Faye is the first and only one to see him after the comment from the passing by nobleman. It dawns on him as soon as he approaches the campfire, the most logical place to go to lick wounds after a battle… Somewhere warm and lit and as he’d hoped, would be abandoned, is not.
His world knocks into focus when he snaps a twig with his boot and Faye’s head snaps up, her pigtails following her movement. Her hand is instantly on a dagger—one that Lukas remembers Gray wielding—and her eyes flash with fear.
I forgot. He recalls. She was assigned the second shift tonight.
Faye eases a little, but her eyes flit from the dirt on Lukas’s knees to the scratches on his elbows from being pushed to ground. Her eyes graze over the blood trickling from his upper lip. The taste of metal sours on his tongue. She takes his unsightly presence in and the etiquette lessons drilled into him at birth make him instinctively raise a hand, forgetting that his knuckles are split, bloodied and are certainly bruised, to hide his swelling lip.
Lukas instantly remembers his place, Clive’s voice in his ears: you are an officer now. You must set an example to our young recruits.
He stands a little taller, feels a blush of shame cross his cheeks. Faye just stares at him, taking in the sight of her commanding officer who very obviously just got out of a fist fight. Her hands loosen around the dagger and it slides back into the delicate purse that hangs at her side.
“I know white magic.” Faye offers quietly. She is on her feet and is so… small. She cannot be older than seventeen. Lukas thinks. It’s the pigtails and the innocent village skirt and those wide brown eyes unused to the sight of death. Their youngest is Kliff, but even he seems more suited to fighting than she. Faye is strong and capable but whenever Lukas witnesses her in battle, idle and disengaged, her eyes flit everywhere, panic clear on her face.
As she closes the distance between them, Lukas realizes it’s the first words she’s said to him, outside of greetings, notifications that food had prepared, nods when he orders her to do something and her frantic demand to be brought along when they were leaving Ram Village.
Faye doesn’t wait for Lukas’s approval, taking him by the elbow—narrowly avoiding the nasty scuff he’d gotten—and sits them before the dying embers of the campfire. He shudders a little when Faye begins pressing her dry, newly-calloused hands against his broken skin. With a prayer, she takes away the bruises, the blood, the marks of the battle; she leaves behind the words, the “backwater”, “led by a base born bastard”, “the group of hick children” and the assumption that they’ll all be slaughtered before they could truly enlist.
The firelight illuminates the cost of the duel left on Lukas’s face. The white magic—cool and tingling and inhuman—takes it away. His body feels numb in spots, and the sensation will fade long before dawn when his skin has sewn itself back together and the bruises have been faded back to pale skin.
Faye draws her hands back into her lap, just for a second before reaching for her canteen of water. She produces a handkerchief, embroidered with flowers and pretty things, something that a lady carries and gives as a favoured token to her courtly love.
The water is cool against his skin. She’s using her rations to clean me up. Lukas shies away from her touch, from pain but also from duty: he knows well that they do not have enough for them and that by the time they get to the Deliverance Hideout, rations will be sparse. “You will not get any more if you use it all.”
It comes out harsher than he means it. He winces when the water, warmer than he expected it to be, touches his brow. Her white magic skills leave much to be desired, they are faulty and underdeveloped, but still surprising to see. She’d only just been blessed as a mage. Silque must have been the one to teach her, in between marches and battles. Lukas had advised Alm to make use of an abandoned mare they’d found in a farmer’s field and set Faye on the path of a cavalier, but Alm had insisted otherwise:
I’ve seen her use black magic before, Lukas. She’ll pick up quickly, I know she will. He told him in the Thieves’ Shrine.
Lukas dryly thanks Mila that Alm did not think to set her on the holy path of a cleric. His wounds slowly close over, the numb sensation fleeing much too quickly. The pain returns.
“I don’t care.” Faye says quietly. She wets the cloth again, wipes the crusting blood from his brow. “If Gray or Kliff gets up and sees you like this, they’ll lose all respect for you. Trust me, you can’t have that.”
Lukas submits to her care. He shuts his eyes as she takes his hands into her lap—the nobleman’s blood and skin probably still stuck under his nails—and cleans them with the handkerchief that she probably bought in the same town, just feet away from the nobleman who called her a bumpkin scum under his breath.
When she’s done, Lukas tells her to go to bed, that he will take her shift. Faye doesn’t protest—the dark circles under her eyes tell all—and gets up and goes to bed without protest.
As they don their packs and prepare the convoy for march the next morning, Lukas gives her his canteen of water, ready to go without.
My Analysis of the Best Paired Endings in 3H (Part 12: Raphael/Bernadetta)
Raphael: Mercenaries have no responsibilities, and no one else to worry about. But someone's gotta take care of my little sis, so that's out of the question. Serving as a knight in a noble house is more secure, and you don't have to worry about dying…unless there's a war. My sis has been through so much. I don't want her to have to worry about me.
Raphael chose a more difficult path in life for the sake of his little sister. After their parents died, he enrolled in the academy to become a knight to a noble house to earn money for her.
Raphael: Fighting alongside you and everyone else is a dream come true, Professor! And don't worry about my little sis. Right now she's back home helping out with the family business. I kinda figured I was gonna be stuck going back and taking over for her. But thanks to you and Claude, I get to work on my dream of becoming a proper knight!
Claude told him that a knight's main function was to fight and defend, but to Raphael, a proper knight was someone who was virtuous and always helped those in need. And his wish at the Goddess Tower was to become a proper knight. Taking over the inn was something he was always reluctant to do unless he had no choice.
Raphael: Sure, it's not my favorite thing in the world, but that was to keep my little sis fed. I had good reason for it.
Byleth: It's the same for me.
Raphael: The same, huh? I think I get what you mean. You do things you don't wanna do for the sake of everyone else. That's real noble of you, Professor. I guess I can't get in your way if you're doing it for the right reasons.
Nobody is nicer guy than Raphael. A big part of his character was that he did things he didn't want to do for the sake of others.
Raphael: And y'know? I'm totally OK not being a knight. Once this war is finally over and we're at peace again, I'm gonna take over the inn. So don't worry about me, OK? Follow your own dreams, Ignatz.
In Hopes, his Houses solo ending, and most of his paired endings, he doesn't achieve his dream of becoming a proper knight, because he gives up knighthood to manage his family's inn. In the paired endings where he does manage the inn, it helps his partner, but it wasn't what he wanted to do.
Raphael & Ignatz
After returning to his hometown, Raphael served as a knight to the local lord while assisting his grandfather and sister in managing the inn they had opened as a side job. However, Maya, his sister, suddenly disappeared, leaving behind a note saying she wanted to become a painter. Raphael, resigning from his knighthood, managed the inn while waiting for his sister's return. Several years later, Maya returned, not as a painter, but as the wife of a painter. Introduced as her husband was Ignatz. At that time, he was nothing more than an unknown artist, but supported by Raphael, Maya, and his father and brother who recognized his talent, Ignatz continued to pursue his dream and eventually became a renowned painter representing Fódlan.
In his paired ending with Ignatz, he gives up his own dream so that Ignatz can live his dream with Maya. It's sweet of him to do so, but the ideal ending would be for both of them to achieve their dreams.
Ferdinand: Do you not realize that life is passing you by? Have you no desire to venture beyond this reclusive lifestyle? There is a whole world waiting for you out there.
It is important to note that Bernadetta is a Sagittarius. Fire signs are considered the most masculine signs. Sagittarius is bold, unapologetic and forward-thinking, and is known for its carefree nature. They are natural intellectuals and explorers. Bernie's hyper-anxious personality is completely unnatural for her. It is the result of sexist abuse to make her submissive, like a "good wife" should be. It's not who she really is.
Bernadetta: But wouldn't it be nice to spend some time alone with a nice guy in this lonely tower, cut off from all the rest of the world?
Bernie's wish at the Goddess Tower was to spend her life in solitude, something Byleth won't promise with her. But just before that, she said she wanted to be alone with a nice guy. So, she didn't really want to be alone. She shut herself away and let life pass her by, which all of her friends were concerned about. Her character arc was about overcoming her anxiety and her fear of befriending commoners, and also becoming more independent. Something which is extremely hard for her to do, based on her endings.
Bernadetta: I'm afraid to go home…afraid to see my parents…
In her solo ending, she becomes a hermit known as the "Bear of Varley". In her S-Support with Byleth, she is hiding away in her room again because she's afraid to go back home. In her ending with Byleth, she never overcomes her shyness (except in CF where she has to fight TWSITD). If she marries Ferdinand, she lives in his territory and stays home while he travels.
She does the same with Felix and becomes even more reclusive with him. If she marries Linhardt, she won't leave her room unless she has to give a lecture. In her ending with Caspar, he frequently counts her as one of his children. If she marries Seteth, she commits to life as a recluse. And she has to stay glued to Yuri's side.
Raphael: Really?! That would be great! We gotta get this war over with so you can have more time to cook!
Bernadetta: You know, I'd actually like that.
Bernadetta bears the Crest of Indech, which is associated with Temperance. The Temperance card in Tarot is about the blending of opposites and the achieving of synthesis. It's about harmony, peace, and patience. As her complete opposite, Raphael was the one person who helped her the most. Bernadetta was the only female character who seemed to fall for Raphael at the end of their Support chain. The one "wifely" skill she enjoyed was cooking and Raphael's true passion was food. She was even excited for the war to end so she could cook for him whenever he wanted.
Bernadetta & Raphael
Bernadetta succeeded the title of Countess Varley in place of her father but chose to seclude herself within her domain, never involving herself in national affairs. Raphael appeared on the scene, aiming to help Bernadetta engage with others. According to Bernadetta's memoirs, it was described as "a kind of public humiliation," yet whether this tough love worked or not, she began to interact with her subjects as their ruler, eventually becoming involved in central policies. Their grand wedding reportedly featured a bride uncharacteristically outgoing and a groom flexing his muscles as he circulated among guests.
This is the only ending (besides the one with Byleth in CF) where Bernie totally overcomes her shyness and actually becomes outgoing and assertive, like she would have been all along if not for her father's abuse. She's the exact opposite of a submissive wife and competently manages her territory.
And it's the only ending where Raphael achieves his dream and becomes a knight to a noble house (much safer than being a mercenary), while also helping someone in need. It's also one of the only endings where he finds love and gets married. He's certainly not the rich nobleman her father would have chosen, so we know that Bernie has developed the confidence to stand up to him.
I’ve got a special remixed fic for Of Conduct, Of Manners! It’s available for download under the PDF library, and updating daily until complete on AO3!
If Lorenz has learnt anything in his life, it is duty over devotion. A duty to others over everything else. He learned it from his father, who instilled it in him when he was just a boy. And as the heir apparent of Gloucester territory, he felt it was his duty to devote himself, body and soul, to his people…
Even when they were… less than pleasing.
The ballroom of Camellia Manor spreads out before him and he is the most eligible bachelor in all of Derdriu. No gentleman is as pleasing as he, no landowner as rich as him and no hand is more sought for than his own.
He feels a hand upon his shoulder. He tilts his head and sees his father before him, a thin smile on his face and a pleased glint in his eye. “All eyes are upon you, son.”
“Indeed they are, Father.” Lorenz murmured. “It is nothing. I feel no pressure.”
“Good. Very good.” He leans closer. “I saw you dancing with Lady Capulet’s daughter. Quite fetching.”
“You thought so? She was merely passable to me.”
“Oh?”
“Indeed, she smiles too much. Too giggly.”
“Our Prissy is giggly and yet you adore her.” Erwin says pointedly.
“Indeed, because she is my baby sister and she makes me laugh. Lady Capulet’s daughter just giggled at everything I said. I hardly spoke a word.” Lorenz cruelly murmured, “Stupid girl. And she think I would lower myself to that station.”
Erwin smirks and pats his son’s shoulder genially. “You need not lower yourself… or settle for a bride.” He says. “Though, I would prefer to see you settled soon. Set a good example for the commonfolk.”
“Why?” He asks with concern. The song finishes and the dancers erupt in applause. Lorenz leans closer to his father. “Is the birth rate declining?”
“Nothing you need to worry yourself with, my son.” says Erwin. “It is always good to have… an example set.”
“Indeed.” Lorenz murmurs with concern.
The line to dance with the illustrious Lorenz Hellman Gloucester once again forms. He smiles, beginning to select the very pretty pink-haired lady who just so happened to drop her handkerchief at the right time. As he steps down to ask her, Lorenz feels his father’s hand on his arm.
“Her.” He says genially and points to a haggard looking woman in the line. She must be over sixty years old, clad in the shades of black and grey for mourning perhaps? Lorenz gives no sway. “She has shown interest in you all evening.”
Lorenz scoffs and turns away towards the lady who beckons him.
“Son.” Says Erwin in a determined voice. “It is what is right.”
Lorenz, with his overflowing sense of noble pride, rolls his eyes and paints on the best smile that he can manage.
He strides, with all the confidence due to a young man like him, over to this haggard old woman, and bows before her, asking for the next dance.
Of course it is a waltz. She is a fine dancer, but when she smiles she flashes him a mouthful of crooked teeth, and her dress is ill-fitting for her bony frame. Her manners are fine, but her face is not, and Lorenz is unable to forgive that.
As the waltz ends, and the room erupts in applause, Lorenz quickly bows, thanks her for the dance, eager to turn away.
“My lord, perhaps you could spare another dance… you are so light on your feet…” She asks pleadingly.
Lorenz smiles falsely and says, “I would, but I regret that I cannot. I must not monopolize your time, for it is too valuable, my lady.”
“If I offered you this?” Asks the woman, pulling a beautiful red rose from the coil of her messy dark hair. “It is an enchanted rose.”
“I fear I cannot at this time.” Lorenz replies. “But we shall meet again, I’m sure.”
She blushes and smiles, offering her hand to him. Lorenz cringes, but kisses it nonetheless, and when he turns away, wipes his lips upon his handkerchief.
Lorenz pays little mind to it or to her, instead back to the pink-haired lady, who is now conversing with a knight. Lorenz huffs and frowns, murmuring unkind words about the woman who wasted his time.
“Very good, son.” Erwin praises genially. “You did the right thing.”
“Yes… The right thing.”
***
Lorenz sees her in town and turns the other way. He was on his way to see a pretty young lady in town, eager to wined and dined and perhaps taken back to his noble bed… But all plans are thrown off when he sees the haggard old woman approach him.
Despite her rickety frame, she is swift on her feet and Lorenz is too much a gentleman to run away. Instead, he turns back and greets her curtly… But remembers that he doesn’t know her name.
“Hello again, my… dear.”
The woman swoons and smiles. “Good day my lord.” She smiles. “What a perfect coincidence! I did not expect to see you. I had expected with your wealth that you would have your carriage carry you across town.”
“It is important to stretch one’s legs.”
“Are you due anywhere?”
“Yes.” Lorenz lies.
“Where?”
“Norland street.” He lies. “And I fear I am very overdue—”
She speaks over him, “So am I! Perhaps you would escort me, sir?” Not waiting for an answer, she threads her arm through his and says, “You are so kind.”
Lorenz whimpers under his breath, but leads her nonetheless. He takes her to her destination, listening as she chatters on and speaks, but doesn’t offer any conversation of his own. As he turns to leave, she asks again,
“Will you take it now?” She asks.
His brow furrows as she produces the rose. It looks wilted and worn, as if she kept it from the night of the ball. He shakes his head and says, “I fear it is past its prime.”
“It is enchanted.” She promises him. “Truly! With a little care, it will thrive again.”
“I doubt it.” Lorenz replies before bowing. “Goodbye.”
***
The woman finds him again and again, just when he’s hoping to be alone. And when she approaches, on the night he’s to have dinner with a very beautiful opera star, Lorenz lets loose on her.
“Are you blind?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You continue to tail me in hopes of… whatever it is, and yet you do not comprehend that I am not interested in you!” He barks.
They’re standing outside Camellia Manor, under the cover of night. She is wearing the ugly ill-fitting gown from the night of the ball and he is dressed in his finest waistcoat.
“Why do I need that pitiful thing when I could buy an entire garden of them?” He demands. He looks at the rose briefly, taking it from her hands. The petals fall away as he tosses it to the gravel path.
The woman stares at him for a long, the surprised look melts away. Her features slowly begin to grow sharper and her eyes more… engaged.
“I only came to give you another chance.”
“‘Chance’?” Lorenz laughs.
“Indeed.” She warns. Everything begins happening so fast. “To prove the beauty in your heart to me.”
“I assure you, there is beauty in my heart, but I wear it more proudly on the outside.” He tells her, beginning raising his lips to the air and whistling to the carriage driver.
The woman swipes up the rose and presses it to the lapel of his fine coat. “True beauty is found within, Lorenz.” She warns him. When he glances at her again, she looks younger, fine of face—
No. Quite. Beautiful. He blinks twice and touches the rose upon his chest. She’s a witch. A witch!
When he looks down, hair is springing from his ivory glove. Her hands clench around his arms as she walks him to the fountain, and he babbles on and on about how he might be wrong.
“I give you five years,” says the woman. “Learn what it means to love, for I see no true kindness in your heart and the spell will be broken.”
“What spell?” He feels his clothes begin to give against him. Stitches snap and fabric tears. His boots pinch his toes.
The witch doesn’t let him look down, just directs his gaze ahead to the fountain. “See for yourself.”
Lorenz leans over into the water. Staring back him is not the handsome young man of nineteen, but a monster, with a dark grey coat. Tufts of fur prop up her and there and he looks beast-like. Protruding from above his brows are a pair of antlers.
“What did you do?” He roars at her. His voice is sharper, more beastly. “What did you do to me?!”
The witch simply smiles and says, “I transformed you into your true form.” She says. “A cruel-hearted monster.”
Lorenz falls to his knees before the fountain, staring at his reflection as it continues to morph.
The witch gets up and begins to walk away. Lorenz quickly gets up, going after her, his limbs unused to being bipedal.
He grabs her by the shoulders. “Change me back. Please! You must! I cannot live like this!”
“I suggest you learn to.”
“Wait, wait, come back!” He calls.
But the witch disappears on the wind, leaving Lorenz behind.
***
Erwin and Camellia learn of his… condition soon after the curse.
Their gregarious, outgoing son becomes a hermit, insisting he is ill but refusing a doctor, even his sisters to nurse him. Through the door, his voice is more gravelly, rougher and it is easy to hide inside, but it soon no longer becomes an option.
When he does show himself, his mother faints, his middle sister Marguerite screams and little Priscilla asks if he’s wearing a mask. Lorenz tells all, his abhorrent actions, the curse, the time limit. It should be simple—his family loves him…
Or so he thought.
Camellia cannot bear to look at Lorenz, Marguerite fills her social agenda so that she is not home, giggly Priscilla keeps her distance. Even Erwin, his beloved father, is at an arm’s length whenever Lorenz is near. Whenever he looks up at his towering, beastly son, there’s a twinge in his eyes, despite his even tone, his smile, his assurance that he is working closely with mage and medic alike.
But soon, people begin to wonder what happened to the sociable, open Lorenz Gloucester. Articles are printed in the paper wondering about his whereabouts, rumours pass through their high society about misadventures and scandal. It is all a little too much for high standing, noble, proud Gloucesters to bear.
So Camellia and Erwin, loving parents they are, do exactly what they ought: they say Lorenz died in a freak hunting accident. A stray arrow to the heart, like some fairytale, and that he will be dearly missed. They wear black, go out in public to accept the pity and sympathy of everyone and leave their son behind.
“This is for your own good, Lorenz.”
Lorenz stares blankly ahead. “I know Father.”
His voice doesn’t sound like his own. It hasn’t for awhile. He hates it. No matter how hard he tries to make it softer, brighter, or continues to come out gravelly and… well, beast-like.
The look in his father’s eyes and his posture only worsens the feeling in Lorenz’s gut. His mother and sisters are in the front hall, ready to go to the archduke’s for a sympathy dinner, to fake tears and be comforted while Lorenz is left behind.
“We will figure out a more permanent solution later, I promise you.” Erwin says, resting a hand on his son’s shoulder awkwardly. His hand trembles with the touch and Lorenz, after a month of this lie, wishes that he would just stop.
“Yes.” Lorenz says hollowly.
Erwin ties his cravat again, gazing in the mirror at his beautiful self and his horrifying son. “Time heals all wounds. We just need a little time.”
Time. Lorenz bemoans. Time is something I do not have.
Erwin attempts to clap Lorenz on the shoulder, but stops short. “Have a good night son.” He begins out of their dressing room, towards the door and is half way out when Lorenz calls out:
“I love you, Papa.”
It’s tiny and pitiful. Lorenz hasn’t told his father he loves him in years, and the addition of papa makes him he feel like a little boy again.
Erwin simply looks back, with a strained look on his face and says, “I love you too, Lorenz.”
And while the living and breathing Gloucesters are faking tears and recalling memories of their beloved brother and son, Lorenz tears down the curtains to make into a cloak and leaves Camellia Manor—and his family—forever.
Both volumes of The Reigning Power and the Rising Sun are available for download!
This fic is the sister to Of Conduct, Of Manners, my Pride and Prejudice Leorenz AU, and shares a lot of the plot and events. It’s based on Jane Austen’s last work, Persuasion, known for its mature heroine and the iconic, romantic letter.
These downloads include extensive author’s notes, headcanons and even an album of character designs and costumes.
If you like the fic, please consider giving it some kudos or a comment on the AO3! ❤︎
Leonie/Bernadetta. Stars/friends to enemies to lovers.
The first time Bernadetta spots Leonie out by the little fishing lake is after Jeralt dies.
She sits on the edge of the dock, with her naked toes just grazing the surface to barely kiss the water.
Bernadetta originally snuck out of her room to snag some cake from the mess hall. But as she was creeping along the path, humming to herself, she heard a sniffle, then a sigh and saw Leonie seated there at the dock.
Bernadetta doesn’t talk to her, just observes her from her perfect little hiding spot outside Petra’s room. The shadows shield her enough from Leonie’s view. It’s been raining for the last few days so the air is very humid and there’s little relief; but the sky has opened up and there’s only wispy remnants of storm colours.
Bernadetta has never seen the stars shine so brightly. Varley is an arid region, but the skies are mostly covered by smoke from the factories that produce their weapons. Swords and scriptures, that’s what her people are known for.
She wants to open her mouth to ask if Leonie’s okay, because Bernadetta concerned and Leonie is Leonie. She’s like a hornet, strong, fast, zippy. Once, when she was sitting in on a lancing lecture to pass a horse backing riding exam—mandatory as she skipped so many of her assigned shifts in the stables—Leonie got hit several times by Dimitri of all people and did nothing more than stagger back and yell at him “again”. She even went as far as to taunt him, asking “is that all you got?”
Something inside Bernadetta—probably her anxiety—tells her that this is treacherous.
Maybe Leonie doesn’t want visitors? Maybe she came out here for peace and air?
Before she knows it, she’s calling out her name softly. “Leonie? Are you… um… okay?”
There’s a distinctly snotty sound and then Leonie vehemently insisting she’s alright, she’s okay in a salty, tear-streaked voice that insists she’s not okay.
Bernadetta stands in the dark night and says, “I don’t… um… know what you’re going through but uh… M-Maybe cake would help?”
“Cake?”
Bernadetta feels stupid. “Ye-Yeah. Cake always makes me feel a little better. And watching the stars.”
Leonie pauses.
“I-I was just going to go watch some. B-But maybe we could. Um. Watch the stars together?”
“That sounds good.” Leonie’s voice is small.
Bernadetta hurries and gets two slabs of cake—eating a bit of hers on the walk back—some stale cookies and thermos of tea to bring back to Leonie. She settles in beside her, but not to close and pushes the cake and cookies closer to her. Leonie finds it in her to laugh, and says “You can come closer, Bernadetta, I’m just crying, not sick.”
Bernadetta sheepishly slides closer along the dock. Panic rises inside her but it feels different this time. She fights back and tells it that it will not best her. “A-Are you okay?” Then admonishes herself. “S-Stupid Bernie, of course you’re not okay…”
“No, don’t worry.” Leonie runs a hand over her face, pushing back her bangs. “I’m just missing Jeralt. Captain… Captain Jeralt.”
“Oh.”
“He was sorta like a dad to me.” Leonie confesses softly, then mutters, “but I guess you figured that out already.”
“Sorta, yeah.”
There’s a silence between the two of them for a moment before Bernadetta squeezes her eyes shut tight and says, “I called Alois ‘Dad’ by accident.”
Leonie’s brow furrows and she sputters out a little choked laugh that’s obviously half-forced, half-genuine. “Do I wanna know?”
“Um… my father… He isn’t good to me.” She’s careful with her words, for she thinks that they’ll get back to him somehow. “Alois reminded me of my uncle, Francois. I always felt comfortable around him… I called him father a few times.”
Leonie looks at her like she understands what Bernadetta means. Her hand clasps over Bernadetta’s and for once—and at the perfect time—Bernadetta doesn’t flinch. “My old man wasn’t good to me either. Jeralt was.”
“We’re lucky to have them… Aren’t we?” Bernadetta asks.
Leonie’s voice cracks again. “Yeah. We are.”
“Stars are pretty tonight.” Bernadetta says.
Leonie nods. “Yeah. They are.”
—
Leonie is dragging Bernadetta back to her horse. Well, not dragging, but leading her back with her hand in Bernadetta’s. It’s late at night, after lights out. Leonie insists that she’s found the perfect spot to stargaze and when Leonie is right, she is right.
Bernadetta is shy and nervous and demure and ladylike. When Leonie told her of the plan during the lecture on tactics during battle, Bernadetta’s eyes sparkled in wonder and she murmured in curiosity if it was the same spot that Caspar took her to. She brought a little fabric knot of snacks—stolen hard cheese and bread—and her sketchbook with some thick charcoals.
“W-Would you let me draw you?” Bernadetta asks nervously. Leonie can’t help but think she looks pretty with that crimson blush and wide eyes. In the back of her mind, she wishes that Bernadetta was a little braver, not for Leonie but for herself.
“I’ve never had someone draw me.” Leonie muses. “So yeah, of course.”
The horse is tied up beneath a tree and Leonie half expects to be posed like an elegant lady—in the back of her mind, she wishes that Bernadetta does that, fluffing up her messy hair, lacing her hands in her lap, tilting her chin up while murmuring ‘now look at me’. But her hair is short and her face is round and her clothes are mismatched compared to Bernadetta’s pretty eyelet nightgown and the little sweater over top of it.
Bernadetta is on her feet and pulls her up, she’s much stronger than Leonie expected. She drags Leonie next to the horse and then instructs her to braid its mane. “Or whatever you do around them. Just act natural.” Bernadetta insists. Her voice is giddy. “Like you’re just in the stables.”
Leonie does so, but it’s hard to act natural when Bernadetta’s big eyes are focused on her. But they’re not focused on her per se; they’re focused on a spot next to her, in a space that isn’t hers. Does that make sense?
In a half hour, Bernadetta has a sketch and is showing Leonie it as they eat stolen cheese and bread and gaze at the stars. “I-It’s not even my best work.” Bernadetta says. “It looks quite bad really. Oh goddess you hate it—”
Leonie rests a hand on Bernadetta’s shoulder. “No, Bernadetta. I love it.”
Bernadetta’s face goes red and she hides her face in her hands in embarrassment. She murmurs something unintelligible, and when Leonie asks her again, Bernadetta practically yells, “I’ll come to Sauin and paint you proper someday!”
That makes Leonie smile for real, perhaps for the first time since Jeralt died.
—
Bernadetta isn’t a gambler, but when she does play cards, she’s a shark. Her mind is hardwired for mathematics, for chance and probability. It’s probably why she’s so good at judging when to run and hide and when it play it safe.
Leonie however, likes to gamble only when she knows she’ll win. And while she and Bernadetta are friends, one of them is rich and the other is very poor. Leonie looks like she’s got the upper hand, a cute little smirk and sharp glimpse of the eye, and Bernadetta pulls out a 15-ten, launching her ahead of Leonie and into the final peg.
Leonie sighs and hands slides the little gold marks to Bernadetta. “You’re too good at this.” She sighs. “Crib isn’t my game.”
“Don’t say that.” Bernadetta insists, taking the change and rattling it in her hand. “I th-think I have enough to get us some tea.”
“We can have tea back under the gazebo. The professor won’t mind sharing some leaves, and I’m sure if you ask Lorenz for a teapot he’ll lend it. He’s got like twenty or something. Probably.”
Bernadetta pouts and shakes her head. “I won! I want to treat you.”
“Isn’t that a waste of money?”
“Shouldn’t you hush and let me treat you?”
Leonie can’t fight the logic in that and shuts up. But before they can get down to the tea shop down below in town, Bernadetta’s anxiety spikes. “I don’t think I can do it.” She mumbles and grabs Leonie’s hand for support.
Both girls blush hard. Bernadetta feels a little stronger when Leonie squeezes it back and tells her that it’s okay, that they can to another time. But Bernadetta is adamant. She wants to give Leonie something. They pass a flower seller and Bernadetta, overcome with energy and courage actually asks the seller for a bouquet of sunflowers. Her words come out in one breath, in sentences that linger along and make Leonie wonder why she’s never like this around her. Bernadetta comes running back with an armful of stalky blooming sunflowers that reflect their golden-yellow light back onto her pallid face.
She thrusts them at Leonie and says, “H-Here! For you!”
Leonie’s never had flowers given to her before. Back home in Sauin when Saint Cethleann day hit—which was typically recognized as a day to celebrate forms of love—people would always exchange flowers. Leonie never got a single one, aside from her mother but that doesn’t really count.
Leonie blushes hard and takes them from Bernadetta, murmuring a barely audible, “thank you.” Bernadetta must not notice her blush, for she turned away quickly. It’s a huge stack and Leonie plucks one, a small one that was plucked before it had fully bloomed so the petals are still small and holds it out to Bernadetta.
“But they’re for you.” She protests.
“And I’m giving you one.”
Bernadetta vehemently refuses, all the way up to the monastery. That night, when Leonie’s doing a final walk before bed, she takes the small sunflower and leaves it out in front of Bernadetta’s door.
The next morning, when Leonie’s the first one up and doing her morning stretches, she walks past Bernadetta’s door and smiles when she sees the sunflower gone.
—
Bernadetta is hiding behind a table of hors d’oeuvres at the ball. She hasn’t danced yet, refuses everyone until Leonie comes over and takes her hand and pulls her to the floor. Bernadetta was never a great dancer, always too jumpy and quick, which is why she’s probably a great archer. Leonie’s always been light on her feet but uncoordinated when it comes to dancing.
So instead of the floor, where they’ll surely bump into people and piss them off, Leonie takes Bernadetta outside where they spin in the grass and collapse in the blades laughing and dizzy.
And then, as Bernadetta’s about to get up, Leonie leans in and kisses her.
It’s a short burst of a first kiss that makes both girls burn bright red and their hearts pound so loudly that they can hear it in their ears.
All Leonie can think of is “Oh goddess, oh fuck I’m so stupid, oh goddess,” in a repetitive loop.
Meanwhile, Bernadetta is staring off into space like she’s zoning out, her mind awash with “Well, everything makes sense now.”
Leonie’s mouth opens to apologize, to sputter out apologies like what Bernadetta would do; but as she begins to speak, the words die against Bernadetta’s lips as she kisses her again and again.
—
“The stars are prettier in Sauin.” Leonie says.
Bernadetta can’t help but believe her. They’re probably so much prettier against the open fields and bright skies. Wildflowers in the vale. The skies in Varley are shit in comparison, always covered up and smoky.
“I want to see them one day.” Bernadetta tells her.
Leonie presses a kiss against her temple. “I’ll show you. Promise, Bern.”
Bernadetta curls into her chest, her arms snaking around Leonie’s waist tightly. Leonie laughs and it reverberates through Bernadetta’s entire body. She feels warm, she feels at home.
“I’ll hold you to it, Sunflower.”
—
Leonie developed a taste for alcohol young. From fine brandy to shitty moonshine, she isn’t picky. But she honestly prefers it in her mouth instead of washing it over open wounds.
She’s had a stash of gin—not her favourite but it does the trick pretty quick—that’s just right to clean broken skin and wounds. She keeps it stashed in her boot, probably negating its purpose.
The arrow is lodged in Bernadetta’s thigh and she’s been unconscious for a while. She slumped over into Leonie and her grip went limp about twenty miles away from Varley Manor. Edelgard had ordered them to retreat if things looked bad, and things really started looking bad. Leonie had a feeling that the monastery would be either taken by the church and kingdom or overrun with wounded so she ran. It was the bravest thing she could do.
Leonie grabbed Bernadetta by the waist and hauled her up onto her horse, ignoring her yelp and her cries that Petra was left behind, that Petra was going to die and leave her siblings behind, that she needs to help Petra—
Leonie had grabbed Bernadetta’s hands and told her, in a low tone, a warning tone, a tone that she hated, “We can’t help Petra if we die.”
That sobered Bernadetta up. “I’ll guide Bennet. You focus on protecting Petra.” Leonie ordered.
Bernadetta nodded, her eyes glistening with tears. The two became a cohesive unit—Leonie guiding the horse, Bernadetta nocking arrows and protecting Petra from a distance as best as she could. Leonie circled around the town of Garreg Mach, fully intending to get back up to where Petra was so that Bernadetta could take Bennet and speed off to safety and Leonie could jump off and help Petra, who was surrounded.
Just as they were rounding the battlefield, another archer came outta nowhere. They missed Leonie but hit Bernadetta with a shrieking cry that made Leonie’s ears pop and Bernadetta drops her bow and cuss loudly.
Instincts drove Leonie to get the fuck off the field. Healers were scarce and her own vulnerary stash was near-depleted from a particularly nasty hit from Alois, who had nearly taken out Bernadetta. Leonie had seen it coming, saw the panic and fear in Bernadetta’s eyes, and remembered that one time, down at the lake, where Bernadetta recalled how similar he was to her uncle.
So Leonie had jumped in, Leonie had taken the hit and then knocked the shit out of Alois, ignoring the fact that he had a wife and child at home, ignoring the connection he had with Bernadetta, ignoring the fact that he had mentored her in axe-throwing when she first got to the academy.
Ignoring that he too had lost Jeralt.
Leonie snapped the reins and directed Bennet—who had been startled by Bernadetta’s high-pitched scream—away from the field.
“Okay Bernie, okay,” Leonie’s voice was uneasy, and she was trying her best to make it calm. Bennet got scared and in between soothing Bernadetta and the horse, Leonie was stretched thin. “Talk about something. Tell me anything, come on, Bernie!”
Bernadetta was half-sobbing, half-screaming and began spilling the entire story of a five-part saga about a hunter and a princess, a Cinderella story of sorts. Leonie took the reins in one hand and searched for the vulnerary that she tucked into her pockets and fished it out. She handed it back to Bernadetta who chugged the rest of it and cringed.
When Leonie realizes that the gin is in her pocket.—Leonie kept her talking by asking about the book she’s writing. Each time her voice got too faint, Leonie would shift the reins into one hand and clutch Bernadetta’s arm hard and ask, more like yelling over the hoofbeats, “okay Bern, what happens next? What happens next?”
When Bernadetta doesn’t answer, Leonie panics. Leonie isn’t used to panicking. Her mind goes through the motions of control, of what’s right, what’s logical.
We need to stop.
She pulls hard on the reins and the horse halts, whinnying in protest. Leonie hops down from the horse and Bernadetta almost falls.
Leonie braces Bernadetta and helps her down as best she can. In a panic, Leonie undoes the cloak around her waist and bunches it up to make a shitty little cushion. She tucks it under Bernadetta’s hips. Elevation. Elevation is key.
She searches for a pulse, her breath. She’s breathing but shallow, and her pulse is weak.
Leonie stumbles over cusses. The vulnerary only did so much, and it wasn’t enough. First aid, she needs first aid. But pulling the arrow out makes a breeding ground for infection. And pulling out the arrow is not a good idea for the extra blood loss.
Now, she’s wishing she paid more attention to Lorenz in between his patronizing comments and remarks as he tried to teach her white magic. Leonie was almost hopeless. Guy was a jerk most of the time but he knew what he was talking out.
All she has is here and now. Stop the bleeding. She orders herself. She has to stop the bleeding before Bernadetta’s weak pulse goes flat and she stops breathing.
Leonie grabs the cloak and bunches it around the arrowhead. Bernadetta’s body flinches instinctively and Leonie feels uncomfortable hope. Don’t get ahead of yourself Pinelli. She warns.
The professor would know what to do. She keeps thinking that Byleth would tell her what to do. But Professor Byleth is back on the front lines with Edelgard.
She dodges those thoughts as deftly as she can and searches the packs for alcohol. Leonie developed a taste for alcohol pretty young. Bernadetta did too, though she can’t hold her booze.
Leonie waterfalls it into her mouth and bitter, intense juniper and florals run over her tongue to take the edge off, breathes a sigh and steadies herself.
“I’m sorry Bern.” She says before dousing her thigh in gin. Before the alcohol washes over her broken skin, Leonie is murmuring white magic spells, tripping over the words and half-crying because she can’t lose Bernadetta. She can’t. Bernadetta has to live because Leonie’s lost too much already—
Bernadetta shocks awake and stares at Leonie, eyes dazed and unable to hold Leonie as her focus. Leonie doesn’t care. Instead she’s sobbing and clutching onto Bernadetta and praising the all stars in the sky that the stupid spell worked.
—
Bernadetta tries to slow her thundering heart but she can’t. Camping sounded more fun on the first night, but after a week, her back is aching and she’s struggling to find a comfortable way to stretch out without kicking Leonie.
The idea, at first, was to try and get to Varley where they could hide out. Bernadetta remembers a few empty houses that they could wait out in for a few days until the monastery is recovered and they can contact the professor.
But after a few days, Bernadetta sends a message by express to the professor asking for instructions and gets nothing back. And worse, every time she tries to remember the way home to Varley it gets foggier. She’s blocked part of it out, the pathways and vale that’s cloaked in thick, jet-black pines. It would be easier if she could just fucking remember.
She begins to get worried when Leonie gets frustrated with her inability to remember. Leonie will ask questions over and over, trying to figure out a solution, but each time Bernadetta cries out that she doesn’t know or can’t remember, Leonie’s patience burns away.
At least they’re going back into imperial territory. Most of the noble houses bound together and are in agreement to fight against the church and Kingdom, but there’s still dissenters and Bernadetta is constantly on the edge of a panic attack.
Their plan becomes treacherous and after a week of camping with stolen blankets and in dirty clothes, Bernadetta is done.
“I can’t remember the way home.” She says into Leonie’s back.
Leonie stirs a little. Her voice is distant. “You can’t?”
”No.”
“Seriously?”
“I can’t, I’m sorry, Leonie, I can’t.”
“Can you remember the path you took up to the monastery.”
“No.” Bernadetta’s voice gets shaky. “I… I was pretty much shoved in a bag and carried there, I remember nothing. I’m sorry Leonie, I’m sorry.”
Leonie sighs and sits up. Bernadetta stares at her frame, lit by the stars. Her freckles melt into her skin and disappear; shame, for they were Bernadetta’s favourite part of her, they looked like a tiny sky painted across her cheeks and down her neck.
“Then you have to go back to Edelgard.”
Bernadetta sits up. “M-Me? What about you?”
Leonie is cold and quiet. “I can’t go back.” Her voice is defeated. “Claude needs me.”
“You’re deserting? She’ll kill you.“ Bernadetta says desperately. Her hand finds Leonie’s and holds it tight. “Leo, I can’t—I-I-I won’t… Don’t…”
Leonie’s arm comes around her shoulder for a moment and she feels her lips brush her hair. “I’ll run with you. I’ll run! W-We can figure something else out! We can go to the kingdom.”
“They know you’re with Edelgard.” Leonie warns. “The second someone sees you, or recognizes you, you’re done.”
“But I don’t… I can’t. I can’t be away from you, Leonie.” Bernadetta holds her gaze. The words jumble in her throat, thicken her tongue and take forever to come out but Leonie is patient. “You make me strong.”
Leonie just stares and holds her hand, her calloused thumb running over the back of Bernadetta’s palm. She’s quiet, gentle and attentive as Bernadetta attempts to regain herself and fails horribly. Bernadetta wants to collapse into Leonie’s arms and sob and yell that it’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fucking fair.
“We’ll make it someday.” Leonie promises her. “We’ll just wait and see, okay? I know this isn’t the end, I know it, Bern.”
Bernadetta feels her world come crashing down on her, but Leonie’s holding it up like she always does. She’s always so cool under pressure, nothing ever gets to her and it’s one of the reasons why Bernadetta is so intrigued by her.
“We’ll head back to the monastery tomorrow.” Leonie decides. “How’s your leg?”
“Fine. I’ll survive.”
It still hurts a lot, and Bernadetta’s moving slower than she should but the important thing is that she’s alive. She would’ve been dead without Leonie. Soon enough, Leonie won’t be there to make sure she doesn’t get hurt.
“They’ll take care of it better, I’m sure they have the supplies.”
Tears prick at Bernadetta’s eyes. Her arms slither around Leonie’s waist. She hugs Leonie tight, trying to remember how she’s all strength, all hard edges and sinewy muscle. Every since really taking archery seriously, Bernadetta’s slowly become like that, but village life and planting and sowing and hunting since she was a kid has sculpted Leonie into that mould.
Bernadetta focuses on the feeling of Leonie’s body against hers, her steady breathing, the rhythmic gentle thud of her heart. Bernadetta focuses on that for a long, long time until Leonie melts into sleep—she’s always been a better camper than Bernadetta—then slowly extracts herself from around Leonie.
She gets up, empties her pockets of her change, they were playing an anxious game of cribbage, trying to pass the time before the attack on the monastery, and leaves her entire coin purse of cribbage winnings by Leonie’s head, writing in the dirt, You win, Sunflower.
She says goodbye to Bennet, leaves all the rations they collected and her cloak because Leonie will surely need it and leaves the campground without looking back.
—
In five years, Bernadetta throws herself on Edelgard’s mercy; Leonie does the same with Claude. Naturally, as both are skilled fighters, they’re accepted back into the fold.
Edelgard keeps a close eye on Bernadetta to make sure she doesn’t run and hide. Claude makes sure that Lorenz, who has employed Leonie as a mercenary out of the knowledge of his father, keeps tabs on her.
Bernadetta doesn’t dare send a letter to Leonie, though she writes many and addresses them to the hearth in her room. Leonie doesn’t either, because she goes where the money goes.
But soon enough, five years lapse and the war goes full tilt.
—
Leonie is thrown from her horse. Bennet, the dumb bastard, rears up when Raphael lets out a roar to gas himself up. The battle’s barely started and she’s already half-concussed. The one fucking battle, that is the most important and she’s already messed up.
Leonie forces herself up into the saddle and follows Claude’s orders. She and Raphael are on the front line, their job is to cut a path through so that their reinforcements—mages—can sneak in and set fire to the field.
It all goes to plan, Leonie cuts down allies and enemies alike, their faces and bodies bleeding together like paint.
There, across the field she sees Bernadetta at the ballista. She looks different. Stronger, more mature, there’s a fire in her eyes that Leonie never saw before and she keeps murmuring, that can’t be Bernadetta, that can’t be her. It can’t be.
Then it occurs to Leonie that she’s on the bridge they’re going to set fire to.
Bernadetta, who left her in the ruins of a ravaged town. Bernadetta, who she thought would have died long ago. Bernadetta, who she would never have imagined in a thousand years to be here, on the front line at the Battle of Gronder Field.
Before she realizes it, Leonie is barrelling towards Bernadetta, screaming her name like it’s the only words she knows. She’s breathless, her lungs burning like hell as she pushes poor Bennet, faster, faster, faster.
She feels an arrow graze her shoulder. From the corner of her eye, Leonie sees crimson seep through her shirt sleeve and she cusses. Bernadetta nocks another one and screams at her to stop or she’ll shoot again. There’s a wild look in her eyes, a dangerous look, a look that says, “we have unfinished business”.
Leonie feels a lurch of anxiety and stops short of dismounting Bennet.
There’s a tense moment of eye contact as Leonie drinks in how Bernadetta has changed. Her hair is different, like she’s finally gotten used to using a hair brush, and she’s taller, much taller, almost as tall as Leonie herself. And she looks mature in a bad way, in a way that gives her dark circles beneath her eyes and quaking hands. She doesn’t look like the Bernadetta that she kissed, the Bernadetta that she shared secrets with, the Bernadetta that she loved and still loves.
She must have gone back to her father. Leonie shivers as she thinks it.
There’s the din of swords and shields. Leonie almost drops her lance. Bennet grows anxious with all the fighting.
“They’re gonna light this on fire.” Leonie tells her against the deafening sound. “If not them, us. You have to move.”
Bernadetta stares at her. “You said they’d protect me.”
“I was wrong!” Leonie cries out desparately. “I was so fucking wrong! I should have protected you. But you should have stayed! All you had to do was stay!”
Bernadetta’s eyes flicker behind her. She keeps the bowstring pulled tight as Leonie gets off Bennet and then lets it fly into Leonie’s shoulder. It lands hard and Bernadetta drops her bow, immediately realizing what she’s done.
She’s swearing, half screaming the words and then a cacophony of Oh goddess, oh Goddess, but all Leonie can think about is that she’s missed that anxious little voice and then realizes, “Oh fuck. You shot me.”
Bernadetta is stumbling over apologies before taking action. Like years before, but now in reverse, Bernadetta hauls Leonie on the back of Bennet and snaps the reins hard. She yells at Leonie to tell her about Sauin Village, about her home, about her travels, and Leonie, while feeling the blood ooze from her shoulder and the cloud of adrenaline fade from her mind, can talk only of the stars back in Sauin as they desert Gronder Field and their armies.
—
Bernadetta, Eternal Loner
Leonie, Blade Breaker II
After fleeing Gronder, Bernadetta and Leonie were said to be spotted on the run for many, many years, though no official documents or records state this. Folk songs and rumours suggest that they became some sort of heroes to everyday folk, and The Ballad of the Bear and the Hornet, can be found in many children’s books.
Reports exist that an older woman with a fair amount of battle scars could be spotted inside taverns and pubs with many a great story to tell. These fun nights would follow promptly with a woman who only referred to herself as Bear, coming in to pay her wife’s tab and give her apologies.
Bonus CF Ending:
Upon inheriting House Varley, Bernadetta completed her duties in solitude. When Leonie was called to dispatch some bandits, she and Bernadetta reunited and ended up staying together. Leonie became captain of her personal guard and Bernadetta ascended to become a wise, caring and authoritative leader with Leonie’s help. It was rumoured that in the early days of their relationship, Leonie would sit in and warn visiting dignitaries and politicians to mind their manners when Bernadetta was speaking with a weapon at hand; in respect to this, Bernadetta gave her a golden dagger, engraved with the name Sunflower.
someone: hey I noticed this thing you did in your writing!
me, kicking my feet up flirtatiously: oh??? do you want to hear my thoughts on why I did that? do you want a play-by-play of the language choices in every related sentence? do you want an exhaustive breakdown of The Themes???
There’s two Petras in her hallway. Dorothea does her best to steady herself against the wall, pulling on the tapestry depicting some saintly ancestors doing something or other. But she doesn’t care about wrinkling—or goddess forbid, ripping—it. An overwhelming sense of guilt and disappointment hangs over her for the news she just delivered.
She won’t be attending Petra’s wedding.
The two Petras are politely distanced from Dorothea, at the lady’s insistence. Outside, two guards wait, dressed in bright Brigidian colours and crests depicting a gleaming blue sun. The Petras, not the guards which are multiplying, assure her: “Do not be worrying, Dorothea.”
“I’m so so sorry, Petra.” Dorothea says in a hoarse voice. Years ago, she’d be mortified that she is in the process of losing her voice, her talent, her assurance of a better life. Now, she only cares about apologizing to her dear friend who has crossed the ocean.
“There will be other times, I promise you!” Petra promises her.
A headache looms over Dorothea, fuelled by pressure and guilt. “But it’s your wedding. And you wanted me there as a witness…” Dorothea argues. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken that stroll in town. Enbarr is a pit of sickness in the winter.”
“It is not your fault.” Petra assures her gently. Dorothea keeps a handkerchief to her mouth, as to keep her sickness to herself. “Bernadetta said she would help if needed.”
“I’m sure she’s been to a lot of weddings, given her title as minister of religion. She probably knows the vows down pat.”
Petra smiles and pulls her fur coat closer to herself. “She is much changed, indeed.” She notices how Dorothea’s face falls and makes her voice cheery. “I will be back in the fall, we will see each other then.”
Dorothea longs to agree but can’t. “No promises.” She says before shooing Petra out of the hallway of Gautier Manor. “Go go! I won’t make the bride-to-be sick.”
Petra departs with a sad smile and a last glance over her shoulder. She departs into the arms of her guardian knight, who is waiting only a few feet away. They multiply once again, hazy double-visions of two couples hurrying through the thickening blanket of rain into their carriage.
Dorothea braces herself against the front door to see them off, clutching onto the frame with all her might, then decides the front door step is a good place for a nap.
—
Dorothea wakes up in her bed and feels like a rusty nail is being pounded through her head. The room is dark but she can hear the howls of rain outside the newly built estate. Dorothea’s hand goes to her head, as if the pressure from her hand will reduce the pressure in her head.
A jagged shard of candlelight slices through the curtains of the four poster bed. Dorothea moans and cracks open an eye. She sees her lover Sylvain holding a teapot, a look of softened concern on his face.
“Hey Thea.” Sylvain greets gently. “Can you sit up?”
She whines and manages to. Then, the sneezing comes and doesn’t stop. He offers his handkerchief which Dorothea tries to give back.
He cringes a little and gently says, “Sorry darling, it’s better yours than mine.”
“Oh.” Dorothea mumbles, remembering that he isn’t sick. “Right. I’ll have it laundered I guess.”
“Good idea.” Sylvain sets down a tea tray and sits beside her on the bed.
“Wait, why are you here? You’ll get sick.” She argues. “You’ll miss the conference.”
The same conference that brought the two down from Faerghus and set them up in one of the Hresvelg’s many guesthouses. It was to be a roundtable discussion between the remaining noble houses—Fraldarius, Galatea, Gaspard and of course, Gautier—on preserving borders following the fall and dissolution of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.
To say that this was important was an understatement. Sylvain had been preparing since Edelgard had first mentioned the topic months ago in passing. Gautier territory was the most eager to discuss it, given the borders on Sreng and the relationship that the new Margrave had been building between the Srengi people and Fódlan.
Sylvain’s reach didn’t end there. He managed to sway Ingrid’s brothers to come down; they had staunchly been against the idea for months, especially after the death of their sister. The remaining Fraldariuses—a cousin of Felix’s—had been implored by Sylvain to make the trip and would be down within the fortnight.
Ashe, the eldest of Lonato Gaspard’s children, and entitled to the estate before his engagement, had returned both to marry in the Fódlani church and to argue for Gaspard’s borders. Upon coming of age, his younger siblings—who would be staying in Fodlan—would inherit it, but for now, Ashe remained as the sole heir.
This was important. She thinks.
“Don’t worry about it Thea.”
“Syl,” Dorothea says. “You’ve been planning this with Edie for ages. I can’t be the one to take you away from it.”
“You’re not taking me away from anything, Thea.” He insists. “Drink this. It’s valerian and feverfew. It should help you sleep off the headache.”
Dorothea takes the teacup and sips the bitter herb tea. She cringes and looks at him. “If you’re staying here because of me, I’m still playing a part. Edie needs you there. The old Kingdom supporters respect the Gautiers and you. You have the most sway now.”
“Like I said, it can wait.” He insists. “If you mean half as much to Edelgard as you mean to me, she’ll understand. Besides, I’m sure she’s got her hands full with rearranging cabinet and wrangling Claude for a conference regarding the Leicester territories. They’ll be just as much trouble as us Faerghus rebels.”
Dorothea sneezes again and her head feels like it’s about to burst. She winces and sinks back into the pillows, shutting her eyes. “I have a feeling the Alliance nobles won’t be as open to being under the Empire again.” She moans.
“I’ve written to Count Gloucester. He seems more open to it. Or his wife did at least.”
“She’s always been more… politically minded.” Dorothea winces as her head feels like it’s about pop and her heart aches at the mention of a wife. She thinks of Petra, preparing for her Fódlani wedding without her maid of honour. “Goddess…”
Sylvain moves closer to her, crawling beneath the sheets. “What’s wrong?”
“I feel awful about missing Petra’s wedding.”
“C’mon, she understands.”
“But she wanted me to witness it so it would be official here.” Dorothea says sadly. “I feel like a bad friend.”
“If you weren’t sick, you’d be there, right?”
“I would.”
Sylvain inclines his head. “See?”
“This is the worst time to get sick.” Dorothea bemoans, then sneezes again. She sighs, eyes watery as she reaches for the wet hanky. “I should’ve been smarter. Why’d I go into Enbarr…”
Sylvain shakes his head. “No one could talk you out of it.”
Dorothea sighs and thinks of the reason why she went: to see the opera house. It had been badly damaged in the war and was finally about to be repaired, thanks to a large grant from a certain noble. Seeing it was worth the sickness, and of course, passing through the streets, Dorothea came across orphans and urchins like herself and shared her newfound wealth with them; regretfully, they shared their colds with her.
(But truthfully, she wouldn’t trade those moments for the world. The sparkle in the eyes of a woman who recognized her as the Mystical Songstress. The little boy who gasped when he realized she knew the emperor. Those make the head-cold worth it.)
Dorothea sighs and settles against his shoulder, curling into him.
“Drink that tea up, otherwise I’ll have to tell Ashe you didn’t like it.”
She keeps her eyes shut and forces a smile. “Did you tell him?”
“Duh. I asked him for ideas.” Dorothea watches as Sylvain leans closer and presses a kiss to her temple. “Can’t stand to see you sick.”
Dorothea heaves a sigh. “Please don’t do it again.”
“Do what?” Sylvain asks playfully as he takes her left hand. He kisses the back of her palm, her lithe fingers.
“This.” She says, feeling her headache lessen.
“I’m doing nothing.” He says. “Aside from thinking about how nice a big diamond would look on your finger.”
Dorothea sighs. “You want a sick wife with a runny nose?”
Sylvain looks at her like she’s asked a stupid question. He kisses her nose. “Is that even a question? Come on Thea, I’d marry if your nose was red and stuffy and you got me sick.”
Dorothea rolls her eyes. “You’re on the road to getting sick by sticking by me.”
“There’s no other place I’d rather be.”
She melts against him for a moment, thinking about how he’s so close to saying what she wants to hear. Being there in sickness is a good start; being there when she’s vulnerable is too; but she wants it all. The grey-hairs and achy joints and fading beauty and musing on the good old days of glory and youth. Waking up next to him when they’re no longer young and beautiful. Age, it’s golden hues and the passing of time and fleeting moments that become precious memories.
He said it once.
I’d rather be with you until you’re an old grandma.
If only he said it when he proposed.
She curls against him, breathing in his scent and feeling his arms around her. Her headache eases—unsure if it’s the tea or him—and Dorothea melts into him. He presses another kiss into her hair.
“Marry me, Thea.” He begs her gently, his voice soft and muffled.
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry Sylvain, but no.” She says.
“Not the right words?”
“No.” She agrees. “Not yet.”
“Will you tell me when I’ve got it right?”
“Promise.” Dorothea smiles and looks up at him. “You’ll know.”
They stay like that in bed for a little longer. A warm feeling makes a spot in her chest as the feverfew and valerian draw her to sleep.
A few days later, Dorothea is bringing him tea and cuddling into him while he moans about his poor head, and Edelgard delivers curealls she swears by.
Shadow/Tikal. Flower langauge. Sunshine. Mission fic. “Who are you?”
Sunshine hits his face. His black quills drink in the warmth, restoring heat to his skin, his body. He feels cool fingers on his temple, brushing something matted out of the way that tugs, tugs, tugs.
He slowly opens his eyes, drawing enough energy in his hand to produce a Chaos Spear. It’s tiny, pitiful, but enough.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” A gentle voice advises.
He stares up at an orange echidna, her eyes cast away as she touches him, healing what he now realizes are tiny little wounds.
“These grounds are holy. Any desecration is a motive worthy of death, or exile.” She explains. “We do not allow any fighting.”
His voice is thin, rough and raw. “Who are you?” He asks.
She meets his eyes at last, her eyes a brilliant blue. She smiles softly. “Tikal, priestess of the Knuckles Tribe.” She says before adding, “What is your name, stranger?”
“Shadow.”
She smiles again, this time a little sadder. “Well Shadow, your wounds are deep. You must have been hurt badly in a battle.”
He stays silent, then tries to get up. Tikal reaches out to stop him, but she fails to do so. Instead she sits back as soon as he’s out of her grasp and watches as he painfully sits up, leans his back against a pillar of the shrine and looks behind her, his eyes wide.
“The Master Emerald.”
Tikal takes a cursory glance behind her. “Yes, that is it.” Her gaze grows more worried and she inches back before it. “Did you… where did you come from?”
“Somewhere else.”
“Where else?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Are you of the Nyx Clan?”
Shadow remains quiet, unsure of the meaning of the clan or the title or the meaning. Tikal’s eyes grow worried, her arms stretching out to protect the Master Emerald.
If I could get closer, the Chaos Energy would heal my wounds and I could go. He thinks to himself.
“Chaos.” Tikal breathes out nervously, and in the blink of an eye, the waters surrounding the Shrine build up, form into a green-eyed, gelatinous creature and with a sweep of it’s massive watery hand, casts Shadow half way across the isle before Shadow can even draw a spear.
Shadow rolls through the green grass, then stares up at the sun, too weak to fight back. He groans, rolls over as Tikal hurries to him and stands over Shadow.
“I thought you said fighting was outlawed.” He groans.
“Defending the island and Master Emerald isn’t.” She explains.
“Some double-standard.”
Shadow frowns as Tikal asks, “Are you of the Nyx clan?”
The gelatinous monster crawls up behind her, ready to strike again.
“No.”
“Do you swear?”
“Yes.” He says.
Tikal stares at him, her blue eyes searching his. “Where are you from then, Shadow?” She says his name with contempt and uncertainty.
“Not from this era.” He sits up and the monster gurgles. Tikal holds out a hand to quiet it.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not important.” He says, then stumbles away and collapses before he’s across the bridge that connects Shrine Isle to the mainland. Tikal and Chaos carry him back and heal his wounds.
***
“You have a connection to the Chaos Energy.”
Shadow stares out at the stars. From below on earth they look quite magical. Up in space they looked… depressing. Dots of white spread across a pitch-black sky. Here, amongst green mountains and trees and crystal waters, they’re the perfect finishing touch to a beautiful sight.
He turns his eyes to Tikal as she mashes something into a paste. Her eyes focus on it, not raised to his. “I can sense it now.”
“Took you long enough.”
Tikal frowns. “I’ve never met another being…” Chaos bubbles in annoyance and she smiles momentarily and corrects herself. “Aside from Chaos and I who are able to harness it.”
He watches as she scoops up the paste and smooths it over his back, where a particularly stubborn wound is. He bites down a hiss of annoyance and upset. “My own connection isn’t that strong, but I can sense it.” Lower she adds, “You have a Chaos Emerald too... Don’t you.”
Chaos grows upset and she calms him with a look. Quietly, Shadow produces the green emerald. Their eyes flock to the pillar, where their own emerald is poised above them all. Not duplicates nor doubles, from a different time, a different place.
“I was…” He pauses before spitting the word out, “Helping collect them in another time, just as I told you, I’m not of this era.”
Tikal stops. “Why did you not tell us?”
“Because you wouldn’t have believed me.” He explains. “Besides, you were assuming I was of the Nyx clan.”
Tikal tenses. She stops her movements. “That is true.” She says in a wounded tone. “I am sorry for that; please accept my apologies.”
Shadow scoffs. “Unnecessary.”
A silence falls between the two, a comfortable quiet that only the two of them can understand. For Shadow, many people regret his silence, grow annoyed or feel degraded when he’s silent; in Tikal’s case, many remark that she is a strange girl for her quiet demeanour. But the two of them, not quite friends but no longer enemies, can understand the peace, the comfort in the lack of noise, the exemption of talking.
“Your wounds… They must have…” She cannot finish the sentence.
“They came from the jump, yes.”
“No.” She insists. “They’re healing, but not because of my cures.” Her voice drops lower. “We do not know much about the Emeralds. Or their power… Yet… Can you tell me why?”
Shadow weighs the possibilities of doing so, the consequences, the issues with it, and the positives. He pauses, stares out at the sky and thinks.
He’s already probably ruptured something by landing here and meeting Tikal. To expose more might cause something dangerous and irreversible.
(If he tries to think of her in the future, it’s all a haze, a gentle fuzz. He knows that she will be Knuckles’ ancestor and he will be a descendant of her tribe, and that she still resides on Angel Island, but little else.)
“I cannot.”
He can sense Tikal tense up, her unease, her discontent. “Believe me, if I could, I would.” He promises me. “But for the good of us both, I can’t.”
“I don’t understand.” Tikal begins. “But I can respect your choice.”
***
Tikal keeps Shadow a secret while he heals. In the days, she is called back to the hidden city within the jungle where she is the pacifist daughter of the warmongering chief; at night she flees to the shrine where her secret is kept.
He’s seated before the Master Emerald when she comes back one night. While walking along the trail, she plucked flowers, thinking they might brighten his mood, raise his spirits. As she takes the staircase, she called out a hearty hello.
Shadow turns back to greet her, then his eyes fall on the flowers. She feels herself blush. “I just saw them along the path. Pretty, are they not?”
He remains silent and looks at them. “You’re thinking of someone.”
Long, blue salvia are in her hand. “What do you mean?”
His eyes move to the flowers. “The flowers you picked. They mean you’re thinking of someone.”
Tikal blushes again. “Oh. Yes, I suppose I am.”
“Lucky man?” He asks with a raise brow.
She shakes her head and lies, though it pains her. In that moment, she realizes what the flowers could mean to him. “No. My grandmother.”
His brow lowers. Tikal rests the salvia before the Master Emerald and sits down. “She raised me. She’s been gone sometime now.”
“I see.”
“I miss her often.” She finds herself confessing. Perhaps it’s the momentary nature, the understanding that this isn’t forever and that they will not meet again. The truth, which she keeps hidden most often beneath her reserved expression, comes out readily like a stream. “I miss her more than I miss my mother.”
“I assume she has passed too.” He sits down beside her.
“Yes.”
“My apologies for your loss.” Shadow must feel the same thing. “I lost someone dear to me, once. It… I know the pain all too well.”
Tikal gives him a gentle smile. “Thank you.”
The quite returns to them, the mutual feeling of loss they know so well. Then, without any reservation, she blurts out:
“I like you, Shadow.”
He stares at her as she looks into the Master Emerald’s reflection, a scarlet blush on her face. She nervously plays with her hands, which find her dreads and twirls the edges. “I meant to say I like your company. There is a peace in it.”
He scoffs. “Odd.”
“Why do you say that?” Tikal asks.
His voice is low. “No one much enjoys my company in my time.”
“That’s… Very sad.” Lower, she adds, “Though I know the feeling.”
“Out of step?” He asks, thinking of the fiends he must fight back home.
“Very much so.” She answers, thinking of the battles she refuses to wage.
A silence returns to them as they watch the stars. The night is clear and cool. There is a peace in the air, a peace Tikal has rarely known and probably never will.
“When will you return to your era?” She asks quietly, hating herself for asking it.
Shadow waits a moment. “Soon.” He responds, then adds, “Though, I have a problem.”
Tikal turns to face him. “What ails you? How can I help?”
Shadow almost smiles, perplexed by her worry and kindness towards him. His eyes move down into his arm, which loosens from the cross over his chest.
She feels it as soon as he lowers his arm. A seeping feeling, like the breath being pulled out of her.
Tikal remembers a time, when she was young—before she took up orders as a priestess, before the rift between her and her father, before she realized her purpose was connection—and her grandmother noticed a sudden bout of lethargy took over her. That was when she received the blue clay bands she wore daily.
Shadow raises his right arm, showing off a busted band, shiny gold and scratched and bent wrong.
Tikal nods. “I see.”
“I can’t travel if one is broken. I must have hit something when I fell through time.”
“Stray rock?”
“Something like that.”
“I… My mother used to be the guardian of this shrine.” She looks up at the ceiling. “Perhaps I could find one of her other bands.”
Shadow remains quiet and Tikal can sense his discontent. Quietly, she pulls off her own band, her wrist feeling lighter all the sudden. She faces him, gingerly takes his hand and twists off the broken band from his wrist.
She swaps them and looks at him with a pleased smile. Shadow stares back with a frown.
“Is this satisfactory?”
“I suppose.” He lifts the band and looks at the pale blue. “But it doesn’t match.”
“The colours shouldn’t matter, Shadow.”
“No, I mean the energy that’s emitted. It’s different. Your bands withhold…” He looks at her and then stops himself. “Never mind. It will do. Thanks.”
Tikal feels the joy seep out of her now. The busted ring slowly depletes the energy from her and she can feel it: the Chaos Energy leaving her system in a slow, steady, invisible drip. “Does this change your leaving?” She asks.
“Slightly. I need to make sure I am up for travel first.”
“Well, Chaos and I are happy to help. Do you need food or water?”
“I have no need for such things.”
“Really?” Tikal asks, aghast. “Do they have supplements in the future?”
Shadow looks at her bemused for a moment. His expression melts back into indifference. “No, I simply don’t need those things.”
“Oh. How odd.”
Shadow half-smiles. “You’re not the first person to say that about me.”
“So. Leaving? When?” She asks, then adds. “N-Not that I am trying to get rid of you but…”
He pauses. “After my wounds are all healed.” He tells her.
And so, she has a day to hope for and fear.
***
Shadow notices that she hasn’t changed the band. His inhibitor ring still rests on her right wrist, busted and broken. Perhaps she hasn’t found a replacement, or maybe it’s for a more selfish reason.
He doesn’t ask, he’ll never know.
Tikal also notices that his wounds have mostly healed. All remnants of bruises and scratches have faded amidst his exposure to the Master Emerald. Perhaps he hasn’t fully recovered, or maybe it’s for a more selfish reason.
She doesn’t ask, she’ll never know.
But, while she and Chaos visit the Chao in their little garden, her father, Pachacamac, visits Shrine Isle and almost discovers him.
Shadow dodges and hides beneath the water until he and his warriors are gone. As soon as they leave, he makes up his mind and seeks her out.
Making his way to the Chao garden isn’t hard: he can hear the sounds of the annoying little creatures from nearly a mile off and follows the sounds. But before that, since Shrine Isle is far off, he closes his eyes and tries to sense her.
Those with a connection to the Chaos Energy will be able to sense others easily. There’s a pull, almost like magnets, between the two: and he feels a pull towards Tikal before he even closes his eyes.
He treks through the jungle and finds the clearing where she plays with the Chao. Chaos is more lively with them, absorbing a few and then flinging them out to their delight. She must sense him too, for when he arrives she hurries over to him.
With a look, she understands his worries, his concerns, why he’s there. “You have to go.”
He nods solemnly.
“Promise that you’ll visit me!” She demands.
Shadow turns around and stares at her.
Tikal blushes for a moment then stands her ground. “People like you and I won’t die like others. I’m sure I’ll be around for a long time.”
He thinks, partly amused at how she already knows what she will become and partly mournful for the same fate. “I promise.”
“And promise are forever, right?!” She calls out.
Shadow dips his head in a nod. “They are.”
Tikal smiles at him as he turns away and leaves. She wears that smile through tears, through her breaking heart for losing a friend she’d only just made, for the other being who could understand her. Seconds later, Shadow raises his Chaos Emerald to the sky and summons all his energy, travelling through time in the blink of an eye.
***
The sun seems to shine brighter on Angel Island.
(It’s probably because it’s a floating island in the sky, but still.)
Shadow sets foot on the island, perfectly timed to Knuckles’s schedule, right when he goes out to train halfway across the isle. Shrine Isle, floating and chained to Angel Island, has changed. The pillars and shrine are crumbling, the stone ruining as they talk.
In his hand is the clay band. After returning to his time, a lengthy report to his commanding GUN officer about his romp through space and time and extracting a promise that he would not be forced to do so again, Shadow ordered a replacement inhibitor ring. The second it came out of the press, he took it up and slipped off the clay band.
He held it for a while, staring at it and found himself here.
He climbs up the same stairs he climbed what was perhaps days or centuries ago. At the top, he sees the quelled, quiet water that runs through the shrine.
“Shadow.”
He hears her voice and fights a smile.
“Didn’t expect to see me, did you?”
“You had me waiting long enough.”
A small red ball of light appears before him. It zips around him in a circle then stops.
“I had some things to do first, but I keep most of my promises.”
The light turns bright white then she appears, unchanged from when he met her. His eyes trail down to her right wrist, where the busted ring remains. “So you do. That brings me joy.”
“I came to return something to you.”
“So I see.” Tikal says before sitting down before the Master Emerald. “I thank you.”
She takes the band from him, restores it to her wrist and holds his busted ring.
“I can dispose of that at my workplace.”
“No.” Tikal says softly. “I’d like to keep it.”
“Don’t tell me you have fond memories.”
“I do!” Tikal exclaims. “Will you deny me them?”
Shadow remains quiet.
“Just as I thought.” Tikal laughs. “Knuckles is busy training, then I believe Mr Sonic and Tails are coming to take him to socialize. And Chaos will go to see the Chao shortly. I’d happily take some company.”
Shadow sits down beside her. “Well then, tell me about the last three thousand years.”
She smiles and moves closer to him, closing the years-long distance between the two.
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