Work Text:
Any time Rhea and Byleth left Manuela alone with Hanneman and Seteth for staff meetings, wine should be required. Something bold, like a port. How else would Manuela endure those two on their high horses?
Hanneman pensively stroked his chin. “...With hard work and discipline, Annette will surely grasp this.”
“Of course.” Manuela’s eyes flashed. “Because we all know Annette doesn’t work hard.”
“She certainly has potential,” Seteth argued. “But for her to excel, she must appropriately manage her time and gain confidence.”
Hanneman nodded solemnly. “Annette is her own worst enemy.”
“Oh, what a model professor you are!” Manuela raised her hands in mock adoration. “Why bother teaching? Simply demand the students teach themselves!”
“We can only do so much!” Hanneman protested. “A student must meet our effort.”
“Annette has a brilliant mind, a sincere heart, and a strong work ethic,” Manuela snapped. “Have you considered that her barrier is not her effort or organization? Have you, oh great teacher, considered that offering her the slightest bit of understanding may free her from her concerns?”
Hanneman huffed impatiently. “Students don’t need to be coddled, Manuela.”
“Compassion is not coddling!” If Manuela had that damn cup of wine, it would be staining Hanneman’s stupid pushbroom mustache. “If passion is the force that propels us forward, then compassion allows us to bring each other along. Passion is in the damn word.”
“A lovely sentiment, Manuela,” Seteth replied dismissively. “But sentiment cannot replace discipline.”
“Sentiment?” An old fury bloomed in Manuela's chest from a battle so often fought, the scars hid the sting of new cuts. “Our bodies and our minds aren’t separate! Our pain is not separate! If you can’t acknowledge that, you’re not objective - you’re a coward.”
Seteth’s jaw dropped. “You must respect that we disagree!”
“You don’t disagree,” she shot back. “You don’t care.”
The asses had the audacity to gasp.
He thought he sounded so reasonable. That she must respect that they held a different opinion. As though the statement didn’t carry a quiet poison: it’s disrespectful for you to believe what you do. The stage still hers, Manuela tossed her hair. “If you cared in the slightest, you would actually confront your feelings and listen to me.”
“Look at your own behavior!” Hanneman stood, aghast. “Unprofessional, slovenly, short-tempered, rash. You are no master of your emotions.”
Manuela’s eyes blazed. “And you are no master for ignoring them.”
“Enough!” Seteth interjected, “Hanneman’s point, while tactlessly made, stands. You are in no position to lecture.” He crossed his arms with torturous self-righteousness. “Just be reasonable.”
Reasonable. The insult boiled Manuela’s blood. “Enjoy whining about ‘meanie Manuela.’” She shoved her papers into a satchel. “While you two coddle each other, I will treat myself with the compassion you’re so incapable of.”
Neither of the dastards could meet her eye.
Good.
How proudly those two declared overdone lines as though they were groundbreaking. Bah. Manuela cast her satchel to her bed. Her colleagues would have her write a hundred page treatise explaining her point, so they could look more erudite while brushing her off. Manuela dug into the cork of her long awaited wine. And “slovenly?” Pah! She dressed exquisitely. Far better than those frumps.
Besides, if Seteth ever grew tired of being a wet blanket, he had good enough looks he could share a bit of skin.
The earthy scent of wine splashing in her glass grounded her. The touch of sweetness soothed her lips. The bite of alcohol tingled on her tongue, whispering, “Why worry about them? You have a thrilling novel and plenty of wine.”
Since Manuela was the doctor, she could truthfully declare: Doctor's orders.
And Manuela would have faded into her sanctuary - were it not for the tone of an overconfident noble right outside of her door.
How specific it was. A sing-songy brag, lilting with complete assurance that the bullshit spilling from their mouth was irrefutable fact. The pitch always lowered, so hot-shit could bring you into their oh-so-important confidence, whispering inanities they thought you should be grateful for.
Her greatest role yet: Manuela Casagrande giver-of-fucks.
Manuela had heard the same old song too many times. That hymn had no place in her sanctuary.
Relocating meant she must abandon the wine; Manuela would die before giving Hanneman and Seteth the chance to criticize her. Her book, however, must come. She tucked it under her arm, stealing a gulp of wine for good measure.
Straightening her spine, Manuela marched outside. She threw an effortless smile at the insufferable young man, breezing away to her escape.
The library would be perfect. The people there actually had minds to nurture. Manuela only found hard working students pouring over tomes. So many gifted women - Annette, Dorothea, Constance, Flayn and Lysithea whispering their debate. Mercedes nodded with the patience of the Goddess, and Marianne observed from the periphery. And Hapi…. Well. Hapi seemed perfectly happy ignoring them.
“Come find me if you have any questions,” Manuela encouraged them with a smile. “I’ll be right over there.” A beautiful chorus of “Thank you’s” followed Manuela to her corner.
The greatest privilege of her new career was gifting women with knowledge, and seeing them seize the world with it.
The intoxicating romance of the rakish Marquis Blackenstock and the vivacious songstress Priscilla had just begun to soften Manuela, when a gentle voice called her name.
“Could you help us with something?” Annette whispered.
Manuela hoped she didn’t smell of wine. She discreetly closed her book. “It would be my pleasure.”
“Thank you!” Annette’s gratitude brightened the whole damn world. “We don’t know what’s wrong. We cast Recover in the seminar, but can’t seem to get it to work again.”
Heavens, Annette sounded like she confessed to murder. And her fellow students nodded fervently from around the table, hanging on Manuela’s every word. “Each time you cast it, the context surrounding you has changed,” Manuela reassured them. “Think of it as standing in a fierce storm. You, you are the tree, gripping your roots in the ground.” She hummed gently. “Faith roots us amidst the storm, allowing you to heal others. Over time, you’ll find your roots more easily. For now, just listen for peace. That will help you find them.”
“But can’t I practice?” Annette swallowed. “Make sure I always find it?”
Manuela laughed. “Oh darling! No one can!” She leaned in, offering her softest smile. “Trust yourself. You know you can cast it. That’s enough!”
“But I shouldn’t trust myself,” Mercedes protested. “I can’t cast it now!”
The others murmured in agreement.
“Please understand, faith isn’t like reason. Reason is neat equations. Reason makes order out of mysteries.” They needed Manuela to play the part of “brave mentor,” and Manuela would not fail them. “Many people who excel in reason struggle with faith because faith lacks order. With faith, you stand in the center of the storm. You don’t reason with it or contain it. You hear it, accept it, and create peace where there is none.”
“What kind of gremory accidentally sets the kitchen on fire instead of creating peace?” Annette moaned.
Manuela struggled for words. Manuela softened her agitation, winking instead. “The kind of gremory who burns brightly.”
Hapi rolled her eyes. “Set the kitchen on fire. Got it.”
“Joke all you want,” Manuela snapped hotly. “Burn the whole damn thing, as long as you learned something.”
“But what if I had hurt someone?” Annette stammered.
“Did you?” Manuela demanded.
Annette swallowed. “No, but…”
“Were they cruel to you?” Manuela prodded.
“N-no, they… they were actually really nice about it.”
Manuela’s heart drummed to avenge this sweet creature. But for now, Annette needed earnest guidance. “If you didn’t hurt anyone, and they were kind, then why does it weigh on you?”
Annette seemed stunned by the question. “I… I made their lives harder. They had to waste their time helping me!”
“It isn’t wasted!” Manuela insisted. “If it happened to someone else, would you have hesitated?”
“N-no, but…” Annette sank into her chair. “I need to expect better of myself! I need to stop being in everyone’s way. I need to get it right, exactly right, every time!”
Such hopeless faces on those adept at their craft, who had been taught imperfection meant failure. Exceptional women, measured by “objective” measures that disregarded their tremendous strength, and ruthlessly punished them for not fitting into the neat little place assigned to them. They couldn’t hear her. How could they? Vultures must have picked these girls to pieces, sneering that if they weren’t useful, they were nothing.
It raged into a horrible flame within Manuela; Manuela couldn’t be sure if her restraint broke first, or if it was her heart.
“Don’t you dare play that sick game,” Manuela snapped, sloughing her character. “You can never be perfect enough for them!” She planted her hands on the table, towering over them. “Even if you sing with the best of divas. Even if you master medicine and save thousands of lives. You can do all this with the right make-up and the perfect dress, and it won’t be enough. And for what? Leaving clothes on the floor?”
Lysithea scoffed. “You could just pick them up.”
“That’s just it,” Manuela hissed. “Damn ‘just.’ Nothing I have done in my life I have ‘just’ done. It took years to achieve what I have. Who gives a shit if I decided not to fuss over dirty clothes? It doesn’t matter whether or not it’s difficult. I choose what matters. What I’ve achieved doesn’t vanish when I ignore something. I do not owe my laundry my best.”
“This is about the faith discipline,” Lysithea snapped. “Carelessness costs people their lives.”
Manuela laughed shortly. “Darling, faith doesn’t give a shit about saying the precise words exactly right.” Manuela’s hands clenched to fists. “Faith looks into raw despair, suffering, and chaos with no intention to tidy it. Faith accepts ugliness, even the ugliness within ourselves .”
“But that ugliness could hurt someone!” Marianne pleaded. “If I was responsible for someone’s death, I could never forgive myself.”
Manuela swallowed the mournful edge to her voice. “You can’t save everyone. These hands…” Dammit, her hands shook. “You can’t save anyone if you can’t believe in yourself. Believing I gave everything I could give keeps me going.”
“But I cannot ignore my mistakes,” Flayn said solemnly.
“That’s a lovely way to say you’ll tear yourself to pieces rather than let anyone else do it for you,” Manuela replied dryly. Manuela drew her breath - heavens, it shook - tears hovering in her eyes. “If you learn one thing from me, one thing –” Manuela swallowed heavily. “I know the world is cruel. But don’t you dare be cruel to yourself.” Manuela’s breath shuddered. So much rage burned inside of her, it felt she should have burned to ash by now. “Make them do it. Make the bastards reveal their horrible selves. Evil wants you to wither. So don’t. Whether you succeed or fail spectacularly, defend your worth every step of the way. Be furiously, terrifyingly kind to yourself.”
Manuela scanned the lovely faces around her. Rather than an earnest desire to grow, she saw shame. Eyes downcast, unable to keep her eye.
Eventually, Annette asked, “Are you alright, Professor?”
Manuela couldn’t force a smile. “I am so… very proud of all of you.” She swallowed back the tears, heat burning on her cheeks. “You deserve peace. No mistake could ever change that.”
They watched her, doubting.
Goddess, Manuela prayed desperately. Spare them from my scars. Her breath shuddered. Please, don’t let them think they must hurt themselves to grow.
Manuela's return to Garreg Mach felt like a visit to a tomb. The torches, long spent, jut from its skeleton like arms grasping for mercy. Not a single student in sight. They had long since gone home to their responsibilities…
…Or home to the Goddess. Manuela swallowed tears. A student’s satchel, torn to threads.
Manuela steadied her resolve, stepping over it to ascend the stairs.
Goddess above, watching over us…
Her worn heels echoed on each filthy stone.
Please… please, let them be here…
Her magnificent cloak, faded from hardship, collected dead leaves, broken twigs, and ashes.
I know they won’t be their sweet selves… Crags this ugly can’t nurture beautiful things…
The scent of moss clung to the halls, only broken by the nefarious scent of death.
Please, from one grieving heart to another… Let them be alive.
Five years ago, Manuela had left in the wake of war, leaving behind anything she couldn’t carry. War meant orphans. It meant towns wiped off of the map from curable disease. War was a death sentence to the vulnerable; and the Goddess needed her.
She insisted to her friends and colleagues that she wouldn’t be alone - the Goddess watched over her. And Manuela did everything she could to stand tall beside her.
Now, in the ghost of happier times, Manuela wondered: would anyone be here, waiting for her?
Wait…. Was that a flicker of light?
One word in her mind, a desperate plea. Please…
Yes - Torches, torches burned ahead, scattering the shadows. And the doors, the rust on the hinges of the great doors had been overcome, thrown open.
Please, Goddess, please…!
The tail of her coat lifted, debris knocking free.
And voices - so many that her footfalls disappeared into the din.
Please, let my brilliant flowers be here…!
And here they were. By heaven, all of them flooded the stairs, calling her name.
Manuela’s poor heart burst into tears.
“I’m so glad you’re here Professor Manuela” Annette threw her arms around Manuela’s waist.
“S-such poise!” Manuela sobbed through tears.
“Well,” Annette laughed. “I found my roots at least!”
Manuela’s heart swelled, speechless.
Lysithea planted her hands on her hips, tall with determination beyond her years. “Where have you been?”
Manuela gasped. “You burn brighter than a damn inferno, dear-!”
“What kind of gremory doesn’t burn brightly?” Lysithea smirked.
By the Goddess, Manuela could not be prouder.
“Dearest-!” Dorothea grasped Manuela. “You were right. We couldn’t save everyone.”
Manuela held her close. Mercedes’ gentle fingertips rested on both of their shoulders. “Yes,” Mercedes agreed, clutching them both. “But you gave everything you had.”
“Exactly.” Dorothea drew away, nodding fervently. “That’s all anyone can do.”
Manuela choked, too overcome.
“Each storm does feel different,” Flayn chimed in. “But each time, I know not how, I find my footing amid the maelstrom.”
Manuela gathered Flayn in her arms. “The Goddess. That’s how.”
“Or,” Hapi’s voice interjected from behind. “Turns out believing in ourselves gets it done too.”
Manuela beamed through her tears. “I couldn’t have said it better.”
“Professor.” Marianne’s soulful eyes and gentle smile greeted Manuela. “Thank you. I always believed in the Goddess, but… you helped me realize she needed me to believe in myself too.”
“G-get over here!” Manuela clutched Marianne to her bosom.
What a precious gift; Manuela, surrounded by brilliant women, poised to seize the world. Pride felt too feeble a word for the overwhelming hope in her heart.
Marianne clung to her. “I remembered your words in my darkest moments.”
“Yes!” Annette grinned. “The Day Manuela Shouted at us!”
“I regret that.” Guilt sparked in Manuela’s chest.
Annette frowned. “Why?”
“You needed compassion,” Manuela murmured. “None of you deserved that.”
“Maybe I was terrified at the time, but…” Annette earnestly met Manuela’s eyes. “You weren’t angry at me.”
“Precisely!” Flayn chimed in. “Watching it pour from your heart, I quivered with fury!”
Lysithea crossed her arms. “That kind of anger came from somewhere.”
“How dare they?” Annette growled, like a mighty tree bowed but unbroken in the wind. “You’ve done so many incredible things! You never deserved that either!”
“It was unjust.” Mercedes agreed, gentle yet determined. “And it’s how I feel whenever Annie complains she's not doing enough.”
“Or when Mercie says she’s unreliable,” Annette agreed.
“Not to mention everything Marianne has ever said,” Lysithea teased.
Marianne smiled. “Or how someone as incredible as you felt you had to prove yourself.”
“Plus, everything Constance says on a bad day,” Hapi added.
“Or all of the things you never say,” Constance added knowingly.
“And we saw it everywhere we went,” Dorothea insisted. “Cruelty, especially to ourselves.”
“Precisely!” Flayn agreed whole-heartedly. “As though a specter had seized our tongues, whispering lies from our own lips!”
Hapi nodded solemnly. “So we took your advice. Make the bastards be cruel. We didn’t do it for them.
“Not to ourselves, or each other,” Marianne agreed.
“Yes!” Dorothea stood as a diva in center stage. “We were furiously kind!”
“Horrifically kind,” Mercedes winked.
Hapi smirked. “Spitefully kind.”
“Irrationally kind,” Lysithea grinned.
Flayn giggled. “Who knew kindness could be so feisty?”
And behind her, Seteth. He didn’t have the decency to look any older. “I suppose that is the nature of compassion,” Seteth said with a weary smile. “Passion is in the word, after all.”
“Oh, you ridiculous man.” Manuela embraced him, adoring how surprised he seemed.
“Manuela…” Seteth sighed, pulling away. “I had much to learn from you.”
“Good.” Manuela’s lip curved into a smile. “Now, let’s grow together and move forward.”
Seteth smiled warmly. “Of course.”
Hanneman drew up beside him. “I don’t know that I’ll ever understand you,” he confessed. “But it’s clear to me how invaluable you were. I owe you more than my apology…”
“Oil and water, darling.” Manuela held him close. “They each have their part to play.”
Hanneman cradled her in his arms as though she might evaporate. “And I won’t pretend that I can play both.”
“Professor Byleth!” The voice of the Gatekeeper, Even now? “I have something to report!”
“Good.” Byleth descended the steps, her radiant green eyes bright in her solemn face. She clasped Manuela’s hand, a smile glowing from the edges of her lips. “Now that we’re all here, we have a continent to heal. None of us can do it alone.”
“Fortunate for us,” Manuela purred through her tears. “As none of us are ever really alone, are we?”