deercountry | let me look at the sun

[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.]

[Watching the teacher and the general fight is like being party to a myth unfolding. Two combatants of improbable skill with their improbable weapons weaving a dance out of war, and Paul can see no flaw in either performance except their mutual hesitation at killing each other. It's a terrible thing to see, but he doesn't look away, even when Lysithea and the dark-haired young man discuss the nature of the fight. Paul knows he's reading too much into the Professor's hesitation, he must be, but he still wills the man to end her and be done with it. Doesn't he see that his people need him to do it, whatever she might be to him?

But of course, that's not what happens. Lysithea's outcry at the beasts pulls Paul from his neutral-faced observational focus, his right hand shifting its grip on the sword he's still holding.]

Stop -

[He reaches out with his left hand towards the professor and the priestess as they pull away, and on a desperate impulse he searches for any handhold to keep the scene close.]

She did what you wanted, she deserves to know, don't you dare -

[Paul's eyes flicker with a strange pale light as he bears down on the memory, leaning into its sinews as he tries to anchor them both. He has no idea if it will work, if it can work, but after everything Lysithea has been through in this memory - his jaw is set with as much anger as determination as he tries to do something that may well be impossible.]

[Could it be possible? Is it even remotely within the bounds of this phantasm to glimpse what she had missed, the moments that had haunted her for years afterwards? Paul strains - she sees it, feels it in a strange tension that arises in her being as she, too, reaches out a hand towards the rapidly disappearing Professor and pulls them forward.]

Hold -- !

[And now comes the scene she only remembers in flickers of chaos and half-obstructed views. A blinding flash of white light - the appearance of an immense, awe-inspiring white dragon rising into the sky, dwarfing the wyverns by a hundred-fold - a beam of fire so intense that it incinerates half the approaching human army...]

The Professor - watch the Professor!

[The Archbishop has vanished. The Professor is waving the soldiers of the church back towards the monastery - but soon enough, he whirls and runs back, straight towards the enemy, straight towards where the great dragon now grapples with a half-dozen fell beasts.

This is the moment that Archbishop Rhea and the Professor disappear, lost for five long years... And just as before, she is watching helplessly from a great distance, unable to intervene. But at the very least... if she can just see what happened to him -- !

Perhaps they achieve the impossible. Perhaps it is simply that she saw this, out of the corner of her eye, without truly seeing it as she fled. Whatever the case, when she loses sight of the Professor this time... though a tense thirty seconds passes, she is able to glimpse him once more, standing at the feet of the dragon. And beyond them, more figures, so distant that she can't make out any distinguishing features whatsoever... with the sole exception of the glimmering, corrupt purple light shining from their hands.]

The mages...

[There is a far removed flash of purple.

And then the Professor is gone.

A second flash and the memory snaps to black in the blink of an eye, and Paul and Lysithea are standing under some festively decorated antlers.]

[As soon as they snap from the memory Paul falls palms first against the wall, narrowly avoiding cracking his head or slamming in into the antlers. Everything is spinning in a way he finds very unpleasant, and he swallows around nausea as he closes his eyes.

It gives him a moment to think. He'd promised to tell Lysithea if he saw anything they could have changed, and even as he suppresses his body's reaction to whatever it was that they did he's organizing and reviewing the chain of events. It's more difficult to decouple his own perceptive lens from what actually happened than it usually is, perhaps a combination of his awe at the unfolding events and his flexing of his barely developed paleblood talent.

But tactical analysis will wait until a more immediate, important assessment is done:]

Are you all right? [Paul pushes back from the wall as he opens his eyes again, their focus latching on Lysithea.] Physically.

Yes.

[She has the stunned expression of an animal who has just unwittingly wandered into floodlights. After a moment of disorientation, she shakes her head.]

And you?

[This reality seems less substantive than the one they had just left. The sensation of the battlefield - the guttural cries of soldiers, the iron scent of copper and metal, the coursing adrenaline. In comparison, the reflective winter atmosphere of Trench seems bloodless and impassive, a shadow of a world. Which was the memory and which was the truth...?

Lysithea smooths out her clothing, an action meant more to calm her pounding heart than anything else.]

I must apologize for dragging you into such a conflict. Of course, it couldn't have been a memory of St. Cethleann's feast day with my parents...

I, ah.

Would you like to come in?

[The particular set of Winter Mourning that had brought her to the memory of the battlefield had, of course, been the one she had affixed above the door of her bakery.]

[The invitation catches Paul off-guard, even though it shouldn't. He'd do the same thing, falling back on courtesy when in doubt, and it's in fact exactly what he does as he nods to Lysithea, stepping out of the way of the door. He averts his gaze from her otherwise, not wanting her to feel gawked at while she composes herself.]

I won't impose on you long. [He folds his hands behind his back, self-consciously stiff.] There's no need to apologize. I knew the risks, and I'm unharmed.

[If anything, he feels as though he should apologize to her, an increasingly persistent guilt that grows with each one of these memories. Paul looks preoccupied as he follows Lysithea inside, his head slightly bowed.]

[Lysithea fumbles around in her pockets. Her movements are normally crisp and precisely, as Paul had observed on the battlefield. Now, as she unlocks the door, it is clear that her pale, white hand shakes as she fits the key. Ever prideful, she adjusts her body such that her unsteadiness is not so apparent.

Eventually, the lock gives way.]

Please.

[...A truly different world. Her bakery is not large, but the shelves are piled high with colorful sweet buns, confections, and pastries of all sorts. Conscious of the incongruity, Lysithea turns with an almost apologetic smile.]

I... gave up on the warfare, as you can see. This suits me equally well.

But this is the strangest way I've ever met someone. I almost feel as if I ought to reintroduce myself. No one here, you see, knew me first like that. A soldier of war. It is almost...

[She struggles to think of the right word. Not 'intrusive,' not 'shameful.' Simply...]

Exposing.

But in a way, I am glad. I am not that same person, but I would not forget where I came from, either.

Exposing. That's it.

[Paul gives her a faint smile intended to be reassuring, acknowledging the vulnerability of that exposure. She saw a part of Paul most people here haven't either. He thinks they both understand the value of discretion.

With that, he looks around the bakery. In its own way, it's almost as revealing as the memory, and Paul compares Lysithea to the other person he knows who set themself to artistry after a life of war. Paul will have to tell him - he refocuses on the sweet, comforting scent of fresh baking, breathing in slowly.]

I think it's an uncommon form of introduction for a reason. [Wry, almost a joke, but too strained at the edges to be funny.] So -

This is a beautiful shop. I'm glad to be meeting the owner.

Thank you.

[She smiles, perhaps for the first time without a trace of anxiety or melancholy marring the expression. One gets the sense she does not smile often.]

If I had nothing else to do with my life, this was always my secret dream...

[One also gets the sense that she had never imagined being in a situation where she had nothing else to do with her life.]

Well. Feel free to sample whatever you'd like. It's the least I can do to thank you - and to apologize for subjecting you to all that.

[...She slowly removes her winter clothing and begins to busy herself at the counter, tidying up odds and ends so as to have something to do with her hands.]

Did you... end up seeing him?

At the end.

[Seeing her smile relaxes a part of him Paul hadn't been quite aware was tense.

He's seen what Lysithea can do. He should think it's ridiculous that she's selling confections instead of using that power. Maybe it's the abruptness of the contrast between her misery in the memory and her ease here that keeps his mind from reverting to calculating pragmatism.

Instead, it's enough to make him wish she didn't ask the one question he was supposed to be here to answer.]

Which one is your favorite? [He turns to examine a display case, averting his eyes from her.] I did see it. I'm not sure how.

The purple flash - that was magic?

That's like asking me to pick a favorite child.

[Lysithea sniffs, in a flash of humor that hadn't been previously displayed.]

But... as parents frequently do have favorite children without ever admitting it, I must confess I have a fondness for the cream buns. To your right - up a little bit.

[When Paul responds to her actual question, the momentary levity is broken.]

Ah. So it wasn't just my imagination.

I could not say for certain. It was so distant -- but I think... None of this is relevant to you at all, but the crux of the matter is, that person was very important to me - to all of us.

After that day, he vanished. He's been missing for the last four and a half years. And now my unanswered question can finally be put to rest.

That was dark magic. So he really was -- killed in the battle...

[There is an odd intake of breath before she says 'killed'...]

[The cream buns to his right; Paul will have to remember that before he leaves. He's not sure he could taste one now.

Instead, he listens to the hitch in Lysithea's words, and looks at his eyes reflected strangely in a glass dome. Four and a half years ago, Lysithea would have been - what, his age? Younger? He's drowned in certainty; is not knowing like unquenchable thirst?]

I'm sorry.

[It's a simple condolence, spoken softly. He glances at Lysithea, his face drawn, but his mind catches on a thought and his brow knits.]

...is that what you saw?

I saw a flash of purple - some sort of spell. And then he was gone.

[She shakes her head.]

And he has not reappeared since. They tried to assassinate him before, you know. That time, there was some sort of... power that protected him.

[The Professor, she had realized after the incident with Solon, was an extraordinary person. Lysithea was no fool; it was clear that the Archbishop watched him with equal parts tenderness and... rapacity. There was something... divine in his nature.]

Well, thank you. Despite everything, at least I know now. I feel... as if I can lay that memory to rest. It wouldn't have been possible without you.

Truly, I wish I had stayed with him, but -- I know he would not have wished me in harm's way, either.

[Everything is part of something else. This is one of the basic laws of the universe, the principle of ecological composition. From that perspective Paul observes Lysithea where she stands, situated in her chosen environment, surrounded by things she has made. She's happy here, he thinks.

What does Paul know about magic? Next to nothing. He gave his word that he would help her. There's no more to say of it.]

You survived to remember him and his lessons. [Paul nods, a slight, solemn gesture.] That's all a teacher could wish for.

[Now seems the time to answer the question she asked of him in the memory. He looks at her directly when he speaks.]

There was nothing you could have done better. Differently, but not better. Retreating when you did was the only choice.

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notimeforfailure - 2022-01-07 02:49 (UTC) - Expand

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terriblepurpose - 2022-01-07 07:32 (UTC) - Expand

let me look at the sun | open

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