[There's no reason to thank him, so he barely acknowledges it - he'd simply been acting how it felt right to. It's fine that she wants this - she's allowed to want things - and it's good that she's finally starting to act on her wants. He's not that much of an ass that he'd discourage that.
Though what comes next just might.
Whether it's the impulse to protect her, or the closeness, or some combination of the two, once they're both well and truly deep asleep, something... shifts. Any dream they might individually be having fades away to a too-familiar battlefield.
There's a heavy fog over the landscape, thick enough to cut visibility down to an abysmal level. It's beginning to rain. The sound of clashing weapons and screams of pain and death are all around. Boots and hooves churn up the ground into a sticky mud, ground soaking wet with rain and blood.
And there's Sylvain, armed and armored, astride his large warhorse, Lance of Ruin in one hand and a powerful spell building in his other.
He has to use the lance first - an enemy soldier gets a little too close, takes a swing at him. Well-trained, the horse prances back, out of dodge, and then lunges forward, putting it's strength behind Sylvain's already devastating thrust downward.
He has to push the man's body off his lance with his boot.
The building spell takes out an entire small battalion moments later, before they can get close enough to raise their blades against him.
And then there's Dimitri, running by, at his most feral, tearing through enemy troops with lance and by hand, crushing heads and tearing out throats. Gruesome, but efficient in his singular goal of reaching Edelgard as quickly as possible, little more than a bright red spot on the other side of the field, for now.
One, two, three arrows zip by. One, two, three enemy soldiers fall into the mud, never to get up again. A crackle of lightning and a scream from a heavily armored unit marks a Thoron spell finding its mark.
And a large ballista bolt punctures clean through the chest of a soldier wearing Faerghus blues.
Soon after, Edelgard's voice rings out clearly over the battlefield.
"Those fools who went up the hill will pay with their lives... in the crimson flames!"
And the wooden battlement on the hilltop bursts into flame a moment after she gives the order. The army of Faerghus had gotten too close, and she intended to keep control of the ballista at the top... by any means necessary.
Any means necessary - as evidenced by a surely-familiar voice following immediately after the sudden influx of heat and light. That's Bernadetta's scream. That's her manning the ballista, her skill and sharp aim that made approaching to take it a necessity.
If the Adrestian forces couldn't keep it, then neither the Kingdom, nor the Alliance could have it, either.
"Ingrid!"
Sylvain's voice cuts through the din of the battle, shouting into the sky, because someone - anyone - needs to put Bernadetta out of her agony. They needed to stop the ballista anyway. Unfortunately, this is enough to make it safe enough for a pegasus to glide in and out without being shot down. Quick. Easy. Comparatively painless.
"I'll end this quickly!"
And, true to form - she does. One strike and it's over, and not a singe on the pegasus's hair or feathers.
"Wish I could've at least died at home... not in this big, stupid field..."
And with Bernadetta's death, the dream - the memory - is fading away, but not before Dimitri reaches Edelgard, not before their exchange can echo across the space, and draw the attention of most people present. Their King. Their Emperor.
"Stab your chest, break your neck, smash your head... I will allow you to choose your own death."
"I'm not interested in methods of dying. All that matters is when death takes place, not how. And I have no intention of dying today."
"I'm sure all of the people you've slaughtered so far thought the same!"
And Sylvain wakes with a start. He's dreamed of Gronder before - it was an especially gruesome battle, and if he hadn't, he would have begun to doubt his humanity, but this time... it's different. This time, he'd had Bernadetta curled against his side through the night...
He doesn't know if she saw his dream or not. Such is the way of these Bonds. He hopes she hadn't, hopes she at least got a restful night, as the light of dawn begins to filter through the curtains. Whether she did or not, though, she'll certainly wake to him holding her perhaps a bit tighter than he ought to.]
no subject
[There's no reason to thank him, so he barely acknowledges it - he'd simply been acting how it felt right to. It's fine that she wants this - she's allowed to want things - and it's good that she's finally starting to act on her wants. He's not that much of an ass that he'd discourage that.
Though what comes next just might.
Whether it's the impulse to protect her, or the closeness, or some combination of the two, once they're both well and truly deep asleep, something... shifts. Any dream they might individually be having fades away to a too-familiar battlefield.
There's a heavy fog over the landscape, thick enough to cut visibility down to an abysmal level. It's beginning to rain. The sound of clashing weapons and screams of pain and death are all around. Boots and hooves churn up the ground into a sticky mud, ground soaking wet with rain and blood.
And there's Sylvain, armed and armored, astride his large warhorse, Lance of Ruin in one hand and a powerful spell building in his other.
He has to use the lance first - an enemy soldier gets a little too close, takes a swing at him. Well-trained, the horse prances back, out of dodge, and then lunges forward, putting it's strength behind Sylvain's already devastating thrust downward.
He has to push the man's body off his lance with his boot.
The building spell takes out an entire small battalion moments later, before they can get close enough to raise their blades against him.
And then there's Dimitri, running by, at his most feral, tearing through enemy troops with lance and by hand, crushing heads and tearing out throats. Gruesome, but efficient in his singular goal of reaching Edelgard as quickly as possible, little more than a bright red spot on the other side of the field, for now.
One, two, three arrows zip by. One, two, three enemy soldiers fall into the mud, never to get up again. A crackle of lightning and a scream from a heavily armored unit marks a Thoron spell finding its mark.
And a large ballista bolt punctures clean through the chest of a soldier wearing Faerghus blues.
Soon after, Edelgard's voice rings out clearly over the battlefield.
"Those fools who went up the hill will pay with their lives... in the crimson flames!"
And the wooden battlement on the hilltop bursts into flame a moment after she gives the order. The army of Faerghus had gotten too close, and she intended to keep control of the ballista at the top... by any means necessary.
Any means necessary - as evidenced by a surely-familiar voice following immediately after the sudden influx of heat and light. That's Bernadetta's scream. That's her manning the ballista, her skill and sharp aim that made approaching to take it a necessity.
If the Adrestian forces couldn't keep it, then neither the Kingdom, nor the Alliance could have it, either.
"Ingrid!"
Sylvain's voice cuts through the din of the battle, shouting into the sky, because someone - anyone - needs to put Bernadetta out of her agony. They needed to stop the ballista anyway. Unfortunately, this is enough to make it safe enough for a pegasus to glide in and out without being shot down. Quick. Easy. Comparatively painless.
"I'll end this quickly!"
And, true to form - she does. One strike and it's over, and not a singe on the pegasus's hair or feathers.
"Wish I could've at least died at home... not in this big, stupid field..."
And with Bernadetta's death, the dream - the memory - is fading away, but not before Dimitri reaches Edelgard, not before their exchange can echo across the space, and draw the attention of most people present. Their King. Their Emperor.
"Stab your chest, break your neck, smash your head... I will allow you to choose your own death."
"I'm not interested in methods of dying. All that matters is when death takes place, not how. And I have no intention of dying today."
"I'm sure all of the people you've slaughtered so far thought the same!"
And Sylvain wakes with a start. He's dreamed of Gronder before - it was an especially gruesome battle, and if he hadn't, he would have begun to doubt his humanity, but this time... it's different. This time, he'd had Bernadetta curled against his side through the night...
He doesn't know if she saw his dream or not. Such is the way of these Bonds. He hopes she hadn't, hopes she at least got a restful night, as the light of dawn begins to filter through the curtains. Whether she did or not, though, she'll certainly wake to him holding her perhaps a bit tighter than he ought to.]