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Southern fruit blend has never been much to Byleth’s tastes. A bit too sweet, and the aftertaste always sticks in their mouth well until the next day, but they’re out of Almyran pine needles and Seiros tea is too expensive to indulge in too often.
“Ah! Professor!”
Byleth hardly needs to look up to know who it is, but they do so anyway. “Hello, Ferdinand.” It turns out they were right to set the table several minutes earlier than the scheduled time—Ferdinand is still as punctual as always.
“I must say, I am quite pleasantly surprised to be invited like this,” Ferdinand chirps. He’s dressed in riding attire, but no plate armor—which is to be expected, Byleth supposes. There is no war, and Byleth will have to make sure there will never be another one again. “And I am simply enthralled with what you have done with the monastery! Have you always had an eye for architecture like this?”
“Oh… thank you.” It had all been Flayn, really; the only thing Byleth had actually done was hire the construction workers. Thinking about it, that might explain the abundance of fish ponds. “Have a seat. I just finished setting up.”
Ferdinand inhales deeply as he sits down, bright eyes brightening further at the tea Byleth places before him. “Southern fruit blend,” he murmurs. “You remembered.”
Byleth lets their lips twitch up in a small smile. “Of course.”
Most of their conversations these days are about territory reformation and other ways to help improve the state of Fodlan, among others, but today Byleth ensures they steer clear of anything even remotely related to that—they’ve had enough of leadership to last a lifetime. Instead, they let Ferdinand talk about some stray cats he passed by on the way to the monastery, and the absolutely massive dog he’d taken in the other day, and how he’s recently been teaching basic lance skills to students in a village near Aegir lands.
It’s when Ferdinand brings out a dainty little handkerchief to dab at his mouth that he suddenly breaks into a smile, though. Byleth leans over, blinking in interest. “Is that a gift?” they ask. Ferdinand’s birthday had just been a few days ago. “It doesn’t look market-bought.”
“Why, yes! It was a gift from Dorothea,” Ferdinand says, looking suddenly like he’s been reborn into a lantern with how brilliantly he’s smiling. “Look! She even personalized it.”
He flips the handkerchief around, revealing Ferdie embroidered in the cloth, along with some flowers and a pair of happily smiling bees. It would be sweeter if Dorothea hadn’t vastly miscalculated how much space the capitalized ‘F’ took up and so had to squeeze in the ‘ie’ letters at the edge. “Ferd…ie,” Byleth reads. “Very thoughtful.”
“Isn’t she?” Ferdinand stows the fabric away, though now he looks thoroughly distracted. “It seems that whenever I am not at work, the rest of my time is completely taken up by courtship rituals. She does so love seeing me struggle, I believe.” He sighs a little wistfully, though the smile on his face doesn’t budge. “But this gift might truly be the beginning of something! Her gift for embroidery is a blessing to behold!”
Byleth’s not so sure about that, but Ferdinand’s been enamored with Dorothea since their academy days, so they’re not too surprised to find he’s hardly changed since then. “I’m happy for you. She does seem more open around you, from what I’ve seen.”
Unexpectedly enough, Ferdinand’s expression dims, and he looks sullenly down at his tea. Byleth half-expects his next words to be about how he’s not sure where he actually stands with Dorothea or something, but instead, Ferdinand says… nothing at all.
The silence stretches out to an uncomfortable length. “Ferdinand,” Byleth prompts, genuine concern leaking into their voice. “Is something wrong?”
“Just… I was wondering,” Ferdinand says, slowly, almost cautiously, before blurting out, “How is it like, to be the new leader of an entire continent without having been raised in preparation for the role?”
Byleth opens their mouth, but has to close it immediately afterwards—how are they supposed to respond to something like that? “I…” They swallow, hoping Ferdinand will say something to give them an idea of what he wants to hear from them, but Ferdinand only stares, gaze suddenly burning with intensity. “It has been hard,” they eventually admit. “But I am not alone. Seteth helps with a great many things, and I have people like you, Ferdinand, to aid in governing the other areas. I learn everyday from those around me.”
It’s a generic answer, a safe one, and Ferdinand clearly sees that—instead of pointing it out, though, he only leans back against his seat, lips pointed down in a small frown. “I see,” he says, too calm for Byleth’s comfort. “That makes sense.”
Byleth hopes he leaves it at that and moves the conversation elsewhere, but unfortunately for them, Ferdinand keeps going. “I hope this is not being too disrespectful of me, Professor,” he says, idly mixing his tea, “but… I admit that I have always been a little jealous of you, ever since our academy days. Back then, you were but a mercenary, a commoner, and yet you excelled in far more areas than any of us imagined.”
“That’s a little…”
“Edelgard always listened to you,” Ferdinand cuts in, which is so unlike him that Byleth quiets on instinct. “Yet she hardly ever took my advice to consideration. Professor Seteth placed you in charge despite distrusting you in the beginning. And… And Dorothea was fond of you. Is fond of you. Whenever she asks about you, I… well, I feel jealous.” He looks close to bristling now.
Byleth can’t bring themselves to meet Ferdinand’s eyes—they focus on the movements of his hand instead, stirring and stirring and stirring until his tea is several shades lighter than the dark orange-brown it’s supposed to be. “I’m sorry,” Byleth offers, even though they know, logically, that this isn’t really something they should be apologizing for.
Ferdinand shakes his head, laughing a polite little laugh under his breath. “No, no. I know, of course, that you are talented. That much cannot be denied. And I have learned quite some time ago that I should not judge anyone by their status, whether commoner or noble. Yet please do not fault me for… having a difficult time understanding.”
“No, never,” Byleth almost automatically says. They, too, had learned that plenty of their students need different sorts of attention based on how well they could stick to the curriculum, and Ferdinand is just one among many whom Byleth had needed to adjust their teaching style for. They’ve heard Ferdinand spout apologies like a fountain for getting a single question wrong far too many times to be impatient with him now.
But something about this is different from a difficult lesson in the classroom. Ferdinand sounds more than confused—there’s bitterness in his every syllable, and Byleth hears the unspoken words heavy in the air above them: What is so special about you?
When Ferdinand doesn’t offer anything else, clearly waiting for Byleth to speak more, Byleth clears their throat and struggles to string the words in their head into a halfway-coherent sentence. “I… do not know what to feel,” Byleth murmurs. “Or, well, even how to feel at this point.”
“How to feel?” Ferdinand repeats, brow furrowing in confusion.
Byleth resists the urge to scratch their cheek. They’ve never told anyone else about Sothis, at first because trying to make sense of the entire story to someone else seemed like far too much trouble and there was more to worry about at the time. After learning of what those who slithered in the dark had done to Sothis’ original body, though, being the vessel of the goddess became information too dangerous to so freely give out to anyone other than Seteth and Flayn.
“It’s nothing,” Byleth says, shaking their head, but Ferdinand is already speaking over them before they even get the second word out.
“That reminds me, Professor—” Ferdinand tilts his head, hair swept over his shoulder; for some reason, the title that had become mostly nickname among Byleth’s past students sounds oddly mocking. “I am quite curious about something. The war may be over, yes, but I have always been rather interested. You remember when we accompanied Archbishop Rhea to the headquarters of the Western Church, do you not?”
Byleth frowns. “That was years ago—”
“Do you not?” Ferdinand repeats, tone insistent. Taken aback, Byleth can only nod, and Ferdinand smiles coldly. “How ever did you know about the enemy ambush from the southeast of the battlefield? The fog from the mage’s dark magic was thick enough to cut. No one could have predicted it… except you, it seems.”
Byleth’s grip tightens against their will on their cup of tea. “That was—”
“Or when we fought Edelgard in the Imperial Palace,” Ferdinand interrupts again. His voice is not devoid of emotion, but Byleth thinks they would have preferred it if it was—instead there’s a detached, bored sort of curiosity in the words, like Ferdinand already knows the answer but is asking the questions out of courtesy, as if in some twisted form of his usual politeness. “You knew the soldiers directly in front and behind our formation would charge us, and that proceeding to the throne room would alert the enemies still in the side rooms.”
“Ferdinand,” Byleth tries again, only partially succeeding in keeping desperation from leaking into their voice.
But Ferdinand shakes his head, that mirthless smile still frozen on his face. “It simply seems like a question worth asking,” he says, almost cheerfully. “How could someone like you with no formal training predict the entire first ten minutes of a battle… Byleth?”
For years Byleth had tried to convince their students to refer to them by their name rather than Professor, but apparently they all found it too amusing to keep on using the term as some sort of endearment. Hearing their name spoken like this, cold and unfeeling and so far from what Byleth is used to hearing from Ferdinand, of all people, makes their blood freeze like ice in their veins.
And Ferdinand is still stirring his tea, over and over and over. The motion is distracting, disorienting, hypnotizing.
Byleth barely thinks when they reach for a Divine Pulse—they haven’t made use of one in ages, considering there’s not much need for it anymore after the war, and the brief dizzying sensation makes them sick for a few seconds. When they open their eyes again, it’s in the middle of listening to Ferdinand wax poetic about Dorothea, right before the conversation had taken a turn for the worse.
“I’m happy for you,” Byleth says (again), once Ferdinand eagerly waits for a response. “What else have you two been doing? She hardly tells me anything these days.”
It’s a lie, one Byleth is sure Ferdinand will call them out on, but apparently he’s so enthralled by Dorothea that Ferdinand barrels on without a second thought. By the end of the conversation, the sun has begun to set, Byleth knows far too much about Dorothea now, and Ferdinand stands to leave as he shrugs his coat back on. “Well, I must get going,” he declares; “I have an appointment to attend, unfortunately. But this was lovely! We absolutely must speak together like this again, Professor.”
“Yes,” Byleth agrees, trying not to sound unsure. “Of course. I enjoyed today as well, Ferdinand.”
Ferdinand leaves with a smile, bright and brilliant and very Ferdinand, nothing like the unsettling coldness from earlier, from a timeline Byleth had gotten rid of before it could become the present.
The smell of southern fruit blend lingers, long after Ferdinand has left. Byleth sits there, staring at the table, and decides against brewing this tea ever again.