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It past the one year anniversary of Crimson Flower’s first performance, an operatic reenactment of their group’s murder of a divine god and all in between. Dorothea takes a one month break from performing, her role given to a sparkling young understudy. It’s only been four years since the death of the Immaculate One, and already she feels older than her skin reveals, like rot and bitterness under smooth flesh.
Hubert comes with. Because of course Hubert comes with, under the pretense that he’d love to see Brigid’s scenery again. About as fanciful a lie as his love for almond blend tea, said through gritted teeth against Ferdinand’s willing mouth. She laughs at the thought. No need to tease him; he just wants to get some recon in.
They secure a trip by boat. She’s packed light, airy garments, mindful of the heat that Petra warns in her letters. Hubert eyes the sea; pens letters under dim light whose contents she isn’t privy to. They eat most of their meals together, knowing each other well enough to get under each other’s skin, and to give each other space.
It isn’t quite fresh love, because said love rotted over and scabbed for her, to be flicked away once it outlived its usefulness. Left over is the solid, hardened layer of understanding, hastened by proximity and mutual trauma. It is almost love. It is sometimes better, because love can blind pleading eyes like hungry birds seeking prey.
She’d still like to believe in it, but for most practical matters, understanding is better. Safer. Less foolhardy. She misses when this was new. She misses when she was new.
When the boat lands, she is greeted by architecture reminiscent of Fódlan, but reinvented and made fresh. Triumphal arches with sky blue paint and beautiful calligraphic paintings of foliage and fauna; bridges lined with mosaics of seashells. The seaport town is a bustling, colorful painting of a wild artist; all spires and saturated colors. Dorothea feels like it is something out of a dream.
Hubert frowns. He is taking mental notes. Dorothea nudges him and laughs like peals of little bells. “Spoil sport. Imagine the monastery in this blue. Wouldn’t it be lovely?”
“It would be garish,” he retorts. “Let’s not waste our time with the scenery.”
They take a horse carriage to Queen Petra’s. The steed’s mane is braided with little conch shells. Dorothea sighs and takes in all the strange plants and sights, the colors nothing short of delight. Hubert remains stern as he watches the moving view from his seat; mouth a thin line as gilded buildings and palms whiz by in greeting.
“It’s beautiful,” Dorothea says, smiling as she holds a hand to the shells decorating the stall windows.
“It is quite a feat that they’ve managed to erect it all so quickly,” Hubert says with care. “I do admit, their decorative prowess makes Fódlan seem utterly droll in comparison.”
“Thank you for humoring me,” Dorothea says, and kisses his cheek.
He’s worried. He’s going to report to Edelgard that Petra could potentially rip out a tooth from the empire. Momentarily, Dorothea longs to spit on his boot. Wait a few decades, at least. The land needs more peace before another war breaks out. It’s too soon to fight again.
“I don’t suppose you’re going to waste money on trinkets.”
“Only if you do,” she replies with a laugh.
“I’ll take that as permission.” A pause. Hubert rubs his chin. “I heard the coffee here has different notes due to the climate.”
Dorothea breathes in, and runs her hand along the seashells embedded on her seat. Just a little more peace. If the coffee won’t be enough, maybe friendship will. Leave the fighting to their children, selfish as that is.
They meet Petra and a significantly tanner Linhardt in the receiving area; an open courtyard of blue white stone; the pillars etched in delicate linework. They both rest in a woven seat with a fan; a plate of strange fruit by Linhardt’s side. His smile beams as he spots the visitors. Dorothea blinks twice, breathes in. They both look so. Grown up. Mature. Accomplished.
Petra smiles, and all but rushes to her side. “Oh Dorothea, as beautiful as ever. And hello to you too, Hubert! I did not anticipate your arrival as well.”
“Like what we did with the place?” Linhardt chimes in with a clever smile.
Petra grins like a co-conspirator. “The people love it! It is based on Fódlan's architecture, but we made it our own.”
“It’s certainly more lively than what we have there,” Hubert acquiesces with a polite nod.
“It’s lovely,” Dorothea says, with as much certainty as she can muster.
Four years and this is what they’ve made? All she’s done is sing and ferment into bitter wine. Surely these monuments will last longer than her looks. Linhardt has more muscle than she remembers, and Petra. Oh Petra. Like a sunset next to her pile of dust.
Dorothea smiles as she holds her friend, and holds herself in.
“You seem unwell,” Hubert says in the morning, nursing his second cup of coffee. Brigid style has richer undertones with sweet notes, the layered complexity more to his liking than what he has been long accustomed to.
“Still getting my bearings, is all. Did you see Linhardt’s arms?” She laughs to smooth her nerves over. It doesn’t work, but it’s appearance that counts.
“They’re a surprise,” he says, and leaves it at that. “Go see Petra. I’m certain you two have much to talk about.”
Dorothea nods, grateful for his understanding, and leaves the chambers. It is a hall and a left to the new queen- it is strange how unguarded Brigid’s rulers are. Do they command this much respect from their people to allow their quarters to be so barren of watchers? She marvels at the shell gilded walls and sea foam pillars, and knocks on her door. When it opens, Petra is alone, in a gossamer gown the color of morning.
Idle talk is more difficult than what it was before. There is nothing on her side to say, because she has nothing. No buildings, no empire. Just a body that will grow old and a voice that will eventually break.
“Do you love him?” Dorothea asks, the question leaping out of her throat like vomit.
“He is kind and understanding,” Petra starts, and Dorothea supposes she could say the same for Hubert. “He regularly makes visits to see Caspar back in Fódln, but the buildings are easy enough to build without his guidance.”
Petra’s command of the language is better than she remembers. Dorothea holds her breath.
“And you're alright with that?”
“What you do in Fódlan with love is not how it works in Brigid. Love is not a well that eventually dries up. If cultivated, love is endless. It multiplies like a good crop. It will never run thin. It is something you offer, but not something you possess.”
“So you mean.” Dorothea pauses. “You can have more than one partner according to your customs.”
“Your partner isn’t something to have, like a possession.”
Her mind returns to Hubert, and his passionate devotion to Edelgard, which as years marched on, she has deemed emotionally unhealthy.
“I don’t think I entirely follow. If I were to ever love someone completely, ideally they’d be completely mine. Ideally, I mean. The ideal is always shinier compared to reality.”
“Maybe this is a topic for another time,” Petra diverts with a sad smile. “How was breakfast?”
“Wonderful,” Dorothea says, thinking that Petra tastes as sweet as the fruits of Brigid; a meal she once sampled but could never regularly have.
“I am glad. It is so good to see you again, my friend.”
Shame washes away her jealousy like a cold bath. Petra holds her in her arms. She wants it to last longer.
“You gonna report this to Edie? We need to raze this place stat! Too garish!” Dorothea jokes with a bloodless smile.
“Linhardt, that fool. So this is what it looks like when he applies himself.” Hubert rubs his temples. “I will report to Empress Edelgard of the… developments. What she chooses to do is out of my hands.”
“I want to know your professional opinion,” she dares. She is already tired. May as well add another weight.
“You know me well. You know my answer.”
“Hubert,” she asks, and nearly balks. Calling him by his full name. How unfashionable. “The last thing Fódlan needs is another war so quickly. Allow us time to mend.”
“While we mend, Brigid will prosper. Look at how much its accomplished in less than half a decade.”
“Peace is always better,” she says with clenched fists.
“I would hope that it will not come to bloodshed either,” Hubert admits, and she softens at his lingering sentimentality. It was those small moments that made her tolerate it so long. He could be so, so good, after all, just not for her. “Time will tell.”
There’s nothing left for her.
One of Dorothea’s first roles in Mittlefrank Opera house involved her as a scheming servant who switches place with an ailing princess in an attempt to get a husband. Even as the villain, her charming wiles were praised by reviews and unsavory nobles alike. Years from now, she remembers the refrain by heart, like a prayer, or a magic spell.
“I want something completely mine.
Squalid rot to young lord’s prize.
Living off the morning dew,
Then rubbing shins with blessed few.
I want a life that few would dream,
I’ll shelve true love for coins agleam,
Trade off rags for maiden white,
Live, survive, if just for spite.”
The lyrics were juvenile, at best, but juvenalia sold seats. Live, survive, if just for spite. By now she’s certain she can write better than whatever snot nosed brat penned those notes with a nymphet in mind.
Live, survive, if just for spite . Only thorns left on this rose.
“How do you feel about Edelgard and Byleth?”
It is evening in Brigid. The air is cooled by ocean breeze, sunset painting the sky in forgiving colors. Hubert looks younger; more vulnerable. Had she too, been younger and vulnerable, she would have considered kissing him on the lips. Mussing up his hair a little. She’s too tired for such niceties now.
“Lady Edelgard loves her, and I trust Byleth with my life, so I don’t disagree with their union.”
“You don’t ever get jealous?”
“I… like Byleth too. I suppose Brigid’s customs have some merit.”
Dorothea raises an eyebrow, and opts to drop the subject. She walks to the water’s edge. Hubert follows.
“I don’t want to share,” she confesses, more to the sea than him. “I spent all my life never having something of my own. Just one person, for me. Just for me.”
She does not meet his eyes. He rests a hand on her shoulder, but otherwise remains silent.
On the day before their departure, she and Petra spend their together buying trinkets and eating beautifully arranged meals. There’s coffee for Hubert, sweets for Bernadetta, strange horse snacks for Ferdinand, and just about enough extras for everyone else. Petra is delighted to have her all to herself, and Dorothea chides herself for ever feeling envy. Maybe loneliness is something she earned for all the spite inside her.
Petra, for all her difficulties in Fódlan, took it in stride. This is a boon that she deserves.
They eat in the evening. Petra combs and styles her hair for her return trip; Dorothea thinks it is unbecoming of a queen to style a filthy commoner’s hair, but keeps her mouth shut. Everything is delightful. Everything is lovely. Everything is wonderful.
And none of it is for her.
“Petra,” Dorothea asks, voice shaking. “Is that reservation still open?”
“Reservation?”
“For your shoulder.”
She laughs at first, but her face sombers when she nods. Dorothea holds her, gingerly at first, then tighter. Her head falls against warm skin. She begins to sob. If Petra is perturbed, she does not voice it.
It is a long time before Dorothea lets go.