Remire Village - Morning - Sunny
Cyril Eisner
While the guests slept and his father ran the men through drills, Cyril went about the morning's chores.
They weren't complicated, really; it was all things he'd been doing since he could remember. Feed and water the horses. Clean the stalls. Tidy the practice yard. Check all the equipment and set aside anything that needed a clean or a sharpen for later. Make sure the mess was in order before breakfast, that kind of thing. He'd done a fair share of the cooking too, but they'd actually hired someone for that here, a village fellow who didn't mind making food in mass quantities for a steady wage.
Not that the quantities were that large anymore. The mercs were only about ten these days, since the last ones had left. It was something that happened sometimes. People retired, or wanted to settle down, or just decided they were done risking their lives for pay. His father never blamed them for leaving, never tried to persuade them to stay, and Cyril thought he understood why. It was a lot to ask of most people, to live this kind of life. It was the only one he knew; maybe that was why he'd never really felt the desire to live a different one.
You're a strange one, all right. The girl's voice was only in his mind, he knew, but Cyril was quite convinced that she was real. In whatever sense that could have.
As usual, he didn't reply much to the commentary, exiting the stables and moving to the well. The guests would probably want something to drink when they woke up, after all.
“Hey!" a voice, loud and boisterous even from the distance it had been shouted, filled the air. A group of men clad in heavy armour stood at least a yard or two away from the well, and seemed to be searching for something. The loud one was the first to approach Cyril, his brows furrowed and almost knotted. He was on the larger side, and appeared to be near or around his father's age. “You haven't seen three kids, one about this high," he continued, using his hands to measure the different heights of the people he was searching for.
“They are students of the Officers' Academy at Garreg Mach," he continued. The man seemed to be the leader of the group of men since he was the only one to approach Cyril. It was also possible that they had just sent the one man to investigate before joining.. “The Knights of Seiros are searching for them!" he continued, still in a loud volume, as if he were explaining who he was affiliated with.
Cyril had never met a Knight of Seiros. He wasn't even sure exactly what they were, except that Seiros was some kind of prophet or goddess or something. But if he had to guess what a knight like that would look like, he probably would have picked something close to this man. Dressed in white armor with a cape to match, clasped at his shoulder with some kind of fancy emblem design. He blinked.
“They're here," he said, much more quietly than the man was speaking. “They were chased by bandits last night. They're resting, now."
He might have invited the man a little further into the compound, but just then his father approached, probably drawn by the volume of the knight's voice. “Who the flames is—oh, great. It's you." He didn't look terribly pleased to see the man, but he did apparently recognize him.
“Captain!" the man's voice seemed to increase in volume when Cyril's father appeared, though he addressed him as Commander. “Woaah! It's been a long time! Do you remember me? It's me, Alois, your self-proclaimed right hand man!” Alois, as he introduced himself as, continued. He blinked, though, before grabbing his chin with his hand and leaned to the side a bit.
“You haven't changed a bit!" he finally spoke. “Oh, wait, I was here for a reason. This kid said that there are three Academy students here. Is that true? They were attacked by bandits and we're searching for them."
Cyril thought it rather obvious that his father remembered this Alois, though he'd never mentioned him before. Not that he could remember anyway.
Still, Jeralt rolled his eyes and sighed. “Yes, Alois, I remember you. And yeah, the kids are here. Cyril and I had to pull their asses out of the fire last night. They're lucky we were around, and got there when we did." He frowned outright, and crossed his arms. “What's she thinking, sending them out on an exercise with no protection? I doubt they're even majority age; that girl looked like she'd never seen a dead person before."
He wasn't derisive, Cyril thought, but defensive. In a way, he could sort of understand. He thought perhaps it would be disturbing, to someone who hadn't gotten used to the reality of such things.
Alois frowned slightly at Jeralt's statements. “It's not like they were completely without protection. They were with their teacher, and we'd cleared the place beforehand. It was supposed to be safe training exercise," he finally spoke, crossing his arms over his chest. It looked like the armour made it slightly difficult, and he dropped his arms back to his side. He cast his gaze downwards, though, for a second before meeting Jeralt's.
“So, is this your kid?" he finally stated, turning his attention towards Cyril as if he were asking Cyril the question.
Cyril was well aware that he didn't look much like his father. Not really at all, in fact, save that their builds were sort of similar—the efficient muscularity of a warrior who also had to march for days at a time to get anywhere. So he shrugged a little. “I'm a bandit, actually," he deadpanned.
He could have sworn his father sighed again.
The reply was enough to bring forth a loud, boisterous laugh from Alois. He laughed to the point that it brought tears to his eyes, however; he managed to recompose himself and cleared his throat. “I see the humor skipped you and was passed to your kid," he finally spoke, his shoulders shaking slightly still from the laugh. “Hey!" he shouted suddenly.
“Why don't you come back to the Monastery with us? I'm sure the Archbishop would want to thank you for saving the kids," he stated, his eyes going large as if he were anticipating a favorable answer.
“Can we not?" Jeralt replies, but his tone is a resigned one Cyril has heard him use before. “Never thought I'd be seeing that woman again," he mutters, almost under his breath.
Still, Cyril can tell the difference between his father reluctantly accepting a thing and actually refusing, so he nods a little at Alois. “I'll get them."
It doesn't take too long, though the one calling himself Mercer proves more difficult to rouse than the other two. Vridel was already up when Cyril reached the house; Sorcha woke when he knocked. He had to actually call out to wake the third, though; fortunately they were all ready to move out rather quickly. It was a good thing he'd done most of their laundry before the sun rose; their uniforms weren't in bad shape, at least.
His father spent most of the trip up front with Alois and the other knights, leading his horse instead of riding, but Cyril dropped back to linger with the others. Though they might have been 'kids' to the others, he didn't think he was much older than them—or at least appearances didn't suggest so.
“Thanks again, for last night," Sorcha said after a while. “Aside from our own lives, I don't like thinking about what might have happened if all of us had died."
Something about the way she said it puzzled him. “What do you mean, besides your lives?" he asked.
“She means there would have been a big diplomatic incident over it," Vridel clarified, narrowing violet eyes at the path ahead of them. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but you're walking with the heirs to all three countries in Fódlan right now. Not even the Church would be able to escape blame for letting all of us die on their watch."
Cyril was surprised to hear it, though his face gave no indication of the fact. They did seem to be different, from the people he'd met. He wondered if that was because they were nobility. He didn't think he'd ever met many nobles before. His father handled contract negotiations, and so while Cyril had been in the estates of a few minor regional lords, and sort of interacted with their staffs, it wasn't like any of them had ever deigned to speak to a hired soldier like him.
How odd that these three didn't seem to mind.
Mercer had remained quiet for the most part, occasionally yawning as if he were still tired. Perhaps bored, since he didn't appear to be tired at all. There was a faint smile on his face, and like Vridel, his eyes were kept forward. They did wander towards Sorcha a couple of times, but it appeared he was checking her over as one would to ensure someone was not harmed in any particular way. He seemed satisfied for the time being, and finally turned his attention towards Cyril.
“Yeah, but luckily we didn't," he finally spoke, resting his hands behind his head. “Hopefully news doesn't get out about the incident, though. I don't want to have to deal with all the Are you okay?! and stuff," he muttered the last part, and visibly shuddered.
“So, Cyril, have you ever been to Garreg Mach? Since your dad was a captain before?" he asked.
Cyril shook his head, considering the knights that walked ahead of them. Despite his initial reluctance to make the trip at all, Jeralt had fallen in among the others with seemingly no trouble at all; the conversation up ahead was animated, and Alois's loud laughter occasionally rang back towards the four of them. “I didn't even know he had been," he replied after a slight pause. It was difficult, sometimes, to remember which answers needed elaboration and which did not. “The monastery... that's a religious place?"
“You mean you don't know?" The young woman—Sorcha—was looking at him with a puzzled expression. He supposed she must be royalty from somewhere, but he had no way of knowing which, except that her name sounded more like a Kingdom name than one from the Alliance or the Empire. They weren't that different, overall, but there were some distinctions.
Vridel—that was probably an Imperial name—was looking at him with vague incredulity, too.
He shrugged. “I know that the Church of Seiros is some kind of religion," he said. “But it's never really been any of our concern. They have their own knights, so they don't really need to hire the likes of us. Or maybe my father just avoided the jobs because of all this." He couldn't honestly be sure.
Sorcha blinked, pursing her lips faintly, but the expression soon disappeared. “That's all... correct," she admitted. “I'm sorry if I was rude; it's just I don't think I've ever met anyone whose contact with Church teachings was so limited before. It surprised me."
Cyril tilted his head. “So what do most people know that I don't?"
She hummed thoughtfully. “Well... the Church of Seiros is named after Saint Seiros, the central figure in the War of Heroes a thousand years ago," she started, almost as if unsure where to begin. She glanced at him as if for confirmation that he knew that much already; when all he gave her in return was an attentive stare, she cleared her throat and continued. “Ah, anyway. The Church teaches that Saint Seiros received a divine revelation from the progenitor goddess of our world. Times were difficult, then; the kings of the world had grown greedy, and the people suffered under their tyrannical rule. So alongside the Four Saints and the Ten Elites, Seiros rose up to fight them. The Goddess gifted them with Crests and sacred relics, and with her blessings they were able to overcome the much greater numbers of their opponents. Nemesis, the most powerful of the tyrants, was slain by Saint Serios in single combat on the Tailtean Plains in the Imperial Year 91."
“And thereafter her Church was established to spread the teachings of the goddess and punish the wicked." Vridel's contribution was much harder to read in tone. Though Sorcha sounded like she was reciting a story she knew by heart and liked, his voice was much more neutral, almost like it was forced to be so. “No other religions are permitted within the bounds of Fódlan, though of course they do exist elsewhere. Brigid, Dagda, Sreng, Almyra—" he paused, flicking a glance at Sorcha and lowering his voice. “Duscur."
She nodded. “But in Fódlan, the Goddess and the Church of Seiros are ubiquitous, which is why it's so surprising you haven't heard of them."
Cyril absorbed this evenly, nodding a bit at the end of the explanation. There were other pieces in there he didn't understand—crests, relics, saints, elites... for now though it seemed better to betray the depths of his ignorance no further. Why had his father taught him none of this? Even if he wasn't himself a believer, it seemed... well, if it was as ubiquitous as Sorcha said, it was important to at least know of.
“But if this monastery is a holy building, why do they train political royalty in the arts of war?"
“So that we can handle ourselves if any of the surrounding regions decided to attack us. The Officer's Academy was built sometime in 980 by the Archbishop of that time. Supposedly it was because they believed that the Church of Seiros had a duty to prepare the continent's leadership for whatever wars we might encounter. Almyra might have had something to do about that, or some other," Mercer responded this time, shrugging his shoulders. Unlike Sorcha and Vridel, he spoke as if he'd learned the information not as something he liked or was forced, but as something that was needed.
“Personally," he paused to glance at Cyril through the sides of his eyes, “I think it's because the Church wants to make sure that the descendents of the Elites, or whoever bears their Crest, can be useful if something like Nemesis ever happened again. I mean... it's kind of unimaginable that it would happen, but why else have the nobility and leaders in one place?" he stated as if it were just on a whim. He shrugged again, before shaking his head.
“You should be careful what you say," Vridel put in mildly. “You never know whose ears it will eventually reach."
Sorcha just looked uncomfortable, but they both let it drop so Mercer could continue.
“If you and your dad end up staying for a while, we can give you a tour of the place. The Library has all kinds of books with information that might be useful to you if you want to learn more," he stated, glancing towards Sorcha and Vridel with a smile.
“I'm sure you'd be welcome!" Sorcha added, the cheer in her tone sounding slightly forced. Maybe some residue from the last exchange. “Personally, uh... I could stand to learn a thing or two from you. I've never seen anyone throw a javelin that well on the run like you did. I can barely get enough distance most of the time."
Cyril wasn't entirely surprised to hear that. While not exactly *diminutive*, Sorcha was thinner than she was muscular, and not quite possessed yet of a warrior's build. Still, there was no reason she couldn't develop one, and he figured if she was getting any force with javelins at *all*, her technique must be pretty good.
“Well I don't know how long we'll be staying," he admitted, “but I'm sure I could find the time to practice with you at least once before we go, if you like?" He extended the invitation to all three with a slight tilt of his head.
“Man, that sounds like a lot of work," Mercer murmured beneath his breath, pursing his lips together with a deep frown. His shoulders went slack, almost as if he were already burdened with a large work load. “But I suppose it couldn't hurt to learn a few things," he added with a grin. He was very expressive, it appeared. His attention seemed to be taken by something as they cleared the forest.
“Speak of the place," he spoke, pointing forward. “Welcome to the Monastery." The Monastery was fairly large, perhaps the size of a Lord's castle rather than a simple Church. They were approaching a large iron gate that was already raised, perhaps in anticipation of the Knights' return. A guard stood on each side of the entrance, though one of them held a banner flag. The symbol of the Church, perhaps. Mercer's lips pursed into a fine line, and sighed.
“I suppose we'll have some explaining to do, unless Alois covers for us," he murmured. “Really hope Alois covers for us. I just want to go back to my bed. I can hear it calling to me."
Sorcha huffed and Vridel rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. Cyril felt the barest twitch of his mouth, but it was gone a moment later as though it had never happened.
“I wouldn't count on it," the probably-imperial said. “But either way I'm sure we won't be called up until she's done with Captain Jeralt and you." The last part, he directed to Cyril.
Almost as if to confirm, Jeralt turned back over his shoulder and gestured Cyril up to walk beside him. “Thanks for the company," he told the others with a small nod. “And the information. See you later, I guess."
They parted ways there, along with the other knights. Jeralt tipped his head up as they passed through what seemed to be some kind of entrance hall, frowning slightly and muttering almost under his breath. “Rhea. Careful what you say to her, kid. The Church is..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
He did that kind of thing a lot. Cyril had learned to read between the lines, and understood that did not trust this Rhea person.
“You know her?" he prompted.
His father sighed. “Yeah, in a way. She's the Archbishop here. If you can avoid getting on her bad side, do it, but don't take anything you see here at face value." That seemed to be all he was willing to say on the matter, perhaps due to the possibility of being overheard.
The two of them were led to a small waiting room; no doubt Alois had to make a report before they'd be seen, or something of the kind. Cyril hadn't been around nobility much, but even he understood that there were a lot of rules and procedures to follow and that some people were considered more important than others. It was about an hour after they'd been admitted that they were let in to see the Archbishop. Jeralt entered slightly ahead; Cyril followed with customary silence.
The woman in front of them was dressed in a long dress, white in color with the sleeves covering the middle of her hands. The cape she wore was dark blue in color and had intricate gold designs on the front portion of it. There were gold lines through the collar of it that flowed outwards, almost like a sunflower. The headdress that sat on her head like a golden crown, was perhaps the one thing that stood out against the seafoam color of her hair. There was a gentle smile on her face, but the smile itself did not seem to reflect in her eyes. There was something else lurking behind, though it was hard to say what, exactly.
“Jeralt," she greeted his father, first. “It has been a long time. I wonder... was it the will of the goddess that we have another chance meeting like this?" she continued, her eyes narrowing lightly before she turned her gaze towards Cyril. “But where are my manners. I am Archbishop Rhea, and this is my advisor, Lyanna von Kreuz," she spoke, introducing a woman to her left.
The second woman was even younger in appearance than the archbishop, perhaps in her mid to late twenties, if Cyril had to take a guess. Her hair was a dark, almost emerald-green, braided loosely forward over one shoulder. She too wore white, though the construction of her gown was much simpler, and the mantle that adorned her shoulders, while blue and gold, was shorter and less elaborate than the Archbishop's. She wore a thick golden torc necklace that sat against her collarbones, some kind of symbol engraved into its face, and rimless glasses, but was otherwise without jewelry or adornment. She offered a short nod, spring-green eyes narrowed in assessment.
“It seems that the miracle of fatherhood has blessed you. That is your child, is it not?" she asked, keeping her gaze on Cyril.
Oddly, Jeralt looked a little thrown by the question for a split second, but he nodded slowly. “Yeah," he said quietly. “This is my son. He was born a couple of years after I left the monastery, but we uh... we lost his mother to childbirth."
“I see. My condolonces," she spoke, nodding her head in Jeralt's direction.
That much, Cyril did know. He nodded slightly. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Archbishop," he said in his muted sort of way, offering a small bow more because it seemed appropriate to the woman's manner than anything. He wasn't sure of the conventions on any of this, but his father had warned against getting on her bad side, so he could at least try to guess at the right ones.
“As for you," she addressed Cyril once more with the same empty smile on her face. “I have heard all of your valiant efforts from Alois. What is your name?" she asked, her head tilted slightly in a curious manner.
“Cyril, milady," he replied, rising to his full height again. He was sort of used to being the tallest person in most rooms since he'd overtaken his father, but neither Rhea nor the Lyanna woman were short, either. “Cyril Eisner."
“A fine name indeed," she stated, the smile inching a bit wider on her face. “I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for saving those students of the Officers Academy," she continued, nodding her head just slightly before she turned her attention towards Jeralt. “You already know what it is I wish to say, do you not?" it sounded more like a statement rather than a question.
“You want me to rejoin the Knights of Seiros, don't you?" he asked, rubbing at his nose with his thumb. He sounded tired. “I won't say no, but..."
Cyril was honestly surprised. They'd only just settled in Remire, and his father had been talking about rebuilding the company. Did he really intend to become a knight again?
“Your apprehension stings," she replied, the smile falling from her face as she frowned. “I had expected Alois would have already asked this of you," she continued, sighing softly before turning her attention back towards Cyril. “I must step away for now, however; we have a position for Cyril, as well," she stated, the smile returning to her face.
“Since the original professor no longer occupies the position, Cyril is being made the professor to the Blue Lion's House. The other two House Professors will brief you, shortly, but I surmise the Knights will desire a word with you, Jeralt," she stated as if it were something Cyril had no say in.
“Yeah, all right." Jeralt didn't seem to much question it either, though as the Archbishop and her adviser took their leave, he did mutter underneath his breath. “Forced back into the Knights of Seiros... I can't fucking believe it." A heavy breath passed from his nose, and he shook his head before turning to Cyril. “Sorry to drag you into this mess; I thought I'd left it all behind a long time ago. But she knows now, and I think it's probably best to stay, at least for a while."
Perhaps, had Cyril had any particularly strong feelings for the life of a mercenary, he might've objected. But as it was, he really didn't, and something about the way his father was acting made it seem as though there wasn't a great deal of choice to be had in the matter. He wondered if the Archbishop had some kind of leverage that she was using to arrange things this way. It would have to be the kind that was simply understood, because she definitely hadn't directly applied any in their conversation. She'd just kind of... expected to be obeyed.
Clapping his son briefly on the shoulder, Jeralt took his own exit through a different door, at just about the same time as a woman entered, her heels clicking hurriedly on the stone floor. Dressed in a dark blue gown with a deep neckline and high slits, she also wore a white over-robe with bell sleeves, accented in cream-orange. Her hair was fawn-colored and short, swept back from her brow in a bob style he'd seen before in parts of the Empire.
She blinked at him, scanning the room as if looking for someone else, but when Cyril was the only person to be found, she approached at a more sedate pace. “You're awfully young to be the new professor, aren't you?" she remarked, voice strong and lilting.
Cyril shrugged. “Old enough by the Archbishop's standards," he replied.
She huffed softly through her nose, a strange little smile curling her mouth. “So it seems," she said, agreeably enough. “I'm Manuela Casagranda: professor, physician, songstress, and available."
Cyril blinked. “That's a lot of things to be," he noted.
She laughed, the sound ringing in a way that suggested the songstress part was at least true. “What can I say? I'm a woman of many talents."
“Spare our collegue the needless chatter, Manuela. Competence and age are not necessarily correlated, as you well know," another voice stated as an older man appeared. His hair was a dark grey, signaling his age to be around the early fifties. He was dressed in a taupe colored robe, though, no white save for the handkerchief located in his right breast pocket. There was an olive green tie with a diamond shape clip to hold it in place. “Apologies for the tardiness. I am Hanneman, a Crest scholar and professor here at the Officers Academy," he stated, introducing himself to Cyril.
“I wonder," he began, his eyes narrowing slightly at Cyril. “Perhaps you bear a Crest of your own. The next time you have a moment to spare, I insist that you pay me a visit so we can delve further into the subject," he continued, a sort of amused tone to his voice.
“Now then, it seems that you'll be in charge of the academy's Blue Lion's house as their homeroom professor. I expect you haven't yet been briefed on the nature, have you?"
Crests... that had definitely come up in Sorcha's story. Cyril wasn't sure how uncommon it was not to know anything about that, so he only nodded slightly to that part of what Hanneman said. Maybe he'd be able to learn.
“I'm not sure how any of it works, to be honest."
Manuela made a sympathetic sort of noise in the back of her throat, clasping her hands in front of her. “Well," she said, “we can help. To start with, the Officers' Academy is divided into three student houses. The Black Eagle House is for students hailing from the Adrestian Empire. You've already met their house leader for this year, I believe—Vridel von Hresvelg is the Imperial Prince, and next in line to be Emperor. That's the house I teach."
“The Golden Deer House is for students who are part of the Leicester Alliance. Their house leader this year is Mercer, grandson to Duke Riegan, the leader of the Alliance. They are also the house I instruct," Hanneman spoke next in a matter-of-fact tone. “The Blue Lion house is for students from the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. Their house leader this year is Princess Sorcha. She is to be the next Queen of Faerghus."
“To think that the next emperor, queen, and sovereign duke are all here. It certainly is a promising year for the academy," he stated, folding an arm over the other.
“And I... teach the Blue Lions?" he asked, not sure how unusual it was to have three heirs running around.
Manuela nodded slightly. “To an extent. You're the homeroom teacher for the Blue Lions, which means you teach them every morning and guide them three afternoons of five in every week. The other two afternoons, they'll be attending special lectures from either Hanneman or myself. You, in turn, will be giving a special lecture to one of our houses, in your... areas of expertise." She raised an eyebrow slightly.
“I, for example, excel in holy magics, the use of herbs and medicines, and swordplay. Hanneman here is very good with black magic, bows, and history. It's not a bad idea to have two combat-related and at least one non-combat area to lecture on. It helps keep an interesting rotation for our darling little treasures." She sounded the faintest bit sarcastic, but it seemed to be good-natured.
“Anyway, other afternoons are usually given to special instruction from our adjunct faculty, or Knights who want to give a special topic lesson. So we have a fencing instructor, who might do a clinic on swordfighting, or sometimes Alois likes to let them play with axes for a while. But overall, you're the one who will be deciding how to tutor them, so be sure to consider their talents and preferences. Our goal is to make them all well-educated officers and effective fighters, but they don't all have to be experts in everything."
“Hm, quite," Hanneman spoke, nodding his head in agreement. “Regardless, it'll be interesting to see how they grow. Classes start on Monday, so for now, I suggest you take the time to acquaint yourself with your surroundings, before then. It'll be easier on you if you know where every thing is at before the school year starts. Manuela and I have already informed the Blue Lion house leader of your new role," he continued.
“Oh, and when you find yourself a free moment, do drop by my research laboratory. I would like to investigate whether or not if you possess a Crest," he stated, smiling widely enough that it forced his eyes to close.
Cyril made a mental note to do that, but only after he'd figured his way around the campus and also decided what he was going to do for his first day of teaching.
“Sure thing," he said quietly. “And thank you both."
They weren't complicated, really; it was all things he'd been doing since he could remember. Feed and water the horses. Clean the stalls. Tidy the practice yard. Check all the equipment and set aside anything that needed a clean or a sharpen for later. Make sure the mess was in order before breakfast, that kind of thing. He'd done a fair share of the cooking too, but they'd actually hired someone for that here, a village fellow who didn't mind making food in mass quantities for a steady wage.
Not that the quantities were that large anymore. The mercs were only about ten these days, since the last ones had left. It was something that happened sometimes. People retired, or wanted to settle down, or just decided they were done risking their lives for pay. His father never blamed them for leaving, never tried to persuade them to stay, and Cyril thought he understood why. It was a lot to ask of most people, to live this kind of life. It was the only one he knew; maybe that was why he'd never really felt the desire to live a different one.
You're a strange one, all right. The girl's voice was only in his mind, he knew, but Cyril was quite convinced that she was real. In whatever sense that could have.
As usual, he didn't reply much to the commentary, exiting the stables and moving to the well. The guests would probably want something to drink when they woke up, after all.
“Hey!" a voice, loud and boisterous even from the distance it had been shouted, filled the air. A group of men clad in heavy armour stood at least a yard or two away from the well, and seemed to be searching for something. The loud one was the first to approach Cyril, his brows furrowed and almost knotted. He was on the larger side, and appeared to be near or around his father's age. “You haven't seen three kids, one about this high," he continued, using his hands to measure the different heights of the people he was searching for.
“They are students of the Officers' Academy at Garreg Mach," he continued. The man seemed to be the leader of the group of men since he was the only one to approach Cyril. It was also possible that they had just sent the one man to investigate before joining.. “The Knights of Seiros are searching for them!" he continued, still in a loud volume, as if he were explaining who he was affiliated with.
Cyril had never met a Knight of Seiros. He wasn't even sure exactly what they were, except that Seiros was some kind of prophet or goddess or something. But if he had to guess what a knight like that would look like, he probably would have picked something close to this man. Dressed in white armor with a cape to match, clasped at his shoulder with some kind of fancy emblem design. He blinked.
“They're here," he said, much more quietly than the man was speaking. “They were chased by bandits last night. They're resting, now."
He might have invited the man a little further into the compound, but just then his father approached, probably drawn by the volume of the knight's voice. “Who the flames is—oh, great. It's you." He didn't look terribly pleased to see the man, but he did apparently recognize him.
“Captain!" the man's voice seemed to increase in volume when Cyril's father appeared, though he addressed him as Commander. “Woaah! It's been a long time! Do you remember me? It's me, Alois, your self-proclaimed right hand man!” Alois, as he introduced himself as, continued. He blinked, though, before grabbing his chin with his hand and leaned to the side a bit.
“You haven't changed a bit!" he finally spoke. “Oh, wait, I was here for a reason. This kid said that there are three Academy students here. Is that true? They were attacked by bandits and we're searching for them."
Cyril thought it rather obvious that his father remembered this Alois, though he'd never mentioned him before. Not that he could remember anyway.
Still, Jeralt rolled his eyes and sighed. “Yes, Alois, I remember you. And yeah, the kids are here. Cyril and I had to pull their asses out of the fire last night. They're lucky we were around, and got there when we did." He frowned outright, and crossed his arms. “What's she thinking, sending them out on an exercise with no protection? I doubt they're even majority age; that girl looked like she'd never seen a dead person before."
He wasn't derisive, Cyril thought, but defensive. In a way, he could sort of understand. He thought perhaps it would be disturbing, to someone who hadn't gotten used to the reality of such things.
Alois frowned slightly at Jeralt's statements. “It's not like they were completely without protection. They were with their teacher, and we'd cleared the place beforehand. It was supposed to be safe training exercise," he finally spoke, crossing his arms over his chest. It looked like the armour made it slightly difficult, and he dropped his arms back to his side. He cast his gaze downwards, though, for a second before meeting Jeralt's.
“So, is this your kid?" he finally stated, turning his attention towards Cyril as if he were asking Cyril the question.
Cyril was well aware that he didn't look much like his father. Not really at all, in fact, save that their builds were sort of similar—the efficient muscularity of a warrior who also had to march for days at a time to get anywhere. So he shrugged a little. “I'm a bandit, actually," he deadpanned.
He could have sworn his father sighed again.
The reply was enough to bring forth a loud, boisterous laugh from Alois. He laughed to the point that it brought tears to his eyes, however; he managed to recompose himself and cleared his throat. “I see the humor skipped you and was passed to your kid," he finally spoke, his shoulders shaking slightly still from the laugh. “Hey!" he shouted suddenly.
“Why don't you come back to the Monastery with us? I'm sure the Archbishop would want to thank you for saving the kids," he stated, his eyes going large as if he were anticipating a favorable answer.
“Can we not?" Jeralt replies, but his tone is a resigned one Cyril has heard him use before. “Never thought I'd be seeing that woman again," he mutters, almost under his breath.
Still, Cyril can tell the difference between his father reluctantly accepting a thing and actually refusing, so he nods a little at Alois. “I'll get them."
It doesn't take too long, though the one calling himself Mercer proves more difficult to rouse than the other two. Vridel was already up when Cyril reached the house; Sorcha woke when he knocked. He had to actually call out to wake the third, though; fortunately they were all ready to move out rather quickly. It was a good thing he'd done most of their laundry before the sun rose; their uniforms weren't in bad shape, at least.
His father spent most of the trip up front with Alois and the other knights, leading his horse instead of riding, but Cyril dropped back to linger with the others. Though they might have been 'kids' to the others, he didn't think he was much older than them—or at least appearances didn't suggest so.
“Thanks again, for last night," Sorcha said after a while. “Aside from our own lives, I don't like thinking about what might have happened if all of us had died."
Something about the way she said it puzzled him. “What do you mean, besides your lives?" he asked.
“She means there would have been a big diplomatic incident over it," Vridel clarified, narrowing violet eyes at the path ahead of them. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but you're walking with the heirs to all three countries in Fódlan right now. Not even the Church would be able to escape blame for letting all of us die on their watch."
Cyril was surprised to hear it, though his face gave no indication of the fact. They did seem to be different, from the people he'd met. He wondered if that was because they were nobility. He didn't think he'd ever met many nobles before. His father handled contract negotiations, and so while Cyril had been in the estates of a few minor regional lords, and sort of interacted with their staffs, it wasn't like any of them had ever deigned to speak to a hired soldier like him.
How odd that these three didn't seem to mind.
Mercer had remained quiet for the most part, occasionally yawning as if he were still tired. Perhaps bored, since he didn't appear to be tired at all. There was a faint smile on his face, and like Vridel, his eyes were kept forward. They did wander towards Sorcha a couple of times, but it appeared he was checking her over as one would to ensure someone was not harmed in any particular way. He seemed satisfied for the time being, and finally turned his attention towards Cyril.
“Yeah, but luckily we didn't," he finally spoke, resting his hands behind his head. “Hopefully news doesn't get out about the incident, though. I don't want to have to deal with all the Are you okay?! and stuff," he muttered the last part, and visibly shuddered.
“So, Cyril, have you ever been to Garreg Mach? Since your dad was a captain before?" he asked.
Cyril shook his head, considering the knights that walked ahead of them. Despite his initial reluctance to make the trip at all, Jeralt had fallen in among the others with seemingly no trouble at all; the conversation up ahead was animated, and Alois's loud laughter occasionally rang back towards the four of them. “I didn't even know he had been," he replied after a slight pause. It was difficult, sometimes, to remember which answers needed elaboration and which did not. “The monastery... that's a religious place?"
“You mean you don't know?" The young woman—Sorcha—was looking at him with a puzzled expression. He supposed she must be royalty from somewhere, but he had no way of knowing which, except that her name sounded more like a Kingdom name than one from the Alliance or the Empire. They weren't that different, overall, but there were some distinctions.
Vridel—that was probably an Imperial name—was looking at him with vague incredulity, too.
He shrugged. “I know that the Church of Seiros is some kind of religion," he said. “But it's never really been any of our concern. They have their own knights, so they don't really need to hire the likes of us. Or maybe my father just avoided the jobs because of all this." He couldn't honestly be sure.
Sorcha blinked, pursing her lips faintly, but the expression soon disappeared. “That's all... correct," she admitted. “I'm sorry if I was rude; it's just I don't think I've ever met anyone whose contact with Church teachings was so limited before. It surprised me."
Cyril tilted his head. “So what do most people know that I don't?"
She hummed thoughtfully. “Well... the Church of Seiros is named after Saint Seiros, the central figure in the War of Heroes a thousand years ago," she started, almost as if unsure where to begin. She glanced at him as if for confirmation that he knew that much already; when all he gave her in return was an attentive stare, she cleared her throat and continued. “Ah, anyway. The Church teaches that Saint Seiros received a divine revelation from the progenitor goddess of our world. Times were difficult, then; the kings of the world had grown greedy, and the people suffered under their tyrannical rule. So alongside the Four Saints and the Ten Elites, Seiros rose up to fight them. The Goddess gifted them with Crests and sacred relics, and with her blessings they were able to overcome the much greater numbers of their opponents. Nemesis, the most powerful of the tyrants, was slain by Saint Serios in single combat on the Tailtean Plains in the Imperial Year 91."
“And thereafter her Church was established to spread the teachings of the goddess and punish the wicked." Vridel's contribution was much harder to read in tone. Though Sorcha sounded like she was reciting a story she knew by heart and liked, his voice was much more neutral, almost like it was forced to be so. “No other religions are permitted within the bounds of Fódlan, though of course they do exist elsewhere. Brigid, Dagda, Sreng, Almyra—" he paused, flicking a glance at Sorcha and lowering his voice. “Duscur."
She nodded. “But in Fódlan, the Goddess and the Church of Seiros are ubiquitous, which is why it's so surprising you haven't heard of them."
Cyril absorbed this evenly, nodding a bit at the end of the explanation. There were other pieces in there he didn't understand—crests, relics, saints, elites... for now though it seemed better to betray the depths of his ignorance no further. Why had his father taught him none of this? Even if he wasn't himself a believer, it seemed... well, if it was as ubiquitous as Sorcha said, it was important to at least know of.
“But if this monastery is a holy building, why do they train political royalty in the arts of war?"
“So that we can handle ourselves if any of the surrounding regions decided to attack us. The Officer's Academy was built sometime in 980 by the Archbishop of that time. Supposedly it was because they believed that the Church of Seiros had a duty to prepare the continent's leadership for whatever wars we might encounter. Almyra might have had something to do about that, or some other," Mercer responded this time, shrugging his shoulders. Unlike Sorcha and Vridel, he spoke as if he'd learned the information not as something he liked or was forced, but as something that was needed.
“Personally," he paused to glance at Cyril through the sides of his eyes, “I think it's because the Church wants to make sure that the descendents of the Elites, or whoever bears their Crest, can be useful if something like Nemesis ever happened again. I mean... it's kind of unimaginable that it would happen, but why else have the nobility and leaders in one place?" he stated as if it were just on a whim. He shrugged again, before shaking his head.
“You should be careful what you say," Vridel put in mildly. “You never know whose ears it will eventually reach."
Sorcha just looked uncomfortable, but they both let it drop so Mercer could continue.
“If you and your dad end up staying for a while, we can give you a tour of the place. The Library has all kinds of books with information that might be useful to you if you want to learn more," he stated, glancing towards Sorcha and Vridel with a smile.
“I'm sure you'd be welcome!" Sorcha added, the cheer in her tone sounding slightly forced. Maybe some residue from the last exchange. “Personally, uh... I could stand to learn a thing or two from you. I've never seen anyone throw a javelin that well on the run like you did. I can barely get enough distance most of the time."
Cyril wasn't entirely surprised to hear that. While not exactly *diminutive*, Sorcha was thinner than she was muscular, and not quite possessed yet of a warrior's build. Still, there was no reason she couldn't develop one, and he figured if she was getting any force with javelins at *all*, her technique must be pretty good.
“Well I don't know how long we'll be staying," he admitted, “but I'm sure I could find the time to practice with you at least once before we go, if you like?" He extended the invitation to all three with a slight tilt of his head.
“Man, that sounds like a lot of work," Mercer murmured beneath his breath, pursing his lips together with a deep frown. His shoulders went slack, almost as if he were already burdened with a large work load. “But I suppose it couldn't hurt to learn a few things," he added with a grin. He was very expressive, it appeared. His attention seemed to be taken by something as they cleared the forest.
“Speak of the place," he spoke, pointing forward. “Welcome to the Monastery." The Monastery was fairly large, perhaps the size of a Lord's castle rather than a simple Church. They were approaching a large iron gate that was already raised, perhaps in anticipation of the Knights' return. A guard stood on each side of the entrance, though one of them held a banner flag. The symbol of the Church, perhaps. Mercer's lips pursed into a fine line, and sighed.
“I suppose we'll have some explaining to do, unless Alois covers for us," he murmured. “Really hope Alois covers for us. I just want to go back to my bed. I can hear it calling to me."
Sorcha huffed and Vridel rolled his eyes in an exaggerated manner. Cyril felt the barest twitch of his mouth, but it was gone a moment later as though it had never happened.
“I wouldn't count on it," the probably-imperial said. “But either way I'm sure we won't be called up until she's done with Captain Jeralt and you." The last part, he directed to Cyril.
Almost as if to confirm, Jeralt turned back over his shoulder and gestured Cyril up to walk beside him. “Thanks for the company," he told the others with a small nod. “And the information. See you later, I guess."
They parted ways there, along with the other knights. Jeralt tipped his head up as they passed through what seemed to be some kind of entrance hall, frowning slightly and muttering almost under his breath. “Rhea. Careful what you say to her, kid. The Church is..." He trailed off, shaking his head.
He did that kind of thing a lot. Cyril had learned to read between the lines, and understood that did not trust this Rhea person.
“You know her?" he prompted.
His father sighed. “Yeah, in a way. She's the Archbishop here. If you can avoid getting on her bad side, do it, but don't take anything you see here at face value." That seemed to be all he was willing to say on the matter, perhaps due to the possibility of being overheard.
The two of them were led to a small waiting room; no doubt Alois had to make a report before they'd be seen, or something of the kind. Cyril hadn't been around nobility much, but even he understood that there were a lot of rules and procedures to follow and that some people were considered more important than others. It was about an hour after they'd been admitted that they were let in to see the Archbishop. Jeralt entered slightly ahead; Cyril followed with customary silence.
The woman in front of them was dressed in a long dress, white in color with the sleeves covering the middle of her hands. The cape she wore was dark blue in color and had intricate gold designs on the front portion of it. There were gold lines through the collar of it that flowed outwards, almost like a sunflower. The headdress that sat on her head like a golden crown, was perhaps the one thing that stood out against the seafoam color of her hair. There was a gentle smile on her face, but the smile itself did not seem to reflect in her eyes. There was something else lurking behind, though it was hard to say what, exactly.
“Jeralt," she greeted his father, first. “It has been a long time. I wonder... was it the will of the goddess that we have another chance meeting like this?" she continued, her eyes narrowing lightly before she turned her gaze towards Cyril. “But where are my manners. I am Archbishop Rhea, and this is my advisor, Lyanna von Kreuz," she spoke, introducing a woman to her left.
The second woman was even younger in appearance than the archbishop, perhaps in her mid to late twenties, if Cyril had to take a guess. Her hair was a dark, almost emerald-green, braided loosely forward over one shoulder. She too wore white, though the construction of her gown was much simpler, and the mantle that adorned her shoulders, while blue and gold, was shorter and less elaborate than the Archbishop's. She wore a thick golden torc necklace that sat against her collarbones, some kind of symbol engraved into its face, and rimless glasses, but was otherwise without jewelry or adornment. She offered a short nod, spring-green eyes narrowed in assessment.
“It seems that the miracle of fatherhood has blessed you. That is your child, is it not?" she asked, keeping her gaze on Cyril.
Oddly, Jeralt looked a little thrown by the question for a split second, but he nodded slowly. “Yeah," he said quietly. “This is my son. He was born a couple of years after I left the monastery, but we uh... we lost his mother to childbirth."
“I see. My condolonces," she spoke, nodding her head in Jeralt's direction.
That much, Cyril did know. He nodded slightly. “It's a pleasure to meet you, Archbishop," he said in his muted sort of way, offering a small bow more because it seemed appropriate to the woman's manner than anything. He wasn't sure of the conventions on any of this, but his father had warned against getting on her bad side, so he could at least try to guess at the right ones.
“As for you," she addressed Cyril once more with the same empty smile on her face. “I have heard all of your valiant efforts from Alois. What is your name?" she asked, her head tilted slightly in a curious manner.
“Cyril, milady," he replied, rising to his full height again. He was sort of used to being the tallest person in most rooms since he'd overtaken his father, but neither Rhea nor the Lyanna woman were short, either. “Cyril Eisner."
“A fine name indeed," she stated, the smile inching a bit wider on her face. “I thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for saving those students of the Officers Academy," she continued, nodding her head just slightly before she turned her attention towards Jeralt. “You already know what it is I wish to say, do you not?" it sounded more like a statement rather than a question.
“You want me to rejoin the Knights of Seiros, don't you?" he asked, rubbing at his nose with his thumb. He sounded tired. “I won't say no, but..."
Cyril was honestly surprised. They'd only just settled in Remire, and his father had been talking about rebuilding the company. Did he really intend to become a knight again?
“Your apprehension stings," she replied, the smile falling from her face as she frowned. “I had expected Alois would have already asked this of you," she continued, sighing softly before turning her attention back towards Cyril. “I must step away for now, however; we have a position for Cyril, as well," she stated, the smile returning to her face.
“Since the original professor no longer occupies the position, Cyril is being made the professor to the Blue Lion's House. The other two House Professors will brief you, shortly, but I surmise the Knights will desire a word with you, Jeralt," she stated as if it were something Cyril had no say in.
“Yeah, all right." Jeralt didn't seem to much question it either, though as the Archbishop and her adviser took their leave, he did mutter underneath his breath. “Forced back into the Knights of Seiros... I can't fucking believe it." A heavy breath passed from his nose, and he shook his head before turning to Cyril. “Sorry to drag you into this mess; I thought I'd left it all behind a long time ago. But she knows now, and I think it's probably best to stay, at least for a while."
Perhaps, had Cyril had any particularly strong feelings for the life of a mercenary, he might've objected. But as it was, he really didn't, and something about the way his father was acting made it seem as though there wasn't a great deal of choice to be had in the matter. He wondered if the Archbishop had some kind of leverage that she was using to arrange things this way. It would have to be the kind that was simply understood, because she definitely hadn't directly applied any in their conversation. She'd just kind of... expected to be obeyed.
Clapping his son briefly on the shoulder, Jeralt took his own exit through a different door, at just about the same time as a woman entered, her heels clicking hurriedly on the stone floor. Dressed in a dark blue gown with a deep neckline and high slits, she also wore a white over-robe with bell sleeves, accented in cream-orange. Her hair was fawn-colored and short, swept back from her brow in a bob style he'd seen before in parts of the Empire.
She blinked at him, scanning the room as if looking for someone else, but when Cyril was the only person to be found, she approached at a more sedate pace. “You're awfully young to be the new professor, aren't you?" she remarked, voice strong and lilting.
Cyril shrugged. “Old enough by the Archbishop's standards," he replied.
She huffed softly through her nose, a strange little smile curling her mouth. “So it seems," she said, agreeably enough. “I'm Manuela Casagranda: professor, physician, songstress, and available."
Cyril blinked. “That's a lot of things to be," he noted.
She laughed, the sound ringing in a way that suggested the songstress part was at least true. “What can I say? I'm a woman of many talents."
“Spare our collegue the needless chatter, Manuela. Competence and age are not necessarily correlated, as you well know," another voice stated as an older man appeared. His hair was a dark grey, signaling his age to be around the early fifties. He was dressed in a taupe colored robe, though, no white save for the handkerchief located in his right breast pocket. There was an olive green tie with a diamond shape clip to hold it in place. “Apologies for the tardiness. I am Hanneman, a Crest scholar and professor here at the Officers Academy," he stated, introducing himself to Cyril.
“I wonder," he began, his eyes narrowing slightly at Cyril. “Perhaps you bear a Crest of your own. The next time you have a moment to spare, I insist that you pay me a visit so we can delve further into the subject," he continued, a sort of amused tone to his voice.
“Now then, it seems that you'll be in charge of the academy's Blue Lion's house as their homeroom professor. I expect you haven't yet been briefed on the nature, have you?"
Crests... that had definitely come up in Sorcha's story. Cyril wasn't sure how uncommon it was not to know anything about that, so he only nodded slightly to that part of what Hanneman said. Maybe he'd be able to learn.
“I'm not sure how any of it works, to be honest."
Manuela made a sympathetic sort of noise in the back of her throat, clasping her hands in front of her. “Well," she said, “we can help. To start with, the Officers' Academy is divided into three student houses. The Black Eagle House is for students hailing from the Adrestian Empire. You've already met their house leader for this year, I believe—Vridel von Hresvelg is the Imperial Prince, and next in line to be Emperor. That's the house I teach."
“The Golden Deer House is for students who are part of the Leicester Alliance. Their house leader this year is Mercer, grandson to Duke Riegan, the leader of the Alliance. They are also the house I instruct," Hanneman spoke next in a matter-of-fact tone. “The Blue Lion house is for students from the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. Their house leader this year is Princess Sorcha. She is to be the next Queen of Faerghus."
“To think that the next emperor, queen, and sovereign duke are all here. It certainly is a promising year for the academy," he stated, folding an arm over the other.
“And I... teach the Blue Lions?" he asked, not sure how unusual it was to have three heirs running around.
Manuela nodded slightly. “To an extent. You're the homeroom teacher for the Blue Lions, which means you teach them every morning and guide them three afternoons of five in every week. The other two afternoons, they'll be attending special lectures from either Hanneman or myself. You, in turn, will be giving a special lecture to one of our houses, in your... areas of expertise." She raised an eyebrow slightly.
“I, for example, excel in holy magics, the use of herbs and medicines, and swordplay. Hanneman here is very good with black magic, bows, and history. It's not a bad idea to have two combat-related and at least one non-combat area to lecture on. It helps keep an interesting rotation for our darling little treasures." She sounded the faintest bit sarcastic, but it seemed to be good-natured.
“Anyway, other afternoons are usually given to special instruction from our adjunct faculty, or Knights who want to give a special topic lesson. So we have a fencing instructor, who might do a clinic on swordfighting, or sometimes Alois likes to let them play with axes for a while. But overall, you're the one who will be deciding how to tutor them, so be sure to consider their talents and preferences. Our goal is to make them all well-educated officers and effective fighters, but they don't all have to be experts in everything."
“Hm, quite," Hanneman spoke, nodding his head in agreement. “Regardless, it'll be interesting to see how they grow. Classes start on Monday, so for now, I suggest you take the time to acquaint yourself with your surroundings, before then. It'll be easier on you if you know where every thing is at before the school year starts. Manuela and I have already informed the Blue Lion house leader of your new role," he continued.
“Oh, and when you find yourself a free moment, do drop by my research laboratory. I would like to investigate whether or not if you possess a Crest," he stated, smiling widely enough that it forced his eyes to close.
Cyril made a mental note to do that, but only after he'd figured his way around the campus and also decided what he was going to do for his first day of teaching.
“Sure thing," he said quietly. “And thank you both."