[Imagine? No. He didn't need to. It was that very thing that set him on this path to begin with, or something similar enough. But that wasn't Hubert's secret to share.]
[He's patient, listening quietly and still watching the desolate well. Hubert tabs every location Sylvain mentions in his memory, trying to reconstruct this alternate version of the war from the little bits he's collected.]
Each of you speaks of changing the status quo from the inside. [Hubert shakes his head, regardless if Sylvain could see it or not.] Do you truly think we did not desire the same? The monsters within the Church carved this system into Fódlan's very bones, and ruthlessly culls anyone that does not feed the infection. That infection has festered—anything less than cutting out every bit of it will lead to a bloodier conflict, a bitter powerstruggle spanning decades—perhaps centuries—as the nobility bites back, refusing to relinquish its parasitic deathgrip.
These people have always been dying, Sylvain. In the streets, of starvation. In the dark, at the hands of capricious nobles. In the fields, worked to the bone. In conspiracies and lies under the Archbishop's inhuman heel—only now, they die screaming where you can hear them, instead of out of sight in silent terror. You might look away, but I will not. The madness our society has embraced will not continue.
sorry it took a while to get this tag right
[He's patient, listening quietly and still watching the desolate well. Hubert tabs every location Sylvain mentions in his memory, trying to reconstruct this alternate version of the war from the little bits he's collected.]
Each of you speaks of changing the status quo from the inside. [Hubert shakes his head, regardless if Sylvain could see it or not.] Do you truly think we did not desire the same? The monsters within the Church carved this system into Fódlan's very bones, and ruthlessly culls anyone that does not feed the infection. That infection has festered—anything less than cutting out every bit of it will lead to a bloodier conflict, a bitter powerstruggle spanning decades—perhaps centuries—as the nobility bites back, refusing to relinquish its parasitic deathgrip.
These people have always been dying, Sylvain. In the streets, of starvation. In the dark, at the hands of capricious nobles. In the fields, worked to the bone. In conspiracies and lies under the Archbishop's inhuman heel—only now, they die screaming where you can hear them, instead of out of sight in silent terror. You might look away, but I will not. The madness our society has embraced will not continue.