[ Let's say these nerds are the in the library when they get launched into a memory.
There's barely a beat between the knock at your office door and Hilda's voice as she steps inside, "Claude? You're still at it?"
You're in your office at the Riegan manor; a place that's more familiar to you than your bedroom these days, your chair well worn by your constant weight, and your desk growing ever messier as you compile notes and reminders. Right now, you have a map of Derdriu in front of you, chess pieces sitting atop it as though you were playing a particularly morbid game.
Your eyes are dry when you raise them toward Hilda, and you think you've probably been staring too hard.
"Just making sure that I haven't missed anything," you answer, tapping the map on your desk.
She only sighs in response, shaking her head. "You're not going to be in great fighting shape if you don't get some rest, you know."
Tomorrow, Edelgard's army will reach your city, where you'll make your last stand. You've evacuated Derdriu in anticipation of the battle, but your thoughts are spiraling still wondering how to minimize the casualties. Your country has already surrendered so many lives to this war, windows and orphans made by your hand. You can't pretend to be noble with your hands this bloodied, but still. You want to protect whatever you still can.
"... Hilda." Your voice is grave when you speak again. "Tomorrow, if you see that the tide is turning against us, I want you to escape, okay? I don't want you to throw your life away for a losing battle."
"Claude... do you really have so little faith in us?"
Not in them. But it feels a little late for faith now. You couldn't keep the Roundtable from fracturing. Lords defecting to the Empire because they believed the Alliance was doomed under your leadership. You couldn't keep the Great Bridge, letting the Empire march into your lands. Why would things change now, when the country has been steadily breaking around you for so long?
"I'd never doubt you. I just want to make sure that we account for all possibilities if my little scheme doesn't work out tomorrow."
"Maybe your plans would go better if you told us about them," she shoots back, and she's probably right.
But you don't relent. "Just trust me. And promise me that you'll escape if it comes down to it."
You can see her expression shift, not disappointment like you expect, just... sadness.
"I do, but you know you're a leader now, Claude. You need to trust others for them to trust you."
The memory starts to go dark there, and you don't hear your response, just the thudding of I can't, I can't beating alongside your chest.
When their surroundings come back around then, Claude is rubbing his temples. ]
[he shakes his head to try to clear it. that's-- he's often said he cannot very well imagine a world of war, where scenes such as this occur. he still cannot. that aspect of it still feels so foreign, can't quite resonate with him, but-
the reluctance to be open certainly does. that, he knows.]
Was she safe? Or do you recall what came after this?
The fool I know dove into an active volcano to prevent it from erupting, rather than allow nature to take its course as they should. There is no advice which can deal with some people.
I understand not being fully open. I have never been so, myself. But she is not incorrect in that the less they are aware of, the less they shall share in turn.
Our society eschews individualism, for the most part. All wear the same robes and mask, save for we of the Convocation of Fourteen, who are identified by the masks of our Seats. Each of us performs a different duty-- the Speaker, for example, the voice of the Convocation. The Architect, who oversees the Bureau of the Architect, the facility which approves each new concept our researchers and citizens wish to bring into creation. The Emissary, messenger and neutral party, who mediates any debate between us. All are chosen for their skill and expertise in their respective fields.
What? No. We had no need of incarceration. Punishment, perhaps, in the form of censure, but none of our people would go so far as to require being locked away.
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week 3, tuesday, library
You're in your office at the Riegan manor; a place that's more familiar to you than your bedroom these days, your chair well worn by your constant weight, and your desk growing ever messier as you compile notes and reminders. Right now, you have a map of Derdriu in front of you, chess pieces sitting atop it as though you were playing a particularly morbid game.
Your eyes are dry when you raise them toward Hilda, and you think you've probably been staring too hard.
"Just making sure that I haven't missed anything," you answer, tapping the map on your desk.
She only sighs in response, shaking her head. "You're not going to be in great fighting shape if you don't get some rest, you know."
Tomorrow, Edelgard's army will reach your city, where you'll make your last stand. You've evacuated Derdriu in anticipation of the battle, but your thoughts are spiraling still wondering how to minimize the casualties. Your country has already surrendered so many lives to this war, windows and orphans made by your hand. You can't pretend to be noble with your hands this bloodied, but still. You want to protect whatever you still can.
"... Hilda." Your voice is grave when you speak again. "Tomorrow, if you see that the tide is turning against us, I want you to escape, okay? I don't want you to throw your life away for a losing battle."
"Claude... do you really have so little faith in us?"
Not in them. But it feels a little late for faith now. You couldn't keep the Roundtable from fracturing. Lords defecting to the Empire because they believed the Alliance was doomed under your leadership. You couldn't keep the Great Bridge, letting the Empire march into your lands. Why would things change now, when the country has been steadily breaking around you for so long?
"I'd never doubt you. I just want to make sure that we account for all possibilities if my little scheme doesn't work out tomorrow."
"Maybe your plans would go better if you told us about them," she shoots back, and she's probably right.
But you don't relent. "Just trust me. And promise me that you'll escape if it comes down to it."
You can see her expression shift, not disappointment like you expect, just... sadness.
"I do, but you know you're a leader now, Claude. You need to trust others for them to trust you."
The memory starts to go dark there, and you don't hear your response, just the thudding of I can't, I can't beating alongside your chest.
When their surroundings come back around then, Claude is rubbing his temples. ]
Well, that's always awkward.
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[he shakes his head to try to clear it. that's-- he's often said he cannot very well imagine a world of war, where scenes such as this occur. he still cannot. that aspect of it still feels so foreign, can't quite resonate with him, but-
the reluctance to be open certainly does. that, he knows.]
Was she safe? Or do you recall what came after this?
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But it seems cowardly not to own up to his failures. ]
She died the next day in battle. [ He tilts his head back. ] To be honest, I could never figure out why. I guess some ideals are worth dying for.
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[...ah. his brow furrows deeper, there, silent for several moments.]
...I have known her type, I suspect. There is naught one can tell certain people to get them to run, to insist that they save themselves.
Too bold by half. Too dedicated by half. Both, sometimes.
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So you don't have any advice for dealing with people like that?
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But you know, I thought you might have some advice given your age.
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...but she was not wrong either, you know.
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... How's that?
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Do you have kings where you're from?
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[ o: ]
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[what is a violence.]
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... How many were you?