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i.
The letter is left at the top of the pile on her writing desk when she retires to her private quarters.
She, the Emperor, takes it with her into the bedchamber, sits down at her vanity, and removes the heavy pins that hold up her hair. Slowly, she stretches her neck in a circle, like a reptilian creature inching stiffly into the sunlight after hibernation. White locks brush against the brass epaulets and buttons that fasten the thick fabric to her shoulders.
It has been a long winter. The Emperor feels a weight sometimes at night, the sensation of something heavy on her chest. She has not yet spoken of it, not even to the minister of her household. If it is medical, she does not want to know. If it is not, she does not want anyone else to know.
With the stale quiet of her apartments settling over her, the Emperor picks up the letters, shuffles through the pile. One catches her attention, a hand she has not often read, but it is memorable enough to be striking. Not the flourishy script of Adrestian nobility, not the cramped scrawl of Linhardt von Hevring, not the precise, curiously angled strokes of the Queen of Brigid. This letter, addressed to her, is simple but neat, a thin spidery hand as unpretentious as it is technically precise.
She has not seen its writer since last fall. Setting her eyes on these words, each one a testament to a hand that held a pen, held it firmly and gracefully, feels like taking out another heavy pin. She runs her fingers through her hair. Then she slits the wax seal open and reads.
27th of Pegasus Moon, 1187
To the Esteemed Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg I,
I write to you today to apologize for my continued absence from Enbarr and to assure you that I am still working diligently towards our ongoing project. The condition of the roads and weather in Ordelia has prevented me from traveling and my mother fears that the damp has brought on a small and utterly insignificant cough in my chest. I believe this to be an erroneous diagnosis, but I do not like to worry her and so, I remain. I hope that you will understand.
How has the winter passed in the capital? Is Essar still being difficult about the star charts? If that is the case, I may be able to offer an alternative. During my time away, I have occupied myself with a few new translations of esoteric fluxion theorems from Almyra, and I am developing a method for calculating with much greater accuracy the trajectory of a swiftly but variably moving object. I have enclosed with this letter a brief explanation of the equations.
That may be of more interest to your shadow, of course. I know that he reads your letters. Pardon me, but it seems a waste of time and paper to bother with sending messages to you both separately.
But, to you Edelgard, my Emperor and sometimes companion, I wish to add this: I will be twenty-three years old tomorrow. That is ten years older than my cousin Iris was, and she was the eldest that they tried with. Do you find yourself thinking of these things sometimes? Do you compare the time you have to what they had? Do you measure the span of your life by theirs?
I apologize if that is not a question fit to ask an Emperor. You do not need to answer; perhaps this strange mood will pass soon. I will celebrate a birthday here in Ordelia tomorrow with my parents, and I hope to rejoin you in Enbarr this summer so that we may continue with our work of freeing Fódlan from its reliance on Crests.
I admit, I found it more pleasant to hold our meetings in the gardens over tea than to scribble these thoughts down alone in the library here. Until then, I have plenty that I must accomplish. This territory needs to be left with the tools to run itself well.
With regards, your committed servant,
Lysithea von Ordelia
ii.
She sees the courier landing from her window and quickly rises to pull the shutters closed. When she stands, her vision goes dark around the edges and she has to brace herself against the sill until the feeling passes. What does not go away is the ache in her stomach. That one, she knows, is not a symptom of her affliction.
No one but the Emperor would send a message by wyvern, and the fact that the response has come so soon means that her ill-conceived note, sent in a childish fit of loneliness the day before her birthday, was histrionic enough to warrant a response. She latches the window with fumbling fingers, suppressing the cough that threatens to rise up in her chest.
Her mother is calling up to her from downstairs. That must mean that there is a letter. She dreads it. She hopes for it so strongly that it frightens her.
Four moons at home in Ordelia, where she, the invalid, has always imagined she will stay for the rest of her life. It is peaceful here, surrounded by comfort and the companionship of her parents and the familiar cherry trees that frame her view of the grounds. She never cared much for Enbarr with its crowds, the stink of fish that came in with the morning breeze, the dry red bacchus drunk late into the night, the paved courtyards without so much as a spot of soft grass to rest in. Yet, she would give anything to go back just once more.
Perhaps it is just that you always want what you cannot have. She craves a moment, a short period of her life, where she mattered, where her talents and her words and her ideas were critical. And that moment has passed, a season of war and chaos and change that will not return during the span of her life.
Or, perhaps, it is not just the moment. She wonders, as she rubs warmth into her hands and returns to her chair beside the fire, if the letter is in the hand of Linhardt, Hubert, Dorothea, will the flutter in her chest fade away?
Is she eager for news of Adrestia’s reforms, an assessment of her own arcane theories, or is she burning with terror and eagerness because there is a slim chance that the Emperor will answer her rashly sent question personally.
Absence makes the blood run colder. Or something like that. She does not read much poetry. Her mother knocks on the door and brings in the papers, pausing to tuck the blanket more firmly around her legs when she feels the lingering draft from the window.
1st of Lone Moon, 1187
Dear Lady Lysithea von Ordelia,
I was delighted and somewhat relieved to have received your letter after such a long silence throughout the winter. However, I must insist that you cease such formalities and write to me as though you were speaking to a trusted companion, just as we once did during those difficult years of war.
To that end, I have made it very clear to Hubert that he may only inspect my personal correspondence for signs of forgery or tampering. He is making headway with your arcane equations, although I believe that even he is intimidated by the erudition of your achievement.
Along those lines: your valuable insights are greatly missed here. Linhardt lacks your appetite for debate and Dorothea is away on a much-deserved visit to Brigid, so there is no one to challenge the old scholars and traditionalist mages who insist that everything we are seeking to do is quite impossible.
That is not a command to return, by the way. I must make it clear, I know, when I speak to you as Emperor and when I am merely your old classmate. Take all of the time that you need in Ordelia with your parents, and return only when it is safe and advisable for you to do so.
Enclosed with his letter are a small selection of delicacies from the palace confectioner, who is beginning to doubt his excellence without your constant appreciation. I know that you prefer his cakes and rolls, but I wanted to send something that could endure a wyvern saddlebag. The peppermints are my favorite, but take care not to chip your teeth on them.
Regarding the question you asked me in your letter: yes.
It is strange, I realize, that we have never spoken of this unfortunate commonality, even during the year you spent in Enbarr after the war. In retrospect, it feels now as though I had sought to postpone it, using talk of politics and statecraft to distract myself from the truth that I know only you can understand. Does it make sense to you that I had certain reservations? Not that I fear your betrayal, rather your ability to speak my own thoughts aloud to me when I have never dared to give them voice.
Yes, Lysithea, yes, I count my years in fractions of theirs. But I find that, more and more, I forget. In another two weeks, it would have been my brother Milo’s birthday. And I fear that I will wake that morning, rush off to meetings, to an audience with the prime minister, to sign papers in my study, and I will not remember. The day will pass, and I will not mark it.
I apologize for this morbid mood. Enjoy the sweets and write to me again when you have the time. I await your response and your eventual return.
Your friend,
Edelgard von Hresvelg
iii.
The letters arrive consecutively, but she reads them both at once. When the courier returned from Ordelia, the Emperor had been obliged to visit Garreg Mach to convene with the provisional ministers of the former Kingdom and Alliance. Rebuilding and reforming is gradually taking shape, like the face of a statue emerging from a block of granite.
The Emperor is satisfied with the summit, feeling that she has chipped away a new layer on the project. Chipping away, however, often leaves the tool as blunted as the rock after a time.
Still, when she returns, she sets aside the more urgent, practical matters, and reads the pair of notes from Ordelia by candlelight, lying on her side in bed. She wonders why it feels so clandestine, so oddly guilty, like reading her mail is some indulgent secret. There is no reason to feel that way.
If she is writing to an Alliance heiress of exceptional talent, where is the harm? She needs to maintain her relationships with the few remaining round table members who willingly submitted and she needs to cultivate Fódlan’s best talents for her court. Anyone counting the letters she receives would surely assume that this is all entirely pragmatic.
And there is no law forbidding her to have a friend, after all. As soon as she thinks it, though, the weight descends on her chest. She presses a hand there, to the perfectly even scar between her breasts.
It divides her body like the hand of a clock, frozen at near midnight, the other invisible hand poised somewhere between seconds and years away.
5th of Lone Moon, 1187
To Her Imperial Highness, Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg,
There is no need to worry over the state of my teeth, I assure you. I would kindly request that you entrust a woman of twenty-three years to survive the ordeal of eating a peppermint candy.
Furthermore, I humbly request that you forget my invasive and highly irrelevant questions from my previous correspondence. Going forward, I will ensure that my communications are confined to matters worthy of the Emperor’s attention. I do not know what came over me, but I ask that you consider it nothing but a brief lapse in good judgment.
At the very least, I have enclosed further explanations into the use of infinitesimals to determine with far greater accuracy the trajectory of objects in variable motion. The Almyrans have employed it to great effect in warp enchantments, but my opinion is that it may have other uses to the downstairs contingent.
In devoted service, your loyal subject,
Lysithea von Ordelia
6th of Lone Moon, 1187
Edelgard,
The tone of my last letter may have been slightly too defensive. I send this addendum, hoping it will reach you swiftly. You opened your heart to me, and I feel that I owe you the same. At the very least, I should explain myself.
You remarked that it was strange that we have very seldom spoken of our shared affliction. When I first deduced that you had also experienced something of what I had gone through, I confess that I was extremely curious.
However, I realize only in retrospect something else: I was becoming jealous of you at the same time. To find someone else who understood my darkest secrets was a relief, but increasingly vexing.
It is not simply that your strength and vitality appear unaffected by the process; it is that you seem to bear it with such calm and dignity. While I was plagued with fears, frustrations, and my temper often exceeded what I could control, you remained elegantly quiet. While I felt helpless, you conquered a continent.
I see now how unfair that was to you. I should have been grateful for your offer of friendship. I should have thanked you more for the small ways you have always tried to sweeten my life. You give me gentleness because, despite what the histories may say, you are more compassionate than you like to appear.
But, if we do see one another again some day, perhaps in Enbarr when the summer comes, I must ask you to stop with that. I have received plenty of gentleness from my parents and my classmates.
From you, I would ask that you give me nothing more or less than your honest thoughts, no matter how unpalatable they might seem. From you, I need to know if there is bitter beneath all the sweet.
Spring is coming slowly here. I walk around the grounds when I am able. Some of the trees have budded, but the frost withers their premature flowers. In the south, it must be milder. Sometimes, I think of the sound of gulls flying over the harbor, but then I wake and all is quiet.
Lysithea
iv.
The cough persists. She drinks hot water with honey and lemon until her teeth ache.
Lorenz drops by for a short visit. The Emperor has appointed him as a junior minister of southern Leicester, responsible for the administration of territories along the Airmid River. He prattles about it for hours over profiteroles in the greenhouse. She, the lady daughter, the former general, sits there sullenly, inexplicably sour as she mashes marzipan with her fork.
She is not truly irritated with Lorenz. She is merely restless. Her feet shuffle beneath the table whenever the ascended scion of Gloucester makes his grand proclamations: “Why, in a few more years, we shall be the most fashionable district on the continent!” “Imagine sending your children all the way to Burgandy on one of these new barges!” “We must, of course, ensure that we are investing prudently with the coming changes to land distribution in mind.”
Her father is sitting with them, and that is the only reason that she is able to restrain herself from snapping back. As though she has a few more years. As though she will ever have children. As though she needs to worry about procuring any lands besides the little plot by the cherry orchard waiting for her.
“Actually, I am likely to return to Enbarr in the summer,” she lies, avoiding her father’s gaze when she makes the announcement. “My research requires a far more extensive library than we have here, and the Emperor has tasked me with a highly complex problem.”
“Oh, of course, I promised to drop this off with you,” Lorenz announces, her words seeming to remind him. He stands, nearly ready to leave, and produces a flat envelope from his coat with a theatrical bow. “An Imperial messenger met with me on the road, and since I was already planning on making a visit…”
Lysithea has leapt up before he finishes, seizing him in a quick and unexpected hug that startles both of them.
“Thank you, oh, thank you for bringing it!” she exclaims, hovering as she waits for the chance to bolt back to her rooms to read.
Lorenz nods his head, bemused, a few locks of hair disarranged. He really is a dear fellow despite himself, she thinks, but he does not really know her anymore.
Lorenz was only ever a collaborator to the Emperor. She is the only one, the only Golden Deer, who truly abandoned her home to its fate. Lorenz wanted to survive the war, and she had no such reasons for her surrender to Edelgard's outstretched hand.
18th of Lone Moon, 1187
Lysithea,
I apologize that it has taken me a few days to compose my response to your last letter. I sat down to write a reply several times, but found my words insufficient. So, this time I begin with mundane matters.
The Mittelfrank Opera is preparing for a summer season that will feature my theatrical debut. Not as a performer, of course, but as a figure upon the stage. The notion of it has scandalized Hubert and delighted Ferdinand, and the two of them have both been pestering the poor costume designer daily with conflicting notes about my simulacrum’s clothing.
I think I shall be amused by the performance, but I find myself oddly repulsed whenever I think of the white wig that is even now being made. It will be from the tail hairs of horses, they say.
I was raised knowing that I would be a symbol, regarded by many without being truly seen. It is inevitable, and I do not resent it, rather I seek to employ my status as usefully as I can. To accomplish my goals, I must craft an enduring legacy, and such things are built of operas, wigs, and gowns.
Do you know, Lysithea, I sometimes wonder if I will only get to see the future I have dreamt for Fódlan as a pantomime upon the stage. Either due to my own failures, the efforts of those many assassins who try their luck against the Minister of the Imperial Household by night, or the banal reality of my own mortal body—will I ever get to know if it was worth it? I promised you it would be again and again. It would be such a shame to let you down.
When I thought of Dorothea wearing the white horse hair over her own dark brown, I suddenly considered if all that we have done was merely a pretty distraction. Have I devoted myself to mere tricks of stagecraft, while the composers and conductors wait in the orchestra pit and the dark backstage, knowing exactly when to start the music or drop the curtain?
Does that fulfill your request for bitterness?
It feels wrong to write these words. You must understand, it is not out of disrespect for your intelligence or maturity that I wish not to dwell on these feelings.
If anyone has earned the right to live a gentle life, it is you. If anyone deserves to have the full force of Adrestia’s might directed towards their salvation, it is you. If anyone ought to be spared the persistent ugliness of the world for once, it is you. That is what feels fair and right to me.
Therefore, I ask that you pass along the enclosed to your family’s cook. It may have been an overreach of power, but I have compelled the baker who makes those delectable sweet rolls to record the recipe.
Yours,
Edelgard
v.
The Emperor paces before the window of her counsel chamber as she waits for the ministers to return. Somewhere in the bowels of the palace below, there is a prisoner who must talk, and won’t. Her loyal shadow assures her that he will find a way.
They are getting so close. It has taken years to get this near to a blood reconstructionist. The last one slipped through their fingers. The one before gave answers in useless riddles, which the Minister of the Imperial Household dutifully solved, and then discovered to be false regardless.
She looks out into the dark, towards the spangle of Enbarr below. The city lights seem distant from the raised vantage of the Imperial Palace. Her face reflects in the glass, the dark making her image unavoidable.
There is something unnerving about how it distorts the shape of her eyes and mouth. It is like a bad copy, a defective mimic, like the one who never quite managed to perfect Monica’s mannerisms.
Once, last summer, Bernadetta had mistaken Lysithea for her and proffered the young woman a deep, respectful bow. The poor thing. As far as the Emperor knows, Bernadetta has not yet recovered from the humiliation, although she, the Emperor, has reassured her that no offense was taken by either party.
Aside from the hair, they really look nothing alike. Lysithea is taller, almost lanky with her long legs. Lysithea has an intriguing face. Her eyes are bright, slightly angled at the corners, almost feline somehow. Her nose is more prominent, her face a long oval, her smile a fierce pink petal. She looks otherworldly—not in the off-putting way of the impersonators, but like some ancient spirit from a folktale. A little bit mysterious, as delicate as she is dangerous.
The Emperor stares into the window glass and tries to imagine that the ripple of white and pale skin that stares back is her former companion instead. The last letter she received is still in her pocket. Each one that she sends makes her absence more palpable. A specter solidifies gradually, a long-legged creature made of ink and crisp pen strokes.
As she waits for the prisoner to talk or not talk, the emperor takes out the letter and reads it again.
27th of Lone Moon, 1187
Edelgard,
The cook has done her utmost with the sweet rolls and they are nearly perfect, apart from some minor flaws in the rise and crumb structure that she attributes to the difference in altitude. Several hours were wasted in a misguided attempt to apply arcane equations to the process, but I have more sense than to bring a spellbook into the domain of a patisserie.
In any case, you must try them with cherry preserves next time. I do not mind the marmalade favored in Enbarr, but the strips of peel are not half as wonderful as a succulent ripe cherry bursting in your mouth.
With the year coming to an end, I have been reflecting upon our correspondence this past moon. If it comes across that I am not grateful—both for the distraction and for your kind attention—disregard what I write next. Speaking only as a friend and companion: Edelgard, you can be an exhausting hypocrite sometimes.
It would be all very well and good to write about how I am owed rest and small pleasures as some sort of repayment for services rendered to the Empire. There is also a sort of logic to your other implication—that the suffering inflicted upon me as a child should be balanced out with kindness now. In that case, how should the same not apply to you? We are, after all, united by both our pasts and our goals. Why, then, are you to bear the burdens of a bitter world alone, while I am meant to dissolve into sweetness, light, flowers, cushions, and silk?
Is it that you pity me, Edelgard, for my weakness? I do not think it is.
In any case, the world seems to object to your fair-minded and righteous scheme. My father has been receiving petitioners from the Hrym border, who claims that bandits are running unchecked in the mountains. While our knights will be able to handle Ordelia's security for now, I am not so certain that this is a simple case of lawlessness. Have your best mages review the latest equations I am sending along.
So I become your general once again. Strange that I have missed the feeling. I do not think that I will ever crave battle, but I feel an unexpected hunger for the war table.
Stratagems, Edelgard. Tactics and plans. Work and the opportunity to apply myself. These tastes I crave just as much as sweet buns and cherry jam. I hope that you can understand.
I hope that when I say that you should try to extend the same compassion to yourself, you know that I say it as your ally, as someone who understands, as myself. In writing, I find that it is wisest to be honest. Here is the honest truth: I miss you. Take care of yourself.
Ever your true follower and friend,
Lysithea
vi.
She sucks on the tip of her quill as her eyes scan the numbers. That is an old habit that she wishes very much to break. In times of great focus, however, she finds herself doing it unconsciously.
Today's numbers are far less complex that the ones she has been reading about in the scrolls Claude had provided in his last ambiguous shrug of maybe-goodwill. Today, she is merely an accountant, tallying munitions, garrisons, usable weapons. Much of the strength that Ordelia was able to muster during the war has already faded. Swords are melted down into ploughs, axe edges are blunted chopping wood, leather rots and steel rusts. Yet the enemy does not seem to weaken.
She awoke the night before covered in cold sweat, twisting in her sheets, burning and shaking. Night fevers are a bad sign, the physicians say. She blames the shivering on her dreams.
The old nightmare has returned, with the pale dead faces and the empty black eyes. She used to flee to her parents' bed after waking from these dreams, and they would rub her back and promise that none of it was real, that the dead do not rise up and walk again.
Odd that so many of her deepest fears and dearest wishes both hinge upon that notion. She has evidence now that her parents had, for the best of reasons, lied. Whatever is unburying itself in Hrym right now has been dead a thousand years or more.
Now, by the light of morning, the nightmare feels far away. But when the porter spots the familiar shadow of the Emperor's messenger, she thinks of her late waking once again.
In the dark, alone and struggling to catch a breath, she had not cried out for her mother or father. But she had thought for a second of Edelgard, of her rigid stillness, of her careful smiles. Her letters have oddly been far more revealing than her face ever was. She doubts it is intentional, but the Emperor's armor is more ephemeral on the page, translucent enough that she has finally started to wonder.
Last night, it had occurred to her for perhaps the first time that the Emperor, even she, had these same ghosts haunting her by night.
She wonders if the other woman might have ever wanted to come climb into someone else's bed in the aftermath.
1st of Great Tree Moon, 1188
Dear Lysithea,
I must admit something. Your last letter was a firm rebuke, certainly, but it also moved me to laugh during a time in which such a thing was sorely needed. Your goodness, courage, and firm desire to be put to useful work does you credit. I find myself smiling as I imagine you sitting at my desk beside me, eagerly shuffling through the endless paperwork, a plate of macarons ever at the ready.
This morning, I write to you as I prepare for the ceremonies celebrating the founding of the Adrestian Empire. It shall be a smaller event this year, I hope. My aspiration to see Fódlan unified under one banner does not encompass such displays of loyalty to an old regime. For now, however, Ferdinand has surprisingly managed to convince me that the people need reasons to celebrate. I have appointed Hubert as a co-organizer, which has made him very grim, although I believe he is concealing just a bit of enjoyment as well.
In any case, my speech must serve to remind the people of Enbarr that we are not conquerors, but rather comrades to the rest of the continent. I ought to be rereading it even now. Yet, I write to you instead.
A part of me thinks that if I could make an argument that not even your sharp mind could unravel, I could convince anyone, down to the stubborn royalists in Fhirdiad or the discontented priests who roam the Rhodos Coast.
So I make my attempt. Do not hold back to spare my feelings if you think me wrong. I shall not be dissuaded from my belief, only sharpened in my rhetoric upon the keen whetstone of your mind.
To begin, you read my unwillingness not to take my own advice as hypocrisy. A fair accusation, but I would encourage you to consider my rebuttal. By virtue of my position and of my past actions, I cannot spare myself the harsh and often difficult to accept conditions of this world. You know something of this, having held a position of command before. Soldiers entrust their lives to you and in return, you owe them nothing but the very best of your ability. I owe this not to a battalion, but to all of Fódlan.
That is not to say, as I am sure you are about to say, that power must necessarily be inherited and held for a lifetime. Eventually, I may choose to relinquish the diadem and scepter and pass these duties on to a more competent, more legitimate successor who has the full support of the people. But one burden will not disappear for me, not with time and no matter where I run.
I began this, Lysithea. I declared war, I transgressed borders, I arranged this conflict, and I am forever responsible for the outcome. Do not take this as guilt. I would do it all again, if I had to. I am not ashamed, but I am culpable.
Had I not asked, you would not have had to make the difficult choice to betray your peers. Had I not asked, you would not have had to kill your own former friends. Had I not asked, you would not know the stink of burning flesh.
I am not saying this to deny your choice, or to erase the profound influence you have exerted upon me. I am only saying this—I am the one who asked. An answer can only exist when a question has been posed.
Permit me then, one more request. Do not attempt to travel south yet. The situation in Hrym is more dangerous than I can put into writing, should this letter be intercepted. Please trust me, trust me just one more time. I will handle this. I will make this right. If my hand is all that will put down this rebellion, then my hand will raise halberd and shield once more.
Return to Enbarr in the summer when the roads are clear. Should you wish to, of course. I will not ask you to come if your answer would not be yes.
I miss you too.
Your Emperor, your servant, and always your friend,
Edelgard
vii.
"Lady Edelgard, I implore you to seriously consider for a moment what I mean when I say 'this is a blatant and cowardly trap intended to drive you to this very eventuality.'"
"Consider it considered, Hubert."
"Hrym is poorly fortified, rough in terrain, unscouted, and inconsistently managed. It is the ideal place to stage an ambush or an abduction. Those who slither in the dark have realized that you are no longer an ally. They will seek to have you neutralized at any cost."
"Then let them discover the cost."
"My lady, you must not underestimate this. If they are luring you away from the capital, there are surely plans intended to unfold here as well. Do not take the bait. Do not play their game. We have other options—"
"Other options, Hubert?"
The Emperor's voice comes out harsher than she intends. It echoes against the cool stone of the palace undercroft, ringing out as though she had shouted. Hubert falls silent immediately, and they both instinctively look over their shoulders. No one is listening.
This place, the former nest of their enemies, is now their refuge. She knows first-hand, the sound of screaming will not penetrate through the thick marble up to the ground floor.
She takes a breath, lets it out through her nose. Hubert's face is neutral, but the hurt and the fear burns behind his eyes. No one else would ever notice it, but she is attuned to the subtle gradient of paling skin, the small quiver in his voice, the quiet leather creak as he flexes his fingers within his gloves.
"What else can I do?" she softens and asks. "I will not allow the people of Hrym to die just to save myself. Whatever argument can be made for the good of the many over the few, I refuse to hear."
"That is not what I propose," Hubert replies, dry, utterly professional, a desperate relief barely suppressed in the way he withdraws a letter from his pocket. "And, before you ask, it came addressed to me this time."
The letter he holds out is unsealed. She recognizes the handwriting, and she seizes the paper so sharply that it almost tears as it leaves his grasp.
12th Great Tree Moon, 1188
Edelgard,
I have asked Hubert to give you this proposal only when you absolutely must hear it. If my deductions are correct, your usual combination of daring, fearlessness, and targeted fury towards those who abuse their power is about to lead you into a trap.
Know that I will not permit this to happen. This time, the Emperor has earned her reprieve.
My proposal is simple, but in its simplicity, effective. You are needed in Enbarr to close the trap we have been so painstakingly laying for our foes. And you are needed in Hrym to subvert a pathetic attempt to escape this swiftly tightening noose. We cannot know which location will prove to be the more important one. We cannot know if the blood reconstructionist's allies are at your doorstep, or if they have retreated to mine.
Mathematically speaking, this poses a problem. Even these new Almyran theorems do not allow for warp travel over such a long distance.
Therefore, I suggest that there must be two Emperors. If the Imperial armor were worn by a white-haired woman in Hrym, while Edelgard and her ministers stayed to guard the capital, then there will be no cracks for these rats to slip through again. We end can end this threat forever if we are together, but miles and miles apart.
I know that you are probably racking your brains to find a reason to object to this plan. If it is my health that concerns you, know that my family's physician has been quite pleased with my progress. If it is my capability on the battlefield, may I kindly remind you of my record during the war.
If there is another reason that you cannot abide by this, when failure to enact it will compromise everything that we fought for together and everything you promised me that we would work to accomplish, then I ask that you write to me again and explain why you would risk throwing it all away.
Edelgard, you know every dark and terrible memory scored into my heart. Trust that I know yours in return. Trust me to bear the dreadful weight of being you, just for a moment.
Yours entirely,
Lysithea
viii.
The letter is delivered to her hands. The knight who brings it is out of breath, windswept, an arrow shaft still partially lodged in the armor protecting her thigh.
"She wanted it given to me personally?"
"Yes, milady."
"And I must read it in front of you too?"
"I am to ensure that its contents are known."
"Very well. And then?"
"And then, milady?"
"Are there conditions under which you will take me into custody? If I refuse to comply with the orders contained?"
"I do not know, milady," the knight replies carefully, meeting her gaze. "I was not permitted to learn the contents of the letter. However, I am certain that your ladyship will obey the Emperor's commands. The Minister of the Imperial Household assured me of your loyalty personally."
"I see."
She smiles grimly. Although she has done her best to stand up tall and walk on her own to meet with the messenger, her heart is racing from the effort. She feels her bangs sticking to the sweat on her forehead, although her body is so cold, she thinks her teeth may chatter. The effort of casting even a single spell right now will knock her unconscious. Maybe worse, if the Crest of Charon rears its head.
"And the package?" she asks, as her fingers struggle to break the wax.
"A helm, milady, and ringmail," the knight replies, before adding, "a breastplate too, but it is very heavy."
"Light enough to be flown on a wyvern," she scoffs with brittle scorn. "I'm not made of glass, you know."
17th of Great Tree Moon, 1188
To the Lady Lysithea von Ordelia,
I have considered and subsequently rejected your proposed plan on the grounds that it is both recklessly dangerous and completely unnecessary. You are commanded to remain in Ordelia territory. Your father, who is still the acting lord of Ordelia, will hold the border and not intervene in any matter occurring within the borders of Hrym territory. Any action taken by yourself or any persons under the command of your family in that region will be seen as an act of aggression and a violation of the Imperial Peace.
I will not threaten you further. You are too clever to believe me if I promise to charge you with treason and have your entire household marched to the gallows.
Instead, let me explain something to you. You are bright, a useful resource, certainly, but you believe yourself to be far more influential than you really are. Be reasonable, Lysithea. You are a girl with little political power, even less experience with statecraft, a temperament too immature for a permanent position at court. I admit that I felt a kinship to you due to our shared experiences, but you have perhaps misunderstood my intentions.
You are blundering into a plan more complex and sophisticated than you could imagine, and if you have convinced yourself that your actions will be anything more than a liability, then that is entirely my fault as well. I have spent to long coddling you, pretending that your little insights were in any way important, seeking to encourage without ever criticizing.
Lysithea, the time has come for us to acknowledge that your value to my endeavors begins and ends with your arcane equations. Confine yourself to this pursuit and end this childish fantasy of intrigue and adventure. You are a good girl and I should regret to lose you to such an easily avoidable calamity.
Byleth is taking command of the situation in Hrym. Perhaps that will convince you of just how unneeded you are to me. Enjoy your gentle retirement, Lystihea. That is an order. You are a subject of the Empire now, not its commander.
From Her Majesty, Emperor Edelgard von Hresvelg of Fódlan
ix.
They came for her in the throne room. Seven of them warped in, another half dozen were hidden among the staff. Three of those had crest stones implanted in their chests, which burst into snarling masses of black tendrils, gaping jaws, sizzling bile.
In the aftermath, she leans against the wall and feels unusually small. Her face is splattered with oily viscera, which she tries to wipe away but only succeeds in smearing across her cheeks. Their leader, the one who she had once called her uncle, had tried to do something to her. She had felt a lurch deep behind her breastbone when he had held out his hand. The weight, she had realized with a sinking despair. That was where the weight came from.
Petra had sliced through his hamstring before he had time to finish the job. The swift response from Brigid had been the edge they needed, but it had almost not been enough.
She presses a hand to her chest, hard enough that it might bruise, and she imagines a cold stone growing like a tumor behind the bones of her ribs.
"Edelgard, it seems as though you have taken a shallow wound on your arm, please allow me to escort you to the healer," Ferdinand sweeps in, his tone just a sliver too polite. He is worried, even though they have already won.
"I am not in need of your arm, Ferdinand," she sighs, pushing herself upright against the pillar where she has been leaning.
"Regardless, I would be honored if you accepted it," he smiles, brow creasing.
She waits in the infirmary for a few hours while the guards sweep the rest of the palace. Again, she feels oddly small. Someone hands her a glass of water and it slips from her grip, shattering against the floor.
That night, she is moved to quarters at the Bergliez estate just to be certain. Hubert comes in as she sits before the mirror, methodically combing and recombing the same section of hair. He is limping slightly on the left side.
"Is there word yet?" she asks, keeping her eyes fixed on her face in the mirror. She hates her face, she has decided. She hates her wide, vacant eyes and her round porcelain cheeks, staring back at her like a pretty, stupid doll.
"Shambhala is breached," Hubert grits out his reply. "Byleth is entering the facility with the first wave of troops. No javelins were launched in the initial assault."
"And the… the diversion?" Edelgard asks, her voice thickening slightly in her throat. "I know you used her, Hubert. Don't try to pretend otherwise."
"The diversion served its purpose," Hubert says flatly. She glances up to catch a glimpse of him in the mirror. He is looking down at the floor, mostly wreathed in shadow so that she cannot judge his expression.
"And?" she forces herself to say, forces herself to speak aloud without letting her voice break.
"They drew the attention of the Agarthan leadership. Significant losses, but they outmaneuvered them in the end." Hubert takes a slow breath and lets it out. "Apparently the emperor's sudden ability with dark spikes disrupted a critical cavalry charge. She is alive, Edelgard, although…"
"Please, Hubert," Edelgard blurts out as he pauses. The comb drops to her lap and she turns to look at him directly. Her chest rises and falls, breath high and tight in her throat. "Please just say it."
"It may have been too much," he says, velvet soft. Ashamed, she realizes. "I did not realize she… her condition was not as benign as she claimed. I am not sure she ever intended to return to Enbarr, my lady. There is a letter, sent to my care until it must be delivered. I do not know when that moment will be."
"I'd like to read it now," Edelgard nods, taking a few ragged gasps before reluctantly reaching up to rub the moisture from her eyes. "Even if that is premature. You already know, I suppose, what I wrote to her last."
"My lady, I—"
"I understand, Hubert," she interrupts before he can torture this rough-voiced confession from himself. "And I don’t blame you. It was, as it had to be, her choice."
He limps across the room and produces the letter, battered at the corner where he has been carrying it. When she takes it from him, he leaves his hand extended for a moment. She takes his fingers, squeezes them once, then sits up straighter so that she can feel tall again.
20th of Great Tree Moon, 1188
My dearest Edelgard,
If this letter is delivered to you, then it will be the last letter that you receive from me. I hope that I was able to win. If I did not, I hope that I was able to leave a smoking trail of destruction behind me.
I am sending this to Hubert because I know that without some final word from me, you will stew over ever sentence of that utterly pointless message that you sent to Ordelia. It would be cruel to postpone my response to it: do not worry. I know you never meant a word. I know you, and I know exactly how surgical your dismissal was meant to be.
That is the funny thing about writing letters, I suppose. When speaking, last words always ring out loudest in one's memory. But I have your words from last year, last moon, and they are as a fresh and true on the page as any written later. Letters do not die in the same way that we do. Letters do not bloom for a short season and then wither in the cold. They are the sturdy trunks, which endure beyond and then bring forth life again.
We had only a short time together as friends in Enbarr. And as wonderful as it was, I knew even then that it could not last. When I wrote to you on the eve of my twenty-third birthday, it was because the knowledge that I would never return to the capital gave me a sort of rash confidence. Every word that I wrote to you this winter was my last. And I want those words to endure. Even the moments of petulance. I want you to reread them. I want you to carry me in my letters, which will not fade as memory does or as our bodies must inevitably.
Dying girls think often about legacy, perhaps even as much as emperors. I hope that my actions on the field of battle something to make the world a little less dark, but I acknowledge that even I have limits. In the end, perhaps all we will ever leave behind is our words.
This comes across as frustratingly tragic and maudlin. What I mean to say is actually very simple—I believe that I have come to love you. This seems somewhat absurd. But if I am no longer around to face the consequences, you should know that I loved you and that is why I wished to give you the gentle epilogue you tried to offer to me.
If you dare to blame yourself for any of this, Edelgard, know that I intend to haunt you. I admit, I have never been able to set aside my belief in ghosts.
Ordelia's arrangements have already been taken care of, so long as you approve of the plans I have made to transition the territory into collective governance. As for my own personal property, I have decreed that so long as the manor's orchards continue to bear fruit, you will receive my portion of the cherry harvest and preserves. As long as you live, dear Edelgard, dear friend, you will have something sweet just for yourself.
Take care not to break your teeth on the pits.
Yours forever,
Lysithea von Ordelia
x.
The pages are broken into fragments.
Some were torn neatly—folded in half and then ripped methodically along the crease. Others show signs of distress, One has been crumpled and smeared so badly that only a few lines are legible.
The Minister of the Imperial Household dutifully collected them from the wastebasket, filing them away in a locked wooden box. Keeping a complete and organized record of the Emperor's personal correspondence, after all, is one of the primary responsibilities of House Vestra. The Emperor has not always been aware of this longstanding tradition.
Still, saving these scraps from oblivion means something. Maybe not to any future historian, but they will be read.
1st of Lone Moon, 1187
Dear Lysithea,
While I am relieved to hear from you at long last, your question must go unanswered. I cannot give you what you seek. My memory of those times remains clouded. While I regret that this may not be what you were hoping to hear, I think it is for the best that we not dwell on those times and instead seek a future where they will never be repeated.
1st of Lone Moon, 1187
Dear Lysithea,
To answer your question: of course. I think of it every day. I think of it every time I shed my robe for the evening and see the scar that nearly split my body in two. How can I be anything but their walking sepulchre? Sometimes my father would mistake me, call me Winnifred when he heard my voice or saw my silhouette. She was the eldest girl, you see. It was as though we had all frozen for him, at the moment when we were taken. Edelgard could never grow, so stunted as she was by the weight of so many others.
13th of Lone Moon, 1187
Dear Lysithea,
You think too highly of me. It is entirely my own fault. You do not realize how desperately I have tried to make you like me.
14th of Lone Moon, 1187
Dear Lysithea,
Did you know that I actually did chip one of my teeth on a peppermint candy? It was in the midst of the war, just after we had retaken Garreg Mach. For weeks, I tried to hide it, chewing all of my food on the other side. Eventually, Linhardt caught me wincing at a sip of hot tea and spared me some indignity by declaring my problem a battle wound.
This is why I have not forcibly assigned him to a ministry position.
16th of Lone Moon, 1187
What did you mean when you said that sometimes you imagine hearing the harbor gulls in your dreams? It has been weighing on me since receiving your letter. Sometimes, I dream conversations with you, but when I wake, I realize with disappointment that both voices were my own.
1st of Great Tree Moon, 1888
Dear, dear, dear Lysithea,
I wish you were here. Every letter you send me makes me miss you more, like a sailor drinking salt water while dying of thirst.
8th of Great Tree Moon, 1888
Lysithea,
The situation in Hrym is getting worse. I would rest easier if you could make your way west to Gloucester territory until the conflict settles. Perhaps we could meet again at Garreg Mach, after so long apart.
15th of Great Tree Moon, 1888
If I lose you, Lysithea, my heart will break. Do you understand what I mean? There is a weight in my chest, a scar down the center of me, and I am terrified that one day I will simply shatter into fragments. My arms might be strong for now, but I doubt I will grow old either. And if you die, I do not know if I will be able to find the hope and courage to keep trying to find a way to fix myself. I think I will break.
29th of Great Tree Moon, 1888
Dear Lysithea,
I do not know how to write this. I do not know if, by the time this letter arrives, you will still be able to read it. Does the act of writing mean anything otherwise?
You will be upset, perhaps, when you learn what I have done. But you meant the letter to be read, I think. You did not anticipate an outcome where it would not be, eventually. If I have disrupted the course of time slightly, then the Goddess will have to forgive me for yet another indiscretion. If the divine had the power to strike me down, though, I think it would have happened already.
Here is my message across and through and beyond time: I love you too, Lysithea. I love you more than I ought to, more than I know how to. You are not simply my mirror, you are my window. I see a reflection of myself in you, but so much light lies beyond. Please stay alive. Please defy fate and time and the gods and the monsters just a little longer and stay alive. We came so close.
17th of Harpstring Moon, 1188
To the Lady Lysithea von Ordelia,
To my Imperial subject, Lysithea formerly of House Ordelia,
Lysithea,
Greetings,
Dear…,
21st of Harpstring Moon
You have not written, which can only mean…
I do not know what it means.
xi.
The Emperor meets with her in the garden on the first day of Garland Moon. The table is so laden, her hands knocks over a plate of caramels when she reaches for the teapot. It is such an unexpectedly clumsy gesture from her, the Emperor, the woman whose strength felled a continent.
The woman with the cane laughs. She, the survivor, does not have the gate of a woman of twenty-three, but she has the giggle of one. With some effort, she leans down and procures one of the caramels, picks grass off of its sticky sides, then places it into her mouth.
"What, you think this could finish me off?" she sneers defiantly as the Emperor frets over the state of the table.
"Of course not, I just meant to show you a better welcome," the Emperor sighs. "I can't imagine the lawn adds a very pleasant taste."
"Why not try it for yourself?"
She asks it lightly and her lips are parted and soft, dusted with a glitter of sugar at the corner.
They are both wearing white in their hair, garlands of roses, gleaming like a pair of stars as they close the distance between them.
No one will ever record what they will say next.