Chapter Text
“Your mommy and daddy died at war,” the grown-ups used to say. Cyril wasn’t the first war orphan on Almyra’s side of Fódlan’s Throat, nor would he be the last. It was such a common occurrence that every settlement along the border had a sort of community orphanage. At five years old, Cyril moved alone to the sparsely furnished dorm he shared with a dozen other kids. The elders made sure the kids were provided for until they came of age, but many left long before then to follow in their parents’ footsteps.
But war was such a grandiloquent term for the petty border skirmishes between Almyra and the Leicester Alliance. The battles kept claiming lives for no substantial gain nor worthwhile reason. Even a child as young as Cyril could hazily feel the bitter truth without putting it into words. Unlike in the stories, when his parents died, no one called them heroes or martyrs. It was a futile, endless war. Looking alone at the stars for the first time in his young life, Cyril cried.
It was the last time he did.
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The orphanage offered a place to sleep and a meal every morning, but the kids were otherwise left on their own: the nannies had their hands quite literally full with the babies and toddlers, and all this small world survived on the generosity of the community alone, far from the eyes of the King’s court… It was up to the children to feed themselves. While their work was valued for unskilled jobs and errands, some unsavoury people leeched off their desperation to find cheap labour.
However, Cyril soon noticed how his bluntness worked in his favour to fend off those types. Most of the time, when he called out inappropriate behaviour, people backed off to avoid making a scene. It was the only way to be treated fairly; no one would give him respect on a silver platter, therefore he had to demand it in indirect ways. In exchange, he showed a peerless work ethic to whomever employed him justly, no matter how trivial the task. Orphans like him needed to prove themselves useful fast to remain part of the community, unless they wanted to end up the lackeys of some bandit group. Thankfully, Cyril’s diligence earned him enough trust to find work reliably.
The boy wasn’t picky as long as it was honest work. He started out like most kids as an errand boy for the townspeople and as a guide to the occasional traveller, then moved on to bigger responsibilities. He helped out as a housekeeping servant, as a waiter and dishwasher at meaningless victory feasts… There, he often wondered. What were they celebrating so loudly well into the night? They gained no terrain in Leicester and didn’t seem to even want to, so why toast to comrades who died for nothing? Sagely choosing to keep these thoughts to himself, Cyril continued to broaden his practical knowledge to survive. He worked from dawn till dusk, carrying firewood, buckets of water, piles of laundry, meat skewers, a sheen of sweat always on his brow. Every time he dried it off with his green patterned scarf, he was briefly reminded of his parents – and he carried on, no matter how gruelling the task.
As time went on, most of his jobs related to animal care. He watered the troughs, spread the hay, and picked up manure in the inn’s stable. There, Cyril showed a great aptitude to ride horses and learned the basics from satisfied guests. It was by far his favourite job.
As long as he was willing and able, he would always thrive to make an honest living. Part of himself didn’t want to let his parents down by turning to banditry, while the other knew he would never be able to bring himself to join the Almyran Army’s pointless raids on Fódlan’s Locket that claimed their lives. Unfortunately, orphans had few career options besides those two without any guardians to vouch for them… But at eight years old, Cyril’s only concern was his day-to-day survival. The future could wait.
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Years passed and Cyril specialised in handling mounts, starting with horses and moving up to wyverns. The proud flying steeds required a composed handler, and the young orphan with an even temper and conscious work ethic fit the bill. Both the locals and the travellers trusted him with their mounts, and the word spread to the nearby encampment.
Cyril knew he had lucked out among the orphans, between those who were treated as slaves in all but name by unscrupulous employers, and those who ran away to become bandits because no one was willing to give them a chance… Even then, the boy trusted animals more than people to make a living. So, when the army proposed to hire him to take care of their horses and wyverns, Cyril agreed, hoping to remain an animal handler rather than take part in raids when he came of age. Since the job provided room and board so he could live at camp, his time to say goodbye to the orphanage had come. While the settlers looked happy for him, no one could deny the feeling that he might soon end up dead like his parents. Children who joined the military always ended up enrolling, and Cyril would be no exception. At age 12, the orphan packed what little clothes he owned and left for the Almyran Army camp.
Thus his new life began. The job was demanding, with chores to complete around the clock with sometimes hot-blooded, scared, or mutilated beasts, which lead to him getting kicked into manure and bitten by a horse for the first times. That, and the hustle and bustle of the camp, meant Cyril barely got a wink of sleep and napped whenever he could during the day.
Still, daytime had its own lot of troubles. Scrawny kids like him made easy targets for unscrupulous people… or frustrated soldiers. With no chance to win or even escape fights, Cyril often spent the night in the stables when tension brewed in the camp.
And yet, the experience wasn’t all negative. How many times was he caught daydreaming, looking at the wyvern riders who soared freely through the skies? The spectacle was well-worth the scolding, and the stablemaster always let this slide with a laugh – of course the stableboy was late gawking at wyverns again! As months passed, Cyril was surprised by random acts of kindness coming from the soldiers. They often invited him to eat at the victory feast or disguised games as training – a favourite game of theirs was to carry him while doing increasingly more difficult push-ups.
… Whenever one of them didn’t return, it felt like such a senseless waste. And yet the raids continued. Was it all a question of ego? Or did they like to fight so much they could throw away their lives just for thrills? The officers threw feasts to honour the dead and reaffirm their strength. Drunk and merry, the men and women gladly indulged in food and dances, but Cyril never sang along with them, his thoughts going to the kids who would move into the crowded orphanage the following morning.
And yet… He came to understand the appeal in this life of battle and banquets: to live your life without regrets and have your friends celebrate it with songs rather than tears… It would have been almost uplifting if these people didn’t leave entire families behind, and none seemed to care for anything but glory.
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That day, the Almyran troops left early in the morning; mist lingered at that altitude and enveloped the camp in a dewy veil. Cyril took advantage of the calm to go about his business without interference. Days like these were a rarity he knew to indulge in – perhaps he could even take a nap before the troops returned and duty called him to the stables.
He was putting tools away when the horn blasted the alarm on the sleepy encampment and the earth rumbled. Suddenly tense, Cyril stopped what he was doing to listen to the mountain echo. There was shouting over steel harmonies in the distance, then the rushing sound closed in. Hundreds of hooves hammered the ground. First, the dishevelled cavalry returned without a commander, then blood-splattered soldiers ran past him looking for a spare weapon. Hidden behind some crates, the young orphan tried to make sense of the mist-filled battlefield. People popped in and out of the fog, riderless horses galloped in a panic… If a disorganised retreat wasn’t chaotic enough, the soldiers were driven back to camp where no defences nor watchmen had been put in place. On the contrary, the knights of Leicester rushed in without breaking formation, and the issue of the battle became clear: the Almyran outpost would fall. And he better be far when that happened.
But how could he escape? Even if he had memorised the camp’s layout, running around the fog was a death sentence – he could be slashed by the unfortunate swing of a blade, trampled under the cavalry… Between the clouds and the mist, the Leicester armour also worked like camouflage. And as the commotion grew louder and louder with dying screams and echoes of steel, Cyril’s chances of escape grew thinner. It was now or never.
He left his hiding place and, prudent, crouched along the crates and fences to make his way toward the exit unnoticed. He avoided the sound of fighting, yet couldn’t avoid tripping over traces of it. Broken weapons, corpses, questionable puddles… The stench of death was slowly becoming unbearable, overwhelming that of manure, maintenance oil, iron, and fire. Cyril stopped. His body was frozen with fear, shaking uncontrollably as he crept around the camp – but now his heart was playing the drums in his chest, so loud he couldn’t hear the clash of blades interlocking. The tents… they had been set ablaze. The fire spread out so fast it cleared some of the mist on the other side of camp, and the smoke was blowing in his direction. Suddenly, the boy perked up. While everyone rushed to put out the fire, he could escape in the direction of the smoke!
Cyril leapt out of his cover and dashed toward, well, the vague direction of the exit. He couldn’t see a thing – and couldn’t be seen. Unsurprisingly, while he was making sure he wasn’t followed, he ran into an Almyran soldier as bewildered as he was. They briefly looked at each other, then the man pushed him away in a hurry, and… Cyril noticed what his compatriot was afraid of. The fortress knight of Leicester emerged from the fog like a silver demon and charged before they could move.
Sometimes fate takes a sudden turn. What followed was indeed very brief in Cyril’s mind. A flash and a lance protruded from the soldier’s chest. Too much momentum, and a shield bashed the young orphan on the head. There was the vague awareness of being hit by what felt like a wall, fresh red paint blinding his right eye… The world turned upside down. Cyril was already unconscious when he hit the ground.
The knight heard the bonking sound more than he felt the hit with his heavy shield. The mist, paired with the small visor and large shield, only added to his blind spots, so he squeezed his eyes to see what he had hit. Nothing. He took two more steps, and there lied an Almyran boy, half his face covered in blood. Horrified, the knight cursed under his breath and knelt to check up on him. Meanwhile, the smoke blowing their way grew darker, thicker. Without further ado, the knight grabbed the boy, held him safely behind his shield, and rushed back to Fódlan’s Locket.
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By force of circumstance, Cyril ended up in the enemy stronghold – not that he was aware of it. He was left at the infirmary where the healers treated him quickly in-between more life-threatening injuries. With the headache he got, he happily obliged when they told him to rest. His eyes stung, his head and shoulder hurt… He hadn’t slept in a bed in months. Exhausted, Cyril drifted into a dreamless sleep without protest.
When he woke up the next day, the nurses reassured him with a meal and ordered him – quite sternly – to lie down. Since he was sure to vomit if he tried to stand up, he obliged again. He felt around his forehead and winced when he touched the bandage above his eye. That explained his situation. So, he had been captured by the troops of Goneril…
It made sense, even if he was just kid. Prisoners were among the best spoils of war. Plus war orphans were a good source of cheap labour. Some of those who were brought to Fódlan had been known to remain there, most absconded to Almyra as soon as they were old enough to make the perilous journey through the mountains, and the remaining few turned to a life of trade between the two nations, unable to settle in either. While he feared the unknown, Cyril counted himself lucky. These prospects still sounded better than a life of wanton crime on the roads…
Options were much more limited in the other direction, though. Almyra could only capture the knights who ventured outside of the Locket, not civilians, even less children. Prisoners of war were traded for their own, or ransomed for good money.
Depending on the eras, trade sometimes flourished at the disputed border, allowing their cultures to mix subtly at first, but it had become pretty mundane over a century ago, when enmities died down after the construction of Fódlan’s Locket. Teas, silks, and spices from the east were all the rage in Leicester; meanwhile, the Almyrans adopted the Alliance’s Fódlan accent. For the sake of ensuring these peaceful periods, both sides treated their prisoners fairly to avoid building up tension and resentment. While the fighting never truly stopped, the Locket ensured that Almyra would never truly try to invade Fódlan again. A workable peace was on the edge of becoming reality – and that mere possibility spurred the dreams of a young Almyran prince. As for Cyril, this state of affairs left him indifferent to the war and its players. If he had to work for some noble house in Leicester to survive, then so be it. Better accept it and move on.
And if he worked hard, maybe his life wouldn’t be too different on the other side of Fódlan’s Throat…
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After a few days, the knights of Leicester rounded up the prisoners and started sorting them. Officers and soldiers would be ransomed as was customary, and the most docile civilians were gathered to be sent to noble Houses of the Alliance. Since a medic learned he had no family left in Almyra, Cyril was the first – and youngest – to be sent to the latter group. A dozen people were selected afterward, which seemed to be quite a lot more than usual – but then again, they didn’t destroy Almyran encampments every other day. It took another hour to decide the fate of every prisoner, then Cyril’s group was taken to another courtyard where a carriage was waiting for them. The boy asked the captain where they would be going, and he shuddered at the name of Cornwall, the seat of the dreaded House Goneril. Nervous, Cyril followed the directions he was given and stepped into the carriage, which was more or less a wooden box on wheels, with bars on the single back door in place of a glass window.
None of the prisoners were tied up, but the carriage door was locked once they all got in. A few minutes later, they left the bastion. The rear window offered an unhindered view of the road stretching behind them, although Cyril quickly lost interest in the dirt roads and trees once Fódlan’s Locket, the last familiar landmark, disappeared on the horizon. Without anything else to do, he wrapped himself in a flimsy blanket, lied down on his unharmed left side, and dozed on and off for the remainder of the sluggish two-day journey.