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To her credit, Edelgard at least waits until after the main feast is over to break the news.
“Your father is still under house arrest,” she says, smoothing down the folds of her skirt as she joins Bernadetta’s quiet corner of Garreg Mach’s dining hall, “but as the situation has changed, I think it may be best for us all that he be exiled.”
“Oh,” Bernadetta sighs quietly and looks down at her melting peach sorbet, letting herself feel the opposing tugs of relief and guilt she always feels when thinking about her father. “Um, what changed?”
“Well, due to the war, there was no one else available to take the role of Count Varley,” Edelgard says. Her horned crown has been cast aside for the celebrations and some of her hair has fallen loose from its clips. It’s probably the most relaxed Bernadetta’s ever seen her, and secretly she suspects that it’s probably got something to do with whatever Edelgard and the professor had snuck away to do just before the feast.
“Oh, you found someone good, then?” Bernadetta says between icy-cold mouthfuls of sorbet, contemplating whether or not to tell Edelgard about the smudge of lip smear on her cheek. To be honest, Bernie’s never really heard about two women marrying before, but, well, it’s the professor and Edelgard - there’s no one stronger or scarier or stupid enough to tell them what to do.
Edelgard pauses before giving a slightly pained smile. “Bernadetta,” she says slowly, tone purposeful like she’s talking to a small child, and Bernadetta almost wants to take offense – but then again, it’s Edelgard who’s scary so maybe she’ll just let it slide.
And then she gets it.
“Oh goddess,” she says, flinging herself straight onto Dorothea’s bed as soon as the door gives way, “except maybe not because we all just, um, blasphemed across Fodlan but you would not believe what the Emperor just told me and agh Petra what are you doing here.”
“I can be asking the same of you,” Petra says from Dorothea’s bed, thankfully clothed and looking unfairly cool and unfazed. “Dorothea was just offering to be showing me-“
Dorothea loudly clears her throat from the doorway, neck and ears red. “Bernie! Good evening, how can I assist?”
Bernadetta forces out some unintelligible noise, wide eyes flicking between the door and Petra, who smiles fondly down at her before sitting up. “If you two are wanting to talk privately now, I can always be shown later,” she says, hand twisting a curl of her hair and eyes drawn to Dorothea with a sudden shyness Bernie’s never seen on the battlefield. It makes her feel vaguely like a piece of furniture, or perhaps a vase on the table, watching the two alternate between blushing and smiling at each other as Petra takes her leave. Dorothea slowly closes the door after her and turns around.
“I’m sorry I interrupted you,” Bernadetta squeaks, burying her head in the quilt. She feels the mattress shift as Dorothea sits down and pats her head.
“It’s alright,” she says, stroking her hair in a comfortable rhythm. “I don’t mind. Really, I,” here she hesitates, and Bernadetta peers up to catch her expression. “Honestly, I want to spend as much time as I can with you, before…”
Bernadetta bites her lip. “You’re going with her.” To Brigid, with its heir and future Queen. Far, far away.
Dorothea looks down at her, mouth twisting. “Yes. I…” she trails off, looking away.
Bernadetta kind of wants to cry. Dorothea’s her first friend, from back at the monastery, who was so nice and didn’t make fun of Bernie one bit. But at the same time, it’s Petra, who’s also really nice and good, who makes Dorothea smile more and resemble Old Dorothea – the one from back at the monastery who gave hugs in the greenhouse and snuck rabbit skewers from the kitchens when Bernadetta missed dinners. During the war Dorothea’s hugs were tight but too short, and she sometimes skipped meals to gaze at the ruined classrooms at the monastery and cry when she thought no one was listening, late at night. Bernie likes this New Dorothea better, and that’s thanks to Petra, even if Petra’s also the reason why New Dorothea’s going far away and leaving Bernie behind.
“It’s okay,” Bernadetta says, instead of all that. I hope you’ll be happy, she wants to add, but instead what comes out is a choked, “I’m still going to cry, though.”
Dorothea opens her arms and Bernadetta crawls into her embrace. “That’s okay,” she says. “I’m going to cry too.”
Later, as Bernadetta pulls herself away, rubbing her eyes, Dorothea says, “what was it that had you running into my room all panicked, anyway?”
Bernadetta pauses. “It’s not a big deal,” she says. Dorothea should be spending her time right now happily making memories with her friends, not worrying over solving Bernie’s (many, many) issues again. Besides, Bernie’s all grown up now – she can work through her problems by herself. She was shooting arrows at a huge fabled dragon last month: how hard could some interpersonal issues be?
“Ah, Bernadetta!” Ferdinand says once he opens the door, gesturing at the steaming tea and lemon cakes perched on the extravagant table in his room. “Sit down and join us for some tea, if you will.”
“Good morning, Ferdinand,” she says weakly, eyeing the other occupant of the table. On his part, Hubert doesn’t seem to mind Bernadetta’s presence – he looks as composed as always as he takes a careful sip of his tea. Bernadetta looks at him, then back at Ferdinand, long hair pulled back into a low ponytail, then back at Hubert, who’s picked up a fork and begun cutting into a slice of cake.
Really, how come Bernie was apparently the only one too busy fighting ancient golem monsters to shack up with her fellow Black Eagles?
Hubert stands. “I suppose I shall go and see if Her Highness needs her floors dusted,” he says dryly, gaze piercing into Bernadetta’s soul, and it turns out that being friends (?) with someone for over five years didn’t really make them any less scarier when a majority of said years were spent listening to them mercilessly dispose of Kingdom spies and Church soldiers. Bernadetta gulps, thinks of the embroidered flower (not so scary after all, she’d thought when she’d thrust it at him) and doesn’t dare move until Hubert slides out of Ferdinand’s room and into the hallway, leaving the two of them in silence.
“I thought he hated tea,” she blurts. Good job Bernie, way to go. Start a conversation. It’ll be easy.
“Well, yes, most of the time,” Ferdinand says, ushering Bernadetta into the now empty chair and setting a delicate teacup in front of her, “but he’s recently challenged me to find a blend that’s acceptable by his standards, whatever they may be. We’ve gone through almost everything the Southern merchant has to offer and he hasn’t made a single mildly positive remark at all! At this rate I’ll have to start asking Petra for some foreign blends, or even, heaven forbid, take him into the light of day to experience authentic Enbarrian high tea.”
“Oh.” Bernadetta might not be the best at reading others, but she has a sneaking suspicion that Hubert probably wouldn’t care or even notice if Ferdinand decided to serve him muddy river water instead of tea. But that’s not a conversation she particularly wants to explore, so she just tries her best to nod encouragingly and wish him luck.
“So, my friend,” Ferdinand says, “how do you fare? I would have thought that the end of the war would bring you some relaxation, but you look…like you always do, actually.”
Bernadetta takes a deep breath. She came here for a reason, and she’s not going to stutter through every sentence. “Edelgard says I should be Count Varley but I barely know anything about being a Varley or a Count but I also don’t want Father to not not be un-exiled and you’re the noblest noble I know so how do I be a noble?” she says in a rush, then promptly burns her tongue trying to gulp down her tea.
Ferdinand looks at her with that stupid expression he always used to get when the professor endorsed Edelgard over him – which was a lot – eyes wide with a polite smile reflexively plastered on. “Pardon?”
“I mean, how hard could it be? Father spent most of his time locking me in storerooms instead of studying politics and he was always shouting all the time so I know he definitely didn’t leave our estate much.”
Ferdinand pauses. “I think your father, and even your grandfather, are perhaps more indicators of how nobility really…should not be like.”
Bernadetta doesn’t have many memories of her grandfather, who was titled Count Varley when she left for Garreg Mach and Officially Unaccounted For by the time she returned, but what she does recall is his constant imposing silence in the face of Mother’s wilting demeanor and Father’s demanding presence. At the monastery Ferdinand had often taken her to the library, saying scary words like ‘duty’ and ‘responsibility’ while elaborating on the causes and impacts of the Insurrection, but truthfully she hadn’t really paid attention at all, and back then it was so easy to forget that the figures in the books were actually real people who lived not so far from the comfort of her bedroom.
“To be honest, House Varley’s position in Empire business has become particularly varied in recent times,” Ferdinand continues. “You would’ve been looking after the Ministry of Religion and working with the Church of Seiros, but, well, that was before we, er…in any case, during the war that all changed because – what do you know of your county’s productions and exports?”
“Steel extracted from the Oghma Mountains is used to produce Imperial armor and weapons,” Bernadetta recites dutifully, rewarding herself with a particularly large forkful of lemon cake.
Ferdinand’s approving smile sends a bubble of pride into her chest. “Yes, which was particularly important during the war, where ministries were given amended duties to favor total war tactics. The late Count Varley’s scope of influence also began to overlap with House Hevring’s judiciary sphere and – Bernadetta, please put down your tea before you spill it all over yourself.”
Bernadetta sets her cup on the saucer shakily. “You know what? Do you think – it’d be alright if we just. Didn’t have a Count Varley? Or maybe I could pick someone else, like Linhardt did?”
Ferdinand refills her cup. “Edelgard and the professor have been fighting all this time for their own vision of what Fodlan, the Empire, and its nobles, should be,” he says. “That fight continues even after we have put down our weapons. I think Edelgard wouldn’t have asked you to oversee House Varley if she did not have faith that you would be suitable for that position.”
Truthfully, Bernadetta had decided to seek out Ferdinand less for his political advice and more for the boundlessly optimistic outlook he seems to adopt towards all things he approaches. For someone who had whined fairly often about the professor spending an excess of time teaching him faith instead of horse riding, Bernie secretly thinks that Ferdinand has the most faith out of all of them. Not in the Goddess – considering the Black Eagle house’s recent (unthinkable) actions – but in people. In Edelgard, who he has followed until the end despite initially claiming her unworthy, but also in himself, and in the other Black Eagle Strike Force members. It’s the kind of faith that had let him to confidently place his hands on Bernadetta’s shoulder where a well-aimed arrow had pierced through her armor, steadily direct white magic into the wound, and smile until she’d stopped crying before helping her get onto her horse again.
“Edelgard thinks I’d do a good job,” Bernadetta muses, more to herself than to Ferdinand. He hums in response and Bernadetta lets herself sit in silence, sharing in his certainty. “I think you should take Hubert out for Enbarrian high tea when you’re in the capital,” she says finally.
“That is a good idea, isn’t it?” Ferdinand perks up. Bernadetta giggles quietly into her hand and takes another bite of cake.
Outside the vicinity of Ferdinand’s room and after some more time alone with her thoughts, Bernadetta begins to feel tendrils of self-doubt creeping across her thoughts. It drives her out of her room and into the darkness of the ruined cathedral, looking for fresh air and somewhere to quietly freak out. At night, the cathedral is hauntingly empty, and Bernadetta is starting to regret not bringing a candle when she stumbles on some rubble. At the back of the cathedral, where the huge altar used to be, there is only piles of stone and dust, and the moonlight makes their shadows stretch and the darkness overlap.
One of the shadows takes a step towards her.
Bernadetta opens her mouth to scream and only manages a slight gasp when she recognizes the figure of the professor in the darkness. Seeing the dark hair again is strange again after so long, and for a moment the professor looks exactly like the woman Bernadetta first saw, over five years ago – eyes cold and expression blank, inhuman in a way that had filled Bernadetta with nervous fear.
Then Byleth smiles softly, and the image is gone.
“You’re up late,” she says, tilting her head.
“Um, you too,” Bernadetta stammers. “I guess I couldn’t sleep, so…here I am.”
“Let me walk you back to your room,” Byleth says, in a tone that’s not quite an order but doesn’t really leave any room for argument. Bernadetta nods and together their steps echo as they leave the cathedral.
“Do you think,” she starts, because even back at the monastery there’s always been something about Byleth that’s made her want to trust and open up, “I mean, it kind of seems like everyone’s going away, now.” Byleth hums in acknowledgement and doesn’t respond, but Bernadetta’s known her professor long enough that she recognizes her silence as an invitation to continue, so she does. “I mean, we did big things, together, and now everyone’s got dreams that they want to fulfil. Dorothea’s going with Petra, back to Brigid, and you, and Edelgard, and Ferdinand and Hubert are all busy sorting out the new Empire, and even Caspar and Linhardt are planning all these adventures together.”
Byleth turns and Bernadetta meets her gaze. “And what is it that you want to do?”
Bernadetta swallows. “I want to stay in my room,” she says. But even as the words leave her mouth, she wants to take them back. She spent five years fighting a war alongside the most ambitious people she’s ever known. At some point, even before she stood staring up at a golem amongst the burning ruins of Fhirdiad, listening to the screams of civilians and soldiers alike, she’d no longer been able to shut herself away and hide in her blankets.
“No,” Bernadetta says. “I want to go back. To House Varley.” They’ve reached her old dormitory room now; the door is ajar, allowing light to spill into the cold night air.
Byleth stops outside. “Good night, Bernadetta,” she says, and Bernadetta can see clearly the pride in her professor’s expression. She opens the door.