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A pair of white gloves rests on a polished bedside table. There is no room for distraction in the quarters of a visionary. Crystal bottles, old dagger, older book, text that transcribes duty and pride of Emperors past. The ball draws near, and yet, pales in comparison to the infinity of work that has to be done.
Carnations from a songstress are moved closer to the window, always open. Out of sight, hardly out of mind. There is no room for distraction in the quarters of a visionary, she tells herself, and that’s that. Crochet hedgehog from a friend is moved under pillows, always fluffed. Out of sight, hardly out of mind. Crystal clear liquid in a crystal clear bottle is hidden among the rest, a tool from he who sees himself as one, but could never be. Out of sight, but…
Crescendo of knocks on the door, impatient, assertive. Too high up on the wooden surface to belong to Bergliez, too bright, early and hearty to belong to Hevring. The answer bounces on his heels, proud red locks combed to the side in a most popular style. “Ferdinand.”
“I see you have made no effort to clear your desk this morning, Edelgard.” Criticism characteristic of a condescending headache. Ferdinand distilled, at least these days. She rubs her temples to stave off a migraine, and in return, hears him huff, discontent. “I am not here to chastise you further, you know. Rather, I… I meant to ask if you have--”
“Seen the professor lately. It's the second time this week you've come to me with this excuse.” Sentence completed before his, renders Ferdinand visibly flustered. Noble cheeks red as the flowers on her window. Out of sight, hardly out of mind. “No, I have not. As you can see, I’ve been rather busy this month.”
Murmur and a nod, sunset eyes that avert themselves from lavender. “...Quite. I, ah… My apologies, Edelgard. I was under the impression the Ethereal Moon would be a prime time for you to rest. The others look forward to seeing you at the ball.”
Utilitarian moon, just like every other. Her mind plays a game, ricochets from duty, from destiny, to… dresses. Desires, maybe. But there is no room for distraction in the quarters of a visionary. “I… I see.” Sad smile, subtle but sincere. Awkward air and awkward agreement. “I will be at the ball, Ferdinand. You know well I wouldn’t miss it.”
“So I do, heh.” Sigh, heel that twirls on the cobblestone floor. Note and chocolate crumpled into palm, to be discarded. Dress sits dusty in a derelict drawer. Dream needs work, needs care, needs dedication. Desire… desire is secondary, doomed to be forgotten, ignored. The end justifies the means to the teenage princess, and the nobleman will find another one to belong in his arms. All is as it must be, or at least, they tell themselves so. “So I do.”