part ii: crimson flower

the waning azure moon

Seulgi had seen many corpses in her time but rarely had she ever come so close to becoming one herself.

The last battle was long and brutish. She’s alive by sheer virtue of Vindr’s excellent instincts. He kept her out of harm’s reach until an arrow took his wing out of commission

From that point, she had to fight on the ground, downing a few too many vulneraries to stay alive. She knows that she’s drank more of those today than what her still-meagre pay covers. But it was her life against her coin.

The battleground is littered with the bodies of her enemies and her compatriots. By her estimate, their enemies outnumbered them six to one. It was a blatantly unfair fight. But the Srengi were barbarians: they rarely cared to fight fairly.

Her tongue curls, bitterly, as she bends to check on her surviving knight.  An arrow seems to have grazed Amice’s left cheek, but she looks otherwise unharmed. It’s more than she can say for her pegasus. Her pegasus was the first to go, felled by a volley of arrows.  It’s a wonder that Amice emerged unscathed from that shock.

Amice catches her looking and jerks her head away. Fair enough. She wouldn’t want to make any conversation too if your best friend has just been butchered by a barbarian. She leaves her to grieve by Marceau’s fallen form.

Too many of her fellow knights and their squires perished today. The senselessness of the bloody loss should not have happened.

She wishes that they could give them a proper burial.

But they don’t have the equipment. Up here in this wasteland, there’s not a single tree to be found. She finds herself hating that she thinks it’s fortunate that in this wasteland, there aren’t enough trees to outfit the Srengi with arrows. Without that blessing, she’s sure she and Vindr would be dead.

Up here, in these frozen wastelands, the bitter cold of the Lone Moon is unrelenting. Maybe she could return with more men later, so their dead could be laid to rest?

But… no. That’s a foolish notion when there’s so much to be done still.

With the lieutenant dead, it falls to her to make the call.

Wordlessly, she pulls out her dagger and lowers herself to the ground. They’ll take their leather tags. And then they’ll head back to the main camp with news of the ambush. Srengi are getting bold.

She cuts a tag.

Oudin. Dead at the hands of those scum.

Ulrike. Her skull bashed in.

Horatia. Who will never see her parents again.

Little Lars. Who only wanted to become a knight like his brother.

And another, another, another.

* * *

Their return to camp is met with regretful, but dismissive nods. It’s a muted affair. It takes them longer than they should to return to the main camp, what with two riders having to cajole the nine other mounts to follow them. It doesn’t help that they’ve been startled into complete skittishness.

She and Amice had to decide which of the horses and pegasi might recover from this encounter. Those unfit for future combat had been put down. Even though she did it in the quickest way possible, she doubts she’ll forget the way the destriers’ warm, brown eyes gazed back at her trustingly even as they lain bleeding and crippled in the snow.

Once the mounts are stabled, she dismisses Amice, with strict orders that she gets herself checked at the infirmary.

From there, she heads back to the commander’s cabin. He takes her report with a heavy sigh. It’s nothing new, these ambushes. Get yourself to the infirmary – ought to get that shoulder looked into. As she leaves the cabin, he slams a fist onto his wooden table heavily.  

In the morning, she wakes to a series of insistent gongs.

She’s a little disoriented, at first. The exhaustion from the previous nights has worn at her. Her system is still struggling to replenish the blood she’s lost in the previous fight. The usage of vulneraries always leaves her with a slight headache the day after, especially when she’s stupid enough to forget to get enough food into her system before bedtime.  

But when she stumbles out of the infirmary cabin, her jaw drops at the sight before her.  

“Get a move on! I want all the tents down by sundown.”

There are officers are shouting a dozen orders at once. Dozens of men have sprung to their feet, scrambling to pull down the tents the battalion had pitched many moons ago. Horses and ponies alike have been pulled out of their stables, with carts secured to them. Sacks of grain and produce are piled into any available space.

They’re packing up, she realises.

Wait, why?

One of the soldiers stop. Eyes her bloodied tabard that she didn’t manage to clean before collapsing into a cot last night.

He shakes his head. “We’re at war.”

“What?”

“You heard me. That insane has declared war on all Fódlan.”

“Sorry?” She can’t quite believe her ears. Surely, he can’t mean…

The soldier draws himself up to his full height. Spits on the ground. A glob of saliva narrowly misses her dusty boots.

“You heard me. The Empire’s gone barking mad.”

Her head spins. No. It can’t be.

She utters a dozen prayers to a Goddess.

Please, don’t let it be true.

* * *

But: 

A war has been declared.

None of them are granted the mercy of a steady march towards the start of the war. Instead, it's a war that catches everyone unawares.

Except perhaps, the Empire itself.

If she believes the words her former friends scribbled hurriedly from their earlier correspondence, they too were unaware of the brewing conflict. Surely, they would have warned her about an impending war if they had known about it?

She wonders if Irene had known. Did she know that her precious emperor would send them all to their deaths? Perhaps she did. Perhaps she didn’t. Seulgi doesn’t know what to believe anymore.

She only knows that a war happens and they start on different sides of the field.

She understands it as an invasion of the Church, instigated entirely by the Empire. One day, the emperor of the Adrestian Empire commanded her troops to attack the Church. Within the moon, the walls of the Monastery, built for peacetime, falls to the might of the Empire.

And her king returns to Fhirdiad for his coronation, allegedly furious about what the emperor incites. Shortly after, he invites the archbishop and the rest of the faithful with her.

The Emperor, her fellow soldiers murmur, is a demon – a demon who dares challenge a goddess.

* * *

With the coming of the war, her liege has reorganised his levies. Seulgi is assigned to a new battalion, one that will take to the defences of the southern border. Falcon knights are too precious a resource to be squandered on a border with Sreng when the Empire’s best threaten to sweep through Faerghus.

Before she leaves, a contingent of the Gautier knights are summoned to the margrave’s estate.

The Margrave Gautier is a man that looms over her in mien and height. She guesses that he’s her father’s age, maybe even older, but his neatly combed hair and well-trimmed beard are still a brilliant flame red, and his posture pulls his already towering form further above her.

“You must be wondering why you’ve been summoned to my estate,” he begins, his gravelly voice low and deep.

Seulgi, one of the youngest knights in the ranks, stands to the back and strains to hear him. Indeed, she doesn’t quite know why they had to take a detour into the Gautier lands. The senior knights in their ranks were too, surprised by the summons, but they were making good time in their journey south. It wouldn’t hurt to see what the Margrave wants from them.

His cool gaze sweeps across them.

“Many of you are aware that I have disinherited my oldest son, Miklan. Much as I detest gossip, I am also sure many of you are aware that Miklan has died at the hands of my new heir.”

They nod. This isn’t new information to any of them.

Seulgi herself has crossed paths with the various flame-haired Gautier children a few times in her life. Even up in Sreng, she’s heard of that incident with Miklan up in the Conand Tower. The details elude her, but it was a popular subject of campfire gossip for weeks. Having known him, it was little wonder that he’d turn to becoming a king of thieves. She’s only relieved that Miklan would never become the next margrave. Her younger siblings have always been terrified of the man.

“Now, as we also know, the Adrestian Emperor herself led the attack on Garreg Mach in the last moon. Now, Garreg Mach sits at the centre of the continent – His Majesty and Her Holiness have returned to Fhirdiad to organise our forces.” His lips thin. “However, Sylvain has not returned with them.”

A gasp runs through their ranks. The rest of them stand still as the winds howl around them.

Has Sylvain fallen in battle? Is he injured? Or… she looks up at the stormy expression on the Margrave’s face and realisation dawns on her.

“Sylvain has always been… foolish. Prone to succumbing to various impulses. I take no great pride in admitting this. However, my son is also the only man able to wield my ancestral heirloom. You have all been in Sreng. You understand that fending off those barbarians is a brutal task.”

They nod. Defending Faerghus’ borders has demanded many lives, willingly given. For Faerghus, there’s no price that she will not pay.

“You are my trusted knights. As you serve me, you serve our King Dimitri. serve all of Faerghus. I have received numerous reports of your bravery against the Srengi. Our noble protectors, as you head south to take up arms again against those that dare to threaten the Holy Kingdom, I only ask one thing of you: bring back my son.”

They bow their heads. The captain’s head dips once more as he promises His Lordship that they will bring Sylvain Gautier back to Faerghus, whatever it takes.

“As my knights, you will receive my utmost support for your valour. Each of you will be receiving a small token from the margraviate’s coffers. Appreciation, if you will, for your deeds at Sreng. Use it as you see fit. I have also taken it upon myself to commission some weaponry for your use. The defence of Faerghus is of utmost importance.

“Never shirk your duty, and stand bravely in front of the Empire’s dogs. Faerghus cannot fall to an Empire ruled by madmen.”

He’s right. They’re mad. Mad. Only madmen would think to defy the Church. How could they turn against the Goddess like that?

She imagines how meeting the mad emperor will be like.

She doesn’t have a clue how the Emperor of Adrestia even looks like.

But as the Emperor, she will undoubtedly be decked in the Adrestian black and red. Would she be wearing a golden crown into battle? What colour will the eagle on her cloak be? These are the details she will learn so if she ever sees her, she will know whose head she should soar towards. Her lance will know how to find its target. Every other concern will be secondary.

How could she have done it? Surely, whatever dispute the Church and Empire had didn’t need to be resolved by war. Archbishop Rhea has only protected her flock. What has she ever done to warrant the emperor’s wrath?

Seulgi decides that she might just never know why a madwoman has thrown Fódlan into insanity. She only knows that she has vowed to cut down those infidels.

“Your duty is to the Kingdom. You will fight for His Majesty until your dying breath.”

“Yes,” she dips her head, falling to her knees, her voice joining the chorus of assents. “Your Lordship.”

He begins to walk around the circle of knights, his ceremonial sword tapping against their heads.

When the margrave places the sword atop her head, she sinks herself more heavily into the ground. The cold of the northern winter seeps through her metal greaves.

A little bit of her dies then and she bites down on her lips hard enough to draw blood when she realises what this oath will entail.

But there’s no other option. She’s been robbed of all her choices when the emperor decided to throw them all into a war. This is what Seulgi has dreamed of all her life. Taking up a sword in the name of her Kingdom is a duty that every fibre of her should yearn to perform until her dying breath.

Her heart is a fickle thing. It yearns, and it wants. It asks if she could ever bear to bring her sword down on her.

It is likely that she will be fighting in the Empire’s ranks. Irene is a skilled a fighter as any. As a graduate of the Officer’s Academy, it would be a waste to stash her within the walls of the university, even if Seulgi now prefers that Irene be as far south as possible.

Truly, that’s a turn of sentiment. Just a moon ago she had hoped that the distance between Enbarr and herself could be crossed in seconds. Now, she can only wish that Irene stay as far as she can from Seulgi’s postings.

She trembles.

She is terrified that one day, as she soars to the skies on her pegasus, that she’ll be ordered to swoop downwards and pierce her lance straight through their hearts.

She hates this.

Hates that even as she kneels before the margrave, that she is wondering if she can find a place for them in this war.

There’s anger in her, she realises, somewhat startled. She doesn’t get angry, not usually, but the emperor. How can she launch a war against the rest of the continent? Why are her subjects allowing her arrogance to break the peace?

Hundreds of lives have already been lost in taking Garreg Mach. Must she continue on her rampage? Must thousands die before the empire’s bloodlust is satisfied?

And, Irene. Irene. What does she think of all this? Does she support that madwoman? If she does…

She bites down, harder, and the inside of fills with a rusty warmth, blood coating her teeth and tongue.

Seulgi is stronger than all her doubts. Made of sterner stuff. She has spent all her life honing herself into hard lines. Her entire being will be sheathed in gleaming metal soon enough. The sword in her hands will strike these useless distractions down.

* * *

Four moons later, Seulgi is in her camp at Gideon preparing for sleep after a long day in the training grounds when the quartermaster’s messenger summons her. A letter has arrived for Seulgi.

A letter? Did her parents write to her? If they did, had something gone wrong back home, are her parents okay? Is father’s health worsening? Her parents are getting up in age.

Seulgi pales as those worries run through her mind.

She’s glad her fellows don’t recognise the seal, though they frown at the colour. The wax is smooth, a deep, dark red. The stamp that was pressed into it bears a visage of the double crested eagle, emblazoned over an unfurled scroll.

It’s from the university.

The letter is torn open rather unceremoniously. She doesn’t have a clue as to why Irene has bothered to write to her. The letter is more likely to have simply gotten lost from older correspondence, though it’s somehow found its way to her. 

She remembers Irene’s last letter to her before realisation struck. Oh.

She chides herself for not seeing it at the time. Irene had written to her, pleading for Seulgi to join her. Irene had never written such a long letter to her before. She had written of a new world. A world free of the burden of crests. Perhaps you could join me, here in the Empire? It means a lot to me, the emperor’s vision, Irene writes.

Then she calmed, reread the letter and frowned in confusion. Emperor Ionius IX was an ailing man, languishing the last of his days in bed, his maids attending to his every need. She hadn’t quite realised that when Irene wrote of an Emperor she wasn’t referring to him.

Her latest letter is short, and to the point.

The letter makes her gnash her teeth together. How can Irene presume to talk about the burden of crests when she herself had been elevated for them? What then, about all of Fódlan, if the barbarians cross the borders? What then? For a moment, Seulgi wants to toss Irene’s letter into the flames.

Seulgi,

If you have received this letter, then I trust that you are well. I am glad.

Circumstances have changed. I understand that you might be angry. That this goes against all your vows to your liege.

You’re aware now that my emperor has decided to attack the church. She will liberate all of Fódlan from the burden of this crest system.

I believe in her. Fódlan need no longer be shackled to this farce.

I can hardly ask for you to cast your dreams aside. But think of Fódlan’s future. Please. I hope that I may await your presence at Garreg Mach.

Irene

* * *

It can get terribly lonely in the skies.

Falcon knights rarely fight in formation. They are trained to hit-and-run, and lone knights dive in, strike at their targets, before taking off into the sky again once more. Flying together would attract the attention of every other in the vicinity. She and Vindr fly as one. No one else can fly with her.

Flying alone has kept her alive. Has kept her pegasus alive.

But up here, she is alone with her thoughts.

She envies the foot soldiers, who patrol in groups. They walk in lockstep, sometimes singing bawdy tunes to keep themselves entertained. The man-at-arms stir up a racket on their patrols even when they know it only gets them an earful.

She’s not so lucky. To live past the end of your dreams begets peril. Your head loses its singular gravity.  Once attuned to the too-bright glare of the sun, her head is now no longer suspended in its direction. Instead, she starts to notice the darkness around her, the sparks of firelight promising the warmth that she has lacked for days-moons-years. Come, come. The sun is so very far away.

From here, she can see the peaks of Oghma Mountains emerge from the mist.

Nestled in those mountains is a place she dared to think of as home once. After every mission, she would be able to barge into the dining hall and ravenously tear into a warm meal the kitchen staff would magically procure. She would join her friends at the tables to giggle at some silly joke. It was a given for Seulgi to be on the receiving end of a few jabs. She remembers that she took most of them good naturedly, except that she laughed so hard at one particularly strange insult that she began to cry. That had prompted Irene’s ire as she stalked up to the Blue Lions from her table: which of you did this?

She wishes that she could turn back the hands of time. For all her prowess in battle and the accolades that have been lauded upon her, she can’t do that. For all the blood that has stained her hands, they are powerless against the machinations of an empire. Her heart can only clench at the trail of crimson flowers left in the wake of the emperor's bloody war.

Vindr nickers, worried, as she slumps forward against his mane.

“Thanks for sticking by me, eh.” At that, he makes a dismissive noise. Don’t be silly.

A laugh escapes her. Look at her, inventing words for her pegasus.

* * *

Mid-war, she’s allowed a short leave.

She has become part of a smaller party that detaches itself from a main regiment, what with her mobility on a pegasus and all. Her party journeys often between the north and the south, and one day, she approaches her presiding officer to ask if she’d be allowed home when they journey north to Faerghus. This war is oft marked by periods of inactivity: it’s stalemate for the Empire’s forces to regroup, and they all know it. Her father’s modest estate lies on the southwestern tip of the Gautier margraviate, just a day’s ride from Faerghus. A short journey home in one of the lulls in the war’s tide wouldn’t hurt.

Her officers allow it. They tell her that if they had known her family lived so close to the capital, she’d have been allowed home more often. It’s not matter, she assures them. Her place is with the army.

She heads back home on Vindr’s back, still decked in the full silver and blue armour. Vindr is probably more excited at the prospect of the return than she is. On the ground, her maintains a steady gallop. She has never seen him expand his stamina freely with such rigour. What has gotten into him?

Seulgi sometimes dreamt of returning to the rolling green fields that enveloped her father’s estate. She thought of home in the way that most people thought of their childhood homes, harbouring the impression that home is a beautiful painting that remained unchanged regardless of the bustle going on about them. She hasn’t been back in so long. Unless some sort of calamity had befallen her family – which, it couldn’t possibly have, she would’ve heard otherwise – then perhaps she could indulge in her fantasies. A part of her always longed for her mother’s soft touch, her father’s kind words. But more than that, she wished to ride on the backs of a pony once more, pretending that she didn’t have to mount a war-pegasus on the daily.

Her father welcomes her home with wide arms and a bright smile. Is she okay? He sees that she returns to him with all four limbs. Maybe a few scars too many, but it’s war.

He wonders aloud if she’ll resign from her position and marry someone soon. Despite the scars she comes back with, she’ll still be able to secure a valuable marriage to secure her future. Seulgi knows she’s pretty, has heard both servant and noble alike compliment her on numerous occasions.

She declines, politely, and they leave it at that. She’s too stubborn for the suitors he can try to force upon her. Their lands are doing well enough anyway, and her rank in the army pays her generously enough. Most of her money is sent home, and her younger half-siblings will have enough for whatever they want to do when the war comes to its eventual end.  

For the first time in a long while, she has space for her own thoughts. Her everyday thoughts have been consumed by the war. She and her other falcon knights are always discussing the war. They share a common fantasy about flying into Enbarr, seeking the gold and red of the Emperor Edelgard’s regalia from high above. Then, when they catch sight of that horned crown, they’ll plunge downwards and claim their prize. A trophy fit for their King.

It’s a whimsy she likes to entertain, sometimes.

The war will end if she dies. Or maybe it wouldn’t. Then what?

She casts these thoughts aside. Her service doesn’t require her to contemplate such questions.

Instead, she allows herself small indulgences. There has been scant opportunity for her to appreciate sleeping on soft beds during the war. No one can begrudge her for sleeping in every morning, these few creature comforts that a good knight dared to take even when the enemy is far away. In war, the enemy is never far enough.   

Her father still paints, she finds, when she asks to burrow his oils and charcoals. He teases her gently when she shyly asks for the equipment. Have you gotten rusty, my child?

Sometimes, she paints the landscape of her childhood, sitting by the riverside. Other times, she hides in her room, sketchbook in hand. There, she tries to draw Irene.

Irene fills the bulk of this old sketchbook. The drawings come with ridiculous names, like The Portrait of Irene on the Garland Moon. That one is still one of her favourites though. It is probably her best work: her younger self had managed to capture Irene’s radiant smile, the white roses adorning her lovely purple hair.     

She tries not to look at them, willing herself to draw Irene from memory. After all, all her previous attempts weren’t made without the model present in front of her.

She had imagined that she’ll never forget the details of Irene’s face, but they’ve become blurred at the edges in her head.

Her memory loves Irene. It bites at her, demanding for her. Where is she? Where? Her memory clings onto her flickering ghost. Like a starving flame flickering in the darkness, a too-hot thing that burns when she approaches it, it is too weak to truly overwhelm but all the same, the air in her closed-up chest is swallowed by an insatiable ache. 

Without looking at her older work, she can barely put rough lines to a page.

One the day before she’s set to leave, her father summons her into his study.

She slides into the chair by his side. It's an old chair, the fabric has long been worn down though the upholstering is well upkept. A fire burns lowly at the fireplace even though it’s scratching the start of summer. Her father’s knee is often pained by the cold.

He gives her a weary smile as he murmurs, “Do you feel loved, by us?”

“Sorry?” She blinks at his question. That’s a strange greeting to be had. “Of course I do.” The words slip out of her easily. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. Your mother has been asking about you lately, my child. She misses you."

"Why are you speaking in such riddles, father?" She frowns, pouting slightly. It is not like him to obscure what he means.

"Merely ramblings of an old man. Come now, your mother has hardly gotten to see you for years, not least since you ran off as a squire. I will join you and your mother in the solar shortly.” He waves his hand over a stack of papers. “As you know, the barony has to maintain a levy and supply.  

His gentle accusation jabbed at her. It was true. She had been squiring after margrave's daughter for longer a good while. Her subsequent education and postings have hardly given her time to return home. Back then, she had hoped for a recommendation into the Blaiyyid personal command. She fears that she doesn't quite want that as strongly anymore. Would that mean she is weak, undeserving of her knighthood?

Her father pries her from her thoughts with another question about the war. His questions on the war are a father’s. They ask after her wellbeing. How she’s coping with all that bloodshed. Which each question, he watches her carefully, and it makes her chest squeeze with anxiety. While she deflects his questions with attempts at reassurance, his slight frowns tell her enough about his opinion.

Oh, she wants so badly to be a child again. Back when the only weapon in her hand was a wooden sword and the Faerghus sun burnt her as brown as it possibly could – which was to say, barely at all. Her father could kiss all the scraps and bruises when she fell from her miscalculating the force of her swings. But letting herself fall into her father’s warm hugs again would take too much from her. She was loath to weigh him down any further with her regrets.  

Their conversation proceeds onto other topics.

Her younger sister has been betrothed to a baron’s son. Their old groom’s old wife had finally borne them a tiny child. Seulgi should drop by with presents, if she had the time. The kid would appreciate a new toy, and amongst the baron’s children, he doesn’t make it a secret that he is most fond of Seulgi. After all, father says, his eyes twinkling, Seulgi’s crazier about the horses than anyone else on the estate can ever be.

Her brother’s grave is well attended to. She doesn’t have to visit, if she doesn’t want to. His gaze is knowing when he says this. They have the spot in the graveyard cleaned. Someone from the estate will visit the spot regularly. It’s okay, you don’t have to go. He knows you loved him anyway. Ghosts do not hold grudges.

Their conversation ends soon after. As she stands up to head back to her room, he calls out at her. “Do take care not to fly too close to the sun, darling girl.”

She stops at the door. When she turns to face him, he’s not looking at her anymore and is instead pouring over the sums, frowning deeply. Their family is doing well, yes, but she’s not quite sure how much longer the southern line could last. If the breadbaskets of the south do fall, then the burden of supplying the army would shift to the northern estates. Her family would probably still be insulated from the worst of any famine, but she hopes it doesn’t ever come to that.

* * *

It’s the fifth day of the Verdant Rain Moon. It’s usually one of her favourite moons, what with the frequent rain drawing the heat away from the air, leaving rainbows behind in the sky when the storms clear.

But the Goddess must hate her.

What has she done wrong?

The stable boy jumps when she barks at him to leave her alone with Vindr. He scurries away, stammering apologies, nearly dropping the brush he was about to hand her. Absently, she remembers to apologise. It’s not the boy’s fault.

Her hands shake as she unbuckles the straps from her pegasus. The blood is drying on her hands already. But she hates this. Hates it.

Stop it. Stop it. Her hands shouldn’t be shaking.

Sooyoung’s face flashes in her head.

Sooyoung, who called an arrow of Sagittae down on her. The spell narrowly missed striking her fatally, but her hair is burned, again. Must be something about her luck with Empire women.

But even as her friend – no, former schoolmate – tries to kill her, Seulgi couldn’t her weapon in her direction. Instead, even as her hair burns, Vindr dips to let her strike at the other mages flanking Sooyoung, their blood splattering on Sooyoung and Seulgi both.

She only wanted to become a knight. Not kill her friends.

(Not kill at all, actually. But she’s good at it. She has to be.) 

When the stable boy finds her slumped against Vindr, cautiously coming to retrieve his brush, he only promises to help clean Vindr of all the mud and blood, and bids her a good evening, ma’am.  

He’s so kind to her, even if she’s a monster who has nearly killed one of her best friends. The sodden clump of guilt wells up at her, gnawing insistently on the marrows of bones.

* * *

Purple isn’t a very common hair colour. Amongst the nobility, only the Varleys run about with purple hair. And even then, it’s not the same as Irene’s. Her hair makes it easy to recognise her, for better or worse.

Her cell is in the air tonight for a routine scouting mission. Seulgi has split off slightly from the rest of them, irritated at a dumb joke they had made. They let her go off alone. She’ll probably be safe, anyway. To their knowledge, most of the Empire’s army is holed up at Garreg Mach, likely preparing to launch another attack on Gaspard territory.

Her heart nearly stops at the sight of a head of pale lilac, a kind of purple made pale in the moonlight.

Surely, it can’t be her.

From this high up, she might be wrong. She hopes she’s wrong.

She wonders what the Empire’s squadron is doing here, skirting the border with Charon lands. They have no business being here.

She should go back. Alert her cell.

Or scout further, figure out of there are greater numbers lying in wait. Damn Charon’s forests. There may be dozens of them. Hundreds. She can’t tell. She…

Oh, calm down. She has done this before. She’s no longer a green scout.

But…

Rationality and sanity be damned.

At her urging, Vindr descends, albeit rather unwillingly. He nickers at her in protest, clearly distrusting her call. Her pegasus has more sense than she does. But Vindr is a better soldier than she is, and he obeys.

It’ll be easy to call the other fliers to come with her. If the Empire’s army is here, in Charon of all places, then they’ll need to fend them off. If it’s not Irene, routing the Empire’s soldiers can’t be too difficult.

If it’s her, then what?

Her duty is obvious. She is sworn to the King. Anyone that opposes Him must be cut down.

But if it really is Irene… She pulls on Vindr’s reins. No. They’ll head back.

If it’s an invasion force, then the others will notice it soon enough. If it’s only a small scouting party… then so be it.

Vindr nickers again, clearly chiding her for her vacillations. Just get on with it, he seems to say. Pick a side.

She clenches her fists. She doesn’t want to pick the side that requires her to kill a woman she thinks she might have loved.

(Or love, still? Even after all this time?)

(She’s not sure.)

* * *

The years draw her to the other side.

It starts with this: a whisper that the king only wanted the emperor’s head.

But why, of course he did. Why shouldn’t he? She’s started a war. But the more she learns about his obsession, and the more whispers which come out of the Capital, she begins to doubt.

The higher she climbs in the ranks, the more she hears about her king. It’s ironic. She’s spent this much time chasing the skies in His Name that the closer she is to the very top, she falters.

She falters when there are those that start to whisper that he’s mad. That he only exists to tear Emperor Edelgard’s head from her shoulders, and everyone that stands in his way has to die. She is his prize to take.

Seulgi’s sure she’s on the cusp of promotion when she learns of his all-consuming need to see the emperor’s head roll. Because of Duscur.

She understands. Understands what Duscur has done to her Kingdom.

She feels the loss of her brother in her chest still. Hates that she can’t even remember the way he laughed anymore. It was loud, she was sure. But how did his eyes crinkle when he threw his head back? How did he sound like? Maybe it wasn’t as deep as she thought it was?

Every day, she steps into a world with her sword in her hand, growing older than he had been by the day.

She returns from a clash from the no man’s lands around the Oghma Mountains and makes the mistake of delivering the prisoners to Fhirdiad’s dungeons herself.

Her wavering faith snaps.

Turning your back on your snowy homeland is never an easy thing, but she can’t quite bear to fight in it any longer.

* * *

When she tumbles from the skies, Seulgi takes the hand that is offered to her.

A/N: last night I realised that I have a few thousand words that I might as well throw into the void because I have no idea if I'll ever get back to writing for Red Velvet bc I'm firmly stuck in the genshin black hole, but here was what I wrote [checks the back of my hand] LAST YEAR... so here's what I've had so far that *can* be published? (maybe what i need... is an aseul comeback..)