Chapter Text
If Raphael Kirsten believes in one thing, it’s the power of sharing a meal.
It may sound silly, foolish or dumb even, but he sincerely believes in the power of sharing a meal with someone. It can change the course of their day, their week, month, or even their life. He’s met some of his greatest allies over a pot of ragout and crusts of breads, shared secrets and stories hidden in plates of fried pheasant and exchanged smiles with plain strangers over steaming cups of apple cider and braised pork tenderloin.
“Y-You want to go have a meal?” Bernadetta’s voice comes out as a pinched squeak. Her face is bright red, her brow knit together. “With me?”
“Well, I could go out with the other Varley Knights,” he says, offering her a comfortable smile. “But I thought it would be nicer if it was just you and me.”
Her face turns redder, her eyes widening. “I-Is this apart of my training?” She asks, sounding desperate. “Am I going to have to get up and sing the Adrestian anthem, or talk to the burly scary men at the bar, or, or, or order my own meal?”
“I’d hope you’d do the last one, but I can do that for you.” He offers gently.
“So it’s not part of my training?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. I just thought it would be nice to dine out instead of taking another meal in.” He says before adding. “No disrespect to your chef. He’s talented, but I just thought it would be good for your people to see you in a casual light.”
Bernadetta’s brow knits tightly.
“Besides, I think it’s the best way to get to know someone, especially if you’re attentive.”
She goes bright red. For a second, she pauses, her brow once more knit in deliberation. “Do I have to dress up?”
“I’m not going to.”
“And you promise that there won’t be any humiliating training rituals?”
“Cross my heart.”
Bernadetta adorably chews her lip. Her eyes flicker over the mountain of paperwork that crests her desk. “Okay, I’ll go with you.”
Raphael feels his heart skip a beat, a smile spreading across his lips. Summoning all her strength to not pull her into a bearhug, Raphael gives her a wide smile. “I’m really happy to hear that Bernie.” He says softly.
And before he leaves her study for the evening, he swears he sees her legs excitedly kick beneath the desk.
Raphael placed a reservation with the nearest tavern—the Ambrosia, Amb for short—the next day while in town, requesting a table in the corner of the restaurant. When the server asked for his name, her face lit up, recognizing him as the Beast of Leicester.
In truth, Raphael’s bashful blush was more embarrassed than honoured. He never particularly enjoyed that nickname but it stuck. Some of his fellow men refer to the general as it in harmless jest, while new recruits are awestruck that a Leicester legend now occupies a seat beside Countess Varley as her personal confidante.
That day, as Bernadetta sat through a linguistics lesson, political briefing and endured a training session with him that included yelling out that she was an intelligent and brave person (amongst other compliments with anxiety slurring her words), Raphael waited at the door and thought of their soon to be shared dinner.
She would be tired, that was for sure. All the demands of running Varley and working past her personal fears would most certainly make her grow weary. She might not even make it to the tavern. For a moment, he wonders if he should ask if she still wishes to go.
He understands the comforts of eating at home, especially when Bernadetta can employ such an amazing cook. But there’s a certain excitement and charm that surrounds visiting a tavern, pub, bistro or eatery. What if there’s a polite mage who performs a few spells for some excited children? Or a group of mercenaries who share the story of their latest brawl? A pack of hunters who bring their latest kill, or a lone swordsman who’s aura makes the entire tavern cold? And the food… oh the food! What if radishes are in season? Homemade horseradish sauce is to die for, especially when mixed with mustard and slathered over a slab of hot beef! Or a freshly-battered-and-fried fillet of fish? And sweet, fresh-pressed apple cider from the orchard and spiced with cinnamon is delicious. And the pies, oh, the pies!
Raphael Kirsten can never say no to a pie.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimes quarter to six. They should leave soon. He knocks on the door of Bernadetta’s study, expecting her to not be finished and scrambling to make things orderly.
Instead, he’s greeted with a chipper “enter”, and sees her behind her big desk, already looking like a political giant who shouldn’t be trifled with. He grows proud at the thought of what she can become.
“Hey, are you ready?” He asks and Bernadetta nods.
Her hair has been recently brushed, and most likely trimmed, the edge fine and sharp. And if Raphael looks closely, he can see that her eyelashes are longer than normal. She quickly pushes back from the desk, stands and Raphael notices that she changed from the comfortable tunic and skirt she wore earlier during their training session that day. Instead, now, she wears a very elegant violet dress with gold threading. It looks quite expensive, pricier than the hum-drum linen skirts and cotton blouses and cardigans she wears during the day.
She pushes a stray strand of hair behind her ear and offers an uncertain smile. “Mhm. Whenever you are.” She says.
“Wow, I feel underdressed compared to you.” Raphael says. Bernadetta’s eyes widen and she blushes. “I mean, you look great Bernie!”
“Th-Thank you,” she says. “I don’t eat out often. My handmaid said I should at least look nice.”
“You look better than nice. You look lovely.”
Her cheeks turn beet-red, the need for rouge long gone. Sensing her nerves, Raphael backs off.
Compliments, as he’s learnt with Bernadetta, don’t strengthen her. They make her wilt, skitter away from praise. At least, that’s what he’s noticed whenever he compliments her appearance. Her entire body tenses, her eyes widen a little, her face and ears go bright red and she might stutter—though, she’s getting much better at not doing that.
“Shall we?” He says. “The reservation is for six, The Amb.”
Bernadetta nods, and the two exit the study. Into the corridors, which had once been decorated with the esteemed Varley bloodline—past families aging, people fading from the paint with time’s blur—are now lined with a few paintings from the countess. A painted vase of sunflowers rests on the wall in a gilded frame, the bright pop of yellow is jarring amongst the rich mauve and purple carpets. There’s a tapestry, which Raphael notices needs a good cleaning, depicting her ancestor Saint Indech in threads before a lake.
(Funny, Raphael has never seen a single lake in Varley. And he’s lived here for almost two years. Granted, that time has been spent at Bernadetta’s side, and not exploring the territory. Though, it isn’t much to look at.)
Descending the staircase with hearty conversation about needing to purchase more weaponry from a local artisan for the guard, the countess and captain are blissfully unaware of the lingering staff in the great hall below. Of course, Bernadetta’s handmaid had alerted the rest of the servants of the Varley estate upon hearing that her mistress would not be dining in and instead enjoying the company of the captain.
Poised like predators waiting to strike, they lounge in the great hall, the neighbouring salon and ballroom, ears to the wind and listening intently to any scraps of conversation that they can catch from the would-be lovebirds. Their flickering gazes watch intently as the two change into outdoor boots and don warmer cloaks. Raphael assists Bernadetta into her fur-trimmed cloak, oblivious to the soft blush on her cheeks when his fingers accidentally bruise against her bare shoulder.
When either of them glance back around, the servants of Varley quickly look away, busying themselves with dusting portrait frames, polishing silver goblets, sweeping the floor or giving and receiving instructions.
The countess and captain, of course, are blind to their servants’ focus.
“Got everything?” Raphael asks her as she ties her cloak around her neck.
“Oh, my purse!” She exclaims. She turns, the crimson cloak fanning out behind her as she begins upstairs.
He catches her hand, then drops it quickly, careful to the invisible boundaries. “You won’t need it. It’s my treat.”
The countess shakes her head. “N-No! I couldn’t let you pay, not after everything you do for me.”
“I’m the one who asked you out.” He insists. “Don’t be silly.”
(The staff eat this conversation up. Little does the countess or captain know that the servants of Varley manor have a betting pool going on who will confess their affections first and watch their every interaction with bated breath and wide eyes.)
The blush returns to her face, still looking a little unsure. Hesitation plagues her every move as she lets go of the bannister, and reaches for him. “I’m not silly.” She protests with an adorable pout.
“No, never, my lady.” Raphael corrects himself, quickly offering her his arm in a gentlemanly manner. He feels her small hand clutch his forearm tightly. The hood of the cloak is drawn up over her head, tresses of lilac hair falling from under the fur and crimson suede.
She’s so gorgeous.
Raphael wants to compliment her further, but knows he walks a fragile line with Bernadetta. He never wants to scare her again, but she deserves to know that at least one person thinks highly of her. And while compliments can fall flat with her, or be diminished completely, Raphael is a staunch believer that even a small bit of praise can uplift someone.
He’d mention that she does look lovely tonight at dinner, sandwiched between polite conversation about work and the unusually warm autumn season they’re having. Hopefully it wouldn’t scare her off too badly.
Varley County is booming with life, even for a Tuesday evening. The grounds of the manor are positioned a fair distance away from the nearest town, enough to warrant a carriage ride for the days where Bernadetta is to attend hearings or be in Varley’s small government building. But tonight, Bernadetta insists they walk. She clings tight to Raphael’s arm, quiet as a dormouse, the only sound between them is the fall leaves crunching beneath their boots.
The silence becomes too much, his heart oddly begins to race. “Have you ever eaten at the Amb?” He asks her.
She shakes her head. “Always at home.”
“Hm. Come to think of it, I never really saw you eat at Garreg Mach.” He says.
“I never liked the social aspect of taking meals.” She shudders a little. “Too much to memorize. Ways to sit, what to say, what fork to use.”
“I don’t envy the nobles that.” He says, his voice sweetening with a laugh. He glances down at her. “There’s a lot to remember, huh?”
Bernadetta nods. “Can’t escape it now.” She says, then meets his gaze. “You know, sometimes I regret not going to more meals and paying attention. I’m not prepared for formal dinners.”
“Formal dinners?”
She nods. “I’ve gotten invited to a few lately. Dorothea wanted me to join her for dinner and a show in Enbarr a while ago, but I couldn’t stand the thought of messing up in front of her.” She sighs. “She’s so effortlessly graceful. She probably knows which fork is meant for salads and which is for fish.”
“It may look effortless, but I’m sure it’s not.” Raphael insists. “But I promise that dinner won’t be formal with me.”
(Little does Raphael know how much that means to her.)
She smiles at him, then focuses on the path ahead. The barren woods of Varley grounds melt into the city square. The blacksmith, local livery and general store, fabric seller and other shops come into view. Raphael feels Bernadetta’s hand tighten around his, flushing a little at her grasp. The Ambrosia comes into view, studded with lit candles overhead in each of the rooms. The two slink inside, the tavern alive with music and laughter, and smells galore.
A band has wandered into Varley—a lute player, flautist, drummer and singer with a tambourine play a tune that sends the tavern-goers into a dance, the tables and chairs pushed away to make room for the everyday villagers turned into performers.
A smile comes to Raphael’s face as he looks at Bernadetta, wanting to ask her to dance. He senses her anxiety, and waves over the hostess, who guides them to their table. He pulls out the chair for her, tucking her back into the corner. Perhaps the safest spot, she may see all around her. He catches her reflection in the glare of the window, the glass heating up with her presence. Teardrop earrings glitter in the light.
Bernadetta’s gaze focuses on the dancers and the band, her eyes as wide as saucers. She stares with an unblinking gaze, before noticing that he stares at her and quickly rips her eyes away.
Raphael glances back to the band. Village girls and farm boys dance, arm-in-arm, making the floorboards shake and the casks against the wall quiver. “Is this too much for you?” He asks.
Bernadetta quickly shakes her head. “N-No! No, I love the music.” She insists.
“Really? It’s not too loud?”
“No, it’s fine.” She says, a small smile lingering on her lips. “I re-really like the music.”
Raphael apprehensively looks to his menu, Bernadetta doing the same as she flickers over the daily specials and seasonal picks. There’s a quiet between the two as the musicians play, the dancers dance and the two fumble through the sparse menu.
It’s autumn, the harvest season. There’s squash, bush-berries and apples galore. A few goods travel in from the East, surely from Gloucester County, providing a small semblance of home to Raphael. Briefly, he wonders if his hometown has begun their harvest, and if it was bountiful.
He’d have to write Maya soon. A real letter, not the day-by-day notes that he sends and annoys the poor messenger with.
The server comes over, and surprisingly, Bernadetta speaks up. “Can I have a cider please?”
Raphael’s brow raises. The confidence for one, but the fact that Bernadetta is asking for alcohol. He’d never pegged her for a drinker, not in a million years. But that’s always the way, eh? The ones that you think would never touch a drop are the ones who know their way around a bottle.
Raphael himself isn’t a big drinker. But he finds himself joining her. “I’ll take a cider too.” He says.
“Celebrating?” The server asks with a raised brow.
“Nope!” Raphael says with renewed poise. Bernadetta gives him a sheepish look, then glances back to the menu. The server takes their orders, fluttering away with the band.
Bernadetta practically reads his mind. “I didn’t think you were a drinker,”
“I was about to say the same to you.” He laughs. “Maybe it’s…” he stops.
“What?”
“I don’t want to offend you.”
Bernadetta shakes her head. “Say it,”
“Skittishness, I guess. I just think alcohol would make you a little more on edge.” He confesses.
Again, she shakes her head, her hair swaying. He swallows back hard, pulling his eyes away from the bust of her gown, now of course, keenly aware of it. “Dorothea suggested it to me when I was in a writing slump. She said it might help boost my creativity.” She says. “I like it, every now and then, to help with um…”
The pressure. The crowds. The music. The loudness of it all.
“I get it.” Raphael insists.
“I just don’t drink on Varley property. Or, at least, where the servants can see, y’know?” She says, the server returning with the drinks. “Don’t need any rumours flying around.”
He nods, thanking the server who stares unabashedly at Bernadetta. The confidence fades as she sheepishly looks up at the server.
“C-Countess Varley?” Their voice is quiet.
She nods, Raphael leans a little closer into the table, ready to intervene if necessary.
“I’m sorry to interrupt, but I just wanted to say thank you.”
Both Bernadetta and Raphael sit a little straighter.
“My parents own this tavern. The benefit that you gave them helped to fix the plumbing and roof, so we’ll be dry for the winter.”
Bernadetta turns red again. “O-Oh.”
“I just wanted to give my thanks.” The server says. “It’s… It’s comforting to have a caring leader.”
The server quickly turns tail, hurrying back to the bar as Raphael looks to Bernadetta. “Wow. You did that?”
Bernadetta shrinks back into her chair, looking as if she wants to disappear. “Y-Yeah.” She admits bashfully. “I noticed there were issues with infrastructure on an afternoon ride, so I…”
“All by yourself?”
She nods.
“Wow, Bernie, that’s… impressive.” He says.
“R-Really?”
“Well,” Raphael leans back in his chair. “For some time, you didn’t want to go near parliament. When I came to Varley, you hardly left your study. It’s amazing to see how far you’ve come.”
“C’mon Raph, it’s been years since you arrived.” Bernadetta moans, shoulders slumping. “I just… I feel like…” she pauses. “The last count didn’t do much for the people, so it’s up to me to make things better.”
“That’s a lot to take on by yourself.”
“Well, I’m not by myself.” She says, raising the frosty cider glass to her lips. “You’re… sorta… helping me.”
Raphael’s brow raises. “Me?”
“Don’t be so modest,” Bernadetta says, setting her glass on the table. “You did the mock hearings with me, you hold down the manor while I go to parliament, you… you do a lot more than you take credit for, Raph.”
“I’m captain of the guard. It’s part of the job.”
“But you could’ve…” She pauses, then with renewed courage, meets his eyes. “You could’ve ignored the letter.” She cannot even say her name—Edelgard—such complex feelings must haunt her. “You could’ve just been the captain, not help me become a countess.”
He reaches across the table and pats her hand reassuringly. “Well that’s part of being your friend.” He says. “I can’t leave you behind without help.”
Bernadetta smiles a little, her face warm with a flush, then throws back a heady sip of her cider. She looks back at him. “As I was saying, I never pegged you as a drinker.” She says, resting her cheek in her hand.
“Why?”
“Because you work out like no tomorrow, I guess.” She says with a smile. “You’re sort of health-conscious.”
“You gotta respect the tank, it keeps you moving.” He says, before lifting his glass. “But I can’t let a friend drink alone. Cheers.”
She smiles, bringing her glass to meet his with a sharp clink! “Cheers.”
A comfortable quiet settles between the two. Their attention becomes captured by the dancers and the music, suddenly entangled in a particularly lively tune. Tanned knees are shown and skirt hems are lifted a little higher than appropriate. The lute sings lovely, the dancers and musicians entangle in a game of call and response during the bridge of the song.
Raphael glances over at her. Bernadetta looks entranced, her grey eyes wide, her pink lips parted in an enthralled gasp as she watches in awe as one of the dancers leaps into the air and lands in the arms of their partner.
Could he tell her the truth? That he packed up his things the second he read the first line of late Edelgard’s letter that told him a story about an abused girl suddenly thrust back into the home of her horrors? That he marched through storms, across plains and mountains, even called in Count Lorenz Hellman Gloucester for a flavour so that he didn’t have to pay the toll to cross the battered Great Bridge of Myrrdin? That when he arrived in Varley and sat outside her studio door, exhausted, until she came out that night, her eyes wide and glossy with tears, her hair messy and her clothes rumpled, he thought all that work was worth it?
Can Captain Raphael Kirsten, kind soul and confident man he is, garner the lionhearted-courage that he needs in order to tell her that he’s been hopelessly in love with her since she asked him to join her on a picnic that afternoon at Garreg Mach?
Or should he tell her about the dreams that haunt him? How he sees her face in his slumber, and how he longs to reach out, to run a hand through her silken hair, to cup her milky-white cheek and whisper to her that he loves her. That unlike the unkind rumours that he’s a dunce and he’s stupid, that he’s keenly aware that the feeling that’s kept him awake for the last seven years is not some crush, definitely not infatuation, but the bone-crushing, sugar-high rush that is love?
“It reminds me.” She begins to say over the din of the crowd, pulling him from his thoughts. “Of when we danced in the greenhouse. Back at Garreg Mach?”
He holds that moment dear to him. And the fact that she remembers—and mentions it—elates him.
He holds back his enthusiasm, careful to her boundaries and sensitive to her needs. “I really liked that,” he manages, and the countess blushes again. Perhaps, fortified by the cider, maybe encouraged by his words.
“It was fun. Embarrassing,” she adds. “But I ended up having a lot of fun.”
His heart tightens in his chest. He reaches for his cider, bringing it to his lips. The tang of the apples—fermented and sour against his tongue—makes his cheeks heat.
Like the countess, could be the cider, could be her words.
Before he can suggest that he give her dance lessons—on top of the confidence training, chatter sessions, the “cuisine passport”, being captain of the Varley knights, and a general good friend to the countess—he looks to her glass.
It’s already half-drained, and she isn’t that big, so the alcohol is probably going to stick with her. Worry crops up in his mind, if she’s going to order another, if she’s going to be half-sloshed by the time they get home, if he’d have to carry her back, if—
He pauses. Bernadetta is saying something. Her cheeks puff up adorably, a pout on her lips. “Raph, were you listening?”
He can’t lie to her. “I sorta zoned out, sorry Bernie.” He says. “Could you repeat that?”
She frowns now, guilt making a home in his stomach. “I was making a joke about how you’d probably get the guard to take dance lessons or something.”
Raphael laughs a little. “Yeah, that sounds like me.” He admits.
Their conversation once again dies, beginning to feel forced. He’s never been around Bernadetta after a drink; or at least, from what he knows. She could be a straight-faced drunk, but she doesn’t come across that way. Instead, the drink makes her a little more confident, maybe a touch more bold, perhaps something that lingers beneath the reclusive crust.
And suddenly, the desire to compliment her dress or how she looks feels really wrong. She might think he’s not being sincere, or worse, that he’s trying to get something from her.
The musicians break for a pint—of course, it’s a tavern—scattering to the bar and lugging their instruments as if to say buy me a drink and you’ll bed a musician tonight.
Two steaming plates come out from the kitchen.
“Have you heard from Ignatz recently?”
His eyes flicker to her. “Yeah, uh, he’s been traveling across Faerghus.” He says, recalling the last letter he got from him. Last location the painter gave was somewhere in western Faerghus, straddled on the old Empire border painting landscapes.
“Painting?”
He nods, his brow furrowing. “Have you ever talked about art with Ignatz?” He asks.
Bernadetta shakes her head. “Not really.” Her eyes say, we were sort of fighting a war, not really a great time to argue acrylic over oil paints.
“I think you guys would get along,”
“I’ll have to extend an invitation to Varley then.”
Their conversation is cut short as the server approaches their tiny, toasty corner and sets the platters before them. A buttery two-fish sauté is placed before Bernadetta, and Raphael can barely wait to devour the cheesy Verona stew before him.
Dinner passes in quiet, the conversation slowly rebuilding as the band retakes the tavern, the music restarting. At the end of the meal, Bernadetta throws back the rest of her cider, impulsively takes his hand and dances with the captain of the guard before the tavern, gawkers be damned.
This time—unlike the last time they danced in the ball—Bernadetta doesn’t stare at her feet, nor does she mouth the count she’s on. Instead, she’s confident, she’s elegant and she holds his arm tight. She shimmers and shines in that beautiful dress, just like the evening star, and Raphael can’t help but want to be in her glow.
The walk home, after a slice of Noa fruit pie with freshly churned iced cream—to which neither the captain nor the countess can say no to—is held fast with cold hands, flushed faces from the cider, and a worrisome fantasy.
Worrisome, as Raphael desperately does not want to fuck this up. Fantasy, as Bernadetta’s behaviour steps out of his wildest dreams.
But his dream begins to unravel as soon as they set foot back on the Varley grounds. Outside the grand door, she stops amongst the urns of autumn blooms of red dogwood and orange chrysanthemums, still holding tight to his hand.
“Raph.” His name sounds like heaven on her lips.
He feels as if he can barely breathe. “Yeah?”
In a moment of confidence that proves these last two years of assurance training have gotten through to the countess, she stands on the tips of her toes, grabs him by the collar of his cloak and brings his lips to hers.
The kiss lasts only a second, tasting of cider and Noa fruit and cream. His face goes bright red in a blush, his eyes wide as Bernadetta looks horrified suddenly, her grey eyes wide and focused on his.
Oh Goddess. She realized she was flirting with a brute like me, he thinks.
Then, she asks the question that ruins it all.
“I-Is this a date?”
And Raphael answers the question with a half-shrug. “I didn’t plan it to be.”
For the first time that night, Bernadetta’s face goes white. She swallows hard, then the Bernadetta of the past comes out.
She darts inside the manor, and Raphael follows in quickly after her, foolishly calling her name. At long last, the servants of Varley have the drama they have been desiring for two years now.
Bernadetta, not quick but deft, flies up the bannister, throwing off her cloak in the process and dropping the pretty heels she selected to wear that night. Raphael hurries after her, hurtling false comforts like “it’s okay Bernadetta”, and “we can just pretend it never happened” after each other.
She doesn’t respond, hurrying up the second flight of stairs, and then darting into her studio. The door locks shut, and Raphael raises a hand to bang on it.
Quickly, he lowers it, his face just inches from the wood. “Bernie, it’s okay.” He insists gently. “I’m okay.”
The countess, leaning against the other side of the door is silent, her cheeks burning red with embarrassment and desire; and the captain, his forehead pressed to the door, breathes not a word.
And thus, the staff at Varley know something has occurred since their meal, and are desperate to find out.