Chapter Text
The Mittelfrank Opera House never ceases to take Petra’s breath away. Known to the world outside Adrestia as a diamond amongst the coal of industry—well, okay maybe only known as such to Brigidians. After all, it seems only Brigid considers Adrestia industrious while much of Fodlan and beyond sees it as an antiquity to preserved amidst the plumes of Faerghus’s ever churning energy reactors and Leicester’s fascination with pushing the boundaries of physics and technology.
However, Brigid is but a small harbor island full of pride in its historical ability to resist the push of “civilization” from Adrestia and Dagda from time to time. So it has little regard left for the state of the rest of Fodlan.
Anyway, the point is that Enbarr has always tugged at Petra’s interest, and quite literally at that.
Brigidians have a special and sacred relationship with nature, and Petra more so what with her ability to speak with the Earth and all. In Brigid, this leaves her with a feeling of plentiful--so in tune with the roots of the land and call of the sea that she is like an ever-blooming, ripe field ready for harvest.
But in Enbarr, where nature is an afterthought, an optional hobby or decoration, Petra feels that pull more sharply, as if each thread between her and the Earth is in high-definition. The ivy quietly creeping across forgotten buildings reach for her to be remembered again. The windowsill plants and indoor succulents call her in excitement, to touch a piece of the Earthy they have never known but still consider home.
Petra loves answering these calls. Though she has to admit, as she perches delicately on one of the massive chandeliers adorning the interior of the Mittlefrank Opera House, that there has been something else, something different, pulling her towards Enbarr recently.
That something else stands on the massive stage of gleaming, polished wood with her arms outstretched as she beckons the audience to fall in love with her. The siren of the opera she is often called, her voice luring spectators into a trance that leaves them on their feet in a standing ovation at the end.
Petra can see how the sobriquet applies, but considers Dorothea Arnault more of a morning lark--singing lovingly and sweetly at the sun, uncaring of how many wake with full hearts to her song.
Regardless of whichever fits the most, it’s clear just how many hearts Dorothea has reached for the opera house is packed to the seams. The lights of the chandeliers are dim enough that Petra can see every single seat is filled, and each occupant completely entranced by Dorothea singing a lament for a lost love.
This time, Petra feels a different kind of pull, though coming from nowhere in particular. She’s felt it a few other times before, and seemingly only when she crashes a night at the opera. After dissecting and studying it during sleepless nights in her bed, she’s come to recognize it as jealousy.
She is jealous that she is not the only one who loves Dorothea.
Which is probably why her heartbeat quickens and stomach twiss with a selfish sort of satisfaction when she realizes that Dorothea seems a little distracted tonight. Though her performance is as flawless as ever, she spends her idle moments on stage scanning the crowd, hopefulness adorning her features.
Dorothea has hundreds come to offer her their souls, and she searches only for Petra.
Petra blushes deeply, a heat creeping up the back of her neck. Though she sits hidden from the rest of the opera-goers, she is still glad for her mask.
On stage, Dorothea falls to her knees in a rather dramatic manner, voice quivering with her tears as it decrescendos to the last, low note, signaling the bitter end of her lament and the opera.
The heavy brocade curtains fall like a whisper through the dense, stunned silence. The calm before the thunderous applause that shakes the very foundations of the opera house. Petra has to precariously maintain her balance on the shuddering chandelier as she, too, gives into the fervor gripping her in the aftermath of Dorothea’s performance.
In that moment she stands, not against, but in solidarity with every single patron who has also lost their hearts to the lark of the Mittelfrank Opera.
It’s several minutes before the opera attendees begin to usher out of their seats. There had been multiple bows from the cast, repeated calls for an encore, and dozens upon dozens of flowers thrust upon stage. Petra has snuck into a full opera house enough times that all of this is routine, and she patiently waits it out with a heart full of Dorothea’s glowing smile.
Petra can’t help but wonder, in these moments, when exactly it was that her heart truly stopped belonging to her. She’s a little too practical for love at first sight, but she’s not sure she can remember a day when she wasn’t pulled in Dorothea’s direction.
Dorothea, aside from being Enbarr’s resident starlet, is a normal citizen. Yet, she’d managed to work her way into the lives of the city’s superheroes. They’d been introduced sometime over a year ago, back before Linhardt’s “retirement.”
Hubert, mayor Edelgard von Hresvelg’s right hand and their occasional ally, had approached them with a conundrum. It seemed that in Mayor Hresvelg’s diligence to cleanse the city of its former corruption, the two had discovered a disturbing connection between the opera house and Adrestia’s underworld. Further (illegal) investigation on Hubert’s part revealed that none other than the mayor’s uncle was responsible for using the opera as a front for extortion, money laundering, and drug trafficking. Activities all sustained through blackmailing and threatening the institution’s management, including its former star and beloved owner Manuela Casagranda.
Due to the identity of the perpetrator and previous political power struggles, Mayor Hresvelg had decided that it was best not to involve the city’s police force--best to leave it to those who were unabashedly loyal to the city.
Hubert had come to them as a last resort--he finally had a strong and decisive whistleblower the city could use to publicly prosecute the criminals; but her life was in danger due to the nature of the case, and his resources were spread thin.
Well. Technically, he had come to Ferdinand, who, in true Ferdinand fashion, took it on himself to single handedly act a the witness’s protection. Only to find that she harbored an extreme dislike for him and refused to cooperate.
Enter Caspar, Linhardt, and Petra.
The whole thing had resulted in two weeks of rotating watch duty amongst the four of them, bt Petra had soon started to look forward to her shifts.
Dorothea was, by no means, a quiet person. She always found a way to rouse one from the depths of oneself. She bickered into a camaraderie with Ferdinand, adopted Caspar as family, and helped Linhardt discover that he quite enjoyed falling asleep while being sung to.
But for all that Dorothea was a normal civilian, Petra cold see that she wore a mask like the rest of them. And she had wanted nothing more than to untie it with her fingers and slip it away to reveal the true Dorothea.
The silence of the now empty Mittlefrank Opera House is much more deafening after the extended uproar, and it beckons Petra out of her stupor. Calling upon the ivy that adorns the brick facade of the older portions of the building, Petra kicks off from her perch on the chandelier and steers herself gracefully across the lattices of the lights, cree walkways, and wires strewn across the ceiling above the stage.
Petra has only been behind the scenes once, and that too with Dorothea leading her blindfolded to the green room. So she’s completely unprepared to navigate the labyrinth that is backstage.Traipsing over props, equipment, and strewn-about costumes, Petra consumes almost a half an hour before relenting that, when Dorothea had invited her to come find her after the show, Petra should have clarified exactly where.
Curse that foolish heart of hers.
But an idea strikes her, and she thinks not all hope is lost. Petra quickly disentangles herself from the mob of half-full paint cans and haphazardly placed roller-brushes, once again calling upon the ivy and climbing towards the ceiling.
The ivy creeps into the building via one of the skylights of the older part of the building, and Petra uses this same entryway as her exit--onto the roof of the brick-walled annex behind the Mittlefrank Opera House.
Thankfully, Petra knows exactly where the actors’ entrance is, having met Dorothea in that alleyway in the past to escort her home. She figures there’s no better place to wait, hoping she’s not too late.
She’s sitting on the ledge overlooking the alley, swinging her legs in tandem with the tune she’s humming--a song by a Brigidian folk artist she’d just heard on the radio--when the door to the actors’ entrance creaks open.
It’s actually the fifth time it’s opened, but this time Petra’s breath catches in her throat because she just knows it’s Dorothea.
The lark of the opera emerges into the night like the moon revealed behind clouds, shivering slightly and buttoning up her coat. Then she pauses, looks around her, and cranes her neck to the sky.
“There you are, Druid!” she exclaims, a wide smile lighting up her face when she spots Petra. “I thought it was a little odd to smell wild jasmine in the city.”
Petra resumes swinging her legs and laughs. “You think I smell of wild jasmine?”
“Well, something smells of wild jasmine. And I know you prefer to tend to the jasmine in your garden the most at home.”
A blushed sparked out of fondness dusts Petra’s cheeks.
“You remember that?”
“Of course! I remember everything you tell me, Druid. And speaking of,” Dorothea scrunches her nose in a playful frown, though Petra can see it masks a different emotion, “I didn’t see you in the crowd tonight. I was afraid you’d forgotten.”
Petra stills and shakes her head.
“It is a good thing, then, that I too remember everything you say,” she replies softly. “But the opera house was full. I could not find even a spot to stand in. So I watched from the chandelier.”
Dorothea’s eyes widen at the very idea, and she bursts into a laughter that is a sweet melody to Petra’s ears.
“You sat on the chandelier? I suppose it must have been quite a view,” Dorothea muses, eyes glinting with amusement. “But you know, I could have gotten you proper tickets. I just don’t know how to reach you, I suppose.”
At this, Dorothea looks thoughtful, and Petra uses her distraction out ride out a familiar sense of shame.
For all that she’d wanted to unmask Dorothea, she’s never once removed her own.
And oh how she’s wanted to. Open herself up to Dorothea and lay bare her soul as one would to the Flame Spirit in an act of cleansing and rebirth. Dorothea is no purifying flame, but she has a fiery gaze that cuts right through Petra. She knows Petra in all but name.
Such is the isolation that no one prepares you for in the life of a supehero.
“Druid?”
Dorothea’s voice tugs Petra out of her guilt, her face wearing an expression of concern.
“Is something the matter?”
Petra shakes her head. “I was simply thinking.”
Dorothea cocks her head to the side.
“About what?”
Petra studies the other’s face. The weather has shifted, and a cool drizzle begins to fall, the drops catching on Dorothea’s eyelashes and rosy cheeks like tears. Briefly, Petra is reminded of the opera’s final scene where Dorothea’s voice had faded, heavy with sorrow before the curtain fell.
“Dorothea,” she starts, silently beckoning the ivy up her legs and over her knees. Petra tilts forward and allows gravity to pull her off the ledge. The ivy catches her, and she hands upside down by the vines, slowly descending until her eyes meet Dorothea’s. “At the end, why does your character fall to her knees? She laments her lost lover, but admits she is now free from the binds of love. Is she afraid of freedom?”
The question catches Dorothea off guard, her lips parting in surprise. Then she smiles, this one small and utterly naked of facade.
The first time Petra saw that smile, she felt as though she’d left her body. As if coaxing out the real Dorothea took a piece of her as a bargain. Dorothea smiles like this a lot more now in Petra’s presence, and Petra is only too aware of how much of herself she’s given in return.
“No, it’s not freedom she is afraid of, Dorothea responds, stepping forward, voice delicate in the soft rain. “She is afraid that to be free is to be alone. To be free of, and therefore isolated from the world around her, now that she has no tether.”
“But is she not free to find a new purpose in life now? Something else to commit herself to?” Petra presses.
“I suppose she is,” Dorothea cedes. “But as good as purpose is to fuel the brain for decades, her heart has little use for it. Not when it has tasted love, only to be left behind in the mortal world by its soulmate. It’s almost like a grief rooted in betrayal.”
Petra remains silent, blinking the water drops out of her eyes so she can drink in Dorothea’s wistful, almost resigned, expression. Her heart skips a beat.
“Are you afraid of being alone, Dorothea?”
Dorothea hesitates, eyes flitting to the ground even as she takes another step forward.
“I think...there are many ways to be alone,” she begins, eyes meeting Petra’s again. “But I am afraid that no one will ever truly know my heart.”
This time, Petra cocks her head, though it feels awkward to do so while hanging upside down.
“But there are so many who love you. Your heart can know hundreds.”
Dorothea takes another step, now only a few inches from Petra’s face. Petra feels silly about staring at Dorothea’s inverted form, but doesn’t try to rectify it. She has little motivation to move from under Dorothea’s gaze.
“Sometimes,” Dorothea replies, voice softer than Petra has ever heard it, “the love of one outshines that of even thousands.”
Petra doesn’t know what to say to that, and even if she did, she couldn’t have spoken. Not when Dorothea’s warmth has her forgetting how to breathe.
“I’m really glad you came,” Dorothea murmurs. “Knowing you’re there always puts me at ease.”
Without thinking, Petra reaches out and brushes a damp lock of hair out of the other’s face.
“I will always be there,” she replies with a conviction she didn’t know she had, but feels natural all the same. “Even if you cannot see me.”
The rain starts to fall more freely now, but neither pay attention. There is a breath between the two of them, and only one has to be courageous enough to take it before the plunge.
“Druid,” Dorothea breathes, bringing a slender hand to Petra’s face, fingertips skimming the dark pink mask. “May I?”
And that ghost of a touch is electrifying, more of a pull at Petra’s soul than even the Earth has managed. The urge to come clean, to cleanse this space of Druid and Dorothea and start anew, is too great to ignore.
So to hell with superhero etiquette. Who is she to follow the illogical customs of Adrestia, anyway?
“Petra,” she whispers.
Dorothea stills, her face flitting through several emotions before settling on pure elation. She delicately slips the tips of her fingers under the mask and drags it down so that it sits on above Petra’s forehead.
The superhero shed and cast aside, she smiles at Dorothea for the first time as Petra.
“Petra,” Dorothea says, drawing it out as if cherishing every vowel.
Then kisses her, hands returning to cup Petra’s cheeks, the pull between them finally satisfied. It’s an incredibly odd kiss, upside down and wet with raindrops, but Petra has never felt so full, so whole in her life. As if she’s reconnecting with all the pieces she’d offered of herself, discovering that they were stowed away safely in Dorothea’s heart the whole time.
And as Dorothea pulls back a hair only for Petra to swing forward and reclaim her lips, somewhere further down the coastline, a man in a bright orange suit is carrying a man shrouded in black. The man in black rests his head peacefully against the bright one’s chest, indulging in a sense of comfort he has never allowed himself.
And as Dorothea traces her thumbs across Petra’s exposed cheeks, kissing up her jawline, a green-haired man slumbers peacefully in the embrace of the love he feels he has known for eternity. Even if that love still wears a bright blue, white, and rather smelly uniform.
Enbarr is a city that is loved. A city that is protected. And tonight, it repays its heroes by washing away the burden of masking their hearts.
Fin.