Work Text:
Bernadetta truly never thought she’d see the day when she’d be dragging her heels heading back to the dormitories instead of coming from them. Wartime brings unexpected change in all forms, she thinks as she makes her way across the monastery grounds.
She vaguely remembers a time when she was glued to her desk and her bed, terrified of the world around her. She can’t quite say that she’s gotten over the latter part, but the former feels so strangely far behind her despite the fact they’ve only been at war for two short years. Bernadetta truly can’t tell if that’s good or bad, and she’s still left wondering as she comes to a halt outside Dorothea’s door.
War has indeed changed all of them in different ways, but Dorothea’s been the most noticeable. The Professor’s disappearance had hit her almost as hard as it had Edelgard, the difference being that Dorothea wasn’t quite as stone-faced as her classmate. The war itself has hit her even harder, and every battle seems to wear her down more and more. Bernadetta knows she’s doing her best to keep it all under wraps, but it all just looks a little bit too familiar.
It’s strange that she and Dorothea seem to be heading in different directions these days. It’s stranger still that she’s the one fetching someone from their room, for once. When Hubert, irate, had noticed Dorothea’s absence at the war council, the archer had known exactly where to find her. Bernadetta knows the coping strategy all too well.
“Knock, knock,” she calls softly, rapping her knuckles on the door before her. She presses an ear to the wood to listen for a response, but nothing comes. Bernadetta bites at her lip in frustration, horrified at the thought of invading someone’s privacy but knowing Hubert won’t accept “I was nervous” for an answer. She takes the knob in her hand and turns it slow and steady, leaning into the room with a quiet, “Dorothea?”
The lump in the songstress’s bed shifts slightly, a groan following soon after. Bernadetta slips inside and closes the door behind her, trying her best not to stumble in the darkness. The sun hangs high in the sky, but absolutely none of it streams through Dorothea’s shuttered window. She almost immediately stubs her toe and does her best to hold back a yelp.
Dorothea stirs once more, finally sitting up in her bed and rubbing at her eyes. She leans back and fumbles around to pull the window open, and both of them wince at the sudden brightness in the room. “Bern?” she mutters, voice garbled with sleep.
“Hi, Dorothea. Sorry to intrude.” Bernadetta’s proud of the fact she doesn’t stutter or screech when the songstress eyes fall on her. She really is getting better about it these days, she thinks.
“What time is it?”
“About half past noon. The war council started fifteen minutes ago.”
“Ah, shit,” Dorothea grumbles under her breath. Bernadetta tries not to let the shock from the uncharacteristic curse show on her face. The songstress hauls herself out of bed and sheds the blanket, straightening the nightshirt she wears like it might help something. “Let me get dressed, then. It should only take a minute or two, I promise.”
Bernadetta turns away, respectfully. They’ve been to the sauna a time or two together, especially back when the war had just started and things seemed to be so much brighter. Now, she’s a bit bashful for reasons she can’t quite grasp. She looks at anything possible to distract her from those thoughts: the window, the calendar on the wall, the jewelry strewn across her dresser. It’s all a bit messy, but the sight at Dorothea’s desk is what finally causes Bernadetta to cry out in alarm.
“Dorothea! What is this?!” she gasps, somewhere between despair and outright horror.
“Hm?” the songstress asks, and Bernadetta can faintly hear the sound of her pulling a blouse over her head. She hopes it’s a new and clean one, not just the one she saw on the floor next to Dorothea’s bed when she first walked in.
“This rose is on its last limb...literally!” Bernadetta tries her best not to whine over it, but she can’t help but feel sorry for the poor thing. She knows Dorothea probably had good intentions, since it’s in a vase of water and carefully positioned on the desk next to the window, but it’s wilted beyond belief. The plant has already shed most of its petals, and they’re scattered all over Dorothea’s sheet music like she hasn’t touched it in days. It’d be a sad sight even if Bernadetta wasn’t the most avid gardener in the Adrestian army.
Dorothea only takes a brief glance when she finally turns to look at the flower in question. “Don’t bother with it,” she reassures with a wave of her hand. She pulls a shawl over her shoulder to hide the wrinkles in her blouse, quickly wrapping it around herself like it might be just enough to substitute for her blanket. “They never seem to last, anyways. I don’t know why men are so fond of giving them. Feels like a slap in the face sometimes, really.”
“Well, if you keep it in a vase, of course it’s not going to last,” Bernadetta murmurs, stroking her chin thoughtfully as she runs her fingers across the last of its withered petals. She knows she’s being frank, but this is one of the few areas in life where she feels quite confident. It’s comforting to talk about, too. “Have you ever tried potting one, maybe? If you really stick to it, I’m sure you could—”
“I hate roses, Bern,” Dorothea snaps, and Bernadetta can’t help but yelp at the sudden intensity. Old habits die hard, after all. The songstress immediately winces at her own anger, pulling the shawl a bit tighter and turning her back on the plant and her friend. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I haven’t gotten a lot of sleep lately.”
Bernadetta feels a lump in her throat when she tries to swallow, despite telling herself it’s nothing personal. “Of course. I’m sorry. I won’t bother you about it again.”
It’s astonishing to watch, really. In one quick motion, the door opens and Dorothea’s face lights up anew. The bags under her eyes are still there and her lip quivers a little as her gaze falls on the soldiers marching through the courtyard, but other than that she seems like a brand new person.
Bernadetta has always admired Dorothea for her optimism and her confidence. She had always wanted to emulate that, especially in their academy days when she was the one being hauled out of her room on a daily basis. Dorothea was always bright, sly, and beaming. She somewhat reminded Bernadetta of the dandelions that grew in the cracks of the greenhouse’s stone floor, their roots deep and determined despite the whole world working against them. Now, Bernadetta thinks she sees that flower before her withering away, petal by petal.
Perhaps those roots are just drowning in a thin glass of water, instead.
Bernadetta has never been a forward person, and her anxious mind is absolutely sure to remind her of that fact when she finds herself outside Dorothea’s door once more. Her mind’s been churning ever since the last war council, and for once she can’t say their upcoming march to the next battlefield is to blame. She’s been worried about something. She’s been worried about some one , specifically.
“Knock, knock,” she calls, a force of habit at this point as she taps on the door with her free hand. The other hand is busy holding the key to this visit: a decorated pot of violets she’s been personally trimming and preparing and painting for the past week or so.
There’s a few moments of silence before Dorothea gives a yell of frustration that can be heard through the very wall itself, quickly followed by an explanation: “I’m awake this time, I promise. Just trying to get this... damn thing on.”
Bernadetta cracks open the door, peering inside to find the songstress struggling to keep hold of the strings on the back of her outfit. “Would...would you like some help?”
“Goddess, yes.” Dorothea sighs in relief and immediately drops her arms to her sides, slumping into a defeated pose. Bernadetta knows she’s being dramatic, and a giggle forms on the archer's lips as she sets the flowers down on the desk nearby.
Bernadetta makes quick work of the dress (she’s quite used to loops and lace and all that, after all) and Dorothea wastes no time in rewarding her with a kiss on the cheek when she turns back around. The songstress grins as her friend goes beet red. It's painfully apparent Dorothea's either in a better mood, or at least faking her way into one. “Thanks, darling. What did you come to see me for? The meeting’s not for another half hour, right?”
“Oh!” Bernadetta remembers her original purpose for the visit all at once, straightening and hurrying back over to the desk. She grabs up the flowers and holds them straight out in front of her, like maybe it will put some space between them. “I, um, brought you some violets.”
“Bern! How sweet of you!” Dorothea seems quite pleased as she sweeps the plant into her arms for a closer look. The flowers on it are just beginning to bloom, and she glances over the petals with a careful gaze. “They’re such a beautiful color,” she notes, and when her eyes stray to Bernadetta the smile on her face is almost certainly genuine. “They sort of remind me of something else in here, I think.”
“Oh! I’m glad, then. I didn’t— ah, I really didn’t even think about that. The hair and all, you know.” Bernadetta feels her cheeks absolutely burning, and promptly scratches at her nose to hide it.
“I don’t think they’re really safe with me, though,” Dorothea admits with a sigh. “You saw the other day that I’m nowhere near the gardener you are.”
“Flowers can be, ah…” Bernadetta rubs her chin, words suddenly hard to come by. “I know they can be pretty difficult to take care of, sometimes. But I think you’d love having these in your room, really!”
“I mean, I’d love to keep them if I could.” Dorothea pauses, and though her room is cleaner now she still ends up eyeing leftover rose petals that have since shriveled up in the window sill. “I’m honestly afraid I might mess them up.”
“I think…” Bernadetta pauses with a frown. She’s not sure if the advice that’s coming to mind is even flower-related, but something in her urges her to say it nonetheless. “Sometimes it’s just a matter of giving them the right roots. In water, all alone, they’re gonna feel like they’re drowning. Sure, it’s enough to keep them alive for a little while, but eventually they just curl up and decide to keep to themselves. In the right type of soil, they’re...supported. They have room to grow. They’re safe...safer, at least.”
The air is suddenly heavier between them, and Bernadetta braves a look at her friend’s face. Dorothea is watching her intently, but her expression is absolutely unreadable. Bernadetta’s nervousness gets the best of her and she sinks slowly to sit on Dorothea’s bed, but she’s determined to finish.
Bernadetta gives a half-hearted laugh and continues, “And sometimes they need a bit of a stubborn caretaker, really. Someone who’s not too overbearing but refuses to give up on them even when they’re being difficult. Someone to give them a little more water when they need it or shift their pot around so that they can see the sun again.”
Bernadetta’s lip quivers slightly, and she just can’t seem to think about anything else beyond the first time she and Dorothea met in the greenhouse all those years ago. She remembers a brash songstress, fearless and determined to be her friend even at risk of her father’s wrath. She remembers how it felt to finally have someone take notice and insist on staying at her side. She remembers how much it meant to her, and she remembers how it might've even saved her.
So she nails the point home. “Sometimes, those stubborn efforts to help push them through it all might just keep them alive, you know?”
Oh, she’s definitely not talking about the plants anymore, and she knows it. Bernadetta feels her own eyes sting as she looks up at Dorothea, heart bare in a way it hasn’t been in quite some time. There’s many words left unsaid, but she still hopes all of them have somehow found their way across. She knows they’re different people with different struggles and lives that are worlds apart. She hopes—no, she prays that the songstress at least knows that she, too, is worth fighting for.
Dorothea says nothing, for a few moments. Her eyes flick to the floor as she takes it all in, and it seems as if a million thoughts are running through her head at once. Bernadetta certainly doesn’t blame her. She’s certainly been in Dorothea’s shoes, in that sense. The songstress clenches her fist for a moment, like she’s...frustrated? Maybe angry? Upset? Finally, she sits beside Bernadetta, lays her head on the archer’s shoulder, and gives the most ragged sigh she’s ever heard.
“Oh, Bern…” Her voice is muffled, and Bernadetta respectfully doesn’t mention the fact that something is suddenly seeping through her shirt and onto her arm. Bernadetta’s never seen Dorothea like this, but there’s something that tells her it’s a side of her that’s been there the whole time. “I’m so. Damn. Tired.”
“Yeah,” Bernadetta murmurs, leaning so she can rest her cheek on the top of Dorothea’s head. She lets her eyes drift shut, and doesn’t worry about getting to their meeting on time or where they’re on the march to tomorrow. She doesn’t worry about anything, just for a moment.
Me too, she thinks, wistfully.
“Let’s just stay like this for a while, then,” she offers, instead.