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After last month’s victory at Gronder Field, the Golden Deer were finally allowed to relax. From training, that was, at least while the Knights of Seiros investigated the situation in Remire. Teach, who had been looking a little pale recently and perhaps didn’t feel up to training anyway, had assigned them all to conduct an “independent study.” Every student in the Golden Deer would be required to research on a topic of their choice and present a report next Monday.
Claude was excited to have free choice. For one, it might give him a chance to share his newest discoveries about Crests and Relics with his classmates. And there were plenty of other topics he’d been casually researching, any of which he would be eager to talk about. The Ten Elites and Four Saints, the Daphnel-Galatea split, Maurice’s Crest, and if he were feeling so bold, he might even present his findings on the depiction of Almyra and its royals and citizens in history books written by authors from Fódlan.
Unfortunately, Linhardt had already announced that he planned to present on the Four Saints, and Petra planned to report on the misrepresentation of Brigid in the famous novel Return to the Archipelago, so that narrowed his choices a little. Without asking Judith, he didn’t know nearly enough about the Daphnel-Galatea split to give a full presentation, and Linhardt would probably correct anything he had to say on Relics, Crests, or the Ten Elites. But Lorenz was giving a presentation on the history of the Gloucesters, which confirmed that Claude still had one last backup topic, and one he enjoyed: poetry.
One of Fódlan’s most famous poets, Constantine Anton Chalet, had been born in the Alliance. He had been a contemporary of the Empire’s renowned bard Johannes von Brichart, who had penned many widely read and performed plays, and was arguably the most well-known author in Fódlan. Chalet’s poems were often credited to Brichart and vice versa, but Claude had been tracing debates between textual scholars, and he had his own conclusions about the two. They had definitely stolen from each other, that much was certain.
The tradition of crediting the war poems to Brichart and the love poems to Chalet was strange. Sure, Chalet was known to have a more flowery style, but Brichart’s soliloquies revealed an equally ornate style. Claude loved reciting the soliloquies, just to feel the sound of the words on his tongue and hear them out loud. Reciting Brichart and Chalet as he paced his room in the Riegan estate had helped ease him into speaking more smoothly and formally.
Claude had opened his book of poetry to one of Brichart’s sonnets and was reading under his breath, leaning against the wall outside the cathedral. A bitter wind tossed his cape and his braid while he recited.
Let those who are in favour with their stars
Of public honour and proud titles boast,
Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars,
Unlook’d for joy in that I honour most.
Someone that had been walking into the cathedral suddenly paused. Claude looked up from the poem and to his left. Marianne stood on the threshold, hesitating to enter. She met Claude’s eyes briefly before her head inclined toward the pavement, as it naturally seemed to do.
“Hey, Marianne. Were you on your way to pray?”
“I was. Sorry, I shouldn’t have been listening in to what you were reading. I’ll be going now.”
Claude smiled and waved his hand. “No, no, I’ll continue. You might want to move out of the entrance, but it’s not like I have stage fright.”
Marianne moved out of the doorway to stand beside him. “I just thought… maybe it would be helpful if you had someone to practice on.”
“I’m not really practicing anything. Simply indulging in a little poésie.”
“Isn’t this your project?”
“Aren’t you clever? It is my independent study project. How’d you guess?”
She averted her eyes. “You were here yesterday reading, too.”
“That I was.” She had been there yesterday, but it hadn’t occurred to him that she might have been watching him. “I was sitting in the pews all afternoon. I wasn’t reciting anything or taking any notes, so how are you so sure I’m not just reading poetry for fun?”
“I don’t mean to sound rude, but most people don’t read poetry for fun.”
Claude laughed briefly. “I’m not most people, I suppose. What about you? You like poetry?”
“I’ve never really read any.”
“You know anything by Brichart or Chalet? That’s basically poetry in Fódlan. Sure, there’s plenty of poets writing nowadays who are better in some respects, but they’d be nothing without those two.”
“Maybe I’ve seen them on bookshelves, but just never thought to read them.”
Claude nodded. “I get that. There’s a lot more interesting stuff out there, and only so much time to read any of it.”
He’d always gravitated toward history and nonfiction just out of habit and curiosity, but poetry was unique. Raw and emotional in a way that captured people’s innermost thoughts. And in the tradition of Brichart and Chalet, those feelings were compressed into a strict form, captured in merely fourteen lines with a rigid syllabic structure.
“But,” Marianne said, “when I hear it in your voice, it sounds interesting, somehow. I want to know where the poem goes, the story it tells. What was the poet thinking when he wrote the poem? It makes me so curious to find out.”
Claude’s heart fluttered. “I didn’t think I was that good of an orator. But I’ll indulge you.”
Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spread
But as the marigold at the sun’s eye,
And in themselves their pride lies buried,
For at a frown they in their glory die.
Claude paused to look at Marianne in his peripheral vision. She wrung her hands and looked up at him, her head tilted more upward than usual. He’d said he didn’t have stage fright, but his heart wasn’t slowing down, and his palms felt a little sweaty. He took a breath in and continued:
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil’d,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil’d.
Claude concluded his reading with the couplet:
Then happy I, that love and am beloved
Where I may not remove nor be removed.
“They’re such pretty words,” Marianne said. She was leaning against the wall now, looking over Claude’s arm at the book. “Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph bars, / Unlook'd for joy in that I honour most.” She continued to scan the page.
Then she frowned. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“What’s giving you trouble?” Claude leaned back to allow her a better view of the book, holding it between them. “Should I run through it again without the poet-speak, so you can get the main idea?”
“No, I think I understand what it’s about. The poet doesn’t care about fortune, honor, pride, or dying in battle. Because he’s loved.”
“Exactly. And any of those supposedly more fortunate people can fall from grace just because of a royal or nobleman’s whims.”
Marianne frowned. “But how can he be so sure that he’s loved?”
“Maybe he means his love for his family, his friends, or his beloved, and how they love him in return.”
When her frown didn’t fade, he continued, “Or, maybe he’s not talking about any of those people, specifically. It could be that he’s thinking about his love for the world around him. ‘Just being alive and enjoying nature’s blessings is enough,’ he might think. And the world thinks right back, ‘Hey, I’m pretty glad you’re here, too.’”
“Maybe he means the Goddess?’ She folded her arms loosely, clutching her elbows with her hands.
Of course. He shouldn’t talk about the world being glad to have people living in it. Especially not while standing right outside a cathedral. He’d said too much.
“I guess you could think of it that way, too.”
“Yes. Her love is unconditional, and it makes everything possible.” Her voice faltered, as if she weren’t convinced that the Goddess’ love was unconditional.
Claude faced her. “Do you really believe that?”
She furrowed her brow, frowning slightly. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you really believe it’s all down to the Goddess?”
“How could you question that?”
“I don’t mean to say no one should believe. At the same time, I think believing that Her unconditional love will solve every problem is about as silly as the whims of the prince or the warrior’s obsession with dying in battle. Who really makes decisions? The Goddess, or human beings? Who will be there for the poet to rely on when he needs it most? The real world and the people he loves, or someone he can’t even see?”
Marianne fell silent, staring at the ground, clutching her elbow with one hand. His stomach turned over. Now he’d really said too much.
“I didn’t mean to imply that believing in the Goddess is wrong or that you shouldn’t. I’m just saying that maybe—” He cut himself off. “All right, that’s enough out of me.”
“No, you’re fine. I can’t stop you from speaking your mind.”
Claude opened his mouth to speak, but closed it quickly instead. “Thank you” didn’t seem appropriate, but neither did “sorry,” even though he’d been the one to take the conversation down a path it shouldn’t have gone. Even if he had been trying to prove a point.
Maybe he could make his point another way.
“Well, how about another poem? Are you still up for one more?”
“Yes. I’ll stay and listen.”
“Great. After all, I still need to introduce you to Chalet, the Bard of Leicester.”
He flipped through the pages to a love poem credited to Chalet, and began:
Twice or thrice had I lov’d thee,
Before I knew thy face or name;
So in a voice, so in a shapeless flame
Angels affect us oft, and worshipp’d be—
“Hold on,” Marianne said, sounding breathless.
Claude turned to her and met her eyes.
“Would you recite those first two lines again?”
“Twice or thrice had I lov’d thee, / Before I knew thy face or name.”
“That’s so lovely,” Marianne breathed, clutching her hands in front of her chest. “Just looking at someone, and falling in love before you even know who they are.”
“Oh.” Claude was surprised at how his voice broke.
He’d never related Chalet’s love poems to his own experiences before right now, as he was beginning to realize that him sneaking glances at Marianne during class had less to do with his interest in her Crest and a lot more in common with the speaker of the poem not knowing his beloved’s face or name. Not that Claude wasn’t drawn to her by the mystery that surrounded her, but he was equally thrilled by the way her soft brown eyes and her earnest, sad gaze made his heart pound in his throat, perhaps more so.
“Do you believe in that?” he asked, hesitantly.
“What do you mean?”
“Love at first sight. It’s a nice idea, sure, but I think the notion’s a little farfetched. Maybe your heart feels a little funny when you first see someone, but when you get to know them, either your feelings change or they don’t.”
“Yes, you’re right.” Marianne nodded. “That someone would love you without even knowing who you are… I suppose it is unrealistic.”
Oh, not again. But he wasn’t going to mess up this time.
“No, Marianne,” he said firmly.
She met his eyes. “Did I say something wrong?”
“You didn’t say anything wrong. But what you said isn’t true. People don’t need to know everything about who you are to decide how they want to treat you. I’ve met a lot of people who think that they have to hate someone just because. And I’ve met only a few people who think the other way. But the point is, I have met people like that. So, it’s not impossible, just like love at first sight isn’t impossible.”
“You—you really think it’s possible? For someone to love m—another person without question?”
Claude nodded. “I refuse to believe it isn’t. In fact, I have to believe it’s possible.”
“It’s possible to be loved without question.” Marianne pressed one palm to her cheek, then the other. “Without even knowing someone’s name or history.”
Claude felt a lump in his throat. “Yes, Marianne. Love isn’t just for the Goddess.”
She covered her mouth with the tips of her fingers, but he could see the corners of her lips turning up, her pale cheeks flushed pink. “I need some fresh air. Um, I’ll see you later!”
And she rushed off, not dashing but walking at a quick pace. The sharp wind snapped at Claude’s ears, making him even more aware of the blood that had rushed there. He looked back to Chalet’s poem, but his heart was beating too fast to read any more.
“Wait up, Marianne!” he called, running after her, clutching the book of poems to his chest.
So thy love may be my love’s sphere;
Just such disparity
As is ’twixt air and angels’ purity,
’Twixt women's love, and men’s, will ever be.