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Maya Victor has been an artist for ages. Longer than when she was a girl, and much longer than when she was a student. For almost the same amount of time she has been painting and sculpting, she has been married and walking the land of Fódlan from north to south, east to west and back again.
Her hand knows the handle of a brush well, clenching to hold it even in sleep. Her eyes know the shades of colour—gold, crimson, cerulean—like the stars above. Maya’s adoration, infatuation—perhaps even love—for painting matches the affections she shows her children, her husband, and her brother.
So, on a warm, sunny spring morning, when she receives a beautifully written letter with immaculate cursive and parchment selection inviting her to the former territories of Adrestia to paint, she leaps at the chance.
“Are you packing again?”
Her brother is at the doorway of her room in the Kirsten cottage. Maya smirks. “I have received an invitation to paint the portrait of a reclusive lady.” She grins with an air of childish importance.
“Oh! That’s exciting.” He says, lingering into the room. “Will Ignatz go with you?”
She shakes her head, trying to stuff dresses and aprons into the case. “He doesn’t want to drag the children along.”
“Well I could watch them. I’d be happy to.” Raphael offers.
Maya shakes her head. “Actually, you can do me one better.” She says, leaning back on her comically-overstuffed case. “Escort me to Adrestia? I’ll need someone big and strong to carry my easel for me.”
Her brother smiles a little. “I would Maya, but the inn…”
“Is the inn more important than me?” She pouts, turning back into the little sister he’s adored all his life. “More important than my big hopes and dreams?”
Raphael blanches a little.
“C’mon, Iggy can handle the inn. We’ll just shut down the restaurant for a few weeks until you return.” She prods his shoulder. “Do it for me, Raphie?”
Raphael’s brow knits. “Well, it has been a while since you and Ignatz got back from painting the king’s portrait…” He murmurs. “And I do feel like I don’t see you anymore…”
“See! This will be a perfect opportunity for us to spend more time together.” She says, before quietly adding ‘until my next commission’.
“I could always ask some of the restaurant staff to help out with housekeeping and clean up.”
Maya smiles. “They’d be perfect for it! And that way you don’t have to cut paycheques for the month!”
Raphael’s brow knits. “Month?”
“Well, it is in Adrestia. Most of the roads are still a little… messy from the war.” She says.
“Maya, the war ended twenty years ago.” Raphael says quietly.
“Right, I forgot. Makes me feel old.” She muses, then turns back to her case. “Listen, the worst part will be the travel. We’ll have to cross the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Promise. Otherwise, it will be a breeze! Think of it as a vacation! When was the last time you took one of those?”
He pauses.
“See? It’s been too long.” She says, shaking her head. “Come with me, Raphie? Please?”
The innkeeper hangs his head for a moment, rubbing his chin.
“Iggy can’t come. And if you can’t come either, I might as well write back and tell them no.”
He heaves a sigh. “Alright. I’ll come.” He acquiesces.
Maya lets out an excited little squeal, then throws her arms around her brother’s large frame.
The following day, with their cases packed, the horse and wagon ready with Maya’s supplies and enough rations for a week on the road, they say their goodbyes. Maya happily kisses her children’s cheeks, warning them in her motherly tone to be good for their father, then kisses her husband, promising to write.
Raphael gives them all a hearty farewell, his bear hug keeping them warm throughout the cool spring dawn. He glances back at the Kirsten Inn, a smile on his face as the two begin their journey into Adrestia.
While falling asleep to the sight of a million stars is quite beautiful, the ache from sleeping on the hard ground and less-than-comfortable futons is not.
The Kirsten siblings successfully leave the south of Leicester, crossing the Great Bridge with record time. Along into Adrestia, they realize, terribly, that the southern parts of the continent still see trouble. Bandits and thieves are a consistent sight; but most pale and drop plundered coins the second they see the sheer bulk of Raphael.
Scarcity also plagues Adrestia. Gronder Field, once a breadbasket and the same battle site in which Raphael fought at, is nothing more than trampled wheat from the war waged almost twenty years ago. There is not enough food, not enough support from the capital of Faerghus, and not enough knights to hold the king’s iron-clad rule.
Amidst the uncertainties, they safely arrive in Adrestia, crossing the Airmid River, through Gronder Field, where Raphael lays a laurel to rest before his passed colleagues while Maya offers her prayers and stones from the road as tribute. And then, finally, on a hot spring day, they arrive before their destination: Varley.
Varley is different from the other states and territories of the empire, which fall to ruin. The land is fallow, naturally mountainous and arid, but by some miracle, there is food, more than in other parts of the empire where they found rest and respite. And somehow, it booms with productivity and promise, housing a small mining operation, many weapon artisans and munitions factories, even a logging camp. And of course, since the Church of Seiros has been reinstated, they once more operate a seminary for those wishing to practice the faith.
The siblings rest a night at a small tavern—the Ambrosia—in Varley’s main city—enjoying the local cuisine, lively music from a local singer and her band before tucking in for the night. Then, in the morning, they clean up from their long journey, and begin their last leg towards the manor.
“You didn’t tell me it was for a person from Varley.” Raphael chides as he flicks the reins. Their horses begin trotting, wagon lurching forward.
“Oh, I didn’t?” She asks, feigning distraction by shovelling through her purse. “I thought you saw the seal.”
“All you told me was that you wanted me to come along.” He shakes his head, a smile on his face.
Maya stops messing around with her purse. “Hey, don’t you know a Varley?” His smile quickly fades, the memory of a reclusive girl coming to mind. “Bernadetta, right?”
He nods. “Yeah, I did.”
“Did?” Her brow raises.
“She uh…” his grip around the reins tightens. “She was in another class. The Black Eagles, she disappeared.”
Maya feels a pit form in her stomach. She might have died. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”
“C’mon Maya, it’s fine.” He forces a smile and pats her knee. “Besides, that’s all in the past. Wasn’t made to last.”
She smiles as the large, imposing black marble of Varley Manor comes into view.
The Countess Bernadetta von Varley is more of a ghost than a leader. Since taking the mantle as countess Varley, she has shuttered herself in seclusion. Her last social appearance was at the Ethereal Moon ball of her seventeenth year, where she hid under the punch table until the cotillion passed and then slunk back to her dorm.
The manor is now a cave of hibernation as opposed to the social hub of the empire that it once was. Needless to say, she isn’t the most social creature. Most of her staff know that if King Dimitri sends a social invitation to her for a ball in Faerghus or some sort of reunion at the monastery, it is to be used as kindling.
But it is not done out of spite, nor is it done out of malice. Travelling is hard for her, given Varley’s fragile and miraculous resurgence as the home of a seminary and countless weapon artisans. And then, of course, there is her poor health.
Just before the five year period of war, she fell ill. Not her usual white lies of illness to get out of sitting in on classes or extra chores, but an illness that halted her growth, made her unable to keep food down, made her head swim, and threw all her wonderful progress with the bow onto the fire.
And when the war came, and Emperor Edelgard came looking for her support, Bernadetta could only give it in munitions. In some ways, that was both her saving grace and her fatal misfortune.
After the war, her father was tried for stealing funds from the Church to plush up Varley Manor and put to death. Followed was Bernadetta’s own quiet trial, sat with jilted nerves and shaky hands, where the King of United Fódlan offered her an ultimatum: open the seminary and take reign as Countess Varley, or offer her blood as penance.
Naturally, she chose the prior.
So while she never set foot on the battlefield, there were wounds of a terrible war fought inside of her. Both the illness and the guilt of knowing that the aid she provided Edelgard killed her friends, for she has not heard from a certain princess and a beautiful songstress in many, many years.
The illness she faced—which only recently had been confirmed by a physician to be a mutation of the Faerghan plague—still follows her, despite the symptoms being long gone. Perhaps, in a way, it is yet another reason why she values her time alone so deeply.
A knock at her study door rouses her from writing a letter to the king, an update on adding more dormitories to the seminary. She sits up, pulling her shawl tighter to herself, a chill down her spine despite the warmth of impending spring.
“Y-Yes?” She answers.
Her handmaid opens the door. “Your excellency, the artist is here.”
“Artist?” Her brow furrows for a second, then she nods. “Oh, yes, Miss Victor.”
“Shall I bring her up here?”
“No,” Bernadetta glances around at the mess of her study. “S-Set her up in the salon, I’ll be down soon.”
She glances back at the letter, half-complete and crossed out over and over in an attempt to find the right words amid tremendous anxiety. Her second chance is no doubt a result of the influence of the new Archbishop and the counsel of her stern husband, Seteth. Finding the words would be difficult, probably driving her to stay up much later than intended and exhaust her more than usual.
But that’s a problem for later Bernie, she tells herself, tucking the letter into a folder and returning her quill to the inkwell.
She slouches a little, reaching into a nearby drawer to pull out a small hand mirror and examine her reflection. Time has not been fully kind to her, but neither has she. There’s dark circles beneath her eyes from nights spent reading document after document on new church regulations until dawn. Lines mark the corners of her eyes and beneath them, a symptom of many forced smiles when other dignitaries visit the Bear of Varley.
A few streaks of grey hair shine through the curtain of lilac locks. She frowns, too tired to invest in a dye to cover it up and too prideful to admit they exist. When she must be seen before her people, she usually hides her hair beneath a stylish hat, deceiving the public into thinking she is still the same young leader that reluctantly came home several years ago.
It is not often she frets over her appearance. The staff of Varley Manor are used to seeing their liege in dirty frocks and greasy hair. But soon she will have to take more care, as the artist has arrived to immortalize her likeness on oil and canvas.
She tucks her hair behind her ears, checks her odd little smile, then discards the mirror into the drawer and pulls her shawl tighter around herself. She opens the door to the study, steps out and pulls it shut, then walks down the velvet hallway. The walls are lined with portraits from previous counts of Varley, the same light purple hair, fair complexions and differentiating visages. Most frown, gazing upon the audience with the might of a warrior, an austere rhetorician, or worse, a father.
That portrait was thrown on the fire the second Bernadetta took control of Varley.
She descends the staircase, a few of the staff nodding in silent greeting as she passes. She stands before the salon door, a room dressed in deep red, trimmed with gold and perfectly comfortable for a countess to be painted in. She takes a deep breath, glancing at the valet posted by the door. He nods back, hand on the doorknob.
Inside, she hears her assistant speak to the artist.
“I’m sure they’ll like your portraits, Miss Victor. Come now, don’t be shy.”
“Please, it’s better to be modest than overblow your talents, right?”
A laugh fills the air.
“Shall I fetch your escort?”
“Oh, yes, he’s just getting my easel. Tell him to put a kick on it.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Her aide, Lavendula, appears from the salon. She smiles. “You’ll like her, mistress. She’s fun.”
Bernadetta wilts a little. “Here’s hoping…”
The valet clears his throat. “Miss Victor, may I present her excellency, Countess Bernadetta von Varley.”
Bernadetta steps into the salon, greeted by the wide-eyed and gaping artist. Anxiety begins to swell within Bernadetta. She steels herself and forces a nervous smile. “Miss Victor, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you.” She says as evenly as she can.
The artist says nothing.
Bernadetta swallows back her fear and pushes on. “I hope your passage into Varley was safe and smooth.”
Still, she does not say a word. She barely breathes. Bernadetta gropes for something, anything to get her to talk and stop staring.
“C-Could I offer you tea and refreshment after your journey—”
“Bernadetta.” She whispers, her voice so thin and quiet.
Her eyes grow bigger as Bernadetta nods.
“As in Bernadetta von Varley.”
She nods again.
“As in, attended the Officer’s Academy in 1180.”
“Y-Yes. H-How did you know that?” Bernadetta glances back to her valet, almost ready to give the sign for help.
“My husband attended the same year!” She says excitedly, clasping her hands to her chest. “Ignatz Victor. I’m his wife, Maya.”
“Ignatz…” Bernadetta gasps. “Oh my goodness… That’s why the name seemed so familiar!”
She wants to kick herself, but before she can, the artist trucks on. “We’re both artists actually. And I wouldn’t be bold to say that you picked the one better at portraiture. No offence to Iggy, but he’s much better at landscapes.”
The countess smiles a little, pulls her shawl closer to herself.
“Oh my god, this is such a turn of fate.” The artist says, coming a little closer. “Ignatz is not going to believe it when I tell him—”
She stops, then blanches a little, her hazel eyes going comically wide. The salon stills, as if turning in slow-motion.
“Bernie?”
Slowly, the countess turns around. Her eyes drag up the dusty, journey-worn body of a man she once knew, long ago. He’s changed, of course: his face filling out, a thick beard claiming his chin, dark circles beneath his eyes, a scar here and there.
But those eyes… They’re full of kindness, just as they’ve always been, despite the horrors of losing parents and fighting a war.
It dawns on her like the rising sun. Maya, who was once upon a time, Maya Kirsten. As in the little sister of Raphael Kirsten, the boy she was helplessly crushing on when she was only seventeen.
Suddenly, the salon feels hot, just as hot as the day she confronted him in the greenhouse amongst a hundred flowers. She feels like a scared schoolgirl again in the shadow of the hulking giant. Her heart thunders in her rib cage.
Her head becomes light.
“R-Raphael?” She whispers, unsure if he is truly real or this is all some sort of dream.
Then, she sways and the world goes dark.
There are two bits of good news from that afternoon.
The first, Raphael was close enough to catch her when she swooned—swooned, or was it a faint? He’s had to read too many fairytales to Maya’s children in the last few years.
The second, Bernadetta only fainted because she skipped breakfast.
Still, it is more than enough to terrify the guests of Varley and set them on edge, especially the artist that is to paint her portrait.
Maya comes to his elbow, holding his hand in hers. “So that’s Bernadetta?” She asks as they’re politely shoved out of the salon and the official Varley healer hurries in.
He nods, the door slamming shut.
“You didn’t tell me she was gorgeous.” Maya turns to face him with a frown on her lips.
Raphael blushes a little, chastising his little sister. “And you wonder where your kids get the crassness from…” He scoffs.
“Whatever. She’s so cute.” She says. “I wonder what happened?”
“She fainted.”
“No you dummy, I mean, during that time.” She lowers her voice, glancing around the great hall. “During the war. You didn’t… see her, right? Most of the Adrestian nobles are gone now.”
He shakes his head. “I didn’t see her. Maybe she didn’t participate.”
“Hmm. Maybe she’ll tell us,”
“Maya, that’s really invasive. Leave her be.” Raphael says.
“Oh come on!” The artist whines. “Once, when I was painting a lord, he told me that he murdered his brother for the title. It’s only invasive if you make it invasive.”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t make it right.”
“Whatever.”
The valet moves closer and the two drop their goofy rapport. “Excuse the intrusion, but the countess needs some rest. She’ll see you after lunch.”
The siblings nod, then depart for their rooms, blissfully unaware that Bernadetta will not see them after lunch, or tea, even dinner. She’ll only pass them in the hall for a few days due to her past feelings and terrible nerves.
“Great, Bernie, juuuuuuust great. You faint in front of an old crush.” The countess mumbles to herself while in bed. She frowns deeply. “And then when he’s around you keep freezing up. That will make a great impression.”
Several days have passed since her fainting spell. She;’s getting the the bottom of the barrel with lies.
She huffs, pulling the blanket to her neck. “Poor Raphael. He probably thinks I’m crazy.” She shuts her eyes, wanting to sink into the sheets and never come back out.
Suddenly, becoming a bear like her nickname is very enticing.
Bernadetta cocoons in her blankets, trying to clutch at edges of sleep and force herself back into slumber. She frowns further as someone knocks on the door.
“Countess? Are you awake?”
She rolls in bed, staring at the ceiling.
“Unfortunately,” She bemoans, sitting up.
The maid enters with a fresh pitcher of water and towels. She hums happily under her breath, moving around Bernadetta’s bedroom, opening the curtains. “Missus Victor is asking if you’ll be able to sit with her for the portrait today.”
Guilt forms in Bernadetta’s stomach, she wraps her arms around herself. “I hope to. Maybe my nerves and health will allow me.”
More so her nerves. Every time she gets up the courage to sit down and actually allow herself to be committed to canvas, Raphael is there and all the guilty memories from before rush back.
She ran from him, saying horrible things—terrible things—without really knowing how sweet and gentle he could be. She assumed the worst, and while yes, she’s gotten much better, more confident and self-assured, deep down, she’s still the same scared schoolgirl she was all those years ago.
The maid steps out as she washes her face and changes into her slip, returning to help her into her corset, then into large gown with a tall collar. Bernadetta grips the edge of her vanity as the maid pulls the ties taut, her back aching from the corset’s crushing grip, her breath escaping her body with a gasp.
She’s not the young thing she was all those years ago, and dressing up like she’s still a maiden thrust into the limelight for a groom is not only humiliating, it’s borderline painful. The corset that shows off her child-rearing hips, the décolleté on the gown is much too low for a woman of her age and status, and her dress is too daring in colour and design to be acceptable for a woman past the age of twenty-five.
Another servant pops their head in. “Shall I let Missus Victor know to set up her tools?”
Bernadetta hesitates.
“Yes.” She says at last, and her maid immediately sits her down on the stool, attempting to make her look many years younger.
Raphael has always been amazed by his sister. Yes, she did get the brains, charm, smile and kindness, while he got the brawn and heart of gold… But its so much more than that.
Aside from giving him a heart attack when she vanished from Leicester to travel and eventually elope with Ignatz—something which elated and frustrated him after she admitted to being scared that he would disapprove of the relationship—Maya really can do no wrong. After all, she married an incredibly good man of great character and heart, and made him an uncle twice over. She helps out with the inn when they are not travelling and is perhaps the best little sister he could ever ask for.
But he is truly amazed when she picks up the paintbrush.
A stroke of the brush is so much more than… well, a brushstroke. It can be the sinew of muscle, the curve of a smile, a lock of hair. Her brow knits in concentration, biting down on her lip to get the shapes just right. With a little time, a little patience and all her talent, art is born from her hands. And every single time, Raphael is amazed by it.
“Here, you can come check this one out, Raphie.” She says, sitting back on her stool. She wipes her hands on a rag.
Raphael gets up from his pose, stretches and then moves over to the window, where his sister sits. His eyes settle on the multiple gesture sketches, done in charcoal as a warm up before painting the countess. As usual, Maya’s work is impeccable, all those years travelling with Ignatz sharpening the skills he never knew she had.
“That’s great, My.” He says, resting a hand on her shoulder. He smiles at her.
The ballroom falls silent as the doors open. The siblings glance back as Bernadetta enters, eyes downcast.
Raphael feels his heart tighten in his chest. He stands taller, muscle memory from all those years serving his liege.
“Morning Bernie,” Maya greets as Raphael shoots her a look.
“Maya, that’s not—”
Bernadetta raises a hand, one that faintly trembles. “I-It’s alright. Bernie is totally fine.” She offers a smile that wavers with worry. “Raphael, could I speak to you, privately?”
Maya glances between the two of them quickly. “I should get some fresh water for painting, anyways.” She murmurs, reaching for the water jar and leaves the ballroom.
The door shuts behind her and Raphael looks at Bernadetta. She hesitates to meet his gaze, but finally does. A renewed sense of confidence finds her, and he notices her hands shake a little harder.
“I owe you an apology. I-It’s years overdue.”
His mind flashes back to the greenhouse. He tenses. “No, Bernadetta,.” He insists. “I was a little excitable back then, and big. I didn’t realize how easily I could scare you. And I’m sorry for that.”
“Raphael, no it’s me.” She says softly. Her eyes water a little, threatening the dark kohl that rims her lids to make her eyes look bigger and more doe-like. “I always… I always ran away. I was so scared all the time, but when I took some time to calm down and think, I… I realized I was overreacting.”
Her lips purse together. “I… I want to get to know you, while I still can.” She says. “Life is too short.”
Something in her tone suggests worry. He ignores it, and pushes on.
“I’d really like that Bernadetta.”
She smiles, a tear streaking down her cheek, ruining the masterfully-applied makeup. She cries a little and cautiously, he reaches out to gently pat her shoulder.
Her hand rests over his, cold and small, and his heart lurches a little.
Maya returns, a moment too soon with a fresh jug of water. Her eyes flicker between the two of them, then she stops. “Alright, um, Bernie, are you ready to go?”
The countess nods, then sits before the set up. A red velvet throw is set up against a divider. There’s an ornate chair, and a bow—what Raphael recognizes as the Inexhaustible—leans against the arm.
Raphael gets up to leave and Bernadetta lurches towards him. “Don’t go.” She says, her voice sharper.
The innkeeper turns around. He smiles a little. “Okay.” He says gently.
Maya cuts in, obviously liking their interactions. She crosses the floor, suggesting Bernadetta sit this way, then that way, adjusts her collar, brushes a stray lock of hair over her shoulder, then back in front, then over again.
He notices her hands tremble, her frame shaking with worry and nerves.
“Does Varley always get so warm?” He asks.
Her eyes flicker to his briefly, her face growing redder with the rouge. “Sometimes.” Her brow hardens, then she returns to the hardened, neutral look. “Actually, yes, compared to your hometown, I guess.”
“That’s nice. It was still spring when we left. Right, Maya?”
“Yes, Raph.” His sister says tiredly. “The kids were going bonkers—”
“Kids?” Bernadetta shifts slightly, then moves back immediately. Her eyes flicker to his. “You have kids?”
“I do,” Maya pipes up. “Raph never found a lady friend.”
Bernadetta’s eyes widen for a split second, then she reverts back to that neutral look. “Ah.”
“You… Did you, by any chance, find a husband?” Raphael finds himself asking.
She shakes her head. “I swore off marriage.” She says quietly.
His heart aches a little. His eyes meet hers briefly, she looks back to Maya.
It takes upwards of an hour and the preliminaries pass quickly. Maya, never quite happy with the sketches, frowns. “Bernie, are you comfortable?”
She pauses, then shakes her head. “F-Far from it.”
Maya frowns. “Well, how about this: you go do your countess-y things and tomorrow, come back in something more comfortable.”
The countess smiles, a soft, tender thing. “Okay.”
And then she leaves.
The following day, Bernadetta descends upon them, this time suggesting the private quarters of her study. Her mood softens, becoming more pliable and even happy. Raphael pulls out her large, comfortable chair from her desk—which he pushes away—and positions it against the large bookcase behind her.
And when Bernadetta appears—not in a grand ballgown with a high collar and cake makeup, he feels his heart skip a beat. He can see the marks on her face that show moments of joy and worry. And the terrible corset is done away with, replaced with a simple purple dress that drops at her shoulders, the sleeves ending at her wrists. There’s a shawl around her arms to ward off the spring chill brought on by an unexpected rainstorm.
She’s still slightly nervous, but it’s better this time. And Raphael, just as he did yesterday, sits nearby, just out of the frame, and talks to her about anything and everything. The weather, his inn back home which Bernadetta asks many questions about, and her own novels which she has a manuscript teetering on the edge of her overloaded desk.
“I’m sorry,” She murmurs when Maya leaves to refresh her water. “That I keep running from meals. I’m just…”
She stops, and meets his eyes, her long lashes fluttering.
“I’m still easily intimidated. Even now.”
“Hey,” he says. “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
She musters a small smile. “But I really would like to spend some more time with you.” She insists. “W…Would you follow me on a walk through the gardens later?”
Raphael feels his cheeks heat. “Of course. I’d love to.”
She smiles, then returns to her simple position of hands in her lap, eyes towards Maya’s easel, and a small smile upon her face.
The day becomes cooler. Much cooler. A massive cold spell runs wild through Varley, surely damaging crops. But it isn’t unexpected, Raphael learns as they walk through the gardens, which are less than sparse grasses and hardy wildflowers that crop up from the earth. Still, in its own oddball way, it’s pretty, just like the countess who tends to them.
Bernadetta holds onto his arm for support, and Raphael flushes at the touch.
Deep down—and he won’t say it out loud unless she does—he had a crush on Bernadetta long ago. Always liked her, but he could never approach her without scaring her off.
“What happened?” He asks suddenly, his manners and etiquette leaving him suddenly. Life is too short to constantly stand on ceremony.
Her brow raises. Her painted lips part then close.
“You… You mean at the monastery, right?”
Guilt washes over him. “It was rude but… I worried about you.” He confesses. “For a long time. I worried that Edelgard used you in someway, or that something worse happened.”
Bernadetta’s face falls a little as they trace the garden for a moment. She gently pulls him in the direction of a stone bench beneath a trellis of budding sunflowers that stretch up to the sky. She sits down, letting a small sigh escape her lip.
“It’s… It’s a lot.” She warns.
“I don’t want to push you.”
“No.” She touches his scarred arm. “No, I want to get to know you, so it's only fair if I tell you what happened.”
Her eyes meet the ground. “I was supposed to join the Blue Lions. Professor Byleth invited me to, and I accepted. But then, I got sick.” She says quietly. “Really sick. I ended up spending more time in my room than before.”
She glances at him and Raphael nods, encouraging her to go on. “I had a mutation of the Faerghan plague. I got the antidote, thank the goddess, but it required me to come back to Varley and see my father again. He supported Edelgard… well, I guess it’s more accurate to say that she boxed him into supporting her.”
“I remember hearing he was on house arrest.” He murmurs. “And then…”
“Yeah…” Bernadetta murmurs. “I lived in the Enbarr estate until it was no longer safe, then I came back here. It was… hard to be around him again. Then the war ended and he was tried and…”
She trails off, looking up to the afternoon sky.
“You became countess.”
She nods. “I did.”
“Well, from what I’ve seen, you’re doing a great job.” He says, offering her a smile. The countess forces one and looks back down to the arid ground.
“It’s not without struggle.” She says.
“Nothing is without struggle.” He says. “But that’s the great part about it: afterwards, you get to see all the hard work pay off.”
Her eyes meet his, and that beautiful smile spreads across her lips.
“Raphael.” She murmurs.
“Yeah?”
“You never married, right?”
He nods. “Never found anyone.”
Except you.
“I…” she pauses, considering her words. “I never wanted to marry. Father thought it was the only good thing I could do.”
He frowns.
“So I didn’t…” her face grows red. “A-And I’m not sure if I’m ever going to, but… But would you… stay?”
Stay. The word is so alluring. To stay here, in Varley with the woman he thought was dead.
To live a life he’d secretly dreamed of for years.
His hand rests over hers. “I would love to.” He whispers.
She elates, a little laugh escaping her lips as she throws her arms around her and holds him tight. Overhead, the moon arcs, and a thousand glittering stars come out to shine. He takes her hand, and the two go back inside to let Maya know that he will be coming back to Varley sooner than expected.
Countess Bernadetta von Varley was the last of the Varleys to lead the county and bear Saint Indech’s crest. During her limited time as leader of Varley, she helped to re-establish the seminary that once flourished before the Adrestian Empire’s fallout with the Church of Seiros.
Her short reign was marked with miraculous prosperity, including a boost in commerce, production and productivity, establishing Varley as the best faring former-Adrestian province under King Dimitri’s rule.
By her side was Raphael Kirsten, son of a fell merchant house and innkeeper in Leicester. His counsel provided Bernadetta with comfort, courage and kindness, and of course, love. At the countess’s request, he remained with her until the end of his days. While they sired no children together, it is well-known that they eventually married in a quiet ceremony at the seminary they helped to rebuild.
In year 1211, the countess ceded her lands, setting the precedent that the next leader of Varley would be elected rather than born into the role; a growing sentiment and interest amongst other old empire territories. While no one knows where she and Raphael went, it is said that they left happily together, sharing a life full of love and healing.
The Saint Indech Seminary, which Bernadetta and Raphael helped to rebuild, still stands to this day, continuing to provide the people of former-Adrestia with religious education, guidance and hope into a better tomorrow. In the main hall, painted by the legendary artist Maya Victor, is an oil-on-canvas portrait of Bernadetta Kirsten and her beloved husband, Raphael, a piece simply entitled, Adoration.