deercountry | let me look at the sun

[He appears by the gates of a great monastery. ...Not, perhaps, that he is afforded the time to gain his bearings. Behind him, there stands a great mass of soldiers garbed in gray and bearing the banner of a great dragon jealously protecting the jeweled crown of an archbishop. Before him, stretched as far as the eye can see is a sea of red flying the flag of a two-headed eagle.

A small group is gathered alone. No gray uniforms here: a bespectacled, sheepish-looking boy, an arrogant-faced young noble with a dreadful haircut, a fiery woman astride a horse. And here, perhaps, is the owner of this memory, a silver-haired girl who immediately turns to look sharply at this newcomer despite that he is ignored by everyone else.

She frowns - carefully steps outside of this group. She does not recognize this interloper.]

...Who are you? A Sleeper?

[The stranger's hands have curled into fists in his black leather gloves, his spine rigid and jaw set as he looks out over the army in front of them. When Lysithea speaks he almost seems startled.]

-yes. [This is a memory which suggests getting to the point.] I'm Paul. A paleblood.

[It still feels strange to describe himself that way, but again, that's beside the point. He pulls his shoulders back and exhales through his nose, clarifying his focus.]

That means I can try to change this, if you want me to. Or at least make it safer. [Even as he says it, he's not sure it's true, the parts of this memory forming a daunting complexity. But he's here, and he can try.] Or I can do nothing. It's up to you.

What?

[She looks at him, a quick, suspicious glance.]

No -- that's... fine. What do you mean, you can... 'change' this? There's nothing to change. It's not as if it will actually --

[She is cut off as there is motion in the group. The leader - a tall man with teal-colored hair garbed in a black coat is giving instructions. Lysithea shakes her head by Paul.]

We were very optimistic, you know. We thought... even with the Imperial army marching upon us, the Professor had seen us through so much hardship that we couldn't possibly fail under his leadership.

You shouldn't... be up here.

It's going to become unbearably chaotic very soon.

[She hadn't introduced herself. The tension was perhaps pushing aside her good manners.]

[And who could blame her for that?

Paul wouldn't be seeing this if it ends well for her, and the array of possibilities of what that means in a pitched battle are nauseating.]

That's not how it works. I'm here until it's over, I leave when you do. [One way or another. He looks out over the soon-to-be-battlefield again, then at the people clustered around the man she calls the professor. Paul can see what she means about their optimism, the varying degrees of hope and belief in their eyes, and he finds it difficult to keep looking at them very long.]

You don't have to worry about me. I can handle myself. [Paul turns to face her directly, his expression drawn.] What were you saying?

I...

[...Lysithea exhales lightly.]

There's really no need --

[It is then that there is a palpable shift in the atmosphere. Tense and oppressive as the situation already is, there rises a murmur in the mass of gray-garbed soldiers as the red army slowly parts. Striding through, shoulders thrown back and head held arrogantly high, comes a silver-haired woman bearing a crown upon her head and an impossibly large axe in her hands.

Lysithea draws in a quick breath.]

People of Garreg Mach... I call upon you to lay down your arms. Give the Archbishop over to me and surrender the monastery. I am Emperor von Hresvelg, and I shall see the Church of Seiros face justice today.

You can't change anything. You can't change something that's already happened. I don't need a... revisionist fairy tale to help me sleep better at night.

This will end how it ended. In years of unrelenting strife and death.

We're about to start fighting. And I have a role to play in this, even if it is naught but a memory. There is no reason for you to subject yourself to this.

[Paul looks at her with slightly narrowed eyes, and then starts pulling off his gloves.]

Even if I did leave, where would I go? There's nothing here outside this memory.

[His knuckles are the deep color of new bruises, his body slightly stiff in every joint, but he can compensate for that. Magic is a new thing for Paul, but fighting isn't.

Paul wonders if it was like this at Arrakeen, if anyone had time to huddle together waiting before the sword fell. He wouldn't know. He wasn't there to see it happen.]

You should be with them, if you want to see this through. I don't want to take you away from that. [He says it quietly, mingled resignation and apology.] What are their names?

[He is, of course, right. Lysithea glances around this somber battlefield and sees that at its far edges, it is obscured by something like mist. She imagines that it simply represents the far limits of her memory.

And though she opens her mouth once more to protest, she finds she does not have the heart for it.]

...If you must stay, then at least stay close. I would not see you wounded in my memory - a stranger, at that. The fighting will be fierce and prolonged. I will be commanded to the far west portion of the battlefield, where I will slowly advance upon a ballista.

I'll warn you of what will befall us as we go. This memory is... very fresh. I see it, constantly.

These are my classmates.

[She gestures to each in turn.]

Leonie. Ignatz. Hilda. Marianne. Raphael. Lorenz. Claude - our House leader. And the Professor. By some miracle, we will all survive this battle. Except him.

[Her finger stays on the Professor.]

Of course... we will survive because of his leadership. He will stay and face the Imperial Army when we retreat and evacuate the monastery.

[Paul follows her gestures with a series of mnemonic blinks, preserving each one and fixing them for immediate recall. His presence and her knowledge may change what happens here, and he has to prevent her from watching anyone die who didn't the first time. He'll watch for them while he's out there.

And then there is the one who did die, the first time. Paul looks at him again, wondering at the kind of commander who was successfully able to save all of his students - some of whom, in Paul's opinion, appear completely unsuited to war. But he supposes he'll find out.]

I'll stay close. [Despite the many differences between this woman and Gurney Halleck, Paul is reminded of the old man, and his voice is softened by it.] And I'll follow your orders, and your professor's.

My father always says it's important to know the names of the people you're fighting alongside, so you can tell the boatman who will pay your fare. [Paul looks at her again, a stillness that could be mistaken for calm in his expression.] I still don't know yours.

Oh --

[Startled by the sudden mundanity of this observation, Lysithea pauses, the chaotic thoughts in her mind briefly giving way to this social nicety.]

Apologies for my discourtesy. I am Lysithea - Lysithea von Ordelia.

[A somewhat refined name for a refined girl. The response comes somewhat automatically, as from somebody who has been trained in the correct etiquette. It suits her general manner.]

And you were -- Paul.

[At least she hadn't been so distracted that she had forgotten immediately. This briefly unremarkable moment is interrupted as Lysithea reacts to a subtle hand gesture from the man she had termed the Professor. Around him, the students fan out and moments later, a horn rings out.]

It's time. The army advances, and the first exchange begins. The Empire sends in squads of pegasi to swoop in like avenging valkyries, hoping to take us by surprise. Leonie shoots down the vanguard - but we need to get to those ballistae.

Hurry - with me!

[And she darts off as quickly as she can. There is a sudden scream and behind them, the gray soldiers charge...]

[Lysithea von Ordelia receives a formal bow in return for her name, one hand behind Paul's back and the other in a fist over his heart as he bends elegantly at the waist.]

No apology needed. I am your blade, Lysithea von Ordelia.

[A ritual response, solemn and serious. And then she's off running, and he follows. He doesn't draw his knife - looking at these soldiers, in their ancient armor, he decides he wants a sword. He'll have to take one as soon as it comes within reach. Paul taps the shield at his wrist and the air blurs around him, then resolves back into clarity.

Lysithea reminds Paul of young women he's met before. Mannered, sharp, cool, brilliant, disciplined. Refined, yes, but refined the way steel is. He has no idea what to expect of her, but if her professor sent her into this battlefield to take out ballistae - Paul is expecting something remarkable.

Despite everything, part of him is waiting with rapt anticipation to see it.]

[If they had more time, Lysithea would smile fondly at this gesture. It is reminiscent of the customs she finds familiar - what the people from this world tend to view as archaic or old-fashioned. There is a certain kinship in recognizing those whose worlds could not be considered 'modern' or 'advanced,' the attitudes and gestures that made her feel out of place.

...But there is no time. The war has begun.

The sky is immediately alight with fire and lightning as enemy mages begin their incantations, mingled with death indiscriminate that rains in the form of jagged arrows. Lysithea shoots an arc of fire that incinerates any such projectiles and continues to run. Beside and behind her, other faceless soldiers of the church appear - coalescing around her until it is clear that she runs at the head of a battalion of mage soldiers.]

Wyverns above!

Assemble - Resonant Flames!

[Moving fluidly as one unit, the mages pause for a single moment to join their incantations as one - a massive spell circle erupts with a pillar of fire that sends great dragons crashing from the sky.]

We continue! Paul, are you well?

[If it wouldn't be inappropriate, not to mention possibly lethal, Paul would have stopped in his tracks to stare in awe.

Several things that didn't quite fit together fall into place as Lysithea von Ordelia and her mages rend the sky in half with fire. No wonder she seemed unworried for herself - this girl doesn't need a blade, she's an atomic. If she looks at him, Lysithea will be able to see it clearly in his face: a depth and intensity of wonder that's completely out of place here.]

Yes!

[Despite that, he controls himself, keeping his response clipped and clear. His training was too well done for him to do anything else. He keeps pace with her easily enough, a few guarding steps behind, but he wonders now what his purpose here is - who would dare try to come close enough to attack? How much discipline and faith would you have to ingrain in a soldier to convince them to step into the path of this kind of destruction? And these are questions he shouldn't ask himself with this type of interested curiosity, waiting to see what the young red empress has managed to make of her men.]

[Despite that she has lived through this before (not even just once - it replays in her mind with terrible singularity of purpose), Lysithea is far too distracted to note Paul's expression clearly. She takes his awe for shock - naturally, anyone unused to magic battles would have found that spectacle impressive. She allows a briefly reassuring smile before she is hovering them on their way once more.]

Look to the east. There. Do you see in the skies?

[Something... immense and horrible flaps high above the battlefield, its face obscured by what appears to be a great, golden mask.]

That is a Demonic Beast. I will not face any this day - but this was our first sign that something was going to go terribly wrong. For a human commander to control such creatures...

[Above them, another dragon is crashing down, and Lysithea flinches, breaking off her conversation. She realizes too late that this one is not wreathed in the flames of her gambit.]

Ah - !

[She tumbles to the side, just avoiding the wyvern rider's axe as it arcs through the air. And here, Paul will realize the one great weakness of the prodigious mage: for all that she can bend reality to her command, she has no resilience whatsoever. Even now, she struggles to her feet as the dragon swoops back around for a second blow.

It is quite clear that a single hit would kill her readily.]

[There is so much, a wealth of things he's never seen before (an actual dragon!), but all of his wide-eyed distraction at the sights around him and the hints at greater things yet in her words evaporates when Lysithea cries out. His reaction is to trace the arc of the wyvern and rider with his eyes, sharply intent, and then his right arm flies out with hand outstretched, and it might almost appear as if Paul is casting a spell himself if not for the bright flicker of fast moving metal.

As soon as the knife leaves his hand Paul knows he's missed. He has to have missed, because what he just did was follow his worst possible impulse in the moment, a reflex faster than thought. It's not a throwing knife; he has no second blade; he has left Lysithea in the path of danger and gambled her life on a gesture that will not work.

And yet: the knife sinks into the wyvern's throat and the beast and rider tumble, the rider's final fate something Paul swiftly averts his eyes from as he darts to Lysithea's side to steady her, a hand at her elbow, his face caught between relief and self-aimed fury.]

You aren't- [he had assumed, why had he assumed? She's unarmored, truly unarmored, and he needs to stay closer to her] -are you hurt? Can you go on?

Ah -- no need to fret. I'm fine.

[Lysithea pulls herself upright and is moving again immediately, glancing towards the skies to scan for other threats.]

Forgive me. That was careless - I... distracted myself unnecessarily and put you in danger as well.

[So the memory did not have to play out exactly the way she recalled. This wyvern knight, perhaps, would have been felled by one of her mages long before he could threaten her if she had not stopped to ogle at the Demonic Beasts. Foolish - not only to lose sight of what was important in battle, but on a personal level, she hated to lose face in front of a stranger...]

The nature of battle here is like a great... game, perhaps. Wyvern knights are notoriously susceptible to magic, but we fall like wheat before the harvest if we are threatened by physical combat.

I must be more watchful.

You have exceptional aim, I must say. Thank you, for... being at my side.

[She clears her throat and glances away. It appears she is mildly uncomfortable with expression of emotion.]

Ahead, the ballista is manned by a troop of archers. My mages and I will engage in distanced combat, but -- if you think yourself capable, perhaps you might take them by surprise as we draw their fire.

Archers are not good in physical combat, either.

[In deference to Lysithea's discomfort, Paul withdraws himself (not far, still) as they move, his eyes only grazing over her lightly in passing as he continues his watch for threats. Besides, it helps him attempt to hide his mild, paradoxical discomfort at her compliment of his aim - he just wishes he knew how he'd done it.]

The error was mine, Lady von Ordelia. You're too forgiving, and I'm grateful for your grace.

[He listens as she explains further, and wonders at her description of battle here. It sounds unlikely, and yet he sees it playing out all around them, the underlying rules beginning to clarify.

And what she said about archers is true regardless, at least when it comes to him. Paul looks ahead, judging the distance to the ballista, the potential angles of approach, and nods.]

I can do it. On your word.

[Here's a chance to make it up to her, for the almost being killed, and for him seeing her feel vulnerable. Both are failures on his part.]

[It's odd, really, to consider the true nature of what was happening here. This is her memory - therefore, there is a set conclusion and a set series of events that lead to that foregone conclusion. And yet, with the introduction of a new piece to the board - a player, rather than an observer - it is inevitable that the sequence deviates. The battle cannot progress identically. It would be folly as a strategist not to deploy her new piece.

And yet...

For a moment, there is a flicker of hesitation before she meets Paul's eyes and gives a sharp nod.]

Go now. We'll engage once you're concealed.

...Be careful.

[What if this is one of Deerington's games? What if... there is true danger to be had here? She cannot allow a stranger to die in her memory in a needless mission - for what? To save some... ghosts? That would be completely unacceptable. A failure beyond all failures.

But he seemed capable - and eager to serve...

She feels, somehow, she can trust him.]

Magic Corps - forward! Overwhelm them quickly!

[And Lysithea leads the charge as great pillars of light begin to crash down from the sky against the hapless archers. She hopes that Paul might perhaps cut own the soldier manning the ballista. For she remembers the moment a great crossbolt had launched straight into her battallion...]

[Paul nods when Lysithea tells him to be careful, but the smile playing around his mouth is not a cautious one. And then he darts off, running smoothly and swiftly, to disappear into the chaos of the battlefield and reappear where he's been sent.

If these were real soldiers, of flesh and blood, Paul might hesitate. He might doubt himself, doubt the unfairness of this as he moves so that the arrows fired at him flow like water parting around a stone off his shield. He would hesitate to dive into their ranks like the knife he threw at the wyvern. He would be guilt-ridden and sick with what he does to people who have no effective way to counter him and his killing-quickness.

But these aren't real people, not anymore. These soldiers died a while ago. These are no more and no less than training dummies, and Paul is the product of millennia of people working out novel ways to kill each other and sixteen years of training in how to apply those theories.

So no bolt will fire this time. There's an effort made, but Paul has finally gotten the sword he wanted, and it is something terrible to look at when it's slow enough to truly see. Lysithea's way is clear; Paul is not going to let her down (and there is a this time thrumming in his blood as he fights, a fierceness to his pressing forward that cannot be explained by his attachment to a woman - as charming and impressive as she is - he's just met).]

[Burning pillars of flame, jagged arcs of electricity, and exploding orbs of light launch into the enemy. Through the salvo, Lysithea keeps a careful eye on Paul's movements even as she summons a volley of spikes to skewer the archers with practiced skill. She should not let her attention be drawn away from the battle - but she cannot help but notice that, perhaps, there is no need for her attention this time. For the swordsman is carving through the hapless soldiers in a manner so fluidly that it seems almost like a dance.

She is faintly reminded of the recalcitrant Fraldarius boy.

The casting of her mages, briefly, seems to slacken as they wonder why they are not meeting the resistance they ought to face - but upon spotting the men tumbling from the launcher of the ballista, they redouble their efforts with a cheer. The skirmish is won in record time. An eruption of black flames around the stragglers send the last remaining Empire troops scurrying away.

Lysithea smiles despite herself.]

Forward! I want five men turning that ballista around. Ignatz and his archers will be right behind us.

Paul -- you continue to impress. Obviously, you're skilled in battle, but even so, I can scarce believe that a single man can work so efficiently. Were you hurt at all?

[Paul seems at most slightly out of breath, his hair tousled and color high in his cheeks. He holds the sword as though it's been his all along, heedless of what shines on it. His eyes gleam the way same the sword does, eager and sharp.

Lysithea's words are like laurels set on his head. Paul expected this to feel more like it did, in the duel, but he sees now that a battle is a different thing from a murder. He's almost bashful when he answers, in the way of teenage boys across time and space trying to play it cool:]

I'm ready to go on, Lady von Ordelia.

[And then, a half-smile as he brings the sword up and brings it swiftly down towards his hand, where a field of energy shimmers red and bounces the blade back harmlessly.]

This is what we use as our armor, where I come from. I was never in danger.

[It's an exaggeration. It should feel like an exaggeration. But Paul says it, and he believes himself. He feels untouchable, elated, thrilled by his own skill and the glorious backdrop of magical destruction.]

But it's nothing, next to you. You are a force. [No trace of self-deprecation or self-pity, here, only absolute wonder in his eyes as he looks at Lysithea.] I have never seen anything like you.

Fascinating -- is it a barrier? But you are unfamiliar with magic, so it must be physical in nature. I've never seen...

[Lysithea's natural curiosity gets the better of her momentarily before she shakes her head.]

Ah - no, there will be time enough later to speak of such things. But you needn't be so impressed. Magic is part and parcel of life here in Fódlan; even the smallest babe might demonstrate innate magical aptitude. Though I admit few have studied with as much intensity as I.

[There is a trace of color on her cheeks. Lysithea is never one to downplay her own (genuinely prodigious) skills, but she has never seen such genuine wonder.]

I could show you more if you wish, later. And you can tell me about your technologies. Now...

[She half-turns and - as expected, there, approaching at the head of a small contingent of archers comes a bespectacled boy in green. They exchange a wave, the distance still too great to shout, and Lysithea gestures towards the empty ballista. But the elation of success is beginning to fade. When she faces Paul once more, there is a melancholic smile.]

You know, we thought victory was in our grasp.

Ignatz is going to take the ballista and rain artillery fire, wiping out the fliers. To the east, Hilda, Claude, Raphael, and the Professor have brought down one Demonic Beast - another will appear, but their strategy is peerless. We're exhausted, but we only see the two so we think, perhaps, we are safe.

The Death Knight will pop out right in front of us here - but I'm always ready to knock that buffoon down a peg or two.

And then it's just the enemy commander...

[And though they are spread far too sparsely across the battlefield to view these events in person, there is a flash of memory as she speaks, and Paul might glimpse a few moments of each of these events: the bespectacled boy shooting down entire swarms of dragons, four individuals surrounding a terrible, masked beast, Lysithea herself sending spikes erupting from the ground beneath the hooves of a man with a death's mask...]

[For a while, Paul had almost forgotten that the ending of this was preordained. The bright interest she peaked with her offer of showing him more magic is dimmed by the reality of what's going to happen next. As the visions of distant aspects of the conflict are drawn close by some fold in the memory Paul holds his tongue and pays solemn witness - it's the most, and least, he can do.

He'd thought he was going to see this rag tag group be slaughtered, Lysithea's claim they thought they could win unfounded nostalgia. Instead, he wonders how they didn't. What is this enemy commander going to do?

Once the memories pass, Paul looks to Lysithea, his earlier determination and seriousness returned:]

You all fought well, and bravely.

[Anything else he could say would be too much. He looks down at the sword in his hand and then at Lysithea.]

What happens, when they come?

[The girl does not respond immediately, her eyes fixed steadily on an unseen point to the east.]

Lysithea!

[The voice is not Paul's - it is one of her ghosts', and Lysithea whirls to see that the bespectacled boy has crossed the distance in record time, jogging up with a hale and hearty smile.]

Amazing work as always! Just what we can expect from the prodigy of the Golden Deer.

Nngh, Ignatz! Must you do that now? [Her retort comes so automatically that she forgets where she is.] This is important, you know. And it's not like I didn't have hel --

[And she cuts off sharply mid-sentence. For a moment, she simply stares at the face of the boy who has approached -- then takes a step forward. The ghost blinks at her with a bemused expression.]

...Ignatz. You woolly-headed dolt.

[She reaches for his hand and is not surprised to find that she cannot grasp it. The boy scratches the back of his head as he slowly fades -- along with the ballista, her mage battalion, and their immediate surroundings.]

What happens? That's a good question. I'm not even entirely sure myself. But perhaps if we see it one more time, clearly...

Will you watch the end with me? Tell me what my eyes have missed. If there was a way we could have stopped this, right here, right now.

Look.

[And now, not too far away now, the standard of the Adrestian Empire flutters in the breeze. Lysithea and Paul stand a good ways back - as any mage combatant should. Scattered about are church soldiers - wyvern riders - the distinctive appearances of her schoolmates, each looking battered and bruised but ready to fight on.

A woman in red armor wielding an enormous axe stands opposite a man with iridescent teal hair.]

[When Lysithea asks him to watch, to tell her if this could have been changed, Paul all but flinches. He averts his eyes from her before he answers, but the flicker of empathy was still surely seen. He only hopes she doesn't find it too presumptuous.

All of this feels too close. He absurdly wants to make her turn away, to cover her eyes with a hand and say don't look. But it's her memory, and he has no right. It's hers to learn from, and what kind of a hypocrite would he be if he tried to stop her?]

I'll tell you anything I see.

[She's evidently a prodigy even among prodigies, and Paul knows something about the way that shapes a person. When she says 'we' he hears an unspoken 'I'. It's a nearly unconscious shift that has him standing closer to her, his eyes lifted again to focus on the scene unfolding in front of them.]

You have my word.

[No lies, no half-truths. It would be beneath her, he thinks, to be coddled.]

[If Lysithea takes affront to his reaction, it doesn't show. Her eyes are focused on the confrontation unfolding up ahead. Perhaps subconsciously, she shifts to be a little bit closer to the boy, her face pale as the Professor slowly draws the Sword of the Creator, a weapon that appears more like a jagged whip than anything else.

Paul receives a nod in response to his assurance.

And then it is time.]

Haaaaaaaah!

[Incredible that anyone wielding an axe that size could move so quickly. Edelgard sidesteps as the whip-sword lashes out, then buries her weapon in the ground where the Professor was standing a moment earlier. It is a choreographed dance, each combatant performing their role perfectly. Around them, the soldiers stir. Should they interfere? Should they aid the man? But there is no room to interject in this tête-à-tête, and any disturbance would cause unseen consequences...

Blow after blow is exchanged and not a single one lands.]

Lysithea... I don't like this.

[It is a young man in a golden uniform, dark hair slightly unkempt and a perpetual gleam of roguery in his eye. He frowns now.]

Look at her -- she's not fighting for the kill. 'Course, Teach isn't, either - but that's not a surprise. She's...

[And an expression of surprise comes over his face.]

Stalling.

What do you mean, stalling? We've exhausted her army. If she doesn't win here, she's done, Claude.

[The words are spoken with a vague, distant quality. Lysithea speaks because she knows these are the words that were spoken. But as they continue to watch, it is clear that the dark-haired youth's observations are correct. Both combatants are careful; neither is willing to aim for a killing blow.

And then the whip lashes through the shoulder of the red general. She staggers back.

At the same moment that a cry comes up from the surrounding soldiers, the man beside Lysithea whirls with a shout.]

Golden Deer, fall back! Fall back! Retreat to the monastery; protect the civilians!

Paul - look - look now! Do you see them? Far behind her - the beasts! They come!

[Some soldiers surge forward towards the wounded general, who immediately turns and strides off, accompanied by her remaining troops. Others hear Claude's cry and stop in their tracks, confused. Only the students, cognizant that their house leader is generally three steps ahead of the rest, heed his call and begin to retreat.

Beside the Professor, a woman dressed in holy regalia approaches, her expression grim and unyielding.]

This is when it all goes wrong. I must see -- but I was running -- I was too far... Watch them, please!

[It is like the scene is stretching out before them. The Professor and the Archbishop grow ever further despite that Lysithea and Paul are standing still.]

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