity wasn’t piqued. She slips out of the oversized shirt she’d borrowed from Sylvain to sleep in, throwing on a flowy, loose top and a pair of stretchy pants. Her father had clicked his tongue with disapproval when he’d caught her wearing them around the house earlier that week; Sylvain had passive-aggressively commented on how handsome she looked in response. Ingrid has been loath to wear the trousers at home again since, but she figures that what Count Galatea doesn’t know won’t hurt him.
Besides, she muses while stepping out into the crisp autumn air, Sylvain is correct. She does feel very handsome in this outfit, like a dashing pageboy in service to his lord, or an off-duty knight about to take a ride into the city with his beloved. She knows the reality of being at war is overrated. Ingrid’s learned this first hand, but she can’t help but occasionally fall back into her childhood fantasy of knighthood, of a world where her duty is her creed and she doesn’t have to answer to her father. She mounts her horse Sauce, waiting for Sylvain to scramble on behind her. Once he’s positioned, she tugs on Sauce’s reins, and off they ride into the starlit night.
They’ve been riding around Galatea territory more times than she can count, the winding routes familiar as her own backyard. But it feels different when Sylvain’s pressed up against her, chin resting on Ingrid’s shoulder, breath warm against her neck, arms wrapped around her waist like she’s his lifeline. It would be arrogant to think that the Goddess designed them both to fit perfectly in the spaces between each other’s bodies, but sometimes Ingrid can’t help but wonder.
“Where are we headed to?” Ingrid asks as they turn a familiar corner, exiting Galatea Manor and riding onto a trodden dirt path. It might have made more sense for Sylvain to lead the two of them to their surprise destination, but she’s always preferred to have a hand on the reins. Sylvain tends to ride a little too quickly for her liking, though she’s since learned to catch up to his pace.
He presses a soft kiss to her neck. “Remember the old fort on Acadia Hill? I thought we could ride there for old times’ sake.”
Ingrid laughs. “You really, really want to make my parents angry.” The last time they’d been there was so long ago that Felix had been using a different name. Glenn had goaded Felix, Sylvain, Dimitri and Ingrid into sneaking out of Galatea Manor, trying to get them out of a heated debate on the exciting topic of agricultural taxes. The five of them had piled up on Sylvain and Ingrid’s horses, taking a joyride that had led them up the hill to what they’d declared their “secret base.” Ingrid recalled how furious her father had been when he’d followed the path of their horses’ tracks, only to find them playing as kings in the broken fortress. They’d all gotten a tongue-lashing from her father, but Ingrid recalls that evening as one of the brightest spots in her childhood, a turning point of hope before tragedy struck and she was never a child again.
Sylvain smirks. “I just like seeing how much I can get away with.”
“You’re a man and you’re marrying me. They’re so pleased that they’d let you get away with murder if you wanted.”
The words slip from her mouth before she has the chance to think them through, and Ingrid’s lips part in shock. She’s about to stutter an apology before Sylvain leans in with a sigh, giving her back a tight, warm squeeze. Sylvain edges closer to her, and his body heat is a radiant presence even in the cool, bitter night.
“Welp, that joke landed pretty badly. Hate to say it, but you’re right.”
“Sylvain...” Ingrid’s voice trails off. “I’m sorry. That was callous of me.”
“Look,” Sylvain says, letting go of her waist, “You were just stating the truth.” He reaches out to wrap his hands around hers while she’s still holding the reins, brushing his thumbs against Ingrid’s, back and forth. They spend the rest of the ride in silence until Sauce reaches their destination and Ingrid dismounts her horse. She holds her palm out to Sylvain, outstretched.
“Do you need help getting off?”
Oh dear, there’s that salacious grin. Sylvain puts his hand in front of his mouth, gasping, scandalized. “Not in front of poor Saucey--”
“Sylvain.”
He cackles. “Okay, fine. No, I don’t need the help, but I would appreciate it very much from a dashing knight such as Lady Ingrid.”
Two bad jokes in a row, and Sylvain still expects Ingrid to take his hand in hers and guide him to safety? He’s lucky he’s so charming. She groans but laces her fingers into his, and he leaps off Sauce’s back with a triumphant fistpump and a wet smooch on Ingrid’s lips.
“Thank you, Ser Ingrid,” Sylvain says with a bow and a flourish, and she doesn’t want to admit just how much the last words fill her with childlike glee. He raises her held hand to his lips, giving it a chaste kiss. “Your kindness will never be forgotten.”
“Stop blabbering and help me tie Sauce up.”
“Okay, okay.” He’s still laughing, and Ingrid can’t help her readily-growing grin. Sylvain makes quick work of Sauce’s reins, securing him to a scrap of broken wall. He laces his fingers into Ingrid’s and they walk towards the battered fortress, hand-in-hand like they might have so long ago as children. It’s not quite as mysterious as she remembers; Ingrid isn’t quite certain if the walls have been worn down by time, or if the grass and vines have tangled past anything that could have once held majesty. Or perhaps it’s because the fortress no longer holds the allure of being forbidden ground. They’re adults now, adults who wield power, and Faerghus’ future is quite literally theirs to make or break. The thought is simultaneously liberating and terrifying all at once.
It feels unjust to place the weight of a nation on the backs of a few privileged youth who were fortunate enough to be born into nobility. Yet that puts her in the best position to exact change on a local level, and she has the ties to affect the way the nation will be run. Hopefully they’ll be able to level the playing field for the common folk, to give them a voice where they once had none. Ingrid swallows the nerves bubbling in her chest. She plays with Sylvain’s fingers, trying to concentrate on every callus and burn mark on his palms. Sylvain turns to her.
“What’s on your mind?”
“This place... It’s changed.” Their childhood playground had already been overrun by foliage, but it now feels like a stone jungle they have to cut through. She kicks a piece of rubble with the side of her foot.
“It has, hasn’t it?” Sylvain laughs. “Or maybe we’re the ones who’ve changed. Doesn’t it feel much smaller than it once did? But the fort’s not smaller. We’re just tall enough to spot the difference.”
“You’re right. Or maybe we’ve just seen and been inside bigger monuments to war.” The thought that a snake might leap out from the overgrown grass crosses Ingrid’s mind briefly, but she shoves it aside, far too exhilarated by the energy rushing through her veins, too drunk on the thrill to tell whether she’s filled with excitement or fear. Apparently, an intercontinental war hadn’t thrust her into enough life-threatening situations for a lifetime. She stops in her tracks, tilting her head upwards to stare into the sky. Ingrid squints.
“Sylvain... Remember what you said about the North Star never wavering? I can’t find it from here. Do you think you could spot it?”
“You can’t find the North Star?” Sylvain grins, leaning in to give Ingrid a quick kiss on the forehead, “That’s because she’s right here with me.”
A flush creeps onto Ingrid’s face, and she hopes that it’ll be obscured in the light of the waning crescent moon. Sylvain laughs, pressing another kiss to her nose now he’s realized he won: she’ll get him back for this later, though she can’t say she doesn’t enjoy the affection.
“Thanks. That was... Very smooth. But really, where is it? I don’t see it.”
Sylvain squints into the sky, furrowing his brow and raising his free hand to his forehead. It takes him a moment before his eyes widen, and he points upwards, to the right.
“Right there. I’m pretty sure that’s it, anyway. The clouds are moving past Polaris, but you can see it peeking out if you’re quick enough. Blink and you’ll miss it, but she’s right there.”
Ingrid turns to stare in Polaris’ direction. True enough, she catches a sliver of the star as a dark cloud brushes past it, barely enough to notice. She grips Sylvain’s hand, tighter.
“Do stars die, Sylvain? One day, will we look up there to find that the North Star has just... Gotten tired? Fizzled out?”
Ah, death. One of Sylvain’s favorite topics. He lowers his hand, turning to face her with a soft smile.
“Well, everything dies. Someday, Polaris will too, though probably long after you and I are kicking it in the dirt. But a big, bright star like that isn’t going to die without creating a supernova. Once it’s burned for too long and runs out of fuel, it’ll collapse, and boom. There’ll be a giant explosion in the sky. So the answer is yes, but not before it creates one hell of an impact.”
Ingrid nods. “I see.” Somehow, she has a feeling that Sylvain might be projecting his hopes a little, but she shoves the thought away. She draws circles in the ground with her foot, lips pursed with thought. “I’ve just... There’s been a lot on my mind lately.”
“Yeah, same,” Sylvain sighs. “I’ll hear you out. Let’s find a place to sit and talk.”
The two of them climb onto what must have once been a huge square pillar, settling on adjacent edges of the column, shoulders barely brushing against each other. Ingrid slips her hand out from Sylvain’s, lifting it to self-consciously toy with her split ends. She hadn’t bothered to do the back of her hair up in a braid for this excursion; it’s easy to forget sometimes how thick it is. Sylvain glances at her, expectant.
“You go.”
“Sylvain, I...” Ingrid places both her hands on her thighs. “I just wish I could do more for the people. And do it all faster, you know? It feels like I have to answer to everyone. The people. The farmers. The nobles. My father, my brothers, my friends. You. Glenn--”
The name feels foreign on her lips. Ingrid had thought herself done mourning him; she’d cut her hair off in a symbolic act of defiance, an announcement to the world that she was acting for her, not for a memory of a boy that she’d been too young to truly get to know. She’d been proven terribly wrong months after when she caught a whiff of the kitchen’s meat stew, and it smelled just perfectly warm and spicy, just the way Glenn liked it; they’d once shared a huge bowl of the thick, cheesy dish after he’d come home from a day of training, soaked in rain, and she’d later wondered if they’d eat such lovely meals together, one day as husband and wife. Ingrid was reduced to a crying mess in her bedroom at the memory, bemoaning how she was having a breakdown over stew. Stew, of all things! Sylvain had been perfectly understanding, holding her and rubbing her back gently through the night, and when she’d woken up the next morning she’d found him still lying by her side.
She’d been shoved into her engagement to Glenn, so much so that Ingrid will never know if she really did love him as anything more than a knightly ideal-- but it’s become easier to think of his memory with nostalgia rather than tears now she isn’t living in his shadow any more. She can wander around this battered fortress and feel her chest burst with warm fondness, have Dimitri and Sylvain joke about Glenn in casual conversation and not be shattered by soul-crushing despair, but she’s learned grief never truly goes away. Sometimes, Ingrid thinks of him when she sheathes her sword or smells fresh rain, and she’s crushed with sadness once again. She winces, lifting both her feet to sit cross-legged on the pilaster.
“I just keep wondering if I can make all of you happy, all of you proud. I know you don’t believe in ghosts but... Sometimes I feel like Glenn’s watching me. He’d want me to be happy, right? So why do I feel like what’ll make me happy might not be what Glenn and I would have shared?”
“In what sense?”
“I don’t know. You’re out here trying to change things, trying to get me to make Faerghus better with you. Meanwhile Glenn would have been a knight. I’d have wanted to join him, but I’m not sure I would have in the end. Maybe if he hadn’t died I would be here by myself, doing things the way my father wants, waiting for Glenn to come back from the capital as my only source of joy... It’s hard to say.” Ingrid sighs. “There’s no real way of knowing, is there?”
“That won’t stop you from wondering, though. If it helps,” Sylvain says, reaching over to tuck a lock of Ingrid’s hair behind her ear, “I like you the way you are now. I hope you like you, too.”
Ingrid manages to muster a half-smile. “That’s rich, coming from you.”
“Fair point.”
Despite her light, chiding tone, Ingrid doesn’t give Sylvain a real answer to his statement, and she knows her silence speaks volumes as its weight hangs between them. Sylvain edges closer towards Ingrid, resting his head on hers, and she gently places a hand on his.
“I’ve talked about myself now. It’s your turn to speak.”
“Me?” Sylvain sputters. “I... Ugh,” he groans, idly playing with her fingers. “It’s pretty dumb. I was going to talk to you about this tomorrow once we’d slept, but--”
“Just tell me now. Waiting’s just going to make us both nervous.”
“But we’re here on an adventure, Ingrid! Why would I ruin it with my inconsequential woes--”
“Sylvain.”
“Fine, fine. You got me. It’s kind of heavy, so prepare yourself.” Ingrid nods, tightening her grip on Sylvain’s hand; he’s shaking slightly now that he’s trying to be still. Sylvain closes his eyes, sucking in a deep breath before speaking.
“I might have to go back to Gautier for a few weeks.”
Ingrid feels her heart stop in her chest.
“Ah.”
Homecoming should be a happy occasion, nerve wracking as her own was when she’d first returned to Galatea. Sylvain is different. Gautier Castle was where he endured years of abuse at his brother’s hands, and years of neglect when his parents turned a blind eye to Miklan’s actions in favor of the facade of normalcy. The scars from his childhood cut deeper than those they earned in a continental war. Ingrid doesn’t know the full extent of what Miklan did to Sylvain, but she suspects that he was a good part of why Sylvain allowed himself to flit from woman to man to any warm body who would lie with his, why he still gasps when someone grabs him by the scruff of his neck, why Sylvain still trembles when he speaks his brother’s name.
The fingers of Sylvain’s free hand drum against the pillar, anxious.
“Remember Charisse? The cook’s daughter? I still write to her and her girlfriend Lenore sometimes. Anyway, the other day she sent me a letter saying that she’d overheard my father talking to some stuffy guy with a veiny forehead and sunken eyes, agreeing to go back and reclaim more Srengi land... I figured that if anyone can persuade my dad not to go, it’s me.” He snorts, hollow. “The only issue is that it means actually being at home again.”
“I’ll go with you,” Ingrid says. “I won’t let you go there alone--”
Sylvain shakes his head.
“I thought about that. It would have been nice to have you there with me, but someone needs to stay here and oversee Galatea. The farmers can’t lose you for more than a couple of weeks. We’ve got to show them consistency. Commitment. Let them know we care.” He blows a strand of his bangs out of his face, and Ingrid feels her heart sink. Much as she hates to admit it, Sylvain is right; they’ve got to put themselves after the people they serve.
Ingrid nods slowly, trying to hide the crushing pain that’s swelling in her chest. She can only imagine that Sylvain must feel this tenfold. Sylvain lets go of her hand, gently massaging his fingers. It’s easy for Ingrid to forget her own strength; she must have not realized how tightly she was holding him.
“I understand,” she murmurs. “You’re correct, but I don’t like this one bit.”
“I know it’s going to be hard, but Ingrid, you’re going to have to trust me on this, okay? I’ll write to you plenty. If you want I’ll tell you every thought that runs through my damn mind. Use my letters to you like a diary. Dear Ingrid, I almost got into a fist fight with my dad today--”
“You don’t have to go that far. But letters would be nice,” Ingrid says. Sylvain gives her a thumbs-up.
“You got it. I’ll shower you in so many letters you’ll wish you’d never heard from me.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Ingrid says. Now it’s her turn to lean in and press a tender kiss on Sylvain’s nose, then his lips.
She pushes away the mental image of Sylvain stuck in his childhood bedroom, flooded with the ghosts of his past and the shadows of the boy he used to be. It’s quite the uncharitable thought, but she can’t help but wish sometimes that Margrave Gautier would just vanish into smoke. Sylvain takes both her hands in his.
They don’t notice the North Star receding into a dark cloud in the skyline.