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Ferdinand von Aegir is only seven, but he is already the perfect noble. He represents the standard of the elite in every way and excels at every task he attempts.
Then why can't he see every color, when some commoners his age already can?
His tutors explain when he demands answers. People are born with the ability to see one color— the color of their soulmate’s eyes. Only when they find and touch their soulmate do they gain access to the full spectrum.
Ferdinand nods, though he is still confused. Curious, he asks for the name of the color he can already see. He is shown a shaded grid and asked to write down which squares look different.
The results indicate that he can see the color yellow.
Ferdinand begins to notice that particular color everywhere. It’s a pale shade, the color of noa fruit rind and pastries.
“Or mucus and pus,” sneer the commoner boys from town, curse them. Ferdinand ignores the jibe, head held high.
Ferdinand is sure his soulmate will be smart and pretty— the epitome of chivalry, and nothing like those commoner boys from the gang in town. Surely his soulmate would never be mean or cruel like the leaders of that commoner gang; those scoundrels who snapped his arm when he tried to stop them from tormenting a young girl in the alleyway behind the markets. No, nothing like that. Surely, somewhere in Fodlan, there is a kind and gentle person with noa-pastry-colored eyes who is meant to stand by him forever.
From then on, Ferdinand evaluates the eye color of everyone he meets. He needs to be ready to reach out to his soulmate when he finds them. They are his key to unlocking perfection, and Ferdinand dreams that together, he and his soulmate will eradicate injustice from the world.
Petra Macneary is eleven years old when she is told that her father is dead.
The news pierces her heart her like an arrow. She cries silently in her room for what feels like hours, sinking deeper into sorrow with every memory of her father’s booming laugh or his warm, enveloping hugs.
Later, she is summoned to the royal court. Her grandfather glances at their armored visitors with actual fear in his eyes.
“Petra, dear,” he says, speaking in the cold foreign language of Fodlan. “You’re going to go on a trip across the sea. These nice people will take care of you on the other side, in the Adrestian Empire. Is that alright with you?”
She nods, knowing that she doesn’t have a choice. But her traitorous eyes begin streaming again, and she runs up to her grandfather and buries her face in his robes. He holds her close as she sobs.
The visitors shuffle around, muttering. Their metal boots thump on the stone floor, and it is the worst, most ominous sound Petra has ever heard. Her tears fall faster.
“Hush, dear one,” her grandfather says, and she tries to compose herself, she really does. Her grandfather reaches into his pocket and pulls out a little carving of an eagle. It is made from jade, and stands out vibrantly in Petra’s vision.
“This is the color you can see, isn’t it?” her grandfather whispers in their language, the language of Brigid. Petra nods.
“Good,” her grandfather says. “Take it with you. For luck.”
Petra clutches the little jade eagle to her chest and imagines her future soulmate as a bright featureless spirit with jade eyes, standing by her in solidarity. The thought stabilizes her. She wipes her eyes and turns; walks down the throne room steps to the waiting soldiers who look at her like she is a feral animal.
“May the spirits protect you, Petra.”
Petra hopes fervently that they will.
Hubert von Vestra is about nine years old when he escorts Lady Edelgard to the Imperial library and picks out a copy of the Book of Colors for her.
Edelgard tucks a strand of her smooth brown hair behind her ear as she works on the color identification tests included at the beginning of the book. She passes her finished paper to Hubert.
Hubert raises an eyebrow at the results. As always, Edelgard is unique.
“This says you can see two colors. Dark blue and pale green. How…?”
“Is that bad?” Edelgard doesn’t sound worried, just curious.
“Not at all,” Hubert says after a brief pause. “Perhaps there are simply two people you will love beyond all others, instead of just one.”
“Hm. Well, what color do you see, Hubert?”
Hubert makes a small noise of derision and jabs at the matching swatch on the book’s cover. “Orange. And not a particularly pleasant shade of it either.” He scowls. “I almost wish I couldn’t see it.”
Hubert watches Edelgard hum thoughtful assent and run her finger in waves across a gray square in the book, tracing some colored pattern there that Hubert can’t see. Then she looks out through the window. Hubert tries to imagine the world outside in more than just gray and dull orange; tries to imagine it with splotches of something bright, as Edelgard must see it.
She looks so… happy, in that moment, having learned more about the world and about herself. Her drive to keep learning, to understand everything about everyone, is what makes her so charismatic. It’s a trait that could draw followers to her from almost anywhere.
Hubert isn’t religious at all. But if he was, he’d pray that Edelgard never lose that quiet curiosity.
Byleth of Remire Village doesn’t understand what colors are.
“I don’t know what to tell you, kid. I can’t see ‘em anymore,” Jeralt says when asked. He sighs and points to his second-in-command, who’s happily married with a child on the way. “Go ask him to explain colors to you. It’s been too long for me. All I remember is how beautiful everything was.”
Byleth runs through the village the next day, looking for “bright” things, or things that stand out in some way, as suggested by Jeralt’s lieutenant. But everything looks the same, and Byleth is confused.
“Stop running around like that, child,” says the blacksmith as Byleth sprints past for the third time. “You’re making my head spin.”
Byleth explains about looking for something different.
“Oh, that. No one showed you the Book of Colors?”
Minutes later, Byleth has taken a test, and the blacksmith is thoroughly confused.
“I don’t understand. It looks like you can’t see any colors. You’re sure that all of these rows look the same?
Byleth nods.
“Well. You’re… special. This just makes you more special. Keep your eyes open, child. Maybe in the future you’ll find what you're looking for.”
That very same day, Jeralt and Byleth take their practice swords out to the forest and spar. Byleth is knocked backward and spins around, stumbling, then falls to one knee facing the forest. In the shadows, by the foot of a large tree, is a group of flowers that looks, well, different.
Byleth’s sword drops to the ground.
“What is it, kid?”
Byleth asks what color the flowers are.
“I already told you; I can’t see colors anymore. Here, why don’t you pick one of those to bring with you and we’ll find someone else to tell us.”
The lieutenant identifies it as lavender. Pale purple, so pale that it’s almost white, and now when Byleth looks at the blacksmith’s grid of colors again, it’s clear that: yes, two of the squares in the bottom left corner are just slightly different from the rest of their respective rows.
“So you do have soulmate,” Jeralt says. He sounds extremely relieved. “Just gotta find someone with eyes like those flowers. No problem, right, kid?”
Byleth shrugs, but nevertheless keeps the flower close.
Linhardt von Hevring, six years old, is resting against a tree in the Hevring gardens when a strange boy runs up to him. Ah, Count Bergliez is visiting Linhardt’s parents today. This must be his second son.
“Hey! You’re Linhardt, right? I’m Caspar! Wanna go play in the forest?”
Linhardt, unfortunately, is feeling particularly tired at the moment. Sometimes, like today, the world holds no interest to Linhardt and he just wants to sleep forever. He feels like he’s missing something in his body that should be providing him with energy.
Perhaps that crest thing his parents say he has— maybe that’s what is stealing his energy? Hm. Might be worth investigating.
In any case, he’s only just been introduced to this boy, Caspar, who has bright hair and even brighter eyes. Yet he can already tell that there’s something about the boy that makes him easy to be around. Caspar is filled with so much energy that Linhardt can almost feel it. If Linhardt’s parents weren’t in the mansion discussing policy, Linhardt might have asked them why the boy looks so different— so bright and not dull like everything else in this entire world.
“Linhaaaaardt. Come on!”
Caspar reaches down to grab Linhardt’s hand. Linhardt does not like being touched, and certainly not by near-strangers, no matter how interesting they look. So Linhardt frowns and tries to pull his hand away, but he isn’t fast enough and Caspar’s hand closes around his, and—
---------------
Caspar von Bergliez has just met this boy who looks really cool, ‘cause his eyes are so weird and different: sort of like the blue of the ocean that Caspar visited last year with his father, except brighter. In fact, if Caspar could get Linhardt to come play with him in the forest right over there, he could probably show him a lake or something that looks a whole lot like his eyes. Linhardt seems kind of tired, but that’s okay— Caspar will watch out for any trouble and make sure they don’t play too hard. He doesn’t want anyone to get hurt, let alone the son of his father's ally.
When he doesn’t get a response the second time, Caspar smiles and grabs Linhardt’s hand to pull him up.
Suddenly, Caspar’s vision shifts. He lets out a strangled yell and stumbles, falling to his knees on the grass, still holding Linhardt’s hand in his own as the world begins to change around him. The same thing must be happening to Linhardt because the other boy gasps quietly, his hand unconsciously tightening around Caspar’s in return.
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Linhardt looks up at the sky, incredulous. Shades of iridescence that Linhardt has never seen before bloom in front of him, filling in the trees and the field and the flowers and even the Hevring family mansion behind them. His eyes go wide as he takes it all in. His other hand, the one that Caspar isn’t holding, rises to his chest, and then he turns to look at the other boy.
Caspar is staring in wonder at Linhardt, and Linhardt is caught up in the moment and can’t help but smile back at him. Then he feels the blood rush to his face in embarrassment and he glances down instead, gaze falling on his own hand entwined with Caspar’s. Linhardt hates being touched, and he barely knows the other boy. Caspar has no reason to continue holding on to him either.
Yet neither of them let go.
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Instead, Caspar moves to sit down, leaning against the tree trunk next to Linhardt. It looks like Linhardt is just sort of staring at the world in silence, but he’s got this small smile on his face, a leftover of the grin he just flashed at Caspar.
The two of them are very different. Caspar’s not stupid; he can already tell that Linhardt doesn’t normally hang out with people like him. It doesn’t matter though, because Caspar feels… connected to Linhardt, somehow. Caspar is a creature of impulse and instinct, and he's instinctively sure that he’s made a lifelong friend.
Caspar begins to talk, describing the new things they can see and the shades of blue he used to be able to see. He wonders about the colors, exclaiming at how many cool new places they can explore and awesome new adventures they can have, because now everything looks so different!
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The world is suddenly interesting, but that doesn’t mean Linhardt isn’t tired. His eyes begin to fall shut of their own accord as Caspar continues talking. He doesn’t want to offend his new friend—honestly, he wants to listen to what Caspar is saying, but he’s just so exhausted. Maybe he could sleep for a little bit. For some reason, Linhardt gets the feeling that Caspar wouldn’t mind.
Linhardt shuffles closer to Caspar’s warm body and rests his head against Caspar’s shoulder. Perhaps he’s imagining it, but he thinks he hears Caspar speak more quietly to accommodate him.
When Linhardt wakes up again, Caspar is still there. He's fallen asleep waiting for Linhardt to wake up, leaning back against the tree with a smile on his face. Their hands are still clasped together, and colors still swirl around them in a new and exciting world.
Dorothea Arnault holds the high note at the end of a series of complex trills, keeping the audience pinned to their seats, rife with anticipation and hanging on to her every word. Just when the tension is at its height, she lets her voice swoop down into the final few measures with a flourish, finishing her performance to thunderous applause.
Dorothea smiles and bows, waving at the crowds as they rise to their feet, tossing praise, compliments, and even literal roses onto the stage. Life is a performance, Dorothea thinks to herself, so she daintily picks up one of the roses and twirls it, holding it close to her heart and wiping imaginary tears from her face. As if she is ever so thankful for their adulation. As if she needs them to go on.
Later, in her dressing room, she falls back onto a cushion, satisfied. Life has certainly changed in these last few years.
She can still remember begging for scraps on the streets; days when she couldn’t quite recall what it meant to be clean, or warm, or appreciated. And now, even nobles flock to see her, dance with her, write her letters, and pay fortunes to hear her voice. It's enough to make a girl delirious.
But she's getting distracted. She has a ball to attend this evening, and she’d best start preparing if she wants to secure a future for herself. One of the older songstresses, Dorothea’s idol and savior, promised to leave ‘the perfect dress for you, darling,’ in the common room for Dorothea.
The color of the dress is so… so different! It’s brighter than anything Dorothea has seen before, shines in a way that nothing else does. Even without that strange brightness, the dress is beautiful. It’s a classy combination of flowing velvet and dark lace, with a slim waist and a low neckline. Dorothea doesn’t have enough volume in the chest area to actually fill out a dress like this just yet, but she’s nothing if not determined, so she makes it work with some pins and a little padding. Soon she’s standing in front of the mirror, gaping at how perfectly it suits her.
At the ball, she dances and giggles and sings when begged to demonstrate her talent. There aren’t many other teenagers, but she flirts with all of them, eliciting blushes at her every offhand word or light touch.
“You look absolutely ravishing in that mauve dress, girl,” says one nobleman as she dances with him. He leans in close and adds, “I can only imagine how you’d look out of it.”
Disgust flashes to the forefront of Dorothea’s mind, but she squashes it down. She does a quick mental check and recalls that this man is the heir to a fortune. This could be the perfect way to secure her future. She turns her charm up, full force. At the end of the night, as if it wasn't her plan all along, she blushes heavily when he suggests that they retire to his mansion. She places her hand in his and follows.
Yet somehow, the whole time she’s there, she can’t get her mind off of the lovely warm hue of that dress, and her soulmate out there somewhere whose eyes must match in color.
Bernadetta von Varley is sitting cross-legged on a small wooden bridge. Her only friend, the Varley estate gardener's apprentice, sits next to her with his legs dangling off the side. He swings his feet back and forth, and Bernadetta fidgets anxiously with the hem of her dress outfit because that looks dangerous.
The boy gestures to the two peach currants in his hand.
“Really?” the boy asks. “These look different to you? Interesting. They look exactly the same to me.” The boy hasn’t found his soulmate yet, so he can only see a particular shade of brown.
And Bernadetta… Bernadetta hasn’t found her soulmate either. Normally, that would be fine. No cause for alarm.
Yet for some reason, by some cruel twist of fate, Bernadetta can already see every color. The boy snuck her a copy of the Book of Colors last month and she took the test secretly in her room, so she knows for sure.
Her friend probably thinks she’s weird. Her father— she hasn’t told him, of course she hasn’t told him, because it might lower her marriage prospects, and if there’s one thing her father hates, it’s that. She’s scared of what her father might do if he finds out.
It’s not her fault! Yet she can see the world as if she’s already met her soulmate, even though she knows she hasn’t. It terrifies her.
This also means, of course, that she knows one of the peach currants in her friend’s hand is red and the other is pink.
“Are you sure they’re different, Bernie?” the boy asks, wearing an expression that comes awfully close to a teasing smirk. Bernadetta can never tell when her friend is being serious.
“Yeah.” Bernadetta says nervously, and her next words come out in a rush. “I can— I can try them and tell you which one’s better, if you’d like!”
The boy laughs kindly and they eat the fruits together while watching a sunset that only one of them can fully see.
When she gets home that night, Bernadetta can immediately tell that something’s wrong. The halls are dark and there aren’t many servants around.
“Bernadetta.”
It’s the voice that she least wants to hear, the voice that heralds doom.
“Bernadetta, What. Is. This.”
Oh goddess, he’s holding her friend’s copy of the Book of Colors— does he know what she can see? Her heart stutters in her chest, then begins to pound at a frantic pace.
“Bernadetta.” His voice is low and controlled. “Who gave you this?”
No. Oh no, it’s even worse. He knows she’s been sneaking out. He knows about her companion, knows that she's been cultivating a friendship with the gardener's apprentice, when she's been told all her life that she needs to marry well, that she's a member of high nobility, that befriending commoners will do nothing but sully her reputation and her manners.
Bernadetta has learned by now not to scream or resist as he ties her to a chair in the back hallway, the torches snuffed out and shadows dancing around the dimly-lit stained glass windows that she can, so shamefully, see in full color. He tells her this will help her sit straighter, that this will aid her in perfecting the manners she's been allowing to erode by associating with filth below her station. He tells her it's for her own good.
Tears drip down her chin, but she tries not to slouch as he walks past her to leave. That would just make him angrier.
Sometimes, in daydreams, Bernadetta imagines a group of friends that she cares about and that care about her in return. In her fantasies, her friends are strong and vibrant, and none of them mind her quirks, and together they conquer everything that stands against them.
But now, try as she might, she can’t call that fantasy to mind. She spends the rest of the night wondering what she did to deserve this.
Edelgard von Hresvelg cowers alone in a dungeon. Her sisters are dead. Only one of her brothers is still alive.
Hubert must be out there, somewhere, still. It feels like more than a year has passed since she last saw him. She wonders if he knows what’s happening to her. She wonders if he even remembers her anymore. In any case, it’s useless to consider such things, because Edelgard knows she’s going to die here.
Her hair has been bleached to the color of naked bone as the world around her grows darker and darker. It’s hard to count the hours. It’s hard to scream. She can’t remember a time when everything didn’t hurt. There’s something in her blood that was never meant to be there and she scratches at her skin trying to get it out, but her efforts are futile, like everything else. There is no hope, no saving grace left in this world.
No. No! She can’t let herself think that. Desperately, she clings to the memory of birds flitting through a deep azure sky, of flowers blooming in pale verdant grass. These fragments of life, of the world full of color that waits for her outside, are all that keep her alive.
The door creaks open, and Edelgard steels herself for a fight.