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My dearest Ingrid,
I hope your company’s mission in locating His Highness is bringing fortune.
The Lord Banquo has offered his hand to you, making him one of three. I feel he is an ambitious and pious man; he claims your devotion to your role in this war inspires him. I am aware of your feelings regarding marriage proposals during this tumultuous time, so I leave it up to you to accept or reject him.
Also, I found something of yours hidden away in one of the stores. I remember bringing it to you one day, only for you to tell me each tale as naturally as you could tell someone your name. Perhaps it will offer you some inspiration of your own during these testing times.
Do the memories of your squirehood remain? Nuns have been known to pledge themselves as Holy Knights. I recall you had your heart set on a pegasus mount, however. ...
Ingrid runs her fingers along the soft, round corners of the book’s cover. If she were to close her eyes then the barracks around her would disappear and she would find herself in bed, resting the book in her lap as her eyes squinted to make out the words. It had been such a heavy, cumbersome thing. The type of book her small self carried on her back like a laborer carries a sack of feed. That’s how things had been. Now her arms cross over it easily, pressing the weight of it over her abdomen close enough that she can feel her heart beating against it.
It seems whatever possessed her father to send this never left her.
She’s setting the book down on her legs when she hears someone approaching softly. Careful heel clicks accompanied by the gentle “swoosh” of feathers… Ingrid knows it’s Mercedes, still clad in her Gremory uniform.
Ingrid looks up. Mercedes is already smiling. She offers an off-guard smile of her own. “How was it?”
“Quiet. I think we scared everybody off, you and I.” She picks at the fingertips of her gloves before sliding them off.
The last time Ingrid saw Mercedes remove a glove was their most recent mission together. But the removal was far less delicate and far more urgent. When she saw the gash on Ingrid’s arm seeping blood, Mercedes had torn it from her arm as if it was burning her in order to turn it into a makeshift tourniquet. Her voice had singed her: “If you’re so determined to die like a knight then you should at least armor yourself like one!”
Neither of them have brought it up. Perhaps Mercedes thinks Ingrid was suffering from her wound too much to remember. As if a reality check like that wouldn’t be more painful.
Ingrid takes a breath to bring herself back to the present. Being with Mercedes makes her thoughtful for a reason that escapes her.
"What’s this?” Mercedes nods at the book, turning her head to look at it from Ingrid’s side. Ingrid gestures for her to sit next to her and she does, her dress fanning out beside her like a flower. “Do you enjoy romance stories?"
Ingrid hums, her heart lifting with the rising tone. "When I was a child. I admired the characters in them. The things they did, why they did them... the lengths they would go to protect what they held dear. I aspired to be like that." But her heart sank just as quickly. What good had those fairytale ideals done for her? Protecting what you love...
She inhales through her nose and out her mouth before looking ahead and across the scenery. "That's why I became a healer."
Ingrid feels like cringing at the words. She avoids talking about these childhood treasures because the memories expose how facetious she is. That small, horse-riding girl had no intention to spin spells between her fingers to sew together torn skin. She wanted to take action, to prevent harm instead of healing it. What did she want now?
Mercedes's soft fingers brush away the tear hanging from Ingrid's chin. It prompts a sudden memory: of Mercedes wishing to cut her hair short but being unsure if she would suit it. Ingrid had told her a shorter cut would be more beneficial in battle. Then she caught herself and apologized for not thinking from a more fashionable point of view. And then Mercedes had shaken her head, shaking off a leaf in the process, and told Ingrid that she wouldn’t have asked if she didn’t want an answer from her point of view.
The choppy blonde's lip trembles in an effort to retain composure but it's a losing battle. Soon she's sniffling, trying her best to not gulp down air. Mercedes's arms wrap around her like a blanket and Ingrid gives in, leaning into the warmth of her body. Surrounded by Mercedes and the whirl of unearthed emotions, Ingrid's mind has little sway to impress how childish she must look.
"Oh, Ingrid." Mercedes sighs against her ear.
"I-" Ingrid inhales sharply. "I don't know what to do, Mercedes. I wanted to leave it all behind, but, but, it's still there! Everything is still there! I'm a liar! I want- I just- argh!" She covers her mouth but a horrible, frustrated sound wrenches itself from her body. "The next time there's a battle, I'm going to the front. I'll kill all of them before they can even think of touching any of you!"
“There’s more to it than that.”
That halts Ingrid. Though Mercedes’s tone isn’t angry, she still feels like she’s let her down. Ingrid sits up but remains close. Close enough for Mercedes to see the lines left on her face by tears. “What do you mean?”
Mercedes’s shoulders fall with a sigh. Within the movement her eyes drift away from Ingrid. It seems as if she’s looking at something far in the distance behind Ingrid. “If all you do is kill, you won’t be able to protect others.”
“How do you do it, Mercedes?” Ingrid finds the words being asked before she thinks about them. “How can you stand to react instead of prevent? Don’t you question yourself?”
Pale, lilac eyes look into Ingrid’s own. She’s always thought this was the source of Mercedes’s bravery: her ability to meet another’s eyes regardless of what she’s feeling. Ingrid steels herself to meet her gaze, no matter how exposed it makes her feel.
“That is my calling as a healer. If I forced myself to walk a different path, then doubt would find me at every turn.”
Suddenly Ingrid feels very bare. She’s transparent like Mercedes’ veil. But she doesn’t hate it, not when Mercedes is the one looking at her. The tears spilling from her eyes are too heavy for her to ignore and she finds herself pushing her face into the folds of Mercedes’ dress as if that would hold them in. Mercedes' right hand rubs up and down her back while the other supports her wayward healer’s front, protecting the book from falling to the floor.
“It’s alright, Ingrid, it’s alright.” Mercedes comforts her.
And Ingrid believes her. From her heart she believes her.
Dear Father,
If it pleases the Lord Banquo, as well as my other suitors, they may come to me to discuss the future of your and I’s house. I consider our future with every choice I make, and my choice in partner is no exception. Even amidst the upheaval in our lands I have been thinking of it. As such, I will be considering suitors I have known myself, as I believe this will allow me to judge who will best support me as the head of House Galatea.
I thank you for the kind delivery of a childhood favorite. It has indeed inspired me. I hope to use this inspiration for the benefit of my country and fellow countrymen in our search for His Highness. I have returned to lancefaire and hope to find the saddle once more.
…