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Raphael never thought that marriage was in the cards. Ever. Not for a second. 

But someone is kneeling before him with a ring, asking for his hand.

And it is Bernadetta von Varley no less. Esteemed writer and artist, a formidable politician and rhetorician (after much training), and a beauty beyond compare. But before all that, his friend. His ally.

Bernadetta von Varley is asking for his hand in marriage. 

The knight looks down at her in shock, her pink lips parted. Her dress getting dirty from the study room floor, which he realizes has been cleaned for the first time in ages.

He senses her confidence waning, all that bravado slipping from her grasp. “R-Raphael?” Her voice comes out as a clipped whisper. 

He’s never thought of marriage before, despite being with her for close to seven years. And here is Bernadetta, asking for him to be her husband. To walk the land with him by her side. To smile before court and say, ‘yes, this is my husband, Raphael von Varley.’ To maybe wake up, being prodded by children, exhausted and greying but nevertheless happy. 

“Marry me.” Her words are clear and ring through his head at a painful volume.

Confident, kind, resolute Raphael Kirsten falters a little. Marriage. She wants to marry him. She got the courage up to go into town, to visit the artisan, to say “I need this one”, and point out the ring she holds in her hand.

“You want me to marry you.” He says quietly, the study becoming unbearable.

Bernadetta, face paling, nods. “Y-Yes.”

She’s crumbling beneath herself. He couldn’t bring himself to hurt her. But voicing his own well-hidden self-doubts, his insecurities and worries is too much to put upon her. 

So, Raphael does the kindest thing he can do.

“I… I don’t have an answer.” He says quietly. Not a yes, not a no, not even a maybe. A question mark, hanging between the two of them, the unknown.

Bernadetta’s lashes flutter, her eyes glassy. He curses himself for making her cry. She nods, then begins to get up from her knees. Raphael stoops down, offering his hand in the sweet, kind way that makes the poor countess fall harder for him.

Those long lashes flutter again. She takes his hand, holds it close to herself, eyes shutting. He feels her let out a shaky breath. 

“I r-respect your de-decision.”

“It’s not a decision.” He says quickly. “It’s an indecision.”

She looks like she’s about to cry. She forces a smile, wearing her waning bravery like a gold medal. “T-Take as much time as you need. Please.” She whispers. 

“Yes. I will.” He responds.

He meets his gaze for a split second, caught in that stormy grey sea gaze. His heart pounds, his face growing hot. Bernadetta, bravado bolstering, does not drop his hand. “K-Keep it. Just to um…”

Give me hope. Her unsaid words linger in the air.

He nods, glancing at the ring. “Of course.” 

The countess breaks away suddenly. “I… Uhm. Have to get to bed. Lots to do tomorrow.”

Please go and spare my wounded ego. Her unsaid words whisper on the clean furniture.

He nods again, releasing her hands. “Of course. Rest well, Bernie.”

She gives him a tight smile and Raphael leaves. Shutting the door behind him, he hears her great chair scrape against the ground, then a slam and a stilted sob.

Raphael’s parents married young. They told the story a lot and often around their table, much to the annoyance of an impatient Maya.

His father saw his mother at an auction. She outbid him on an old candelabra, much to his annoyance, only for her to come back around offering to sell it at double the price. They battled each other through auctions all over Leicester until one day, they both lost a bidding war for an antique sword. 

They went out for a meal after that, and that was it.

(Hence, why Raphael thinks one’s life can change over a shared meal.)

So they got together, started the Kirsten Merchant Company selling wares and goods to everyone in the Alliance. Then Raphael came along, and a few years later, Maya followed.

He doesn’t doubt that their marriage wasn’t hard. A business stresses relationships beyond compare, especially when one’s business partner is also their bedmate. They bickered a lot, they quarrelled, but they also loved each other deeply. 

Raphael distinctly remembers his mother insisting on purchasing an old cask from the local tavern and having Raphael help haul it home. He thought it was a silly purchase, but his father’s face lit up when he saw it. He never learnt the value, only that his father proclaimed that his mother was too wonderful for a fool like him.

He wonders if they would have liked Bernie. She’d probably impressed his mother, who had a little bit of a competitive streak, and would have gotten along great with his father who would find her grace and laugh undeniably sweet.

Raphael is also sure that her handsome dowry and plump inheritance would be just as surprising as the outgoing, authoritative countess who caught his heart.

He turns the ring over in his hands. It’s the middle of the night, his bed stifling hot, his mind playing horrible tricks on him whenever he tries to drift off to sleep. A cursed wedding bed. A fork in the road with monsters and natural disasters lingering. A bachelor and his bride, torn apart by fate’s cruel whims.

His thumb runs over the hammered exterior, the inside smoothed to a finish. It’s been polished to a shine, glimmering even in the dying candlelight.

Raphael lifts it to his own ring finger, beginning to slip it on. It fits perfectly—of course, Bernie is so smart and cunning, and would obviously taken his measurements in some covert way—and feels—

It feels—

Wrong.

He pulls off the ring, casting it into his sheets. He cards a hand through his hair.

Bernadetta von Varley wants to marry him. And he doesn’t know what to say.

In reality, Raphael should have seen this coming. It was so very obvious, looking back upon it.

They left Varley to come see Dorothea perform an opera, a rare feat with her impending marriage to a certain Margrave, which will take her north with the wind. There were also mentions of minor meetings and gatherings with the Emperor and other ministers, but nothing super gratuitous or outward that would have given Bernadetta’s plot away.

But if he had have really been paying attention, he would have noticed how jumpy Bernadetta had become around him. The secret letters exchanged between her and the jeweller in the far off capital city of Varley, begging him to make the ring just a smidge bigger for weeks ongoing. A run to the door when the messenger came, a whispered lie that the box in her hand was a gift from Petra, and not the ring she’d been painstakingly making for the last few months.

Removing the fact that the two had been together for almost five years, a proposal seems so sudden. A slow, calm relationship, all on Bernadetta’s terms: backing off when she needed, going further when she wanted, stagnant if she asked for it. Easy going Raphael has never had an issue with following Bernadetta’s lead, lifting her up when needed, helping her, loving her, being by her side…

But marriage seems so foreign. 

It’s not the shift of his meagre assets and her fat inheritance. It’s not the permanent move from Leicester to Adrestia, or less time going back home to his grandparents and Maya. It’s not that he would soon become Mister Varley, consort to the Countess von Varley. Maybe no longer a captain, maybe no longer friendly approachable Raphael—

No. Bernadetta isn’t like that. He isn’t like that. He’s sure she’d bend the rules for him. 

But bending the rules comes at a price. It comes with consequences that will follow him and her—namely her—with sharp whispers and bitter gazes. And quickly, Raphael begins to wonder if the price is worth the payoff. 

He begins to wonder if he is worth it all.

In truth, there’s very little business for the countess to attend to in Enbarr. A few meetings with the Prime Minister about how Varley wishes to move forwards with the church, if there is any hope in repairing such a tattered relationship. Then, questions of whether should Countess Varley continue assisting Count Hevring with the judiciary. Other issues seem minor outside the county—like the fallow fields and inclement wind storms that are ruining crops—are not called upon by Duke Aegir.

Raphael realizes that the day before was the heavy stuff. A primer. Meeting the Duke to discuss tiny little Varley territory. A greeting to the diplomats of Dagda and Brigid. Lunch with the Emperor, where Bernadetta glowed like the new-born moon and carried herself like the authoritative, outgoing leader she’s become. Showing him happily around the city, more so exploring it with wide-eyes as she had never the luxury to walk more than a foot beyond her keeper’s embrace.

And then, the proposal in the study, overlooking the bustling city of Enbarr. 

He replays the moment in his mind over and over. She suggested, with effortless grace, that they take dessert in the study. The cart was wheeled in, they exchanged pleasant chatter about Duke Aegir, Count Hevring and his lovely partner Margravine Edmund—which Raphael spoke Birdese with in the courtyard while Bernadetta, Ferdinand and a sleepy Linhardt grappled topics of political intrigue. She gazed at him cautiously from beneath her lashes, such a dangerous look he only saw in darkened chambers. 

And then, when he thought it was time for their evening walk, she took his hand and got down on her knees, that sweet, too-perfect plea escaping her lips as she looked up at him with a ring in her small hands.

“Raphael, I… I love you. Will you marry me? Please?”

He realizes that Bernadetta had planned this as if her plot was infallible, that he would say yes. Such a realization makes breakfast rather unbearable.

“Raph, you haven’t touched your meal.” 

Her voice pulls him from his muddy thoughts. His vision focuses on the plate, the bright-yellow egg yolks harden with the passing moments. There’s a mountain of shredded and spiced potatoes, some freshly sliced pork belly—and at Bernadetta’s insistence—a bowl of fresh berries from the fruitful garden. 

“Did Marguerite not prepare them how you like?” She asks cautiously. “I can ask her to t-try again.”

That stutter. He shakes his head quickly. “No, they’re fine Bernie. Promise.” He smiles a little, trying to assure he’s okay.

Her grey eyes meet his just for a second. “I’m going shopping with Dorothea before her performance. Hopefully going to get something nice to wear.”

He begins to chew his lip, an old nervous habit from when he was a child. “You’d look beautiful in rags,” he tells her, and she smiles a little. 

“What plans do you have today?” She asks, lifting the napkin to her lips.

He shrugs. “Nothing much.” His brow knits a little. “Could I use the field to train?”

“Sure. Just watch out for the plants.” She pushes herself up on the table and leans across her plate, presses a trembling kiss to his forehead. “Don’t forget, opera tonight.”

He holds her wrist tenderly. “Got it.” He murmurs, still drunk with his worries and thoughts.

The rest of breakfast passes in silence. They part, going their separate ways: Bernadetta to the carriage at the front door, and Raphael to the back of the scullery, and out to the garden.

He doesn’t remember how long he spends out there. A blurry mind and fuzzy eyes take over as he works himself into exhaustion. Reps and stretches overtake the worries of if he’d make a good husband, is this the right move, how will things change.

The city of Enbarr very rarely sees snow, and when it does, it only lasts for seconds before turning to rain. But that doesn’t discount the cold winds that blow through the city, nor does it stop Bernadetta from donning a mink coat and scarf to keep her warm on the way to the Mittelfrank Opera House.

She tugged on his arm as they were leaving. “Come on Raph, it’s cold out there.” She said, insisting that he throw on another layer.

He had been sweating like a sinner in church since the night before. Constant clammy hands, slick socks and shirt, the works. Raphael had woke with the sheets tangled around his legs that morning and even with the chilly promise of winter, he sweat and sweat. Nervousness became him. 

Bernadetta, however, wore her emotions skillfully, like an ornate mask. Remaining calm and cool as if she had not just been turned down, Raphael was in awe of her chill, wondering how much of the confidence training she had learnt from him, and how much she had mastered herself.

That, and how beautiful she looked. In town she had found a gown appropriate enough to wear to the opera. She took it in herself, as it was a size too big upon purchase, shutting herself in her study to work on it that afternoon.

It was a soft lilac colour, same as her hair, with gold threading on the bodice. Golden earrings hung from her ears, a matching choker around her neck, and a clip, holding her hair in an ornate up-do. Not for the first time, Raphael wondered how such a beautiful woman could want someone so plain like him. 

The carriage grinds to a stop before the opera house, a poster outside showing a marvellous illustration of Dorothea Arnault, the Lady of the Camellias. The cover-up reason they had left Varley County and came here for a weekend away. 

He senses Bernadetta’s sudden timidity in the velvet carriage, the curtains drawn for privacy. Gathering the remnants of his own fragile courage, he touches her shoulder. 

“It’s going to be fine,” Raphael assures her as the carriage stops, the words meant to comfort him too. 

“You’re sure no one will notice?” She asks, blushing hard. She quickly adds, “That I’m so…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, instead her face turning a light shade of pink.

“Nervous?” He supplies. She gratefully nods and Raphael shakes his head. “No, not at all. If you think you’re confident, you will be confident.”

After all, it’s all an illusion of bravado. And despite his own nerves, he knows that if he does his best to be brave, he will look brave.

He playfully bumps his shoulder against hers and she blushes very hard. He realizes then, that this would be the first time they would be seen before the social courts of Adrestia. It is one thing for him to escort her as Captain Kirsten at a private ball held by Duke Aegir, but it is another thing for him to follow her out of a carriage before a sea of other opera-goers. Especially when Countess Varley has a penchant for avoiding public outings outside her county. 

Worse, it is well-known that she passes up invitations to balls and dances from outside old Adrestia. Even formal dinners at the Emperor’s estate and knighting ceremonies in the north of former Faerghus have been forgone to throw herself into repairing Varley and cleaning up the Empire’s relationship with the church. The last formal event she attended—with him in tow—was the visit to Garreg Mach Monastery, following it’s restoration from the war.

The carriage jolts, the horses whinnying outside. It seems an extravagant gesture, since the Enbarr Varley estate is only a few moments’ walk from the theatre, but appearances mean quite a bit for Dorothea, so they abide. 

The cold seeps through the curtains of the carriage, not bothering Raphael much. Leicester’s temperatures varied, and his hometown regularly saw snow. And with his nerves, he welcomes the cold, doing a small modicum to calm his frazzled nerves. He glances beside himself, Bernadetta shaking in her seat.

Varley never gets snow. Several years there, and he’s only seen a small dusting—when she proclaimed it a miracle and ran out to twirl in it for a moment before the dry lands soaked it all up.

(She caught a cold less than a day later, and of course, he waited on her, hand and foot; he does it every time she feels the slightest bit under the weather.)

Around her neck is a large, red scarf that makes the rouge on her cheeks look ruddier and threatens to smear her carefully-applied lipstick.

“Ready?” Raphael says. His hand slips from hers. She gropes back for it.

The logical part of him says that if he holds her hand, a scandal will brew. Sure, noble-commoner relationships are becoming more common, given the abolition of the Crests and overhaul of the class system. The star tonight was once a street urchin and will soon be the future Margravine of Gautier, and Raphael has heard tales of even the great Lorenz Hellman Gloucester falling hard for a broke mercenary, the daughter of a hunter from a tiny village.

But those are other people. And while Raphael himself can ignore the words and the whispers, he worries for Bernadetta.

When he was first brought on to act as captain of the Varley Knights, there had been rumours that he only got the job because Bernadetta was caught up in personal relationships, rather than selecting someone truly worthy.

He squashed that easily. He invited anyone who thought he wasn’t worthy of the position to brawl with him; he bested them all. And then he took the losers out for a meal where they talked out their differences.

“Iloveyou.” She says way too quickly, mumbling into her scarf. Her lipstick smudges against the scarf.

His heart clenches. It’s not the first time she’s said that, but every time gets a little more special. Silly how some people think saying ‘I love you’ depletes the phrase’s meaning. 

Thinking he didn’t hear, she says it again, just as quickly, but a little louder. “I love you,”

It catches him again. She loves him. Talented, beautiful, smart, kindhearted Bernadetta von Varley loves him. 

“I love you!” She says too loudly this time, certain that the excited patrons of Mittelfrank and waiting dignitaries outside have heard her.

Raphael blushes bright red. Years of being together, and he still feels like it’s the first time she’s saying it. “I love you too, Bernie.” He says softly. 

The countess smiles brightly, her cheeks bright red from the rouge and a blush. 

“Are you ready?” He asks.

She nods, renewing herself with that newfound confidence. “If I think it, I will be it.” She whispers. 

She whispers his rhymes. His heart thunders harder.

The door opens, the footman helping Bernadetta out first, then making as much room as he can for Raphael to step out. 

Like a gentleman—a true escort—he offers Bernadetta his elbow. She takes it with a nervous little smile, her gloved hand curling around his bicep. Her touch is electrifying, sending a shock down his spine.

Lanterns line the steps up to the opera house in a beautiful golden glow. An attendant meets them and ushers them towards the doors.  

Then, in a moment of courage or fear, Bernadetta’s hand drops to his.

He glances down to her and she gives him another smile. Her fingers lace between his, closing around the back of his hand. 

He feels invincible with her. And then, horribly, cruelly, he remembers the chain around his neck, the ring on his chest, and the unanswered question between them.

“Lady Varley?” 

She tears her eyes from him, the attendant taking her big coat and scarf, revealing the gorgeous gown beneath and the shawl that slips around her arms.

“Captain?” 

He looks away as another attendant takes his cloak, and then looks back to her. Another second looking away from her is a moment wasted. 

I’m in love with her. He thinks over and over as she takes his hand again and they mingle effortlessly with the crowds of Mittelfrank. Under her breath, Raphael can hear Bernadetta whisper if ‘I think it, I will be it’, over and over. In his mind, he thinks, hopelessly, I’m in love with her and she wants to marry me.

An usher leads them to their seats, a small private box belonging to a certain margrave, who greets them with a flirty smile and happy greetings. They settle into small talk about Gautier and Varley, about her latest manuscript, about Dorothea. 

The lights go down. Bernadetta’s hand reaches for his once more and doesn’t let go for the entire performance.

The honeyed voice of Dorothea Arnault rings out with the same clarity that it had back at the monastery. Raphael had had the privilege of hearing Dorothea sing outside the opera a few times, and while he isn’t a big arts guy, he can appreciate a beautiful voice when he hears it.

(Bernadetta has sung for him a few times. Soft little lullabies in her tinny, faint voice, and while he adores those, Dorothea can bang out notes and carry a three-hour show on her back in high heels without breaking a sweat.)

However, tonight, his mind is so terribly clouded with Bernadetta. Below, Dorothea struts across the stage in an immaculate costume, her lashes a mile long and makeup superbly applied. His eyes keep flickering to her. The beautiful, confident Bernadetta, her eyes focused on her friend, his handkerchief brought to her glassy eyes while her other hand clutches onto his. 

Raphael, however, isn’t enthralled by the plot. Nor is he pulled into the songstress’s performance—meaning no offence to her talent—but his mind is stuck in the study from the other day.

Will you marry me? Bernadetta in his mind asks over and over. 

I don’t know, he says in his mind, over and over. 

In the dark of the opera box, he brings his hand to his neck, running down his chest and stopping at his sternum. The ring circles around his neck, beneath that silly cravat, the jacket and shirt that Bernadetta had insisted taking measurements for and staying up late tailoring. 

The ring he’s unable to wear. 

He glances past Bernadetta for a second, then to the margrave beside her, who looks on with glassy eyes. A ring rests on his left hand, and suddenly Raphael remembers Bernadetta mentioning his impending marriage to a certain songstress. 

Raphael had not expected for the dressing room, especially one in an opera house, to be so quiet. But then again, it is a quiet Tuesday night, and while Raphael is no fan of high art, he knows that typically, big events are reserved for the weekend.

That, and he had asked ahead if there was a good time for him to stop by, and Dorothea had told him it would be okay to drop by before she left for the night. 

Aside from the unbearable quiet of the dressing room, he’s much too large for it. It’s meant for no more than two people of slim build, not for a man who lifts rocks as training and for one as tall as him. He had to duck his head to enter. He barely fits on the chaise, the cushion too small for his rear, but he manages his best. A voice in the back of his head reminds him to sit up straight, hands in his lap, all those important manners he neglects in favour of a full conscience and mind of questions.

He hears Dorothea’s heavenly voice float in from the private bathroom, just off the side. The soft lilt fills the room, probably a wind down from the day of practice. 

His hand runs over the little lump on his neck, beneath his shirt and tie. He steels himself. While he’s never had any reason to sit down with gorgeous, talented Dorothea Arnault—the opera star and the future margravine of Gautier—it doesn’t mean he isn’t a little rattled having to speak to her.

Under normal circumstances, he’d be his usual jovial, happy self. However, these are not normal circumstances. For one, a few days ago Bernadetta asked him to marry her and he didn’t have an answer. Secondly, Bernadetta and Dorothea are close. Like, crying until they’re snotty faced, waking up bleary-eyed huddled together—‘I’ve seen things that others haven’t’—close. Raphael wouldn’t be bold to call them best friends. And thinking logically, Bernadetta would have told Dorothea that she was planning to propose.  

Dorothea flutters in from the bathroom like a rose petal on the wind and suddenly Raphael rises. She bats a hand in his direction. “Oh come Raphie, it’s fine.” She says, voice sweet and syrupy. “No need to stand on ceremony.”

(Bernadetta is the only one who calls him Raphie. But he supposes he’ll let it slide for Dorothea, given how close she is with Bernadetta.)

“Thanks Dorothea.” He offers a smile as she takes a seat at the vanity, just across from the chaise. She turns to face him.

“So,” Dorothea says, crossing one leg over the other. “To what do I owe the pleasure? Usually, we only speak when Bern is around.”

He takes a deep breath, thinking to himself that there’s no use in keeping secrets from someone who already knows. His hand slips beneath his coat, under his shirt and pulls out the chain, the ring dangling in the middle. He lifts it from around his neck, and holds it out to her. He tied it onto a chain, unable to wear it, too scared to tuck it into a pocket and possibly lose it on the busy Enbarr streets, and certainly won’t leave it in the drawer of his armoire.

Dorothea’s brows knit together, her painted lips parting. Her lashes flutter up to him as realization dawns upon her. “Raph, are you going to propose to Bern?” She gasps.

He shakes his head, that sour feeling in his stomach making him cringe again. “She beat me to it.”

Dorothea gasps, a wild, happy smile crossing her lips. “That’s—Oh that’s great news!” She leans forward, throwing her arms around his neck, the scent of her heavy rose perfume flooding his nostrils. “I never expected that she’d, you know, propose! I always thought it would be you doing that.” She claps her hands together, hopping up from the vanity stool with a happy sigh. “Oh Goddess, this is so exciting. I think I may need a drink to calm my nerves.”

She didn’t know. 

About the plan. About the proposal. His stomach twists up in knots, guilt ghosting over him. Bernadetta had kept it all to herself, for Sothis-knows how long. Brave, excited, confident Bernie, locking such a big secret up for so long. 

Dorothea is halfway across the small room before she notices his silence, then the way his brow has taken to knitting together. “Raphie,” she says, stopping in her tracks. Her gaze searches his face for a giveaway. “You did say yes, right?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” He says quietly.

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. For a second, he worries that Dorothea will turn into the protector that Bernadetta had spoken of under covers in a hushed voice.

“She said she’d break a man’s arm if he ever hurt her… or me.” Bernadetta had confided, once, long ago. 

A vivid memory from the battlefield returns to him just then. They’d been sent out to deal with an encroaching enemy up to the monastery. He remembered his hand-axe had broken, the hilt coming free from the blade. No gauntlets, nothing else. He prepared to fight unarmed, preparing for the pain to roll through his hands for days to come.

And then, Dorothea had transformed from the polite, well-mannered friend he had seen Bernadetta with, into a soldier. The wind flew, the air grew hotter and thick with smoke as she called forth a meteor, bringing it straight down on the enemy. 

He remembered her ash-covered hands coming to rest on his shoulder, her grasp tight; the gravity in her voice as she told him they’d be okay for a while. The exhaustion from calling forth such a powerful spell.

Suddenly Raphael worries for the sake of his right arm.

Dorothea moves a few bottles from the top of a trunk, glancing at the labels. Lifting the lid, he’s greeted with the sight of a menagerie of liquor.  “What do you drink?” She asks quietly.

“I don’t.” He says, saving the spiel about respecting the tank. 

Dorothea’s jade eyes meet his, her gaze hardened and hurt. “Respectfully, Raphael, you look like you’re about to pass out from nerves.” She says.

He swallows hard. “Gin.” 

“Of course it’s gin.” She mutters to herself, plucking a beautifully etched bottle from the trunk and pouring a small amount into one glass, and then a headier portion into the other. She holds the lighter glass to him, clinks his glass. “L’chaim.” 

“La… hey am?” The words thicken in his mouth, falling off his tongue in a most ridiculous way. 

Dorothea sits beside him, the chaise groaning in protest with their combined weight. She cards a hand through her brown waves. “Will I have to try to remember my spells?” She threatens with a not-so-pleasant smile.

Raphael shakes his head. “Dorothea, I would never want to hurt Bernie.” He insists. “You know that.”

Dorothea takes a sip of her drink, cringing at the taste. “I remember why I don’t touch this stuff.” She looks at him. “So why did you say no?”

“I didn’t!” He says. He sets down the drink on the floor. “I just… I fumbled I guess. I said I didn’t know.”

“Raphie,” she looks as if she’s about to scold him. Her anger subsides for a moment, carefully choosing her next words. “To a person like Bern, it can be the exact same as saying no.”

His stomachache only worsens. “I honestly think she took it okay.”

“She did show up to the show on Sunday night, which was good.” She takes another sip of her drink. Her tone becomes strained, doing her best to sound neutral. “But you know how she can be. She’s sensitive.”

“Believe me Dorothea, I haven’t been sleeping great.”

She turns to face him fully. “What’s the problem then?”

He lets out a sigh. “I love Bernie, you know that, I know that, she knows that. But marriage is a big step.” He says. “It wouldn’t just be me anymore.”

Dorothea stays quiet for a moment, eyes downcast to the knotted floor. “So where do I come into the conversation?” She asks. “You’re not going to ask me to sit down and act as mediator, are you?”

“No.” He says. “And I don’t want to pry but… Bernie did mention that you’d been proposed to a lot in your lifetime. I just wanted to get your opinion.”

“On proposals?”

“On marriage.” He insists. 

She lets out another sigh, taking a sip from her drink. An icy silence fills the tiny dressing room as Raphael stares at Dorothea, hoping she has the right words to give him the strength he so desperately lacks.

“My own version is skewed.” She says simply. “My mother was a lady in waiting, had an affair with a nobleman and was turned out of the house while she was pregnant with me. She never married.” 

He holds her gaze as she takes another sip. “When I came here,” her lashes flutter as she looks around her crumbling dressing room, strewn with costumes and makeup and finery. “Men tripped over themselves to propose to me. Gifts and flattery and promises of comfort and luxuries. But that wasn’t love.”

“And you were searching for it.” He suggests.

She nods.

“And… okay, you can remember your spells if this offends you…” He says, looking at her cautiously. “But you said yes to Sylvain. Why?” Lower he adds, “What did he do to make you say yes?”

She smiles a little, her entire body glowing. “He finally said the right thing for once.” 

Raphael smiles a little before the singer snaps back to the present. “But why do you want my opinion Raphael?” She says. “You’d make a great husband, so kind and attentive. Bern is head over heels for you.” The singer frowns. “Last time she was in Enbarr, I could barely get a word out of her that didn’t have you attached to it.”

He stares hard into his drink. “I just want to make sure I’m making the right decision for the both of us.”

“Both?” She tense a little, that anger coming back.

“I love her, Dorothea.” He insists. “I really do. If I didn’t, would I be here now?”

He watches as she eases back on the chaise. She nods, encouraging him to go on.

“It’s… It’s not just me. It’s Bernie too.” His heart thunders in his chest. “I’m common, she’s noble. She’s an Adrestian countess, I’m a common man from Leicester. She’s my employer and I work for her. I could mess up a lot for her. And I don’t know how I could live with myself if I did that…. If I hurt her.”

Dorothea’s features soften. His head tips, a sigh escaping his lips. 

“Raphie,” she says gently. He looks up, Dorothea reaches for his hand. “I know Bern. She wouldn’t ask you to marry her if she wasn’t one-hundred percent sure it was what she wanted.” 

Her hand is so small in his, but feels wrong. No one else’s hand fits as perfectly in his hand as Bernadetta’s. 

“So, the more apt question to ask is,” She asks. “What do you want, Raphael?”

Her eyes meet his with concern and condemnation, reminding him once more that while she likes him, her dedication to Bernadetta runs deep and close to her devoted heart.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I want her.” He says plainly, then reaches down and throws back his gin. It burns his throat with its bitter juniper taste, making his head swim momentarily. “But I don’t want her to risk all this for me.”

“Not Bern.” Dorothea says, a long finger poking his chest. “Do you really think she’d propose if she wasn’t ready for the risk?” 

She picks the ring up from the plush chaise. “She understands all the consequences. She knows what she wants.” Dorothea says. “Bernadetta is certain, so don’t worry about her status or any whispers in the hallway.”

His brow knits in thought. 

“I think the real question is do you trust her to take that risk?” Dorothea asks, pausing for a second. “I said no to all those other suitors because they wanted a pretty face and lovely voice to trod around.” She says, her voice lowering in volume. “They didn’t want my scars and bruises. The ugly parts.”

He thinks briefly about all the times Bernadetta has come to him when he’s been less than presentable. After sparring, sweaty and exhausted. After getting a letter from Maya, tears in his eyes. The anniversary of his parents’ death, always a hard day, when she refuses to leave his side and takes him to parliament with her to distract him. When she stood before a ballroom of people she never met before and said that they were attending together, a fact that even made him wilt. 

All that training. Several years of hard work, breaking down walls with loving patience, with tender care. And beneath the stone and iron hid the authoritative, outgoing Countess Bernadetta von Varley.

For all those years, she had been alone. And now, on her own terms, grappling her own trauma and demons—besting them—she came to the realization that she wanted to marry.

Raphael Kirsten never thought he would marry. It was never in the cards. He’d always be something before a husband—a brother, a caregiver, a knight—but patience and kindness incarnate in Bernadetta, who wants the ugly parts of him, who wants to be with him.

He feels her even now, with that patience, that kindness, that love, breaking through the invisible walls around him, the walls which he thought would lead him to life alone, crumble.

The words are on his tongue. Apprehension, an irrational fear that somehow, someway a similar accident, or an illness, or something worse would tear him from Bernadetta. The familiar old habit of chewing his lip resurfaces, and Dorothea notices, thanks to a mumbled anecdote from Bernadetta sometime ago.

Dorothea’s hand squeezes his, her intuition sharp as a sword. “Raphael,” she says his name so softly. “Tell Bern.”

His brow furrows, not having said a word to her. 

“I don’t know what’s troubling you, and honestly, I can’t ever know.” She says. “But swallowing things down does no good. Just talk to her.”

“I don’t want to scare her. You know how she worries.”

“And she knows how you swallow it all down.” She says firmly. “You don’t know what’s going through Bernadetta’s head. Maybe she knows something you don’t. Maybe she can say the right thing to make it all better.”

He stays quiet for a moment too long, processing that the skilled writer and poet he’d fallen for, might have the right words to kill his fears. If only she could find them, he could listen.

“You love her, right?” Dorothea asks.

He nods quickly, firmly. “Yes. More than anything.” 

Dorothea’s hand cups his cheek and he turns to her. She smiles, a radiant thing, and holds the ring up to his eyes. “Then I guess you have your answer,” smiling, she adds, “Mister Varley.”

“He should be back by now, shouldn’t he?”

Bernadetta steals a glance up to the window of her study. The maid, Josephine, nods as she cleans up from the countess’s visit with a certain margrave, where he gassed her up and gave her almost three years of proposing pointers. 

“Yes. He should be.” Bernadetta says as she looks back to her knitting.

“I hope he hasn’t forgotten the way back.” The maid muses nervously.

“He will be fine.” She says. “He is smarter than he looks.”

“I can send Micah out if need be.” Josephine offers, setting the tea set before her.

“N-No. He wouldn’t want anyone to trouble themselves.” 

The countess nervously knits her way through a blanket that’s three sizes larger than the usual dimensions, mumbling words to herself. Words that could make it better. Praying to a dead goddess and saints that never existed, that she could make it better. 

“It’s not what Raphael would want.” Bernadetta mumbles at the maid looks on at her with concern.

Bernadetta waits up bleary eyed, knitting until he comes home. When he does arrive, she looks up and meets the eyes of the man she’s asked to marry, and worry attacks her.

The words slip from his lips before he can assess their weight. “We need to talk.”

Those huge wide eyes stare at him, worried and relentless. She nods slowly, her entire being tensing up like a coil.

Raphael’s hands tremble ever-so-slightly. He lifts the collar of his coat, which he forgot to hand off to the butler before coming inside, too focused on getting to her to remember that. He reaches underneath his shirt, pulling the chain from around his neck and sets it on the desk with a gentle sound.

Her eyes immediately begin to water. Neither one says a word for a second, the study as still as it was when she knelt before him and asked for his hand. 

“I’m not saying no.” Raphael says.

Bernadetta lets her breath go. Her whole body easing at last. Her hands draw to her chest in relief. 

“I just…” He pauses. “I think we need to talk this out. It’s a big step.”

She nods cautiously. “Okay. That’s fair.” Her voice goes quiet for a moment. “Wh-What did you want to discuss?”

It sounds silly now, to mention his parents and their death. For whatever foolish reason—be it nerves or the gin—he kept thinking of them as he spoke with Dorothea. The point of the matter is that he loves Bernadetta with all his heart and that’s all that matters. It just seems like a distraction tactic now, a takeaway from the big problem of her proposal.

“I went to see Dorothea.” He says, sitting down on the sofa beside her. 

She turns to face him, her eyes still wide. “And?”

“I asked her point of view on marriage.” Raphael murmurs. “I just wanted to see it from an unbiased point of view.”

His hand meets hers, the countess sitting up straight. “N-Not that I’m not crazy about you just… I need to step out of my head for a minute.” 

She nods. “I understand, and I’m not mad.” She offers a comforting little smile. “A-Actually, Dorothea was probably the best person to ask.” 

Her face falls. “Though I for-forget to t-tell her…” she cringes.

Raphael sighs. “Yeah, I… learnt that the hard way.”

“Oh, Raphael, I’m sorry.” She collapses in on herself. “I shouldn’t have asked you on the spot, I just—”

His hand meets hers. “No, it’s okay Bernie.” He assures her. “It’s okay.”

Her eyes meet his. “S-Sorry…”

“I just… Dorothea made me realize that I do want to marry you.”

Her eyes brighten. “You do?”

“Yes, but… I was worried about my parents—”

Her brow knit. “Raph, I thought you accepted what happened?”

“I did. I mean, I do.” He sighs. “I just worry about it sometimes. I never saw myself as a husband, so it’s just a minor worry now.”

“Dying?”

“It’s not even that. It’s not going to happen, things are different now.” He says gingerly. “But I just… I was wondering why would want to marry me.”

She pauses, swallows hard. “Because I love you.” She answers simply.

“It’s… It’s a lot more than that, right?” He says. “The weight of marriage is different for us.” 

“H-How so?” Bernadetta asks.

“Your house is Fódlan’s reunifier with the church. Wealthy too.” He says. “You should be marrying someone who can give you more.”

Her brow furrows.

“What do you gain from marrying me?”

“Love.” She answers sharply. “I get love from you. And confidence. Kindness. Appreciation. Love. I get love. R-Real love.”

He stops. 

“You…. You do love me, right?” 

He nods. “More than anything.” He says. “But Bernie… you can do better than me—”

“I don’t want to do any more than you.” She says firmly, with the confidence of a countess. She takes his face in her hands. “Don’t you see? You’re the only one I want.” 

“You want a common man, with little money to his name.”

“No. I want you.” She says firmly. “Do I have to spell it out for you? Because I will.”

Before he can answer, the countess runs back to her desk, pulling a piece of paper from the drawer and a piece of graphite. She leans over onto the coffee table, scribbling down every single minute thing he has done for her. 

“You got me out of my room. You showed me that not every person is bad. That people care. You made me into this leader, Raphael. That’s you.” She says, looking up at him. “I want to be around that all the time.”

“I want to wake up next to you. I want to make Varley a better place with you. I don’t know, maybe even have a child with you.” She meets his eyes, a flame burning inside them. “I want you. And I won’t take no for an answer. I have time and patience and Sylvain’s instructions on how to wear someone down. I will wait until you finally say yes.”

He holds her gaze, the fierce, strong, confident Countess Varley he’s helped create stands before him. Her eyes are glassy with tears, but this time they are not of fear or anger. They’re of determination.

“Marry me, Raphael Kirsten.” She says at last, with the determination that’s always lied beneath the anxiety.

He lifts a hand to his neck, and pulls the chain from beneath his shirt. It dangles, then he lifts it from around his head and breaks the chain, the ring falling off and into his hand. From his pocket, he pulls out his Mother’s wedding band and holds it out to her.

From his lips falls the sweetest word. “Yes.”

Bernadetta chokes on a sob, then bolts straight into his arms.

“Looks like I’ve got an authoritative leader as a wife.” He says, his voice voice wet with tears.

She smiles, still crying happily. “And I’ve a very muscular husband.”