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The Guardian Moon was not the time to be baking holy stars, but Ferdinand did not have much choice in the matter. Furrowing his neglected brows, he did his best to ignore the questioning looks of Garreg Mach’s kitchen staff, and continued to grind his sugar into a fine powder with a mortar and pestle. The general’s arm, with its unhealed wound aching fiercely, shook with the force of his barely contained frustration; he would not have been surprised if the granite bowl in his grasp were to crack in protest of his rough treatment.
Ferdinand would have sympathized with it, if it had.
He did not know how much more of Edelgard’s war he could tolerate.
Five years into Adrestia’s conflict against the Church of Seiros, and Garreg Mach Monastery was still the Empire’s only territorial acquisition of note. To the west, the Kingdom’s scorched-earth tactics had reduced Gaspard to a veritable no man’s land, untraversable in winter with Imperial supply lines so weak. And to the east, House Riegan had incited a number of bloody uprisings in Hrym, diverting the Empire’s time and resources sufficiently to spare the Alliance any direct engagement. It was a stalemate that seemed nigh unbreakable—inconceivable to overcome, pointless to maintain, and impossible to end with Edelgard’s stubborn refusal to withdraw.
Ferdinand had once watched a ship run aground in Enbarr, a stolen yacht crewed by a handful of noble boys too young and inexperienced to bring it in to dock themselves. He’d begun to think of the incident often, the hull of that beautiful schooner splintering into pieces as the waves dashed it over and over against the rocks near the harbor. There were days when he felt as though he had followed Edelgard onto that ship, unable to stop her from taking it, and even more powerless to keep her from running it aground.
They spent much of the last five years at each other’s throats. Edelgard had become the tyrannical emperor the Insurrection of the Seven was supposed to have prevented, ordering arrests without cause, detentions without charge, and executions without trial. Nobles she merely suspected of immorality were routinely sent to the gallows, their absence creating a yawning void in leadership in both the government and the higher ranks of the military. Ferdinand’s own father languished in a cell somewhere deep beneath the Imperial Palace, for crimes that were never even named.
Time and again, year after year, Ferdinand had protested this gross miscarriage of justice until his voice had grown hoarse, at his wits’ end in his pursuit of a simple answer why. But Edelgard would never explain herself. She told him that he would understand someday, that everything would be made clear in time; but deep down, Ferdinand knew someday would never come.
In response to his constant demands for answers—not only for his father, but for every extrajudicial punishment she meted out, for every questionable political appointment her regent in Enbarr made, for every harebrained military stratagem she listlessly approved—Edelgard had begun sending him away.
That was what Ferdinand assumed, at least. He could see no other reason why he was the only member of the Black Eagle Strike Force to be stationed in Hrym for months on end, with little word from Edelgard or any of their friends. He did not believe it was punishment for his impertinence, merely that the Emperor did not care to be hounded by him day and night.
In truth, Ferdinand had half a mind to take his horse and steal away to Derdriu, swearing his service to Duke Riegan in the fight against Edelgard. Yet by her side he remained, standing upon the deck of their foundering ship with a bucket in his hands, uselessly scooping water back into the sea on the orders of a despot, and leading thousands of Adrestians to their deaths in a war that could not be won.
No matter what he wished he could do, or how badly he wished he could do it, Ferdinand knew that his sole duty was to the Crown. Fate had placed the mantle of guiding the Emperor upon his shoulders, and he could not disgrace himself by casting it off. He owed nothing to Edelgard or to her preposterous plans to abolish the nobility. But it was his responsibility to all of Adrestia to prove himself worthy to oversee her reign, and to steer her back onto the path of righteousness now that she had gone astray.
Even, Ferdinand thought as the wound on his arm throbbed, if he killed himself trying.
“I think you’ve just about ground that sugar as fine as it’ll go, sir,” came the voice of a kitchen maid, and the young general felt the tension in his jaw evaporate.
He glanced down at the mess on the counter in front of him. In his irritation, he’d pushed much of the powdered sugar out of the mortar, and had begun grinding the pestle against the empty side of the bowl. In spite of their difference in station, the kitchen maid did not hide her amusement.
“Oh, yes,” Ferdinand agreed with a self-conscious smile, “Lost in thought, I suppose.”
Hastily, he swept the sugar off the counter and into a length of cheesecloth, folded over itself several times, and twisted it into a pouch. Then he pulled a small rack of star-shaped cookies toward him and began to shake the sugar onto them through the cheesecloth, covering them with what looked like a light dusting of snow.
“Holy stars,” the maid observed. “A bit late for those, isn’t it, sir? We’re halfway into the Guardian Moon.”
“Her Majesty had me stationed in Hrym during the solstice, and I have only just returned,” said Ferdinand, pain shooting up his arm as he continued to sprinkle sugar onto the cookies. “And there is someone to whom I’d wished to give these.”
“What a shame,” the kitchen maid replied, “That you were not able to celebrate together last month.”
“Indeed, it is,” said Ferdinand, straightening his back and rolling his shoulder, as if it would ease the ache in his arm. But in spite of his discomfort, he could not stop the smile that tugged at his lips, his racing, aggravated thoughts slowing as they turned to Dorothea.
In truth, his decision to remain in Edelgard’s service all these years had not been entirely selfless. Ferdinand did not know what compelled Dorothea to stay, shattered as she was by the cruelty of war, and with so little passion left for their cause. But he knew he could not bear to leave her.
He had planned to marry her once, in his innocence. He fought the Battle of Garreg Mach wearing her engagement ring on a chain around his neck, resting against the bare skin over his heart, every moment regretting that he had not the courage to propose to her. But Dorothea was like the Blue Sea Star itself, distant and cold and shining against the darkening sky. Ferdinand longed for her with such desperation that he feared what would become of him if he reached out for her and found the endless span of the heavens still lay between them.
And so he did nothing. For five years, Ferdinand sat upon the ground and gazed up at her radiance from afar, a deep and terrible ache settling in the center of his chest. He did not know if Dorothea would ever allow him close to her, and he could not understand why she wished to maintain such a distance at all. But he refused to separate himself from her further.
Unreachable as she was, Dorothea was the one thing Edelgard had not taken from him, and without her light sitting high above the horizon, Ferdinand would be left with nothing and no one.
It was not until a few short days ago that he realized how wide the rift between them had truly stretched. The miraculous return of their professor had stirred something within Dorothea, as if part of her, too, had risen from the dead. She was pulled free of the apathy and despair that had taken root within her, the musical sound of her laughter filling the halls of the monastery once more. And when Ferdinand found her praying in the cathedral just after dawn, on her knees for a Goddess she had not ever believed in, Dorothea at last opened her heart to him.
A misunderstanding. There was something so ridiculous about it all that Ferdinand could not help but chuckle at the thought, even days later.
They had both suffered so much unhappiness, and over nothing more than the stolen glance of a shy little boy. Ferdinand had gone straight from the cathedral to his quarters and laughed until tears streamed down his face, sobbing helplessly as he was overcome by an emotion he still could not hope to comprehend. Edelgard and her war had already left his nerves frayed beyond belief, and for the resolution of his difficulties with Dorothea to come so suddenly, so unceremoniously… It was not something Ferdinand could weather with the noble stoicism for which he always strived.
But none of it mattered anymore, he realized. Dorothea smiled when she saw him now. She treated him as warmly as any of her other friends, the name Ferdie slipping off her tongue without an ounce of condescension. She’d taken dinner with him twice already of her own volition, and she’d even slipped into the chair beside him in the Cardinals’ Room that very morning.
And when their war meeting was adjourned, she had asked Ferdinand if he would consider baking for her again. He knew there was nothing in the world that would soothe his battered heart like bringing even a moment of joy to Dorothea, and so he’d readily agreed—both for her sake and his own.
“But I believe,” Ferdinand told the kitchen maid, suddenly aware that he had gone silent for several long moments, “That the recipient will appreciate these far more now than she would have a month ago.”
“I hope so, sir,” replied the young maid with a smile, ignoring the way Ferdinand winced when he lifted his arm to resume dusting his cookies with sugar.
In the eastern parts of the Empire and much of the Alliance, confections called holy stars were baked to celebrate the winter solstice and the final setting of the Blue Sea Star. Made with a variety of spices—but most notably star anise—and sprinkled with powdered sugar, the five-pointed stars of shortbread were a pricey treat most people could only afford once a year.
And Dorothea longed to taste them.
Oh, how thoughtful she would think Ferdinand when he presented her with the little box of sweets. Back at the end of the Wyvern Moon, just days before he and his battalion were to set out for Hrym, he’d overheard Dorothea telling someone she’d never had a holy star before. Few Enbarr natives had ever even heard of them, and with the war driving the price of spices so astonishingly high, she had simply never had a chance to try one.
Surely, Dorothea would be delighted that he’d remembered even the most passing of her fancies.
Although the salary of an Imperial general was nothing to scoff at, Ferdinand had been forced to haggle for some of the ingredients. A part of him wished he’d had the time to work for everything the way he had years ago; he could still remember the look of surprise on Dorothea’s face when he told her he’d earned all of his ingredients with his own labor. The way she smiled at him that day had stayed with him always, etched into his memory as permanently as the burn from the oven that had scarred his hand.
It seemed he was destined to be in pain whenever he wished to present Dorothea with sweets, Ferdinand thought ruefully. He strode across the monastery grounds, box of cookies in hand, breath gathering in clouds before his face and riding boots crunching in the dry snow.
The throbbing in his right arm had grown unrelenting over the past week.
He’d spent over five years badgering Edelgard for a duel, as if establishing his superiority in single combat would somehow compel her to reconsider her plans to subjugate Fódlan and abolish the nobility. But a single strike from the Emperor’s axe had been sufficient to put him in his place, and Ferdinand, assuming his own swift victory a forgone conclusion, had worn no mail beneath his coat.
Too humiliated by his defeat to seek out a healer, he had bandaged the gash himself and tried to go about his business as though nothing had happened. It would not be long before Edelgard sent him away again, and he would be able to pass off the wound as one from an enemy’s blade, rather than his own commander’s.
Ferdinand took solace in the fact that, no matter how deep a thorn in her side he was, Edelgard would spare him the mortification of a public defeat. She simply did not care about the rivalry he’d once claimed they had, and as such, she would not boast of her victory over him. And for once, he was grateful for her disregard.
As he made his way through the wrought iron gate to one of the monastery’s more private courtyards, Ferdinand was pulled from his thoughts by a familiar burst of laughter. Dorothea. Although the sound made him feel as though his heart could take flight, he could not immediately see the source.
The pavilion where many of Garreg Mach’s inhabitants took their tea in the summertime had been fitted with heavy curtains to shield its occupants from the frigid wind, its interior warmed by large, copper braziers. Ferdinand did not know why Edelgard was so enamored with the outdoors that she insisted on having tea in a tent in the middle of winter, but he could not deny that its novelty must be amusing, at least for someone who was not forced to live out of a war tent for months on end.
Pulling aside the deep red curtain, Ferdinand stepped into the pavilion. His gaze immediately landed upon Dorothea, clad in a heavy woolen cloak and in the midst of telling a very animated story to her two companions at her table. It took her a moment to notice his presence, but when she did, she paused, brightening even further at the sight of him. Ferdinand felt his knees grow weak.
“Ferdie, there you are,” said Dorothea. She began to shift teacups and small plates of snacks around on the table, clearing a place for him to sit. “You ran off so quickly after we spoke this morning. I thought I’d offended you.”
“Offend me? Please, perish the thought,” said Ferdinand, his laugh far louder than he’d intended. “You could not offend me if you tried.”
“He is correct,” came Hubert’s voice, his wry smirk evident even behind the coffee cup held to his lips, and suddenly Ferdinand was aware that he and their Emperor were the ones to whom Dorothea had been telling her story. “He prefers to save his indignation for Lady Edelgard and myself.”
A polite tinkle of laughter from both women followed, but Ferdinand found no humor in the comment. Perhaps not every matter he raised to Edelgard was of utmost and equal importance, but he resented being mocked for his very real concerns about the issues of justice and transparency within her regime. For the sake of not causing a scene in front of Dorothea, however, he bit his tongue and gave a tight smile.
“Really, I don’t know how you do it, Dorothea,” said Edelgard, sitting back in her chair and sipping her tea. “Ferdinand becomes positively docile around you. I must admit, I’m a bit envious.”
“A lady has her ways,” Dorothea replied, and when she turned her attention back to Ferdinand, she winked. “Why don’t you sit with us for a while and have some tea?”
“Yes, please, join us,” said Edelgard. “It seems like it’s been forever since we were last together in such high spirits.”
Ferdinand’s smile grew even more strained. As much as he wished he could spend the entire afternoon with Dorothea, chatting over tea like they were students again, he had absolutely no desire to spend any more time than necessary with either Edelgard or Hubert. He was already under enough stress as it was.
“I am afraid I must decline,” Ferdinand said stiffly. “There are several matters that require my attention today, and I cannot afford to neglect them. I merely came to deliver something to Dorothea.”
He presented the box of cookies to her with a more genuine smile and an incline of his head. Had any sort of movement of his arm not hurt so much, Ferdinand may have considered bowing with flourish.
“What—Oh, you didn’t!” Dorothea gasped, an expression of pure delight blooming over her delicate features. She took the box and looked to him expectantly, although she seemed to have guessed its contents already. “You did?”
In spite of how irritated Ferdinand was, something within him seemed to swell with pride and satisfaction.
“Yes, I did,” he said, so taken with the way Dorothea’s eyes sparkled when they met his. “I recall you expressing an interest in these, and I felt I must oblige you.”
It took a few moments before she looked away from Ferdinand and turned her attention to the small box in front of her. She tugged on one end of the ribbon he’d used to tie it shut, pulling the red silk free from the extravagant bow that had taken him several tries to create.
“Did you two know,” Dorothea began, at once teasing and indulgent, “That Ferdie is actually a rather skilled confectioner? He used to bake for me all the time when we were students.”
“I had no idea,” replied Edelgard, who then looked up at Ferdinand with a smile of her own. “But if I had known, I might have kept you in the kitchens here rather than leaving you in charge of Hrym.”
Ferdinand resented the implication that his deployment to Hrym was some kind of honor. His regiment was constantly undermanned and undersupplied, and despite his superior knowledge of battle tactics, Edelgard was loath to approve any stratagem that had not been taught to them by the Professor. But he kept his mouth shut tight. Edelgard had given him a challenge and he had failed to meet it; Ferdinand would not humiliate himself by suggesting that his own failings in Hrym were her fault.
“Don’t be silly,” said Dorothea, heedless to the extent to which her voice distracted Ferdinand from his own irritation. “You may be the Emperor, but Ferdie is my little worker bee, and he only makes honey for his queen.”
Edelgard took another sip of tea, perhaps to hide the fond smile tugging at her lips, but Ferdinand didn’t miss the mirth dancing in her eyes.
“Duly noted,” she said. “But I must say, you two are getting along quite well lately. I take it you’ve sorted out your differences.”
Ferdinand glanced away, his cheeks reddening. He did not care to hear Edelgard weigh in on his relationship with Dorothea, but he could not help but feel pleased all the same that even she had recognized their closeness.
“Did you not say you were busy today?” Hubert asked him dryly, ignoring whatever Dorothea said to make herself and Edelgard giggle again.
No matter how plausible or inconsequential, Hubert somehow had a way of seeing straight through every one of Ferdinand’s little white lies. In response, Ferdinand merely frowned at him—acknowledgment that he’d been caught in yet another fib to avoid spending his free time with Edelgard.
Finally, Dorothea removed the lid from the box of sweets, but when she did, the sound of her laughter quieted, and the pavilion seemed to grow very cold.
“Oh dear,” said Edelgard after a long moment, staring into the box.
“Indeed,” Hubert chuckled after a glance of his own.
When Dorothea said nothing, Ferdinand could no longer ignore the growing feeling of dread in his stomach.
“Is something the matter?” he asked, his eyes darting back and forth between his companions. Edelgard and Hubert merely sipped at their drinks, and Dorothea gave him a rather unconvincing smile.
“No, I—Thank you, Ferdie. They’re lovely.”
“Perhaps I was mistaken,” he fluttered. “Were holy stars not the sweets you told Caspar you wished to try? At the end of the Wyvern Moon?”
Dorothea’s expression softened, but it was Edelgard who offered an explanation, a playful fondness in her tone.
“You’re not wrong, Ferdinand,” she said. “Dorothea went into town nearly every day leading up to the solstice in search of holy stars. It was starting to interfere with her ability to perform her duties around the monastery, even.”
“Yes,” Hubert agreed, looking far too amused by the memory of it. “Her Majesty eventually had me procure the ingredients so someone in the kitchens could make them. Quite an expensive endeavor, actually.”
Ferdinand merely stared, pain shooting through his right arm as it fell helplessly to his side. Edelgard had beaten him again. This should not have even been a contest between them, yet she’d bested him just as easily as when she’d sunk her axe into his flesh, its blade not even glancing off his spaulder.
He could not believe this.
“Oh,” he said after several long moments, before turning to Dorothea with a forced smile of his own. “I am glad you were given the opportunity to taste them. They were to your liking, I presume?”
Her only reply was an awkward little laugh.
“It would seem star anise is not for everyone,” said Edelgard, her voice conciliatory, although it did nothing to diffuse the tension she herself had created.
“I see,” replied Ferdinand.
But he did not see. He did not understand why Edelgard had said anything at all, calling attention to Dorothea’s dissatisfaction the way she and Hubert had. Dorothea was a talented actress, and she had more than enough practice receiving unwanted gifts from nobles; surely she could have avoided such an uncomfortable situation if left to her own devices. There was no need for Edelgard to get involved the way she had, embarrassing the both of them just when they were finally growing close to one another.
“Still, it’s a very sweet gesture, Ferdie,” Dorothea tried to reassure him. But when Ferdinand did not immediately respond, she turned her attention to Edelgard.
“Here, Edie, why don’t you take these? You love star anise, right?” Grinning, Dorothea slid the open box of cookies across the table, and Edelgard’s eyes shone in delight.
“I do, but are you sure you don’t mind?” she asked.
“Of course not,” Dorothea replied brightly. “I’d hate for them to go to waste.”
Edelgard's hand hovered in the air for a moment before delicately pulling a cookie from the box and bringing it to her mouth.
“Well, if you insist,” she said without an ounce of hesitation, then nibbled at the edge, nudging the box toward her retainer. “Hubert?”
“No, thank you,” Hubert declined with a wave of his hand and the tiniest shake of his head, and Edelgard shrugged.
Ferdinand could only watch in horror as his gift to Dorothea was given away, pushed aside without a second thought. The weeks in Hrym he wasted daydreaming about presenting her with something she desired, the absurd amount of time and money he’d spent just to get his hands on the ingredients, the pain he endured trying to bake with his injured arm—he felt as though he was watching Edelgard swallow it all down herself.
She had triumphed over him again, beating him soundly in a battle neither of them even knew they’d been fighting. And now it seemed Dorothea wished to reward her victory, stepping over Ferdinand to reach her, just as uncaring as she had been five years ago. Edelgard and her pointless, unending war had pushed him nearly to his breaking point, and Ferdinand had foolishly wagered what little happiness he had left on Dorothea’s appreciation of his gift—a gift she not only rejected, but presented to Edelgard right in front of him.
It was not fair. It simply was not fair.
“They’re not even that sweet, Hubie, you might like them—Ferdie?”
As Ferdinand made his way out of the pavilion, his face tight and his shoulders stiff so as to betray nothing, he did not turn back, even when he heard Dorothea call out to him.
Ferdinand’s lungs burned, his breathing ragged and harsh as he swung his lance against a training dummy. The impacts of his wooden weapon would usually echo off the flagstone of the empty training grounds, but tonight the sounds were muffled by the snow that fell in large, wet clumps from the sky. His wounded arm ached immensely, enough to distract him from his exhaustion and the chill of his sweat-soaked clothes, but not the heavy, suffocating feeling of indignation in his chest.
With a pained grunt, he thrust his lance once more at the dummy, tearing loose a few more pieces of straw from its arm. It was horribly bad form, Ferdinand knew, to intentionally destroy the training equipment, and he’d scolded his own soldiers for it time and again. But once he’d felt the satisfaction of watching the dry stalks break and scatter down onto the snowy ground, he’d been unable to stop himself, hacking away at the straw dummy even as the sun set and the other soldiers retired for the evening.
It was progress—visible, irreversible progress—and it soothed him, however slightly. Perhaps he would never have it in him to surpass Edelgard, but at least he could count on his ability to cover the ground in straw.
Ferdinand did not realize how long he’d spent hitting that dummy, or how dark the training grounds had grown in that time, until the heavy oak door at the entrance creaked open, a column of golden light from inside illuminating the snow around him—and the excessive amount of straw littered beneath the training dummy. Not wishing to address the straw, or even explain his presence in the training grounds at such a late hour to whichever monk or soldier had come to light the torches, he aimed another strike at the dummy, not even turning to look at whoever was now closing the door.
The sound of heeled boots and a sauntering gait on the flagstones beneath the peristyle made his heart drop.
“Hi, Ferdie,” came Dorothea’s voice, accompanied by the quiet clattering of what sounded like a tea set on a tray in her hands.
Ferdinand said nothing. For the first time in nearly six years, he had no desire to speak with her. It was petty of him, he knew, not only to ignore Dorothea the way he was, but to allow himself to be so upset with her at all. A noble should not dwell on so insignificant a slight (he had overlooked far harsher—and far more intentional—insults from her in the past), but he felt powerless to move beyond this.
Things were supposed to be different between them now. That was what he’d thought, at least. When nothing in the world was going right for Ferdinand, and it felt as though whatever remained of his promising future had come crashing down around him the moment Edelgard’s axe slammed into his arm, he’d thought his newfound friendship with Dorothea would be able to carry him through it all. She was different now—no, they were different. They understood each other, and they liked each other. They were supposed to be gentle with one another.
But it seemed he was mistaken.
Biting back another groan of pain, Ferdinand straightened his posture and struck the training dummy once more, a few stalks of straw dropping into the snow.
“Nobody saw you at dinner tonight,” said Dorothea, the sound of her footsteps growing louder as she made her way to the edge of the colonnade. “I brought—I made something for you. I don’t know if they’re very good, but I thought I should try anyway. You know, since you did for me and all.”
Again, Ferdinand swung his lance, trying to keep his face impassive. But the shock of the impact against the training dummy that ran up his arm made him wince, and he realized he would not be able to continue without betraying his pain to Dorothea.
“Come sit with me?” she asked gently, oh so gently, and in spite of himself, Ferdinand found he was helpless to ignore her when she spoke to him like that.
Sighing, he leaned his lance against the dummy, and turned to see Dorothea seated on the edge of the peristyle, a tray of tea and some kind of little cake placed on the stone beside her. She was wearing a heavy cloak of wool dyed the same red as her favorite dress, but in the darkness of the training grounds, it looked as black as her boots. As he sat down beside her in silence, the tray between them, Ferdinand watched her bare, white hands as they poured tea into equally white cups. Then she slid one toward him.
“Look,” said Dorothea, with a rare, soft earnestness he was still not used to hearing from her. “I think I owe you an apology for earlier. The thing with Edie and the holy stars, that was rude of me.”
After a moment of consideration, Ferdinand reached for the teacup she’d poured for him. Seiros tea, to his surprise, something he knew not to be to Dorothea’s taste or within her price range—a conciliatory gesture.
“She and Hubie have been teasing me since the solstice,” Dorothea continued, sipping her own tea. “I know they don’t mean to be cruel, and it’s just some funny little story to them, but they don’t—I never told them about how I grew up.”
She stared at Ferdinand for a few moments, then looked out across the training grounds. A frigid breeze ruffled her hair, biting at Ferdinand’s skin through his clothes, damp with sweat and melted snow. But the cold wind was nothing compared to the creeping feeling of realization that now chilled him through and through.
“They don’t know that I would have starved on the streets if Manuela hadn’t found me,” said Dorothea. “I don’t think they’d joke about me wasting so much money on food if they knew how guilty it makes me feel.”
Ferdinand said nothing, ashamed that he had not even considered why Dorothea might have acted the way she did, that there might have been a reason for her carelessness beyond habitual disregard for his feelings. His hurt and anger began melting away into nothing but sheepishness; it seemed that no matter how far he fell, the specter of his own privileged childhood would always loom over his relationship with Dorothea.
“But what I did earlier,” she continued, her fingertips tracing delicately around the rim of her teacup. “I feel so much worse when I think about it. I asked you to do something for me this morning, and you did it without a moment’s delay. You even remembered something I said I wanted months ago, and you spent a small fortune in order to get it for me, and I—”
Dorothea paused, hesitating for just a moment before reaching across the tea tray between them, her bare left hand settling gently atop Ferdinand’s right. Her warmth began to seep through the leather and gilded steel of his gauntlet, barely perceptible, but so deeply felt.
“I was so caught up in how much Edie and Hubie would tease me about wasting food again that I didn’t stop to consider your feelings at all. And I wanted to say I’m sorry, Ferdie. You did something kind for me, and I was thoughtless.”
Ferdinand’s throat grew tight. In the years since their time at the Academy, he had grown unaccustomed to such tender displays of sincerity and consideration. These sentimental friendships did not come naturally to him, and the harsh immediacy of war did not lend itself to their cultivation. Ferdinand could not even remember the last time someone had touched him this way, or concerned themselves so with his feelings.
And for it to be Dorothea whose hand rested upon his, whose gaze implored him for his forgiveness, even when it was he who had not fully understood… Ferdinand swallowed thickly. He would be a fool not to oblige her.
“Thank you for saying that,” he said at last. “I… Perhaps I overreacted. I do not know why that distressed me so.”
It was a lie, of course. A lie to save face. He could never admit to Dorothea the way he crumbled under the weight of all the expectations placed upon him, both by himself and by others—to win the war for Edelgard; to end the war by stopping Edelgard; to right all of the Emperor’s wrongs and restore Adrestia to her former glory; to prove himself worthy and capable of achieving it all, even when his objectives contradicted one another. Ferdinand knew his gift to Dorothea was unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but broken as he was by the burden of unmet expectations and by the painful wounds to both his body and his pride, her dismissal had nearly shattered him.
Even in the torchless darkness of the training grounds, Dorothea’s eyes shone brightly. She stared at Ferdinand for several long moments with a mournful expression he did not understand, perhaps waiting for him to say more, perhaps wishing to say something herself. But eventually she looked away, reaching down onto the tea tray for one of the little cakes, breaking it in half.
“Here,” she said softly, holding one half out to Ferdinand. Even in the bitter cold, he could smell honey in the cake, and he could not help but smile at the thought of a queen bee feeding her drone.
The first bite of the cake tasted like almost nothing, however, which Dorothea was quick to acknowledge.
“Terrible, right?” she chuckled, although the flush of her cheeks was so sweet that Ferdinand did not feel he’d been denied anything by the blandness of her baking.
“After two months of winter rations in Hrym, it is heavenly,” he said, and it was true.
Even as an Imperial general, Ferdinand ate the same rations as everyone else—bread, beer, and a perpetually underseasoned pottage. And in winter, when native fruits were out of season and trade routes were often interrupted by snowstorms, one could go weeks without the taste of something sweet. Dorothea’s baking was hardly anything to write home about, but it was sweet, to some extent, but more importantly, it was for him.
Perhaps that made up for its overall lack of flavor, Ferdinand thought, washing the dry cake down with a gulp of tea.
“Come on, be honest,” Dorothea teased, then attempted to pinch her expression so that it resembled a sad little puppydog. But the effect was weakened by the smile that tugged at her lips. “I need my feelings hurt a little today, too.”
When he said nothing, instead sipping at his tea again to keep from laughing out loud, Dorothea leaned over the tea tray to nudge him playfully with her elbow.
The pain that lanced through Ferdinand’s arm then was exquisite, enough to make him cry out as every muscle in his body attempted to recoil at once, the sound of porcelain shattering on the flagstones swallowed up by his voice. Dorothea drew back in confusion.
“Ferdie?”
“I-It is nothing,” he wheezed, bent forward as he clutched his wounded arm, the pain so intense that a feeling of nausea flooded over him. “Just—”
Immediately, a ball of flame ignited in Dorothea’s hand, the light reflecting off the snow and illuminating Ferdinand completely.
“Ferdie!” she gasped, slapping a palm over her mouth. Her green eyes were huge, terrified.
Ferdinand followed her gaze, staring down at his right arm in horror. At some point over the course of the evening, as he took out his frustrations on that training dummy, ignoring whatever pain he felt, the wound from Edelgard’s axe had begun to bleed heavily. To say it reopened would be untrue, as it had never closed in the first place, and Ferdinand had grown faint at the thought of stitching it closed himself. But his blood had now thoroughly saturated the bandage, and had soaked through the sleeve of his coat in a patch larger than the entire span of his hand.
“Oh, goodness!” said Ferdinand, the laugh he’d tried to force coming out as nothing more than a pained huff. Having no desire to explain himself, he groped blindly for an excuse. “Ladislava—she got in a good hit this afternoon when we were sparring. I thought it was a little too painful for a bruise.”
A moment later, however, he remembered that Ladislava had been assigned to patrol the supply lines along the Airmid, and was not due to return until the Pegasus Moon. Dorothea did not even acknowledge his lie, merely conjuring a few more balls of flame and setting them free to float through the air around them like soap bubbles. When he moved his hand from his arm, the white leather of his gauntlet came away red. The look on Dorothea’s face had never been sadder.
“Is this—” she began, reaching out to Ferdinand with both hands, her palms settling lightly on either side of his bloodstained sleeve, gingerly framing the gash on his arm. “Edie did this.”
“Do not be ridiculous,” he said immediately. “Why on earth would Edelgard…”
But he could not finish the sentence, the words dying on his tongue. The pressure of Dorothea’s hands increased, but he could not feel the familiar warmth of healing magic. She was simply holding his arm, as if he were a horse who would bolt at any opportunity if not reminded to stay by her touch.
“Earlier, after you left,” she began, measuring her words carefully. “Edie… She told me some things about you.”
If possible, Ferdinand’s stomach sank lower. Dorothea knew. Edelgard told her about their duel, and about his shameful defeat. Was it not enough that she’d proved herself his superior? Must she humiliate him by bragging of her victory—and to Dorothea, of all people!
“What things?” Ferdinand asked after a long moment, although he already knew the answer.
“She said you two fought last week,” said Dorothea. “Like, really fought.”
“Yes,” he replied, unable to meet her eye. “She finally agreed to a duel with me. And I presume she told you how it ended.”
Dorothea nodded, her fingers tightening gently around his arm. When she spoke, her voice was only just above a whisper.
“She told me that the day you fought, you were like a bow drawn to its limit, just… tense. Strained.”
“We are at war,” said Ferdinand, desperate to explain away his failures however he could, and save whatever dignity he had left. “It would be peculiar for one not to be strained.”
“I know,” Dorothea said, a bit too quickly. “Here, take this off for me.”
Her hands finally moved away from where they rested on his upper arm, and she began to unfasten the front of his coat. Numbly, Ferdinand reached down to remove his belt, setting it aside on the flagstones and sighing as Dorothea’s fingers sought out the buckles on his right gauntlet. Even though he held his arm aloft for her, the way she removed his armor for him like an invalid made his cheeks burn with shame.
“Edie thought your duel might resolve some of that tension,” she said, moving up his arm to unbuckle the couter at his elbow. “But instead of helping you loose an arrow, she said it was like the bowstring snapped the moment she took it in her hands.”
Ferdinand winced as she slid the couter off his arm, not from any physical pain, but because he now understood just how pathetic Dorothea must think him. A snapped bowstring, really.
“I would not have expected Edelgard to overstate her victory so,” he said bitterly. “She is not usually so boastful.”
“It’s not about—” Dorothea shook her head in exasperation, reaching for the strap of his spaulder. “She’s worried about you, Ferdie.”
Ferdinand said nothing. If Edelgard was so worried about him, surely there were more helpful things she could do than continue to embarrass him in front of Dorothea. If this was how the Emperor expressed her concern—by beating his pride into the ground time and again, and parading his failures about in front of the woman he admired—then Ferdinand was certain he wanted none of it.
“I’m worried about you,” Dorothea said gently, removing his spaulder. “You try so hard to put on a brave face and not let anyone know you’re suffering, but look where it’s gotten you. You’re in so much pain that you can’t even tell when you’re bleeding.”
Ferdinand’s throat grew tight again, and he glanced away. He felt as though he sat naked in front of her now, his armor torn away and cast into the snow, her eyes raking over every ugly wound and blemish, his weakness left fully exposed.
“It is just a cut, Dorothea, I’m sure I will be fine,” he deflected, his voice colorless.
“But it’s not just a cut! It’s everything!” Dorothea cried, and the concern in her voice made Ferdinand’s heart ache in his chest. “You keep everything bottled up—your worries and your frustrations and your sadness, and maybe sometimes you start to crack around Edie and lash out at her because she’s the reason why you feel all these things. But you were always bound to break sooner or later, and even if you manage to put yourself back together after this, it’s just going to happen again if you keep this up.”
She was right, and Ferdinand hated that she was right. He had been pushed to his limits—by the war, by Edelgard, by his own powerlessness to stop anything that had happened—and he had no means of remedying the situation. None whatsoever. Edelgard would not budge, but it was his duty to House Aegir and all of Adrestia to remain by her side. Ferdinand had no other options but to keep moving forward, no matter how many times he stumbled and fell.
“I do not have any choice in the matter,” he said automatically, shrugging out of the right side of his coat, then the left. He expected the winter wind to chill him to the bone, but Dorothea’s conjured flames kept the cold at bay. “As a noble, it is my obligation to set an example, and to bear these burdens without complaint.”
“You’re not a noble anymore,” Dorothea reminded him softly, reaching down to unbutton the cuff of his shirt sleeve. “You haven’t been for five years.”
“A general, then,” said Ferdinand, squaring his shoulders, clinging to whatever remained of his dignity. “My soldiers look to me for strength.”
At this, Dorothea fell silent, her eyes downcast as she began rolling up his sleeve. Her fingers had grown cool since she’d placed her hand atop his, but they felt soothing wherever they brushed against Ferdinand’s inflamed skin, unwrapping the filthy bandage around his arm. He could smell her perfume, a sweet floral, and the scent of spices from her time in the kitchen still clinging to her hair, and he wished desperately that such profound humiliation did not have to accompany this closeness.
Would Dorothea ever look at him the same way again, Ferdinand wondered, now that she had seen how pathetic he truly was? Edelgard had pulled back the veil and shown her everything—his frayed nerves, his broken pride, his inability to turn the tides of war, or to convince his commander of anything, or even to cope with the hardship of not being able to do so. Surely whatever respect Dorothea had begun to afford him had all but evaporated by now.
As she pulled the last of the gauze from his aching arm, Ferdinand watched her face contort into a look of distress. The wound was ghastly, its edges yawning wide open as it bled sluggishly, and he felt another swell of shame overtake him. How unfair that Dorothea was forced to deal with something so horrific, and because of his own shortcomings, no less.
“It’s a miracle this isn’t infected,” she said, a quiet air of defeat about her, even as she examined the wound. Ferdinand swallowed and looked away.
“I was diligent about keeping it clean.”
“Why didn’t you just have somebody heal it for you?”
It was not an accusation. She simply wanted to know how this could have gone on for as long as it did.
“I did not wish to tell anyone how I was injured,” Ferdinand replied, and grimaced at the strong sensation of pins and needles now running down his arm—a spell to cleanse the wound.
“Promise me you won’t do this anymore,” said Dorothea. She did not look at him when she spoke, her eyes drifting shut for a moment as she began to channel a wave of white magic, then fixing themselves upon his flesh as it slowly knitted itself back together.
“Do you really believe me so foolish as to challenge Edelgard again?” asked Ferdinand, although it was nowhere near as biting as he’d meant the question to be. The way his pain seemed to melt away beneath her palm was intoxicating, and it took everything within him to remain stoic and not to sigh in relief.
“No, I mean, all of this. Everything,” said Dorothea, and for a moment, she sounded just as broken as Ferdinand felt. “You can’t—I don’t want you to keep trying to do this alone.”
“I realize that we haven’t always been close,” Dorothea continued, with all the gentle sincerity he had ever wished she would afford him. “And I haven’t really treated you with the kindness you deserve, but things are different now. I’m not afraid to say that I—”
She paused, stumbling over her words, but her eyes sought out Ferdinand’s regardless, and he found he could not look away.
“I care about you,” she said, and his heart ached fiercely within his chest. “And I want to help you. And… I’m here if there’s anything you want to talk about or get off your chest, or even if you just want to complain about Edie for a while. Whatever you need to say, I’ll listen.”
And in that moment, Ferdinand’s resolve crumbled. Was that not what he’d been missing all this time—someone who would listen to him? He felt as though he’d spent the last five years screaming at the top of his lungs, unheard as he railed against every one of Edelgard’s injustices, yet unwilling to utter a single word of his own personal unhappiness, lest anyone think less of him for it.
But Dorothea, who now had seen him at his lowest, his most wretched, still wished to hear him. Out of all of their friends, she was the one who wanted to comfort him, to soothe his miserable heart, even when he could not live up to who he was supposed to be. Staring out into the snow, Ferdinand bit his quivering lip.
“You don’t need to pretend you’re completely invulnerable anymore,” she said, and he felt the balmy glow of her healing spell—and the last of the pain in his arm—ebb away into nothing. “Not around me. I’m here for you now, Ferdie. I’m on your side. So promise me you’ll—”
A sob finally ripped through his chest, and Dorothea quieted, though she did not move her hands from his arm.
“Ferdie? Are you crying?” she asked, so softly he thought he must be dreaming.
Gazing up at Dorothea now, his vision wobbling, Ferdinand could no longer see the cold twinkling light of the Blue Sea Star, dancing so far out of reach above the horizon. Instead there was only the sun, blindingly bright and warm against his skin, ready to guide him up and out of the dark water when Edelgard’s foundering ship finally sank beneath the waves.
Sniffling deeply, Ferdinand reached up and crossed his left arm over his chest, grasping firmly at her hands where they rested upon the fading scar above his elbow.
“Thank you, Dorothea,” he said after a long moment, and she returned his shaky smile.
End.