Chapter Text
Sieghild von Hresvelg fights resentment at how easily the Emperor approves her travel to the Isle of Lycaon. But why wouldn't he? Why would he ever feel threatened by her request? He is Dietfried II of Adrestia, hand-chosen successor of the late beloved Emperor, who has demonstrated his political acumen with the neutralization of the late Emperor's powerful in-laws, his impartial justice with his prosecution of the very Minister of the Imperial Household for his bloody deeds, his prowess at war with the successful repulsion of the Dagdans, and his dedication to peace with the ten year since.
And she is only Edelgard's daughter.
They're in his office. "I'm happy to see you in a better state these days," Dietfried says seriously. On her deathbed, Edelgard had asked him to be as a brother to Sieghild, and he has never, in his life, disappointed Edelgard's expectations. "This trip will do you good."
"You think so?" Sieghild says ironically.
Heavily, Dietfried removes his signet ring. "My actions ten years ago were necessary for the future of the empire...but I've always regretted all I've taken from you. I only hope this trip can bring you some small measure of the peace you seek. I would have suggested you visit sooner, but it would have been...improper for me to be the one to suggest it."
He believes the old rumors, Sieghild muses, as she watches him imprint his seal at the bottom of the writ of travel. As for herself? She'd tried to convince herself, when the idea first germinated in the dark soil of her mind, how terrible it would be if she later received incontrovertible evidence that Hubert von Vestra was her biological father. How utterly horrible. How scandalous.
It hadn't stuck.
Emperor Edelgard was wise, to choose her successor based on merit, not blood. Sieghild is enough her mother's daughter that she can face this truth head-on as it bludgeons her day in and day out.
"You should conduct your travels as soon as possible," says Dietfried. "The waters up north grow treacherous later in the year. I'll send Imperial Guards to accompany you, if you wish--"
"That won't be necessary," Sieghild laughs, as she tucks the writ safely away. "Bandits and pirates under your rule? Perish the thought!"
#
A week later, Sieghild watches the Isle of Lycaon approach from the bow of a ship. The north seas are as gray and miserable as the books say, the island as pitiable. From this distance, she can blot out that glorified pebble with her thumb--if her arm remains steady. This entire voyage, her stomach has heaved with the sea.
A fine place for an exile.
When she was younger, her rhetoric tutor had made her study Dietfried's speech from the trial. The listing of Hubert von Vestra's crimes, the kidnappings, the torture, the killings in the night--note the skillful use of parallelism. The reprehensible services of House Vestra had no place in the new Fodlan. Neither his noble blood nor his favor with the former Emperor were sufficient reason to stay his execution.
However, Dietfried had added, the Marquis Vestra's role in the overthrow of the Church could not be understated, nor the desperate deeds committed by many others at the time. Dietfried would not sacrifice him as a scapegoat; his blood could not wash others' hands clean. The sins belonged to all the empire, and it was the duty of all to atone for and transcend them in the dawning new world they had wrought. The Emperor suggested exile for the remainder of the marquis's life, a proposal which was readily taken up and ratified by both Councils.
This will be the first time in ten years that Sieghild has seen Hubert von Vestra.
The subsequent bolt of terror sends her retching over the side of the ship. Oh, saints, what is she doing?
All the fear that she should have felt earlier seems to be making up for lost time. She wobbles into the cabin to make herself presentable. Wobbles back out. The island crawls toward them at a snail's pace. She pulls her cloak tightly around her and feels cold to her guts anyway.
The guards on the dock accept Sieghild's letter with nothing more than a cursory glance. Behind them is a rotund, middle-aged matron, who rushes forth to clasp Sieghild's hands warmly. "Oh, welcome, milady!" Sieghild hopes the woman can't feel her sweating through her gloves. "We've been waiting for you! I'm Clotilde, housekeeper to Marquis Vestra. He wanted to come down and greet you in person, but I'm afraid he can't make the trip today." Clotilde tilts her chin up meaningfully at the lead-gray sky. "Milord's old wounds flare up in this weather."
Understandable, if less than ideal. The path leading to the old stone tower is a long and narrow one, snaking up the side of a steep, rocky hill, and it drags out Sieghild's ordeal. She replies only halfheartedly to Clotilde's chatter, her chest tight with more than exertion.
They still frighten children with stories of Hubert von Vestra, back home. His cat feet, which could pad up walls and over roofs without a sound. His witch eyes, which could see through your skin and tell your lies by the twitching of your heart. The legend had only grown in his exile.
When he looks at her, he's going to see a farce.
But, Sieghild thinks grimly, putting one foot in front of the other, what else is new?
She's shaky enough that she keeps her gaze fixed on the ground, the better to watch her footing. So she doesn't realize she's at the top until she nearly runs into the man.
Startled, apology at the ready, she looks up into wide, shocked eyes.
"Edelgard?" he says.