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The faint sounds of heels clicking against marble compliment Annette’s songless tune as she flutters about her kitchen, going back and forth between checking on the boiling potatoes and kneading pastry dough. The smoky scent of slow-roasting rabbit has just begun to fill the room and it makes her mouth water. It’s a frigid winter afternoon, and every day has begun to feel like a fairytale.
Annette doesn’t even notice that Ashe has returned home until a pair of strong arms snake around her frame and featherdown lips brush the column of her neck. She hums, and in her wanton indulgence of her husband’s embrace she accidently nicks the tip of her finger with a vegetable knife.
“Goddess!” She yelps, and Ashe practically leaps to the other side of the kitchen in response. She senses his panic and quickly pivots with her back towards the counter. “Cut my finger.” Annette holds up her index to show her husband the bead of red at its tip. Ashe’s prior panic melts away with a heavy sigh.
“Sorry,” He could never shake the habit of apologizing for absolutely nothing, no matter how carping his wife was about it. “I thought it was—” He gestures to the swell of Annette’s stomach and she replies with a warm smile and her uninjured hand resting on her belly.
“The baby’s fine, my love.” Darling, honey, my love, all part of a secret spell to make her husband melt. And melt he does, for before she knows it he is peppering ticklish kisses all across the side of her face and making her squeal. Tender, playful, and so incredibly Ashe. She places a palm against his cheek and rubs her thumb against his skin. His freckles are an explosion of stars across his face, and even in all their years of knowing each other, Annette still finds herself getting lost in his cosmos. “Did you find blackberry jam at the market?”
“Even better.” Ashe replies, and leans to the side to reveal a basket of fresh blackberries sitting on the kitchen counter. That most definitely warrants a kiss, Annette decides.
“Oh, I’m so excited for you to try these tarts! Mercie used to make these for me all the time and she finally wrote down the recipe for me.”
“Are you sure you don’t need my help with dinner?” Annette furiously shakes her head. Ever since their permanent move into House Gaspard, neither of them had bothered to hire any personal chefs for the estate. Ashe claims that this was means of keeping his passion for cooking alive, although Annette has come to find out it is more along the lines of Ashe’s discomfort of people catering to him. His humility was always something Annette found charming.
“All I’ve been doing for the past few months is have you coddle me!” She pouts. “The least I can do for you is cook dinner.” Which put all the more pressure on Annette to make sure she doesn’t mess this one up. She kisses his cheek with an ostentatious smack.
“Unless, of course—” she knits her brows together and juts out her bottom lip. “—you hate my cooking.”
“NO! No—Annette—I promise I don’t—”
“Kidding!” Ashe has gone red to the tips of his ears and Annette can’t help but giggle. “Now go wash up! The meat is about halfway done, and the potatoes should be—”.
Wait.
“THE POTATOES.”
Said potatoes were currently about to bubble out of the pot along with the boiling water that spits and sizzles all over the stove. Annette darts over (“Anne! The baby!”) and quickly takes the pot of the burner and frantically inspects the now-overcooked potatoes. She frantically fans the team out of her face and lets out a high-pitched whine. Well, at least nothing exploded.
“Great, now the mashed potatoes are going to be all soupy.” Ashe can practically feel the stress radiating off Annette and rushes to her side, plucking the wooden spoon out of her hand.
“It’s fine, it’s an easy fix! It’s not like it was the meat or anything.”
“Now you jinxed it.” She half jokes. Ashe begins to drain the water from the pot.
“Here, just mash and stir them on low heat until all the excess water evaporates, and they should be fine.” He gives the pot a quick stir in demonstration. Annette puffs out her cheeks. Even long after her academy years she still finds a way to make a mess out of every meal. She supposes it is one of the things that make her and Ashe so compatible, he always has a way of gallantly coming to her aid no matter how small the problem. It’s nice, to not fully depend on one’s self for every little thing. Having someone like Ashe by her side made her feel like she could finally breathe every once in a while instead of just powering through the missteps.
Although, sometimes the worry of being too dependent flares up.
Soon the kitchen bustles with life as Ashe (much to Annette’s protest) begins to crush the fresh fruit with a mortar and pestle while she continues chopping carrots. She hums, and inevitably starts to sing a song to pass the time. It’s just some slow, boring hymn Annette picked up in choir practice before the war, but she still sings it because she knows it is one of the few songs Ashe knows. And he does shyly sing along, although he hides under Annette’s powerful vibrato for the most part. It’s a monotonous, almost nasally sound, but she swears it’s the sweetest sound she’s ever heard.
“Here, come taste this.” Ashe says, bringing the bowl of mashed fruit to her. She sticks her pinky into the puree and sucks on the digit, and her eyes immediately shine like sea glass.
“It’s sooo good.” She gushes, and eagerly takes another fingerful of the mixture. Ashe’s cheeks dust pink and he places the bowl back onto the counter.
“It’s just some saffron and cinnamon.” He admits. Annette takes both of his hands into her own and swings them side to side.
“Well it’s perfect, Ashe.” Annette awards him another kiss, this one slow and sweet. The young Lord smiles against his wife’s mouth and playfully nips at her bottom lip, earning a titter out of Annette. When they part they press foreheads, and Annette looks down at their hands.
Years of magic use have caused her hands to become a kaleidoscope of burn scars that creeped across her knuckles, the palms of her hands, and all the way down to her elbows. The taught, pink patches have come to resemble molten wax rather than skin, it reminded Annette of some kind of diseased cobweb that was permanently a part of her. Of course, she had plenty of other scars, but these ones were the kind that warranted a bit of insecurity. But Ashe would still hold them, kiss her open palm, swear that there was not a more perfect set of hands for him to put a ring on.
She wonders if there is any insecurity that he cannot kiss away.
“…My Lord?” A tentative voice calls. The pair of lovers synchronically turn their heads towards the source to find one of House Gaspard’s gardeners sheepishly tucked behind a pillar, hair a mousy brown and the apron of her dress smudged with earth.
Ashe straightens his spine with faux nobility. “May I help you?” It most certainly does not come out with the authority of a Lord, more like a haberdasher. But that was Ashe, for you.
“I was handed a letter by a messenger on horseback, My Lord.” The girl extends her arms forward to reveal an envelope sealed with a lapis wax seal. “I was told it was urgent.”
“Thank you, Rosalind.” Rosalind. Her name. Gardener. Annette repeats like a mantra in her head as Ashe walks over to retrieve the letter. The girl—Rosalind, smiles, bows, and scutters away like a hare.
“I do not think a time will ever come where I’m used to being called ‘My Lord.’ No matter how many years pass.” He says with a lopsided smile. So incredibly humble, so incredibly Ashe.
“Who is the letter from?” Annette asks.
Ashe holds up the letter to the light and his expression contorts into puzzled. “His Majesty, it would seem.”
“Dimitri? What does Dimitri need that’s urgent?”
“I suppose we’re about to find out.” Ashe replies. He unfastens his stiletto from his garter belt and rips the top of the letter open in one fluid motion. Truth be told, neither Annette nor Ashe have heard from the Savior King since his betrothal to Mercedes, which was shortly after the liberation of Fódlan. Of course, Annette wrote to her dearest friend whenever she had the spare time to pick up a quill, but all she had heard of Dimitri were just anecdotes from Mercedes’ letters.
Not that she was much surprised; both of them have been practically drowning in responsibilities since Ashe was put as head of house. It was not far fetched to believe that the King would be just as swamped.
Annette studies Ashe’s face as he reads over the letter. His forehead puckers, his lips become an unrevealing line, and Annette becomes detrimentally more paranoid with each passing second of silence.
“Is… Dimitri okay?”
“I am needed in Fhirdiad.” He finally says, matter-of-factly. “Apparently there’s another radical faction rising out of the Western Church that’s been threatening Garreg Mach. His Majesty wishes to meet to discuss a course of action.”
This time it is Annette who furrows her brow. “Why would they threaten Garreg Mach? I thought it was Rhea they hated, not the Profes—Byleth.”
Ashe shrugs. “Perhaps it’s because he was such a close confidant of Lady Rhea. They just see him as another apostate.”
“Or they just want the monastery for themselves.” Annette adds, and her husband hums in agreement. It was foolish of her to think that simply because the war had ended that peace would reign throughout Fódlan forever. In a perfect world, the world that exists within these stone castle walls, within each warm hug, each home cooked meal, each darling and my love, there would forever be peace. But reality had to show its ugly face sometime soon, Annette supposes.
“Regardless of their motives, we should definitely head to the capitol as soon as we can.” Annette says, giving a curt nod to herself before adding “Oh! I need to finish the tarts!” and hastily returning her attention to piling pureed blackberries onto the uncooked pastries. “Do you think I should make extra? I’m not sure how long these are good for once they’re baked, but I figure it’d be nice to have some treats on the road.”
Ashe clears his throat. “Um, my love, I—”
“Nah they’ll probably get all hard and gross after a day or two. Oh! I’ll finally be able to see Mercie again! I can’t wait to see the look on her face when I surprise—”
“—Beloved, I can’t have you—”
“—Goddess, I didn’t even think about how cold it’s going to be out there. I’ll have to find my old bear fur coat—”
“Annette!” Ashe shouts, stridently. Annette stops dead in her tracks.
“Is something the matter?” The look that Ashe gives her makes her wary to hear the answer. It most certainly doesn’t help the way he sighs so heavy, nor when he takes her scarred hands into his own so gingerly.
“Annette I…” Ashe winces. “I can’t have you come to Fhirdiad with me.”
“What?”
“Darling,” his voice is small and stuck in his throat. “you’re pregnant. There’s no way you can make the trek all the way up with us, much less in the middle of winter.”
“But I—”
“Annette.” Ashe says, there’s a foreign sense authority of hanging off the syllables and it makes her almost flinch. “Please. For the baby’s sake.”
“And what about you? You’re going to travel well over a month to Fhirdiad and back in a blizzard? You could freeze to death!” She argues. There’s a current of electricity shooting through the young mage’s veins and it’s making her heart pound painfully against her ribcage.
“I don’t have a choice in the matter.” It’s the closest to nettled Annette has ever heard him sound. “There is a threat to Fódlan’s peace, and His Majesty needs my aid. This is my duty as a knight, Annette.”
Annette doesn’t speak much after that. In fact, it is long after dinner when she is alone in her library that she finally notices how tight her chest feels and the way her palms and forehead are slick with sweat. How many times has she read this paragraph, again?
“Goddess, it’s no use.” She harrumphs, snapping her novel closed and placing it on the table beside her. She gives a small stretch and rubs her pregnant belly; Annette often wonders if this is what her mother felt like when she was pregnant with her. The anxiety, that sense of unshakable dread that you won’t be able to protect them enough, love them enough, give them all the things you wished you had when you were young.
Annette doesn’t like to think about when she was younger. At least, not anymore. She had spent plenty of nights in her academy days doing just that. Searching, begging, hating herself for everything that her father did. Thinking that maybe if she studied more, prayed harder, and bled more on the battlefield that he would come back to her with arms wide and a heart full of many years’ worth of overdue love.
That hug never came.
Annette looks down at her palms. An amalgamation of disfigurement stares back. Memories of her and Ashe’s first night together rise to her mind’s eye. He had dragged his lips across every inch of her scars, worshipped them like they were a work of art, had even said they looked like the Sun’s rays dancing on her skin. That had gotten a laugh out of her, at the time. Ashe’s skin was a sky full of stars, and hers was the blinding Sun.
Would anyone else ever love her hands as much as Ashe did?
Her heart plummets into her slippers. It’s like the veil has been lifted and she is suddenly hyper aware of all her emotions. No, he wouldn’t leave her, would he? Ashe loves her and has loved her more than anyone else has ever had. There’s no way he’d leave her, his castle, their child, everything behind for the sake of the King—
Oh.
Oh no.
A sick, tortured moan escapes her lips and before she has time to swallow it, she bursts into tears.
And that is when Ashe knocks on the door.
“Just—” she hiccups, “Just a moment, m-my dear.” She presses her palms hard into her eye sockets as if it will somehow plug up the tears. But the door isn’t thick, nor does it have a lock, and this prompts Ashe to practically tear it off its hinges as he barrels into the room.
“What happened?” Annette hears him ask, but she doesn’t have the strength to meet his eye, so she continues to sob into her hands. Her stupid, scabby hands that no one but Ashe will hold. He kneels before her and braces his hands onto the satin of her nightgown and bunches fistfuls of the fabric into his hands.
“Have I hurt you?” He croaks. Annette lets out another wail. No, she wants to say, but I am terrified that you will. But her jaw is stiff, and she cannot stop grinding her teeth long enough to spit the words out.
“Annette.” Ashe begs, it sounds as though he’s about to cry as well. “Please talk to me. I can’t bear to see you cry like this. I’m here for you, my love.”
But for how long, she crudely thinks to herself.
A pregnant pause falls between them as Annette tries desperately to compose herself. Eventually the weeping calms into small cries, and the cries become silent tears.
“I’m—” her voice gets caught in her throat and she coughs into her arm. “—scared, Ashe. I’m so scared.” She finally lets her arms fall into her lap and she meets her husband’s worried gaze; his clover eyes are wide and misty, and for just a brief moment he looks so, so young again.
“Scared of what, Annette?” His voice is desperate. Annette fights back another monsoon of tears.
“That I’m not enough.” She says. “That I’ll never be enough for anybody. And I’ll just keep getting abandoned over and over and over again and I’ll never be able to break this cycle no matter how hard I try and—” She squeezes her eyes shut. Her head hurts far too much for her to cry anymore.
“What have I done to make you feel like you’re not enough?”
“Nothing! And that’s what scares me, Ashe!” she shouts. “The fact that you could just leave everything behind and never come back terrifies me. Wondering if every kiss is going to be our last, every hug, every dinner we make. It could all just come crashing down and I’ll be left all alone again!”
Ashe opens his mouth to speak, but Annette's mouth moves far faster than his does.
“You could just walk out that door one day and just never come back. And that scares me so much. And I know, I know it’s selfish to never want to leave your side, to follow you around all the time but I just can’t shake this feeling that the minute I lose sight of you, you’ll be gone. And I don’t want you to be gone. I want you to stay with me forever because I know there will never ever be a person that can love me as much as you do. There will never be another who makes me laugh so much, who give me such butterflies, who makes me feel like I’m the most perfect person in the world—”
Annette is far too exhausted to cry anymore, but these tears have been long overdue.
She does not look up at Ashe, she’s far too embarrassed to look at him at this point. Twenty-five long years of dirty laundry all out on display, and Annette felt incredibly naked. He had known, of course, everyone had known about her father to some extent. But it was merely the sharp tip of a powerful iceberg, and Annette could no longer bury her true self underneath the ice. Not to Ashe. Especially not to Ashe. She’s so absorbed into her own head that when Ashe begins to speak she jolts.
“I know what it’s like to be left alone.” He says. “The day Lonato had passed, I felt as though… thorns had grown around my heart. I was angry, I was in anguish, but more importantly I had made a promise to myself that day.” Ashe breathes in, slow and deep, and extends his hand to cup one of Annette’s reddened cheeks. She continues to stare at her lap.
“I had promised that, so long as it were in my power, I would let no one experience the pain that I had gone through that day. Loneliness is the worst thing that I have ever felt, and it is not something I would wish even on my worst of enemies. I had promised to always be there for the ones I care about, and to never lose sight of their happiness. I wanted to protect, fight, care for everyone. I believed so long as I did that, so long as I lived my life to help others, that I would never feel alone again.” He slides his hand down from her cheek and tilts her chin up with his fingers. Annette’s eyes are swollen, and her vision is blurred, but she can still make out the tears streaking Ashe’s face.
“You are my everything, Annette. Your happiness will always be my own, and I swear on my life that I live every day to protect you. It is you above all else.”
“But,” She blubbers. “what about your duty as a knight? Shouldn’t that come before me?”
Ashe shakes his head. “If my responsibilities as a knight were to ever jeopardize my life with you, then I would not hesitate to abandon all of it.”
“You would really throw away your knighthood, everything you have ever dreamed about, for me?”
“My beloved,” Ashe says, low and earnest. “you are my dream.”