Chapter Text
The letter comes on a Sunday. Which is strange in itself, because no one ever calls on the Eisners on the weekend. Not to mention there is never any post on Sundays. But the messenger — one of the village lads, Hans, short, with straw-coloured hair — had insisted .
“Please, Miss Byleth,” he pleads, pressing an envelope into her hands. “It’s for you.”
Byleth frowns at it; it’s a good thing she had dried her hands before answering the door because this feels like thick, high-quality paper. “Do you know who gave it to you, Hans?”
“A knight, on horseback. He just said he’d come from the city and that it was an urgent message,” Then Hans huffs. “Please, Miss.”
“The city…?” she prompts.
Hans huffs again, fidgeting on the spot. “The big one — Enbarr !”
Oh. That’s...far away, Byleth thinks; considering how remote Rusalka is.
“ Please , I have to get back to the fields.”
“Oh. Yes.” she murmurs; of course, it’s harvest season. “Thank you, Hans.”
Hans doesn’t return the greeting, immediately turning on his heel and sprinting down the path. Byleth watches as he jumps — almost deliberately — in the puddles, mud splashing all over his boots and legs. Enjoying the last vestiges of a particularly rainy summer, before the cold and dark return.
Byleth goes back inside the cottage. Back into the warmth, with the fire crackling, the smell of stew cooking and the soft, snicking sound of the kitchen knives being sharpened on the whetstone.
“Who was it, kid?” Her father — Jeralt — asks by the wash basin, not looking up.
“A messenger, with a letter,” she replies, leaning against the counter next to him. She watches as he works the blade up and down the stone. How comforting a sight it is every Sunday afternoon.
Jeralt pauses; peers a little closer, to get a better look at the letter in her hands. “Hm...That’s the imperial seal,” and then with a frown, he adds, “I hope we’re not being called back up to serve.”
“...It’s addressed to me.”
Then Jeralt stops, setting down the knife, and gesturing at her with his head, says, “Well, open it then.”
Byleth turns over the envelope, fingers running across the crease lines to the red wax seal bearing the imperial standard: a two-headed eagle. She undoes it carefully and...opens the letter.
23rd of Horsebow Moon, 1185
Imperial Institute of Crestology
Enbarr, Adrestia
Dear Byleth Eisner,
As you may be aware, your birth was registered with the institute on the 20th of Horsebow Moon, 1159. As such, our records indicate you bear a matrilineal crest, albeit of unknown origin. In any case, the possession of a Crest is a great honour, and a highly prestigious one at that. In addition, it bestows upon you certain rights and duties; the expectation that you shall set an example to the people, and conduct yourself in a manner befitting of the nobility.
In other words, since you bear a crest, and you are now of age, you are eligible to debut in high society this season.
Permit me, then, to extend a personal invitation, on Her Imperial Majesty’s behalf, to the Debut Ball. The Ball begins at 12 sharp, on the First of the Wyvern Moon. Enclosed herewith is a set of imperial court instructions, regarding dress, etiquette and other such minutiae. Please take the time to read it through.
In the meantime, we eagerly await your presence and the pleasure of your company at the Imperial Palace at Enbarr.
Yours sincerely,
Hanneman von Essar
Head of the Imperial Institute of Crestology
Byleth stares at the letter a moment. Then reads and rereads it again; none of it quite...sticking. Crests? Enbarr? The Emperor herself ? It all seems like— like a mistake.
“Well?”
She looks up; opens her mouth as if to say something but closes it again. Instead, Byleth settles for passing it over to Jeralt. She watches as he takes it gingerly; watches as he starts to read, his eyes darting across the page, widening with every word.
“Ah, dammit, kid, I meant to tell you—”
“Tell me what?”
“Your mother…” Jeralt lets out a heavy sigh and hands her back the letter.
“Your mother, before she died, had made sure you were registered. And I guess, because of everything with the war and all, I guess it slipped my mind that this day might come. And anyway, I thought the emperor was gonna put a stop to all that crest business — they haven’t had any new balls, you know, since the war — so…”
Jeralt trails off, crossing his arms; a small, tired smile on his face. “Ah, it doesn’t matter. The question really is...do you wanna go, kid?”
Byleth blinks. “I— Is that even a possibility?”
Jeralt hums a little. “Well, your mother had...actually put some money aside for you. I always thought maybe it was for when you got married — you know, she was like that; always...one step ahead. But...yeah, don’t worry about it.”
“No, I mean also—”
Jeralt just waves her off, smiling easily now. “Don’t worry about the smithery; Alois can take over,” he reassures.
Somehow the thought of...Alois — and especially Alois making so many terrible puns, and forgetting he’s actually meant to be forging blades — doesn’t...exactly fill Byleth with much confidence.
Still…the words slip out of her mouth before she has a chance to catch them: “I think maybe I’d like to go.”
Jeralt raises his eyebrows. “You— you would? Are you sure?”
Byleth hesitates a moment. “I would need to think about it a little more…”
“Well,” Jeralt starts, returning to his knife-sharpening. “Just so we’re clear, kid, I have no problems about you going off into the world. It’s about time you did, anyway — I mean, I haven’t exactly raised you in the lap of luxury. And who knows when you’ll have the opportunity again…”
“Dad.”
“Hm?”
“I...I don’t really care that I wasn’t raised...in that way. And experiencing luxury — whatever that is — isn’t my motivation for going. I’m not even sure what is, really, compelling me but...” Byleth trails off; watching him, hearing the snick-snick ing sound. “And anyway, how am I supposed to know what to do? Or even who to live with while I’m there!”
Jeralt sets the knife down again.
“Ah,” he says, looking up; the late afternoon sunlight streams into the cottage, painting it all bright orange. “Hm...I’ve a feeling your mother told me something about living arrangements. A name maybe…”
He shakes his head. “No use; it’s gone outta my head!”
“It’ll come back to you, I’m sure.”
“Yeah…Now, I think that’s enough for the knives,” he says, wiping them down with a rag and slotting them back into the block.
Then he turns to her with another smile. “Let’s...get dinner.”
They sit down to a simple meal of verona and turnip stew, talking a little of this and that around mouthfuls. It’s...strange, still, to take their time to eat. To enjoy the food, rather than scarf it down like hungry Oghma wolverines. Even clearing away plates and cleaning up afterwards is...a comfort. They haven’t been in this cottage very long and--
“Ordelia!” Jeralt shouts when they’re washing the dishes in the basin.
“What?”
“Ordelia — it’s the name your mother gave me! She stayed with them when she debuted. Of course, that was nearly thirty years ago and that season didn’t exactly go to plan — but she always said they were more than accommodating. I’m sure you can write to them.”
“I...How am I meant to know their address?”
“Oh, I don’t think that’s too hard. Just write ‘Ordelia Residence, Enbarr’ on the letterhead!” — he hands her a plate to dry — “Do it tomorrow, and get the messenger to send it off.”
Byleth ponders it for a moment as she dries the dishes. There’s nothing, really, to be lost by sending a letter, so...
So, that night, she sits at the table by the fireplace and manages, somehow, to cobble together a few words. Although they don't come out as flowing and... sophisticated as the words in the letter. Her handwriting has always resembled chicken-scratch more than anything else with sharp, pointy, and hurried letters. In that sense, it rather resembles her; a bit rough at the edges, always on the move, hurriedly trying to make her notes somewhat legible on bumpy cart-rides up and down Fódlan...
She catches Hans early the next morning, before he has to go work in the fields; a straw hat over his straw hair.
“Could you get this sent off — urgently, please?” she asks, and slips him a gold coin.
And Hans does just that , grinning ear to ear as he sprints down the lane.
Byleth heads to the smithery afterwards, but the letter does...weigh on her mind throughout the workday. She doesn’t expect a reply, of course — she thinks as she tends to the hearth, hands and dress turned black with soot — and certainly not one soon.
What she certainly doesn’t expect, when she awakens the next morning, is...the arrival of a carriage on her doorstep! Byleth almost thinks for a moment that it’s a mirage. Rather like the ones in all those old stories Jeralt used to tell her; about merchants stranded in the Sreng or Dagdan deserts, happening upon imaginary streams of water…
But no .
There’s a horse-drawn carriage outside their door. It’s ornate, with polished white wood, and footmen in powdered wigs, too. And all the village children clamouring around it in awe.
“Miss Byleth Eisner?” the footman prompts as she tentatively greets them.
“Yes?”
“Count von Ordelia wished to pass on his regards and that he awaits your arrival in Enbarr. If you could prepare your belongings...then we could depart shortly.”
“I—” No words come out of her mouth, so she just curtsies — and curses herself for curtsying to a footman — and runs back inside.
Byleth drags her leather trunk out from under the bed, and throws open her cabinets, throwing in all her country frocks; woollen shawls; the letter with the instructions . She tries not to think about how none of her clothes are suitable for high court; or why had she even decided on this; and, oh, she doesn’t know any of the customs and—
“Whoa, slow down, kid; what’s the rush?”
“Carriage outside,” she breathes out, gesturing violently to the window as she bustles over to the pantry, grabbing a packet of jerky to take with her (creature comforts).
“But—” she hears Jeralt start, but doesn’t really listen, quickly snapping the trunk clasps in place, dragging it to the door—
“Wait, kid, I’ve got something to give you!”
Byleth turns around; and Jeralt thrusts an envelope into her hands, face bright red. “Don’t read it now. Save it for the right time, you know. Or not at all — no pressure.”
He doesn’t give her time to look at it as he pulls her into a hug. “And you know, if you don’t like it at all, there’s nothing stopping you from coming back, hm?”
Byleth nods, and Jeralt squeezes her tight; presses a kiss to her hair. “Love ya, kiddo.”
“Love you too, Dad,” she replies, voice muffled by his thick coat. He smells like firewood and angelica.
“Now, off you go,” he says softly, letting go of her.
One of the footmen hoists her trunk onto the back of the carriage while the other helps her into the plush purple interior. Byleth looks out the window, beyond the clamouring children, to her dad on the doorstep, and she waves.
He waves back.
Then comes the crack of the whip, and the absolute cacophony of children running after the carriage yelling their goodbyes, and...she is, truly, leaving Rusalka behind.