Work Text:
The Field of Revenge, circa 1190. Oil on canvas. Unknown artist.
Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg and the Black Eagle Strike Force engage with the Faerghan army, led by King Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, in the Tailtean Plains.
Members of prominent houses from Adrestia, Faerghus, and the Leicester Alliance participated in the battle, the second to last before the War of Unification was brought to an end and the entirety of Fodlan fell under the rule of the Adrestian Empire. Historians view the battle as a pivotal turning point in the war, all but solidifying Adrestia’s victory and emboldening the Adrestian soldiers before their final battle against The Church of Seiros in Fhirdiad.
His name was Dedue Molinaro.
The man with the white hair and dark skin in the painting. Off-center, somewhat hidden behind the billowing fur cloak of the king he served. And died for.
He was a man of Duscur.
...
“This opportunity serves as a chance to remind ourselves of our history and to learn from the mistakes of our predecessors...” Ms. Fiore began as she announced the class’s trip to the Adrestian National Museum the following week. But the announcement was nothing more than a formality. Enbarr’s Academy for Prestigious Youths held a mandatory trip to the Adrestian National Museum each year. And every year the teachers gave the exact same speech that the students had heard repeated since they were third years, when they simply nodded along and pretended to understand what the words meant. But the trip meant less time within the confines of the classroom, so the students tolerated the speech and celebrated the reprieve each year nonetheless.
“...And to learn how to better both ourselves, and the society we serve to maintain,” Ms. Fiore finished. Jorge Goneril exaggeratedly mouthed the final words along with her, drawing snickers from the classmates sitting around him.
Danae sighed, sinking further into her chair as Ms. Fiore began the day’s lesson proper, scribbling words on the chalkboard. With each motion of her arm her hair bounced along with her, the harshly bleached curls occasionally broken up by a stray, off-color lock. Danae turned her attention away from Ms. Fiore and her distractingly awful dye job, instead focusing on the book in front of her. It was new, one she had been requesting the library to stock for weeks. The library had been her daily stop before school each morning, and her single request had been the same for the past six weeks. The librarian had practically thrown the book at her this morning when she requested it, shoving it into her arms before she’d even finished saying the title.
Letters from Garreg Mach, a collection of correspondences from those living at the monastery in the years leading up to and during the war. Newly discovered in the underground ruins that resided under it, and now finally in her hands.
Danae began to search for a name.
...
She finished the book on the bus ride to the museum. With a sigh Danae turned the final page and closed it, the golden text on the back cover set aglow by the early morning light filtering in through the window. The book had offered glimpses into some of the mysteries that had plagued scholars for years. Its discoveries included private correspondences between the Two Jewels from the early years of their relationship, information regarding the heritage of one of the mercenaries instrumental to the war effort, and letters discussing the few remaining Nabateans who had all but disappeared from the records shortly after the unification of the continent. But despite its treasures, not a single mention of the name she was looking for was found within its pages. As the bus came to a grinding halt, Danae shifted in her seat, the familiar heaviness already settling in her chest before she’d even set foot inside the museum.
Danae stuck the book into her messenger bag as Ms. Fiore exited the bus and began to usher the group of freshmen down its steps and toward the entrance of the museum. It was a large behemoth made of glowing white marble that harshly reflected the early morning light. Danae shielded her eyes as she stepped toward the building. It was hard to look away from, with its majestic columns reaching up toward the sky, but equally painful to look at. She was finally allowed to drop her hand when the group stepped under the museum’s balcony, its shadow freeing them from the worst of the blinding light.
Danae moved forward, lining up next to her classmates as Ms. Fiore gave them their instructions for the day. “As freshmen, you all will be allowed to circumvent these storied halls at your own discretion,” she began as she reached into her bag and pulled out a thick stack of papers, handing the pile to the first student at the end of the line. "But you must fill out these sheets as well in order to receive credit for the day.” A rumble of groans erupted from the crowd of teenagers around her. “I know, I know, what a splendidly small price to pay for your freedom today!”
The stack of papers passed down the line until they ended up in Danae’s hands. She took a sheet before sending it off to Jorge at her right, who snickered as he held the stack high above Emmeline Fraldarius’s reach. But she grinned along with him, jumping and snatching the pile from Jorge’s hands before he had time to do anything but stutter. Ms. Fiore’s reprimands faded into the background as Danae turned her attention to the instructions written on the sheet in her hands.
For each painting listed, write down: 1) the artist, 2) the year it was created, and 3) the historical event that it depicts.
“Alright you may be on your way!” Ms. Fiore waved the students off. “If you find yourself in need of me, please do not hesitate to locate me in the lobby.” Danae could hear a slightly strained tone to Ms. Fiore’s voice. She figured that after having worked at the academy for years, her teacher must’ve grown tired of this field trip long, long ago too. But the stiff note in their teacher’s voice must have escaped the notice of the rest of her classmates. They all rushed off, splitting into their own groups as they exited the lobby.
Danae followed a group headed down the west wing of the museum. She pretended not to notice Phillip von Aegir’s raised eyebrow as she broke off on her own, walking past him and his group that had just stalled in front of an exhibit. She decided that he’d be fine having one less audience member during his annual stint as a museum guide in which he pointed out each person in each painting who shared his red hair and “propensity for greatness.” Danae turned a corner, freeing herself from Phillip’s glare, and winded down the familiar hallways. The towering, roped off statues looked down on her from either side of the hall as she made her way. Before long the statues were replaced by paintings of varying sizes and palettes.
As she neared the end of the hall she turned her head to the right, sparing a glance at the large painting that was almost twice her height. It had always caught her attention, with the way it almost looked like someone had taken a knife to it and torn through the canvas with a series of quick slashes. But instead of the cut of a knife, it was the caress of a paintbrush that had marked the canvas with white streaks from top to bottom. The white beacons of light in the painting descended from the heavens, splitting the night sky and vaporizing the dreary fortress below.
Ignatz Victor, 1187. The Destruction of Arianrhod, she recalled. The painting could be found in every textbook that covered the war. She didn’t have to check the sheet to know it would be listed there. And included alongside it would be the other classics that had marked her passage through the museum: Derdriu at Night, The Emperor’s Declaration, The Fall of Seiros; a brief tour through the immortalized history of a nation.
But Danae was going to that familiar painting, the one in the large exhibit at the end of the west wing.
When she had first laid eyes on the painting all those years ago during her second school trip to the museum, her smile had left her cheeks sore for the rest of the day. It had just been transferred from the palace and put on public display for the first time. Her eyes had instantly found the man standing just off-center, twin gauntlets raised as he stood by the side of the Last King of Faerghus. But beyond the shining armor, beyond the strength he exuded, it was simply the stark white hair shining against his dark skin that had caught her eyes.
She had never seen a man of Duscur in a painting before.
She had never seen herself in a painting before.
She sometimes pretended that she had, though. She knew that she could look at the paintings featuring Almyrans and could pretend that she was one of them, that she shared their history as a formidable foe turned admirable ally of Fodlan. A simple lie to give her classmates when each of them excitedly questioned her as they pointed out their own ancestors or the people their ancestors had fought for. After all, the brown of her skin matched theirs in everything but the blood running through it. The dark curls that caressed her cheeks completed the lie; they wouldn’t be able to claim their ancestral coloring for many, many years. And it was an easy lie, a reflex that grew stronger with each new person she convinced. But she never quite became used to the lingering regret that always accompanied its use.
And a similar regret surfaced each time she entered that exhibit at the end of the west wing. She hadn’t begun to feel bad about the painting until the weekend after her school trip, when she forced her mother to take her to the museum on her day off. It was packed much more than her weekday school trip had been, but she had excitedly pushed her way through the crowd until she’d pulled them both all the way to the end of the west wing.
Most of the people in the crowd had centered their attention on the king himself, his iconic fur cloak strewn about his shoulders. But Danae had pulled herself and her mother to the side of the crowd where they could get a better view of the man of Duscur. As she pulled them along, Danae’s tugs had suddenly met resistance, locking her into place. She had turned around and saw her mother standing still, her gaze locked on the painting.
Danae saw the exact moment when her mother had recognized the man, the single tear falling from her eye and rolling down her cheek giving it away. But instead of staying fixed there, her mother’s eyes had trailed up and up, above the off-center man. So Danae also saw the moment when her mother had brought her hands up to cover her mouth, a silent scream pulling at her lips. But a cry never escaped her. Instead her mother’s strangled voice had slipped past her fingers, the haunted words like the whisper of a ghost hoping to reach anyone still alive on the other side. Those words had stayed with Danae since that day, and they’d stayed here with this painting, too. Danae felt the chill they had etched into the building each time she’d entered the exhibit since.
She sighed. This was the only painting in the museum where you could find a man of Duscur.
Danae looked up. Above the man with dark skin and white hair, partially obscured by a fur cloak with more words devoted to it than to him. Danae’s eyes trailed up and up, fixed on what stood behind him, its gigantic metallic mask looming above him and casting him into the shadows. It was what she had glanced over as a child, but what had become impossible to ignore since that day.
She sighed. This wasn’t the only place in the museum where you could find a monster.
The library itself was full of books detailing the demonic beasts that had haunted the Tailtean Plains all those centuries ago, used by the Kingdom army to wreak havoc, fear, and destruction. They contained vivid descriptions of the sharp crack of shattering bones and the shrill whistle of deafening shrieks, the blood prices paid for the transformation. Under those sections labeled beast, Danae always found a name.
The Field of Revenge, circa 1190. Oil on canvas. Unknown artist. Depicts the battle of the Tailtean Plains.
Danae checked the worksheet.
…
Danae only looked away from the painting when she heard a set of footsteps approaching her. They stopped suddenly as they neared her, and then continued more slowly until they ended just a few steps away from where Danae sat on the floor of the exhibit.
Danae looked up to see Ms. Fiore standing above her, exertion staining her cheeks pink.
“Thank goodness I finally found you Ms. Viola!” Her teacher huffed out.
“Oh, I’ve been here for about an hour. I thought we still had more time before we had to return to the lobby?”
Ms. Fiore clasped her hands in front of her. “Well, we do, but Phillip returned early and told me that you had gone off on your own. I wanted to make sure that you were safe.”
Danae rolled her eyes. Of course it was Phillip.
Ms. Fiore shuffled on her feet. “But have you really been here the whole time? None of the works I assigned are in this exhibit…” As she spoke Ms. Fiore looked around the room, her line of sight moving along the walls until eventually climbing up to the ceiling. She seemed lost in thought for a moment, eyes glossed over as she stared off into space.
Danae cleared her throat, bringing her teacher back out of orbit. “Yes, I’ve been here the whole time.”
“Oh, right,” Ms. Fiore responded as she nodded her head, her cheeks reddening further. “Well, have you completed your assignment early then?” she hesitantly asked. But Danae had already seen her eyes glance over the unblemished worksheet that rested on the floor at Danae’s side.
Danae picked the sheet up.
“Peace at the Roundtable, 1210. Rose Gloucester. Depicts Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg and King Khalid von Riegan signing the Treaty of Derdriu and establishing centuries of peace between Adrestia and Almyra. The Prince of Brighid, 1257. A portrait of Prince Declan Macneary, who helped the empire quell a series of uprisings in the former Nuvelle territory during the early 13th century. The artist is uncredited, but many suspect that it was painted by his first husband, Alistair O’Connor. The First Flowers of Spring, 1601. Lady Brianna von Daphnel. A landscape of the fields of northern Adrestia, brimming with life due to new advances in farming techniques following the Famine of 1548...” Danae continued on and on until she’d gone through all of the paintings on the front page of the sheet.
As she flipped over the sheet and began to do the same with the titles listed on the back, Ms. Fiore interjected. “Ah, well I suppose this was a bit too easy for you, then?” Her teacher let out a half-hearted chuckle.
Danae returned the sheet back to its place on the floor beside her.
“Then how about a challenge?”
Danae looked up from the worksheet and met Ms. Fiore’s gaze. Her teacher raised her hand, pointing at the painting that had captured Danae’s attention for the last hour. For the last five years. “What about this one?”
Danae’s eyes returned to the painting once again. “The Field of Revenge, circa 1190. Oil on canvas. Unknown artist. Depicts the battle of the Tailtean Plains.”
“And why do you think it is significant?”
“Huh?”
Ms. Fiore laughed. “I am sorry, I know this question is not on the sheet. But I figured that I should at least attempt to give you a challenge.”
“Oh, okay,” Danae replied, shuffling on the floor and bringing her knees in closer to her chest.
“So, what do you think?”
All of the right answers stared at her, front and center in the painting. The king in his iconic regalia making his final stand, the emperor and all of her loyal soldiers on the precipice of victory, and the castle of Fhirdiad in the background, a lone white dragon climbing along one of its towers. But Danae’s eyes shifted to the side instead.
“It’s the only painting in the museum where you can find a man of Duscur.”
“A man of...” Her teacher’s voice trailed off.
Danae pointed to him. “Dedue Molinaro. That was his name.”
Ms. Fiore stammered. “That is quite a lot of detail you know.”
Danae’s gaze fell to her feet. “Because this painting’s my favorite.”
“I suppose it is natural, then.” Danae could practically hear the smile in her voice. But after a pause, her tone shifted. “But you looked rather upset when I came in, almost as if you did not like it very much.”
Danae gulped. “Yes, you’re not wrong.”
She could feel Ms. Fiore’s eyes on her. “I would love to know why. That is, of course, if you are willing to share.”
Danae stared at the man in the painting, avoided the gaze of the beast that stared back. She hesitated, but the walls of the exhibit whispered to her; so she answered.
“They made him a monster.”
Her mother’s words rang out in her own voice, no less haunting with a younger cadence. Ms. Fiore looked away from her then, the silence between them broken up occasionally by the sound of Danae’s words, her mother’s words, her ancestors’ words echoing off of the walls of the exhibit.
“Well, what do you think?”
Danae looked over to her.
“Not the monster, not the beast standing over him.” She pointed to Dedue. “What do you think he was like?”
In her mind, Danae sifted through the shelves and shelves of books about the War of Unification that she had read: biographies, textbooks, analyses. But as different as they all were, they all lacked the same thing. “I don’t know...”
“Well,” Ms. Fiore began as she took a few steps toward the painting, “what could he have been like? Maybe he liked to cook! Maybe there were recipes he taught to those he fought alongside, combinations of foods and spices they had never known existed. Maybe when he was away from the battlefield, he spent time locked away in a greenhouse gardening each day. Maybe there was someone he loved, a fellow soldier perhaps, who he gave his hand-grown violets to...”
Danae watched her teacher as she spoke. Ms. Fiore stared at the painting, chasing different ideas like she was recalling the details of a long-forgotten book. With each word the pieces began to fall into place and the memories of its plot and characters resurfaced once again, naturally slipping out as if they’d never been forgotten in the first place.
“Did you read all of that somewhere..?”
“Huh?” Ms. Fiore’s head snapped back to face Danae.
“I could never find much information about his life. Did you read a book that talked about him?”
Her teacher chuckled, choppy, coarse sounds that sounded like sobs. “Oh, well I studied poetry in college. Perhaps I just got a little carried away in my imagination.”
Danae couldn’t help the way her face fell at the reveal. “I wish they weren’t just stories, though.” Danae scowled. “More lies and fibs.”
Ms. Fiore walked over and squatted down next to her. She took Danae’s hands into her own. Up close, the transition between her bleached hair and green roots was so much easier to see. Along with the split ends that sprouted from her curls, damaged but still attempting to twist themselves into spirals. “Dedue was not a monster. He was a person who lived, and loved, and who was loved in turn. That is what I believe, at least.”
Ms. Fiore looked up to the ceiling, maybe in an effort to keep the tears that had filled her eyes from spilling over. Her eyes trailed up and up, following the huge marble columns to the ceiling where a painted dragon unfurled its wings in the sky. Ferocious and intimidating but confined to the heavens for as long as the building stood, unable to reach those below it. A forgotten specter, obscured by white clouds.
The green in her eyes shined, brightened by the few rays of sunlight that desperately struggled to enter the window through the few inches of exposed panes peeking from behind the dark curtains.
Danae squeezed her hands back.
“Can you… tell me more about him? If you’re willing to share, of course?”
Ms. Fiore’s lips curled up slowly, hesitantly pushing up against her cheeks and driving the tears out of her eyes. Her shoulders rose and fell, her body slowly relaxed, and she exhaled. And with it, the tension of an insurmountable amount of time evaporated away, floating up and up toward the painted sky above.
She moved to Danae’s side, taking a seat next to her on the ground.
“I am sorry that you will only be able to hear this from me, but I also have to ask that you promise to keep it a secret. It’s…”
“I get it,” Danae replied. “But you won’t have to lie. At least right now... someone else will know, right?”
Ms. Fiore smiled, lifting her glasses to wipe her eyes. “Of course, of course. Someone will know.”
She cleared her throat before she began, prepping her voice for a speech centuries in the making. Danae leaned in, her heart beating wildly, each pump of blood chipping away at the heaviness in her chest.
And for once, the exhibit was absolutely quiet, the walls themselves waiting with bated breath to hear the words.
“His name was Dedue Molinaro…”