[ There's no time for small talk. They're just trying to relax, when a memory comes at them.
The scrapes burn across your legs and your sides as you lie on the grass, eyes turned toward the sky. The grass tickles your bare feet, the evening wind cool enough to soothe your aches where the dirt road had dragged against your legs, and where the rope around your wrists had rubbed the skin raw. You're used to your father's efforts to mold your behaviour into something greater than you are, and while it hasn't helped your manners any, you've gotten remarkably good at emerging relatively unscathed.
The bruises that mottle your abdomen and face are from something else entirely, already starting to fade. It's something that might've left you spitting mad when you were younger, but now, almost fifteen, you've learned how to keep your calm.
Along the borders of Almyra, the war makes heroes at the expense of families and children. You don't know about the orphans and casualties yet, about the tragedy and strife that haunts them, you only know of the brave that venture out to the Throat, earning glory with the blood of women and men.
Your brother is one such star. He'd left for the border at the age of sixteen, spending five years making a name for himself before returning to the capital to receive thanks from the king. He's young and handsome, enchanting the women and children of the palace, and he hates you down to his core.
So he requests to spar with you in the evening, with an axe to the back. And he offers up a demonstration of his leadership skills, by arranging that his companions do the same. This, too, once burned rage in your chest, potent and furious, and you once screamed and shouted until you realized that it never made a difference. But now, like your father's discipline, you've learned the best way to survive these situations is to keep hold of your temper.
Normally it's a point of pride for you, that you're clever and slippery enough to rob others of the satisfaction they want out of your blood, but this time, after a match with your brother's cronies, when you catch his eye, you don't see the anger or hate. You see disappointment that cools into disgust, as though you were being tested, and you failed.
"Nothing ever changes with you, does it."
That, for some reason, infuriates you.
Which is why you slip poison into his wine at dinner, knowing full well that there could only be no other culprits when he kneels over onto his plate. You couldn't even feign remorse when your father had turned his gaze toward you.
You don't feel it even now, as you push yourself up onto your feet, thinking about the quiet darkness around you, and the golden lights of the palace in the distance. You realize you feel nothing toward the sight of it, toward your home or your family. So your gaze returns to the stars and you follow them west. And suddenly, you wonder to yourself if perhaps your brother was right. Maybe you do need to change.
Claude doesn't look particularly pleased that that's just been put out in the open, but he doesn't try to pretend it didn't happen. ]
spoiler warning: has a lot of sylvain's 3hopes backstory (from what i've managed to play so far) and some supplemental headcanon
[ it's remarkable how similar the memory is to his own. they almost bleed together. but not quite... no. in the end, sylvain's childhood is still distinctly different. quite the opposite, in some ways:
Your brother has inherited your father's cunning, but not the family's crest. He resents you for it—hates you more that anything, so much that you begin to hate yourself, too. For taking what should've rightfully been his.
He's the son of your father's beloved first wife, and the margrave's second marriage is not a happy one. Your father has been distant ever since he'd lost Miklan's mother, and is often occupied with the Gautier-Sreng border.
Your brother makes sure you're just as miserable.
His hatred for you unfolds throughout the course of your childhood and even into adolescence—bruises and sprains from 'training', a tumble down the well written off as an 'accident'. Spoiled meals, interrupted sleep, ruined belongings—your life is hell so long as he's around.
You quickly learn to defend yourself. You learn to duck your head and to survive. And when that doesn't work, you learn to be loud and rambunctious. You try to find ways to dissuade your father from passing you the title of margrave, and you try become someone else entirely—a fool and a philanderer.
But your circumstances do not change. Your brother still hates you, enough that he's the one to leave. He continues to curse you, even with his dying breath.
And when you finally slay him, you don't feel relief, or even vindication—just self-loathing.
...Sylvain actually has to look away for a moment—he needs a second to process. ]
[ He's heard of the troubled Gautier son, of course. Born without a crest and turned resentful and bitter for it. Malicious enough that he sought to destroy his family's reputation entirely.
He hadn't known that his ire had been so pointed, however, and the knowledge makes him grimace.
He could play games instead of answer Sylvain's question—be vague like he usually is—but it feels disrespectful when they've both been so painfully put on display. As though he's rejecting the olive branch. The need for solidarity.
So he just sighs. ]
That was the plan. Didn't quite make it, as you can see.
[ sylvain doesn't know how to feel about this. claude's royal status aside, the shared memories stir old scars. they're agonizingly familiar, even though he strangely feels relieved.
that someone understands, even a little, what it's like to be so despised by your own flesh and blood. to be beaten down as a child and to have no refuge in your parents.
he's relieved he doesn't have to explain anything, or endure anyone's pity, that there's no need to hide behind a fake smile.
and he's deeply sad. he'd always blamed himself in some way, or played it off, but seeing something so similar framed from someone else's recollection—it offers a perspective he hasn't had before.
he nods, and his voice comes out a little hoarse ]
I see. Sorry that things turned out the way they did.
[ Claude offers him a smile of his, real, but wearied. The memory had given him a little more insight into Sylvain, but he still can't quite bridge the gap into full honesty. ]
The first thing that comes into focus is the smell of smoke, and the bright red banners that hang in the wind, emblazoned with a gold two-headed eagle.
Derdriu isn't your city, but it still aches to see it under siege. Even with the citizens evacuated, with each contingency plan that you've put into place, it aches; its streets bloodied and burnt with magic, men and women dead, blissfully unaware that they'd lost their lives in vain.
Behind your old teacher, and the woman in red and gold armour, the bodies of the only people to ever believe in you grow cold. Your mind is racing—always thinking, always planning—how do you recover them? How do you do this entire thing again, better, smarter, so that they're standing by your side instead?
You told Hilda to flee, if she thought the situation was lost. You value life more than any ideal and any victory. Maybe that's why you're here, defeated. Perhaps you should've been more ruthless.
"If you're as smart as you seem," you start, smiling even as a chill spreads through your chest. You're going to lie, because Almyra won't welcome you back. If you're being honest, part of you doesn't even want to carry this weight back to your birth place. You're not as clever as you think, not as smart, not as worthy as you've always wanted to believe. Part of you truly believes that dying here would be the only right choice you'll ever make.
But it's too ingrained in you. Survive, find a way, think smarter, and win. Don't give the trials of your childhood validation.
Your wyvern growls, tense and unhappy. She's smart enough to know the severity of the situation she's in.
"I bet you've figured out why I was able to summon Almyran reinforcements. Wouldn't it be better to let me go and have me in your debt?"
But Byleth has always been impeccable at routing her enemies, hidden or otherwise.
The only answer you get is the Sword of the Creator burning as it runs through your chest, precise and deadly, even with the distance afforded to you by sitting atop your wyvern. It's jagged and destructive like this, and you can feel how it tears through flesh and bone, your blood staining the fabric of your uniform, but hardly enough to dampen the Sword's glow. You think the pain ought to make you cry, but it doesn't.
"I see…" It's paralyzing, both the pain and the realization no matter how hard you think or how hard you try to weasel away, this is it. You failed. "Right until the very end, I've read this whole thing terribly wrong..."
The stark pain faded with the memory, but the exhaustion doesn't. He sighs. ]
Though, evidently, I didn't reach for more reason than just the one.
[ sylvain's eyes widen in shock, and he crumples forward a little, as if he'd been struck though the chest.
his mind is reeling, because it isn't at all the memory that he remembers. what he knows of derdriu goes like this:
You march into the Aquatic Capital to battle in empty streets. It's a beautiful city, and it's a shame to wash it in blood, you think.
You're wearied from a long march, the army moving at breakneck pace to reach Derdriu in time. Your former schoolmates and friends are in danger, under the same threat of the Empire which threatens to subjugate your home.
You throw yourself into battle, anyway, driven forward with purpose and a sense of urgency. Like Gautier, like Gronder... it's all you can do. Fight against impossible odds, and hope you live to see another day.
For once, though, the odds are finally turning in your favor.
And at the end of this battle, you win. While Byleth speaks with Dimitri and Claude off to the side (32:21 - 35:57), you find Hilda.
She's as vivacious as ever, even after singlehandedly wiping out several battalion of men, and she greets you with a smile, her voice lilting with surprise. You're quickly reminded how you've always liked her, cute as a button and clever enough to see through your act. Birds of a feather, in some ways.
Everyone celebrates together that evening, deer and lion alike. You've heard rumors that Claude is stepping down from the Alliance, and you see him across the room. You're curious where he's headed next, but you never do get a chance to ask. ]
That's... [ sylvain frowns, deeply ] Why did things turn out so differently...?
[ byleth, he immediately thinks, but even so, the question remains. his voice is quiet, somber. ]
I guess what I'm tryna say is, Dimitri takes on everything as his burden, both the dead and the living. I don't have half as many ghosts to account for, or at least I'm able to set them aside.
...So unfortunately, he works himself to the bone. Tries to atone for anything and everything that's ever been wrong, even if it wasn't necessarily his fault.
Maybe I'm getting a little off track, here. If you're talking about our goals, they're the same despite how we approach them. Everyone's doing their best to help rebuild Fódlan from the ground up. It's far from a fresh start, and there's a lot of political fallout to navigate along with the usual business of providing basic necessities for the people.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
week 3, tuesday, wiwaldi / farm
The bruises that mottle your abdomen and face are from something else entirely, already starting to fade. It's something that might've left you spitting mad when you were younger, but now, almost fifteen, you've learned how to keep your calm.
Along the borders of Almyra, the war makes heroes at the expense of families and children. You don't know about the orphans and casualties yet, about the tragedy and strife that haunts them, you only know of the brave that venture out to the Throat, earning glory with the blood of women and men.
Your brother is one such star. He'd left for the border at the age of sixteen, spending five years making a name for himself before returning to the capital to receive thanks from the king. He's young and handsome, enchanting the women and children of the palace, and he hates you down to his core.
So he requests to spar with you in the evening, with an axe to the back. And he offers up a demonstration of his leadership skills, by arranging that his companions do the same. This, too, once burned rage in your chest, potent and furious, and you once screamed and shouted until you realized that it never made a difference. But now, like your father's discipline, you've learned the best way to survive these situations is to keep hold of your temper.
Normally it's a point of pride for you, that you're clever and slippery enough to rob others of the satisfaction they want out of your blood, but this time, after a match with your brother's cronies, when you catch his eye, you don't see the anger or hate. You see disappointment that cools into disgust, as though you were being tested, and you failed.
"Nothing ever changes with you, does it."
That, for some reason, infuriates you.
Which is why you slip poison into his wine at dinner, knowing full well that there could only be no other culprits when he kneels over onto his plate. You couldn't even feign remorse when your father had turned his gaze toward you.
You don't feel it even now, as you push yourself up onto your feet, thinking about the quiet darkness around you, and the golden lights of the palace in the distance. You realize you feel nothing toward the sight of it, toward your home or your family. So your gaze returns to the stars and you follow them west. And suddenly, you wonder to yourself if perhaps your brother was right. Maybe you do need to change.
Claude doesn't look particularly pleased that that's just been put out in the open, but he doesn't try to pretend it didn't happen. ]
Hope you're used to having no privacy by now.
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[ it's remarkable how similar the memory is to his own. they almost bleed together. but not quite... no. in the end, sylvain's childhood is still distinctly different. quite the opposite, in some ways:
...Sylvain actually has to look away for a moment—he needs a second to process. ]
Is that where you went? After Derdriu...?
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He hadn't known that his ire had been so pointed, however, and the knowledge makes him grimace.
He could play games instead of answer Sylvain's question—be vague like he usually is—but it feels disrespectful when they've both been so painfully put on display. As though he's rejecting the olive branch. The need for solidarity.
So he just sighs. ]
That was the plan. Didn't quite make it, as you can see.
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that someone understands, even a little, what it's like to be so despised by your own flesh and blood. to be beaten down as a child and to have no refuge in your parents.
he's relieved he doesn't have to explain anything, or endure anyone's pity, that there's no need to hide behind a fake smile.
and he's deeply sad. he'd always blamed himself in some way, or played it off, but seeing something so similar framed from someone else's recollection—it offers a perspective he hasn't had before.
he nods, and his voice comes out a little hoarse ]
I see. Sorry that things turned out the way they did.
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We're all poor saps for ending up here.
[ Luckily, that's what memories are for!
The first thing that comes into focus is the smell of smoke, and the bright red banners that hang in the wind, emblazoned with a gold two-headed eagle.
Derdriu isn't your city, but it still aches to see it under siege. Even with the citizens evacuated, with each contingency plan that you've put into place, it aches; its streets bloodied and burnt with magic, men and women dead, blissfully unaware that they'd lost their lives in vain.
Behind your old teacher, and the woman in red and gold armour, the bodies of the only people to ever believe in you grow cold. Your mind is racing—always thinking, always planning—how do you recover them? How do you do this entire thing again, better, smarter, so that they're standing by your side instead?
You told Hilda to flee, if she thought the situation was lost. You value life more than any ideal and any victory. Maybe that's why you're here, defeated. Perhaps you should've been more ruthless.
"If you're as smart as you seem," you start, smiling even as a chill spreads through your chest. You're going to lie, because Almyra won't welcome you back. If you're being honest, part of you doesn't even want to carry this weight back to your birth place. You're not as clever as you think, not as smart, not as worthy as you've always wanted to believe. Part of you truly believes that dying here would be the only right choice you'll ever make.
But it's too ingrained in you. Survive, find a way, think smarter, and win. Don't give the trials of your childhood validation.
Your wyvern growls, tense and unhappy. She's smart enough to know the severity of the situation she's in.
"I bet you've figured out why I was able to summon Almyran reinforcements. Wouldn't it be better to let me go and have me in your debt?"
But Byleth has always been impeccable at routing her enemies, hidden or otherwise.
The only answer you get is the Sword of the Creator burning as it runs through your chest, precise and deadly, even with the distance afforded to you by sitting atop your wyvern. It's jagged and destructive like this, and you can feel how it tears through flesh and bone, your blood staining the fabric of your uniform, but hardly enough to dampen the Sword's glow. You think the pain ought to make you cry, but it doesn't.
"I see…" It's paralyzing, both the pain and the realization no matter how hard you think or how hard you try to weasel away, this is it. You failed. "Right until the very end, I've read this whole thing terribly wrong..."
The stark pain faded with the memory, but the exhaustion doesn't. He sighs. ]
Though, evidently, I didn't reach for more reason than just the one.
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his mind is reeling, because it isn't at all the memory that he remembers. what he knows of derdriu goes like this:
You march into the Aquatic Capital to battle in empty streets. It's a beautiful city, and it's a shame to wash it in blood, you think.
That's... [ sylvain frowns, deeply ] Why did things turn out so differently...?You're wearied from a long march, the army moving at breakneck pace to reach Derdriu in time. Your former schoolmates and friends are in danger, under the same threat of the Empire which threatens to subjugate your home.
You throw yourself into battle, anyway, driven forward with purpose and a sense of urgency. Like Gautier, like Gronder... it's all you can do. Fight against impossible odds, and hope you live to see another day.
For once, though, the odds are finally turning in your favor.
And at the end of this battle, you win. While Byleth speaks with Dimitri and Claude off to the side (32:21 - 35:57), you find Hilda.
She's as vivacious as ever, even after singlehandedly wiping out several battalion of men, and she greets you with a smile, her voice lilting with surprise. You're quickly reminded how you've always liked her, cute as a button and clever enough to see through your act. Birds of a feather, in some ways.
Everyone celebrates together that evening, deer and lion alike. You've heard rumors that Claude is stepping down from the Alliance, and you see him across the room. You're curious where he's headed next, but you never do get a chance to ask. ]
[ byleth, he immediately thinks, but even so, the question remains. his voice is quiet, somber. ]
Why couldn't we save you in time...?
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We weren't allies. And I doubt you had troops to spare given that the majority of the Empire's attacks were against your borders.
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And it definitely wasn't an easy war.
...I really am sorry, though. [ for a second time, for different reason. ]
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We all have our burdens. Some days they're heavier than others, but I've gotten to the point where it doesn't weigh on me any longer.
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I do wonder about it sometimes. What's the penance for taking so many lives?
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I'd say this is penance enough.
[ ... ] I dunno. Trying to make things better, for those who are left behind. Making sure the rest of your life doesn't go to waste.
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So... like Dimitri? Living for those lost?
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Not quite. Nothing wrong with honoring the dead, but I'd rather set my sights on the future, y'know?
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[ like, genuinely curious ]
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I guess what I'm tryna say is, Dimitri takes on everything as his burden, both the dead and the living. I don't have half as many ghosts to account for, or at least I'm able to set them aside.
...So unfortunately, he works himself to the bone. Tries to atone for anything and everything that's ever been wrong, even if it wasn't necessarily his fault.
Maybe I'm getting a little off track, here. If you're talking about our goals, they're the same despite how we approach them. Everyone's doing their best to help rebuild Fódlan from the ground up. It's far from a fresh start, and there's a lot of political fallout to navigate along with the usual business of providing basic necessities for the people.
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You need to help yourself to help others, right? Is that a selfish perspective?
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[ not that. anyone in faerghus knows what emotional/mental health means. ]
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I hope you know it well enough to practice it.
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Don't worry, I'm no Dimitri.
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