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Sitting on the steps leading up to the sauna, where she hopes to be out of sight, Ingrid crumples up the letter. She rests her head in her hands and closes her eyes, squinting them tight and sighing.
“Hey pretty lady. Why the long face?”
She groans and doesn’t lift her head. “Don’t even start. I’m not in the mood.”
“I can change that. Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” Sylvain says when she raises her hand to punch him. “Sheesh, tough crowd.”
“Why are you even here?”
“I was in the sauna with—you know what, never mind. What’s got you so down?”
She just sighs and shoves the crumpled up letter at him. Sylvain lets out a low whistle when he’s finished reading.
“Damn. He’s getting pushy.” Then he laughs and fishes something out of his pocket. “Here. We match,” he says, handing a letter to her. She skims it and sees that it’s much the same as hers, although slightly more impatient in its message: it’s time to find a spouse.
Ingrid hands it back to him and watches in amusement as Sylvain rips it up and throws it to the wind.
“The tides of war are changing,” she says. She watches the pieces fly away, the Margrave’s angry words (it’s time to stop fucking around) set free. “I knew I would only be able to hold my father off for so long. Pretty soon he’s going to stop giving me the option to say no.”
She sighs again and sits up straight, running her fingers absentmindedly through her hair. “I guess it’s finally time to stop pretending that I could ever be a knight. It was a foolish dream to begin with.” She can’t stop the sadness and bitterness from working its way into her voice.
“Hey Ingrid,” Sylvain says carefully. “If I say something, do you promise not to punch me?”
“No,” she says truthfully.
Sylvain laughs. “Ha, that’s fair. But just, really actually think about it before you jump to conclusions, okay?”
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear this. All right, go on.”
“What if we got married?”
She doesn’t punch him. But she does get up and walk away.
“Ingrid! Oh come on, will you just hear me out?”
It doesn’t take him long to catch up to her, of course. He grabs her arm, dragging her into the old Blue Lions classroom.
She crosses her arms and glares. “I don’t know who you think I am—”
“Would you stop? Can you please just hear me out? I have actual good reasons, if you’d give me a chance!”
“Give you a chance to pretend you’re in love with me?”
“No!” he says, a little too quickly. She raises her eyebrows. “Okay, that came out wrong, I’m sorry. I just meant—look, just listen, okay?”
“You have two minutes,” she says, eyes narrowed. Sylvain rubs the back of his neck but seems to accept that it’s the best he’s going to get.
“Your father wants you to marry someone rich. I fit that criteria!” He pauses, as if expecting her to be pleased with this, but when she doesn’t respond he continues, rambling a bit as his words spill out of his mouth in a rush.
“Look, the best case scenario for you is, what, you find a guy that’s rich, that you don’t hate, and that expects you to stay at home and have his babies and mind your place, right? Or maybe he’s a little more open-minded, and he likes that you have ambition, but ultimately he’s not going to let you explore being a knight, he’s going to want you to bear his heirs and defer to him for most decisions. Which, I’m not sure if you know this about yourself, but you’re not very good at letting other people do things for you.”
He grins at her, but she just stares back, unamused.
“One minute,” she says. The smile drops off his face.
“And we know what’s waiting for me,” he says bitterly. “A woman who doesn’t care about me, who’s only after my money and my Crest. That’s why us getting married is a good idea! We already know each other better than almost anyone. Even if you can’t become a knight, you can still be more than just somebody’s wife. You don’t have to give up your life; neither of us do. You’re my best friend! Don’t you see? It’s two birds, one stone.”
“Are you done?”
Sylvain frowns, as if put out by her response. She’s not sure why—it’s not as if he’s serious, right?
“Just think about it, is all I’m saying. Your father is going to keep sending you letters, and the war’s going to be over soon. Both of us are running out of time.”
He gives her one last meaningful look before he leaves.
She shakes her head. Leave it to Sylvain to be completely ridiculous.
Except now that he’s laid it all out, she can’t stop thinking about it.
The thing that bugs her the most is that he’s right. Sylvain has always been smarter than he lets on, and she knows that, but it’s still annoying to have such logical reasoning laid out in front of her.
He’s right. The best case scenario for her is that she finds a man who’s nice, and respects her, and doesn’t mind that she can spar with the best of them. The worst case scenario…
She doesn’t even want to think about the worst case scenario.
And Sylvain is right: they know each other. For all the days she wanted to kill him, he is one of her closest friends, and she trusts him. And marrying the Gautier heir would be more than what her father could ever dream… marrying Sylvain would net them even more money then they would have had if Glenn hadn’t—
She doesn’t want to think about that, either.
Her father would be more than satisfied. They’d have to have children, one day, which would be awkward at best, but she knows Sylvain wouldn’t push her into anything she didn’t want to do.
It is a good idea. She hates how good of an idea it is.
But she doesn’t need to figure it out now. There is still a war going on, after all. She has time.
Except then the war is over. They march on Enbarr. They defeat the Imperial Army and the monster Edelgard becomes, and suddenly Ingrid’s future is a lot closer than she’d been ready for.
She finds Sylvain.
“Ask me again.”
“Wait, what? Really?”
She glares at him. “Don’t give me the chance to change my mind.”
“Okay, yeah, right, shit, okay—” He drops down onto one knee and grabs her hand. “Ingrid Brandl Galatea,” he says in a somber voice. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes, I suppose,” is her answer. Sylvain laughs and stands up.
“Well hell, Ingrid, you don’t have to be so enthusiastic about it.” He laughs again and hauls her in for a hug, pressing a kiss to her temple. “It won’t be so bad, I promise. I’ll be on my best behaviour.”
She lets herself lean into him; despite everything, it feels like a huge weight has been lifted off her shoulders. “Don’t start making promises you can’t keep this early on, Sylvain,” she teases, but she wraps her arms around him and hugs him back.
Her father, of course, is thrilled, although he tries not to show it too much. But she can read it in his words, in the excited scribble of the quill, in the ink stains and the way the letters seem to flow into each other. She had been tasked with saving the Galatea family, and she has succeeded beyond their wildest imagination.
Felix, when they tell him, laughs in a way he hasn’t since his brother died, and then says, “I don’t know which of you I feel sorriest for.” Ingrid punches him in the arm, he lunges back at her, and Sylvain has to drag them off each other.
Dimitri gives them a halting smile and his blessing. Dedue offers her a warm smile, and Ashe a warm hug. Mercedes and Annette squeal in unison for thirteen straight seconds before engulfing her in a three-way hug. Dorothea cries.
“You know I’m only doing it for practicality’s sake, right?”
“Oh, I know,” Dorothea says, wiping her eyes. “I just think of how far we’ve come since that creep who tried to kidnap you.”
“I’m sorry, who?” Both Sylvain and Felix look up at this, but she waves their overprotectiveness aside.
“It was years ago, it’s been dealt with.”
Dorothea sniffs dramatically again. “My Ingrid. Growing up and getting married! Oh, can I perform a song at the ceremony? I’ll sing of a love that could rival the brightness of the stars themselves!”
Ingrid thinks maybe they should just elope.
Considering how much she’s forced to talk about it, one would think Ingrid was ready for her new future; but after Dimitri’s official coronation, nerves start to settle in her stomach like bricks.
Sylvain notices; she can’t stop sniping at him.
“Hey,” he says, cornering her. “Are you okay?”
She sighs. Her parents will be sending her things to Gautier; they might have already. She may arrive to the estate to find she’s already settled in.
She doesn’t feel settled in.
“I don’t know how to do any of this,” she says quietly.
“Any of what?”
“This,” she says, waving an arm. “Marriage, or relationships, or, or… or consummation,” she says, face burning.
Sylvain is quiet for a moment before he speaks. “Ingrid… we don’t have to have sex. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
“We’re going to have to eventually! We’re going to have to have children, and you’ve slept with hundreds of girls—”
“Hundreds?”
“And I’ve never even kissed anyone, and I don’t know how to be a wife. I don’t know how to do any of this.”
“I don’t want you to be a wife. I want you to be Ingrid.” He says it so simply, as if it were that easy.
“But that won’t be good enough! Everyone is going to expect us to—”
“Ingrid,” he says, cutting her off and moving in front of her, taking her face in his hands. “I don’t care what anyone expects. I care about you.”
His eyes are wide and sincere, and his hands are warm and calloused. Before she can doubt herself, she says, very quickly, “Will you kiss me?”
His voice is steady when he says, “Are you sure?”
She nods, and he tilts her head up. He rubs a thumb over her lip and is nice enough not to tease her for the shiver it causes.
“Punch me if you want me to stop,” he whispers. He is close enough that she can feel his breath on her face.
“Promise,” she says, aiming for lightheartedness and missing the mark by quite a bit.
Sylvain swallows; if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was nervous. And then he leans in and kisses her gently.
Sylvain, no surprise, knows how to kiss. He brushes her cheek with his knuckles before bringing his hand to rest on the back of her neck. His lips are so soft, somehow; hers have been chapped for years, but his are…
She shifts closer to him, hands sliding from his chest to his back. She can feel the muscles beneath her hands and, for some reason, the reminder of Sylvain—of his strength and his body — makes something hot flush inside of her. She tilts her head, wanting to get closer, and Sylvain brings his arms around her tightly, pulling her to him.
He pulls away before she does. His face is red and his eyes are still wide, hand staying on the back of her neck.
“Was that okay?” he asks softly, so she can barely hear him despite their closeness. Mouth suddenly very dry, she nods.
“Thank you,” she says, because she’s not sure what else she’s supposed to say. There’s awkwardness between them that hasn’t existed for years, but Ingrid knows she’ll have to get used to this. She’s made her choice, and despite everything she’s glad it’s Sylvain next to her on this path.
He chuckles. “You don’t have to thank me, Ingrid,” he says. “And you don’t have to be scared. This is all new to me too, you know.”
“Not completely,” she argues.
He shrugs. “Maybe. Now c’mon, why don’t we get something to eat? I know you must be starving.”
Ingrid can’t argue against this, because she is starving. Lips still tingling, she follows Sylvain.
Byleth conducts the wedding.
It’s the first wedding officiated by the new Archbishop and it brings a crowd. The bitter cold of Gautier doesn’t dissuade the gawkers; the chapel is packed to the brim.
The two of them stand at the front of the room with Byleth, whose normally blank face holds a smile. Ingrid feels shaky; her eyes skirt around the room, finds her parents, finds her friends. It doesn’t help to settle her nerves—if anything, it makes them worse. There’s so many people.
She looks at Sylvain.
He looks handsome; she’d be lying if she said he didn’t. He smiles reassuringly at her and she finds that it does actually help to soothe her nerves. It’s not like she’s doing this alone. She’ll have Sylvain with her every step of the way. It’s a huge comfort; this is her oldest friend. She loves him, despite all his faults. And she knows he’ll be on her side throughout the rest of their lives together—as scary as it is to think of the rest of their lives together.
You okay? he mouths at her, and she nods, taking a deep, steadying breath. She can do this. She’s done so much worse. She’s faced hell and former friends across a battlefield, has had blood in her mouth and staining her soul—she can handle standing at the front of the room and pledging herself to her best friend in front of the goddess and everyone else.
And so that’s exactly what she does. She says the words along with Byleth and when the time comes to kiss, she doesn’t even hesitate. It’s a chaste peck on the lips, but it still makes her heart lurch in her chest.
“I would like to introduce,” Byleth begins, that same small smile on their lips as they address the room, “for the first time as a married couple, Sylvain and Ingrid Gautier.”
Sylvain’s hand slips into hers as the crowd applauds. Ingrid finds herself leaning into him, seeking the comfort of his solidity, and his thumb brushes against the skin of her hand. It hasn’t quite sunk in yet—she’s married. To Sylvain, of all people. Her, married.
It doesn’t sink in throughout the rest of the night, either, throughout all the celebrations. Sylvain stays by her side through most of it, which she appreciates. She used to chafe under his protectiveness—but this doesn’t feel like that. It feels like he needs to be near her just as much, like he also can’t quite believe this journey they’ve embarked on. She hopes she can be as much a comfort to him as he is to her, his steady presence beside her at all times.
As the night draws to a close, her nerves only get worse. And as the two of them are seen off to their new bedroom, they coalesce to what is almost a full-blown panic attack.
“Hey,” Sylvain says as the door closes behind them, as the walls start to close in. “What are you so nervous for? I was gonna sleep in my old room, remember?”
He sits her down on the edge of the bed, hands heavy on her shoulders. She takes a deep breath and tries to fight back the anxiety.
“It’s just…” She tries to explain, to put it into words. “I know what they’re all expecting. I know what my duty is, and I’m not fulfilling it.”
“Duty?” Sylvain repeats. He makes a face. “Ingrid, what do you think sex is?”
She’s starting to get annoyed and she sits up a little, glaring at him. He looks… soft. Concerned. Like he knows something she doesn’t, which she really doesn’t appreciate. She huffs and says, “Well it’s not like I’m supposed to enjoy it.”
Sylvain’s carefully neutral expression drops off his face. “Faerghus values strike again,” he mutters, seemingly to himself.
“It’s not about you,” she says. “It’s just… how it is. Isn’t it?”
Sylvain sits down beside her and takes her hand, thumb rubbing circles on the back. “I’m beginning to understand why you were so reluctant to get married,” he says. His voice is still so soft, so different from what she’s used to.
She opens her mouth and finds she doesn’t know what to say. What Sylvain is saying doesn’t line up with everything Ingrid thought she knew. She’d asked her mother, and she’ll never forget the sad smile she’d given her.
Because it is our duty. She hears her mother’s words echo in her head now. Ingrid understood duty. But she could never quite look at Glenn the same, after that, even though Glenn had never acted like they were betrothed, or even so much as treated her any differently than he did Felix. She’d always thought that it was unfair that he got to continue to treat her like a sister, while she was burdened with the knowledge of what awaited her.
“I thought…” she starts, but she doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.
“I know what you thought,” he says gently. It’s unnerving to see him like this; she’s not sure how she feels about it.
Maybe it’s his disconcerting demeanor that has her saying what she says next, which is, “Will you stay? I don’t want—I don’t want to do anything, I just, I want—”
“Hey,” he says. “I got you. I can stay. And I won’t touch you at all.”
She sighs in relief and gets into her side of the bed. Sylvain is careful when he gets into bed on the other side, although the bed is big enough that they don’t really need to worry about that. Ingrid is aware of the warmth of his body next to her as she lays there, but to her surprise she finds it more comforting than anything. She trusts Sylvain innately; with her life, with everything.
She wakes up the next morning to him sprawled out on his stomach, drooling in the pillow, and she chuckles fondly. They don’t talk about the night spent together, but that evening, as they head to bed Sylvain gives her a questioning look, and she nods; he follows her back into the room they’re meant to share. They follow the same script the next night, and the night after, until eventually Sylvain doesn’t need to ask anymore.
And Ingrid finds herself sleeping better than she ever has.
It isn’t long before Sylvain’s father steps down from his role as margrave, passing the title onto his son. Sylvain had told her, during late night conversations in their bed, all his dreams and plans for when he was Margrave, so it isn’t long at all until Sylvain is figuring out what to do about Sreng. She’s immensely proud of him, something she tells him one day; he pokes her in the cheek and tells her marriage has made her soft.
It’s about a year into their marriage that Sylvain finally arranges a trip to the southern region of Sreng. He thrums with nervous anxiety for weeks before his departure, and it isn’t uncommon for Ingrid to awaken in the middle of the night to find him still awake, staring up at the ceiling or even—some nights—just looking at her. She knows he’s nervous, knows this is a big deal, knows how much it means to him, and she feels useless beside him.
He hugs her goodbye, lingering with his arms around her, and she grips him back just as hard. She’s going to miss him. She’s grown to rely on him, and she doesn’t know what she’s going to do without him for two months. But she knows his desire to atone for the sins of his father, how much he wants to fix things—even if it is slow going—even if it’s only the annexed area of Sreng. He’ll be making his way through the southern region, meeting with clan members, trying to build bridges that had been previously burnt down. She knows he can do it; she tells him as much.
He kisses her on the cheek before he leaves, and she relives it every time she closes her eyes. It keeps her company.
Two months pass slowly. She spends lots of time with Sylvain’s mother, who she gets along with, as well as training with the Gautier army. Felix even comes to visit, which she appreciates. When she tells him this he blushes and tells her to shut up—but Felix has always spoken with his actions far more than his words.
The day Sylvain arrives home is a blustery, snowy day, and when he comes running to find her there are flakes in his hair, white against stunning red.
When he finds her, he grins and immediately sweeps her into a hug.
“Goddess, you’re warm,” he says, burying his face in her neck. “I thought I’d never be warm again.”
“So dramatic!” she says, pushing his face away before he can feel the goosebumps that have erupted.
She reaches out and touches his heavy beard. “What is this?” she says teasingly.
He laughs and jerks his head away from her, running a hand over his beard, eyes crinkling with his smile.
“Needed it to keep warm,” he says. She rolls her eyes.
“I hope you didn’t complain the whole time,” she says, and he laughs.
“No, no. Oh! I have gifts for you. I mentioned you a lot—one of the Sreng elders told me you have to come next time so they can meet you.”
Ingrid blushes, happier than she should be that Sylvain had mentioned her so much. “Or we could invite them here, instead,” she says, and Sylvain grins.
“I’m way ahead of you,” he says. “Just gotta convince my dad, but there’s not much else he can do about it, is there?”
She thinks of a younger Sylvain, who wouldn’t stand up to his father or brother, and her heart swells with affection over the man he’s become today.
“Before that, though,” he says. “There’s something I think I should tell you.”
“Oh?” Curiosity fills her. “What is it?”
“I didn’t know how to tell you, but I—well, I realized when I was in Sreng… I’m in love.”
It feels like the sky comes falling down onto her shoulders, as the happy life she’s managed to build for herself starts slipping out of reach. She should have known this would happen someday, but not this soon.
Anger surges through her following her grief. How dare he? This had been his idea, and now he’s going to stand in front of her and tell her that he is in love with someone else? And is it even really love, or just Sylvain’s lust getting in the way? How many times had she heard him proclaim those exact words, only to have him move on a few days later?
“It will pass,” she says, with that in mind. Sylvain gives a half-hearted laugh.
“I really don’t think it will,” he says.
Ingrid is trying very hard to keep her composure. “You will not make a fool of us,” she says. “Whatever you do, Sylvain, I won’t allow that.”
“Ingrid—”
“And this was your idea, you know!” She’s on a tangent now. “Why did you propose to me, if this was going to be a problem? And what do you suggest we do? We can’t exactly break up. Are we going to move your mistress in?”
“Ingrid!” he cuts her off. She pushes her hair out of her face and glares at him. “I really don’t think it’s going to be that big of a deal,” he continues.
“How could you possibly think that? Word will get out, Sylvain, people will judge us.”
He gives her a crooked smile, then, and he says, “I really don’t think anyone is going to judge me for being in love with my wife.”
It takes a moment for those words to sink in. For her to realize what he means when he says wife. For her to realize that she’s the wife.
“Sylvain!” she shouts. “How could you—why did you—”
“I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says gently.
“And you thought that was the best option?” she cries in exasperation.
He rubs the back of his neck and laughs self-deprecatingly. “Sorry,” he says.
She looks at him with wild eyes, heart threatening to beat out of her chest. “What do you mean? ”
“Just that,” he says simply, as if anything about this were simple. “I’m in love with you.”
“I just… how do you know?”
He chuckles again, a little nervously. “Are you asking me to explain love to you?”
Is that what this is? This feeling in her chest? The comfort she feels around him? The way she misses him like a lung when he’s gone? It’s an answer to a question she didn’t even know she was asking—love. It’s love.
“Oh,” she says, a little weakly.
“You don’t have to do anything about it,” Sylvain says quickly. “I just… it felt like I needed to tell you.”
She doesn’t need to do anything about it? But that’s not what she wants. She wants—
“I love you, too,” she says, because she does.
Sylvain blinks at her a few times, like he hadn’t been expecting this and now isn’t quite sure what to do about it. “You… really?”
She nods. It sits between them. It’s a little awkward, if she’s being honest.
Sylvain is the one who finally breaks the silence. “So do you… wanna go out with me?”
She gives him an incredulous look. “What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know!” he says defensively. “I don’t know what to do about this. We’re already married!”
“How about,” she says, putting her arm through his. “You bathe that horse stink off of you and then tell me all about your trip.”
“I thought you liked horse stink,” he says, a little petulantly. She rolls her eyes at him but she can’t stop herself from smiling. She builds up her courage and stands up on her toes so she can press a small, short kiss to Sylvain’s mouth.
When she pulls away, Sylvain is smiling and blushing red. Warmth fills her heart, and great fondness for the man in front of her. If this is what the rest of her life is going to look like, she thinks she can handle it.