Chapter Text
Edelgard von Hresvelg is the last of a dynasty that spans a thousand years. She has cheated an early death, led a revolution across an entire continent, and has even leveled her blade at a Saint. She is the leader of a new era, a woman who broke the shackles of destiny and who can do as she pleases, when she pleases, how she pleases.
But even Edelgard von Hresvelg cannot escape some antiquated noble tradition.
Standing for her official portrait has been awful, to say the least. She hasn’t worn the ancient Hresvelg armor in quite some time. The days since the war’s end have been relatively peaceful, with daggers in the dark replacing the trading of axe blows and crashing of heavy armor that Edelgard used to know so well. The plates feel foreign on her shoulders after months of their absence. Even the horned headdress whose weight she used to know intimately is strange in the wake of the newer, simpler circlet she has adopted.
Edelgard feels strange, to put it bluntly. She’d be damned if she’d be painted in layers upon layers of decrepit robes, though. Armor is what she wore when she struck out at gods, and that is what she wants for her legacy.
She shifts her grip on Aymr, shoulders heaving with a sigh that’s quite unfortunately-timed. The painter glances up at that exact moment and his expression sours slightly at her gesture, but he says nothing more than he has in the past few hours; that is, nothing at all.
Dorothea, as always, is the single most wonderful breath of fresh air in the stuffy room. She arrives after her rehearsals at the opera end, still dressed in the clothes she wore to ride her horse there and back. The first thing she does is flop across the couch at the other end of the room, rucksack and all, and gives the painter a start with how loudly she sighs at the ceiling.
“Good afternoon to you, too,” Edelgard teases, throwing a quick nod in the songstress’s direction.
Dorothea groans, then, tossing her bag on the floor before sprawling across the couch in full. “You can’t even begin to imagine how hard they’re working us this month, Edie,” she huffs, unbuttoning her cloak and pulling off her boots to make herself truly at home.
Of course, Edelgard doesn’t have to imagine. Dorothea spends the next twenty minutes filling in the story for her. She can’t give much consolation in return, but a nod here and a thoughtful hum here seem to be just enough for the songstress and not too much for the painter. She knows she could solve all of Dorothea’s problems with a wave of her hand. A simple word whispered in the director’s ear and Edelgard could move her into the composer’s good graces in a day or less.
She also knows that Dorothea would throttle her if she did any such thing, and so she offers a kind ear in the meantime.
When Dorothea’s had her fill of airing complaints, silence settles over the room once more. The painter looks relieved, at last, leaning back in his chair and taking a moment to judge his progress. Dorothea sits up on the couch and peers over him at the work.
She purses her lips at the image, glancing between the Emperor and her likeness once, twice, three times. Edelgard meets her eyes, confused and concerned at the focus that’s consumed Dorothea’s expression. Is something the matter? Is the painting too messy? Does she look messy? For a moment, Dorothea looks as if the whole thing is a disaster, and then...
A goofy grin. Dorothea's wink starts it all.
Edelgard feels a smile tug at the corner of her lips, but does her best to maintain the stoic expression she’s set on transferring to the canvas. Dorothea beams back at her, proud of the brief crack she’s made in the Emperor’s facade. She stands, creeping closer and closer until she’s practically hovering over the artist’s shoulder.
Edelgard’s eyes trail her the entire time, curious all the while. Dorothea’s well aware of the attention, leaning to the side to peek around the canvas at her with a cocky grin. Edelgard is determined to keep her cool though, even when Dorothea leans and leans and leans...
It’s when Dorothea crosses her eyes and sticks her tongue out that Edelgard finally breaks. It’s just a chuckle, but of course the painter sees it and furrows his brow at her. “Thought of something that happened at breakfast,” Edelgard reassures him, and he grumbles under his breath before setting back to work.
Dorothea is beside herself in silent laughter.
Edelgard cocks an eyebrow back at her, but she can’t say the distraction is unwelcome. It’s been years since she’s sat for an official portrait, and it’s just as miserable as she remembers it. It’s faint, but she remembers a time when she found herself in this very room, surrounded by ten other dark haired children all squirming at once. Her father had insisted that she stand next to his wife, and loyal little Edelgard had obliged in a heartbeat. Between the chaos that was wrangling her siblings and the way her “mother” looked at her with a searing gaze, calling it an unpleasant experience wouldn’t quite do it justice.
Edelgard treasures Dorothea’s presence in comparison. At least, she does up until the moment the songstress grins, presses a finger to either side of her mouth, and sticks out her tongue once more. Edelgard feels the tips of her ears run red hot in embarrassment, and this time Dorothea is the one who has to bite back her laughter.
Focus, Edelgard tells herself, sucking in a slow breath and steeling her entire expression despite it all. There will be plenty of time to joke around later. Her only job for the day is to sit for the painting, nothing more.
Unfortunately, the arrival of Ferdinand and Hubert makes her job that much harder. Ferdinand’s quick to survey the work in progress with a scrutinizing gaze, rubbing at his chin and squinting as if he were a fine art collector. “It seems to be coming along well enough, I suppose.”
“A fine job, indeed,” Hubert adds, nodding in satisfaction.
Ferdinand’s not done, though. He steps to the side of the portrait, looking Edelgard up and down with an already critical eye. “I cannot believe you chose to wear armor, though. A noble must represent their values in all their depictions, particularly their official portrait!”
Edelgard furrows her brow at him for a moment, but she chooses not to engage. Getting in a scuffle with Ferdinand will only serve to draw out the process longer, and she’s already starting to feel the muscles of her neck ache. She’ll take the jabs, as frustrated as they may make her.
Dorothea has become fine-tuned to the Emperor’s emotions within only months of living together, and it’s in times like these that it’s quite apparent. Her eyes flick between Edelgard’s stern look and the yammering noble and she taps a finger on the edge of the couch in thought. Edelgard knows she’s done for when an idea flashes across her gaze.
Dorothea is careful and quiet as she slips behind Ferdinand, squaring her shoulders with his and ever so particular as she gets into position. The second he starts his monologue on clothing choices, Dorothea flips her hair and puffs her chest out where she's certain he can't see. She follows his movements exactly, mimicking everything from the sweeping gestures of his hand to the intensity across his face as he drones on and on about things that Edelgard has very quickly lost interest in. She has to bite at her lip to keep a chuckle at bay.
“Would the Imperial robes not have been a more suitable option?” Ferdinand continues, still completely unaware of his new shadow. “Or perhaps even that red dress you wear now and again?”
“Her Majesty is free to make a creative choice about her wardrobe without your badgering, Ferdinand.” Despite his words, even Hubert is smirking at the songstress and her antics. She quickly moves to stay behind Ferdinand, who whirls around to take the verbal bait, and mimics his irate posture and wagging finger the whole time.
Edelgard can’t help it, now. She grins without reservation, laughter spilling from her lips, stopping only when the painter looks like he finally might just storm out in anger.
“This is stunning, Edie!”
Edelgard gives a sigh of relief when the last piece of her armor clatters to the floor. She stretches her arms high overhead, holding them there for a good moment or two before looking over her shoulder at the painting itself. “He did quite a good job, I must admit. Almost too good.”
Dorothea lays the cloth back over the grand portrait and rolls her eyes at the comment. “If you start going on about how this is all ridiculous, I swear this will end in an argument that you certainly can’t hope to win.”
Edelgard shrugs, but knows her words ring true. “I suppose I won’t, then.”
“Edie,” Dorothea huffs, taking the Emperor’s face between her hands and forcing their eyes to meet. “Won’t you let yourself indulge in something fancy, just this once?”
“Unlike some people, I don’t fancy seeing my own face glaring back at me every time I want to go to the dining hall.”
“Perhaps you should give Ferdinand and his grand portrait the spot in the main hall, then?” Dorothea offers, her playful grin immediately countering the sour look that crosses her lover’s face.
Edelgard scoffs, wounded by the idea. “I can think of a number of things I would rather see.”
“Oh?” the songstress prompts, running her thumb gently across the line of Edelgard’s cheek.
“You, for one.” Edelgard’s hand comes to rest on her lover’s and she turns into the touch at once, pressing her lips to Dorothea’s palm. She pauses, taking in the flush that rises to the songstress’s cheeks and barely suppressing the urge to kiss her, right then and there. “Would you let me?”
Their affections are a work in progress, and it never ceases to both elate and disappoint Edelgard that Dorothea’s still startled about being on the receiving end. She merely blinks at the Emperor, wide-eyed. “What?”
“Would you let me commission a portrait of you?” Edelgard’s voice softens, then, the poised and practiced tone melting in the the wake of that brilliant emerald gaze. How can it not? A gaze that has captured the hearts of hundreds, and yet it’s staring at her in wonder.
Edelgard feels her chest ache at the regret, the sadness that clouds Dorothea’s eyes. The songstress pulls back and smiles, ruefully, a million words seeming to cross her mind before she decides to answer, “I’m afraid I’m not pretty enough to paint, darling.”
“Ridiculous.” Edelgard’s answer is immediate, short, even a bit angry. She remedies her knee-jerk response by taking Dorothea’s hand in her own and lacing their fingers together. “You’re as pretty as any painting, and more. You are as gorgeous as the sunrise, your beauty endless as the sea.”
Dorothea laughs, because she knows such words all too well. “Now you’re just spouting my old opera lines back at me. Don’t think I don’t see right through you.” She grins all the same, moving to curl the fabric of the Emperor’s undershirt into her grip.
“Is it working?” Edelgard asks, sliding a hand around her waist and urging her nearer.
Dorothea’s close, so close that her breath tickles Edelgard’s cheeks when the giggles once more. “Perhaps you should kiss me and find out.”
She does, of course.
For all her imperial duties, it is not often that Edelgard wakes before her lover.
Today, at the week’s end, Edelgard stirs to find her chest still pressed to Dorothea’s back and their legs tangled together from the night before. She groans at the light that meets her eyes, early morning shining through the window right where she least wants it. Her arm is a bit numb, trapped underneath Dorothea’s neck with their fingers still intertwined.
It’s a bit awkward, but they always end up this way: splayed out across each other with hardly any indication of where one ends and the other begins. That doesn’t change the fact that Edelgard feels a twinge of regret as she carefully removes herself from the embrace. She’d love to stay there forever, curled against Dorothea under countless blankets and simply enjoying her company, but she knows there’s paperwork to be done and that a head start is always a blessing.
And yet, she can’t help but pause when she pulls away, breath catching in her throat at the sight that she sees before her. The light streaming through the gaps in the bedroom curtains falls across Dorothea’s face in a way that makes it glow. Her hair is splayed around her in a brunette halo, her lips parted and gentle breaths whistling between them. The sheets hug her form close enough that every dip and curve of her body is visible underneath the purple fabric.
“‘Not pretty enough to paint’, hm?” Edeglard whispers to no one in particular, propping herself up on her elbow and now taking ample time to drink in the sight.
After seconds turn to minutes and those minutes draw on, an idea comes to mind. Edelgard shifts to the edge of the bed, ever so careful not to wake the sleeping beauty as she swings her legs over the side. The chill of the floorboards beneath her feet has her shivering as she makes her way over to her desk, but she’s much more focused on the task at hand. A bit of digging and she’s found her old sketchbook and a half-used piece of charcoal.
Edelgard climbs back into bed and wraps one of their blankets around her shoulders to ward off the chills of winter. She hasn’t tried something like this in the longest time, she thinks. If she’s being honest, she doesn’t consider herself that good at it, either. But the moment has already taken her, filled with visions of the woman she loves and the light that hits her just right.
She draws.
Edelgard doesn’t know how much time passes, and for once in her busy life she doesn’t particularly care. The moment the first mark is made, she’s a woman possessed. All that matters is Dorothea, the woman she loves, the absolute angel she’s lucky enough to hold close each night.
None of the logistics of their relationship has been easy. The months since the war have been hard, from the sleepless nights where Dorothea weeps for the blood that’s been shed to the times where Edelgard spends hours worrying that her uncle will uncover her newest weakness. And yet, in times like these, Edelgard knows that it’s all worth while. The warmth that blossoms in her chest with even the slightest peek over her sketchbook, a warmth she once thought she would never feel again, is ample proof of that.
When she finally sees her subject stir before her, Edelgard tears out the page and hurries to shove the drawing beneath her pillow. She leans over Dorothea before she can rise any further, pinning her lover in place with a hand on either side and a kiss to the cheek. “Good morning, Thea.”
“Morning to you too, Edie,” Dorothea murmurs, her voice still gruff with the remnants of sleep. She cracks one eye open, that beautiful green iris glancing up at Edelgard and crinkling at the corner in a grin that makes the Emperor’s heart flip in her chest.
Not pretty enough to paint, Edelgard thinks again as she leans in and presses her forehead to Dorothea’s. The songstress shifts closer, one hand sliding up the bare skin of her arm and brushing against the fine hairs at the nape of the smaller woman’s neck. Edelgard hums in appreciation and lets her eyes drift shut. “Just feeling a bit lovestruck, is all.”
Dorothea Arnault is not often wrong, and she loves to make this fact known. But if there’s one thing Edelgard’s sure of that she is not, it’s that no canvas or brush could ever hope to capture the way the woman she loves smiles up at her.