It's days like these when Silas remembers how things used to be. Before the war. Before he became a knight, a traitor, a king.

It is overcast and cool, with the spongy meadows of the training field laid out in patchwork before him. His new castle straddles the division between territory that was once Hoshidan and territory that was once Nohrian. Valencia wanted it that way.

He's infinitely more comfortable on the Nohrian side of the castle. It's hard to tell the difference between the two sides, but Silas can. It's darker, mistier.

Valencia tells him that it's not good for him to think of Valla that way.

"Valla is Valla," she told him, "It's not Hoshido or Nohr or anything else. We're our own kingdom."

He knows her well. He can tell that not even she is fully comfortable being the queen of Valla. He knows she's putting up a front, looking strong for everyone else's sake. He wishes he could be like her, pretending so well.

But no, here he is, on the Nohrian side of the castle, his sword gripped in his hand. He tests its familiar weight, its silver surface reflecting the clouds above.

With the weather like this, he can almost picture his father standing before him, his own sword in his hands, smiling mischievously.

Go on then. Take a swing.

He didn't learn with the same sword he has now. The sword he had then was of a cheaper metal, not as sharp or as light, but good for a beginner. Technically, he had no real reason to learn to fight. As far as Nohrian families went, his had it easy. Food on the table, a grand house, noble status. It didn't mean they were free from fear, but it at least meant they were free from starvation. Free from manual labor. It meant they didn't have to fight.

But Silas's father had been a working man in his youth, and just because he married rich didn't mean he lost his fighting spirit.

Come on, son. The sword won't bite you. A laugh, loud and booming. Hopefully, it'll bite your enemies!

But Silas was not a fighter. His mother liked to say he had a gentle soul. The sword always felt alien in his hands, no matter how long he spent training. Still, he tried his best. He never complained about the aching muscles or the frustrated tears when he bungled another position. He was the only child of a proud, noble family. A son of Nohr. He would learn to fight.

Still, Silas much preferred the days his family would make the voyage to the castle so his father could hold council with King Garon. He loved the grandeur, the lords and ladies in fancy dress, and most importantly, the princesses.

He didn't have many friends at home, a result of his lack of siblings and his lack of confidence with others. But he had known the Nohrian princesses since he was little. Camilla, the eldest, tall, imposing, and beautiful, Elise, the youngest, a little blonde firecracker, and of course, the middle, Valencia.

Camilla wasn't always around when Silas visited, but when she was, she made him nervous. She had this penetrating gaze which, paired with a gentle smile, made Silas simultaneously want to get closer to her and also run for the hills. As he grew older, he realized that that was what having a crush felt like. As a result, he avoided her whenever he could. Elise was at the castle slightly more, and usually spent her time tagging along with Silas, tugging at his clothes and asking him questions in her tiny baby voice.

Valencia was always at the castle. She was the same age as him, and seemed built from different stuff than Elise or Camilla. She seemed almost lighter than they were, like the hard, dark atmosphere that pervaded Nohr hadn't been able to touch her. Silas always thought she seemed restless, but not with the same spontaneity as Elise. Her energy always seemed concentrated on a fixed point, and that point, Silas discovered, was outside.

"What's it like?" she would ask, "Outside?"

"You've never been outside?" he would ask her lightly, because he knew the answer.

"Of course I have been," she replied, and he could predict the words before they left her lips, "My retainers take me for regular walks every day, like a dog. But it isn't the same."

Even when she was young, Valencia seemed all too aware of her place in the world, all too unhappy with it. He knew she wasn't allowed to leave the castle, as per her father's wishes, but Silas didn't fully understand her want. Who wouldn't love being stuck in this beautiful castle, with attentive servants ready to respond to any need or request? Who wouldn't want to escape the imposition of learning to fight, of being able to escape that Nohrian obligation?

Valencia was his best friend. She always had the best ideas, knew the best ways to have fun. Even if they couldn't accomplish all of them, it was fun enough just to imagine.

"One day, Silas, I want you to take me outside. Let's have a picnic."

They were ten years old. Silas's wrist was sore from training yesterday.

"I don't know how to cook," Silas said.

"You don't have to. We have plenty of food here. I can pack a basket."

"Why do you even need me then?"

She smiled at him. "Who else could I possibly trust to fight off the bad guys if we run into trouble?"

She seemed to have the impression he was a better fighter than he was.

He rubbed his wrist, "I think you'd be just fine on your own. Your big brother's been teaching you to fight, right? I couldn't possibly be better than that."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm not asking you to be better than Xander. I'm just asking you to hit some people with swords for me."

Silas thought the plan was hypothetical, just like all their other plans. Bug catching. Stargazing. Attending a carnival. Just for fun, just to think about as they wandered the crimson-carpeted halls of the castle. But before he knew it, it was a real plan.

"Jakob will be hard to sneak past," Valencia reasoned, "He could probably be bribed. Maybe. Or maybe we bribe Felicia to mess something up big time, and he'd have to go help clean up… maybe I wouldn't even have to bribe her, just aid her in her usual clumsiness…"

"Valencia, that seems a little mean," Silas replied.

"She'll understand. Felicia's the one helping me get food for our picnic."

"She knows?"

"...More or less."

Valencia knew what she was doing, so Silas didn't worry about it. Every time he visited, she would come up with a new aspect of their plan, and then ask him for input. He never had any. But he never had any objections either, and soon enough, they were setting a date.

"Your father needs to stay over to negotiate putting down that Ice Tribe rebellion, so just ask to stay with him!"

Silas knew his father would be thrilled to hear that. His own son, interested in military business. Probably, he'd jump for joy.

It was all too easy. Too easy to pack a bag, too easy to pick a room near the princess's, too easy to creep down the halls with her, too easy to sneak outside. Too easy to look up at the stars as they broke into their picnic basket.

He should have known.

That night, his knee was a little twisted from practice. That night, he was having a little too much fun to notice the guards watching from a distance. That night, he didn't realize what was happening until they had descended upon him, shouting, grabbing his arms, adding new aches and pains to the mix. That night, he heard Valencia crying. It was the first time he had ever heard her cry, but it wouldn't be the last time.

They didn't let him sleep. They threw him into a jail cell so hard his head hit the back wall and his vision swam for a minute. He spent the night lying awake on the cell floor, his face wet from the frightened tears. His mother always said he had a gentle soul.

The next morning, they hauled him out of the cell, dragged him up four floors to the king's chamber. The light streaming through the stained glass windows hurt his eyes.

"So, this is the little rat," King Garon said, "Thought you could steal away my daughter, hm? It's a shame corruption in our court runs so deep."

Silas was too tired to lift his head to the king, but he could see his father standing next to the throne. He was so pale, Silas could make out the dark circles below his eyes from where he was standing.

There was no trial, no deliberation. Nohrian law was strict on the subject of traitors, and Garon liked to work quickly.

He was to be executed the next morning, only an hour or so after his father had planned for them to return home just a few days before. As it turned out, Silas's father return home would be his last. Their family was banished from the castle.

Silas would never return.

They threw him back in the cell, but gentler this time. Silas wondered why they couldn't just get it over with now. Throw him hard enough, and they'd spare King Garon the time to oversee the beheading.

As he sat, awaiting his fate, hungry for the first time in his life (the coleslaw he had eaten the night before hadn't been nearly enough), he found that the tears had stopped coming. Unlike his first night in the cell, the second one seemed clearer, not as dark. He wondered if that was what death was like. Clear and light. He hoped so.

After an indeterminate number of hours, he heard footsteps. Guards, maybe, but these seemed too soft.

A small voice, "Silas?"

Silas wasn't entirely sure he could speak, but he tried his best to croak, "Valencia?"

"Oh gods," he heard. A small sigh, "Oh gods. Silas. I'm so… I'm so sorry."

Her voice sounded raw, like she had been crying. He hated that he had made her cry.

"It's okay," he managed. He knew it wasn't, but he didn't know what else to say.

"I'm going to save you," she said.

He wanted to tell her that she couldn't save him, but he also didn't want her to be more upset than she already was.

"I believe in you," he replied. It wasn't a lie.

"I promise I'll save you. This is my fault, and I should be punished for it," she blurted, "This is my fault. This is all my fault. They can't k-" she broke off her sentence. There was silence for a moment. "This is wrong. They're wrong."

In the cell, Silas stood up slowly. His legs shook. His knees ached. He shuffled his way toward the door, put his hand to the cool metal.

"I believe in you," he repeated. He thought those were good last words to say to his best friend. He hoped she'd remember him for them.

Another indeterminate number of hours had passed since Valencia left when the door to the cell swung open, and two guards entered.

"Get up," one grunted.

Silas blinked in confusion. "Is it time?" he asked.

"Get up," the same guard repeated.

Silas did.

They led him out, but gentler this time, up the stairs. Silas expected them to bring him up more stairs, but instead they led him out the door.

Gods, Silas thought, Are they going to execute me in public?

But no, they brought him to a carriage. His father standing in front of it.

Silas was confused. It was an overcast day, but the light outside was still blinding him, making his head pound.

"We're going home, son," his father said. His voice was low.

"We're…" Silas repeated softly. He didn't believe it.

It was only after three hours in the carriage that Silas thought to ask what happened. Three hours of heavy silence. Silas thought maybe he'd cry, but the tears never came. He was still so hungry, so tired, in so much pain.

"The princess pleaded for your life," his father reported gravely, "But we are never to return to the castle again."

Silas looked at his hands as the full weight of his father's words sunk in, slowly. It seemed only moments ago that he was doomed. Now-

"Never," he whispered, "Never again."

When he got home, he took a bath. He ate dinner. He went to bed. The whole time, the words repeated in his head. Never. Never again. Never. Never again.

Silas didn't train for the rest of the week. His parents only spoke to him a few times. They seemed distant. More often, he heard them arguing outside. Something about money, something about prestige, something about honor.

In that week, Silas gained a bit more clarity on the situation. He wanted to see Valencia. He wanted to thank her. But he couldn't.

Never again.