Chapter Text
The Wide Western Sea
South of the Almyran Continent
Annette Fantine Dominic lives.
Her hands clench against the wooden bow of the ship, watching the sun bleed yellow and orange into night skies that almost meet its end. Amidst the cool breeze, sweat still rolls down her back, and she realizes she is far from the home she had known so many years ago.
The ship rolls closer and closer to mountains of pale yellow and baobab trees littering the shorelines, and just for a moment, she lets herself turn away from the unkind future.
“Sylvain,” Annette says, turning to the companion beside her. “How did you—”
“Shh!”
“...Enjolras,” she decides after a moment, biting her lip. “How did you survive? I, His Highness, and Ingrid—”
She pauses, having realized the tenseness in his countenance.
“...We thought you perished at the Siege of Arianrhod.”
Annette watches him roll his shoulders, shaking away the weight in the air a touch more than necessary. Her friend leans against the railings of the wooden ship, and his gaze never leaves the soft lapping of the waves.
“I thought I did too,” Sylvain — or Enjolras, his chosen alias for Goddess knows how long — says, a farce of a tease in his tone. “My brother's old lackeys found me when they pillaged the area, and they took me down to Abyss for a while. Turns out they serve a new leader.”
“I'm sorry,” Annette glanced away, tucking a stray piece of hair. “It must have been rough.”
“It was,” Sylvain nods, now turning halfway to her. “Hearing what happened at Fhirdiad, all the while being unable to do anything about it? It was terrible.”
“But at least you survived.”
“At least you and I both did.”
She possesses no argument. Instead, Annette breaks his line of vision, and turns back to the sight before her. The hills roll before her as the sun peeks to rise, and she watches a red-crested bird dive into the depths of the sea.
“So…what happens now?”
“Hm?”
“You have the Kingslayer's wife,” she says, eyes wide open, waiting for the gannet to emerge, wondering if it had drowned in its arrogance, “who is pregnant with the fallen King's child. All this…under the pretense of a kidnapping.”
Sylvain — in her mind, she could never call him his alias. He would always and forever be Sylvain to her, no matter his reasons — does not respond, and Annette continues. “And now, we are en route to Almyra, far away from home.”
She turns to him, finally. “What happens now?”
“I…can't tell you just yet, Annette,” Sylvain hesitates. She does not mention the way his remaining fingers are clenched on the railings. “As of this very moment, I'd say the gears have already begun to turn. There's more going on underneath what you know, and in time you'll find out.”
“Great,” she sighs, unappreciative of how dodgy he had become. “As if being cryptic makes this whole situation better.”
“Trust me, Annie. The crypticism is a blessing,” Sylvain smiles. “Besides, eventually you'll find out.”
Annette looks onward, and rubs her belly.
“And once you do,” Sylvain continues. “Nothing at home will ever be the same.”
There is a ripple in the otherwise calm waves, and the gannet emerges from the water.
Enbarr
Capital City of the One True Adrestian Empire
Nineteen Years Later
There is a routine to daily life, and yet Felix fears that it is all there is to it.
The city of Enbarr rolls before him, the sting of heavy rain permeating his vision. Mud and dirt on the streets, one brought in by incessant flooding, continues to cake the street and smatter against the hide of his horse. A spot of soil makes it onto the white of his pants, and he grimaces.
He makes a hard right, and the sight of iron-wrought gates greet him. Men in similar uniforms, though not as decorated as his, stand by the gates with silver lances in hand, and Felix does not wonder if the rain bothers them just as much as the people do. They are scattered around, some lying on the ground, and some others mulling about with gazes Felix only recognized from unrecognizable war casualties.
He quickly catches the attention of the dispersed crowd, and he urges his horse to a slower pace. Felix feels it all; the clatter of their teeth, the ice-blue veins underneath their skins hidden underneath rags, their quiet, pleading gazes as loud as the churning in their stomachs.
There is the smell of rotten flesh amidst the gathering crowd, and he urges his horse to move faster.
“Imperial Palace,” Felix slows his horse and speaks to the guard posted, the rain dripping down his back. He does not hesitate letting the scabbard of his sword shine against the dim light. “I am here to see the Emperor.”
“Of course, High General.”
The sound of a baby’s wail, one that grows weaker and weaker in tone, almost matches the sound of the creaking of the iron gates.
He moves on, and the gates behind him close with a sharp metallic noise. The squelching of hooves slowly transitions into the sound of crunching gravel before echoing against polished marble, and Felix lets himself be consumed by the red and gold opulence of the edifice.
The Imperial Palace stands before him in grandeur, and he is no stranger to such grandiosity.
“High General Fraldarius,” a figure approaches him just as he alighted from his steed, bowing at his visage. “The council meeting has already begun.”
“Huh,” Felix murmurs, handing his horse to a footman off to the side. His boots do not leave a trace of mud on the marble floors. “Has everyone else arrived?”
“They have.”
“Very much like Edelgard to do so,” he saunters into the halls of the Imperial Palace, and the figure trails behind him as the torches warm his frozen fingers. “Never been one to sit idle, she is. Which room?”
“The War Room.”
“War Room, huh?” He ponders, the shining metal of his slick and clean boots already navigating his way around the Palace with ease. “Interesting.”
Felix walks further, already knowing where he is meant to go. The halls only grow warmer and warmer as rain continues to pelt against tall windows, Palace servants bowing at the sight of him.
The closer he is, the murmurs of hushed talk become clearer, the ends and tinges of heated discussion only muffled by the plush of the doors and the fading remnants of a Silence spell.
“Lieutenant Adelina,” he turns to his companion, a hand on the doorknob. “Wait here.”
“Of course, sir.”
The knob moves underneath the weight of his hand, and he closes the door behind him.
“There is simply not enough food, I fear,” paper shuffles against one another, a despondent air evident in the voice of the speaker. “The floods are, obviously, to blame for.”
His eyes scan around the room, quietly noting those in attendance, and he eyes the empty seat by the edge of the long table.
“We’ve blamed the floods for more than a decade, Linhardt,” Edelgard sighs, massaging her temples. “If it is not a flood, it’s a drought.”
“And if it’s not a drought,” Linhardt yawns, as Felix passes by him. “It’s some kind of crop disease.”
“The people are restless,” Edelgard says, and Felix can feel her eyes on him as he sits in his place at the vacant seat in the circular table. “We do not have time to blame things we cannot control.”
“That may be true, your excellency,” Linhardt responds, a deadpan expression on his face. “But need I remind you that hunger is the most basic human need? Most people, so long as their stomachs are full, do not require much after the fact.”
Felix observes Edelgard devolve into a deeper thinking state. He feels no surprise when the Emperor of Adrestia turns to him, a question he’s already become too familiar with the past few years.
“And you, High General,” she addresses him, and he gives her the attention he could muster. “Wonderful to have you join us. Has this season’s harvest yielded some crop?”
“No,” Felix answers with the absence of hesitation. “As usual, just enough for the Northern Adrestian Army. The lands of North Fódlan aren’t suitable for farming, after all.”
“That land is still what you would have ruled over if you were a Duke, High General,” Edelgard leans back on her seat at the head of the table, and Felix only observes her piercing gaze on him as she scratches her chin. “Do you mean to say the old Fraldarius territory would have fallen on hard times either way?”
“First, Fraldarius has never been one for crop,” Felix scoffs easily. “The lands there are too dry for anything substantial.”
Edelgard does not respond, and Felix brings up two of his fingers.
“Next, Fraldarius was a military family,” he says, not missing how the emphasis made the Emperor’s brow twitch.
“And last, I am not a Duke and I cannot be one,” he raises a third finger before crossing his arms. “As you have said, I am the High General of your army.”
Edelgard’s lip also twitches. “So?”
“I’m in charge of one of your largest military factions,” Felix responds. “Not people’s stomachs.”
A sharp thud echoes, and Felix turns to the man beside Edelgard, unflinching at the angry countenance of the Prime Minister of Adrestia.
“High General Fraldarius,” Ferdinand manages, his voice tight. “You are part of this council to help resolve an entire continent’s woes, not just manage militant activity.”
“Ferdinand,” Edelgard warns before sighing, massaging her temples once more.
“But, your excellency!” Ferdinand groans. “He disrespects you, your court, and your cause!”
“We cannot afford squabbling among ourselves, Prime Minister.” Edelgard responds, a finality in her voice. “There are more pressing matters at hand, and I would like to pour our energy towards that instead.”
The man loosens his grip, and he falls slack against his seat as he mutters underneath his breath.
“Besides,” Edelgard turns to him. “High General Fraldarius is right. After all, there’s no use forcing useless land to bear fruit it could never.”
Felix does nothing, only scoffs as he picks up a goblet of wine before him. Edelgard continues to stare him down before she clears her throat.
“And that’s not the only thing we are to discuss this morning,” she declares. “While hunger remains a persistent problem, prices for goods and commodities have never been higher. Most merchants choose to trade with Albinea over Fódlan, it seems.”
“No doubt it has something to do with the bandit problem,” Ferdinand supplies, gathering sheets of paper before him. “There are reports all over the continent, and they grow more frequent by the hour. If that’s not enough, these protests organized by activists make it even harder for us to get any trade going.”
“I hate to break it to you, Edie, but that’s not the only problem we’ll have to consider.”
Edelgard groans. “Surely there is nothing more important than actual hunger, Dorothea.”
Dorothea only frowns, shifting in the seat beside him.
“Not as critical as hunger, no.” She shakes her head. “But it may be far worse later on.”
“Oh?” Felix piques up, undeniably intrigued as much as the others. “What is it, Dorothea?”
“There is…talk,” Dorothea hesitates. “About a lot of things, actually. Many people feel restless; saying all the Imperial Palace has are empty promises.”
“Isn’t that what’s been happening recently?”
“Shh, Linhardt,” Dorothea raises a hand. “It’s not just that. I overheard the girls at the Opera House.”
“Really, Dorothea,” Edelgard’s frown grows deeper. “I called you here so we can find solutions together, not just chatter—”
“An heir,” she bristles, and Felix ears tune in. “There’s a rumor in Enbarr about an heir.”
The silence is palpable, and it is clear what Dorothea alludes to. There is a tension in the air, and Edelgard leans forward as she brings her hands together.
“They say someone survived the siege, and is alive and somewhere to this day. Though, where they picked up the rumor, I don’t know. Gossip spreads quickly, after all. Personally, I think it's Riegan.”
“A Riegan?” Ferdinand blinks. “From the old Alliance?”
“Probably,” Dorothea places a hand on her chin. “At the very least, it’s more likely than a Blaiddyd. Dimitri was the only surviving heir, after all.”
“And he’s dead.”
“Yes,” Dorothea nods, glancing towards Felix before continuing. “Yes, Linhardt. Dimitri’s dead. So, who knows if this is even to be believed. People generally like to talk to pass the time.”
“That,” Ferdinand turns towards Edelgard, who had yet to speak, “really is concerning news. If these rumors are to be true, then—”
“A revolution may be upon us.”
All eyes turn towards him, and Felix leans forward.
“People do not have enough to eat, bandit pillaging is at an all-time high, and citizens devolve into poorer living conditions than we thought possible,” he says, eyes sharp.
His eyes scan about the room, and he crosses his arms. “And now, you have talk of an heir. No doubt people may have put this person on top of a pedestal,”
“Felix,” Dorothea nudges him with her elbow. “You’re not helping.”
“Don’t tell me any one of you are surprised by this,” Felix sighs. “Edelgard, you’ve just had me suppress a protest in the East before you had me come here.”
“That rebellion was a danger to us, High General. They should know there are consequences.”
“And you have,” Felix nods. “Rather clearly, I might add. Ordering an army to kill those who only knew how to wield quills…it sends a message.”
“What is your point?” Ferdinand grimaces, and Edelgard only spares him a glance. “We don’t have the luxury to dilly dally in the frivolities of—”
“I’m stating facts,” he responds easily, ignoring the glare from the far end of the table. “These things are predictable.”
All eyes are on him, and Felix does not allow himself to break their line of vision.
“Even if it isn't, it happens.”
Edelgard's crown of horns is light compared to the weight in the room.
“And it will,” Felix crosses his arms. “Again, and again, and again.”
Enbarr Pier
Capital City of the One True Adrestian Empire
Felix rolls the tension off from his shoulders, descending his steed as his boots squelch against dirt and mud. The scent of grease and salty breeze passes by him and he breathes deeply, ignoring the set of boots that soon landed behind him. He watches large ships sway against hard waves, and quietly notes men struggling to offload the ship with empty crates of cargo.
“Sir,” a woman beckons, hiking her skirt up her leg. “Come looking for a bargain?”
He does not respond and only continues forward, the destination for the night already in sight.
“Nah, gen’ral don’t dip in waters like ours. They always want the clean, perfumed, and shinin’ ones,” her companion says, tutting. “Shame, really. I always preferred a man in uniform.”
Their mutterings and whispers fade out of his hearing. As Felix stands in front of The Drunken Beast, all he hears now are lilting giggles of women, and the boisterous laughter of men.
The door opens, a man in a brushed suit emerging from the pleasure house. He catches sight of Felix and he tips his head in respect before he leaves. A shrill laugh echoes from the gaps of the door as it closes, and Felix smiles.
“Lieutenant,” he says, turning around to his companion. “Stand guard.”
“Yes, High General.”
"Good.”
“Happy trails, sir.”
With no other words, Felix enters The Drunken Beast, and does not leave for some time.