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I.
It goes like this:
The war ends. The Black Eagle Strike Force stands in its wake, watching the spreading fire consume the once-prosperous capital and the corpses of once-friends alike.
Dorothea is not there to see the Immaculate One fall, to see the final blow dealt to these desolate six years, but she feels it in its absence. She feels it in the way the air shifts, emptier now, lighter, quieter. She knows it in the way that a weight pressing her chest underwater finally leaves and she can float back to the surface, rasping in a shaky breath for the first time in so many moons.
Dorothea breathes in, and out, and even among the smoke and ashes it is the most refreshing bit of air to ever enter her lungs.
She opens her eyes, and Petra is there. She swoops in an elegant arc from the sky on her wyvern and she is here for Dorothea alone, she must be, because there is no one else around with all of their allies far ahead and all of the enemy soldiers scattered, lifeless.
Petra’s feet meet the ground even before her wyvern’s, leaping from her steed and landing in a graceful roll before running. Running to Dorothea.
“We have won!” Petra yells, only a few paces away now. “The victory is ours!”
She reaches Dorothea and she is close enough for Dorothea to see the bright smile on her face and the blood on her cheeks.
“The war is over,” Dorothea says, breathes the words out, more question than conviction.
“The war is over,” Petra answers, a coastline in a storm at sea.
The blood on Petra’s face mixes with the blood on Dorothea’s hands as she caresses there, touches Petra’s smile with a stained thumb and pulls her close, closer, a ship to shore.
It goes like this:
The war ends and they kiss as the fires blaze around them, destroying a city and destroying a war that claimed so many lives but did not claim them, somehow not them. It is an end. It is a beginning.
II.
The war’s end allows Dorothea to make good on her promise to see Brigid with Petra.
This world without war is a new one, unrecognizable from before, and so too are they - different, newer, better. Dorothea wants to find where to fit her new self in the new world. Wants her place to be by Petra’s side, wherever that may be.
She wants this so badly, so badly that it is an ache, deep in her chest and radiating outward, a pain she feels with every movement. Thorns in her veins and under her skin.
“Dorothea,” Petra’s voice is soft as she steps onto the balcony where Dorothea sips her tea and stares out at the sea, the vast expanse of space between where Dorothea is and everything she once knew. The orange glow of the warm Brigid sun compliments the purples of Petra’s hair where it cascades down her back in loose waves. It sparkles in so many different shades where the light meets it, and she is so, so beautiful.
“Good morning, my love,” Dorothea says, a delicate smile lighting her face as she sets down her cup and beckons Petra to come closer, to sit in front of her.
Petra looks as though she wants to say something, anything, but she simply smiles back, a frail turn of her lips. She comes closer, taking a seat while Dorothea stands behind her and they both look out at the calm waters draped in dawn’s soft light.
It goes like this, as it has every day that they have spent here together:
Dorothea sings something sweet and soft as she runs her fingers through Petra’s hair, the way she thinks the sun must long to do, and how lucky is it that she can do this while the sun cannot? While no one else can? She takes each strand and braids them with a reverent care, a devout supplicant at Petra’s altar, a sacrilegious act toward the goddess second only to when they killed her.
And, Dorothea thinks, maybe they had not killed the goddess after all. It crosses her mind each time she sees Petra in the sun, each morning, as she sings and braids her hair.
Or, well, Brigid has their own gods, don’t they? Petra must have been blessed by one. Could even be one herself. Looking at her now in the morning light, stroking her hair, Dorothea could believe it easily enough.
“Dorothea,” Petra says her name, quieter this time, airy and empty. “You are not happy here.”
Dorothea’s hands still.
“I’m happy with you,” she says, and it is the truth. She continues braiding, and if her ministrations are shakier, well, she can only hope Petra does not notice.
“But you are not happy here.” Her words are confident, spoken with all the assurance of her queenly station.
“No,” Dorothea answers, and it is also the truth. “I’m not.” She owes her this much, and much more still.
A warm breeze passes over them in the silence that follows. “I cannot leave,” Petra says, the words fragile as the breeze carries them away.
“I know,” Dorothea answers, soft enough that the breeze nearly swallows the words whole.
“But you can. I will not hold you back.” Dorothea continues braiding, and if her tears wet Petra’s hair where they land, well, she can only hope Petra does not notice. “I will not keep you here if you wish to return home. I know too well what that is like.”
Petra’s hand reaches for hers, a gentle touch that pulls Dorothea’s hands from her hair to lock their fingers together. And, oh, she hadn’t realized how badly her hands were shaking until they were stilled by Petra’s grip, warm and firm and anchoring.
“You know I will always be loving you. Always... love you,” Petra says, turning the palm of Dorothea’s hand to kiss the skin there. “You will always have a place here. If you want it.” And she looks out at the sea, and she is talking about Brigid, Dorothea knows she is, but Petra places their locked hands over her heart, and Dorothea hears something different altogether.
“I…,” Dorothea starts, but her words catch on the small sob caught in her throat. “I will be… loving you, as well. For always,” she says in Petra’s native tongue, tripping over the words and hoping some of them are correct, knowing that Petra will understand regardless.
She doesn’t say anything more. Isn’t sure if she can.
It goes like this:
Dorothea finishes Petra’s braid, singing a song more somber than before. A few days later, she sails for Enbarr.
III.
Edelgard welcomes her back with a long hug and a sad smile. Hubert stands, ever stalwart at Lady Edelgard’s side, and offers Dorothea a nod and the ghost of a sincere smile. From Hubert that may as well be a kiss on the lips as a greeting. Dorothea beams at them both.
Edelgard and Hubert guide her through the imperial palace, catching her up on everything she had missed in the near year of her absence.
They pass Bernadetta in the gardens and she waves to Dorothea from where she stands, delicately tending to the large pitcher plants that surely had not been there last Dorothea had seen.
They greet Ferdinand in the stables, where he stands before a gaggle of children and a small herd of foals - not bred for war, just young horses that these children will learn to care for and to ride and to love. Nothing in those stables would ever have to see a battlefield, and Dorothea nearly sobs at the thought. Ferdinand notices, and it looks as though he might cry as well, and she decides that perhaps they could catch up over tea some other time, lest they both break down in tears in front of their Emperor, the Emperor’s retainer, and many small children. But, she thinks, wouldn’t that just be the most fitting reunion? The thought brings a smile to her lips, chasing away the tears threatening to fall.
Even Caspar and Linhardt are there for a visit, passing through Enbarr on their way to somewhere far more interesting on their grand adventure. Dorothea knows their visit is no coincidence, since there is no reason to travel through an area they know so well when the point of their journey is to go elsewhere, anywhere. She appreciates it all the same.
After all of the reunions, Edelgard brings Dorothea to her new quarters. Dorothea had at first resisted the idea, insisting she could surely find her own place, she did not want to impose - but Edelgard pressed, saying it would be no imposition whatsoever, and it would be nice to have her so close.
It is almost embarrassing how quickly Dorothea had folds after that. It would be nice, Dorothea agrees. To be so close. Everyone would be nearby, a few hallways away, all of her closest friends save Linhardt and Caspar and-
And Petra.
The thought curls around her heart, a vine and digging in its thorns deeper with each beat.
“I am so glad you’re here,” Edelgard says with a touch to Dorothea’s shoulder and a warm, genuine smile.
“I’m so glad to be here,” Dorothea answers, and she is. She truly is. She just wishes- she doesn’t know. Wishes she was happier? Wishes she was less happy, knowing the love of her life was an ocean away? Wishes she knew what she wanted, what she felt, wishes she knew what to do? Where to go, who to be? The thorns press in tighter, a vice grip on her heart.
Edelgard leaves her to unpack, and she is glad to be alone when she finally cries.
The next year goes like this:
Dorothea finds time to meet Bernadetta in the gardens and learn all about her plants, all of which have names and stories about where she found them and how to care for them. Dorothea listens with rapt attention, soaking up every word from this new, confident Bernie who no longer cuts off her own words in a panic. She talks, and Dorothea listens.
Ferdinand continues to pass his love of horses onto the next generation, and Dorothea occasionally finds herself a part of these lessons as well. She hadn’t studied riding, not really - no more than what their professor had asked of her, anyway. She finds she greatly prefers learning to ride without the looming certainty of battles ahead.
Edelgard and Hubert are a unit, hardly separate, and Edelgard seems to think Dorothea minds that their tea dates often involve procuring a third chair. But why would she mind? She is here to see her friends, and seeing two at once is more than welcome. Especially since the two of them are so busy being the most important people in all of Fódlan. The fact that they find any time at all to meet with a mere opera singer is more than enough to bring a smile to Dorothea’s face.
Dorothea, Manuela, and Ferdinand write an opera together. It is not the Edelgard opera, not yet, but it is a triumph of love in a time of war, a celebration for the war’s end, and it is well-received by all who see it. Dorothea stars, Manuela directs, and Ferdinand, well - he certainly could have been the second lead, if his duties to the Emperor and to his gaggle of children did not supersede all other passions. The show runs from one season and into the next and into the next.
And Petra is there. Four times a year, she comes to Enbarr to meet with Emperor Edelgard under the guise of diplomatic relations.
Four times a year, Petra visits the opera house to sit in the same seat to watch the same performance. To watch Dorothea perform.
Four times a year, Dorothea looks for her in the audience, meets her eyes, and sings to her.
Four times a year, Dorothea finds a flower in her dressing room. A deep, mulberry purple. A Brigid rose.
Four times a year, they see each other like this. They don’t speak. There are songs, and there are roses, and nothing more.
And so it goes like this. First one year, and then another.
And then another. And then-
IV.
“The new opera house will be opening soon,” Edelgard says to Dorothea and Hubert during their Wednesday morning tea session. “In Brigid.”
“Oh?” Dorothea asks, hoping to disguise her surprise behind her cup of tea, ever the actor.
“Mm, yes. Petra commissioned it, hoping to put more of an effort toward enhancing and preserving Brigid’s culture,” now that there are no battles to fight, goes unsaid. “The Empire helped to fund this project. I thought I mentioned it?”
Dorothea only shakes her head in response.
“Ah. Well, Petra has extended invitations for its grand opening. I would love to see it in person. And I would love for the two of you to join me.” Then, as if suddenly remembering Dorothea’s past life in Brigid, she hastens to add, “If you would like to come, of course.”
“I would love to see it as well,” Dorothea’s smile is tight, but her words are sincere. “As if I would ever pass up an opportunity to scope out my competition!” She places a hand on her chest, mock aghast.
Edelgard lets out a small laugh. Hubert’s lip turns up at the corner, Hubert’s equivalent of a guffaw.
It goes like this:
Dorothea returns to Brigid for the first time in nearly three years, and she brings a single Imperial rose with her. It is a deep, sangria red. She keeps it close at all times during their voyage oversea, careful to keep it perfect, to keep at least one thing perfect.
She keeps it close all throughout the performance, as well. It is a lovely show. Though it would no doubt be lovelier with herself as the lead. She wonders if Petra thinks the same. Dorothea hopes she does - is scared to hope as much.
A reception at the palace follows the performance, and Dorothea has attended hundreds of these events before, but never as anything other than a performer. She mingles easily enough, yet there is still the niggling thought that she doesn’t quite fit, not here, not anywhere.
She finds the rose in her purse and touches it, just once. A small comfort. Then she says her goodnights to Edelgard and Hubert and the guests around them with names already forgotten, and she takes her leave.
Dorothea may have changed in the three years she’d left Brigid, but the palace had not. She finds Petra’s study soon enough, unguarded as always; a display of both Petra’s trust and her sheer strength.
Dorothea intends her visit to be brief, a quick placement of the rose on the desk before departing, but Petra-
“Dorothea?”
Petra’s voice is gentle, the sweetest sound to Dorothea’s ears after three long years without it.
And still Dorothea turns as if struck.
“Petra,” she says, voice thin. “I- Hello.”
Petra says nothing, just tilts her head to the side. Looks down, past Dorothea, to her desk. To the rose lying there. She smiles, and her face is a gentle unfolding of petals toward the sun, a fairer bloom than any flower in the world.
“The performance was spectacular,” Dorothea says, strangely nervous, hoping to dispel the anxiety rising in her by speaking some words, any words.
Petra ignores her, ever forthright. “I did not get caught bringing the flowers to you, you know.” Her smile is now a playful smirk, dancing across her features and even sparkling in her eyes, which Dorothea can see clearly as Petra steps closer.
Somehow, it relaxes Dorothea. Petra was always the best at settling her nerves. She’d forgotten. She’d missed it.
“Some of us never passed our assassin examinations,” Dorothea says with an airy laugh.
“I know. Three times! I even helped with your studying,” she lets out a little laugh of her own. “I could not believe how you failed, with such a wonderful teacher.”
“I suppose I was just hopeless,” Dorothea says, and the words are heavy, carrying more weight than they should, more weight than she means to give them.
The air thickens. Dorothea’s laughter peters out in the beat of silence that follows until only her brittle smile remains.
“Not hopeless,” Petra says, moving closer still. “Never hopeless. You are... full of hope.” She reaches a hand out, places a light touch to Dorothea’s wrist. “As am I.”
Dorothea swallows, drowning the words down her throat before she can give them life.
Petra’s hand moves lower, ghosting over skin to meet Dorothea’s hand and squeezing it once, so gently, before removing the touch and stepping back.
“For what it is worth,” Petra says as she moves, walking around Dorothea to reach her desk, “I am glad you failed your examinations so many times. I was so happy to study with you then,” she picks up the rose, closes her eyes as she breathes in its scent. “And I am happy it is giving me the opportunity to see you now.”
Petra opens her eyes and looks right at her, and Dorothea has to turn away.
“I-” I’m happy to see you, too. I miss you. I wanted to write you letters. I’m sorry I never did. “I- I should be getting back. Edelgard and Hubert-”
“Yes, of course,” Petra places the rose back on her desk with a tenderness Dorothea knows is reserved for her alone. The thorns in Dorothea’s heart make themselves known once more, and the smile never wavers from Petra’s face. “Allow me to escort you back?”
“I-” I love you. “I would like that very much,” Dorothea says, smiling in return.
Dorothea hopes the rose says more than she ever could.
It goes like this:
Dorothea once again returns to the Empire. Her friends are there, and it is kind, it is familiar. But it is not home.
V.
A letter, scrawled in the faltering handwriting of either a child or an adult with a very loose grasp on the written form of a foreign language:
‘My dearest Petra,
I am sorry. You are kind for waiting. If you are daring done waiting, and if you would keep me again, I would revive return to home of you.
I am hopeful you forgive?’
Underneath, in flowling, elegant script:
‘I love you. Always, ardently. Sorry, I don’t know how to write those words, and I want to make sure I say them correctly. I want you to know that I am-
Yours, forever,
Dorothea’
A response in neat penmanship, displaying a mastery of two written tongues:
‘My dearest Dorothea,
There is nothing that needs forgiving. It is difficult to be somewhere if it is not your choice, I know this. However, if you choose it, there is a home for you here. In Brigid, and in my chest - with my heart. Such a silly phrase. But I understand it now, I think. You are there, next to my heart, the thing that gives me life.
Those words can be written like this:
I love you. Always, ardently.
And I am saying the words to you as well.
Yours,
Petra’
‘My love,
I am choosing you always.
I love you. Always, ardently,
Dorothea’
VI.
Dorothea’s ship cannot dock on the shore. Instead she and her belongings must fit into a small rowboat helmed by a crewman, bringing her from the anchored ship to the sands of the Brigid coast.
Dorothea can see Petra there, her hair shimmering in the orange rays of the setting sun. So beautiful, and so close, three years and only a small expanse of water separating them still.
Dorothea does not wait for the boat to fully pull its way onto shore, or for the helmsman to give her permission to step over. She hears him grunt as the weight shifts while she steps out into the shallow waters, rocking the boat and everything in it, but she pays it no mind. The water comes up to her knees, wetting the hem of her dress, and she pays in no mind. She doesn’t care, doesn’t care at all, can’t care with her love so close, driven away by her own foolish choices but no longer, not anymore.
She runs, as fast as the water and sand will allow her. Petra does the same.
They meet with their feet in the water, their arms reaching, finding each other, empty for so, so long. Their lips meet next. They trip, and fall into the water, and they laugh. And it is perfect. And they are both home, finally.
It goes like this:
The war ends. They drift apart with a sea between them as they try to find their places in the new world.
There, under the setting sun in the waters of the Brigid shore, they find each other.
