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Edelgard’s hands have always been coated in red. Metaphorically, of course.
She folds her hands into fists as Linhardt peels the white gloves back, inspecting her hands closely for injuries. There is nothing, though; blood is only on her gloves, splattered on the fingertips, the silk that covers her palm.
“I told you I was fine, Linhardt.”
He tsks. “There was a lot of blood on your hands. We must be careful.”
Edelgard glances at the white gloves, cast forlornly to the side. It is so red, as crimson as her dress; she cannot believe the original color is white. Washing it in the laundry will hardly make a difference.
Linhardt stands up, letting go of her hands. “You seem fine.”
“I am fine. I told you that.”
Linhardt throws her a look. “Well, I’m not the one worried.”
Edelgard casts her gaze behind him. Hubert is, of course, lurking outside, but he’s not alone. A familiar brunette lingers just outside the door, blue eyes guarded, no hint of worry seeping on her face. Dorothea is a good actress, of course; she is excellent at guarding her emotions. But Edelgard knows her well, and she knows Dorothea wouldn’t have been there if she hadn’t cared.
“They’ve been waiting a long time,” Linhardt says, very unhelpfully. Edelgard tears her eyes from Dorothea to cast him a dirty look.
“I will not make them wait any longer, then.”
On her way out, she picks up her bloodied gloves, and slides them back over her fingers. It is to be expected of her.
+
Dorothea has blood on her cheek. It’s not her own, Edelgard knows, but her heartbeat still quickens, and she pulls Dorothea close to her, cupping her face lightly. Her skin is warm, even through Edelgard’s gloves.
“I’m fine, Edie,” Dorothea says quickly, jerking away slightly. “It’s nothing to worry about.”
“You’re bleeding,” Edelgard breathes. Her fingers ghosts along Dorothea’s cheek, and Dorothea shudders slightly. She does not pull away this time.
“It’s not mine,” Dorothea promises. She points to a crumpled body on the ground—a swordsman, smoke curling slightly off his body, remnants of fire sparking around him. Edelgard’s heart quickens.
“He hurt—”
“He didn’t even lay a scratch on me.” Dorothea places her hand over Edelgard’s, which is still pressed against her cheek. Her touch is cool, her hands also flecked with blood. Edelgard shudders. Red is a color that she has seen on Dorothea—a blush swept across her cheeks, red nails pressed against her hand, bright red lipstick all over her face—but this kind of red looks jarring on her. Doesn’t look fitting.
Without thinking, she slowly drags her thumb lightly across the blood on her face, wiping it away. She hears Dorothea’s breath hitch, and the war rages loudly around them, but Edelgard doesn’t care, doesn’t notice anything but the new bloodstain on her gloves, the redness wiped clean from Dorothea’s face.
“There,” Edelgard says, very softly. “It’s gone.”
Dorothea just looks at her. Her gaze is—surprised, almost, shock evident in her eyes. Under Edelgard’s palms, her face grows warmer.
“Thank you,” Dorothea says quietly, before turning away to take on the next enemy. Edelgard’s newly bloodied hands fall away from her face.
+
“Edie, is that blood on your clothes?”
Edelgard glances down at her dress. All she can see is bright red; that doesn’t really help. “What?”
Dorothea frowns. She grabs Edelgard’s arm, pulling her closer; her gaze takes in Edelgard, and her mouth falls slightly open. “Did you get a lance to the stomach or something?’
Edelgard places her palm against her stomach, and her gloves come away with a print of red. Not unusual, so she just shrugs. Pain is something she has become accustomed to as well; she can feel it needling under her skin, but it does not bother her. It hasn’t bothered her, not since she was ten and her hair turned white and—
“Edie.” Dorothea’s tone is sharp. “Hold still.”
“Why?” Edelgard blurts out, surprised. Dorothea shakes her head.
“I’ll stitch up this wound.”
“I can call Linhardt,” Edelgard tries. Dorothea shakes her head again.
“He’s too far. I can do it.”
She presses her palm against the wound, and Edelgard almost gasps—not from the pain, but the warmth of Dorothea’s hand, her fingers splaying across her clothes. Then something warm fills her body—faith magic, seeping in her veins—and the needling pain disappears, replaced by a warm, tingling sensation. It disappears when Dorothea draws her hand back.
“Better,” Dorothea says. Her palm is bloody now, and Edelgard cringes. She does not want to see Dorothea tainted with this—tainted with war, with blood.
“Here,” she says, and without even realizing what she’s doing, she strips off her gloves, pressing them in Dorothea’s hands. “Take these.”
Dorothea’s eyes widen. “What? Why?”
“Protect your hands,” Edelgard explains. “They’ll keep your hands from—turning red.”
Her voice wavers, but Dorothea is not a fool; she hears it. Without comment, she slides the gloves on her hands, and though they may be a little too small, she does not complain. It is strange, to see her with those bloodstained gloves. It is even stranger that Edelgard’s hands are bare now, unstained.
“Thank you,” Dorothea says. Her voice is soft, gentler than it ever has been. A rose’s petals fluttering to the ground, for the emperor to catch. “I won’t stain them.”
“It is all right if you do.”
“I won’t,” Dorothea insists, eyes blazing. The insistence in her voice makes Edelgard drop all arguments.
(When Dorothea returns the gloves later, any trace of red has been scrubbed away.)
+
It is late but Dorothea’s eyes are bright, warm and full of love; any kind of mask she wears has slipped away, and she all but lean into Edelgard’s touch. Edelgard presses her hands against Dorothea’s face, touch featherlight. Her gloves are cast aside on a drawer.
“And what would the people have to say, about the emperor spending time with a former songstress?” Dorothea teases. Her tone is light, but Edelgard can sense the undercurrent. She tangles her fingers in Dorothea’s long hair instead, winding the soft strands around her fingers.
“They can talk, but it doesn’t matter. I’m the emperor. I can be with who I want.”
Dorothea hums. Her voice is like a little songbird’s, Edelgard thinks. It’s the prettiest sound she has ever heard. “And who do you want to be with?”
“You,” Edelgard says, the word soft, trembling. “Only you.”
Dorothea laughs, but it’s a little sharp. “You could have anyone.”
“And I want you.” Edelgard lets all the truth sink in that one word, and she knows Dorothea hears it. Knows it, in the way Dorothea lifts her gaze, shock evident in her gaze—because for how much love she gave away, Dorothea has never been used to receiving it back. Lest of all her, Edelgard von Hresvelg.
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes,” Edelgard says. “Truly.”
She watches a smile curve up on Dorothea’s lips, something kind and true. It’s beautiful; she wants to press her lips against it. But Dorothea gets there first, leaning forward and kissing her forehead, her cheeks, lingering on her lips. Edelgard loops her arms around Dorothea’s neck, pulling her closer.
She’s been covered in crimson her whole life, Edelgard thinks, as Dorothea kisses her deeper, as her lipstick smudges against her skin. But not like this, hardly like this.
She does not mind this shade of red.