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Time is a thief well known to the old. It steals beauty, youth, energy, and leaves one with nothing but age and a growing sense of weariness. And of course, Bernadetta Kirsten is not a stranger to that.
As life has unfolded for her like a storybook, it presented her with two endings. The first, an arranged marriage with a lord twice age upon returning to the home of her horrors. The second, living as a recluse on someone’s good will, and spinning wool until death came for her with it’s sharp blade. What she did not expect, was for a third ending. One infinitely happier than marrying a man she did not know, only to sire children who would hater, or living in squalor and allowing herself to decline.
Fate stepped in with tender hands. On the fateful day when she returned to House Varley—the sky opening up with pouring rain that refused to cease—and stood in the doorway, refusing to come back inside the house, she threw the entire territory into chaos.
She could barely meet the gaze of her father, Gregoire, who had been placed on house arrest by the late emperor, and now awaited trial at the insistence of the new leader of Church (and her former professor). Bernadetta summoned all her courage and spit out the words she had practiced for the entire ride.
“I will not be taking m-my bi-birthright as Countess Varley.” She said shakily. “I refuse the m-marriage contract. A-And I c-cede my inheritance to the people of this land.”
The look on her father’s face haunted her dreams for weeks to come. Pure hatred in his eyes as he calmly called her a wretched, selfish, stupid girl amongst other things—right before he raised his hand—
And Bernadetta ran faster than she had ever ran before, dropping stolen jewels and shears she had picked up from the garden, and mounted her steed, snapping the reins quickly to dash off. She outran the guard—barely—her poor horse exhausted by the time they were out of Varley’s domain. The crest slipped its shoe, which desperately needed the guidance of the local livery. She led in to the closest town, fatefully crossing paths with Raphael once more. Despite nerves telling her to run, she greeted him and he suggested she find some peace out east.
“You could come with me?” He suggested, her heart lurching, palms sweaty. “I’m headed back home, to Leicester.”
“R-Really?”
He nodded, a smile in his eyes. “I’d love you to come along.” He said. And she knew he meant it.
So she followed him. Up through the ports of Edmund, down through the rolling plains of Gloucester, along the war-battered bridge of Myrddin, to the city of water Derdriu. She met his family. They thought they were dating and oh how red she got.
She carved her way as a tailor at first, then a seamstress and doll maker, all under the banner as the finest in the city. Women and their daughters came for her stitchings, and Bernadetta lined her pockets happily in between working the inn with him and sewing for others.
Funny, she had been terrified that her life was over when she looked at her father and said that she would not be accepting the marriage contact and that, in turn, she would not assume the role of Countess Varley. She assumed that the way her father had looked at her and said—“…then you are no daughter of mine, Bernadetta.”—would have killed her alone.
But it didn’t.
Yet what threatens to kill her is the pain of knowing that Raphael, who had held her hand through it all, isn’t waiting for her at the kitchen doors to walk back home across the huge green meadow where they will grow their wheat in the coming spring.
Her daughter pulls her from her painful reverie. She’s older now. An innkeeper. A talented tailor and seamstress. A war veteran. A mother, three times over. And, unfortunately, a widow.
Her gaze is lost in the bubbly washbasin of dishes from the dinner service—Raphael’s recipe for Daphnel Stew, snagged off Countess Galatea—the water stone-cold.
“Mother, please, rest.” She insists. “F—”
Bernadetta knows what her serious, ever-rational daughter would say. Father wouldn’t want you to work so hard. And she’s right. If he saw her now, red eyed and exhausted, he’d gently take off her apron, kiss her cheek, then escort her up to bed and tuck her in himself. He’d even crawl in beside her and lay there until she fell asleep.
But Raphael is not here. And he won’t be coming back.
She puts on a brave face in front of the daughter who takes so much after her beautiful husband. That wide smile that rarely slips through, those deep brown Kirsten eyes with flecks of gold, and the kind heart that makes it near impossible for Bernadetta to dismiss her.
“Alright Mari.” She relents at last. With great work, she reaches behind herself and undoes her apron.
“Why don’t you go and tend to your garden? Or walk the grounds?” Her daughter—kind, sweet Marigold—suggests softly. “Alden could go with you. I think Jasper is running a few errands in town.”
She shakes her head. “No need. I’m not so…” she stops herself from letting the old childish Bernadetta slip though, protesting that she need not be looked after. “I don’t need to bother him now. It’s alright.”
“It would help him become more responsible. Make it easier to tend to the inn if he put down the paintbrush.” Marigold frowns.
Bernadetta’s hands, worn and raw from years of hard work, find the pump for the well and wash away the day’s work.
“I saw Aunt Maya and Uncle Ignatz in town today. She gave me something.”
“Did she?” Bernadetta asks, brow raised.
Marigold nods. “A box, I think. It put it up in your room.”
A box? Bernadetta thinks nervously. A box could be anything, quite literally, anything. And for a moment, the Bernadetta of the past slips forward, wondering if it’s a weapon or poisoned chocolates or—
She puts the childish babe to rest, something she grew used to with the rearing of three children.
Her eyes lift to her daughter who shoos her off. “Rest, Maman,” Marigold insists. “I’ll lock up.”
Then, in typical loud Kirsten fashion, Marigold turns and throws her head out the nearby window. “Aldie! Stop painting and get in here and help me clean up!”
Bernadetta hears Alden frightfully call back, paintbrushes and the mason jar they sat in clattering to the ground. She and her youngest were once identical; so shy, so nervous, but he’s so tall and strapping, just like his father.
She hangs her apron up on the usual hook, right beside Raphael’s. No one has dared to remove it, giving the false belief that he will come back to cook and happily greet guests as he did before. She stares at the purple plaid pattern for a moment, then tears her gaze away and walks out through the staff exit.
The meadow browns with the passing of summer, the promise of a cold winter and spring soon to follow. Here, she planted her garden; here she welcomed her new family with open arms; she taught music lessons to the city’s children; she laid in the grass with her husband; her children played.
Beyond the sea of green is the cottage, a former staff quarters before they turned it into their home. She reaches the little porch, handmade wind chimes carrying on the autumn breeze as she walks past and opens the door.
The cottage is kept—thankfully—by Jasper, her middle child. Carrier of her bloodline, of Indech’s crest and perhaps her successor in another life. The front room is tidy, the sofa neatly kept and adorned with blankets she’d made. The kitchen, just further back, is small, rustic and the heart of the home. She can remember so many delicious meals being made by she and Raphael, taste-testing every few moments, wiping sauce or a stray smudge off his cheek, a smile on her face. Bread rising on warm, humid mornings, cool afternoons made cozier with mulled cider.
Down the hall is Jasper and Alden’s shared room and Marigold’s off to the left. Upstairs, in what used to be the attic is her room. Her legs ache as she climbs the small staircase up and opens the door.
The small room is a mess, blankets thrown off the bed and pillows on the floor; her desk is covered in paid invoices for food and water and taxes for the Inn that she’s neglected to organized and put away. Dirty aprons and clothes that have been worn too many times are thrown here, there and everywhere. And of course, there’s the painting tools. She’s been trying to paint for the last year but nothing happens. The second she sits on her stool and prepares herself to paint a bowl of fruit or a simple landscape, she winds up spending hours staring off into the ivory canvas. She’s been sorting through the leftover tools to see which ones she can salvage and give to Alden, and which ones must be thrown away.
Bernadetta heaves a sigh, the room filled with so many memories. Raphael by the window watching the first snow of the season excitedly; Raphael easing into bed for a cuddle before well-deserved rest; Raphael glancing at his tailored wedding clothes in that same old mirror; Raphael smiling at her as she showed him Marigold for the very first time, infectious joy on his face which returned when Jasper and Alden came along. Raphael behind her, planting kisses along her neck and telling her that he loved her more than anything else in the world.
Raphael in bed, fighting infection from a wound so terrible that his big heart could not even stop it. An injury sustained from saving someone, not long after finally being knighted by a certain king for all his hard work.
She remembers holding his hand tightly, her fingers intertwined with his as she told him it was okay to leave. His golden gaze on hers as he fought tirelessly, saying, “I don’t want to go, not without you. Forgive me, Bernie.”
“You don’t need my forgiveness, you’ll always have it. You’ll always have me.” She promised him, tears flooding her vision as she pressed her forehead to his.
Her heart aches, her eyes wetting with fresh tears. The fourth time today. She’s gotten good about hiding them, too good. She can disguise them as bad hormones or the like, or chopping onions when she’s actually cutting turnips for their country-style red turnip plate, an old favourite of theirs.
It’s been a year and half and yet, she still can’t move on; she probably will never move on. For what is there to pick up and reassemble when there’s nothing left?
(That’s a lie. She has the three children they had together, this beautiful inn they built with their own hands, and the reconstructed House Kirsten.)
But he didn’t just take part of her with him when he died; he took everything, as he had become everything to her. Every light was found in his warm smile, every joy in his hand in hers, every bit of sadness was fleeting, just knowing that Raphael was only a whisper away.
The tears fall down her cheeks. She wipes at her eyes with the back of her hands and changes out of her dress, dusty with flour and splatters from pickling liquids and soup. Despite the Wyvern Moon chill telling her otherwise—over thirty-five years of calling Leicester her home and she still hasn’t gotten used to the cold—she finds one of his old tunics and slips it on. The cotton surrounds her and she curls into whatever is left of his scent, longing just to be held by him for a moment longer.
I wouldn’t waste it this time. She thinks. Not with crying or running away or being afraid of my feelings. I wouldn’t waste it.
His scent—woodsy and warm, notes of vanilla from all the baked sweets he had taken to making in his later years—envelops her. Bernadetta holds herself tight, pretending that her embrace is his.
Briefly, she thinks about the future and what it will bring. She and Raphael had schemed to move out of Derdriu and back to his sleepy little hometown. Plans had been made to take up residence there and live a happy quiet life instead of spending retirement in bustling, busy Derdriu. House Kirsten Inn had great clientele that would support their children as they took over the business—superb in fact, with the Count of Gloucester renting out the entire inn whenever he, his country girl of a countess and their many, many adopted children, came to the capital. Not to mention travellers from beyond Leicester like Margrave Gautier who would come all the way from the cold north to read her manuscripts while his wife, a former opera star, would sing for the locals. Even the queen of Brigid and her guardian knight, and their many children had taken up lodging more than once on political visits across Fódlan.
But how can she leave now? What is there to go out to? She has no family, as she abandoned Varley and they disowned her, leaving the county in chaos. Nor does she have a real home to turn to.
Not like she’d ever dare go back there. Varley has too many terrible memories, Adrestia too. It’s been decades since she dared to even set foot in the Empire.
Upon Raphael’s passing and the numb days that followed, Dorothea rushed in and insisted that she take up residence in Gautier Manor. She remembers her dear friend coming into this very room, where Raphael had once been, and laying beside her in the same bed.
“You can come and stay with me.” She had said gently. “If you wanted, Bern. Get out of here for a while after the…”
Funeral. She couldn’t even say the word.
But Bernadetta hadn’t taken the margravine up on the offer. Going there felt wrong. It still feels wrong, though the invitation is still open.
Her children are here. The inn that her husband loved is here. Her livelihood—the business and her slumbering haberdashery from before then—is here. Leaving now would feel like a disparage to Raphael himself. And how could Bernadetta do that to the man who saw not her fault and flaws as annoyances, but challenges that they could best together?
She pulls the shirt tighter around herself, a ritual that occurs almost every night to alleviate the loss of her beloved. Around her neck, on a plain silver chain that once held fat jewels from her courtship days, is his wedding band. It had been his father’s and his grandfather’s, and which she will give to Alden or Jasper, should they marry. An heirloom, one of the few the Kristens still have.
Bernadetta twists the ring in her fingers, her eyes blurry with tears. She focuses on the band, plain and simple like hers. They did not have a great amount of funds, even with the various goods she lifted from House Varley before she ceded the lands and threw the house into chaos.
Her eyes fall upon the box by the door, tucked neatly against her bookshelf. She bites the inside of her cheek, curious as to what can be inside.
If it’s from Maya, it can’t be all that bad. The worst Maya had done to her was give her a particularly sheer material and told her to make something fitting for sleep out of it, to which Bernadetta burned bright red (and proceeded to do).
She crosses the room, sits down on the ornate rug gifted from Claude in a pile of dirty laundry and depression, and looks at the box.
An old hat box. Not too big, barely bigger than the ones from the nice shops they visited during one of their trips into Derdriu, dreaming of a more luxurious existence but grateful of their relative anonymity as common folk. It’s a tattered old thing that had once been a soft yellow, but is turning mustard in shade thanks to age. It is not hers, so it must have been Raphael’s.
Another lingering reminder of him. This house and the inn are already full of them.
Why wouldn’t Maya want to keep these? She thinks.
The top of the hatbox is bleached by the sun. A piece of rope is knotted around the top, holding the lid to the box. Bernadetta unties the knot.
She lifts the lid, and inside, finds over a hundred letters.
She hesitates. “Oh Bernie,” she bites the inside of her cheek again. On the top is a scrap of paper with his writing in ink, addressed to no one at all.
Make sure Bernadetta Kirsten gets this.
She reaches out, and pulls one letter from the collection.
It’s addressed to her. She rips the top, pulls the letter out and immediately begins to cry.
21st of the Harpstring Moon, 1180.
Hello Bernadetta,
It’s me, Raphael Kirsten. The other day I walked into the greenhouse to hear you play your instrument and upset you—I’m sure you remember that. I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry and that I want to make it up to you, so I’ve decided to write you a letter every time I think of you.
Whoops. That sounds a little forward. I meant it in the nicest of ways. I know you have trouble talking to people, so I was thinking this way you can look at your own pace and respond when you’re ready.
Besides, I love writing letters! I write almost everyday to my sister, Maya, back home in the Alliance. And I’m patient, so if you ever decide to respond, I’ll be here.
Her heart breaks again. Greedily, Bernadetta sifts through the box looking for more, all addressed to her: Bernadetta von Varley, Bernadetta von Varley, Bernadetta von Varley—
And then, Bernadetta Kirsten.
Kirsten.
She remembers the very day when she started going by Kirsten. They weren’t even married yet, barely fumbling through an anxiety-ridden courtship that involved a lot of patience and reassurance. She had gone into the markets looking for more sewing supplies when the local haberdasher saw her and mentioned missing Raphael earlier that week, and called her Missus Kirsten.
How she blushed. How her hands shook. How she felt so sick to her stomach with nerves she would lose her lunch on the spot.
How she loved it and nodded that yes, she was Missus Bernadetta Kirsten, but just Bernie was fine.
She finds another.
17th of the Wyvern Moon 1186. He’s visiting Ignatz in Gloucester.
29th of the Garland Moon 1188. He’s home. She just painted his portrait for the first time.
1st of the Ethereal Moon 1188. They went for a walk in the first snow and half frozen, he gave her his cloak.
3rd of the Great Tree Moon 1190. He told her he loves her.
4th of the Blue Sea Moon 1191. She told him she loves him. His handwriting is shaky.
10th of the Lone Moon, 1192. They purchase the grounds in Derdriu to build their inn, and in a moment of rushed agreement, marry in the doorway.
Bernadetta is in love with the place. All of it. Even the minor imperfections of an old manor house. The pokey hallway that will become troublesome when carrying a tray or basket of laundry, the uneven staircase warped by water damage, the fireplace that smokes, the window-shutters that creak and whine. In the peeling wallpaper and dusty furniture, she feels—no, she knows that she can be happy here.
They stand in the front hallway, to the right is the sitting room, where she can see tea sets being served while distinguished guests take a moment’s rest. To the left is the dining room. She turns towards it, eyes wide and searching happily for the future that lies in the building.
“The seller says its a fixer-upper,” Raphael says, following her twirling gaze into the room. “But—”
“I love it.” Bernadetta says before she thinks it through. She turns back around to face him briefly, a smile on her lips.
An old table that seats twelve sits in the middle. She moves around it, her eyes looking up to a repurposed wheel chandelier which she hopes can be bartered into the deal. She looks out the smeared windows to the verdant meadows that surrounds the property. Not too far off is a second building, much smaller, with chipped blue shutters and yellowing-white paint.
He follows her gaze. “That’s the staff quarters. Three bedrooms, even a wash closet.” He says, his voice lilting with awe.
“Really?” Her eyes wide.
Raphael smiles down at her. “Yeah.” He points it out. “Plus, there’s enough space to build out, should the inn take off. We could even keep a garden.”
“I’d like that.” Bernadetta murmurs, a smile creeping across her lips. “I could plant sunflowers with this weather. We could sell them too, make extra money when times are lean.”
He smiles, her heart flutters. “You think of everything, don’t you?” Raphael asks, his cheeks dusted with pink.
“I have to keep up with you,” she laughs and melts into him for a second. Her eyes look around the lovely dining room. She can already see the barn-door tables and mismatched chairs that will add to the charm. They can take out the staff serving quarters in the back for extra space and open up the kitchen so people can see in. Maybe even add in a bar, should the local brewmaster want to make a killing off thirsty clientele.
“So?” The lord asks, catching the lovebirds by surprise.
Bernadetta almost throws herself away from Raphael, still fighting the lingering fear of being found with a common man. But his hand, warm and comforting in hers, holds her to her spot. She squeezes his hand for comfort and his arm comes around her.
Safe. She tells herself. I’m safe.
“We love it.” Raphael’s voice grows louder, but not to the volume where it frightens her.
The lord raises his haughty little nose. “I am not surprised. You both seem to have good taste.”
They share a secretive smile. Her hand squeezes his once more.
The lord plucks a piece of parchment from his breast pocket and leaves it on the table. Raphael reaches across, plucks it and they look at it together—
300,000 gold marks, no furnishings included.
It takes all of Bernadetta’s power not to balk. Their limit was 275; all of Raphael’s funds from working odd jobs, raking in money from being an on-and-off knight for Lorenz—tired of being parted from her—and Bernadetta’s hard work as a seamstress while teaching music and composition lessons to the noble children of the area.
But Raphael—who had to fumble his way through closing a merchant business and sell a manor—doesn’t falter for a second. “Okay.” He says. “We can see if that’s possible. Do you have any other prospects?
The lord laughs. “Surely you cannot ask me to disclose that.” He says snidely.
Bernadetta knows that this will hurt but—
“You have a wife? Daughter?”
His brow raises. “Three.”
She swallows hard. “If you drive the price down by 50,000 I’ll make all three of your daughters dresses.”
He scoffs. “Is that to please me?”
Bernadetta glances at her beloved, then renews her confidence. “Yes. I’m the finest tailor in all of Leicester.” She says pointedly. “The clothes we wear were made by me. As were the Count and Countess Gloucester’s wedding clothes, the archbishop’s new robes and the former Duke Riegan’s.”
The lord’s brow knits for a second.
“I am talented in what I do.” She says. “And I’m certain your daughters and wife would love the dresses.”
“And that price is to cover labour?”
“And supplies, fittings, requests.” She says. “My customers always walk away happy.”
The lord thinks for a second. “30,000 less.”
“35,000.”
“32,000.”
“32,500 and we keep the chandelier.”
Silence. His eyes go up to the wax-covered old thing.
“Deal.”
Bernadetta lets out a cry and almost jumps into Raphael’s arms. The lord draws up the contract, pulling a quill set from the nearby serving table, and holds out the quill to them. They quickly sign the papers, and in a month’s time, will move in and call this dusty old manor House Kirsten Inn.
The lord gathers his papers and they walk out to the main hallway, where the little check-in desk will be with coatracks and exotic plants. He dons his hat and bids them farewell. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Mister and Missus Kirsten.” He says. “Best of luck building your new life together.”
The Derdriu streets are silent agains the thundering of Bernadetta’s heart. Raphael and Bernadetta look at each other with wide eyes.
Neither say a word for a moment, the bombshell of marriage still rattling between the two.
But when she thinks about it, chewing away at her lip as Raphael stares at her with that sweet gaze, she realizes that she’s only a few months shy of thirty; and that if she had have stayed in House Varley that she would have been married and probably a mother by now.
“Poor guy was probably just confused,” Raphael laughs off the embarrassment. He turns back to explore the future inn.
She catches his hand. His golden eyes meet hers with surprise.
“We… We could make it real.” She finds herself whispering.
She catches all the cues of nervousness; his jaw tensing, his hand tugging briefly at his ear and then rubbing the back of his neck. “Bernie, we don’t have anything.” He says quietly. “Weddings are expensive. We just bought this place.”
“It doesn’t have to be a wedding.” She replies nervously. “It could just be us. Together.”
He holds her gaze. “Like right now?”
“Y-Yes.” Bernadetta backtracks. “I-I mean, if you want to.”
“Absolutely. I want to.” He agrees quickly. “But, you deserve more than just now.”
They glance down at their clothes. While fine, there’s worn spots on the knees of Raphael’s trousers and a pull at the breast of Bernadetta’s dress. They’ve no flowers, no fancy clothes, no guests, not even a ring.
“You deserve a real wedding.” He insists. “All the bells and whistles, yeah?”
“But I don’t want a wedding.” She insists. “I want you.”
He goes bright red. The confidence melts away. “You do?”
She nods, her vision blurring with happy tears. “More than anything.”
Bernadetta takes him into her arms with such gentleness that he trembles a little. The famed Beast of Leicester trembles before her.
“Okay then. Let’s do it.”
It’s nothing more than a warm spring day, the promise of summer not far off. People walk by the old manor, the gates shuttered up for the time being.
She gazes into his eyes, holds his hands tightly as if they’re the last thing holding her to the earth. “I-I’ve written and read enough romances to know this part,” she laughs nervously.
Raphael, teary eyed, laughs along with her.
“I, Bernadetta von Varley, take you, Raphael Kirsten, to be my husband.” She whispers softly. “I promise to stand by you, to honour you, and to love you until the day I die. I’m yours, forever.”
He brings her hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of her knuckles. “I, Raphael Kirsten, take you, Bernadetta von Varley, to be my wife. I promise to stand by you, to honour you,” he tenses a little. “And to love you until the day I die. Forever.”
The tenses a little, shutting her eyes as he leans down and she stands on the tips of her toes, practically leaping into his arms.
“Forever.” She agrees.
“And ever.” He promises.
And with a kiss, they are married. At least, in their eyes. And for Bernadetta, that’s all that matters.
The real wedding came a few years later, after hard work and the arrival of their firstborn, Varley Marigold Kirsten. Their children had made appearances in his letter-writing, with scribbly-written letters and shaky drawings.
The memories bring her to happy tears. A life so well lived.
Years bleed into each other. House Kirsten Inn flourishes with high-profile guests and a particularly jovial innkeeper and his pie-making wife. The food is amazing, the delights of Leicester with an Adrestian fusion make for a splash in such a bustling city. The company is wonderful, the hosts sweet and a delight to watch work together as equals.
Bernadetta forgets about his last days, weakened and in pain, fighting so hard to stay with her. She remembers more and more about helplessly falling for the kind, sweet man whose smile was so bright, so tender; whose hands healed her splintered heart. Who looked at her and saw not a broken woman, but someone who could rise above the pain—
She sees Raphael Kirsten, the boy from the Golden Deer class who just wanted to hear her play her instrument in the greenhouse.
Bernadetta clutches the letters to her chest, pieces of her husband coming back to her. She sifts through the rest, holding tightly onto the little pieces of him he left behind—a comfort to her. Eventually, her children return to the cottage, hear her crying and come in, finding their mother in their father’s old shirt, clutching at fistfuls of old letters.
They surround her, drying her eyes, brushing her hair from her snotty face, patting her back as she wept as she had once done for them. Alden peels back the covers on her messy bed. Marigold fetches a clean nightgown and Jasper helps her into bed. They all tuck her in with gentle kisses, touches on the cheek, soft, comforting smiles and whispered I love yous.
When they’re gone, Bernadetta steals from her bed and clutches at the letter in which he explains their wedding in the doorway. She reads it over and over, liking his version so much more than hers.
And in the letters, Bernadetta finds the memories of her beloved husband, Raphael. That night, she curls into their once shared bed, along the side where he once slept and dreams of him, tucked into his old shirt. In deep slumber, Raphael greets her with a wide smile and beckons her back to a time when she was young and maybe a little less shy, and just in love with him as she had always been.