Archive of Our Own ^beta

Ferdinand wakes up on his birthday to a puddle of rain under his open window.

He hastily shuts it, latches it, but the damage is done. His report—due today—is utterly beyond repair, the ink streaming down the page.

He sighs and drops it in the waste bin before dressing himself for the day, idly planning how he'll explain this to the professor. He's never missed an assignment before—granted, he hasn't been at the Officer's Academy for very long—but he's sure the professor will understand. It was a mistake, one that was entirely his fault but an honest mistake nonetheless.

He thinks back to the professor's blank expression and suppresses a shudder. He hopes the professor will understand.

After he's dressed, he mops up the puddle and then, with one last glance at his ruined assignment, leaves his dorm and makes his way to the classroom.

It's too early for anyone else to be out yet, so he snags a quick breakfast in the dining hall—an apple and, after some pressure from the head cook, a fresh roll—and takes a seat in the courtyard to tuck in.

The roll is delightful, soft and warm and sweet—he's glad he allowed her to persuade him—and the apple refreshing. Together, they give him the strength he needs to follow the professor into the classroom and up to his desk.

The professor turns, not looking surprised to find Ferdinand following him, and he levels him with that even gaze and he asks, "Yes?"

"Teacher," he starts, and then he bites the inside of his cheek in thought. "I... I must confess that there's been a bit of an accident."

"I see. What sort of accident?" he asks, but his expression doesn't change. He moves behind the desk to sit down, but those eyes stay on him.

Unnerved, Ferdinand continues, "It rained last night and I left my window open, and... needless to say, my assignment will be late." When the professor says nothing, he adds, "I apologize for the inconvenience. It will be on your desk tomorrow morning."

After a moment, the professor says, "Alright. Thank you for telling me."

He allows his shoulders to slump in momentary relief, and then he straightens once more and goes to his desk to start on his replacement assignment. While he works, the rest of the class trickle in slowly, Petra and Edelgard—Hubert lurking behind them, he notes—then Bernadetta, Dorothea, and Caspar.

Once everyone is seated, the professor stands, waits for another moment, and when Linhardt doesn't arrive he dives into the lesson. Ferdinand puts his assignment away in favor of jotting down notes, questions to ask, and about halfway through the class, Linhardt shows up, yawning into his fist and slumping down beside Caspar in the back row.

"Linhardt, come see me after class," the professor says, and Linhardt sighs.

Class ends a little before the bell, so there's chatter as everybody gets ready to leave, off to their dorms or the dining hall.

"I will be going at the training grounds," Petra says while she collects her things. "Would you like to join me?"

Ferdinand grimaces. "I apologize, but I cannot. I have an assignment to make up."

Petra nods and turns to leave, waving over her shoulder. He returns it, then packs up his own belongings and returns to his dorm. Once inside, he sighs, throws the latch on the window, and puts a towel down. He will not be making the same mistake again.

He sits down at his desk, keen to start writing—he'll have to work quickly if he wants to honor his promise to the professor—when a knock sounds on the door. He furrows his brow, drops his quill back in the inkwell, and stands to answer it. It's the professor, with... flowers?

He holds them out. "Happy birthday, Ferdinand."

Ferdinand's face heats. "Oh. I... Thank you. I did not expect this, professor." He didn't even know the professor knew when his birthday was. "They're lovely."

"I grew them myself," he responds. "In the greenhouse."

Oh... Ferdinand brings them to his nose—the scent is sweet but demure, not overpowering or distracting. He'll have to find something to put them in. He might have a vase somewhere...

"That was all," the professor says, pulling him out of his thoughts. "I'll be on my way now. Goodnight, Ferdinand."

"Goodnight, professor."

He leaves, and Ferdinand closes the door. He sniffs the bouquet again, then puts it on his desk to rummage around for a vase. He still needs water, but that can wait until his assignment is finished.

"Aha!" He finds what he's looking for, a pretty ceramic vase his mother had gifted him, and he straightens, placing it on his desk so he can put the bouquet inside.

It looks nice, he thinks, surveying his work. It brightens the room, and he gets back to work with a smile on his face.

The monastery is quiet this early in the morning.

Still, despite the hour, the doors to the classroom hang open. Ferdinand approaches slowly, brows furrowed in thought. A thief is his first notion, but then Petra's voice comes from within, mumbling quietly to herself in Brigid's tongue. Of course, he should've known. The only student as studious as himself is sure to be here as early as he.

He rounds the corner and Petra looks up at the click of his shoes on the stone.

"Ferdinand, good morning," she says, an easy smile on her face.

"Good morning Petra," he responds in kind, and though it isn't his seat, he joins her at the table, tilting his head to see the book she's reading. "I didn't know you were interested in woodcarving."

Petra looks at the book as if just noticing it. "Oh, yes," she says, flipping the cover back over her thumb so he can see the title. "But I am already familiar with the techniques of Brigid. I was instead searching for something."

Ferdinand cocks his head. "Oh? What were you searching for, if I may ask?"

She opens back to her place, deftly flipping through the book until she comes across a dark shadow underneath one of the pages. "Ha!" She turns it to reveal a dried flower in remarkable condition. She slides it out carefully and closes the book with a dusty thump, then pushes it aside, laying the flower out on the table.

At Ferdinand's questioning glance, she explains, "Before I left Brigid to attend at the academy, my grandfather and I visited the gardens there. This is a flower from my home."

Ferdinand looks back at the flower. It's bright yellow, or he imagines it was when it was rooted and watered, the edges the red-orange of firelight. It's quite beautiful, even dried and pressed like this, and he says as much—not the last part; that he keeps to himself, lest he sound rude.

"Yes," she agrees, her smile bleeding into her words. "They are even more beautiful in Brigid. We call them—" She pauses, furrowing her brow and pursing her lips for a moment. "I suppose in Fodlan they would be called flame lilies. In Brigid we say agnishikha."

"Agni... agnishikha?" he echoes, and Petra nods enthusiastically. Pride bubbles up within him—he got it right. "It's very lovely. I've never seen flowers like that in Enbarr, or around here either, for that matter."

Petra twirls the flower between her thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. "These only grow in warm temperatures—places with water in the air. And they are incredibly poisonous."

Ferdinand's hand halts where he's reaching for it and falls back to his side. Petra notices and stops twirling it.

"Not like this! Dried, they are perfectly safe." She pauses for a moment, looks at the flower, and then holds it out to him.

He hesitates, then takes it from her.

"See?" She peeks around it at him and grins. "Nothing will happen if you hold it."

Ferdinand twirls the flower—there's still a faint perfume about it. How delightful. "Oh, I see. I'll have to be careful if I ever visit Brigid, though."

Petra's smile widens to a beam, her eyes curving into crescents. "Have no worry! When you do, I will be there to help you."

Her smile is infectious. "I am glad. I would love to see flowers like this for myself one day."

When he tries to hand it back, she shakes her head. "It is yours. Keep it."

Ferdinand furrows his brow. "Thank you, but I couldn't possibly take this from you. It's all you have left of Brigid."

Petra laughs and for a moment he's confused, and then she says, so warm and sincere, "Brigid is inside of my heart, Ferdinand. Nothing will ever take it from me."

"Oh," he says. "Then... Thank you. Very much, I will—I will take very good care of it, you have my word."

"I know you will," she replies. "I have trust in you."

Ferdinand carefully places it to the side of the table and settles in beside her to study, right up until the professor arrives to start the lecture.

"Don't forget about our mission at the end of this month," the professor says, over the clanging of the bell up at the cathedral. "Get in any training you feel is necessary before we move out." After a pause, he adds, "But don't overdo it. I'll be supervising tomorrow from lunch to the evening bell, so if you'd like to spar with me it's best to do it then."

Ferdinand perks up. Sparring with the professor? It should prove an interesting challenge—if nothing else, it will be a valuable lesson. "I'll take you up on that, professor!" he says, and he nods easily.

The Black Eagles start to trickle out of the classroom, Linhardt and Caspar breaking off to head for the dining hall, the former hiding a wide yawn behind his hand. Ever since the professor scolded him for missing lectures, he's been complaining about not getting enough sleep at night, which means he's been nodding off in class. Ferdinand feels that should be impossible—sitting next to Caspar all day would be... invigorating, to put it kindly.

Dorothea ignores the smile he offers her as she skirts past on her way out but he doesn't let the disappointment dim it. Letting people see him upset would only succeed in making them upset as well, and he can't have that.

Bernadetta's leaning against the wall outside the classroom, staring down at her feet as she taps them, and she barely notices when he comes outside until he's upon her.

"Ready to go?" he asks, and she startles, jumping away from the wall and nearly losing her balance. He steadies her with a hand on her elbow. "Careful now."

"You scared me," she says.

"Apologies." She frowns, but then nods as though she accepts that. "Are you ready? The courtyard won't weed itself, Bernadetta!"

"Right." She scuffs her shoe along the pavement. He leads the way over to a bench, where he sets down his schoolwork. She sets hers down beside it, patting the stack once, nervously, and surveying the grounds while he carefully takes off his gloves. "I... think we can do it," she says quietly. "It doesn't look like there's much to take care of today."

"With the two of us, there is nothing to worry about," he agrees, grinning at her.

They begin the task as they always do—Bernadetta at the left edge, Ferdinand at the right, so she doesn't have to talk to the people entering and leaving the dining hall. Still, there's the chance that Seteth might come down from his office and try to strike up a conversation, but that's only happened once and Ferdinand was quick to save her.

Luckily, there is no surprise visit from Seteth today. They get the task done quickly and without much conversation, right until the very end, when Bernadetta bumps into him and squeaks out an apology that he waves off with an easy laugh.

She's pulling up the last weed when she stops, its roots dripping earth in her hand, and hastily cleans it, tugging clumps of dirt away from the stem.

"What are you—" Ferdinand starts, but he stops short when she thrusts it at him.

"For you," she says. "I know it's a weed which is probably a stupid gift but it's..." She pauses, examining the tiny bloom in her hand. "It's kind of pretty, right?"

He looks at the flower the way she seems to be, intent and focused, their heads quite literally put together.

"It is," he decides. "Thank you Bernadetta. I will cherish it."

Her face turns bright pink. "You don't have to, it's just a stupid weed, it was dumb to even give it to you, just—just forget I even—"

He takes it from her, gently, and he tucks it behind his ear, ignoring the dregs of soil that scatter over his shoulder. "It is not a 'stupid weed,'" he disagrees.

"There's dirt on your shoulder," she mumbles, and she reaches out to wipe it off. He lets her, and then he stands, securing the dandelion behind his ear and holding out a hand to help her up.

"Now," he says, making his way back over to their belongings and offering an elbow. "Shall we join everybody in the dining hall?"

She hesitates for a moment, then accepts it, looping her arm through his. "Okay," she says, and so they do, and if Ferdinand still has a little dirt on his collar no one says a word about it.

Ferdinand pushes through the door to the courtyard then pauses, puzzled, searching for something to prop it open. Someone could get injured if a door this heavy fell against them.

"Allow me," Seteth says from behind him, a hand joining his own on the door to hold it open. "Thank you, Ferdinand."

"Are you sure?" he asks, watching Seteth wedge a foot against the door.

"Quite, but I thank you for your enthusiasm to aid me." Seteth offers him a smile. Ferdinand, never one to snub even the curtest of greetings, smiles back.

He waits for another moment to make sure Seteth has the door, then he continues on into the courtyard. The weather is beautiful, and he'd like to spend some time studying outside instead of cooped up in his room before the goddess decides to send a storm their way. A change of pace will do him some good, he thinks, so he settles down on a bench nearby and cracks the book he'd borrowed from the library.

He's hardly even started it when a shadow falls over the text.

"Um," Marianne starts. He looks up. "I'm sorry to disturb you. I just..."

She fidgets for a moment, then pulls her hands from behind her back and produces a flower crown. White roses. She must've searched everywhere to find some; the Garland Moon is long over by now.

"I wanted to thank you," she says, not meeting his eyes. "For what you said the other day, about having a purpose."

Ferdinand cocks his head. "I do not need any thanks for that. I only told you the truth."

Marianne shifts her weight. "Still. I thought about it, and I decided that you deserved a better thank you than the one I gave you at the time, so... Here."

He closes the book over his thumb and takes it from her. "Thank you. It's lovely. I am surprised you managed to find enough roses to make this."

Marianne clasps her hands against her skirts and shuffles backwards a bit. "It wasn't that hard..."

Ferdinand properly closes the book and sets it aside, lifting the crown and positioning it with utmost care on his head. "It was hard enough, and that is what matters." He shifts the crown a little, then smiles at her. "Well? How do I look?"

She peeks at him from under her bangs, then thinks better of it and shakes them out of her eyes and lifts her head to see him properly, and then she smiles, so small like she isn't used to how it feels on her face quite yet.

"Radiant."

Linhardt blinks against the sunlight dappled across his eyelids, burning the backs of them an orange too bright to doze through. He twists in annoyance, tucking his head into a hollow between two roots, and the sun shifts down to his cheek. Much better.

He opens his eyes again and, now that the sun is out of his eyes, he can see Ferdinand napping beside him, a green-yellow grass stain on his right knee.

He's still here, Linhardt notes. He's surprised; he didn't think Ferdinand would even be open to the idea of napping here in the first place, much less that he'd sleep so soundly. It was an offhand suggestion, that Ferdinand indulge in a nap just once, just to try it. Of course Ferdinand took it seriously—he takes everything seriously. It would be admirable if it didn't often result in Linhardt on the receiving end of one of his impassioned speeches.

But right now, in the golden haze of sunset, he's quiet, and Linhardt can practically make out each of his delicate flaxen eyelashes where they rest against his cheekbones. He's got long eyelashes, doesn't he, he muses, a hand drifting to the ground between them and tearing up a handful of grass.

...Now he has grass in his hand. Guess he didn't really think that through. Oh well.

He reaches over and puts it on Ferdinand's head, watching it settle in his hair like snow. Like perpetual, unmelting green snow. A yawn bubbles up in his chest and he wipes his hand on his pants, rolling over again and closing his eyes.

When they wake, Ferdinand is baffled by the grass that flutters to the ground when he fixes his hair, and when he looks to Linhardt for an answer all he does is shrug and say, "Strange."

Ferdinand is fixing his hair when there's a knock on his door.

He turns from the hand mirror propped up on his desk and opens it to Lorenz, who is brandishing a red rose. Ferdinand eyes it, then looks to Lorenz with a raised brow.

"For your lapel," he explains, gesturing to the identical one on his own waistcoat. "It wouldn't do for a noble like yourself to show up unadorned to the ball, after all."

"Oh," he says, taking it and carefully putting it on. "Thank you." He looks back to Lorenz, who doesn't move. Ferdinand raises his eyebrows. "Was there... something else you needed?"

Lorenz seems to sincerely consider this for a moment. "No, I don't think so."

"...Right. In that case, would you mind...?" He starts to close the door and Lorenz seems to get the hint.

"Ah, of course. I won't keep you. I will see you in the reception hall." Finally, he leaves, and Ferdinand closes the door after him and sighs.

He's sure Lorenz wanted to accompany him down to the ball, but after some of the... distasteful rumors he's heard regarding his conduct, specifically centered around the women of the academy, Ferdinand just doesn't feel comfortable being around someone so... shameful.

In any case, he's gone now, and he will just have to do his best to dodge him at the ball itself. Speaking of, he realizes, his gaze catching on the sky darkening outside his window, he should be on his way. He straightens his cuffs, smooths down his jacket, and gives himself one last glance in the mirror before heading out.

The night is brisk, so he makes sure the walk is, as well. It wouldn't do if he caught his death out here. The reception hall is alive, bright and buzzing with chatter and music and the clinking of glasses as people mingle.

No sooner has he entered the room than Petra is waving him over to a corner, right next to a table of refreshments. As he moves to join her, he spies Bernadetta and Linhardt nearby, making idle chatter with Dorothea.

Ferdinand's stride falters.

Bernadetta notices, and her distraction prompts Linhardt to say something to Dorothea and he can't even hear them but his face heats nonetheless. Dorothea's hair—glossy under the light of the chandeliers—ripples over her shoulder as she turns to look, and all Ferdinand can do is stand stock-still while those eyes appraise him, snagging on the rose in his lapel before they move along.

"You clean up nice, Ferdie," she says by way of greeting, and something about her tone snaps him out of it.

He clears his throat, straightens his jacket again—more to have something to do with his hands than to actually straighten it—and, pleased, says, "Thank you. You look..." He trails off, his gaze getting caught somewhere around the bridge of her nose, the bow of her lips, the earrings only just brushing her bare shoulders.

"Hmm?" she asks, a teasing lilt to her tone, and suddenly she's much closer. Ferdinand swallows. "I look...?"

"Beautiful," he finishes, and she blinks. And backs up.

"Oh," she says, almost like she wasn't expecting him to say it. "I... Thank you."

An idea strikes him, and he pulls the rose from his lapel and offers it to her. She eyes it, then him, and he expects her to wave it away, turn her nose up at it, but after a moment she takes it, lifts it to her nose, and smiles.

"How sweet," she says, and Ferdinand can't help but smile back.