Afraid⊠ashamed⊠These werenât words Ingrid would have ever applied to Glenn. All of her life, he had been a symbol of pride and strength and confidence. He was the first person who had encouraged her to learn how to fight. He had even taught her how to wield and lance and use a sword.
Ingridâs brows pursed together in thought. She turned over his words in her head several times.
While she could understand his hesitance to go back to his old life, Ingrid still felt⊠hurt. Maybe he couldnât have protected them, but they hadnât needed him to, six years ago. They had just needed him.
Her voice was quiet and even, but her eyes glanced away to the table.Â
âIn⊠all that time,â she spoke. âDid you ever miss us? You⊠I understand that you were afraid, but⊠it was ten years, Glenn. If we hadnât found you and Dedue, would⊠would you have ever reached out to us again?â
Because the more she thought about it, the more it stung. For ten years, Glenn had stayed away. Many of those years were stained by injury, inability, and war. So she could understand why he had to. But⊠the Glenn she once knew had been such a fighter, and he had cared about them all so much.
At least he had seemed to, in her childâs mind.
It was strange to think that he wouldnât want to reach out to Rodrigue or Felix. She could understand him not thinking of her. Betrothed as they had once been, she had also been a child compared to him. Their engagement had been nothing but friendship at the time of his death. She had been devasted by his loss, but she knew that there was no reason for her to be a priority to him.
But his brother? His family? Troubled though the Fraldarius family sometimes was, they had all still loved one another. Hadnât they?
âDidnât you⊠worry? About Felix?â
    The hesitation in her voice was evident; he had lost what trust he had when they had been children, and he by no means blamed her for it. Even Felix and Dimitri had tossed aside their childhood together in favor of greeting him with newfound anger and frustration. He understood, of course he understood and didnât blame them. He had left them for ten years and appeared in their lives so suddenly, in the heat of battle, alongside another comrade of theirs that they had thought dead for a significantly shorter amount of time. And, following his recovery, there was very much a period in time when he could have reached out and chosen not to. He had little desire to defend the choices he had made then - he had hardly been in his right state of mind, even after the majority of his visible wounds had healed, or healed as much as they were capable of. Had he been, he certainly would have written his father, at the very least, but he couldnât bring himself to. If he had, would he have further ruined Felixâs life?Â
    His beloved firstborn and heir to the throne had become unable to wield a sword, and had been crippled. Knowing all that his father and their house and country stood for - he would never have been welcomed back as the heir to the household, and that would have fallen onto Felixâs shoulders regardless. But if he had dragged himself back, if he had told his father of his condition, would he have been harder on Felix? Would he have been more cruel or pushed him so much harder because he felt the need to replace what he had lost instead of love his second child as his own person rather than a clone of his first? Neither was ideal, he knew; it would have been better if he had come back, at least then, he could have been a shield, and that would have been good enough.Â
    But he hadnât. He hadnât even written, and he had no excuse for it aside from the fact that he hadnât been...himself back then. He still wasnât himself now. A younger him would have bounced back quickly and marched home with his arms open as he cursed the bastards who had slaughtered the king. But he wasnât that young or that foolish anymore. Heâd kissed death on the lips, and learned more than his fair share of suffering and secrets during the time had spent in Duscur. Of course; however, he missed them. There hadnât been a day that had gone by that he hadnât worried about his brother and father in some way, shape or form. And he could say, with honesty, that if he hadnât run into Dedue, he would have returned, possibly even sooner than he had. He had always intended to return after he had heard of the war. Even if he hadnât been prepared to fight, he still could have thrown his life away for someone else to make up for the years heâd stayed away. At least, this way, he still harbored a will to fight. Â
     âYes...of course,â he breathed. âBut I did not believe myself worthy to show my face...to Felix or anyone, even now...I am still not. And...If I had not met Dedue...I would have returned, but not to fight alongside of all of you.â He swallowed, unsure if he should continue. He was aware his words would only upset her, and enrage his brother should she ever tell him of what they spoke about, but he had promised to be honest with her. âI would have returned...to die...I would have come back to be a shield for my brother...that is all.â From the war, from their father, from his fate; from everything.Â
    He bowed his head slightly as Felix was brought into the conversation. He had been close to his younger brother before; he had taught him, and Ingrid, how to use a sword, a lance, anything they desired, he would teach them. He had always encouraged them to follow their dreams, and had always protected them when they were in danger. Guilt didnât even begin to describe how he felt. âOf course...there was not a day when I did not worry about my brother. As skilled and...stubborn as he is, he is still my brother...I doubt there will ever be a time when I do not worry for him...my reasoning, I know it will never make sense to you. I have no intention of trying to justify...my staying behind for so long...or to offer you ab excuse. I know I was wrong.â  Â
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