[Open] Just another product of today

[bloodypath]

Who: Hubert and many others
When: 4/13
Where: Mirror Dreamland
What: Event memory sharing
Warnings: Patricide; others added as needed


Within the dream-like hall of mirrors, one particular mirror frame was carved from ebony; anyone that's even seen or knew Hubert's name would be able to see the double-headed eagle of the Adrestian Empire on it. Those who were acquainted would notice the dozen cloaked figures bearing daggers up and down the frame. Only his Bonded and Byleth would see that all of its set on a backdrop like a rising sun, the distant forms of soaring birds along the top of the mirror.

The mirror's owner, however, was seemingly absent. Whether by curiosity or compulsion, touch the rippling glass and be pulled inside.

A. Patricide
"'Contemptible' is just the right word for the wretch."

The doors don't slam open in the majestic, red-draped hallway, but there's nothing subtle about the about the dozen people marching through them at a fast clip. Most of them are hooded and masked in the robes of mages, and a couple are armored and carry lances; at their head is Hubert, wearing a dust-covered riding cloak and looking like he's hardly even stopped to sleep in his hurry.

Hubert's almost always wearing some sort of intense expression, but there was something particularly forceful about the look in his eye; almost like a stalking predator toeing the line between patience and frenzy.

"My lord," one of the masked figures mumbles, keeping pace half a step behind, "should we not be more caut—"

"He knows we're here. He's known the moment we set foot in Enbarr." Dream-Hubert's voice is knifelike. His eyes narrow, and for a second, a smile twitches onto his lips—it's an utterly malicious expression, halfway between excitement and hatred—before it smooths out to something almost pleasant. "He knows why. I daresay my father's expecting us. Now..."

Dream-Hubert holds out his hand. The masked mage places a small flask in his palm. "Let us give him his rightful dues."

He doesn't open the next set of doors at the end of the hallway forcefully, either, but there's still something about it like a shark smelling blood.

B. Runaway
"Of course, I was only ten. I never would have reached Fhirdiad..."

It's dark—even those normally unhindered find themselves in darkness again. The waxing moon, while bright, only does so much to illuminate the woods, reducing everything to dark shapes of trees and gnarled roots and rocks lit only by the occasional splash of silver light. An unpleasant—but survivable—chill hangs in the air promising the coming of winter. As still as the woods are, they're not silent; there's indistinct shouting in the distance and the the muffle clanking of armored individuals moving en masse, and the faint barking of a dog.

"This way!" One shout rises above the others, just on the edge of hearing. "Fan out! I want squads watching the river!"

In the gloom, a dark figure darts through the woods—and stumbles over a root when he looks over his shoulder back towards the noise. The child's barely manages to keep his footing, breathing hard; he crouches in the shadow of a tree to catch his breath. There's a training bow in his hand and a pack slung across his back; even in the dimly lit memory, it's easy to tell he and his clothes are covered in dirt and scrapes.

"Have you ever watched the world end?" Hubert's—the man's—low voice rumbles from behind. The dream-world doesn't acknowledge it. "Have you ever lost faith? It's the same thing."

[Hubert will be along in prompt A after the first tag unless requested otherwise. I am absolutely willing to do other memories! Let me know what kind of thing you'd like, or something else if you're canon familiar.]

Comments

For Petra

[bloodypath]

[This was not something Hubert expected to see. He didn't even recall touching the mirror.]

[Himself and Petra, as he remembered it. "How unusually formal," his dream-self began before his ally (as she should be) launched into her complaint. Hubert shakes his head at the scene, a bitterness rising in his heart. Like salt in a wound.]

Of all things, why would...

[He freezes with the realization. Hubert glances over his shoulder, eyes narrowing.]

I see. It's you.

[islandhuntress]

[The surroundings had confused and distracted her at first until she hears her own voice. She's looking at the back of Hubert but also upon a conversation the two of them are apparently having. Unlike Hubert, she doesn't have any context for the conversation, her first assumption isn't that this is a memory. She's not sure what it is but she's transfixed, driven by curiosity.

They both seem so at ease.

She all but ignores the Hubert who seems to react to her, stepping closer to watch the exchange. Both leading part of the army... Edelgard's army.

She turns to look at Hubert.] What is happening? What is this?

[bloodypath]

[At ease. Just like how he'd initially approached her, in that first dream. Hubert crosses his arms, mouth drawing into a thin line. He doesn't owe her an explanation. He doesn't owe her anything. He really ought to just walk away.]

[Still, he couldn't help the irrational indignant flash at her question.]

An impossibility is what it is.

[islandhuntress]

[She watches, enraptured, gaze moving between herself and Hubert, heart beating faster, louder in her ears the more they say. She still doesn't quite understand what this is. Had this happened? Obviously not for her but for Hubert?

It seems I've done you a great disservice, Petra. Your friendship is important to me.

Her lips part but she's at a loss for words, unable to tear her eyes away for even a moment to look back to Hubert standing close by.

Your past, full of hardship. Your unwavering determination. Your uncommon excellence.

That part hits her hard, makes her chest hurt, her heart ache.

Had she... Did she... She knew her subtle tells, that smile... It's almost impossible for her to deny. It looks like in his world, she likes him. Likes him, likes him.]

Edelgard (cw: child torture may be a topic)

[bloodypath]

This was too much.

Hubert knew something of their enemy's methods, after years of digging and bitter cooperation; he'd felt Edelgard's night terror months ago. He'd thought that alone would paint a better understand of these tragic events than he'd ever know.

He's never been more wrong.

Watching it all was impossible. He fell to his knees, trembling and head hanging, unable to catch his breath as if the horror alone had stolen the air from his lungs. Faces—too many faces Hubert never fathomed seeing again, faces he had known... even if the child he'd been at the time hadn't liked all of the individuals. He'd known them. And Edelgard—

The world had carried on, utterly oblivious of the great tragedy beneath its feet.

He couldn't stand (his limbs wouldn't stop shaking) and words caught in his throat (what was there to say?) between the extreme tangle of grief and fury. To think, he'd once described Edelgard's capture to her, as horrific as if I'd lost all my limbs.

How naive. Such a thing paled in comparison to witnessing this.

CW for child torture, emetophobia, and talk of mortality. This thread will be heavy.

[unyieldingmarch]

Edelgard hadn't been able to watch.

She'd not been able to keep herself from looking away, from covering her ears and closing her eyes and waiting...hoping...for it to stop, soon. The vision had been a nightmarish trip down a lane of memories she had never wanted to acknowledge, let alone relive.

Why this she'd thought over and over, her stomach roiling. If she had food in her stomach, she'd have spilled it onto the floor long before it was over.

Even now, standing here in the safe confines of a different room altogether, the Emperor held her arms to her stomach and shook. She could barely stand, her breathing labored. She felt faint, dizzy, her head swirling with thoughts, but words? Words failed her

What does she...even say to that. What can she say? And how do words even come out, after that. How do you talk to your best friend about an event that you barely remember, an event so horrific that you lost your memories of the time before.

[bloodypath]

Words were too fragile a thing in the wake of that vision. He still couldn't rise from where he'd fallen on his knees. Hubert hunched over, the pressing a hand to his face as an irrational guilt joined the swirling grief and rage.

He shouldn't have given up.

There was nothing he could've done.

There must've been something. Someone. If he'd kept trying—

It didn't matter if it would've made a difference; such thoughts were useless. Even still... he couldn't keep them at bay, wishing harder than he ever had that'd there been a way to stop this catastrophe. A shuddering breath whistled through his bared teeth, tears starting to roll of Hubert's glove.

[unyieldingmarch]

Edelgard has never seen him cry before. It's strange. It's moving. It's...deeply concerning. Shaking her head, she moves...reaching for his arms, the strong and sturdy frame that had propped her up at some of her lowest points.

Words weren't sufficient. Words were a frail, useless thing when faced with something like this. There were no words to describe the horror they'd both just witnessed, that she was witnessing from a strangely clinical side for the first time.

She has no idea how he'll respond, but she knows that seeing this...seeing him see her at her lowest...seeing her broken down and violated for the sake of a system they both despise...she knows that she needs to prop him up. And she knows that she'll fall if she doesn't have something to lean on, as well.

A

[bergamotrose]

['So the rumors were true', Lorenz thought distantly as he unconsciously held his breath, affixing his person against the stone walls of the unfamiliar corridor as he tried to hide away from the obvious predator in the room. He was himself for once in one of these shared dreams-- bereft of his hooves and antlers, but also the shining armor he had started cladding himself in over the last five years. Dressed in a simple set of pants and shirt, and without a weapon on hand, he was quite defenseless.

But, a predator himself, he still had his wits.

Hubert's presence was that of a terrible raven, his feathers raised and disheveled in his withering agitation as he swooped into the fortress in Enbarr-- his worn and dusty cloak seeming almost like wings. He painted a picture of a Harbinger of Doom within confines of the building, bringing death and destruction to everyone he touched.

Lorenz couldn't tear his eyes away.]

Re: A

[bloodypath]

[The party sweeps right on by Lorenz, oblivious. The newly revealed room was a moderately-sized office, elegant and rich in a minimalist way. Furnishings of fine reddish woods, simple but flawlessly crafted, dotted the room and adorned only with the Adrestian double-headed eagle. Books and folders and other practical things sat in their perfect place, uncrowded somehow despite not an inch of wasted space. The space was nothing short of the ideal clerk's office.]

[The bearded man behind the desk seemed almost a far-off echo of Hubert's modern self: darkly and immaculately dressed, black hair largely shot through with grey. He sat patiently with a glass of liquor in hand, green eyes as keen as the iconic eagle decorating the room, and yet... somehow dull, almost uncaring as the world past by.]

[When the steps of the soldiers and mages came to a halt, a horrible silence reigned, like they didn't even dare breathe. Dream-Hubert stepped before the desk, silently meeting that sharp gaze.]

[The fingers of his empty hand tensed, twitching once as if fighting the urge to reach for something. In time, a shadow of an expression flickered across Hubert's face, but the dissonantly professional smile prevailed.]

"Marquis Vestra, you've been found guilty of crimes of the highest treason. Today, through Imperial will, you and your conspirators are condemned, purged of peerage and land." [No taunts, no sneer, nothing of the terrible bloodlust the then-student showed in the hallway. The flask clicked against the hardwood of the desk, top open. The Marquis never even glanced at it.] "For your role, you are to be executed."

[Behind Lorenz, that same voice sounded.]

Remarkable restraint, isn't it? You almost can't tell I wanted nothing more than to cut the wretch's throat and watch him bleed.

[bergamotrose]

[It was like a thread of cold had touched the back of his neck.

Lorenz stiffened and started at the silken tone of Hubert's voice, barely maintaining enough control of himself to reduce his reaction to simply glancing over his shoulder and staring at Hubert with the wild eyes of a startled woodland creature. Status between predator or prey animal hardly mattered when there was something infinitly darker and sharper that lurked within the shadowed caverns and underbrush at dusk, just beyond sight.]

Truly, you are the only one worthy of your position within the Empire, [Lorenz said as smoothly as he could manage, a lingering discomfort still evident in his stance and in the depths of his gaze. He was clearly intruding on matters that were deeply personal-- and, Lorenz realized, he hadn't wanted to know this truth.

The rumors had been more than enough.]

...Your acting skills are impressive, [He added dryly.] You should look into a tour at the Mittlefrank Opera House when you return to your Adrestria.

[bloodypath]

[He chuckles lowly, morbidly amused eyes meeting startled ones.]

Truly, brevity suits you far more than prattling.

[Hubert the Marquis turned his eyes into the office. Seconds ticked by. Marquis Vestra the Elder took up the flask with an unsettlingly casual motion; he almost looked thoughtful as he poured the contents into his half-empty glass.]

[It's a remarkably impersonal scene for such a deeply personal affair, almost like a scripted ritual rather than the first stone in the dramatic chain of events of that Pegasus Moon.]

It's better than he deserved, [Real Hubert sneered.] If only I hadn't been in such a rush. I would've liked to savor this.

A

[prayerwheel]

[ Okay! Well, since she's already been in Edelgard's mirror, this one has to be Hubert's. Sometimes you can go either way with these two. Matching set, don't separate, etc etc.

This doesn't look good, though. ]

...his father?

[ Azura looks around for actual-not-a-dream-Hubert, since she doesn't know him as well, and that's kinda rude to be stomping around in a near-stranger's dream mirror. ]

[bloodypath]

You heard correctly.

[Azura clearly knows this dream-routine well by now. Hubert the Marquis enters through the first set of doors as the dream entourage proceeds onward through the second. Real-Hubert's expression isn't all that different from its usual, but there's a faint echo of the maliciousness his dream-self showed in his voice.]

I only regret I lacked the time to savor this.

[The newly revealed room was a moderately-sized office, elegant and rich in a minimalist way. Furnishings of fine reddish woods, simple but flawlessly crafted, dotted the room and adorned only with the Adrestian double-headed eagle. Books and folders and other practical things sat in their perfect place, uncrowded somehow despite not an inch of wasted space. The space was nothing short of the ideal clerk's office.]

[The bearded man behind the desk seemed almost a far-off echo of Hubert's modern self: darkly and immaculately dressed, black hair largely shot through with grey. He sat patiently with a glass of liquor in hand, green eyes as keen as the iconic eagle decorating the room, and yet... somehow dull, almost uncaring as the world past by.]

[When the steps of the soldiers and mages came to a halt, a horrible silence reigned, like they didn't even dare breathe. Dream-Hubert stepped before the desk, silently meeting that sharp gaze.]

[The fingers of his empty hand tensed, twitching once as if fighting the urge to reach for something. In time, a shadow of an expression flickered across Hubert's face, but the dissonantly professional smile prevailed.]

"Marquis Vestra, you've been found guilty of crimes of the highest treason. Today, through Imperial will, you and your conspirators are condemned, purged of peerage and land." [No taunts, no sneer, nothing of the terrible bloodlust the then-student showed in the hallway. The flask clicked against the hardwood of the desk, top open. The Marquis never even glanced at it.] "For your role, you are to be executed."

[prayerwheel]

[ Oh, that can't be good. Azura frowns and trails after him, staying largely silent until that key word is said. She tenses up, head snapping towards him.

Maybe this wouldn't bite so hard if she hadn't just waded through memory bubbles that only had scribbly, faded impressions of her own father in them. She could barely remember what his face looked like before he was killed, and here she was, watching someone talk to his own father like he's a-- ]

You can't be serious. What's--why would you--?

[ Why would you enjoy this? ]

[bloodypath]

[Hubert's normally impassive face curls in real disgust, his teeth bared in something resembling a snarl.]

Because he is the worst kind of scum. A traitor, a contemptible monster masquerading in human skin.

[Seconds ticked by in the office. Marquis Vestra the Elder took up the flask with an unsettlingly casual motion; he almost looked thoughtful as he poured the contents into his half-empty glass.]

[It's a remarkably impersonal scene for such a deeply personal affair, almost like a scripted ritual.]

B

[hegemonwings]

[ that figure on the run... something about him is familiar, but it's difficult to tell in the gloom. byleth doesn't jump on hearing hubert's voice, but she's clearly taken a bit off guard. she briefly turns to look in his direction. ]

... I'm lucky enough to say that I haven't. What... are we seeing, exactly?

[bloodypath]

The last day of my childhood.

[The child nocks an arrow, hands shaking with either cold or exhaustion or nerves. Despite the training bow, the missile was full-sized and bore a vicious steel head, likely stolen from elsewhere. The voices grow louder and the faint light of a torch appears downtrail.]

When, in the wake of the Insurrection, I realized the Goddess does not answer, that intentions alone are insufficient, and that chivalry was a fairy-tale's lie.

[Real-Hubert steps up beside Byleth. The boy leans around his tree, aiming towards the torch's glow; his form isn't correctly braced and he's drawn the string far too soon, arm trembling with effort well before finding his mark.]

[The arrow doesn't go wild, but it's a poor shot. He winces when the bowstring slaps up at the arm of his coat; at the same time, the alarmed shouts redouble at the bottom of the trail.]

[hegemonwings]

[ she winces at the child's poor form and his desperation, but only nods at first as hubert speaks, gaze softening. after the insurrection... ]

... This is... after they took her, isn't it? [ what else would have driven hubert on like this at that age? and from the look of the child... ] After they took all of them.

B

[betweenduskanddawn]

Corrin followed the figure with her eyes, her lips faintly pursed. This wasn't her first memory now, she understood she couldn't do anything about it. But understanding wasn't the same as not wanting to. It was all she could do not to step towards him, and she almost did anyway when Hubert's voice drew her up short.

"Losing faith..." She echoed what he said, looking over at him, then back at the child in the vision.

"No." She finally answered, her voice quiet. "I never had the luxury of doing that."

[bloodypath]

Hubert stepped up beside her, some distance between them.

"Truly, it's the cruelest kind of luxury. A bitter plunge into the coldest depths, and the only means of pulling yourself out is grasping the most unsightly truths."

The child nocked an arrow, hands shaking with either cold or exhaustion or nerves. Despite the training bow, the missile was full-sized and bore a vicious steel head, likely stolen from elsewhere. The voices grew louder and the faint light of a torch appeared downtrail.

"Children are taught lies to cover those unsightly truths. To have that veil torn away, suddenly... you might as well be thrust into hell."

The boy leaned around his tree, aiming towards the torch's glow; his form wasn't correctly braced and he's drawn the string far too soon, arm trembling with effort well before finding his mark. The arrow doesn't go wild, but it was a poor shot. The child winced when the bowstring slapped against the arm of his coat; at the same time, the alarmed shouts redoubled at the bottom of the trail.

[betweenduskanddawn]

Corrin hadn't fired many bows, but she had definitely fired a few wrong over the years, and she gave a little sympathetic wince when the boy smacked himself with the bowstring. She was trying to take in the whole scene, but so much of it was hidden in darkness and by the trees.

"...What were you running from?" She asked finally, looking up at the present Hubert.

A -> B

[foundfamilies]

Leslie never saw a human die before now.

In a different mirror, she heard two die -- specifically, from their house being burned down, which made it a uniquely difficult one to listen to despite Leslie understanding that they brought it on themselves -- and in yet another one, she saw one laid out for a funeral -- an actually good person, which made it different again.

This time, she watched a man, figuratively speaking, casually stroll toward his death, and she watched his death throes, which could not be casual no matter what the will of the dying might have been.

Seeing Hubert as he arrived helped her with it, for all that seeing him act like the villain he looked terrified her to her core. He might be much scarier about it, but she could see something familiar about his feelings for his father. It made her understand that this was deserved. That this was necessary. That this was just.

It didn't make her feel good to watch it even so. She watched it happen anyway. She's thought about killing the people of the Sperado mansion before, by different methods, and she'd been at least tempted by Hubert's suggestion of poison. She ought to watch it.

When she was released from the mirror, though, the scene had left her so lightheaded that she almost immediately stumbled into the mirror once more.

Now she watches a much younger -- it must still be Hubert, for it's the same mirror. Like many children, she knows that all adults were children once, but finds it difficult to make the connection with seeing a child and knowing it is the same person. It's a very different kind of unsettling and a lot less extreme than watching his father die.

She jumps at the voice. Leslie has mostly gotten used to Hubert suddenly appearing in places she didn't expect -- he doesn't exactly make a lot of noise, so he usually notices her before she notices him -- but that brief view of the bloodlust below the surface put her on edge in a way that hadn't happened for a long time.

She still answers the question, though she continues to watch the child Hubert at first. "Yes. Um, or it felt like it for me."

Technically, the world hadn't ended, but her understanding of the world before the ritual certainly ended then.

She turns to look up at the adult Hubert now. "Is that why you're out here? -- you were out here?"

[bloodypath]

He would argue that it did, even without knowledge of her past. Leslie's only a couple years older than Hubert was here, although they looked the about the same. A child's worldview existed in faith, in the stories presented to them until they could learn the world for themselves.

Hubert didn't see a need to press the point. Leslie's initial answer was certain—she understood.

"As a consequence of such things, yes."

He steps up beside Leslie, easily picking his way through the gloom. The child nocked an arrow, hands shaking with either cold or exhaustion or nerves. Despite the training bow, the missile was full-sized and bore a vicious steel head, likely stolen from elsewhere. The voices grew louder and the faint light of a torch appeared downtrail.

The boy leaned around his tree, aiming towards the torch's glow; his form wasn't correctly braced and he's drawn the string far too soon, arm trembling with effort well before finding his mark. The arrow doesn't go wild, but it was a poor shot. The child winced when the bowstring slapped against the arm of his coat; at the same time, the alarmed shouts redoubled at the bottom of the trail.

"You study history. Surely you know what a coup is?"

[foundfamilies]

Leslie looks up at him when he steps next to her, but she soon is craning her neck to try to see through the trees why he's shooting people.

"A coup d'état. An overthrow of a government by a small group of people in positions of power or formerly in positions of power. They usually only remove the leading figures, as they already benefit from the structures in place."

It sometimes takes her a moment to change from information-retrieval mode into actually thinking through what that information means. When she properly thinks it through, she goes still.

"But...Lady Edelgard is --"

Either a leading figure for the coup to remove, or the child of one of the leaders of the coup. The latter wouldn't be such a problem, but while both Edelgard and Hubert have been open about overturning quite a few people in power, she doesn't think it's that one. There wasn't any one particular thing, but a collection of odds and ends of information about her from conversations with her make her think that Edelgard is the end of a long line.

A lot of the history of the continent that she's read has been sanitized somewhat to paint the empire in the best light, even those have enough information to know: if you leave a spare heir around, there's trouble.

Maybe the coup didn't succeed and this was a part of the conflict that stopped them. Gosh, she hopes so.