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The first seed is planted in Dorothea’s mind on a balmy late autumn evening, four-and-a-half years into the war.
Dorothea’s in her room, slender body sprawled over the bedspread, head resting on Bernadetta’s legs. They’re both slightly tipsy. Dorothea had invited herself in earlier that night with a bottle of fruit wine and a tray of marzipan, and the normally anxious young woman had relaxed in the presence of her most playful friend and the sweet treats that accompanied her. The tray is long empty by now, but Dorothea finds herself staying in Bernadetta’s room regardless as they discuss the characters of a mutually beloved opera.
“How can you say that Romolo is the better man for Floretta when he’s so mysterious and complicated? Count Attilio is far more charming,” Dorothea says, hands crossed over her stomach as she counts the painted flowers on Bernadetta’s ceiling. She keeps losing track and having to start over.
“Count Attilio is so boring! Romolo is far more interesting, and his aria near the end of the third act has always been one of my favorites,” Bernadetta says.
“He tries to kill her!”
“Only in the first act, and even then, he can’t go through with it!”
Dorothea can’t see her face from her position on Berndetta’s lap, but she can hear the blush in the younger woman’s voice. How curious.
Dorothea doesn’t point it out. It’s been a hard-fought battle to where they are now as friends; Bernadetta now feels comfortable disagreeing with Dorothea on favorite characters and performances, whereas just a few years ago the young noblewoman would have wept at the thought of her friend knowing that she didn’t share her opinions. Dorothea had assuaged her that as they fought on the same battlefield and agreed on what truly mattered, there was no need for Bernadetta to be nervous.
Even if her opinion was, in Dorothea’s mind, entirely wrong.
“Romolo’s aria in the third act is nice, yes, but all of the Count’s songs are beautiful, both in language and melody,” Dorothea says confidently. “If I were Floretta, I would choose the Count in a heartbeat.”
Bernadetta’s silent for a good minute. Dorothea props herself up, worried that she’s truly offended her friend, and is instead surprised to see that the violet-haired woman is smiling slightly.
“What?” Dorothea asks.
“You only say that because the Romolo in your troupe turned you down,” Bernadetta says. She’s teasing her.
“It’s not my fault! I didn’t know he was married, or that his husband was right behind him,” Dorothea says, even though the years have made the memory more amusing than embarrassing to her. Bernadetta hides a giggle behind her hands, and Dorothea joins in with her own open laughter.
It feels good to be discussing lighthearted things like this for once, rather than the political turmoil and battle tactics that seem to fill every other conversation. It makes Dorothea feel like a normal young woman rather than a soldier and a revolutionary. Bernadetta clammers over to sit next to Dorothea on the bed and knocks one of her stuffed bears onto the ground, which only makes them giggle harder.
Dorothea lets Bernadetta refill her mug (yes, they’re drinking wine out of mugs ), and picks the bear up off the floor.
She gasps when she turns back to Bernadetta, as if seeing her for the first time. “Bernie! I didn’t realize your hair was so long.”
Self-consciously, Bernadetta’s hand jolts to her head, and she flushes, her pale cheeks now ruddy from both the alcohol and Dorothea’s remark.
“I-it’s been like this for a while. I haven’t gotten it cut since—since the war started,” Bernadetta says. Dorothea gingerly reaches out and brushes a strand out of the other woman’s eyes. Indeed, Bernadetta’s hair has been long for a while; it falls down her back in a straight, sleek sheet of violet, not as long as Ferdinand’s or Dorothea’s own, but still much longer than Dorothea is used to.
Perhaps it’s because Bernadetta’s been taking better care of herself since the war’s begun. In their Academy days, she had hated doing more than the absolute hygienic basics and wilted when anyone commented on her appearance, even when it was a complement. Now, Bernadetta’s hair is always neatly styled, and she’s learned from Dorothea and Petra to enjoy doing her makeup.
“Your hair is always so pretty,” Dorothea coos, reaching out and enveloping the blushing woman in a hug. Dorothea always moves slowly around Bernadetta so that the other woman has enough time to escape should she feel uncomfortable, but to her delight, Bernadetta leans into the hug. “I’ve always loved your natural color, and how cute you look with long hair. I mean, I know your hair is usually short, but—”
“My hair has always been long,” Bernadetta says, and Dorothea draws back, surprised. “Oh, um. I mean—before you knew me. My...My father always made me grow my hair out long.”
“What? Why?” Dorothea asks. Growing up, she had known of older women who would grow their hair out long to sell it, but she couldn’t imagine the only daughter of a Count needing the extra gold. Despite her fuzzy mind, Dorothea knows that Bernadetta’s father is a sore subject for her. She takes her hand and holds it gently.
“He believed that short hair was unbecoming of a woman. Short hair was practical for men, but an unmarried woman’s only duty was to her appearance...which included long hair, I suppose,” Bernadetta says, biting her lip. “I cut it the night before classes started, when I arrived at the monastery. I was so scared when I thought he was coming to the battle because he definitely would have—”
Dorothea rubs comforting circles into Bernadetta’s back. She can picture the scene clearly; Bernadetta, shaking and young and still knobby kneed, taking a pair of tailoring scissors to her hair, her first act of rebelliousness. She can only imagine the euphoria and terror of doing such a thing.
Dorothea is hit by a sudden warmth blooming in her chest. Pride, she thinks, and maybe a little discomfort from the amount of sweets settling in her stomach. She’s also aware that this is yet another mark against Count Varley in the mental log she keeps, but she tucks that knowledge away for another day.
“That was very brave of you,” Dorothea says, voice soft. Bernadetta says nothing, just drops her head to Dorothea’s shoulder and clutches her. Dorothea runs her thin fingers through Bernadetta’s hair in a soothing manner, a slight frown on her otherwise picturesque face.
“Thea?” Bernadetta says, voice slightly muffled by the fabric of Dorothea’s dress.
“Yes, Bern?”
“Could you help me cut my hair?”
“Tonight? Bern, I’m drunk,” Dorothea says, even as her fingers itch to style Bernadetta’s hair. She can’t resist making her friends up like painted dolls, and everyone knows this.
Bernadetta lifts her head up, round grey eyes glimmering in the candlelight. “I don’t mind, Dorothea. I trust you,” she says, and her voice is so soft, so shy.
Why, that’s just not fair. Dorothea agrees then, because how can anyone say no to such a face?
But as she returns from her own bedroom carrying her barber kit and sits Bernadetta in front of her vanity, a name definitely comes to mind.
She carefully cuts Bernadetta’s hair to her shoulders and trims her bangs, conversing easily with her friend all the while Dorothea imagines taking her prettiest silver scissors and embedding them in Count Varley’s back.
Hubert has known since Count Werenfrid von Varley first attempted to break house arrest, during the fifth year of the war.
He remembers dragging the pitiful man back into his manor, a regular check-up on house loyalty having gone annoyingly wrong. The dark mage’s fingers had itched to shut the Count up, but he knew that killing nobles without prior permission from Edelgard was a bad idea.
He did let himself indulge in one good kick, though. Just to prove a point.
“Wait,” the Count says, seizing Hubert’s ankle. The Count is not particularly large, with a build a touch too wiry to be considered aristocratic, but his grip is surprisingly strong. “You can’t just deny a man his rights like this! First my freedom to travel my lands, and then my property—”
Hubert wrestles his foot out of Count Varley’s hands. “We haven’t taken any of your belongings, you old fool.” As if Edelgard would possibly want the painting of Count Varley dressed up as a laurel-crowned satyr hanging in the Black Eagle’s war room.
The man sputters angrily. “You have the gall to lie to my face, young Vestra? You’ve taken my daughter and locked her up, and you won’t even tell me where—”
It takes a second for Hubert to connect the man’s two statements, and the expression of total disgust on Hubert’s face is enough to make Count Varley shrivel up in fear.
His property .
“As long as I live, you will never know where your daughter resides,” Hubert says, and he lets the man believe what he wants from his words. There’s an anxious expression on Count Varley’s face that reminds Hubert of Bernadetta, but what is endearing on a quiet young woman is downright despicable on her hate filled father.
So: Hubert has known since Count Werenfrid von Varley first attempted to break house arrest. And what Hubert knows, Edelgard knows.
Therefore, Hubert gives the man another kick to the stomach, as the Emperor isn’t here to do the honor herself.
Petra finds out accidentally, as one afternoon, she watches Bernadetta move around in the kitchen. By pure luck, Petra had found a merchant who carried wares from Brigid, which had included a crate of mangoes. She had carried them from the marketplace straight into Bernadetta’s room. Bernadetta was the only one out of all the former Black Eagles who could cook, and Petra considered her recipe too important to hand to a servant she didn’t know.
“Are you really sure you want me making this?” Bernadetta asks once again, despite the fact that the dish is nearly complete. Petra looks up from where she’s been slicing mango and pops a cube into her mouth, relishing in the familiar, slightly tangy flavor.
“Of course, Bernadetta! Who else could I ask? You and I both love our friends very much, but they are unsuited to being in a kitchen,” Petra says, tone serious despite the slight smile on her face. The memory of Caspar and Ferdinand attempting to fry fish in sweet cake batter for Linhardt’s birthday is something she’d really rather not live out again.
(Somehow, the batter had stayed raw while the fish inside was burnt .)
Bernadetta flushes slightly but doesn’t refuse the compliment, most likely because it was more of a fact than anything else. Still, she seems nervous. “I just...I’m happy that you trusted me with a recipe from your home, but I don’t want to ruin it for you or waste your fruit—”
“Hush, ube ,” Petra says, in the strict but kind way she’s heard Edelgard speak. She leans over the kitchen counter and hands Bernadetta a small saucer with a few mango slices on it. “You are never a waste of fruit.”
Petra watches with excitement, and with some worry that Bernadetta won’t like the unfamiliar taste. Her friends have all grown to be rather open regarding her culture, but Petra still remembers the times in the monastery where her fellow students would pointedly turn their nose away from the Brigid delicacies her grandfather sent her.
“Oh!” Bernadetta says, staring at the half-eaten slice in her hand like it’s whispered the secrets of the world to her. “This is amazing!”
“I am glad you think so! I do wish you could try them fresh from a tree. Sometimes they’re bigger than my hand,” Petra says, smiling at her. “When the haupia is done chilling, you can finally taste it in my family’s recipe.”
They’d had to make some substitutions, given their location. Coconut milk was replaced with coconut milk powder, and arrowroot was substituted with starch, but Petra was certain that it would taste excellent anyways. Flavorful from the fresh fruit in the pudding, but mild enough that even those who disliked sweets could eat it.
Content to see that Bernadetta is enjoying the mango, Petra pushes herself back across the counter and accidentally elbows an iron pan off the surface.
It clatters against the stone floor with a loud BANG , and Petra jolts up. Bernadetta lets out a strangled scream and drops the saucer she’d be holding, but neither of the women pay the porcelain any attention as it shatters on the ground.
“I don’t—I’m sorry —Please don’t—”
Bernadetta sinks to the floor, covering her head with her hands as if she expects something to strike her, and Petra runs around the counter. She kneels next to her hyperventilating friend, careful not to put her knee in the broken saucer. Petra bites back her instinctive line of questioning, and instead places a hand on Bernadetta’s shoulder until the other woman starts breathing evenly again. Eventually, Bernadetta lowers her hands, but her eyes stare at Petra’s shoulder rather than meet her gaze.
“I’m s...sorry. I’m such a mess…”
“No, no. It is just a saucer, and I should have been more careful. As long as you are alright,” Petra says, and she helps Bernadetta stand back up. Her pale shoulders are tight, as if she’s anticipating the questions that Petra must have for her. Petra decides not to pry.
“When my cousin was young, he was caught in a sudden storm while out on the ocean. Lightning struck his boat and he nearly drowned. Even now he has fear...I mean, he is afraid when it storms,” Petra says. “Yet, he is a brave, good man.”
Petra gently presses her cool forehead against hers, and Bernadetta’s eyelashes flutter against her skin.
“We cannot control the spirits of memories that follow us, Bernadetta, but I know that every day our own being grows stronger,” Petra says, and hopes that what she’s saying is understood. She’s afraid that her meaning will be lost, or that she’ll have translated her words poorly, but Bernadetta's shoulders relax.
“...Thank you, Petra.”
Petra pulls away from her friend, movements uncharacteristically delicate. “Of course, my dear ube , and if you ever need to open your heart to someone...please think of me. Whenever you are wanting to.”
Bernadetta’s eyes glisten with tears, but they remain unshed. Tears of gratitude, Petra thinks.
“You’re too nice to me! I don’t deserve—” Bernadetta says, and stops herself mid sentence. Petra understands; habits are hard to break. Sometimes, learning to speak kindly about oneself can be as difficult as learning a new language.
“I…am really happy we’re friends, Petra,” Bernadetta says instead, and Petra likes this sentence much more.
“And I am likewise grateful for your friendship, Bernadetta,” Petra says, lightly rapping her knuckles against Bernadetta’s. “Now, come. I suspect our pudding must be chilled by now, and I would hate to eat it alone.”
The light in the library is low, the sun having already set. Yuri turns the page of his book and pretends not to notice the young woman fidgeting next to him.
She’s become more comfortable around him over the course of the last few months, which he suspects has much to do with becoming more comfortable with herself. The first thing he’d noticed upon seeing her again in the monastery was how she no longer ate alone in her room, but dined with the others. Hell, she even joined in on conversations from time to time.
Still, Bernadetta remains shy, quiet, and on occasion, anxious. Now seems to be one of those times. Despite the fact that she chose to sit there, she squirms in her seat as if she’d rather be anywhere else. Yuri hopes he isn’t unsettling her in any way, but he continues to flip through his book without saying anything. She’ll speak when she’s ready. She always has.
“Yuri,” she finally says, her breath more of a whisper than anything else. They’re in a library, yes, but Yuri’s pretty sure they’re the only ones in here. (Well, Linhardt might be asleep behind a shelf somewhere, but the man can, and has, napped through a battle before.) Yuri sets the book face open on his lap.
“Yes, Bernie?” Yuri asks. His tone is teasing, but he drops his lighthearted expression when he turns and sees the anxious way Bernadetta’s wringing her hands.
He waits for Bernadetta to say something else, but she fixates on a loose thread on the couch instead. Yuri sets his book down and drums his fingers on the cover; there aren’t a lot of things in life he’s willing to be patient for, but Bernadetta just happens to be one of them. The candle on the table next to them burns lower and lower, and Yuri wonders if perhaps Bernadetta’s changed her mind about talking to him entirely.
There’s a strange murmuring sound. For a second Yuri thinks that someone’s left a window open, but he realizes that the noise is actually Bernadetta muttering something under her breath.
“Bernadetta, dearest, I didn’t catch that,” Yuri says. Bernadetta’s eyes flit up to look at him, but then quickly glance back away.
“I—Um,” Bernadetta says, speaking more to her lap than to Yuri. “Do...Do you remember when you said that I was lucky to have my father?”
It takes a second to recall the exact conversation, but Yuri does. The conversation had taken place a month ago, and even though he remembers the interaction well, he can’t fathom why Bernadetta would bring it up now. They talk regularly enough now that a single conversation doesn’t seem as weighty as it would have been in their Academy days.
“Yes, why?” Yuri asks.
“Hm. I, um. I know that this is unfair for me to say to you because you didn’t have your family growing up and—oh, I’m sorry, that’s really mean of me to bring up. I just meant—” Bernadetta falters and lets out a pained choking noise, looking as if she’d like nothing more than to evaporate on the spot.
“It’s fine,” Yuri says, flicking a loose strand of hair out of his eyes. He’s not just saying it to make Bernadetta feel better; truthfully, he hasn’t thought about most of his birth relatives since he’s made his own found family, and he knows that Bernadetta didn’t mean anything by it. He gestures for Bernadetta to continue.
“Right. S-sorry anyways,” Bernadetta says, and then bites her lip. “...Where was I?”
“You were about to say something unfair to me, I believe.”
“Ah! I...I talked to Dorothea about it and she said that my feelings are important and to be honest with you because you deserve the truth, so I just wanted to tell you that you mentioning my father really hurt me,” Bernadetta says. The last couple words in her sentence all rush together as she scrambles to get them out in one breath.
Yuri frowns slightly. He’s never seen Count Varley up close, not even during the short period of time where he worked on the man’s estate. Bernadetta had never mentioned him when they played together as children. The only time he had encountered the man in person was when the Count had caught him in Bernadetta’s room, and at that point Yuri had been too busy trying to protect his vital organs to observe the man.
“I’m sorry for making you uncomfortable,” Yuri says. “But I have to say that I really haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
Bernadetta looks him properly in the eyes now, surprise shocking her out of her nervousness. She’s close enough now that Yuri can make out the slight pink tint to her lips, the carefully curled curve of her dark lashes, and he feels both slightly flushed and very curious as to where she got her rouge.
“You didn’t know?” She stammers. “I mean, of course you didn’t know...I shouldn't have just assumed you knew. That’s so self-centered of me. Just forget it. You don’t have anything to be sorry for. In fact, I should be apologizing! And leaving. Bye—”
Yuri reaches out and tugs on her hand before she can leave; gently, of course, but firm enough to communicate that he wants her to stay. He’s equal parts curious and concerned.
“Bernadetta, Dorothea is right,” Yuri says. He has to bite back an tongue-in-cheek “ but don’t tell her I said that ,” because it doesn’t seem very appropriate at the moment. “Your feelings matter, so don’t pretend they don’t exist. If there’s something you want me to know, tell me. Don’t worry about my feelings. You know I’ll wrangle the truth out of you anyways.”
Bernadetta’s eyes widen and Yuri cringes internally at his ill-timed quip. At least he didn’t say he’d stab it out of her.
Instead of running and/or attacking him, however, Bernadetta squeezes his hand once before letting it go.
“Okay then. If you’re sure. Um, let me know if you want me to stop,” she says, tucking her hands neatly in her lap.
Bernadetta inhales.
Bernadetta exhales.
And then she tells him.
She tells him about how her father used to tie her to her bedroom chair and leave her there for hours at a time, refusing to release her until she had worn herself out from crying. She tells him about how he had shown her portraits of other young noblewomen her age and listed all the ways they were more desirable than her. She tells him of the time her uncle brought her a cake for her birthday, and how her father was so furious at her for eating it that she spent the next week so starved and monitored that she ate dirt to quell her hunger.
At the end of her confession, Bernadetta trails off, tears of embarrassment in her eyes, as if she’s somehow the one to be ashamed in all of this.
She looks down at his hands and gasps.
“Yuri!”
Yuri follows her gaze.
He looks down in his lap and is surprised to see that he’s somehow torn the book he had been holding down the spine, one half clutched in each hand. Well, it had been cheap and rather boring—not much of a loss.
He folds the two halves of the book back together and sets it aside on the table. Yuri turns back to Bernadetta and says, with his smoothest and most even voice:
“I’m going to kill him.”
Bernadetta blanches. “What? Yuri, how would you even—I mean—Yuri. That’s not the point!” she says. She’s shaking slightly; he offers out a hand to her, and she grasps with both of her own.
“Thank you for trusting me with all of this,” Yuri says instead, and he means it. His heart is hammering a tarantella inside his chest from her story, but he’s always been good at compartmentalizing his emotions. Right now, he needs to focus on the present, and that means comforting Bernadetta.
Life is curious; it’s turned him from her childhood friend, to her assassin, to her classmate, to her comrade-in-arms, and to her—
Well, whatever they are now, but that’s a question to answer another day. He lifts her hand up to his lips and presses a kiss to her knuckles.
“I’m...I’m just relieved you didn’t know until just now,” Bernadetta says. “I thought…”
Yuri reads between the lines and frowns slightly.
“I can see how much worse my words would have been if I had known of your situation, but I still hurt you. I’m sorry,” he says, and Bernadetta practically melts with relief.
Yuri had grown up alongside urchins, those who had been trampled on by their families or auctioned off to the highest bidder, and it stings in a way he hasn’t felt for ages as he’s reminded that even the wealthiest of men can be bitter bastards.
Bernadetta leans into his shoulder. “Thank...Thank you. I’m really happy you said that.”
Oh, Bernadetta. So quick to forgive others, and so slow to forgive herself.
Yuri rests his cheek on top of Bernadetta’s head and watches as their shadows flicker in the candlelight.
She hadn’t, he realizes, objected to the idea of him murdering her father. That was something to consider.
And people like Yuri just thrive on such technicalities.
The rest of the Black Eagle Strike Force finds out like this:
Duke Ludwig von Aegir lets his knowledge slip in a letter addressed to his son regarding the latter’s former fiancee. Caspar finds out during one particularly miserable evening where he and Bernadetta bond over being unfavored by their fathers. Linhardt stumbles upon a confessional letter and reads it all before realizing “ Oh, this is probably an invasion of privacy” and apologizing to a very confused Bernadetta.
And of course, Hubert tells Edelgard, which leads to where they are now: sitting in their seats around the war room’s table at one in the morning, all in various states of dress. The only ones fully presentable are Edelgard (who had called the meeting and Hubert (who seemingly slept in full uniform anyways.)
Bernadetta’s chair is empty. Edelgard knows she’s somewhere on the second floor; she can hear distant harpsichord music, and Bernadetta’s the only one in their group who can play the instrument. Edelgard smooths her dress out and tries to focus on the trilled arpeggio coming from above and not on the anger boiling over in her stomach.
“Hubert recently brought something to my attention regarding the Count of House Varley,” she starts, and the tension in the room immediately becomes thick enough to cut with a knife. Dorothea had been in the process of removing her makeup when the meeting was called, and the smudges of kohl that remain around her eyes only accentuate her anger. Linhardt lifts his head off of his hand, and Ferdinand lets out a polite cough and drops his gaze to the table. Edelgard grimaces. She loves her oldest allies dearly, but not many of them have a talent for being subtle.
“Count Varley has been a source of difficulty for the emperor since the beginning of my reign, and has only grown more vocally dissident in recent months,” Edelgard says. “He represents the now-defunct Ministry of Religion and is unhappy with his loss of power. In many ways, he represents the status quo of entitlement and cruelty that we fight against.”
“I’d like to fight the guy, considering how he treated Bernadetta!” Caspar interrupts. He’s dressed in his nightclothes, a cloak thrown hastily over his shoulders. A dam seems to break at the mention of Bernadetta, and all heads turn to Caspar, who raises his hands defensively.
“What? He’s an old man. I could take him. And let me tell you, he deserves it—”
“He is, indeed, a very ignoble noble. His treatment of his family and his vassals is embarrassing. When Bernadetta and I were in talk to be married, I was given many warnings regarding Count Varley’s temperament,” Ferdinand says, and Dorothea bristles.
“You knew and you didn’t do anything?”
Ferdinand looks taken aback. “I knew that Count Varley was an unapproachable man, but that was the extent of my knowledge. I had no insight into the inner workings of House Varley until just recently, I swear to you.”
“You know it’s not Ferdinand’s fault, Dorothea,” Linhardt says. His voice is passive, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes Dorothea flush and mutter an apology.
“Their household isn’t large. Most of the servants the Count employs have been retained there for years, if not decades. It’s not surprising to learn that Count Varley could suppress gossip so well,” Edelgard notes.
“And besides, most of the staff wouldn’t be privy to what the family did anyways. Most of them are scattered over the estate,” Yuri adds, waving his hand in a dismissive manner. Unlike Dorothea, he’s still wearing his full face of makeup, looking immaculate despite his rumpled blouse.
Hubert scowls. “And how would you know that?”
Yuri smirks and taps a finger to his lips. “Aren’t a man’s secrets his own business?”
“Why are you even here?”
Petra tsks. “Hubert, we are all on the same side. Additionally, Yuri is Bernadetta’s...partner? He is just trying to be of help, just as we are.” The brown-skinned woman turns to Dorothea. “Partner? Is that the right word for what they are?”
Dorothea laces her fingers in with Petra’s. “Honestly, darling, I really don’t know.”
“What of Countess Varley? She was always an intelligent woman. I recall she worked in Enbarr prior to the war, but did she know of Bernadetta’s—situation?” Ferdinand asks loudly, speaking before Yuri can poke his nose into Petra and Dorothea’s aside.
“The Countess seems to have had no part in Bernadetta’s abuse. She has been residing with her husband at their estate under Edelgard’s house arrest,” Hubert says. Caspar and Ferdinand flinch at the word “abuse,” but Hubert remains stoic.
Edelgard groans and clutches at her hair, digging her fingers into her scalp. “Have I condemned an innocent woman to live with a tormentor?”
“I believe the Count and Countess reside in separate wings of their manor and largely avoid communicating,” Hubert says, and his words soothe Edelgard as much as any of Hubert’s words can. She rubs her temples.
“The Count has been confined to the Varley estate for the past five years, but I am beginning to question if this is a punishment that should be sustained.”
There are exclamations of surprise across the table; Yuri’s smile quirks downwards, Ferdinand looks shocked, and even Linhardt’s eyes widen.
“Edie, you can’t possibly be thinking of pardoning him!” Dorothea interjects, green eyes flashing.
“I’m not,” Edelgard says.
Petra lays a calming hand on her lover’s arm, but she looks at Edelgard with something like understanding.
“In Brigid,” Petra starts, “had anyone treated their children in the manner that Varley treated Bernadetta, the village would have responded accordingly. The man would be dragged out into the village center by the local leaders and beaten by rods of bamboo until he repented.”
Linhardt pushes his chin out slightly and speaks in the precise tone he uses whenever something’s caught his interest. “And what if they didn’t?”
Petra tilts her head. “Then they would continue until he was no longer a threat.”
The room falls silent as they take in the implications in Petra’s words.
“Asassination,” Caspar finally says, as if he needed to say the word out loud to fully process its weight.
“It’s certainly a...solution,” Ferdinand says.
“A permanent solution,” Hubert says, the corners of his mouth turning up into a sharp smile. Edelgard has to resist rolling her eyes at Hubert’s predictably dark sense of humor.
They’re in the middle of a war. They’ve all killed before. Everyone sitting around the table voluntarily chose to leave their lives and follow Edelgard’s vision, and while she would never force them to join her on this new mission, she wants them to at least understand the situation.
Above them, Bernadetta plays the last notes of her piece and starts another.
“I’m in,” Yuri says. His response is easy, as if Edelgard’s just asked him to join her for tea rather than execution.
“Me too,” Dorothea says, voice firm. “I couldn’t live with myself if he ever hurt Bernie again.”
The songstress shares a look with Yuri. After a beat, Yuri gives Dorothea a small nod, a knife-sharp smile lighting up his face.
“I want to come too. It’s like Petra said, right? The village should respond accordingly. Aren’t we Bernadetta’s village?” Caspar says.
At Caspar’s words, Ferdinand looks thoughtful. “I concur. Count Varley represents not the worst of nobility, but the worst of mankind as a whole.”
“I believe this to be the right decision. I, too, am in,” Petra says. Linhardt learns back in his seat.
“If you’re all going, I’ll help too,” the scholar says.
Edelgard turns to Hubert. “And what about you?”
“As always, should you want me to be there, I will be there, Lady Edelgard,” Hubert says. “But I admit that this would be...particularly satisfying.”
Edelgard looks around the table, feeling a surprising amount of tenderness for her allies.
She knows how difficult Linhardt’s agreement was especially, appreciates how the man is willing to bear conflict and blood for Bernadetta. Hubert prefers to keep people at a distance, but Edelgard sees the embroidered flower on his lapel and knows that this is just as personal for him as it is for her. Edelgard hasn’t known Yuri as long as she’s known the others, but despite his deflective nature, she can tell that his resolve is genuine.
Ferdinand sits upright in his seat, face set with the kind determination that he wears best. Next to him, Caspar seems to buzz in his seat from excitement; none of them are exactly bloodthirsty, but Caspar especially seems to enjoy the thrill of retribution. She looks at Dorothea and Petra and understands that they all share something better than friendship with Bernadetta—sisterhood, maybe.
When Edelgard was young, friendship seemed to be made up of trivial things such as similar hobbies or favorite colors; now, she sees the faces of her friends and understands that this is true loyalty. Edelgard thinks of how Bernadetta calls herself unlovable and wonders how she would react to knowing that all of them would level mountains and drain oceans to keep her safe.
“I’m glad to see all of us in agreement for this,” Edelgard says. From the second floor, the coda of a sonata dissolves into the night.
They debate the matter back and forth, but in the end, the group decides to keep their plan a secret from Bernadetta. It’s not that they don’t think she could handle the information, or as if they’re going behind her back, but Linhardt rightly points out Bernadetta’s persecution complex.
“Her first instinct will be to blame herself for making us worry about her. It’s better to just get this over and done with,” he says, and the group agrees. It’s not the first assassination they’ve carried out together—hell, it’s not even the first time they’ve committed patriacide. Any one of them could handle Count Varley fine on their own, but it feels symbolically relevant that they all carry it out together.
Bernadetta’s come slowly out of her self-inflicted isolation over the past five years, but it’s still not uncommon for her to spend weekends alone in her room. Linhardt stays behind so that Bernadetta isn’t alone, paying his contribution to their plan in research and scheduling. Edelgard knows that he prefers to stay out of unnecessary violence, so she’s pleased with the arrangement.
Bernadetta doesn’t see them leave the monastery. She’s completely absorbed in a new personal project, and her devotion to her art makes it so Edelgard’s not even sure that Bernadetta’s aware that they left.
They depart on Friday evening and return early Sunday morning with bloody hands and clean consciences. Bernadetta smiles when they come in and presents them all with the embroidered Black Eagle patches she’d spent the weekend working on. By the time her friends are done praising her, Bernadetta’s poppy red and radiating with gentle happiness.
“I’ve received a report that Count Varley passed away last month. According to the courier, he suffered a serious fever and was unable to recover.”
Hubert’s the one speaking, but everyone’s attention is on Bernadetta. For once, she doesn’t seem to notice the eyes on her; instead, the young noblewoman gazes off to the distance, her whole body feeling weightless.
It’s an unfamiliar and strange situation, but not a bad one. She wonders if now is when she should start grieving, but finds that she really doesn’t want to. Bernadetta wonders if that means she’s a bad daughter.
Or maybe, she thinks for the first time, that means he was a bad father.
Hubert folds the letter up. Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but Bernadetta catches a glimpse of the paper before he tucks it away, and she could have sworn the parchment was blank. All of her friends are looking at her, but none of them mutter condolences or platitudes about the late Count. They’re waiting for her reaction, she realizes, and she’s grateful.
“...Will he be given a state funeral?”
“Count Varley has been buried in a manner fitting for a man of his reputation,” Edelgard says. The Emperor gives her a look that blazes with something fierce and unreadable, but it’s not a heat that frightens Bernadetta. It’s comforting in its intensity, like a crackling fire or summer sun.
“Alright,” Bernadetta says, and she’s surprised at how even her voice is, even as she can feel tears coming in the corners of her eyes. Bernadetta blinks and finds that they don’t sting.
“Alright,” Bernadetta repeats again, but this time it’s less of a reaction and more of a statement. Something rushes over her body like spring water, and she realizes that it’s relief. It’s not an emotion she’s familiar with, but it’s overpowering and addictive and makes her feel as if the air is suddenly crisper.
She turns to Hubert and asks:
“What are your other announcements?”
Across the table, Ferdinand and Caspar give her encouraging smiles. Petra asks a servant to bring in some wine. Linhardt nods at her over the top of his book. Yuri takes her hand into his, and Dorothea offers Bernadetta her prettiest handkerchief.
Hubert raises an eyebrow, but he dutifully flips open a notebook and begins relaying news about a minor skirmish near the border. There’s a strange expression on his face. It might be pride.
Her family, Bernadetta thinks, and for the first time since she’s been very, very little, those words makes her smile.