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Once upon a time in the land of Fódlan, there was a cruel Count and his family. His sons had all been accomplished in archery, politics, poetry and academics, to which he was mildly pleased with. However, the Count had been deeply disappointed at the birth of his last child, a baby girl, and believed that the only thing she could do to amend the mistake of her birth was marry.
The girl, named Bernadetta, was given the finest education in the domestic arts, which the Count believed would provide well to her bridal procession and her eligibility. She had a rotating coterie of tutors in linguistics, domestic duties like sewing, politics and idle conversation. And, the Count’s own hand, in which he inflicted abuses upon Bernadetta.
Her dowry was fat and thick with luxuries like furs and silver, land ownership and of course, money. The Count made sure to remind affable and well-connected nobles that his daughter would make a lovely wife for one of their sons. That her delicate features, like her big grey eyes or her lovely violet hair would make beautiful grandchildren, and even better, that she carried a rare Crest in her blood.
But outside of the Count’s discussion of Bernadetta’s domestic qualities, he largely ignored her presence. He paid no heed to her at meals or when she played her instruments—of which she knew multiple ones and made her own compositions—pretending as if his daughter was nothing more than a ghost.
The Count’s ignorance to her and prior abuse soured Bernadetta. As a result, in attempting to make her into an affable, doting noble wife, Bernadetta became a recluse. She began to take her meals in her room, her lessons in the attached salon and leaving her beloved room less and less. By age 17, when she became appropriate to marry, she would only leave her room once a day.
The Count’s rage had melted into icy discontent. He pounded upon her door. “Bernadetta.” He said. “It is not appropriate to hide away, especially for a woman who should marry.”
The girl did not respond.
“If you do not choose a husband, I will choose one for you.” He threatened.
The Count’s father, a kind-hearted man, heard the threat and intervened. “You cannot force her to marry.” He said, keenly aware of the consequences of arranged marriages like his son’s. “At least give her the chance to choose. Hold a ball.”
And so, the Count acquiesced. He invited suitors from across the land to see his daughter enter noble society. He called upon the nobles of their land, the Empire, the frigid blue bloods of Faerghan north, and the Alliance aristocrats, insisting that Bernadetta was a sight to see.
Bernadetta, of course, had no desire to meet any of the suitors. And every attempt to foil her debut was rectified speedily by the Count. The girl wrote to the butcher and canceled their meat order; she threw her paints all in the ballroom at night, staining the marble floors; she slashed her ornate dress to pieces. But the Count pushed forth, intent to marry her off.
Little did the girl know, the Count had already spoke with Duke Aegir, prime minister to the Empire, about the possibility of Bernadetta marrying his son, Ferdinand. Though nothing had been agreed to, the debut would serve as their first meeting.
The night of the ball came, and kicking and screaming, the Count dragged his daughter to it. Before the Manor’s ballroom, she appeared in the violet and plum colours of her County, terrified.
Rumours had of course swelled surrounding the Komtesse. Some said she was under a cruel enchantment, others said she was a beauty beyond compare, and one rumour circulated that Bernadetta crafted dolls which she used to curse people with.
Bernadetta appeared before a sea of suitors, terrified. Swarmed by men wishing to make her acquaintance and kiss her hand, Bernadetta wilted. As she agreed to, she danced (albeit poorly), she spoke (more in mutters) and stayed until the last suitor (behind the bannisters) left the Manor.
“Now,” proclaimed the Count. “Which one do you wish to pursue?”
“N-None of them.” Bernadetta dared to say.
“You must select one.” The Count warned her. “Or else I shall pick for you.”
Bernadetta scuttled back to her room and did not emerge for days. She turned away her governess and tutors, who had all but run out of things to teach her, and immersed herself in her hobbies. Crafting and painting and reading and writing, she delighted in them all, ignoring the world outside.
But the world outside continued to turn and turn. And before Bernadetta had realized it, the customary year in which a debutante waits to begin courtship had passed. Soon, the Count began to accept visitors to attempt to charm his daughter.
The first invite he accepted was the son of Count Gloucester, Lorenz. Assured that this match would yield in high-brow heirs and a most advantageous union between Gloucester’s breadbasket and Varley’s ore-rich lands, Lorenz pursued her.
The Count attempted to pry Bernadetta from her room for tea with Lorenz, but she had reinforced the door, which he could not break through. Lorenz waited, then grew frustrated with the Count.
“You expect me to wait hours for your daughter to come down from her room?” Asked Lorenz.
“You may take tea by the door, if you wish.” The Count suggested.
“Hmph! I will be making my displeasure known to my Father!” Lorenz threatened, and then left the County.
The Count sped to his daughter’s door. “Bernadetta! You shall come out to meet your suitors, or I shall rip you out from there!” He threatened.
“You’ll do no such thing!” Argued his father. “She agreed to the ball, she did not agree to meeting any suitors.”
“What do you suggest then? That they sit on the ground and speak through the door to her?” He asked. “That will ruin the Varley reputation!”
“A little dirt and a stiff bottom is worth a lifetime together.” The old man insisted.
The Count, again, acquiesced. Slowly, his icy discontent turned to resentment. He quickly began to desire to get rid of his daughter.
The next suitor to arrive was the second-son of Count Bergliez, Caspar. He crossed Gronder Field at the suggestion of his Father. Caspar, unlike Lorenz, would not inherit anything upon succession, having been born second. And worse, he had a heavy heart when he arrived at the Varley estate.
Unlike Lorenz, he agreed to sit on the floor before Bernadetta’s door and took tea with her. In fact, he was charmed by the notion of an informal tea time.
“Y-You sound sad,” Bernadetta said. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh.” Caspar mumbled. “There’s a girl.”
“A girl?”
“Yeah. Though… I don’t think it’s proper to tell you about her.”
“I don’t really care about being proper.” Bernadetta said. “After all, we’re um… not seeing each other.”
So, Caspar spoke of his heavy heart and the woman who had chained him down. Her name was Hilda, and like in Bernadetta’s love stories, was set to marry another man.
“You should go to her.” Bernadetta said at last.
“What? Seriously?”
“You… love her right? Isn’t it worth fighting for?”
Caspar, suddenly inspired, hopped up. “You’re right. I should go to her!” He said, and with that, he left the Varley estate.
Next to arrive was Count Hevring’s son, Linhardt. At the mention of speaking through a door to Bernadetta, he sat down on the floor, and promptly fell asleep. Upon hiding a drool stain on the ground, he was not invited back to the Manor.
Following Linhardt were two nobles who travelled down from the frosty Kingdom of Faerghus, Felix and Sylvain. Felix, upon hearing that Bernadetta would not physically see him, decided that she was not worth his time. Sylvain, however, was immensely excited to meet the Komtesse.
While she had spent her time inside her room, she had written several great manuscripts, which she sent off to editors and printers across the land, and found her work published under a pseudonym. However, Sylvain came, not interested in seeking her hand in marriage, but seeking her handwriting upon his copy of The Sword and It’s Shield, one of the books she had written. Their tea time was spent gushing and awkwardly responding, instead of flirting and boasting.
Needless to say, the two were not invited to return.
Finally, there was the Prime Minister’s son, Ferdinand. He was reluctant to meet the Komtesse, having foolishly listened to the rumours that surrounded her; but he agreed, and arrived with pomp and circumstance at Varley Manor.
Upon hearing that his tea time with the Komtesse would not be face to face, he managed to break down the door and pulled her from her room. Expecting to find a monster, Ferdinand was shocked that behind the door was just a scared young woman. Kicking and screaming, Bernadetta fought him, clambering back into her room and banishing him from the house.
And with that, it seemed that the suitors did not appear anymore. Despite the Count’s constant assurance that his daughter was beautiful, fertile and domestic, none of his noble acquaintances sent their sons towards Varley Manor.
The Count began to give up hope. Four years passed, and Bernadetta turned twenty-two, an age in which her fellow noblewomen had married and had children. But Bernadetta remained single, remained reclusive, and remained in her room.
Then, one fateful afternoon, a knight from Leicester arrived. He was not noble, nor was he wealthy, but he was kind and he was sweet. His name was Raphael.
He asked for shelter for the rainy night, to which the Count reluctantly agreed to. The servants of Varley began to whisper about the Komtesse. Surely enough, Raphael heard about the girl, hidden up on the top level of the Manor, and dared to climb upstairs.
He knocked upon her door, and Bernadetta, who had been painting, startled. “W-Who is it?” She demanded.
“I’m staying for the night. I’m a traveling knight, my name is Raphael Kirsten.”
“What do you want?”
“I heard that you were here all alone. I thought you might like some company.” He said into the door.
“I don’t.” Bernadetta insisted.
“Oh. Well, that’s fine too.” He said, and left.
Bernadetta lingered by the door, her hand poised above the knob for sometime. Then summoning all her strength, she opened the door and looked out for him. He had left, and Bernadetta, shocked that for once, someone had listened to her, did not know what to do with herself.
That night, she wondered about the face of the man who had left. No one had ever listened to her, nor had respected her wishes of solitude. In a sleepless rut, she pulled herself from her bed, to her easel and attempted to draw the face of the man she’d never seen.
The following morning, as Raphael woke and prepared to venture out into the Empire, one of the servants stopped him. “The Komtesse has asked you to come sit tea with her.”
“The Komtesse?” He asked, confused as she had sent him away the night before.
The servant nodded and took him up to her room. Outside the door was a painted tea set, which Bernadetta had done herself, and a matching one inside for her. He knocked on the door, expecting to be let in.
“Yes?” She called.
“Do you want me to bring the tea set in?” He asked politely. “One of your servants said you wanted to see me for tea.”
“O-Oh…” Bernadetta said. “I don’t… I don’t like people in my room.”
Confused, Raphael nodded. “I understand. It’s personal.” He said.
“W-Will you have tea with me through the door?”
“Sure.” Raphael said.
Bernadetta was not adept in the art of conversation, but Raphael excelled at it. He told her of his life in Leicester, which fascinated her, of his family and of his current search for work. After the last of the tea cakes had been eaten and the tea pots had been drained, Raphael stood.
“It’s been nice getting to know you Bernadetta,” he said. “But I’ve gotta get going.”
Bernadetta, unsure of the feelings that began to swell inside her, quickly stood up. “N-No! I mean…” She caught herself. “You’re looking for employment, yes?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll ask my Father to let you join the guard.” She said. “I just… I’d like for you to…”
The knight understood. “Okay. Well, should I get your Father?”
“N-No!” She snapped, then shyly added. “I’ll send for him.”
The Count appeared a few moments later, eyeing the guest with contempt. The door to Bernadetta’s room opened, which he slipped in. Raphael, outside, hear only snapping snippets of the conversation. And a moment later, the Count reappeared, glanced the Knight over, and crassly said, “At least you’re big.”
He led the Knight away to the barracks.
And slowly, Bernadetta and Raphael set into a disorderly friendship. He came to her door everyday, sometimes for only a moment, other times until the other servants gave him the evil eye for being up at such a late hour.
The Komtesse’s nervousness faded in his presence. Her more caustic edges and skittish nature began to melt away, and soon enough, the Knight had worked his way into her dreams.
She dreamt of him often, in a life she had more courage and could step out of her room. She wondered what he looked like, if he would like her aside from her mousy little voice.
Raphael, too, wondered what the Komtesse looked like. A few of her portraits adorned the walls of the manor, but Raphael didn’t believe that the girl poised amongst peacocks and diamonds was the same girl who rambled to him about her latest book or how to tell difference between acrylic and gouache paints from touch.
And before the two had realized, they had fallen in love with each other. Bernadetta, as Raphael made her feel safe, respected her boundaries and never once tried to change a single thing about her; and Raphael, as Bernadetta was fascinating, talented and frankly, amazing.
(I mean, a girl who can paint, write fiction and poetry, craft pillows and stuffed animals, speak different languages, write, read, compose and play multiple instruments? That’s the stuff of fairytales, folks.)
The Count was not at all pleased with the budding relationship.
And then, one afternoon, as Raphael sat beside the door—not complaining about how his rear had fallen asleep or groaning that his tea was cold—it opened, and the Komtesse appeared.
“I… I thought you deserved to see me.” Bernadetta said, clinging to the door. “I…”
Her eyes focused on how huge he was, his muscles large, the man standing almost as tall as the doorframe. But when he spoke, his voice was the same as the man on the other side of the door. And his eyes, they were as kind as the man’s in her sketchbook.
“You’re prettier than your portraits.” He blurted out.
The Komtesse turned bright red and trembled. But then, the knight smiled at her, settling her nerves. “It’s nice to finally meet you, Bernadetta.” He said.
She reached out and took his hand. “You… You can come into my room. I trust you.” She told him.
Her sanctuary, her world spread before him and it was as beautiful as he thought it would be.
The servants of Varley noticed a change in the air and the youngest von Varley. Even the Count had noticed when she appeared at dinner one night, something that had not occurred in years.
His desire to marry her off turned back into icy discontent and quickly, upon realizing that the Knight he had hired was penniless, an orphan and worse, common, rage.
He fired Raphael, turning him out of the Manor. Upon learning of this, Bernadetta faced her Father. She did not tremble, her voice did not falter, and she held his hateful gaze without blinking.
“I’m leaving Varley.” She told him. “And I won’t be back.”
“That’s preposterous. You won’t survive out there.”
“I’m an artist, a poet, a musician, a cook, a writer,” she said. “And I am in love with a common man.”
The Count’s rage spiked. “And you are no daughter of mine.” He told her.
And so, Bernadetta left the manor with Raphael. She accompanied him back to his hometown, where they courted (not through a door), married and soon opened an inn together. And one fateful day, when a letter arrived stating that the Count had died and his four sons had careers as archers, civil servants, poets and professors, Bernadetta returned home to lead the County with her beloved husband in hand.
And it was said that under her rule the county flourished, that the manor was full of light and love, and that no doors were shut ever again.