[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

[bloodypath]

[He chuckles lowly. His always has been a morbid humor. ]

Hardly. It's pathetic technique, on all fronts. But... I suppose it's to be expected for that age.

[The struggle does not resolve quickly. The agitated soldier splits the unit's attention, and the desperate boy keeps jerking his knife-arm free in the chaos, just enough to be dangerous. Other lights and shouts begin to close in.]

[hegemonwings]

... I wouldn't know what's expected of children that age. [ byleth debates for a second, before elaborating: ] The Ashen Demon would have been born around this time.

[ her attention stays on the conflict, feeling a pang of sympathy for the boy. ]

[bloodypath]

[Right. Her time as a mercenary. That moniker was just about the only thing Hubert had been able to find, when he had been trying to dig up more information on his professor years ago. She couldn't be too far from him in age.]

Mm. Perhaps neither of us is the best judge of it, then. I would like to think most other children wouldn't have made it as long as I did.

[As heartbreaking as it was, his capture was for the best. Hubert would've likely died before reaching Fhirdiad. The agitated soldier shakes off his fellows, stepping forward with a sword in hand.]

"Don't you dar—" [The ranking officer's voice starts, but the scene abruptly goes back as the man swings the pommel down. Hubert and Byleth were left before the mirror again.]

I began earnest study of magic in the years to follow. That suited me far better than archery did.

[hegemonwings]

[ she would say something about how it was the right choice, and that she's pretty sure he still has a knack for archery but his real strengths clearly lie elsewhere

but this isn't hubert's mirror. the frame appears like bone, burnt around the edges. the whole thing is irregularly flecked and streaked with ash. two pairs of wings crown it: one an eagle's wings spread proudly, appearing to be made of inlaid polished black stone, the other a drooping, skeletal pair of dragon wings made from silver, with a white gem inlay of wilted lilies intertwined with the bones. a chain motif extends upwards from the wings, made of the same silver, and crosses over a ruby design of an anatomical heart marked with the crest of flames that rests between the black wings, as if binding the heart even as it tries to soar away. above the heart is the adrestian eagle. around the sides are time motifs: hourglasses, clock hands, and the like. the last visible motif before the apparent fire damage becomes too much is the sword of the creator fully extended around most of the mirror's circumference—from one side of the wings to the other—and interwoven with red carnations, again in ruby.

at the center of it all, the mirror calls. ]

... This one is mine.

[bloodypath]

[It does, a siren's call at the back of his mind. In moments like these that the dream reasserts itself in a remind that this is not reality; Hubert blinks in surprise after his fingers touch the surface, not even cognizant that he'd raised his hand at all.]

...Ah. My apologies.

[hegemonwings]

It's... what it is.

[ it's a mercenary encampment, not long after dawn. judging from the layer of frost on the ground and the chill in the air, it's likely somewhere in faerghus territory. jeralt—looking precisely the same as he had years later—is conversing over coffee with a woman wearing the same mark of the company as he and byleth wore. one of his trusted veterans, most likely.

a blue-haired child in a cloak and battered leathers approaches the makeshift mess hall setup nearby. it might be difficult to discern the child's gender without context, but given the scene, it's quite obvious who it is. especially with that doll-like face, a glassy stare on a stony countenance. two mercs startle at the sight of the commander's daughter, not having heard or seen her approach, quickly moving to avoid her, joining up with a third at a nearby table. ]

... like a damn ghost. [ one of them mutters, clearly thinking the girl can't hear. another at the table: ] That demon child... the Goddess must've turned her back on it. [ the third speaks up, her voice practically a low hiss. ] Quiet, do you want the Commander to hear you?

[ the child byleth turns her head to look at the three of them, expression utterly flat. she says nothing, and after a few seconds she takes her breakfast and begins walking towards where her father sits. ]

[bloodypath]

[Hubert's hands settle clasped behind his back. As the scene fades into view, his eyes dart about, lingering briefly on each individual and the features of the camp.]

Subtle, aren't they?

[hegemonwings]

... It didn't bother me much at the time. I didn't feel much of anything. [ byleth watches her past self—she couldn't be older than ten, but she doesn't remember for certain—settle in next to her father. both jeralt and the veteran he was speaking to greet her warmly, which she doesn't outwardly return.

"morning, kid." "good morning, father. lieutenant."

it's that same flat, toneless delivery she'd spoken with most of the time at the monastery, but in a small child's voice. all the time, the girl sticks close to the man, treating him almost like an anchor as she almost mechanically starts to eat. ] My childhood memories are... foggy, but if I recall, I'd... killed a man for the first time, not that long before this.

[bloodypath]

Is that so?

[There's familiarity in her mannerisms, her speech. There's hardly anything resembling a child at all except for her stature—and her proximity to Jeralt. It's a quiet, curious thing that in contrast to everything else, feels almost like a tell of some sort.]

Does it bother you now?

[hegemonwings]

... I'm not sure.

[ her attention is mostly on jeralt. she doesn't remember this clearly herself, many of her childhood memories are... buried, only now returning in pieces. ]

After all of this, I could handle being called the Whore of Enbarr or the Child of Nemesis once we started the war. [ and the ashen demon, of course. that one never went away. ]

I was a monster for twenty years. Why should it trouble me to be called one?