deercountry | let me look at the sun

[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.

[Lysithea bows her head briefly in response. There is a feeling of... not relief, exactly. There is no real gain from this experience. It was a memory, a fixed point in time, something that could not be changed and marked the beginning of continental war for her home. Simply... release.

She could let it go.]

Thank you.

['There was nothing you could have done better.' And for Lysithea, who always needs to do everything perfectly, this is as much absolution as she can expect.

She suddenly feels very fatigued.]

Do stay as long as you wish. But I think I would like a moment with my thoughts.

[He is being (politely) dismissed. Lysithea hovers with her hand on a door leading to a back room.]

...You must tell me more about those suits sometime - and your world. You've seen far too much of mine.

[Paul was impressed Lysithea had made it as long as she did without collapsing in on herself. The drop in adrenaline, the impact of the memory, the effort of using magic - it was an ordeal compressed in a short, chaotic span of time.

He feels all right about leaving her here, better than he's felt about most of these journeys into memories. He smiles at her gently, tiredly, and bows once again.]

When we next meet. [It's a promise.] Although I would like to hear more of yours, all the same.

I'll leave you to your rest, Lady von Ordelia.

[With that, he'll go - but not before taking one of those cream buns, for the trip.]

let me look at the sun | open

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