Chapter Text
“See? All settled.” Sylvain smiled, settling the saddle and bridle over the wall of his horse's temporary stall. He was certain to get lectured for leaving it there, but he certainly had no plans of mingling with the other nobles who lingered and gossiped around the equipment. The stable hands would just have to accept the apology of a few coins pinched between the fencing and the saddle’s leather.
Ebony snorted at him, instead turning her attention to the water trough at the other end of her stall.
“Don’t worry,” he said, letting his gaze fall over the state of the rest of the stall, “we aren’t going anywhere for a while.”
Perhaps it shouldn’t have been a surprise that the state of the stall was perfect. Fhirdiad’s stables were among the best on normal days; they had the resources and focus to make the area as pristine as possible. When there were important events, well, nothing could compare.
So, regardless of how long and hard Gautier had forced Ebony to ride, he was certain she would forgive him soon enough among the luxury. Even if—at the moment—she was certainly pretending that he did not exist.
“Sir Gautier?” The voice was timid, uneasy. So not one of Gautier’s men, though. Those of his homeland knew better than to think he compared at all to his father’s intimidation.
He turned, an easy smile on his lips. “That’s me.”
It was indeed one of Fhirdiad’s servants. A younger one, by the look of it. Probably just recently hired on, maybe to make ends meet, or perhaps try to wiggle his way into a squirehood. He wouldn’t stand a chance if he squirmed like this with everyone he met with. “The margrave wishes to see you.”
“Huh.” Not odd, really. Even if they had arrived together no more than an hour ago, his father always tended to be more . . . overbearing when it came to Sylvain being out of his sight for any length of time while in Fhirdiad. No doubt the old man expected him to sneak out whenever the opportunity allowed. “Did he say why?”
“I believe he wished to discuss some details for the assembly.” The man’s weight just kept shifting from one side to the other. “He did not say more.”
Sylvain sighed. He had little doubt that his father was in a foul mood; he didn’t care for these assemblies, and he was always certain to make it known. Any servant in his way was only an easy target. There was no reason why this servant would be spared. And Sylvain, if he wasn’t timely, would only face a harsher version of his father’s ire.
That didn’t make him want to obey any more, though. He glanced back at Ebony. She still paid him no mind. The traitor. “Thank you.”
“Yes, sir.” The man bowed low, far lower than necessary. He barely even straightened up before he was already fleeing the stables.
Yup, his father had been in a foul mood.
“Well,” he muttered, stepping from the stall and shutting the latch behind him, “wish me luck, girl.”
Ebony didn’t so much as snort in response.
“Thanks. Love you, too.” He shook his head, heading toward the exit. To avoid the attention of the other nobles, he pretended he was distracting brushing stall dust and hay off his coat. Well, it was partially pretend; there was one particularly stubborn piece of hay that had woven itself into his sleeve. Probably one last way for Ebony to get her revenge upon him.
He grinned when he finally had his victory upon it, able to step away from the stables in a somewhat decent form. If his father was going to lecture him, he’d rather it be for something he’d done on purpose.
His gaze flicked up at the sound of a horse’s steps approaching. The last thing he needed today was to be trampled.
His feet froze in place without his consent. It was a miracle that his face was still in his control, still able to keep a controlled smile on his lips. He was sure he would be beaming otherwise, making himself out to be more a fool than normal.
There was Ingrid, guiding her pegasus toward the stable. Or she had been, at least. Now, she was stopped in place, eyebrows raised as she looked at him. Berries nibbled at the ends of her hair, pleased by her master’s distraction.
Sylvain didn’t mind it too much, either. She looked good—really good. Ingrid had always taken on the duties of the war too hard, either exhausting herself in her training, or trying to cut her portions so that others didn’t need to suffer. Now, though, her expression was bright and unburdened by exhaustion, and she looked like she had been able to eat well since the war’s end. There was even a slight sparkle in her eye, much like the energy she had when she was young and still dreaming of being the best knight in Fhirdiad.
Ah, perhaps it wasn’t quite so spiritual in nature. She was definitely wearing makeup—not as much as Mercedes and Annette used to bury her in, but still there all the same. Just a bit of powder on the eyes, a steady lining to emphasize their shape, and even emeralds could barely compare.
Then again, part of that was probably an infatuation left to simmer too long, too. It was best to contain it before he made a bigger fool of himself.
“The peace seems to have been good for you.” He said, finding it all too easy to grin with her around.
Just the slightest touch of pink dusted Ingrid’s cheeks, though he couldn’t be sure if it was him, or merely blush that he hadn’t noticed. “I didn’t think you would make it.”
“We’d never miss an assembly.” Sylvain hummed. “Well, I wouldn’t anyway.”
“I thought . . .”
“What? That a little snow would stop me? Or some bandits? Have some faith, Ingrid.” He laughed. “The peace might have made me a little soft, but I’d like to think I’m not that bad. At least not yet.”
“I can see that.” Ingrid cleared her throat. “No, I meant . . . I’d thought the peace might have made you . . .” She pressed her lips together—he wasn’t sure if it meant the words were lost on her tongue, or if she merely didn’t like them.
“What? Thought peace would have made me complacent?” He stepped closer, enjoying the way the corners of her lips turned into a scowl. “Lazy, maybe?”
She rolled her eyes. “Forget it.”
“Aw, come on. I want to know.”
She looked away. “I thought you might be preoccupied with . . . Engagements.”
He blinked. “In this season?” He rubbed the back of his neck, eyebrows scrunching as he thought. “Sreng’s competitions aren’t till the summer. And tourneys are kind of a fall thing. I didn’t think there were any other—“
“Not that kind.” She groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “My father mentioned that the margrave is . . . he’s . . .”
“Ah. You don’t mean the kind with weapons. You mean the kind with girls.” It was almost impressive how violent her twitch was. Was it really so awkward, to talk about this sort of thing in public? It never seemed to bother anyone before, but it also wasn’t something often brought to Ingrid’s attention—probably because she’d remind them about the war before she ever humored anyone’s sentiments on engagements and betrothals and the like.
She had been the one to mention it first, though, which was admittedly rather confusing. Even more so was the meek nod she offered. Ingrid was hardly ever meek in anything.
“He’s tried.” Sylvain sighed, letting his fingers play with the hair curling at his nape. “I’ve lost count of how many girls he’s tried.”
“And?”
“What do you think?” He couldn’t help the way his lips curled, even if he never wanted her to be the target of his ire. “Sure, they were cute, or smart, or funny. But . . . none of them caught my fancy. They weren’t interested in me, anyway.”
Ingrid’s gaze snapped up to him. “How could you think that?” The obvious question hung between them: ‘They wanted to marry you. How couldn’t they be?’
But he wasn’t like Ingrid. While it was true that people would be attracted to them for their name and for the Crest blood in their veins, there was one clear difference between them: Ingrid, Crest or not, was stunning, glorious, wonderful. Sylvain was just another pretty face.
“You’ve cleaned up enough of my messes.” Sylvain mused, keeping his smile playful. “You probably know best.”
Ingrid’s eyebrows knit together, mouth opening like she was on the verge of another lecture. Probably to chastise him for his foolishness in his youth, or to remind him that he was reaping what he’d sewn. Or maybe to tell him to grow up and be realistic, since he still had a responsibility to his people.
She was right, but he had no desire to hear it before his father lectured him as well. There would be plenty of time during the assembly for her to get her fill. “Anyway, I want to catch up and tell you all about it, but my father’s expecting me. I keep him waiting any more, and he’ll probably throw me off the battlements personally.”
“Sylvain—“
“Don’t worry. We will catch up before this is through. I promise.” He grinned, letting his hand fall on her shoulder briefly as he passed—quick to pull away before she slapped it off for him. “Besides, I want to hear all about what you’re up to in Galatea, too!”
He was sure she said something, but he was walking away too fast to hear it. For his own safety and sanity, he had to leave. Had to get away.
It wasn’t just the imminent threat of his father, though he was sure that was partly to blame. No, it was also the way his heart was beating in his chest—he could feel it race in his fingertips every time she looked at him, could hear it thrum in his ears every time she opened her mouth to speak. He wanted so badly to close the gap between them, to press his fingers against her wrist and feel if he made her heart race the same way she made his.
It was foolish, of course. He knew he didn’t have that effect on her. He’d told himself plenty of times on the way here, especially when his distractions (Would she come? Would she be glad to see him? Would she like the way he looked, or dressed?) nearly had him lead Ebony into a ditch. Or three.
He’d told himself that he’d find out for sure the moment he saw her. He was a professional womanizer in his youth, after all. He knew what it looked like when a girl was interested in him. He knew just how to ease the truth of it out of them, even among the most reluctant of his flings. It wouldn’t be hard at all for him to charm the truth out of Ingrid—to learn whether she had even a grain of affection for him somewhere in her heart.
Instead, he found himself too easily distracted by how good she looked. He couldn’t focus on reading into her expressions when every frown had him acting like a lovestruck fool. He couldn’t rely on body language when he was too busy wondering if she’d hold his hand as firmly and decisively as she held her pegasus’ reins. He couldn’t charm an answer out of her when practiced words died on his tongue, leaving only his barest sentiments exposed.
Well, at least there had been one thing. She had been curious about how he’d been. Sure, that was nothing more than common courtesy between friends, but still. It was flattering all the same.
Sylvain exhaled slowly. He could let himself fantasize later. There was plenty of time for that during droll debates and petty squabbling. For now, he needed to be at his best. He needed to be, else his father would eat him alive like a wolf tasting blood.
He let himself into his father’s temporary office without ceremony. “Sorry I’m late.” He muttered. “Couldn’t get two steps through the stables without someone wanting to—“
His excuse died on his tongue. There, conversing idly across from the margrave’s desk, was Count Galatea. He glanced back at Sylvain from his seat, the smile on his lips anything but bothered.
But Sylvain was no fool. He knew what it meant for a conversation to grow quiet, for someone to smile at him like he was a child too young to understand the world around him. He knew to suspect it even more when it came to Count Galatea.
“If you would excuse me, margrave.” The count said, that smile still on his lips. He offered the smallest nod to Sylvain as he stepped out of the way. “Good to see you well, Sylvain.”
“Likewise.” Sylvain muttered, eyes on the door until it clicked shut behind the intruder.
Apparently, his skill was going to be tested more than he had ever imagined. It took all Sylvain had to keep his expression unmoved as he took the space the count had occupied not long ago. The seat was warm, meaning he had been here for quite some time. Perhaps he had even been here before the margrave.
But why?
“I will not chide you for asking.” His father said, fingers sifting too easily through a stack of papers. His fingers were deft, still skillful, as he paused at a particular document, disdain thriving in the twitch of his eyebrow.
“Ask what?”
“Why Galatea was here.”
Sylvain shrugged. “It’s an assembly. It would be weird if he wasn’t here.” Granted, ‘here’ was more ‘Fhirdiad’ than ‘right in the center of the office of a man who ostensibly had given Galatea more trouble than aid in the course of their lives’, but still.
His father’s gaze flicked up from the paper, cold and calculating in a way Sylvain always loathed. He knew he had the same look sometimes, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hate it. “True enough.”
Sylvain kept himself still in his seat, knowing fully well that his father was still looking for any weakness to exploit. He licked his lips. “I do have one question, though.”
His father raised an eyebrow.
“Why did you summon me?” He shrugged. “Must be important if you were okay with me interrupting your meeting.”
His father slid a paper across his desk, just outside of Sylvain’s reach. “The king will wish you to summarize your latest . . . achievements . . . with Sreng.” His glare fixed on the document as if he could make it combust by sheer willpower. “I thought you might wish to review the formal submissions to avoid making a fool of yourself.”
Sylvain reached over, eyes scanning over the document for the mere performance of it. He didn’t have to review the document; he was the one who wrote it. Though he didn’t doubt his father took a few liberties here and there. But he imagined Dimitri would know better. “Why would I do that?”
His father sneered. “You do with everything else.”
Sylvain tried not to smile. That was true enough.
With his father’s stupid military exercises, he made himself out to be the incompetent fool, one whose only saving grace was in the nepotism. Sure, some of the displays resulted in some rather miserable bruising and perhaps only one life—threatening gash, but that seemed a low price to play if it meant it emphasized just how stupid it was to force this sort of behavior in times of peace. And he definitely made himself especially unappealing with any of the girls his father brought around in an attempt to make them ‘coincidentally’ fall for each other. He just had to be stupid and boorish enough to emphasize that a margraviate was nowhere near worth the effort.
But this was his. Sylvain had desperately yearned for this since he was a teen—a way to properly end the expectations upon him without hurting others in the process. A way to end the constant need for Gautier to drench the snow in blood, or to force their boys to fight and die before they ever got to be men. Peace with Sreng would make his role moot, and would force Gautier to be no better than the other nobles that his father constantly scorned. It would make his Crest no longer a necessity, just a decoration.
After years of work, he was almost there. There were still some fringe groups that needed to be placated, but for the most part all of the warlords agreed. And Gautier itself seemed to welcome the breadth of goods and experiences that had previously been criminal to associate with.
He wasn’t going to mess it up by acting like his normal useless self. Even if it hurt the reputation he had carefully curated for ages, he was going to treat the treaty with Sreng with the respect it deserved.
It just happened to be a bonus if it infuriated his father at the same time.
*
The opening of the assembly went as well as anyone could expect. Introductions were senseless by this point—both Adrestia and Leicester had fully integrated by now, and this certainly wasn’t the first assembly the parties had been to. He wondered if it was merely enforced so the nobles could hear their titles repeated to them, as if it solidified it any more merely by saying it.
After that, each territory was expected to summarize their progress or pitfalls since the last assembly. It wasn’t meant to be a list of grievances or accusations, though that didn’t stop the pettier among them from trying to treat it as such. At least Sylvain could be grateful that this Duke was far more intolerant than his predecessor was; any time the conversation leaned even slightly out of its intended purpose, Felix struck with his sharp tongue—the implication lingering that his blade would be used next if the offender did not right themselves.
Really, though, not much had changed since their last assembly. Former Adrestian territories were struggling due to the fact that much of the war had razed their lands. Leicester was struggling with the fact that their former leaders had a voice, but it wasn’t the same if it wasn’t qualified under some formal bureaucratic nonsense. And Faerghus? Faerghus was as much a mess as the others. Half of the country wanted the other half to pay for being so disloyal during the war; the other half wanted to suspend the sharing of their resources if they were not treated as equals—both formally and informally.
Sure, the tension had diminished greatly since the first assembly, but it wasn’t gone completely. No plentiful harvest or improved conditions would ever fully erase that. They still had years of work ahead of them. But, well, they were getting there.
After that, it was expected that the issues of the previous issues be addressed—their progress, their pitfalls, their effects. The treaty with Sreng, of course, was last on that list. It hadn’t been expected that he would succeed, not even among his own friends, so he knew that it was hoped that there simply wouldn’t be enough time to address it. If it came late, then at least his failure could be safeguarded.
But he didn’t need that security. When the other reports were clever ways of explaining around slow progress, or subtle attempts to have the venture dismissed altogether, Sylvain’s what thorough and precise.
He spoke easily about the expectations and agreements with the Srengi warlords—their requests, after all, weren’t that complicated. They wanted the freedom to trade with Gautier’s border towns, and obtain resources that Gautier had been hoarding for ages. They wanted the freedom to travel through their own lands without the fear that they would be struck down by a patrol—merely for venturing too close to the border. They wanted a chance to even have access to the goods of Adrestia and Leicester, and were willing to offer their furs, bone jewelry, and medicines. They wanted to be treated as sovereign—not dragged into wars as Brigid had been. If Fodlan could follow these terms, then they would handle their own dissidents and rein them into line.
Sylvain was able to provide an optimistic look at their relationship with Sreng—as partners, not just neighbors. But he held no pretense about it when it came to the rest of the assembly’s questions; it would be difficult to tie the last lingering threads together, but it would be possible.
The council didn’t deride him any more than they usually did, and the others didn’t act like he was being a fool (with Dimitri excluded, he was sure they would openly call him out otherwise). Dimitri was overenthusiastic about the whole thing, wondering openly when the Srengi would be willing to allow his visitation, just to show amiability outside of a paper treaty. Felix openly wondered if it would be an offense to challenge one of their fighters to a duel to test their skill (no, Sylvain said, but insisted that there were a hundred rules to follow beforehand to avoid accidentally inciting war). In fact, even Ingrid nodded slightly as her eyes scanned the report.
The greatest tell of his success, though, was that deep crevice carved between his father’s brows, even as the man struggled not to sneer in front of his king.
*
Sylvain nibbled at his quill as the room began to disperse for the afternoon break. People would go off to eat or socialize (or scheme, as appropriate). Sylvain would have to submit his report to the scribes, perhaps fix some clerical errors, then maybe he’d get to sneak in a snack before they had to meet again. That was, once he finished scratching out the changes his father had actually tried to sneak in there. The bastard.
He sighed, rising from his seat with the annotated document in his hands. The scribes would forgive him. Probably. Unless it was Eliza; she’d make him rewrite the whole thing out of spite. Goddess save his poor stomach if it was her.
“I’ve never known you to work late, Sylvain.” The voice was soft, placating, but by no means warm. It was a fakeness that Sylvain had grown increasingly accustomed to, as of late.
“Count Galatea.” Sylvain smiled, ignoring the annoyance that prickled at his spine. “I suppose you’re working late as well?”
“No. I merely forgot some papers I wish to study more tonight.” The count picked through the small stack at his place, fingers moving painfully slow. “So . . .yes, I suppose I will be.”
Sylvain nodded, not immune to the way the count was still observing him. In the distance, he could see Ingrid and Felix finish their conversation with one of Adrestia’s nobles, leaving the room without even looking back to him.
“I believe you will have to be accustomed to it soon, though.”
“Oh?”
“Well, with this matter with Sreng settled, we don’t have much use for a margrave, now do we?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Gautier’s role is to protect us from Sreng. Without Sreng as an enemy, there is no need for Gautier to remain there. I imagine His Majesty will wish to make better use of you. Perhaps an ambassadorship? There are plenty of countries that we still need to mend relations with.”
The count wasn’t wrong, exactly. The margraviate only existed because it had that contentious border to deal with. Its neighboring territories would crumple between having to manage themselves, and having to constantly remain at war. Without Sreng being a threat, though, that was entirely different. Gautier could be absorbed by Fraldarius, for instance, catering its attention to the winters and trade.
Without Gautier to care for, Sylvain would be useful elsewhere. It would shatter everything he had ever been trained for, but that was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? A way to escape the fate he’d been born to?
But did that mean he wanted to travel the world—alone, especially? That he wanted to deal with strangers with fake smiles, to appease them with honeyed words and another false face? He wasn’t sure the answer was ‘yes’.
“I doubt it.” Sylvain hummed. “His Majesty would probably like me to avoid causing international incidents.”
“You undersell yourself. Sreng and Gautier have been enemies for generations, and yet you solved it as if it were nothing. Imagine if you put that energy elsewhere.”
“I’m sure my father has some thoughts on the matter. Most of them being ‘no’.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” The count laughed softly. “But he’s not an unrealistic man. His demeanor today was proof enough of that.” He raised an eyebrow. “Unless you have other intentions for your future?”
“Well,” Sylvain hummed, lips pressed together, “I fought in a war, established a treaty . . .I think I’ve done enough. Maybe I should just retire to the remote countryside or something.”
The count barked a laugh. “Oh, to be so unambitious. Your father must be furious.”
Sylvain shrugged. “Need to leave some for others, you know.”
The man shook his head. “Fair enough.” He grinned. “Retiring, then. Hm, I can think of one place that may appeal to you. Should, at least, this be more than an attempt to spite your father.”
“Me? Never.”
“Ha, we shall see.” There was something in the way the count looked at him that had Sylvain’s skin crawling.
One of the scribes walked past the doorway, absorbed in conversation with Dimitri and a handful of other nobles. His submission would have to wait, then. Still . . . “I really should get going.”
“Of course. Still busy until your retirement.” The count laughed as if it were his own personal joke. “Until that happens, I would like dinner with you, before the assembly ends.”
“Be sure to invite my father.” Sylvain said, entirely by route. “He’d be offended if you didn’t.”
“Now, now, that’s all the fun, isn’t it?” The count nodded his head slightly. “Still, until then.”
Sylvain nodded with a slight bow, lips pressed together as the count departed the room.
Sylvain was many things, but he wasn’t an idiot. Count Galatea was many things, but he wasn’t a very cooperative man. He cared little for other territories, especially since his was still recovering from the harrows of famine and war. While it was doing better now, he very much doubted that would incite any new change to the old man.
Still, it seemed equally unlikely that he suggest Sylvain retire in Galatea. His family loathed Sylvain and his habits, and it wasn’t more than two years ago that the whole family was glaring at him for even daring to speak to Ingrid.
He sighed, shaking his head as he left his report on the table. Maybe the count had somewhere else in mind. Somewhere like Dagda, where he would be as far away as possible.
It was more likely that the man insult him than offer an olive branch, anyway.