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1172 - Aegir Estate
“No teeth,” hissed his father. Ferdinand adjusted his smile accordingly. His shirt collar itched, and his shoes were too big. His nanny assured him he’d grow into them, but for now, every step was an effort not to trip like a clumsy colt.
The first carriage trundled into the driveway of the Aegir Estate, drawn by two beautiful bay horses. His father greeted the suited gentleman with a handshake, the hatted ladies with a kiss to the back of the hand. Ferdinand didn’t like touching strangers and would much rather make friends with the horses, but he was duty-bound to repeat the greetings.
“Doesn’t he look like his father?”
“A chip off the old block, eh?”
Ferdinand cringed away from their appraising looks.
“Aww, he’s shy.”
“No, he is not,” snapped the Duke. As far as he was concerned, the word shy was an insult. “Ferdinand, say ‘how do you do?’”
As soon as Ferdinand could, he slipped away. The cook’s children, Milly and Jorge, were coming to play kickball with him. The gardener had just cut the grass on the lawn, and it made the perfect playing field.
Jorge, sturdy and sensible, raised a hand in greeting. “Are you sure this is fine by your old man?” He was thirteen but worried like an old woman.
Ferdinand paused. It wasn’t like they’d be harming any of the rare plants or decorative gardens the estate held. Playing on the lawn should be fine.
“Yes, of course. I have brought-”
As soon as he held up the ball, Milly pounced on it. Her big brown eyes gleamed as she began to expertly kick it along. Ferdinand charged after her without missing a beat.
“You always win, Lord Ferdinand,” Milly complained as he swiped the ball off her.
“It’s because he has a crest,” said Jorge.
“How do I get a crest?”
“You have to be born with one,” said Ferdinand, unable to help the surge of pride in his voice. He’d been chosen by the Goddess.
They played a while, taking turns to shoot the ball into a goal marked by Ferdinand's discarded shoes. Just as Ferdinand was about to score again -
“FERDINAND!”
His father’s bellow caught him off guard, and he tripped over the ball, falling flat on his face. Jorge laughed, and he couldn’t help laughing too, even though he was a little flustered at looking a fool. His father stormed over, face knitted with anger. The guests lurked behind him, evidently touring the estate grounds. The ladies chuckled behind their fans.
“Just what do you think you’re doing, helping the servant’s children kick mud up all over the lawn?” his father demanded.
Ferdinand’s eyes followed his jabbing finger. Oh. Their game had been more vigorous than he’d thought. He could see patches of flattened grass and torn earth. But the grass would soon grow again...
“This is my game, and these are my friends and guests,” Ferdinand insisted. “I do not see why you are allowed guests and I am not!”
“Ferdinand! Do not be so cheeky!”
His father lurched forward, hand outstretched. He never hurt Ferdinand, but Ferdinand had seen him hit the stablehands when he was dissatisfied. Maybe that was why it happened. The Crest of Cichol bloomed into the sticky summer air and his father froze like they were playing a game of musical statues.
Stark silence. Ferdinand blinked at the astonished guests before turning to his friends. Jorge’s hand shook as he clutched on to Milly.
“W-we should go,” he said. “I’m sorry, Lord Aegir!”
Ferdinand realized they were looking at him the way the servants looked at his father. Tears misted his eyes.
Ferdinand stayed confined in his room for the rest of the guests’ stay at the Aegir estate. He wasn’t allowed out, even to the stables. All his meals were brought up to him. The only person he saw was his nanny. She was cross with him too, no matter how many times he tried to explain he hadn’t activated his crest on purpose. He hadn’t known he had such a power and he’d certainly never meant to attack his father.
No one believed him.
1180 - Garreg Mach Officers’ Academy
The weight of the lance kept Ferdinand steady and grounded, even as bruises bloomed up his body. He’d got a good hit on Sylvain, a hard blow to the shoulders. They were both breathless and hungry for the win. A crowd of curious students looked on as they circled each other in the training hall. Ferdinand spotted a splash of red out of the corner of his eye. Edelgard. Losing in front of her would be unthinkable.
“Let’s finish this!” said Sylvain. Before Ferdinand could blink, his lance swung down. All he could do was brace himself for impact, gather all his strength and -
The blow didn’t connect. Instead, Ferdinand’s chest burned and the green glow of Cichol filled the air, spawning a chorus of awed gasps in its wake. Sylvain’s lance froze mid-swing. He growled in frustration as Ferdinand used those precious seconds to deal the winning, crest-powered blow.
The crowd applauded. Usually, Ferdinand lived for moments like this - a trophy in his hands, a well-earned handshake. A word of congratulations even from Edelgard!
So why did he feel so...hollow?
Linhardt approached. Ferdinand’s performance must have been impressive after all if Linhardt of all people wanted to congratulate him! His usual reaction was to run in the opposite direction.
“Hello, Ferdinand. You’re lucky your crest activated when it did. You look like you’re in a lot of pain.”
Of course. His crest. Without it, the victory would have been Sylvain’s. Which meant Ferdinand needed to work harder. His crest couldn’t be relied upon. In a real battle, he would have been dead.
“Thank you for your concern Linhardt, but I am quite well.”
“Then what’s wrong with your face?”
“Nothing at all! However, if you insist, I suppose I can let you heal me.”
“I’m honored.”
Linhardt led him to a more discreet corner of the training hall and began to cast, a brilliant light shining in his hands. Ferdinand let out a long breath as a cool, balmy sensation dulled the pain. He experimentally flexed his wrist. He’d sprained it with the vigor of his winning strike, but now it was good as new.
“You know, Cichol is a fascinating crest. It holds a powerful defensive ability.”
Ferdinand bristled. Not possible. Defensive strategies frustrated him - he made sure to move first when he could.
“I would not call it defensive. It strengthens my follow-up attack.”
“From my observations, your crest protected you without dealing damage. It looked like the earth rooted your opponent to the ground. In terms of the crest classifications laid out by Professor Hanneman, that makes it defensive.”
No one had ever sat down and explained Ferdinand’s crest to him. His childhood tutors always looked uncomfortable when he brought it up. But Linhardt practically lived in the Crestology section of the library. Maybe he was right. But then -
“There is nothing noble about a victory where my opponent has been immobilized. I would rather have lost!”
“If you say so. Victory is victory in my book. I think you’re lucky to have a crest that wants to protect you,” Linhardt yawned. “Wow, all that observation tired me out. I’ve finished healing you, so I think I’ll go take a nap.”
“Hold a moment! There is something I must ask. Is there a method to control crest activation?”
“Some say crests can be controlled, but it takes time and experience. I hear Lady Catherine is pretty good at it. Maybe we should go talk to her.”
Ferdinand tried not to blanch. Lady Catherine was loud, uncouth, and loved nothing more than to humiliate him by highlighting his many, many failures in her classes.
Linhardt picked up on his hesitation immediately. “You’re not afraid of Lady Catherine are you, oh noblest of nobles?”
Ferdinand lifted his chin. “Of course not! Let us go and find Lady Catherine this instant!”
1185 - Forest North of Garreg Mach
They should have been back at Garreg Mach two days ago. Except the wind had howled all day and most of the night, battering both tents and spirits. Their route back was impeded by fallen tree trunks too large for the convoy to get past. Even Ferdinand struggled to find a positive angle to the situation. Especially when their detour took them into the deep part of the woods, where bandits were keen to get their hands on precious supplies of weaponry, cavalry, and food.
Ferdinand and his soldiers were at the front of the convoy. Usually, that was the best place for them to be. Except the shouts of their attackers were coming from the back.
“Hold your positions!” Ferdinand bellowed to his knights before racing to help.
Carts were overturned. Two of their mages lay dead, struck down by arrows. The rest of them had scattered into the trees or were using horses for cover as they cast. He gripped his lance tight. How best to defend them?
A funnel of violet magic erupted on his left, enveloping his vision and knocking him off balance. The bird-like screams of bandits filled the air. He glimpsed Lysithea’s white hair through his spotty vision at the same time he heard the twang of an arrow from above him. She dodged, but behind her, there was a bandit -
“LYSITHEA!”
He charged. The knife meant for her gut plunged towards his instead. Time seemed to slow. At its current trajectory, the bandit’s knife would puncture his lung. Unless the healers could arrive in two minutes, he’d suffocate. But Lysithea. She’d be safe.
It would be a noble death. Except. He prayed.
Then, he felt it. The burning sizzling sensation that meant Cichol was going to save him. Green sparks lit the air and the knife froze in place. His lance struck Lysithea’s assailant. One hit kill.
Lysithea tugged him away from the gory sight with a surprising amount of strength.
“Ferdinand! What were you thinking? You could have died, idiot!"
“You were in danger. I had to do something.”
“What if your crest didn’t activate in time? Then where would we be?”
“I wished to protect you. My crest reacts… favorably in such scenarios.”
“Even if that’s true, I don’t like you taking such gambles.”
“According to Linhardt - “
“Oh, Linhardt.” Lysithea rolled her eyes.
“Yes. My crest responds best when I require protection. I cannot yet activate it at will but knowing when it is likely to activate is powerful in its own right.”
Cichol. The riddle attached to him at birth, which ultimately meant he was supposed to be a defender, a protector. He used to think the only way to measure achievement was through besting others. Now, he recognized victories could take all sorts of forms. Winning battles, yes. But also -
When the bandits were beaten, he made to go and help recover the carts. Lysithea held him back, squeezing his arm tight.
“Thank you,” she said, so softly he had to strain to hear her.
She was alive.
Cichol. Thank you.