Chapter Text
As horrific as it had been, the war had given Ingrid purpose and structure. She found herself in the role she had yearned for since childhood: a faithful knight of the king of Faerghus. When she rose every morning, there was never any question how her day would be spent. There was a routine, and her activities were dictated by her king, or more often the professor who was the real tactician of the two of them. Duty governed her actions, and obedience guided her.
But the war had ended, and so had her service to the king. Twisted by hate and vengeance, Dimitri became someone Ingrid no longer recognized. He was so consumed by rage and malice that the solution to any problem became death. Mercy had been banished along with compassion. Anyone who opposed him was to be cut down, slaughtered. They had killed so many. Former friends. Classmates. People they had shared meals with at the dining hall. Those they had sparred with, trained with. All became victims of his majesty’s wrath.
By the end of the war, he had mellowed. His fury had calmed, and his crusade of murderous reprisal ended. He became more of the Dimitri she knew, had grown up with. The professor was the only one of them that could reach him, that could pull him back from the abyss he was losing himself in. But his mask had been removed, and behind his smile and warmth lurked a man capable of cruelty and malice. The darkness was still there, would always be there. And Ingrid could no longer serve him in good conscience. What separated knights from common sellswords were their ideals, their values. In order to preserve her integrity, she could no longer be in his service.
He lamented her departure, of course. For a moment, she was afraid that he would view it as a betrayal. Indeed, his eyes had hardened dangerously, and she caught a glimpse of the darkness again. But he had smiled, though it did not reach his eyes, wished her well, and released her from his service.
She had stayed for the wedding, of course. It was more for the professor’s sake than his majesty’s. It was no surprise when the two had announced their wedding. It had always been obvious to anyone with eyes that Dimitri was smitten with their beloved professor, and once the war ended, the professor had finally confessed his feelings for his former student.
Ingrid watched as the king kissed his new husband, and a raucous cheer erupted from the crowd. The bells of the church echoed the announcement across the whole city: the king was married, long live the kings! No one would be sober in the capital tonight. She glanced over to Sylvain, who whistled and hollered while Felix rolled his eyes, the faintest of smiles cracking his stoicism. She wondered how long it would be before they too married.
The pressure of a gentle hand in the small of her back had startled her. Mercedes had smiled a sheepish apology and leaned in close, so close her lips had brushed Ingrid’s ear as she spoke. “Are you ready?”
Rather than shout to be heard over the crowd, Ingrid had nodded and allowed Mercedes to lead her away from the celebration and their past.
When the war ended, her father had wasted no time in arranging new marriage proposals for Ingrid. She had refused them all and renounced any claim she had to the Galatea title and lands. Her father made it equally clear that it was no longer home for her. But she could not remain in the capital. She needed to be free of the weight of the past, free from the expectations of people she had grown up with, trained with, gone to war with. She needed her own path.
It almost seemed natural that she ended up with Mercedes, who had all but insisted she accompany her back to her hometown. They had been close friends for years and shared a special bond of kinship as women that men treated like property because of their crests. Their respective fathers had bartered and traded with other noble families, using their daughters as political currency. They both had the pressure of their families’ futures thrust upon them. Like Ingrid, Mercedes had refused the responsibility in favor of her own path.
Dimitri had given her rights and funding to convert an old school into an orphanage to care for the startling number of children whose parents had been killed in the war. It suited the bishop, much more than war did. Her path had always been helping others.
During the day, Mercedes supervised repairs to the school, which had been quite neglected over the past six years. The roof needed to be patched, the dormitories renovated, the kitchen needed a complete overhaul. Ingrid helped where she could, carrying supplies or helping her dispose of the old mattresses which were moldy and damp or conducting minor repairs. Ingrid didn’t feel like she contributed much, but Mercedes always rewarded her with one of her wide, genuine smiles.
In the evening, they would return to the cottage adjacent the schoolhouse. It was the old headmistress’s quarters, but it was to be Mercedes’s home so long as she ran the orphanage. If Ingrid was already home, she would prepare dinner. While she lacked the other woman’s skill or finesse in the kitchen, she could manage a passable enough meal. If they returned together, they also cooked together with Mercedes taking the lead.
It was not quite the life she envisioned for herself, but it was not permanent. Most importantly, it was far from the capital, far from her past life.
They had settled into a routine, but as the weeks passed and summer faded into autumn, she began to feel restless. There was less that needed to be done around the orphanage, and there was less to occupy her time. She could only spend so much time training in the small practice yard behind the cottage, and without anyone to spar with, she feared her skills would dull. Such idleness made her irritable.
“Goddess dammit!” She swore as the knife sliced through the potato and into her hand. The knife clattered to the counter, and she grabbed ahold of her opposite hand, squeezing it tightly but blood had already began leaking between her fingers. It was a deep cut. “Son of a—”
“Ingrid!” Mercedes was already on her feet, abandoning the carrots she had been peeling at the kitchen table. She took Ingrid’s hands in her own. “Let me see.”
Shaking her head, the knight refused to relinquish her grip on the injured hand. “Goddess dammit!” She swore again as pain lanced through her fingers and into her wrist.
“Ingrid!” Mercedes said reproachfully. “The language is uncalled for.” Ingrid felt her face burn. If anyone was suited to running an orphanage, it was the bishop who could manage to make a full-grown knight feel like a scolded child. She should have no problem keeping a legion of children in line. “Let me see. Don’t shake your head at me, Ingrid. Let me see.”
Reluctantly, she let the healer peel her uninjured hand away from her wound. The loss of pressure allowed blood to spurt freely from the cut, and it stained Mercedes hands. Unbothered by the blood, she gently prodded the edges of the wound, and Ingrid winced. “I should be able to heal it; it’s deep but I don’t think the muscle is too badly damaged.”
The sensation of being healed by magic was always a little unsettling. It was half-way between a tickle and an itch, and Ingrid had to fight the instinct to jerk her hand back. The pain faded to a throbbing ache, and after several minutes the wound had completely closed, the only sign of it a faint pink line.
“Thank you.” Ingrid murmured and flexed her hand experimentally. It was stupid. She could have injured herself severely. What if she had sliced a tendon? She could have ruined her grip permanently and been unable to hold a lance. All because she was careless.
Mercedes watched the emotions flicker across her friend’s expression. She had never been very adept at hiding her feelings, and lately frustration seemed to have taken up a semi-permanent residence in the furrows of her brow. Something had eroded her patience over the past couple of weeks, leaving her easily angered and upset by the smallest things. Earlier that afternoon, Ingrid had dropped the hammer while she had been attempting to hang a portrait of the kings in the new dining hall. The knight had sworn loudly and for a moment, Mercedes thought she might throw the hammer in frustration.
She cleaned the blood from her hands in the nearby washbasin, finished preparing the vegetables, and dumped them into the pot while Ingrid cleaned her own hands and discarded the pink water. When she had returned from rinsing and refilling the basin, she motioned for Ingrid to join her at the table. It would not do for her friend to go on like this.
When the knight sat across from her, she appeared subdued, almost sullen. “I’m sorry, Mercie. I just…” She folded her hands on the table in front of her, but her gaze fixed on them.
Mercedes reassured her by covering her hands with her own. “It is clear something is bothering you and has been bothering you for some time now.” She squeezed the knight’s hands. “Don’t you think it might help if you talked about it?”
For a moment, it appeared as though Ingrid might brush her off, retreat further into herself. She withdrew her hands and folded them in her lap. After a long moment of silence, she spoke. “Ever since I can remember, all I have ever wanted to be was a knight. But not just any knight, a true knight – one serving a master. And for a while, I had that. But Dimitri…”
Waiting patiently for her friend to find the words, Mercedes felt a pang of empathy. Those had been the hardest days during the war, and many times she herself had thought of leaving, when their king and friend had taken a turn for the darkness. In the end, she could not abandon her friends and comrades, Ingrid and Annette especially.
“If I am to swear an oath to serve a master, they must be worthy of that oath.” Ingrid finally said in a rush, as if exhaling the words. “And Dimitri was no longer worthy.” She worried her lower lip between her teeth. “I have loved being here with you, and I am so grateful that you allowed me to come with you. Please don’t think I am not, Mercie.” The bishop shook her head and smiled faintly to reassure her. “But… I feel so idle and useless without serving.” Her voice took on an edge of frustration.
“But you have been.” Mercedes pointed out. “I could never have managed reopening this orphanage without you! Is not service to others still serving? I would think all you have done to be very knightly: selfless, compassionate, noble…”
“It isn’t the same.” Ingrid smiled weakly, grateful for her friend’s attempt to cheer her. “I can’t explain why exactly.”
“Because it was not done at the direction of a master?” Mercedes ventured, suddenly understanding and understanding much better than Ingrid herself did.
“Maybe?” Ingrid finally raised her eyes to her friend’s face and was reassured by the warmth and compassion she saw. Dear Mercedes. That was her gift, more than her ability to heal, she could make anyone feel safe and understood. “I think otherwise I am just exerting my will when it is a knight’s duty to carry out the will of the one that they are sworn to.”
“Oh,” The other woman paused. “Then why not serve me?”
“What?”
“You could be my knight,” Mercedes said lightly. “That way you are carrying out my will.”
“I—” Ingrid felt her face flush for an unknown reason. She had always imagined herself in the service of a noble house, to a lord or lady. But there was nothing that said a knight could not swear themselves to someone else.
Mercedes cheeks pinkened. “Unless you think I am unworthy.” It was meant to tease, but the knight could detect a current of uncertainty in the statement.
“No!” Ingrid exclaimed. If anyone were worthy of a knight’s oath, it was Mercedes. No one was as compassionate and honest and good as she was. The bishop was genuine and selfless. In the House of Blue Lions and all the kingdom of Faerghus, there was no one better than her, she was sure. It hurt Ingrid that her friend doubted that, even if for only a second. “You were always the best of us, Mercedes.”
“It was only a suggestion, Ingrid. If you’re not comfortable…” The bishop smiled sadly. “I just worry. You cannot continue as you have been, frustrated all the time. Unhappy. I selfishly am afraid you will leave, but you cannot remain if you’re unhappy.”
Though Ingrid had always thought of her arrangement with Mercedes as temporary, she suddenly could not bear the thought of leaving her, not when it left her so hurt. But the bishop was correct. She could not continue as she had been either. Eventually, the frustration and irritability would come to a breaking point. She had already been careless enough to cut herself, a mistake she normally wouldn’t make. She chewed on her lower lip, thinking.
It would not be terribly different than they had been. She would continue to train and help Mercedes with the orphanage. The only difference would be the context. These things would be done now in service to the bishop in accordance with her will. And she trusted her.
Without saying a word, Ingrid stood and rounded the table to where the other woman sat and knelt beside her on both knees. Mercedes flushed in surprise. “Oh, Ingrid, you don’t have to—”
“No,” Ingrid swallowed, sounding much more confident than she felt kneeling at the feet of her closest friend. “If we are to do this, it must be done correctly. Please.”
Nodding, Mercedes turned in her chair to face Ingrid, the blush fading from her cheeks. She gave another nod, this one solemn.
“I swear my loyalty and service to Mercedes von Martritz. My shield will be your protection and my sword will be your defense. I will be without fear when I face your enemies. I will be brave and confident in danger. I will be without hesitation at your command. I will be compassionate and kind to those in need. This I pledge. You have my sword, my loyalty, and my obedience until such time as either death or lord release me.” It was the oath that she had memorized since childhood and only uttered once before. The words fell from her lips automatically, and she felt strangely at peace. There was such comfort in those words.
She felt her chin lifted by Mercedes’s fingers until their eyes met. “I accept your oath, Ingrid Brandl Galatea, and swear to you in turn the security and sanctuary of my home. May you only find honor in my service.” A small gasp escaped Ingrid at those words. She had not expected Mercedes to know, let alone respond with, the oath of a lord to her sworn knight. Pale blue eyes held bright green for several breaths. Finally, the hand lifting her chin migrated to cup Ingrid’s cheek. “My sweet knight.” Mercedes smiled.
The smile left her breathless and the words made her dizzy, narrowing her vision. Quickly, Ingrid looked away. What had suddenly gotten into her? Her chest felt both tight and airy at the same time. She cleared her throat to hopefully clear her head. “I didn’t… I didn’t know you knew the oath of a lord, Mercie.”
The bishop smiled and withdrew her hand. “Just because I never had any intention of becoming a knight myself, did not mean I did not enjoy the stories of them.” Her smile widened. “Come, off the floor. Dinner should be ready.”
Ingrid realized she was still kneeling and reluctantly climbed to her feet, wondering at the odd sensation of loss she felt by standing.
When they sat across from one another to eat, it felt like nothing had changed.
But everything had.
The first wall crumbled under the weight of their oath.