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The Poetry Recitation Competition is one of the more joking pieces of evidence in Edelgard’s dossier regarding Archbishop Rhea and her cruelty towards humankind. Why else would she make attendance at this event mandatory for all House Leaders, unless she was in fact an immortal dragon that despised humans who had limited and precious hours in the day that could be spent doing literally anything else? Not to mention, the event itself will take up a whole Saturday that could be spent on homework, training or scheming to coup your kingdom. All-in-all, Edelgard wants nothing to do with the Poetry Recitation Competition, but alas. It’s part of a House Leader’s obligations, and Edelgard had agreed to this when she accepted the position back the beginning of the school year.
At least team composition is easy. They need four members, and since her attendance is mandatory, one’s taken care of. Between Ferdinand’s incessant need to prove himself and his love for classical poetry, and Dorothea’s prodigious ability to memorize and effortlessly perform anything given to her, no matter how short notice, they have two easy shoe-ins. She could easily force Hubert to be their last member: Hubert certainly knows about as many poems as she does, but she figures if she has to waste her Saturday, she might at least let Hubert get some work done on her behalf. And when Caspar offhandedly mentions something about Bernadetta’s reading habits leaning towards poetry—the decision becomes obvious. She does have to bribe Bernadetta with an entire cake, and the promise to kill everybody in the room if anybody laughs at Bernadetta before she can convince Bernadetta to be the last sign-up on the sheet, but it’s a small price to pay to ensure the competence of her team.
Especially when Kronya had seemed so eager to pretend that she cared about poetry at all—Edelgard would rather kill Kronya herself than let her parade around so brazenly in front of Rhea herself, and potentially endanger their operation.
Edelgard prepares for the contest by scanning through some poetry anthologies in the library and rereading some famous authors and their entire corpus—Tharja von Havetti, Cristina von Varley, Forsyth Killin Heddwyn—all nobles, all very well known for their stately contributions to the corpus of religious poetry. All definitely part of the canon that would be referenced.
Personally, Edelgard finds most of this artform boring: its staid lines, the constant references to the ‘goddess’s light’, the strict rhyming scheme—little of it is appealing or interesting in the way that Edelgard likes. But she knows these sorts of poems are expected, and Edelgard has no desire to make waves and draw attention to herself as a heretic. Not until she has an army at Rhea’s doorstep. Besides, she’s familiar with most of them, having been forced to read them as a youth, back before the Insurrection, when her education had been a little less martial.
Clearly, she’s not the only one last-minute swotting though. To her surprise, as she makes her way to the front, to check out the poetry compilations from the 800s, she sees Petra and Claude cloistered over a couple of notebooks and a large book of what also looks like poetry. Surprised by Petra’s choice to help another house, Edelgard stops by their desk.
“Hello Claude, Petra.”
“Ahh Edelgard,” Claude says, smiling that strange little side-smile of his, the one that makes him look infuriatingly attractive, “Petra was just telling me about Brigid’s long poetry tradition.”
Edelgard blinks. Oh. She hadn’t been expecting that, she admits. “Your grandmother, she was well known for her poetry, if I recall correctly,” Edelgard says, softly, wracking her brains to try and remember the title of one of them. Her elder sister, Gertrude’s mother had been fond of the poetry, if she recalled correctly. Petra’s grandmother had performed once at Court, when Edelgard had been very, very young, Hubert had told her as much.
“Yes, she is being known even in Fodlan, but at home, she is much more skilled.” Petra says, with a proud grin. At Claude’s eager look, and with Edelgard as an audience, she springs into recitation.
“’S iomadh fear àlainn òg sgairteil,
ait-fhaoilt air chinn a bhlàth-chrìdh,
tric le ceum daingeann làidir,
ceum aotrom, glan, sàil-ghlan,
dhìrich bràigh nam beann mòra,
chaidh a choinneamh a’ bhàis
tric ga fhaireach’ roimh-làimh –
a chaidh suas chum a’ bhlàir;
’s tha feur glas an-diugh ’fàs
air na dh’fhàg innleachdan nàmh,
innleachdan dhubh-sgrios an nàmh a chòrr dheth.”1
Petra’s voice is calm, serene, as she speaks, and yet there is a pained expression in her eyes, and a strange urgency to the repetition of the lines. There’s a cool inevitability, something tragic to her words. Edelgard doesn’t need to understand the language to understand the words, what they’re saying. She sees the hollowed-out ruins of Nuvelle in the back of her mind and thinks about what Brigid must have looked like under the auspices of war.
“A lament. For the losses of war,” Edelgard says, softly, and shuts her eyes, “That was beautiful, Petra.”
“Shame we can’t perform that one next week,” Claude says, and for once, he doesn’t look nearly as sharply attentive as usual, doesn’t look ready to spring into action to turn her words against her. He looks quiet, contemplative, almost bitter. She thinks she likes this look on his face.
“No foreign poems allowed, yes,” Edelgard agrees, curling her lip upwards, “In theory, it’s supposed to even the playing field by standardizing the poem pool—but the question is, whose playing field is being evened by sticking so strictly to a chosen canon? Is it not simply benefiting those who grew up around these very particular noble traditions?”
“Right?” asks Claude looking up at her in what seems to be gratified surprise. “There’s a long poetic tradition in several other countries that is just as rich and textured. Morfis poetry or Dagdan serennes being entirely banned from the pool of poems we can choose from is…frustrating.” He smiles a rueful smile, shrugging as if he can’t quite express how upset he is.
“It speaks to a certain comfort with deciding what is poetry and what is not poetry.” Edelgard agrees, “Not just the exclusion of foreign poetry, but even Fodlanese poetry that isn’t written around the topics that the Church approves of...My favourite poet, Elle Langston, is banned entirely from the contest.”
“Oh, I am hearing about her from Dorothea,” Petra says, eyes lighting up, “She is being one of the Mittelfrank Opera’s first divas, correct? She is writing a lot about sex.”
At Claude’s immediate smirk in her direction, Edelgard feels the need to clarify, “It was the Hedonistic period in Enbarr, there was a lot of frank exploration about sex in the arts, in reaction to the expulsion of the Southern Church from Adrestria. Langston, and her peers at the Chemise Society, wanted to focus particularly on the female perspective. But Langston didn’t write explicitly, her work is more artistically erotic. Flowers, buds, petals…thorns…And she doesn’t write about sex alone, she writes a lot about oppression and poverty…they’re very moving.”
“I’m sure,” Claude says, a sly glint to his eyes, clearly teasing, “But I know what you mean.” Glancing around them, to check if Tomas or the other on-duty librarian is listening, Claude beckons Petra and Edelgard closer and lowers his voice, “My Grandpa told me this story about my distant aunt, Tiana von Reigan, who got in trouble with the Academy for her own poetry during the contest. There’s this genre in Almyran poetry where you express your devotion and love for God through erotic poetry, it’s called Sufism, and she was using that style to talk about her love for the Goddess. It took a while for everybody to realize what the water of life the Goddess made was, but once they did, the Archbishop apparently got so mad at her, she almost expelled her entirely when she recited it for the tourney. But I don’t know, I read it, it’s pretty good. And it is technically within the themes of the contest...”
Petra laughs, a quiet little giggle, “She is sounding very brave.”
“But foolish,” Edelgard says, softly, “Such small forms of rebellion are ultimately pointless.”
“You think so?” asks Claude, raising an eyebrow, “I thought it was pretty cool. I bet some people who’d never heard of Almyran poetry before that day had their minds changed.”
“Perhaps,” Edelgard acknowledges, “But to be almost expelled for one poem…what a futile resistance. Has anything changed as a result? No. She only succeeded in making a name for herself. Now, if she had gather—” she cuts herself off before she can finish her thought. There’s a long pause between them, Claude meeting her gaze, waiting to see if she’ll finish her thought, as if he’s asking, And what sort of rebellion are you planning that would be worth getting expelled for? and Edelgard longs to keep speaking, about the strength in numbers Tiana might have managed to gather if she’d used her fellow students, but she knows better. Lord Lonato had shown her the value of not showing your hand too early, lest you die a tragic and futile death. Edelgard was not going to forge a mutiny in her fellow students over poetry. It was the least of her worries.
“I am understanding her feelings, futile as they are,” Petra says, quietly, “Sometimes, you are being driven to act, to do something, because you are not living with yourself if you do nothing. It is a sad victory, when you are living at the expense of your heart.”
Edelgard shuts her eyes and feels the pain of those words resonate through her. It is a good thing that Thales had remade her in his own image and hardened her heart to the calls of anything but strategic justice. As much as Petra’s words resonate, she does not have the room to spare for such romantic gestures towards justice. She cannot afford such gestures, if she wants to truly carve the path towards a better future.
“Well said, Petra.” Edelgard says, quietly, and squeezes her shoulder tightly, because to say anything more here would be stupid.
She makes her way to the front desk and checks out her safe books about court poetry from Loog and Kyphon’s era and wonders about what poetry contests might look like in the world she will make without the tyranny of the Church of Seiros. Should she live to see it, she would rather like to hear what Morfis, Almyra and Dagda have to offer in their poetic traditions. But for now, she will content herself with just memorizing the empty nonsense about glory, faith and blind devotion and acting little like a good little sheep.
As she makes her way out, to her surprise, Claude is waiting for her, outside of the library. There’s a solemn look on his face that flattens away into his usual half-sincere smile when he spots her. “Hey Princess, you forgot something,” he says, and Edelgard frowns, because she hadn’t brought anything to the library with her to forget. But despite herself, she reaches forward and accepts the tome he gives her. It’s small, uncovered, and has no title nor author inscribed on the front. But when Edelgard opens it, it’s a small handwritten poetry book.
“Leonie’s favourite. Apparently very popular among some women in Leicester.” he says, with a conspiratorial grin, before shoving his hands in his pockets and walking off, whistling lightly and carefree.
Edelgard doesn’t touch the book until she gets back to the safety of her dorm room. Although she ought to buckle down and start re-memorizing the classics, she can’t help but skim through the handwritten book just a little. To her surprise, it’s a bunch of folk poetry, discussions of childbirth, love, and eroticism, all tied together with a cynical twist. There are genuinely beautiful twists of language hidden in the pages, and Edelgard can’t help but smile, just a little, as she reads through it. Who knew Claude von Reigan, of all people, would share her somewhat seditious thoughts when it came to the state of poetry? She had thought only her and Dorothea had feelings about this.
She hides it deep under her bed, along with the Flame Emperor mask. Just one more treasonous thing to bury. But she dwells on it, as they draw closer to the day of the poetry contest. That Claude had given this to her, a strange overture of understanding between them.
-
The three lords are supposed to start the contest with a joint recitation of Seiros’s most famous poem, which is why all three of them are gathered here at the main altar of the cathedral, while their teams are seated in the front rows. Lady Rhea, Seteth and the other members of the clergy haven’t arrived yet, which is why Edelgard has time to analyze the chosen team compositions.
The Blue Lions team makes sense, she thinks; studious Ingrid and Ashe, with their third member as Sylvain, who had probably memorized a lot of poetry in his famed romantic exploits. Annette and Mercedes sit a few rows behind in the spectator’s seats, porting little blue shawls and cardigans, to show their team pride.
The Golden Deer on the other hand, is a little confusing. Lorenz is obvious, he has the same background and interests as Ferdinand, no doubt he’d be well versed in court poetry. Quiet, artistic Ignatz, probably chosen for the same reason that Edelgard had chosen Bernadetta. And then Leonie, who Edelgard is very surprised to see, for she knows the older girl disdains anything that isn’t training for a fight, having frequently overheard her complaints at dinner about mandatory choir practice for anybody aiming to be a Holy Knight.
And then she thinks about the book of commoner poetry from Leicester, how Claude had winked and said, ‘Leonie’s favourite’ and rethinks her opinion of Leonie’s participation here. A dark horse, then.
Formidable opponents. But Edelgard still thinks the Black Eagles will be able to put on a strong showing. Ferdinand and Dorothea are strong competitors, and Edelgard is certain that as long as Bernadetta can get over her nerves about performing in front of so many people, she’ll be quite splendid.
As for the three house leaders…well. Judging from the fact that Dimitri is still hurriedly scanning through a mini pocketbook of poetry now, as they wait for the judges to arrive, Dimitri is not somebody who had spent much time learning poetry in his youth. And of course, as confident as Claude looks, slouching as he waits at the front, he had, by all accounts, grown up as a commoner. He just doesn’t have the background. Despite Edelgard’s disinterest in this whole charade, she’s probably got the best chances as House Leader.
It’ll be nice to get a win here, especially after losing the Mock Battle to the Blue Lions, headed by Professor Byleth.
Catching her gaze, Claude’s face splits into a smirk. “Feeling confident?” he whispers, quietly.
“I have reason to be,” Edelgard replies, coolly, and looks out to her team, with a subtle pride, “It’ll be a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.”
Claude whistles lightly, and grins at her. “Okay, okay, really confident. Confident enough for a little wager with me, Princess?”
“That your team will win? It’d be a wager you lose.” Edelgard can’t help the taunt, something about the lilt of his voice draws it out of her.
“Oh, we’ll see about that. But, if you’re so confident, you’ve got nothing to lose, right?” says Claude, eyes twinkling with mischief. He’s got some scheme hidden up his sleeve, clearly.
Were it a competition of strength, like the monthly tourneys, Edelgard wouldn’t bother with the wager, would simply brush him off. She respected the fighting capabilities of all of her fellow students (except perhaps people like Linhardt and Hilda who refused to try). But with something so low stakes…what could be the harm in a friendly wager?
“If my team wins…how about the Golden Deer have to cover our chores for the next week?” she offers, not letting him set the tone of their wager. This way, she might be able to claw back the wasted time of losing a whole Saturday, by not having to clean out the sauna for the next week. And Bernie and Dorothea hated their chores too, so that would be commensurate.
“Sure. And if we win, how about…the Black Eagles have to serve us dinner tonight? Pour our glasses and everything?” And then he grins, easily, “While dressed up in those new training costumes Professor Byleth fished out of the Church’s treasury?”
Edelgard rolls her eyes, a little beleaguered. She’d seen Mercedes out in one of the frilly maid monstrosities, they were uniquely humiliating, and yet Professor Byleth was convinced of their effectiveness in training, apparently. She’d never been gladder that Byleth hadn’t chosen her house, until that moment of spotting Mercedes training in that dress. But all in all, it’s a surprisingly low-stakes consequence for losing. Humiliating, of course, but it would only be one evening worth of time lost, so it was a brief little punishment, all in all. Very Claude.
Of course, she has no intention of losing, so Edelgard nods her head, briefly. “Fine by me.”
He holds out his hand, discreetly, and she sighs, before shaking it, equally quickly. Dimitri, still muttering lines of poetry to himself under his breath, doesn’t even notice.
Edelgard straightens up at the sound of the gate opening, and the audience all stands and turns to greet Lady Rhea, flanked by Seteth and Manuela. Dimitri quickly hides the book away in his breast-pocket, Claude sweeps his cape over his shoulder into the more formal position, and all three of them step forward in unison to greet Rhea, formally.
She smiles, her beatific smile not reaching her eyes, before she turns to address the audience of monks, nuns, students, and townsfolk that have gathered to watch the poetry contest today. “Greetings, everybody. Today, we are gathered here for the annual poetry recitation competition, held in honour of Saint Seiros and her legacy. May the Goddess’s light shine upon all of our contestants today! In truth, this event is my favourite event of the school year. Seeing our precious students embrace their history, culture, and tradition through the artform of poetry is deeply moving to me. I look forward to seeing their efforts blossom today. Now, to begin with, a recitation of Saint Seiros’s sestinas by our house leaders.”
In truth, Edelgard doesn’t think much of sestinas. She finds the reuse of the ending six words and their reorganization boringly repetitive instead of impactful or meaningful. But there’s something almost powerful about reciting Seiros’s sestina together with Dimitri and Claude. Perhaps it is the location, being here in the centre of her stronghold, right where Seiros’s power remains even after her death. Or perhaps it is that all three of their voices speaking in unison transforms the poem into something real. Edelgard’s not sure. All she knows is that the poem sounds better here than it had when she’d rehearsed it, alone in her room, something of the resolve resonates within her.
“Hesitance must not slow this inevitable reckoning,
I know there is no path ahead but blood,
The Goddess’s gift propels my forward action,
I must not be swayed by the prospect of torment,
At the end of this path there will be light,
This unworthy body shall become the Goddess’s weapon.”
Blood, torment, weapon, light, action, reckoning. Over and over, Edelgard says those words, and hears the echoes of the structure of their weekly prayer sermons. Although most of the Church hymns aren’t sestinas, she hears the structure, the familiarity of repeated words over and over, the focus on the divine while using tangible words.
When they finish their recitation, the whole church bursts into applause. All three house leaders bow and return to their seats with their teammates. Dorothea gives her an encouraging smile, as Edelgard slips into the seat between Bernadetta and Dorothea.
Seteth stands up to speak now. “Now, the fiftieth poetry competition held at Garreg Mach will now begin. We will begin, as per tradition, with the Identification portion.”
The first of three rounds, Identification, is the portion of the poetry competition where Edelgard thinks the Black Eagles might struggle the most. Traditionally, this section of the contest proceeds as follows: Seteth reads out the first line of a short poem, traditionally only poems that have three or four lines, and the teams must be capable of finishing the poem as well as naming the author of the poem. Almost entirely based on memorization of Church-approved poems, she thinks only herself and Ferdinand will be able to contribute.
“Come Edelgard,” Ferdinand says to her, voice low and fierce, “I’ll show you how a noble reacts to such a contest! I’ll outshine you.”
“Please Ferdinand,” says Edelgard, dryly, “Turn that competitive spirit towards the other teams, or I fear we might actually lose.”
“Rest assured, I, Ferdinand von Aegir, will not lose!” Ferdinand declares, as Seteth pulls out his sheaf of papers. Rhea clears her throat, delicately, instantly quieting down the side conversations, and Seteth slowly begins to read.
“Twisted oaken pillars graced…” he starts. Edelgard doesn’t recognize it, but Ferdinand starts, running up to the front. Lorenz beats him to the punch, however, with a slightly smug smile.
“Twisted oaken pillars graced,
With oaken amaranths interlaced,
In oaken garlandry borne,
Her holy niche—and now laid waste.2
Written of course, by the illustrious Kyphon, speaking of the ruins of the church in his hometown.” Lorenz says, with a flourish of his hand.
“Correct,” Seteth says, crisply, “One point to the Golden Deer.”
Ferdinand slinks back to his seat, eyes narrowed in annoyance. Edelgard leans forward and they prepare for the next one.
“Honour is flashed off exploit, so we say…” Seteth begins again, and this time, Edelgard knows. She runs forward, just barely beating out Ashe, also running for the dais.
“Honour is flashed off exploit, so we say,
And those strokes that once gashed flesh or galled shield,
Should tongue that time now, trumpet now that field,
And, on the fighter, forge his glorious day.3
Written by Forsyth Killin Heddwyn, in memorial of a friend lost in battle.”
She’d read it once with Jeritza, she remembers vaguely, and Jeritza had wryly commented that there was no glory in death. A dead body was just a dead body. She was inclined to agree. But it was the sort of poem that the Church would find beautiful.
“Correct. One point to the Black Eagles.” Seteth says, with a nod.
Edelgard returns to her seat and doesn’t miss the way that Ferdinand’s eyes only grow sharper.
So, the competition proceeds. Ferdinand scores the next point, successfully identifying his own ancestor’s poem about the divine nature of marriage. Then Ingrid, identifying a poem written by one of the former cardinals of the Western Church, about the divine design of pegasi. Ashe next, identifying a poem by Norm Kendall about the spider’s dedication to its craft, a praise of those who toil for no reward, just as the Goddess intended. Ferdinand again, identifying a poem by a former Margrave Daphnel, speaking about Ailell and his piety. Then Ignatz, identifying a love poem to the Goddess, chaste and pure, by one of the nuns at Garreg Mach almost five centuries ago. Surprisingly, Claude identifies the next poem, a praise towards Saint Cethleann’s divine grace by a relatively unknown author from Leicester.
Five more poems go by, points scored by Ingrid, Lorenz, Ferdinand, Edelgard and Ignatz, before Seteth finally reaches the last poem. Golden Deer and Black Eagles are tied for first, each at five points, the Blue Lions trailing behind with only three points.
“The chant of distant choirs, the morning's sigh…”
Edelgard doesn’t know. Ferdinand clearly doesn’t know. Lorenz doesn’t know. Ingrid and Ashe are staring at each other, clearly remembering it on the tip of their tongues, but not certain. Dimitri looks entirely lost. And then, to her surprise and confusion, Bernadetta tugs on her sleeve.
“I think I know, Lady Edelgard…” she whispers, looking deeply worried, “But I c-can’t! I can’t go up.”
“Whisper it to me, then.” Edelgard says and listens carefully.
“Umm, The chant of distant choirs, the morning’s sigh,
Which, umm, erst inspired the fabled Indech’s frame,
The melodies that, umm, hummed, so trembling die,—
The sweetest gems that amid thought's treasures lie,
Have naught of sweetness that can match HER NAME!”4
Bernadetta shouts the last two words, which startles Edelgard, and unfortunately, seems to tip off their opponents about exactly which poem this is. Lorenz and Ingrid sprint for the dais, Lorenz just beating out Ingrid by virtue of being taller.
He repeats the same poem, and finishes with a smug, “Recited by Cristina von Varley, about the grace of the Goddess.”
Seteth nods, looking quite bemused. “Correct. Although clearly, the Black Eagles identified this poem first, they did not make it up to the front in time. Thus, the point goes to the Golden Deer, making them the victors of the first round. Congratulations.”
The Golden Deer cheer loudly, and Edelgard finds herself scowling, in annoyance.
“I-I’m sorry!” Bernadetta says, looking on the verge of tears, “I should have—but I can’t—I dunno—”
“It’s okay, Bernie, honey.” Dorothea says, soothingly, standing up to go and comfort Bernadetta, “Everybody knows that was our victory, even if not in name.”
“Exactly! Have courage, Bernadetta, you knew it when nobody else could remember.” Ferdinand says, surprisingly tactfully, “Have no fear, we will surely win the next round.”
“Exactly,” Dorothea says, her eyes flashing competitively, “It’s Performance. And I don’t intend to lose.” She sweeps her hair behind her, with a dramatic flourish and presses her fist into her hand, with a menacing air, “Ferdie, can you run to the dining hall for me and get me some hot water? I want my throat to be in perfect condition.”
“Of course, dear Dorothea!” he says, and happily leaves. Edelgard can’t help but suppress a smile. She thinks she likes Ferdinand best like this when he’s being pleasant. She pats Bernadetta’s back absently, making soothing noises with her mouth to try and calm her down, but her gaze flits over to the Golden Deer. Lorenz and Leonie are chatting, with triumphant joy, and even Ignatz looks heartened, but Claude is looking towards them, an almost thoughtful expression over his face.
Their eyes catch. Edelgard narrows her gaze and Claude lets a smirk flit over his face and shrugs, as if to say, ‘what can you do?’
How is it that when she finally understands his body language, it’s when he’s being unbearable?
She curls her lip upwards and quirks an eyebrow upwards in her most imperious glare. Edelgard doesn’t intend to back down over such an ignoble loss. There are still three more rounds, and she knows that nobody can defeat Dorothea when it comes to Performance. Dorothea had not clawed her way from street orphan to one of the youngest and most renowned divas by losing when it came to performance and memorization.
Still…she’s not certain who the Golden Deer will send out. The Blue Lions are obvious, Sylvain’s already reassuring his teammates about his success, while being scolded by Ingrid and Dimitri. But among the Golden Deer…she can’t say she knows who will be most adept at performance. Lorenz might be the most confident of their group, certainly, but both Claude and Leonie had plenty of confidence to spare too. She asks this question to Dorothea idly, and Dorothea purses her lips.
“Hmmm…well. I don’t think it’s Lorenz. But you might be correct about Leonie…she’s very good at telling stories about the Golden Deer’s missions and making them sound like the most entertaining thing in the world, no matter how boring the actual series of events was. It comes from her experience of being one of the older kids in her village and having to entertain and distract a lot of the younger ones, from what I heard.” Dorothea says, thoughtfully, smiling gratefully as Ferdinand who’s returned with his hair in a little bit of disarray, but a tray of drinks for Dorothea, and surprisingly, herself and Bernadetta too.
“Are we discussing who they’re sending out next round?” asks Ferdinand settling down next to them again, “I believe they might send out Ignatz! I do not know much about his acumen, but it is often the quiet ones that are easy to underestimate. Like our dear Bernadetta.”
“Maybe so.” Edelgard says, softly, “What do you think, Bernadetta?”
“Umm…I don’t know…” Bernadetta says, shaking her head, “M-m-maybe Lorenz.”
They end up all being wrong, as Manuela quiets down the congregation and sends everybody back out to their seats. Sylvain and Dorothea stand next to Claude himself, cloak swept over his back, a lazy confidence to his posture as they listen to Manuela restate the rules for this round. Not that there are really many rules at all. Performance goes like this: pick a famous poetic monologue, at least five-to-six stanzas and not exceeding fifteen stanzas, and recite it with the appropriate emotion, cadence, and tone.
The Golden Deer go first, as the victors of the last round. Claude steps forward. There’s a strangely serious expression over his features, something that seems almost out-of-place on his face, and yet, looks unfailingly sincere. What does it say about somebody that they can look most real when they’re performing? Edelgard’s stomach twists with a strange confusion, and listens to his voice ring out against the white walls of Garreg Mach.
“On the eve of the end of the war,
I held myself at the river shore and drank from the noxious water.
It tasted like cheap wine, silty, and I craved nothing less,
Than the rejuvenating waters of home I would never taste again.
In its lack, I felt for the first time that I was without hope.
Aillell’s depths for all of us, for what sins we had wrought here.
The dead will not return. My blade is ever stained.
What cause was righteous enough to damn them to the depths?”
Claude’s voice is hauntingly serious, a strange woodenness to his cadence that only emphasizes the pain in his voice, the pain of the words. It’s a bold choice of poetic monologue to perform here, under Archbishop Rhea’s eyes. Claude speaks the words of Paladin Gideon Lamine’s renunciations of war, after putting down a Faerghan rebellion against the Church, and his decision to retreat into the wilderness, which led to the Rafail Gem being lost for decades, before subsequently being found by the heir to House Hrym.
Edelgard had always thought Gideon Lamine was a coward. To renounce war after it was all done, after all the murder was done and refuse to fix anything afterwards? What good was that to anyone? Their lives were lost already: what good did it do them to retreat into the woods and feel sorry for yourself and for them? Perhaps there was no cause righteous enough to justify spilling blood (this, Edelgard firmly rebuked), but surely, that was the sort of revelation you ought to arrive at before entering the war. The maudlin self-pity in the aftermath of violence, and the refusal to try and change the Church with the power he had gained after becoming a war hero had always set Edelgard’s hackles on edge. Of course, negotiating with the Church had probably been as much of a fool’s errand back then as it was now, but she resents him for not even trying anything. For just giving up in the face of a superior foe. A coward’s choice.
Still. The way that Claude performs his monologue; the slow dawning horror and the self-loathing—well. That she understands.
It’s a good performance. It’s a scary performance really, for how well it toes the line of what the Church deems acceptable and unacceptable. And she doesn’t miss how often Claude’s eyes catch hers, how often he looks at her when he pauses for dramatic effect. As if to say ‘Look. Look what I am doing. Look what I am saying here.’
His is not the pointless, open rebellion of his aunt, Tiana von Reigan, but something more hidden. Subtle. Clever. Only for those who knew the context of what he was saying. Only her really, and Petra, who was not here, out of protest. She’d almost respect it, if it didn’t only prove how scarily adept Claude was at saying one thing and meaning another. How scarily good he is at lying, effortlessly simple, as simple as the glint of his bright green eyes, where lies have always been leaden on her tongue.
He will not win this round with this performance. That much she can see. Even if Manuela is pleasantly surprised, hands clasped in front of her with an absent awe, her entire being focused on his words, both Seteth and Rhea look skeptical, their eyebrows arched in perfect duality and skepticism. They will not let him win for performing this borderline-heretical speech. But he’s clearly not angling to win here. He’s making a point as a victor. A point only her and him understand.
Well. She certainly hears it. Even if she cannot abide by the message, she understands the risks he’s taking here, what he’s gambling with. High risk, high reward. The sort of game one could easily win or lose with equal panache. She sees his point. There are ideals for which you ought to risk losing for. But Edelgard prefers to win. She wants to have her cake and eat it too. For all that lies do not come easily to her, she will continue lying until her victory is almost tantamount. Even if that loses her some people. Even if that loses her Claude.
(Why does that thought make her throat suddenly horribly dry? Why is it so much harder to swallow, with that resolve? Perhaps it is because when his verdant green eyes catch her own gaze as he finishes his speech, she almost sees a glint of raw understanding. Almost sees a kindred spirit, and it is like gnawing out her own heart to turn away from it, in exchange for the safe, guaranteed pyrrhic victory.)
There is a round of tepid applause, Edelgard unable to raise her hands to clap, leaving Leonie as the only one enthusiastic enough to let the sound of her palms echo across the entire cathedral. This doesn’t stop Claude’s charming smile flit across his face as he goes to sit back down with his team.
Dorothea is next. She and Edelgard had debated a while over what monologue she ought to go with. Dorothea was a romantic and had suggested the romantic-tragic soliloquies from the endings of either Cicero and Malaika, or Emperor Cassius, but Edelgard had urged Dorothea to stick with the classics.
“I’m surprised by that choice, Edie,” Dorothea had said, surprisingly wounded, “Where’s your fire?”
Burned into her skin by the people who’d killed her entire family. “Buried, if it means we can win. I refuse to let Dimitri or Claude win this tournament, and if that means we’re sucking up to the Church, so be it.” She’d replied, back then, and is grateful for it now. It’s the perfect riposte and rejection of the high-stakes proposal Claude had made to her.
It is her choosing safety over and over again, that when Dorothea opens her mouth, it is the monologue from Saint Seiros’s Ascension, the night before she decides to oppose the corrupted King Nemesis, taken from one of the most famous of the Mittelfrank plays.
Dorothea is sumptuous in her role. She portrays the fiery rage tempered by the quavering fear, with ease. Glistening tears rise to her eyes as she speaks on the friends she must sentence to death by committing to their fight against Nemesis, and a husky certainty imbues her tone of undeniable certainty that by heading down this path, she irrevocably changes the course of history. In the light of the cathedral, Dorothea’s deep-brown hair looks almost white, and her pleas to the Goddess to relieve her from this dreadful role sound entirely heart-wrenching. It is the performance of a lifetime. By the end, half the congregation is weeping, yet Edelgard’s mouth is dry and her heart has sunk down to her gut.
She can’t help it, her eyes dart over to Claude. He looks at her once, quizzically, then turns back to his team, to whisper something into Leonie’s ear that makes her suppress a giggle. Edelgard turns away and looks back at Dorothea with the most approving smile she can muster in that moment.
Dorothea beams back, still caught up in the high of performance, and in reflection of that buoyant joy, Edelgard compartmentalizes and comes back to herself. She claps loudly, her and Ferdinand leading a rousing round of applause that the congregation echoes. Even Bernadetta beams happily for Dorothea as she returns to them, with little squeaks of ‘that was so b-beautiful!’ that seem to override her previous despair.
In the wake of those two performances, Sylvain’s surprisingly heartfelt romantic sonnet, taken from Forsyth Killin Heddwyn isn’t nearly as impactful. It’s good, of course, edged with a raw desperation that nobody had expected from the otherwise insincere Blue Lion, but it’s hard to top Dorothea, and everybody in the room knows it.
It’s no real surprise to anybody when Manuela declares the Black Eagles the victors of this round and lets them all leave for a longer lunch break, before the last round—Composition.
Dorothea, Ferdinand, and Bernadetta forge ahead together towards lunch, Ferdinand and Dorothea already hyping up Bernie for her big role, but Edelgard finds her footsteps slowing down to catch up with Claude and the Golden Deer. They’re commiserating with Claude about a tough battle, and how he did well anyway, and Claude takes this with a general good cheer, and it is only when Raphael and Lysithea, clearly fresh from the training yard meet up with them, that they all split off and walk towards the dining hall, leaving her alone with Claude in the courtyard in front of the main classrooms.
“A safe but technically impressive execution.” Claude says, inclining his head, as they wander over to the shade.
“You had to know yours wouldn’t win you this round.” Edelgard says, thoughtfully.
Claude hoists a shoulder up, casually, in an almost shrug, “It moved me, what can I say?” he says, flippantly, as if he hadn’t been the one to suggest a competition with stakes in the first place, “I liked it.”
“It’s…certainly got a message.” Edelgard agrees, looking away from him.
“Not one you agree with?” asks Claude, and she can hear the sharp edge in his voice.
“Violence may be abhorrent, but it is necessary to change the world,” Edelgard says, softly, her voice as low as she can make it. None of the assorted clergy have walked past yet, but who knows when another of their less revolutionary-minded classmates might walk past this shortcut to the dining hall? “In many ways, I respect Petra’s father highly. He saw the injustice that was the Empire’s continued occupation of Brigid and he seized upon a violent action in order to leverage his people’s freedom. He failed, but at least he can say that he tried. I find Lamine’s lament to be…somewhat lacking, all in all. Once you have power, you ought to change the world, not despair over it.”
Claude’s bright green eyes twinkle, in an expression Edelgard might almost call amused. “And what will you do, Princess, when you gain power?”
She looks at Claude for a moment. Really looks at him. She wishes she had a better read on him. He’s not devout, they both know this. He disdains the Church’s policy on censorship quietly, with Linhardt and Petra. He’ll recite a borderline heretical poem at a poetry contest, throwing the round despite having set up a competition with stakes—all for what? For what goal? For what purpose do his schemes all dovetail towards? For all that Claude seems to be asking her a question here that he seems to already know the answers to, Edelgard has no idea what Claude’s ambitions are. Who is he?
“I would eat my own heart out,
To no longer be filled with doubt,
I dream of a world sometimes,
Where the world could change,
with the blossoming of one sprout.”
Edelgard quotes one of the more touching stanzas from Leonie’s poetry collection. It is the most she can give him, even if she yearns to say more. “And you, Duke Reigan? When you reach majority, what do you want?”
Claude quirks a sideways smile, crooked and amused. “Why, nothing less than total freedom.” And with that, he leaves, with the swish of a cape, leaving Edelgard to wonder if his tone had been disappointed or simply the same level of unaffected that Claude normally affects.
-
She distracts herself during lunch time with Dorothea and Ferdinand’s quest to make Bernadetta feel comfortable and ready enough to go up on stage. Edelgard’s ready to go as backup, of course, but if they actually want to win against the Golden Deer, they need Bernadetta to perform. Ever since they’d accidentally stumbled upon the fact that Bernadetta was very good at both poetry and fiction, after Sylvain Gautier had been just a bit too loud in the library praising her writing skills, Edelgard had become certain of victory.
The Blue Lions would, of course, know of Bernadetta’s talents, but as far as she knows, the Golden Deer shouldn’t know anything about that. Of course, they might have their own secret weapon in either Ignatz or Leonie, neither of whom ought to be underestimated, but she feels fairly confident that Bernadetta can beat them.
They finish off dessert together, all enjoying a bit of peach sorbet, before they all traipse back into the Cathedral to finish off the afternoon, a little sleepy from fullness.
Rhea herself oversees this round of the competition; her eyes clear as she calls them all to attention. “For this round of the Poetry Competition, I invoke the truest form of poetry: creation. I am excited to see what our talented students this year are capable of. First, the victors of our last round, the Black Eagles.”
Bernadetta is trembling as she goes up, but Dorothea’s reassuring shoulder squeezes, Ferdinand’s firm back pats and Edelgard’s encouraging smile seem to steel her somewhat, at least, once she gets up there.
“Umm, this poem is called Tulips. It’s um. It’s about. Well. You’ll know what it’s about.” Bernie starts, hesitantly, and pulls out the small notebook from her coat, fumbling with the pages a little bit, before finding the right spot.
“The tulips are too excitable in the winter,
Look how white everything is, how quiet, how snowed-in.
I am learning peacefulness, lying by myself quietly,
As the light lies on these white walls, this bed, these hands.
I am nobody; I have nothing to do with explosions.
I have given my name and my day-clothes up to the gremories
And my history to the healers and my body to bishops.
My body is a pebble to them, they tend it as water,
Tends to the pebbles it must run over, smoothing them gently.
They bring me numbness in their bright needles, they bring me sleep.
Now I have lost myself, I am sick of baggage—
They have swabbed me clear of my family,
Sink out of sight, and the water went over my head.
I am a nun now; I have never been so pure.
I didn’t want any flowers, I only wanted
To lie with my hands turned up and be utterly empty.
How free it is, you have no idea how free——
The peacefulness is so big it dazes you,
And it asks nothing, not the battlefield nor the dinner table.
It is what the dead close on, finally; I imagine them
Shutting their mouths on it, like a Communion tablet.
The tulips are too red in the first place, they hurt me.
Their redness talks to my wound, it corresponds.
They are subtle: they seem to float, though they weigh me down,
Upsetting me with their sudden tongues and their color.
Nobody watched me before, now I am watched.
And I see myself, flat, ridiculous, a cut-paper shadow,
Between the eye of the sun and the eyes of the tulips,
And I have no face, I have wanted to efface myself.
The vivid tulips eat my oxygen.
Yet, as the tulips drip rust-iron petals to the ground
I realize I am alive.
And I am aware of my heart: it opens and closes,
Its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love for us all.
The water I taste is warm and salt, like the sea,
And comes from a country far away as health.”5
Bernadetta finishes quietly, trailing off into the sunny cathedral. Around the second stanza, her voice had changed from trembling and nervous, to a strange sort of calm. Her voice lilted and loudened and softened as she described her hospital experience. Edelgard remembers that same day, mostly because it had been Caspar’s apology bouquet for getting Bernadetta injured while covering him, on one of their first missions of the school year. The bouquet had been something Ferdinand had forced him to buy. She hadn’t thought Bernadetta would see the tulips both as oppressive and loving, and the revelation of those complicated emotions deep within Bernadetta’s anxiety is truly quite beautiful. Like the morning dew, or seeing a sandcastle on the beach, a sort of ephemeral joy.
Edelgard raises her hands to clap as loudly as she can for Bernadetta and is heartened by the fact that she received applause from the whole Church. Sylvain’s eyes are suspiciously red at the edges and Leonie is whooping loudly, as Annette and Mercedes shake their little banner from their seat among the audience with fervour. Dorothea stands to hug Bernadetta as she sits back down, and even though Bernie can’t meet any of their eyes, there’s a pleased tone to her voice as she says, “T-thank you,” to them all.
Rhea’s gentle smile doesn’t change as she stands up and calls for the next competitor. Ignatz or—no, it is Leonie that stands up to walk up to the main altar.
“This poem’s called Hunting Manual. It’s dedicated to Sauin Village.” Leonie says, cheerily, and starts reading from her scrap of paper.
“The unicorn is an easy prey: its horn
in the maiden’s lap is an obvious
twist, a tamed figure—like the hawk
that once roamed free, but sits now, fat and hooded,
squawking on the hunter’s wrist. It’s easy
to catch what no longer captures
the mind, long since woven in,
a faded tapestry on a crumbling wall
made by the women who wore keys
at their waists and in their sleep came
hot dreams of wounded knights left bleeding
in their care, who would wake the next morning
groaning from the leftover lance in the groin,
look up into the round blond face beaming down
at them thinking "mine," and say: "angel."
Such beasts are easy to catch; their dreams
betray them. But the hard prey is the one
that won’t come bidden.
By these signs you will know it:
when you lift your lure
out of the water, the long linen line
will be missing its end: the lure and the hook
will be gone, and the line will swing free
in the air, so light it will be without
bait or its cunning
sharp curl of silver. Or when you pull
your net from the stream, it will be eaten
as if by acid, its fine mesh sodden shreds.
Or when you go at dawn to check your traps,
their great metal jaws will be wrenched
open, the teeth blunt with rust
as if they had lain for years in the rain.
Or when the thunderstorm suddenly breaks
in the summer, next morning
your parchment will lie empty, siphoned of words.
Look then for the blank card, the sprung trap,
the net’s dissolve, the unburdened
line that swings free in the air.
There. By day, go empty-handed to the hunt
and come home the same way
in the dark.”6
Edelgard feels the influence of those caustic, haunting, beautiful poems that Claude had given her, but Leonie’s poem is a little more playful, a little more lilting, a little calmer in its words. Edelgard wonders if she can ask Leonie for a copy of her poem later on, she thinks she would need to read it again a couple of times to fully grasp at what Leonie wants to say in an analytical way. But she can feel the weight of it in her bones. It’s meaningful while still being light. There’s a perfect balance there, and it is indeed formidable.
Edelgard eyes Rhea as she steps back up to welcome the Blue Lions. It’s hard to tell which poem touched her more. Seteth obviously seemed to have preferred Leonie’s, there’s a gleam to his eye, and Manuela had so clearly been touched by Bernadetta’s poem. The tiebreaker will be Rhea, in the end.
Ashe steps up to the dais, and there’s a sort of nervous expression on his face as he says, “This poem is called Relics.” He has no parchment to read from. He recites entirely from memory.
“Scrabbling bones together like a gathering of river stones.
After battle, bones become sacred,
Human remains, memories of cartilage,
Piled centuries high,
Skulls and leg remnants begin to tell the stories of before.
I am the once-severed arm of a young boy
Scrambling for a foothold in this desert
Where once my enemy chased did not live
I am the fingers of a woman whose knuckles live beneath a flower box,
We remember each other through these bones.
Through the songs of calcium deficiency and famine strings that strum us into night,
We are the gathering of old-timers whose eye sockets tell stories of victory.
Sockets cannot cry or lament or scream, and so they hold.
We are a memory shaped by vertebrae,
Clappers of rhythm disassembled by the skeletons of time,
I am the keeper of a man whose only hope was grounding toil,
Scrubbing my skin with the earth for food.
I am the elbow of children whose eyes wept at the thought of snow,
I am the shin of garbage collectors building stamina for a city to come,
We are a memory shaped by vertebrae,
Clappers of rhythm disassembled by the skeletons of time,
We are the dissipating by the skeletons of time,
We are the dissipating cartilage of our great-grandchildren's memory holding to their sockets by a sinew of hope,
We are the mausoleum holding onto these memories in marrow
Making sense of these bones we reassemble history,
Making ancestral tapestries in the shape of retaining walls.
We are a memory shaped by a vertebrae,
Clappers of rhythm disassembled by the skeletons of time,
I will carry your fossil forever,
In service of a higher cause.
You died for nothing, but I will not forget.”7
Ashe doesn’t need to say what the poem is about for everybody to understand the guttural grief in his voice. Lord Lonato’s rebellion is still fresh in everybody’s memory, only three moons ago. Edelgard is, in truth, surprised by the content of the poem. It is a strangely hopeful look at the unnecessary death of his father figure in a tragic show of Rhea’s force. Ashe weaves his own poverty, the relics of history, endless wars and cities and disputes together, as the relics of history that Lonato now joins, that he too will join. By using the word ‘we’, Ashe pulls the whole audience in; they are all keeping memory in their marrow, they are all made complicit through his wording.
Ashe’s expression is complicated, a mixture of fresh grief, acceptance, and sorrow, and Edelgard is unsurprised to see several wet cheeks in the hall. Dimitri’s hand covers his mouth, tear tracks etched down his cheeks, Ingrid’s face is tight with grief, and Sylvain stares down at his lap, face blank. Ignatz has removed his glasses to wipe them, looking down at his feet, a strange twisting to his expression. Dorothea too, looks touched, though she isn’t weeping, only twisting her handkerchief over and over, almost ripping it to shreds in her perfectly manicured hands. But the biggest surprise to see crying in Archbishop Rhea herself. At the dais where she is seated between Seteth and Manuela, a single tear has rolled down her cheek, and Edelgard finds herself shocked to see it. In truth, she had not thought Rhea was still capable of such mortal emotions. Edelgard wonders what her future enemy is thinking. Does she feel guilt about her ruthless put-down of Lonato’s rebellion? Or is she simply struck now, in its aftermath, by the casualties of that war?
Edelgard finds that hard to believe. Rhea has committed so much horror in this world. She would not cry simply at the human grief in the aftermath of violence, surely. Something else had struck Rhea so profoundly, but Edelgard can’t understand it.
The judges turn to each other, finally, and start discussion, in a way they had not needed to discuss the winner of either of the previous rounds. Edelgard feels her heart start to beat, a little nervously, as Ferdinand and Dorothea turn to whisper to each other, quietly, “Do you think Archbishop Rhea’s own opinion will outweigh the other two judges?” “Almost certainly, Ferdie, but who knows, maybe she won’t reward Ashe for talking about a heretic like that…” “I mean, we both know that Bernadetta’s was one of the more complicated in terms of language, that has to mean something…”
She turns to look towards her competitors. The Blue Lions have gathered around Ashe, sharing together in their collective grief, a large hug between them all. The Golden Deer are also whispering to each other, Leonie and Ignatz holding hands tightly, and Claude turns to catch her gaze, raising an eyebrow up at her.
Edelgard shrugs, minutely, discreetly, and Claude inclines his head. Edelgard’s not entirely sure what they’re saying or communicating to each other, but—there’s something hotly competitive in her heart, and simply meeting his green eyes stokes her own feelings. She can’t fight with him, but to fight against him like this makes her feel…passionate. Riled up. It’s strangely heady, when Edelgard ought to be focused on the decision, to simply be focused on trying to needle a reaction—any reaction—out of Claude about this strange turn of events.
But he gives her nothing in return. And well. Edelgard can’t blame him. She had turned away from his proposition. What more can they say to each other anymore?
Finally, Rhea pulls up to the dais, robes sweeping behind her, with Seteth and Manuela flanking her once again. “What a beautiful show of skill here this afternoon. I am truly touched and honoured by the poems our talented students have showcased for you all here today. The winner of the third round of the Poetry Competition is the Blue Lions for their poem, ‘Relics.’ This leaves the entire contest in a three-way-tie.” Rhea’s tone changes, a slightly sharper, warning edge to her voice as she says, “We briefly considered the addition of a fourth round, in order to truly decide who is the best champion of poetry, but since this might impinge upon other time commitments our students have today, I would instead like to honour Ashe Ubert for his truly touching poem by awarding the Blue Lions with the official tourney prize. Although the efforts of the Golden Deer and the Black Eagles must also be praised and honoured, with a special mention to Dorothea Arnault, Bernadetta von Varley and Claude von Reigan for their performances and words, Ashe’s dedication to the craft is obvious in his poetry, and I personally, look forward to hearing more of his words in the future.”
Edelgard feels her heart twist and her mouth twist with annoyance too, but nonetheless, she claps politely as the Blue Lions flock up towards the dais. Ashe accepts the trophy cup from Rhea’s hands, with a deep bow, and is summarily hoisted up onto Dimitri and Sylvain’s shoulders as Ingrid, Annette and Mercedes all cheer.
Ferdinand nods, firmly. “Well, we gave it our best shot. I think our team truly showed our mettle today, and although we didn’t win, I am quite proud of all of us.”
“Yeah, yeah, but if I’m honest, I would have preferred if the Golden Deer won instead.” Dorothea says, critically, “Claude and Leonie really proved themselves today.”
Edelgard shakes her head. “If we were doomed to lose, best the Blue Lions won. This way, neither Claude nor I won our bet.”
“Bet? What bet?” asks Ferdinand, looking perplexed.
“You-you bet on us?” asks Bernadetta, her eyes wide.
“Yes, I was pretty certain of our victory—I guess I was wrong.” Edelgard says, grimly, and presses her lips together. For all that it’s probably best for neither Claude nor her to have won their bet, she is annoyed by the fact that Professor Byleth’s class seems to have won again, even though Byleth had clearly not even been involved in this contest at all. How irksome.
“Guess we were wrong too,” Claude says, as he lopes up to them, Golden Deer at his shoulders, “What if we enact both of our losing conditions? I gotta say, I’m happy to do your chores for a week, Edelgard, if only to see Ferdinand in those new ‘training’ outfits,” Claude says, cheerily, a hint of mischief to his grin.
“I believe the expression is ‘to the winner, the spoils,’ and since neither of us won, the bet is off.” Edelgard says, coolly, as Ferdinand, Dorothea and Bernadetta suddenly realize exactly the stakes of the bet, with slightly betrayed expressions. To her relief, apparently, the Golden Deer had had no idea either.
“Wait, Claude, you bet that we’d do their chores if we lost? Hey! That’s messed up!” Leonie says, eyebrows furrowing in annoyance, “No way! I would have performed way better if I knew that was on the line.”
“Hey, what can I say. I believed in you all so much, that I knew I didn’t need to tell you.” Claude says, but there’s an almost nervous glint in his eyes, as their angry classmates turn on them both.
Edelgard can sense the turn in the mood instantly, and regrets being baited into making the bet at all. “I apologize, but I agree with Claude, my confidence in you three was unparalleled and—”
Before Edelgard can finish, Claude grabs her wrist and starts to make his retreat with her in tow, as Lorenz and Ferdinand instantly give chase. They duck through the crowd slowly streaming out of the cathedral, and although Edelgard tries to break free from his grasp, his warm hands are firm as they go, his laughter pealing through the halls as they run down the bridge connecting the Cathedral and the Academy. “They’ll get over it,” Claude calls back to her as they flee across Garreg Mach, “But you gotta give them space first.”
“I’m never making a deal with you ever again,” Edelgard promises, voice slightly terse as they duck behind one of the abandoned corners by the graveyard, hoping to have outmaneouvred their classmates.
“Haha, agreed.” Claude says, easy smile spreading over his face.
But they both know, even as they pretend to be cordially annoyed with each other—that these promises are true. There was no possibility of trust anymore, not anymore. Even five years later, in the midst of the battlefield and bloodshed, they never will make a deal with each other again. Not in this lifetime, anyway.
Footnotes
1. Iain Rothach (John Munro), Our Heroes Who Fell in Battle (Ar Gaisgich a Thuirt sna Blàir). return to text
2. Edmund Blunden, The Festubert Shrine. return to text
3. Gerard Manley Hopkin, In Honour of St. Alphonsus Rodriguez. return to text
4. Victor Hugo, Le parfum d’un lis (translated by Caroline Bowles). return to text
5. Adapted from Sylvia Plath’s “Tulips” (some lines omitted/changed). return to text
6. Eleanor Wilner, Hunting Manual. return to text
7. Adapted from Matthew Shenoda’s poem, “Relics.” return to text