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The morning after Sylvain spent too long in town, drinking and laughing with one of the barmaids, kissing her and her letting him touch her intimately behind the bar once her shift was over, he had a terrible headache pulsating behind his eyelids. For a moment, caught with a shaft of warm summer sunlight falling across his face, Sylvain considered lying in behind and pretending he hadn’t heard the bells tolling for the morning mass service. But then his stomach growled and he had to admit defeat. Sylvain had to wrestle with his blankets to get out of bed.
Once free, he stretched and pressed a knuckle so hard into his right eye he saw stars. His school uniform was laying wrinkled on the floor, but Sylvain already knew no one expected cleanliness from him. He merely lifted it up off the floor, hit it a couple times to knock the dirt off, and then pulled on his uniform jacket over the white button-up he’d slept in. The collar was creased. Sylvain spent a couple minutes looking at his reflection in the bowl of fresh water the servants provided to each room, making sure he looked pretty.
The bell rang to show the early morning service was over, and Sylvain left his dorm room, headed for the dining hall. Most everyone was filtering in from the cathedral, so there were few people seated and eating just yet. Felix was there, because he was always there. Sylvain was pretty sure he hadn’t seen Felix attend a single service since his brother died.
A couple girls giggled as they walked by, hands over their mouths, their eyes bright.
Sylvain made sure to smile charmingly at them, raking a free hand through his unruly hair in a practiced motion that made them both hurry on, giggling relentlessly. It made Sylvain smile. It also made his stomach drop. Goddess.
Sylvain went up to the head chef and got a hefty serving of what was being served for breakfast. It was a typical week day, so it was the usual: honey, bread, oatmeal, a selection of berries and nuts to add to their oats. Sylvain sprinkled sparingly some brown sugar in his bowl, thinking to himself about how dear this much of a spread would’ve been back home. It made his stomach tighten. He knew for a fact Ingrid’s county lived off dried meat and gruel in the harsher months. It added an oddly bitter aftertaste to such a tasty meal; what Sylvain wouldn’t give, to be able to bring this kind of bounty back to the Holy Kingdom. If no kid ever went hungry again, it would be too soon.
Mercedes and Annette came in through the side gate, the one leading out into the gardens, while Sylvain was attempting to cajole Felix into conversation. It was going poorly, as to be expected. From across the room, Sylvain and Mercedes made eye contact. Mercedes smiled, and Sylvain smiled back. Then Felix snapped something and Sylvain went back to trying to smooth over the fur he’d managed to pet the wrong way. It was an endless chore, but Sylvain would take it any day.
Sylvain never wanted to see Ingrid or Felix or Dimitri like they were in the days that followed the Tragedy of Duscur. Like they’d been scraped empty. Eyes open, but the lights and anything else important snuffed out like a candle’s weak flame. Playing the part of a clown had always come naturally to Sylvain, but it was only in the days following the Tragedy of Duscur that he learned how vital laughter was. He held onto Felix’s annoyance, Ingrid’s frustration, Dimitri’s fluttering anxiety, with his fingernails. He’d rather have laughter, rather have joy, but he’ll take it. Take a spark that showed they were still alive, that losing Glenn didn’t mean that Sylvain lost the rest of his friends in one go.
Mercedes and Annette got their food, too, and came to sit down at the Blue Lions table. Dimitri came in next, followed closely by Dedue, his gentle green eyes surveying the premises like he was looking for danger. Sylvain looked down at his half-finished oatmeal and then back up at Dedue, wondering where he’d hope to find danger. The only danger Dimitri was in in the dining hall was in danger of choking on a blueberry. They were well protected here; it was unlikely Rufus would send assassins so far south. And even if he did, it was highly unlikely they’d be able to sneak by the Knights of Seiros or the archbishop.
Chatter started up the table as they all gathered. Annette wondered what they would be learning today in class. Dimitri tried very hard not to accidentally turn a silver spoon into scrap metal and failed abysmally. Dedue provided a calm backdrop to Ingrid and Felix snipping at each other. Sylvain made eye contact with Mercedes again and had to duck his head to hide his head.
Sometimes, Sylvain felt so very old compared to his housemates. He often felt like he had to measure his reactions before he said anything, sprinkling words like grains of salt, landing with great effect every time. He was Dimitri’s prized jester, and in any setting, Sylvain felt that weight down to his bones. He was shackled to this table, in truth. He couldn’t imagine going anywhere else. And moments like this, where he and Mercedes shared a secret smile, made him feel a lot better about things.
It made him feel less like a jester, and more like a person.
—
It was almost time for the Goddess’s Rite of Rebirth, and the small town at the base of the mountain Garreg Mach called home was flooded with visiting nobles. The tavern was packed with faces Sylvain had no desire to see, and a few adventurous souls made their way up to Garreg Mach itself, no doubt to make obeisances to the archbishop in return for displays of favor in front of the congregation during the rite itself. Sylvain had fucked or wooed enough daughters of the esteemed noble families visiting that it seemed a wise idea to make himself scarce. He was considering how painful it would be to give into Felix’s demands and meet him and Ingrid in the training yard for sparring practice after classes concluded for the day, when Sylvain smelled something sweet and followed it to the source, his mouth watering automatically.
Mercedes looked up and smiled when Sylvain stuck his head in the monastery kitchen. There was a tray of something delicious in her mittened hand, being put on the side board to cool down. They gleamed like jewels in the afternoon light. Sylvain risked burning his hand and his mouth to try one, and moaned around the taste. “These are divine,” Sylvain told Mercedes, his mouth full of cookie, absently brushing crumbs off on his pants leg.
Mercedes looked like she was swallowing back laughter. “If you say so,” she said sweetly, as she finished putting another batch of cookies in. Sylvain watched her walk towards the table in the middle of the kitchen, laden with flour, eggs, butter, and a variety of baking utensils. There was a wooden bowl with at least a quarter of the dough left, by Sylvain’s guess.
Mercedes caught Sylvain looking and gestured expansively towards the cookie dough, the jars of strawberry jam lying open next to another cookie tray. “Do you want to help me?” She asked. “You don’t have to do much. You can just put the jam in the middle.”
Sylvain watched as Mercedes rolled the cookie dough into soft balls of white and then pressed them flat with her thumb on the cookie tray. “What’re they called?” Sylvain asked, drifting closer without really meaning to. He picked up the spoon in the open jar of strawberry jam and began to carefully scoop out a spoonful of jam for each cookie.
Mercedes was smiling at him in that special way of hers when Sylvain dared to look up from what he was doing, one finger pushing the jam off the spoon. “What?” He asked, defensive.
Mercedes shook her head and returned to rolling balls of dough, her eyes cast down. Sylvain felt sorry, like maybe he should’ve measured his response a little more. “They’re called thumbprint cookies,” Mercedes said, as she smushed another cookie down onto the pan. She looked up, and she was still smiling, and Sylvain hated her, just a little bit, for how much that relieved them. “Sorry,” Mercedes said, “watching you put the jam in reminded me of my little brother. He used to do the same thing as you. He’d get so enraptured in making sure every one of the cookies was perfect, he wouldn’t let me put them in the oven until he said it was okay.” Mercedes’ eyes were sparkling. It made it easier for Sylvain to smile, too, in the face of her honest joy. But something was bothering him, too.
“You have a brother?” Sylvain asked, looking back down at the cookies Mercedes had just made and filling them ever so carefully up to the brim with jam. “Why haven’t I heard about this before? Do you happen to have another sister, too, who might like redheaded men who can bake?” Mercedes’ laughter made Sylvain’s soul sing.
“No,” Mercedes said softly. She’d stopped rolling balls of dough. She was just looking down at the already made ball of dough in her hands. Sylvain’s heart hurt. He could’ve sworn Mercedes looked like she was about to cry. And then it was gone, and apart from the relief of not having to talk about serious shit, Sylvain surprised himself with a hot sharp spark of anger, too. He hated that Mercedes had hid herself away from him. He wanted the laughter back. He wanted Mercedes to confide in him her troubles, too. Wasn’t that his job, after all?
“I only have the one brother,” Mercedes continued. She went back to rolling balls of dough, but her gaze was far away. Sylvain watched her closely, looking for another slip up. Maybe Mercedes felt the intensity of his gaze, because her eyes regained their focus and she smiled at him. She smiled at him the same way she did when she caught him fussing over Felix, or pulling Dimitri out of his veneer of princeliness perfectness. It made Sylvain’s skin itch. He couldn’t look away, but he wished that he could. He felt like a fly trapped in amber.
“What was his name?” Sylvain asked, matching the softness of Mercedes’ voice.
When Mercedes next smiled, it looked pained. There was grief in her eyes that made Sylvain’s chest ache. It was like somehow someone had swept aside the gray veil lying over Sylvain’s eyes, and now he saw Mercedes in a completely new light. How much did she think about this brother of hers, the one he’d never heard of before, the one that brought so much grief to the fore? Sylvain felt privileged that Mercedes had chosen to confide in him.
“Emile,” Mercedes said, putting the last ball of dough down, “his name was Emile.”
The cookies were delicious, but what tasted better was the knowledge that Sylvain knew something about Mercedes that nobody else did. Sylvain could tell. This was one of those kinds of secrets that haunts your dreams, clawed open your back when you least expected it, made ordinary happiness seem like a faraway dream. And Mercedes confided in him.
There was nothing sweeter.