Daybreak:Alpha Chapter

Chapter 17 - What A General Needs

( in progresss )

"--Pascal also said that given Rhin-Lotharingie's political position, it would be best if we managed a peaceful coexistence with the Caliphate."

It was a proposition towards the foreign policy of an empire, which came from a young girl no more than nine years old.

After over a year of stay in Nordkreuz as effectively a prison of war and political hostage, Princess Sylviane had returned to her homeland at last. Her father Geoffroi had come to the border in person to pick her up, and now she snuggled into the side of his broad chest as they rode the royal carriage back.

But had the Emperor taken any offense from being told how to manage diplomacy by a mere child, he showed no signs of it. Instead, an amused smile stretched across his visage as his large hand brushed her dark-plum hair from her other side.

It was a comforting luxury that she had not experienced for too long.

"Pascal seems to think that everything is like numbers and tools, just freely manipulated at will," the Emperor laughed. "The Caliph has an ego too. There is no way he'll agree to be friendly when I'm the one who took lands from him during our last war."

"Not even when we're the enemy of their enemies?" the princess turned her curious gaze to ask. "I mean -- 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend' right? Doesn't the Caliphate have to struggle against Skagen's naval projection and the Imperium's Inner Sea dominance?"

Power projection, maritime dominance -- they were concepts that Sylviane wouldn't have dreamed of using two years ago. But now, she spoke them with pride and confidence, hoping to impress her own father with her maturity and growth.

Though for a moment, Geoffroi's smile wavered a hint as he lightly shook his head:

"Sadly, politics isn't that simple. It's not just situational circumstances, but also a clash of personalities. Other than interests, there are also personal values, dignity, ego, trust, and so on..."

An all-embracing warmth soon returned to the father's doting eyes as he looked down to meet the daughter's light-violet orbs.

"I take it Pascal is an adherent of 'Realpolitik'? Well, he is a Weichsen after all."

"Uh... maybe? Ummm, w-what is real-polity-k?" Sylviane carefully pronounced the unfamiliar term, abashed that she still fell short of her father's expectations.

But a return smile full of pride and fatherly love easily chased her concerns away.

"Looks like the know-it-all hadn't taught everything after all," Geoffroi chuckled again. "Don't worry. Father will gladly coach you once we get back. And the next time you meet Pascal you can make him envious at just how much you've outgrown him!"

"Oooh, that would be great!" the princess beamed back. "He's always wearing this smug little grin around. It would be nice to see him falter and cringe just once or twice!"

Still smiling, still rhythmically brushing her hair, Geoffroi's blue-violet eyes grew pensive as he turned to look out of the carriage's window at the passing landscape. The entourage followed the riverside road as they made their way west, crossing the heartlands of Rhin-Lotharingie.

"Sylv, you know, you've been talking non-stop about Pascal since I picked you up."

There was a tinge of sadness in her father's voice, and Sylviane's guilt instantly spiked. She had been so engrossed in telling her father about everything she had experienced and learned that she forgot to ask about how he -- or the rest of the family -- was doing.

Her sun vanished in an instant. Within seconds, the gloomy clouds of dejection swept in as her gaze dropped to the floor.

"I'm sorry father. I was carried away--"

But she stopped as her father reached down to gently lift her chin back up.

"No, that's not what I meant," Geoffroi reassured with a wistful smile.

For several moments, neither the Emperor nor the Princess said a word. They simply stared into each others' eyes. The father's -- proud yet sentimental. The daughter's -- curious and uncertain.

Sylviane couldn't figure out what her father was thinking, not even when they grew glassy with moisture.

It was almost shocking. She had never, not even once, ever seen her father be overwhelmed by emotions.

He was Geoffroi the Great, the steadfast Emperor whose masculine strength was admired by every Lotharin throughout the realm.

...Or at least, that was what she believed. Even Pascal, or the elder von Moltewitz, or King Leopold of Weichsel, spoke of her father with great esteem.

"Sylv..." Geoffroi finally broke the silence. "What do you think about Pascal? Do you enjoy being with him?"

"He's fun, and interesting... but but, i-it's not like that I like him or anything!"

Sylviane almost shouted back in a delayed kneejerk reaction. Her wisteria gaze had locked stares with her father's. But before those earnest, penetrating eyes, the young girl soon wilted and glanced away.

Her cheeks were burning red and hot. She didn't even understand why, but it was just... so embarrassing to think about.

Besides, Pascal was from Weichsel -- a country they had been hostile against until just a few weeks ago. She could be friendly and courteous with him, but she couldn't actually be friends with him.

...Let alone anything more than that.

"Royalty should never be afraid of their own feelings," Geoffroi added sternly. "Now, tell father: did you enjoy your time with Pascal? And you swear to the Holy Father that it's the truth, because this is very important."

Sylviane wanted to shy away from her father's gaze, to hide her embarrassing moment from the world. But there wasn't any cover, not even a loose blanket.

Under her father's unrelenting scrutiny, she finally returned a meek nod.

Silence returned to the air once more, but Sylviane couldn't bring herself to look at her father. Was he dejected? Disconsolate? Disappointed?

But the words that spoke next were none of them.

"I am considering offering him your hand in marriage."

For a brief moment Sylviane completely froze. She couldn't have heard that properly, could she?

Her cheeks were beet-red under eyes as wide as saucers by the time she snapped back.

"W-w-what are you talking about father!? I'm still only nine!"

"Do you dislike him?"

"I-its not that I hate him or anything, b-but isn't this against..."

"--What have I told you about double negatives Sylv?" Geoffroi cut in with a stern frown. "Clarity. Royalty must speak with clarity, confidence, determination. Even if you must express doubt, you should never allow your voice to fall into weakness."

Sylviane shut herself up at once as she cast her eyes down again, ashamed in the wake of her father's lecturing words.

"...Sorry."

"You didn't used to talk like this," he pondered aloud. "Where did you pick this up?"

"P-Pascal said..."

Her meek voice trailed off again as Geoffroi gave a deep sigh.

"That brat."

For a half-minute, a discomforting silence settled over the two as Sylviane heard only the rhythmic creaking of the wagon's wheels. She could only hope that her honest reply didn't just ruin any chances of her meeting Pascal again.

"Sylv... do you remember what your mother once taught you about the 'Gaetane Legacy' -- about how we don't do political marriages?"

Sylviane quickly nodded back. That was precisely what she tried to bring up a moment ago:

"Yes father. Before my Great-Great-Grandfather Louis the Bold united the Oriflamme and founded the Rhin-Lotharingie Coalition during the Independence War, he had been forced to abandon the love of his life and settle for an arranged marriage by his parents. He blamed his wife for this and never forgave her -- not even after she helped him faithfully during the wars. It was not until his dying years when he finally recognized the damage done to his children due to his failed marriage."

A broad grin broke across her father's expression as he gently stroked her hair once more.

"Trust your mother to always emphasize the romantic parts," he spoke with bittersweet nostalgia that left Sylviane briefly confused before his tone stiffened again. "Louis the Bold was also an avid student of history, and he believed strongly that the endurance of any royal dynasty lay in the number of consistent able monarchs it produced. Before he died, he stated that the Gaetane family should never marry for political purpose again, but for loving, supportive families that can raise healthy and strong heirs -- not only physically but also mentally, emotionally, psychologically."

Connecting doting blue-violet eyes to earnest wisteria gaze again, Geoffroi continued his fatherly teachings with a proud emphasis:

"--Sylv, I know you've been told many things about what a Princess should be, but always remember that as a Gaetane, duty to our family is the same as building the future of our realm. It doesn't matter if it's man or woman, conqueror or administrator -- those who abandon their role as a parent also fail as a hereditary lord."

Slowly but surely, Sylviane nodded back to her father's smile. She carved his words into memory, promising herself to remember them even years, even decades from now.

"I am certain that Pascal has many good qualities and will surely grow to be a capable man," Geoffroi acknowledged, much to the daughter's growing joy. "But... would he be a good husband? A good father? That I'm not sure about..."

"Father..." the Princess hesitantly murmured. "You really want to m-marry me off to him? I mean, I d-don't object if you really..."

"Marry you off?" the Emperor almost barked a laugh. "Oh never! I'm considering asking for his betrothal to you, not the other way around!"

Then, as his tone gradually settled back down:

"Sylv, I know this might seem a bit early, but a political marriage cannot be arranged late..."

With her cheeks still glowing like charcoal, Sylviane instinctively opened her mouth to object. But her father's raised hand stopped her before she even finished a single word.

"Yes, I know. I'm going against our founder's decree. But Sylv, there is a problem with not forging alliances by marriage, and I have felt it keenly over the years. Ever since its founding, Rhin-Lotharingie has remained a collection of autonomous and semi-independent feudal states. Our markets cannot adhere to standardized regulations; our military lacks centralized control. Our efforts in economy and industry are always disorganized, and our frontiers vulnerable to neighboring aggression..."

Sylviane nodded back as she understood the pain in her father's voice. Even Pascal had recognized this problem, which he highlighted to her as Rhin-Lotharingie's principle weakness that Weichsel exploited during the war.

"--Your grandfather and I both tried to change this," Geoffroi continued on, "and we both gave up when faced with powerful resistance from the nobility. These centralization reforms are necessary for our nation's future, but they are also deeply unpopular. For any chance of their success, we would need powerful alliances, the most reliable of which can only be obtained through ties of marriage and bonds of blood."

"And... that's why you want me to marry a Weichsen," the Princess realized at last, her embarrassment finally fading in the face of royal duty.

"Not just any Weichsen, but the son of their greatest Duke and Marshal since that upstart commoner Hermann von Mittermeyer," the Emperor accentuated. "Even without his own considerable potential, Pascal will inherit the richest Duchy of Weichsel and retain the good graces of King Leopold through his father's legacy alone."

But as his declaration came to an end, the Emperor's gaze softened to that of a father's once more:

"Nevertheless Sylv -- I may be risking your marriage, but I'm not prepared to throw it away either. That is why I want your honest, truthful reply: what do you think of Pascal?"

Sylviane's cheeks flushed red once more. But this time, she neither stuttered nor faltered. With her will fortified by a personal sense of obligation, she answered her father in clear, unwavering terms:

"I do get along well with him, and I honestly believe that he will grow up to be a splendid man. It's just that... I'm not sure what to think of him for a marriage. For starters -- he's not very knightly."

The Princess then halted in bewilderment as her father gave off the weirdest noise. An oddly tilted grin stretched across his expression as his shoulders shook... with something between a suppressed chortle and a choking sigh.

Geoffroi had to clear his throat several times before he could speak again:

"I swear... your mother read way too many romance novels. Knightly -- as if chivalry had anything to do with ruling an Empire..."

Sylviane's brows furrowed once more. Becoming the Emperor was a job slated for one of her older brothers. How did that have anything to do with her?

"Sylv, a perfect knight might be able to protect you as an individual, to save you from disaster to live another day. But a perfect general... he would guarantee not only your safety from thousands, millions of enemies, but also ensure the prosperity of your children, your descendants, your entire realm for generations to come."

"That is what I hope Pascal will be for you: a true general -- a marshal."

----- * * * -----

With her back against the room's corner, Sylviane opened her swollen eyes once more. Her brief reprieve in the past had been a pleasant one: the final memory of her childhood years.

After that conversation between father and daughter, Geoffroi finally told her the news that everyone else had avoided for weeks: her mother and two brothers had been assassinated by Imperial Mantis Blades, and she was now the crown princess -- heir to the throne of Rhin-Lotharingie.

Nine years old or not, she could no longer be a child after that.

For more than a decade since then, she had walked the path of a crown princess. Her father had become her foremost tutor, instructing her in every affair of state through his daily tasks. Privy council, military council, assembly of lords, diplomatic audiences, legal consultations, etc etc -- she had attended them all.

Her daily schedule ran from dawn until dusk. She initially had two days off a week plus four hours of free time per day, but even that her father halved over the years.

There were times when she absolutely hated, hated her father for forcing her through it all. Crown Princess? She never once cared for her exalted rank and title. All she wanted was to be able to leisurely study and play at her own pace alongside others of her own age.

But when she finally gathered enough resolve to lash out at Geoffroi, it was he who stole her thunder by crumbling first:

"I'm sorry Sylv," the Emperor whispered back as tears rolled down from both eyes. "Your mother, your brothers -- they all just went, gone. I don't have anyone else left. I know you never wanted this, but... I don't know what else to do."

Sylviane had never felt as ashamed of herself as that day.

She had sworn to herself that she would never, ever try to abandon her father again.

But the Imperials weren't satisfied with only three-fourth of her family.

Yesterday, a trusted messenger had personally brought the worst news from Alis Avern:

Her uncle Gabriel, who had retired from his duties to the north, returned with the aid of the Knights Templar to usurp the crown.

He had butchered the Emperor during the coup, impaled the head on a pike, and burned the rest of the corpse.

Sylviane was no longer the Crown Princess. She had been denounced as an apostate's daughter, and everything she had toiled for the recent half of her life was gone.

Worst of all, she was now truly alone in the world. The last of her family had been snatched away, by what she held no doubt was an Imperial plot.

Sylviane couldn't take it any more after that. She had dismissed her armigers and secluded herself in a dark corner of her unlit cabin, where she silently wept the hours away.

The sun fell and rose again. The tears ran out and left her with swollen, itchy eyes. But the orphaned girl from royalty didn't give a single care.

All she did was seek comfort in the sanctuary of her own mind: to reminiscence through memories of the past, memories of happier times.

In the darkness of her depression, she had even pulled out her engraved dagger. It had been a present from her father as part of a long Gaetane family tradition -- to give every child, male or female, their first live weapon at the age of ten.

After carefully removing the sheath, Sylviane stared into the faint metallic reflection for what seemed like minutes. She could see the deadly glint of its razor-sharp edge, the vicious curvature of its bloodletting groove.

She could end it all -- the pain of loss, the despair of defeat, the endless exhaustion of a now pointless life, resigned to nothing but helplessness and loneliness.

Following her father's footsteps had been everything to her. She might not want to be the crown princess, but without it, she had nothing left.

Slowly but surely, her trembling hands turned the dagger towards her own chest, her very heart.

Sylviane squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the sharp tip press in between her breasts...

But that was as far as she went.

Try as she might, she couldn't bring herself to commit the ultimate sin.

It could be cowardice. It could be weakness. But it was also because her conscience had called out to her being, screaming with everything it had to make her stop.

Not only the Holy Father, but even her parents would never forgive her had she committed suicide. She would have gone straight to hell, never to see either of them again.

Suddenly gasping with breathless anxiety, Sylviane tossed the gleaming steel away as though it was a burning cross.

Soon, it too laid forgotten on the floor as the despondence princess returned to staring at the empty air through hollowed, bloodshot eyes.

She couldn't even die cleanly -- that was the true worthlessness of her life now.

Sylviane never heard the repeated knocking, or the calls in her name. She never noticed at all until the door opened to the sunlight outside, admitting a man and her armored maid.

"Oh my lord," came a horrified but otherwise familiar voice. "Sir Robert, Kaede, wait outside; shut the door Mari."

Sylviane's eyes never bothered to focus her blurry sight. It took all her willpower just to crack open her parched lips:

"Mari... I told you to leave me alone..."

"You also claimed that you were no longer the princess, and we no longer had to follow you," Mari replied with grim determination as she closed the door and leaned against it. "If you wish to rescind that order, I will gladly offer you my head as punishment."

"You should have fetched me earlier, Mari," the male voice reprimanded as his figure crouched down to pull the abandoned dagger off the floor before handing it to the Lady's Maid.

"My apologies, Milord, but I thought she would recover as usual after some rest. I didn't think it was this bad until morning when she wouldn't answer."

Sylviane at last recognized the familiarity. The man was Pascal -- much older than in her memories -- who was also the last person she wanted to see right now.

...More precisely, he was the last person she wanted to see her like this.

"LEAVE!" her hoarse voice shouted out as she pulled her knees in and buried her face between them.

"Sure," Pascal answered almost casually as he sat down on the bed right next to her. "After you kick me back out -- your skills at that have steadily improved with the years. I am sure you would have no problem if you meant it."

Sylviane could feel her eyes trying to conjure more tears. She had meant it. She seriously, truly wanted him to leave right now, before he could glimpse another look at her disheveled appearance and tear-stained face.

But it seemed even this, even her own personal space, had now slipped beyond her control.

"I don--I don't need your help!" her rising pitch managed to force out in a delayed yell.

"Of course, Your Highness," Pascal replied as a matter-of-fact.

The awkward silence that followed hanged over them for nearly a minute before Pascal broke it again:

"Where is Hauteclaire?"

The temperature seemed to plummet as silence returned.

Of all things, he had picked the worst topic to remind her. Even the noble and saintly phoenix could no longer tolerate her cursed existence.

"Gone," Sylviane barely murmured out at last.

"Empath," Mari clarified from the door.

"Riiight," Pascal drawled out with a full return of his most annoying habit. "Your depressive fatalism became too much for him."

Sylviane felt it like a stab in the gut.

Pascal hadn't come to pity her. He was here to prove his superiority one last time, stomping upon her meager grasp to the realm of life before her soul passed beyond the River Styx.

"Why don't you just leave -- it's not like you need to pretend to be my fiancé any longer," Sylviane muttered out with her last reserve.

After all, there was hardly any purpose to a political marriage when she had lost all value.

"Since when did I ever have to 'pretend' to be that?" Pascal almost snorted out.

"I admit, I hate the prospective 'Prince Consort' title. But even that fit me better than how you met your 'Crown Princess' role. Really, it did not suit you at all."

His truthful words had cut straight into her heart. They burned like searing acid, melting away the already-shattered armor of her dignity and pride.

But Sylviane no longer even had the will to defend herself, nor the energy to retort. All she did was stay in her curled-up, protective embrace while pretending to ignore his incisive words.

"Do you remember when we first met?"

Pascal lifted himself off the bed and sat down on the floor, his voice less than an arm's reach away.

"It was kind of like this. Except I had to stand still for ten whole unmoving minutes! Even my feet went numb that time. All because you insisted on pretending you were asleep. And now what? Ignoring me?"

Sylviane wanted to tell him that nobody was forcing him to stay, that he was more than welcomed to leave at any time. But her throat was no longer responding; her will couldn't even push those words out.

"Fine," Pascal sighed aloud. "I can just sit here and keep talking to myself all day. On the hard floor, with my butt aching, next to this impertinent, unlovable princess who, after ten years of engagement, would not even give me a free hug."

A faint nostalgia brought awareness that those last two words formed one of Pascal's favorite jokes. But there was nothing funny in the context he expressed it through. Was it merely inappropriate or outright derisive? Her threads of judgment could no longer process its truth.

"Did you know that even Kaede gave me a free hug within a month? Of course, she also gave me three broken ribs, so I guess it rather balanced itself out. But the point is that she could at least express herself properly, even if it hurt to be on the receiving end..."

Long past the luxury of envy or jealousy, Sylviane simply jumped to the conclusion of 'just marry her then'. She might of even whispered that out -- to offer her blessing for a union that would at least leave him in trustworthy hands.

But this time Pascal did not wait. He paused only briefly before pushing on:

"You, on the other hand... even a decade ago you were totally not cute. A princess should do this. A princess should be that. That was all you thought about, all you lived against...!"

The tone of his complaints were rapidly escalating. Even his hands had joined in through dramatic gestures, as told by the faint swishing of air.

"I mean seriously! Which seven-year-old child who loves her parents does not cry when kidnapped to a foreign land by brutish troops? But no! Those rules did not apply to you! You could not let me see you crying. You would not admit that you were just scared, or that you simply missed home..."

Had this been any other time, Sylviane might have nodded off in exhaustion as Pascal went onto an uncharacteristic rant. But her ears would not let go. Her feelings could not let go. Even as her mind steadily zoned out, even as her logic stopped processing his words, her consciousness still held onto the trail of his voice, the drift of his sound.

Then, as sudden as a jolt, her focus returned to a bitter silence. Pascal had stopped, though it had only been a respite before he mounted his philosophical apex, his ultimatum of wisdom:

"...Oh right, that was what Kaede called it -- you just had to be a special snowflake."

For a brief moment, even Sylviane's internal thoughts found themselves speechless at this conclusion.

But it wasn't from apathy. Not anymore.

Annoyance began to bubble faintly as her lips almost twitched at Pascal's complete and total hypocrisy, which only seemed to worsen as his tirade went on:

"Do you know how annoying that was? You would not throw a tantrum. You would not cry openly. You would not even do something childish and mildly annoying. No, you had to pretend that everything was just fine, that they were doing a marvelous job keeping you locked up. Meanwhile I had to guess at what you wanted, to bribe the guards, to talk to the maids, to appeal to father on your behalf..."

She was a 'special snowflake'? Pascal had spent his entire life ignoring every law of man and concealing every weakness beneath his pride. The only difference between her 'princess' and his 'genius' was that he should have been wearing a frilly dress.

But then, that was also where they diverged.

Being 'childish' didn't quite describe him, but Pascal would not have kept quiet either. Instead, he would have irritated his overseers in his own way.

With a deep, exasperated sigh that seemed to carry more years than his age, Pascal finally settled down from his lengthy rant and returned to heartfelt words:

"Sylv... you know I was never good at guessing what other people wanted. We shared many similarities back in the day, so I often scored it right. But the more you matured into a lady, the less I could guess what you were thinking..."

It was true that his 'genius' and her 'princess' roles held common ground, but that was only on the surface. Deep down within they were completely different, perhaps even polar opposites.

Pascal was a rare prodigy, an exceptional man wherever he went. As an impertinent boy, he chased away even his tutors and learned to accomplish everything in his own way. To him, life was an endless opportunity for a boundless mind. Being an officer might not be his first choice of profession, but it was nevertheless a career he would walk with joy and pride.

Meanwhile, Sylviane had been anything but 'special'. Raised in the palace as the least gifted child, she had grown accustomed to going with the flow. Traits that people wanted to see, qualities that brought others to approve -- she had crammed them all within her mind, plastering them over her self. For someone who struggled just to meet her responsibilities, being the heir was an unenviable job that left her with no choice.

But what did that make her? Was she just a reflection of the 'princess' others wanted? Did she still have an identity of her own?

Her mood swings, her envy, her indulgence in cute girls that nearly tempted her to sin...

...Who would wish to claim such detriments as their own?

"...You have always kept weakness to yourself, Sylv, always kept others at arm's reach," Pascal noted with another sigh. "Sure, I am your fiancé. I just have to accept it 'as is'. But do you really expect your future subjects to appreciate that, to see not you -- the real you -- but only that mask you claim as your own? Many of them are vultures, of course, but never forget that some of them are on your side! How long do you expect them to keep groping in the dark before they go 'screw it, I give up on trying to help'?"

As his frustration faded from the air, Sylviane heard Pascal shifting to stand back up.

...And her heart instantly lurched on the brink of eternal despair.

He had been her fiancé. He had been on her side. It was not her intention to keep him in the dark but she had done it, not once but twice!

No, she didn't want him to leave after all. No, she wouldn't be able to stand his cold back. Just as she didn't want to die, she couldn't even fathom losing even his support.

But was it too late? Had he had enough? Was 'screw it, I give up on trying to help' an expression of his own beliefs?

Of course...

Why would he tolerate her for a third time?

No. Please. She didn't want that. Anything but that!

Then, just as her fingers struggled to reach out, just as her throat trembled to call out, Sylviane finally felt the presence of a sincere touch.

It began with just a palm on her shoulder, soon echoed by another warm presence on her other side.

For a brief moment the princess almost tried to shake him off. It was an instinctive reaction, fortified by years of prideful demeanor. She did not need to be consoled. She did not want to be coddled. A true princess would not need any of that!

...Even if she did.

However, Pascal never gave her chance to decide.

Sylviane felt an embrace wrap around her half-buried head and bent knees. His arms had slipped around her back, squeezing hard and forcibly pressing her head into the protective warmth of his solid chest. Meanwhile his soft whispers finally reached past her ears, past layers upon layers of broken emotional armor and devastated mental landscape, and sought out the depth of her soul:

"I do not pretend to replace your father, Sylv; I do not want to either. But I do want you to know, to understand it in your heart, that the world is not over, and all is not lost! You still have those who love you, who care for you, who support you and believe in you, who will gladly fight alongside and with you to the end of the days."

Pascal's voice no longer held the firm control of his usual self. It no longer slowed with his aristocratic drawl or even carried his usual air of superiority.

With his knees undoubtedly on the floor, the man Sylviane once considered 'unknightly' pledged his solemn oath to his princess through begging pleas:

"So please... stop bottling everything in just this once! Let me share your grief, your sorrow, your anguish, and your pain. I am not an outsider. I am not a foreigner. I am your fiancé, your family, your future husband!"

"Tell me what you truly, honestly want, and let me give everything I can offer to help!"

----- * * * -----

(tentative scene-draft to split first Pascal<>Sylv scene from second part... reconsidering if its inclusion is appropriate)

With her back leaned against the cabin wall, Kaede was keeping busy by playing with her long hair when she heard a muffled wail resound through the door.

The cabin was virtually soundproof. Pascal and Mari had vanished inside for what seemed like hours without an inkling of noise passing through.

Kaede felt her suppressed anxiety rising once more as she turned towards her companion with perplexed eyes.

But Sir Robert never lost his composure. The boyishly pretty if not stunningly handsome young man merely let go of a relaxing sigh before turning towards her with his sunlit smile.

...Perhaps not entirely sunny. There was a sense of wistful resignation emanating from his vivid green eyes as he shrugged back.

"About time," he stole another glance at the door where the grief-stricken wail continued on without end.

Kaede merely stared back in confusion. His concern for the princess had seemed obvious, but then... why did he look happy at this turn of events?

"Letting it all out is the first step towards recovery," the Oriflamme Armiger in cerulean and white replied with a sincere gaze. "Holding all those emotions back would only drive her to further despair."

Her only parent did just die a gruesome death, Kaede sympathized as she nodded back. I guess not grieving is even more worrisome than crying her heart out.

"Well, there you have it... our dear but troublesome princess," he half-chuckled before returning to the posture of a perfect guard.

The tone of his voice left her with more than a bit of concern. Part of that worry certainly reached out to Sylviane, but an even larger share went to Pascal and herself.

Serving under a capricious ruler often met tragic results, after all.

"Does this happen often?"

"Once in a long while," Sir Robert calmly noted. "But never this bad... never even close to this bad..."

Well, she was a teen until just last year, Kaede settled in her thoughts. "Must be stressful, carrying so much responsibility at such a young age."

"Unfortunately, Sylviane was never meant to be the heir, and after her brothers' assassination the Emperor rushed her training."

It was a surprisingly candid piece of information from someone within the princess' inner circle. Kaede could only surmise that what Pascal just did solidified the armigers' trust in him, and by extension, her.

Whether Kaede liked it or not, most nobles of Hyperion would always see her as an extension of Pascal. It was a simple fact that she might as well accept, for all of its benefits and doubts.

"Given what happened in Rhin-Lotharingie, one could argue that the Emperor did the right thing," she answered back.

"For Rhin-Lotharingie, sure. But for her...?" Sir Robert sighed once more. "Well... the damage has already been done."

"What do you mean?"

Kaede turned towards the young knight in his 'twenties', with perplexed rose-quartz eyes meeting peridot-green gaze once more.

She certainly didn't miss the hint: Robert de Dunois was evidently someone who cared more about Sylviane as an individual than his loyalty to the crown -- or her tiara in this case. With his apparent youth in mind, it was very probable that the princess and her armiger also shared some sort of childhood bond.

The seconds dragged on in silence as his friendly sight measured the familiar girl, then:

"Milady, I have a request to ask of you."

"I'm not a lady," Kaede shrugged off the unusual politeness. "But go ahead."

"I know our princess hasn't been the most kind to you. I don't know all the details, but I know enough to guess that much," he offered an apologetic nod. "But her... hobbies, well, they're also some of the only habits she has left for herself, the only pastimes to counterbalance her depressive episodes and keep her going. I know this sounds..."

You have no idea, do you, Kaede thought as she released a deep sigh, which instantly stopped him short.

Toying with her like a doll was one thing. Kaede didn't like to admit it, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant of an experience. In fact, she rather enjoyed having her hair brushed and her head rubbed. But Sylviane's fingertips also came within centimeters of molesting her. Given her problematic relationship with Pascal, she didn't really hold a grudge towards the otherwise admirable princess. But it was certainly hard event to forget.

"You're asking a lot, Sir Robert," she tilted her head with a faint scowl.

"I know, and I'm sorry," the armiger apologized with a sympathetic nod. "But you're not the only one who cares about your lord and master."

With another exasperated sigh leaving her lungs, Kaede could only offer a rather noncommittal reply:

"I'll keep it in mind."

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