As a counterpoint, he is also speaking to the oldest of the Scions by close to a decade, discounting viera aging. If Eula's hair wasn't naturally white, the age in it would be clearly visible.
"I suppose one benefit of your long lifespan is time enough to figure it out," Eula observes.
Then they glance to the side and say, "I was thirty and eight when Dalamud fell. Two decades had I spent in my brother's shadow, making that the whole of my identity, and after I had naught, no choice but to start again from nothing." They allow that statement a breath to settle, and then say, "If you should ever want for advice, then mine is this: The people we are when we first step out of childhood are in some ways the truest versions of ourselves. If you lose sight of that path, then look back to how you found yourself upon it in the first place."
A strained smile, over bitter memories -
She stands in the corner of a darkened room as her parents speak. Both are Garlean nobility, tall and slim and pale of hair. Her mother is dressed lightly, for a Garlean fashion, and the room is too warm, too open, to be in Garlemald itself. Her hands are clutching at each other under the table where she sits.
The girl's father is an imposing figure, a legatus in his own right, though not one who seems familiar to the one seeing the vision. He stands, which puts him head and shoulders above his wife. His helm sits at his elbow on the table; his expression is hard.
On the table between them sits a folded banner of Garlemald, carefully arranged such that the emblem of the nation is fully visible despite the folds. Sitting on it are a pair of small medals and an officer's insignia. Fridtjof would not know of his own knowledge, but within the memory, he does - this is what a family receives, when the body of their child cannot be returned to them.
"Our son died for the glory of this nation," the legatus says.
"What glory is there in death?" the mother answers, her voice forcefully even and carrying only a hint of her pain. Under the table, her daughter can see her hands shake. "He was barely more than a boy, Caracalla. And now he'll never - "
Her voice hitches.
"Nael will never come home again."
Unobserved by her parents, the girl's hands tighten into fists.
----
The Lord and Lady Darnus do not share a bedroom. They have not for a long time; with children nearly grown, there is no purpose anymore behind their marriage bed, and there was never love.
In the hall outside her father's room, the girl does not fidget. She carries a tea tray, taken from a servant, with her father's usual evening wine. In the bottom are traditional spices, disguising the texture and taste of the powder she added.
Chirugeon is a proper occupation for a woman with military aspirations, and poison a proper woman's weapon. Her smile is perfectly demure as her father drinks.
She stays, until he realizes. His eyes go to her, even as his breathing grows more difficult; he lunges for her neck.
Her brother was the only one who knew how improper she was. He was the one who taught her to fight, how to twist out of her father's hands, to twist one of his wrists and throw the other arm wide. The winecup falls across the desk, where military documents still lie, detailing exactly what kind of glory her brother's life bought her country.
Her father weakens. Eula Darnus pushes him back into the chair at his desk. He had her trained in the medical arts; it is only his own fault that she knows how to kill a man barehanded, her thumbs pressing into his windpipe.
"You are the one who gave the order," she says, imperious over the raging tide inside her, the rage, the grief. "A commander must be held responsible for his failures to his men. Isn't that right, Father?"
cw: hands-on patricide
"I suppose one benefit of your long lifespan is time enough to figure it out," Eula observes.
Then they glance to the side and say, "I was thirty and eight when Dalamud fell. Two decades had I spent in my brother's shadow, making that the whole of my identity, and after I had naught, no choice but to start again from nothing." They allow that statement a breath to settle, and then say, "If you should ever want for advice, then mine is this: The people we are when we first step out of childhood are in some ways the truest versions of ourselves. If you lose sight of that path, then look back to how you found yourself upon it in the first place."
A strained smile, over bitter memories -
She stands in the corner of a darkened room as her parents speak. Both are Garlean nobility, tall and slim and pale of hair. Her mother is dressed lightly, for a Garlean fashion, and the room is too warm, too open, to be in Garlemald itself. Her hands are clutching at each other under the table where she sits.
The girl's father is an imposing figure, a legatus in his own right, though not one who seems familiar to the one seeing the vision. He stands, which puts him head and shoulders above his wife. His helm sits at his elbow on the table; his expression is hard.
On the table between them sits a folded banner of Garlemald, carefully arranged such that the emblem of the nation is fully visible despite the folds. Sitting on it are a pair of small medals and an officer's insignia. Fridtjof would not know of his own knowledge, but within the memory, he does - this is what a family receives, when the body of their child cannot be returned to them.
"Our son died for the glory of this nation," the legatus says.
"What glory is there in death?" the mother answers, her voice forcefully even and carrying only a hint of her pain. Under the table, her daughter can see her hands shake. "He was barely more than a boy, Caracalla. And now he'll never - "
Her voice hitches.
"Nael will never come home again."
Unobserved by her parents, the girl's hands tighten into fists.
----
The Lord and Lady Darnus do not share a bedroom. They have not for a long time; with children nearly grown, there is no purpose anymore behind their marriage bed, and there was never love.
In the hall outside her father's room, the girl does not fidget. She carries a tea tray, taken from a servant, with her father's usual evening wine. In the bottom are traditional spices, disguising the texture and taste of the powder she added.
Chirugeon is a proper occupation for a woman with military aspirations, and poison a proper woman's weapon. Her smile is perfectly demure as her father drinks.
She stays, until he realizes. His eyes go to her, even as his breathing grows more difficult; he lunges for her neck.
Her brother was the only one who knew how improper she was. He was the one who taught her to fight, how to twist out of her father's hands, to twist one of his wrists and throw the other arm wide. The winecup falls across the desk, where military documents still lie, detailing exactly what kind of glory her brother's life bought her country.
Her father weakens. Eula Darnus pushes him back into the chair at his desk. He had her trained in the medical arts; it is only his own fault that she knows how to kill a man barehanded, her thumbs pressing into his windpipe.
"You are the one who gave the order," she says, imperious over the raging tide inside her, the rage, the grief. "A commander must be held responsible for his failures to his men. Isn't that right, Father?"