Work Text:
I.
She hates him.
Dorothea has never been so sure of anything in her life.
She watches from the steps to the dining hall as Ferdinand prances by with Lorenz, prattling on about some ridiculous noble matter she is quite sure she wants to know nothing about. Sunlight glints off his ginger hair and she considers for a moment how it reminds her of a pale, watery carrot stew she once had to force down as a child.
Green eyes squint in the sunset rays as she attempts to look past him and find someone - anyone - else to spend her time with. Alas, the poor vision in the light leads her to gaze at him a second too long, and his infuriatingly golden eyes catch hers.
Don’t notice me , she wills, immediately averting her gaze and taking interest in a nearby tree. Do not talk to me.
“Ah, Dorothea!”
Of course.
She watches in feigned surprise as he says something annoying to Lorenz (who’s hair, she notes, does not reflect the sunlight as Ferdinand’s does, but instead seems an almost comical, sickly shade of purple in the hues of the orange sky) and starts to make his way over to her.
“Ferdie.” She nods, turning on her heel and heading inside. Surely, she thinks, that will dissuade him. Is he so incapable of taking a hint?
The click of her shoes sound across the dining hall floor, followed closely by a second pair, when she realises that, clearly, the answer is yes.
“The dining hall seems much brighter with you here,” come the annoyingly pitched tones of his empire accent, and she turns on her heel, lips stretched into her famous songstress smile.
“I must say, you are quite adept with flattery. Please, give me some more.” Her voice drips with artificially sweetened syrup.
She thinks for a moment he might actually do as she says. That he’ll fall into the trap all nobles do, assuming everything is a compliment, that she’s fawning for their attention and hanging on their every word. Dorothea, you are so radiant today. He will say, and she will blush and fake humbleness and he will act as though he is doing her a great service when he hands her a gift he forgot he owned and found in his back pocket that would feed a family for a month.
Instead, he looks at her like a hurt puppy.
She can’t figure out which is more annoying.
“Flattery? No, I was not…” he hesitates, and she waits with pursed lips to hear which excuse he will make up and start stumbling over.
Instead, his eyebrows furrow, and her resolve wavers slightly as he catches her eye with an intensity she wasn’t expecting. Might he be about to apologise? To say something half-decent?
Then he opens his mouth again, and she lets out an involuntary sigh.
“There you go with that attitude again.” He says, as though he knows her from the inside out. “Why do you reserve such cold treatment for me, and me alone? Do you hate me, Dorothea? Or have you some other reason to avoid my company?”
Me, me, me . She thinks. All about me. All about how I feel and how you must reserve special feelings for me. Me. Me.
She could turn now, walk away and find Petra and tell her how annoying Ferdie was being today and hear the sweet tones of her friend’s laughter as they make fun of his nobleness together. But she finds herself rooted to the spot, jaw clenched without her realising.
Fine, she feels a flash of anger, I’ll give you what you want.
“I underestimated you. I assumed your noble upbringing had dulled your perception. But you got it right on your first try.” Her eyes flicker over him in a way she hopes make him feel self-conscious. That he might feel dirty and stupid and small, the way she did when he left her in that fountain.
“I hate you.”
She leaves the words to hang in the air a moment, a mixture of guilt and triumph lacing her thoughts.
He tilts his head at her a moment, and she makes sure she isn’t the first to break eye contact. She might feel a little bad, later, but right now she can feel the blood rushing to her face and her ears and the familiar warm bloom of anger blossoming in her chest as he actually continues speaking.
“Might I ask why you find me so despicable?” He questions, and she feels the uncomfortable grind of her teeth as her jaw clenches even tighter. “I can scarcely guess.”
Of course you can’t , she feels like saying, how could anybody hate poor, noble Ferdinand? How could anybody hate a simple man who spends his days drinking tea and flicking his hair about and gossiping about poor people like cattle? I can. I hate you.
“Don’t waste another minute thinking about it.” She elects to spit out instead, growing increasingly aware of the burning in her cheeks and the tears pricking at her eyes as she remembers just how much it is that he hates her, he hates her and everybody like her, because he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth and she dared be unfortunate.
“That will not do. I do not think you would hate a person for no reason,” he says, and she feels like leaning over and slapping him round the head.
You know nothing about me! She wants to scream, what’s it to you if I would!
“If you can guess why, I’ll let you know if you’re right.” She responds coolly, impressed with the sheer amount of level headedness she is able to keep, a tiny smirk appearing on her features as she thinks of telling Ingrid this story later on (and she is sure Ingrid will have a story about Sylvain to swap.) “The brains of us common folk are so simple. It should be easy for a big shot noble to figure out.”
She waits for him to take a hint and go away.
“Very well. I cannot walk away from a challenge,” he begins, and she has to force herself to drown out the sound of his talking because it is so Sothis-damned annoying she actually thinks for a second she might single-handedly end the Aegir line of succession and sign up for the post of prime minister herself.
Her thoughts drift slightly as his mindless drivel evens out to a buzz, like an annoying fly on a summer’s day. She notes with a sense of irritation the freckles smattering his nose are quite flattering to his complexion even though she is quite sure he would mock a commoner for working outside all day and gaining the same marks upon their skin. They line the bridge of his nose and contour it in a way that makes her think she needs to go and complain to Manuela about how annoying and ugly and unflattering they are on him, so that she doesn’t think about it again.
Her gaze drifts up to his raised eyebrow as she realises he’s finished speaking, and she’s standing there like the idiot he thinks she is.
“Will you not give me a clue?” He presses, and she thinks about every time he tells her she’s bright and pretty and emerald-eyed, and thinks about how he saw her when she was still dirty and tangled and frail, and can’t stand to look at him or his stupid, ridiculous, sun-kissed face for another second.
“Here’s one. You’re like a bee. So long, Ferdie.” She retorts, smoothing down her uniform and marching promptly in the other direction.
She thinks of his nose and the freckle on it in the shape of a heart.
She hates him.
II.
If she had known Ferdinand would be there, she would have turned the professor down.
Instead, she sits at the dining hall table just metres from their spat a few days ago, curled ginger locks in her peripheral vision as she desperately focuses her eyes on her teacher’s teal hair. Perhaps this won’t be so bad. Perhaps the professor will talk about some upcoming assignments and she can giggle and flick her hair over her shoulders and say how excited she is to be partnered with Edie and then suddenly proclaim she is quite full, but the meal was absolutely lovely and she can’t wait to do this again some time.
The problem with that plan, however, is that Byleth is absolutely useless at small talk.
In the nicest way possible, Dorothea wonders how the mercenary got a post at the monastery. To say they’re staring into her soul is an understatement. It’s slightly unnerving, and, if she’s being honest, a little off putting. But the other means no harm, she knows that, so she doesn’t mind too much. It’s a wonder she isn’t socially inept and silent and weird, so can she really blame someone else who was dragged up in dirt and didn’t have the luck of the draw the way she did for being a little strange?
Dorothea’s spoon clinks against the side of her plate and she inwardly cringes as she imagines how Ferdinand must be judging her table manners in that current second. She is quite sure if she looks up she will see him eyeing her up in disgust, so keeps her eyes trained on the greasy pools of butter lacing the potato on her plate, willing him to spot Lorenz and have a sudden, insatiable desire to talk about tea leaves and Being Extremely Noble And Rich.
That, sadly, does not happen.
She’s about to push down her self consciousness and offer the professor a winning Dorothea grin, making some clever remark about how they’re fitting right in at the academy ( but wouldn’t they rather be a student to spend some real time with her? ), when Ferdinand shifts in his seat slightly awkwardly and clears his throat to speak.
Here we go, she dreads, preparing herself for a lecture on how common and unbecoming her table manners are. She finds herself removing her elbows off the oak surface.
“The food here is simple but well-prepared,” comes his voice from next to her, seemingly aimed at the professor and not herself, and catches her so off guard she finds herself actually turning to look at him. “A meal can be delicious without being fancy.”
She scoffs slightly, embarrassment lost to the moment as she struggles to process what she just heard.
“Come again?” She scrunches her nose, sure this must be some kind of noble inside-joke to make fun of her. “I’ve never heard a nobleman say anything like that.”
His eyes slip away from the professor and turn toward her, golden in the sun again, and she huffs and turns her gaze back towards the half-finished plate in front of her.
“I fear it may be an uncommon opinion amongst nobility, but an opinion I hold the very same.” He doubles down, “some of the best meals I’ve had have come from the simplest people.”
“Oh, so we’re simple to you now?” Her eyes flash, although she is quite sure he didn’t mean it like that, she hates him all the same, and anything else is unthinkable. “Forgive me for sitting at the same table as you, Ferdie. I forgot I’m not on the same intellectual level as you.”
“I did not mean-“
“Excuse me, professor.” She burns, fork falling off her plate with an embarrassingly loud clatter to the floor as she picks up the remains of her meal to either dispose of or eat elsewhere.
He goes to pick it up for her, perfectly manicured hands reaching out for the silverware and she feels the familiar sensation of anger in her stomach as she stamps a foot over it.
“I can pick up a fork.” She hisses, “I don’t need your noble acts of service.”
He looks up at her pathetically confused for a second, and she takes the moment to revel in how much she enjoys seeing him beneath her. This must be how he feels all the time, looking down on her and thinking her lowly and weak and hateable. She wonders if he notices the grease in her hair and the pores on her skin and the peeling on her lips where she’d bitten them out of nervousness. His hair is perfect and smells of roses and the pink of his lips would make any girl in the empire green with envy. The shape of his Cupid’s bow is so unbearably pretty she has to force herself to look away.
Her face burns.
With anger, she thinks. It has to be. She hates him.
The professor raises an eyebrow, about to step in and actually say something for once, and Dorothea slams the fork down on her plate with an unnecessarily loud clatter, turning to walk towards the dish washers without looking back, heart hammering in her chest.
She feels sick.
It must be because she hates him.
III.
The sunlight glitters through the windows of the cathedral, the sound of laughter drifting across the bridge and down from the Pegasus knights, but Dorothea feels uneasy.
Perhaps it is how distant Edie has been recently, or how Hubie has stopped showing up to class. Bernie’s been holed up in her room more so than usual with the end of term and a visit home in sight, and Lin can usually be found, these days, napping on Marianne von Edmund’s shoulder with a blush dusting both their noses.
It’s not that Dorothea minds being alone. But whenever she is, she finds her thoughts begin to wander to topics she doesn’t like to dwell on, so she finds it easier to spend her days surrounded by those she cares for and use up her thoughts on them , instead.
She finds herself humming an old opera song as she crosses the courtyard to the main portion of the monastery, pink and white flowers blooming on the hedgerows, and tries to enjoy the feeling of the sun on her skin. Perhaps she will give Manuela a visit, but the elder woman seemed to be bombarded with more and more infirmary patients these days. Ingrid and Petra will be training at this time, and she feels guilty interrupting their focus - in days past she would find Edie or the professor, but they are on a trip to the imperial capital right now, and Dorothea hadn’t wanted to press as to why.
The strands of her brown hair drift across her face in the breeze, and she notes for a second how much more she needs to take care of it - such an annoying hair texture, not curly or straight, just an irritatingly drab wave - and she’s almost resigned to simply returning to her dormitory alone when the familiar carrot-top ginger rounds the corner.
He looks almost excited to see her.
She lets herself be pleased by that, for a brief moment of indulgence. Truth be told, she still feels a little guilty for how she had shouted at him the other day, but she won’t be caught dead admitting that.
The songstress wonders which compliment he will pick out for her as he waltzes past today, and decides she might entertain it for once. Her eyes? Her hair? Her skin? She finds herself getting carried away for a second and has to visibly shake her head to stop herself from daydreaming about sweet talk from Ferdinand von Aegir, of all people.
Perhaps he will just walk past her, she thinks. That will be better. His hands look full, besides, probably for an urgent tea appointment with Lorenz or Hilda or Annette or someone else with a shiny crest and a fancy name.
She reminds herself she hates him, and more importantly, he hates her.
“Dorothea!” He calls out instead, white teeth flashed at her in a brilliant smile as she notes, for some reason, that he is actually a fair amount taller than her. “Ah, you have arrived at just the right time. Care for one of these handmade treats?”
She eyes him with a half-amused, half-wary look. Is he joking? Is this some kind of cruel prank, offering sweets to the poor girl only to snatch them away and reveal a giggling Sylvain?
“My goodness, Ferdie.” She raises an eyebrow, nickname slipping off her tongue before she can catch herself, “when did you become such a talented confectioner?”
It is a response mean enough to be embarrassing to him if he is mocking her, she thinks, but not so mean he’s put off in the rare chance his offer is truly genuine.
“Oh, Dorothea!” He laughs, a pink creeping onto his cheeks as he rests his gaze on the floor in front of them. The way her name falls from his lips sounds far softer and kinder than she had expected and she finds herself wavering of any suspicion. “I am hardly an expert.”
The corners of her mouth twitch slightly, the dimple some disgusting nobleman had once given her a pendant for the pleasure of seeing so close appearing on her cheek, and she decides he is being genuine.
“Nevertheless, you have managed to make some tasty looking treats,” she teases him, almost enjoying herself. But then she remembers how much he hates her , and clears her throat, smile dropping from her features.
“Well, it is the first time I have tried my hand at it.” He admits, and she keeps a trained eye on his lips as he speaks.
“Honestly, there were several unsuccessful attempts in making this batch.” He continues, “I made these pastries to solve that riddle you gave me. The reason you despise me.”
Oh yes, she remembers, I despise you.
“Oh?” She prompts him instead, as though she had never forgotten.
She can’t remember why she had forgotten. Dorothea forces herself to think of the coldness of the water of the fountain, the ginger of his hair reflecting the sun as he ran away from her, and remembers why she hates him.
“You said I was like a bee. The bee is a dutiful worker, just as I am.
But the bee inherits a capacious home, with a wealth of honey. Similarly, I inherited my fortune. I did not receive it as a reward for my labour.”
She considers asking him if he is stupid, or asking what on earth he is warbling on about, when he keeps talking.
“I surmised that… perhaps you’d feel differently about me if I earned something all on my own. That was my plan.”
Dorothea almost smiles and takes a pastry and tells him he’s not so bad after all, when he opens his stupid noble mouth again.
“To emulate your transformation from desperate pauper to successful songstress.”
Desperate pauper?! It stings a little to be reminded so blatantly that’s how he views her. That’s how he’s always viewed her, she tells herself, back when she was younger and even still in the academy, no matter how many times he tells her her eyes are like jewels.
“All on your own?” She contests, “did you renounce your nobility? Give away your riches?”
He would never.
“No, I made these!” He protests, his voice cracking slightly, and for the first time as he averts his gaze and lowers the plate of iced pastries she sees him for the desperate-to-please seventeen year old boy he is. “I obtained all the ingredients on my own, without anyone’s help.”
She feels like she should mock him and tell him how hard that must have been, to work for once in his life, walking all the way to the kitchen.
“You mean you got the sugar and flour.” She remarks, electing for a slightly less harsh response.
“Yes. To earn the flour, I worked in the fields. And to earn the sugar, I carried a merchant’s wares!”
He looks back up at her like a child expecting their mother’s praise. Dorothea has to admit it’s more than she thought of him, and is, for once in her life, happy to be proven wrong. It was, against her expectation, more than a simple matter of just walking to the kitchen and demanding the ingredients be brought to him on a platter.
The thought of him carrying some poor merchant’s bags across the nearby towns in exchange for some sugar is so strangely endearing she allows her voice to soften.
“Who did the cooking? You?”
“Naturally!” He gushes, clearly taking the change in her tone in stride. She notices how the heart shaped freckle crinkles when he smiles. “I took on some extra chores in exchange for the use of the kitchen at night.”
“I have to admit, that’s impressive,” she teases, her eyes trailing down his arm to the porcelain plate in his hand. The pastries are pretty, really, and she’s about to sigh and make a fuss and say she’ll try one just this once because he’s been so good when she notices a red graze stretching from his thumb to the knuckle of his third finger, and for the first time in her life finds herself feeling quite sorry for Ferdinand von Aegir.
“Hey… it looks like you had a bit of an accident.” She says softly, reaching her fingers out to brush against his hand and pretending not to notice how her heart jumps at the contact and how he suddenly has to clear his throat quite a few times.
“…I.. yes, I burned myself a little whilst baking,” he stammers out, before he seems to remember who he is. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Nonsense,” she furrows her brow, healer’s instincts kicking in as her thumb brushes against the back of his hand, the sound of the other students’ voices completely drowned out as she hears the blood rush in her ears and is suddenly acutely aware of the scent of rose perfume emitting from him. “…that burn will scar, you know.”
“Dorothea-“
“Come on.” The songstress says, far more quickly than necessary, pushing the way he says her name to the back of her mind to hopefully not think about again. “Let’s get you to the infirmary.”
“Dorothea!” He says again, and she finds herself unable to meet his gaze for whatever reason she resolves to think about later. “You have yet to try my treats…”
She laughs then, a genuine laugh, her voice sounding out like a bell across the hallway and she elects, again, to simply not notice the way his gaze softens and his attempt to bite back a smile at the sound. He hates her, doesn’t he? This entire thing was just an attempt to prove her wrong. To prove he was better than her.
Her eyes contemplate the plate still in his hand, smile still lacing her features, pastries shakily iced with D and F for what she is sure is intended to be a shared treat in the warm summer sunlight, and wonders if they really do hate each other as much as she forces herself to believe.
IV.
Ferdie is not like the other nobles.
This is a conclusion Dorothea has begrudgingly come to. Despite her better judgement, and her own experience with the man as a child, he has proven over the course of this war time and time again that he cares.
She watches with a pained sort of longing as he reaches onto the back of his horse and passes his last blanket, his last scrap of warmth on the road, to the recently orphaned girl in the crudely-made shelter at the edge of what had not too-long been a battlefield. Behind the child stand two others of smaller stature, their brown eyes harbouring a newfound dullness, and Dorothea finds she can never quite get used to the horrors of war.
She can hear him saying something to them, but can hardly make out what, and - despite how well she knows he means - nothing about his good intentions will ever lead him to being able to provide meaningful advice to children like that. They will grow up to despise people like him no matter how hard he tries to help them.
Gods, Dorothea can’t wait for the day Edie puts an end to these ridiculous societal divides.
The sunlight seeps into the curls of his hair, the warm autumn tones reminding her of the sunset.
She can’t hear what’s been said, but the eldest girl launches herself into Ferdinand’s arms, dirt and mud and grime transferring onto his shining silver armour, and he only tightens his arms around her and smooths down her hair. The girl’s siblings cautiously follow suit, and Dorothea has to look away for a second to stop the affection she feels growing in her chest for him.
She was wrong, she thinks. Those children will not hate him. For them, he will always be the handsome knight in shining armour with tumbling golden spun hair who gave them the will to keep going when no one else did.
He says something inaudible, and the girl, who has just lost her parents and now has the weight of the world on her shoulders, throws back her head and laughs so loudly a nearby flock of birds takes flight.
Dorothea swallows roughly, her chest growing warm in a way she isn’t sure she likes. She tries to remind herself that he didn’t help her like that, but she can’t really find it in herself to care. He was a child, then.
Across the field, his eyes somehow find hers.
Her breath catches in her throat.
Maybe hating him is too harsh.
V.
The walls of the cathedral are cold and unforgiving, the wind whistling through the empty branches of the trees outside.
Dorothea doesn’t know why she’s here. Chasing some long-lost nostalgic comfort, perhaps. Empty promises from a goddess who had never smiled upon her, fuelled by archbishops of old and pretty pictures in stained glass and songs sung by candlelight back when she could almost convince herself things were okay.
She hates praying. She thinks it’s ridiculous at best, and offensive at worst. To see Mercedes and Marianne in here with their hands clasped, desperately believing in a goddess who had seen fit to dump Dorothea in the back alleys of the Imperial capital with a dead mother and a dirt that never seemed to go away, irritated her to no end. Did people truly believe the goddess cared about them? That the goddess was fair? That it had been anything other than pure dumb luck that day the opera master had found her singing in the rain, and left the other dozen street orphans for dead?
Dorothea does not pray. But it is a nice place to be alone. The crumbled altar gives her a glimmer of hope that the future might be different.
She pulls her knees to her chest and buries her face in her hands, her eyes fluttering closed as she attempts to push the day’s atrocities from her mind. Leave the bloodshed to Caspar and the healing to Linhardt. She can’t face either, and she’s pathetic for it, but it takes everything in her to keep going.
If she ever spoke to the goddess, she thinks, it would be to set her free from this suffering. But the goddess doesn’t like her. She would hardly grant that wish. No, Dorothea deserves to suffer alone on the cold, hard floor of the cathedral, unable to run from the knowledge she had created orphans herself.
Who is she to judge the goddess?
She isn’t sure how much time passes - hours, minutes - the watery light of the moon beams across the floor, dimly illuminating the patterned tiles that had once shone with the warm glow of candlelight. She considers sleeping here, just staying on the floor with her guilt and her loneliness until she can’t stay awake any longer. But the sound of footsteps behind her jolt her out of her thoughts and she’s about to mentally prepare herself to stand up and brush the dirt from her skirt and beam and twirl her hair and say oh, don’t mind me, just going for an evening walk, when she turns around and realises who is behind her.
Teeth gnawing at his perfectly shaped lips, Ferdinand offers her a wavering smile as their eyes meet, and Dorothea knows she doesn’t have to pretend.
“Dorothea,” he starts, taking a few careful steps towards her as though he would a scared animal, his voice hushed in the oppressive air that surrounds the cathedral no matter the state of its walls. “I am surprised to find you here. I did not think you were all that religious.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know, Ferdie.” She sighs, and then finds herself wondering for a second why she feels the overwhelming desire to tell him all of it.
She thinks of the soldier she ate alongside last week with the curly brown hair and green eyes whose name she had never gotten round to asking and whose lifeless body had decorated the empire horses on the way back to camp last week, and stands up so quickly in her sudden desire to reach Ferdinand before it’s too late she feels the blood rush to her head.
“You’re right. I’d hardly call myself devout,” she feels herself rambling, “after all, it was thanks to the goddess and her noble regime I suffered so much as a child.”
And keep suffering now, she adds on mentally.
“You must be quite brave to speak so coarsely in this hallowed place,” he says quietly, and once upon a time she would have responded angrily and told him she can say whatever she wishes thank you , but she knows now he means no harm.
Perhaps he never really did.
“I don’t care what the goddess thinks of me.” She says flatly.
“What do you mean-“ he starts, hesitating as though he’s rethinking whether to speak. She sees him shake his head and marvels at how terribly he masks his emotions. “What do you mean about suffering as a child?”
His question takes her so off guard she’s put off for a second, embarrassed at the conscious realisation of their class difference, that her childhood was not a lived experience for him but a terror to be whispered in collapsed monastery walls by the moonlight.
“Do I really have to tell you?” She sighs, and then remembers seeing him wipe away a persistent tear when he thought nobody was watching over dinner a few days prior, and decides she doesn’t care enough anymore to pretend to hate him.
“Oh, forget it.” She says, almost to herself, before continuing, “I’m sure you already know I’m an orphan. I grew up in the alleys of Enbarr, begging for coins, eating scraps, drinking from drains.”
“I see. I remember seeing street children around the city…”
“I could have died.” She spits out, willing the goddess to hear her. To look down upon her and feel shame. Shame that she would do this to one of her own people. Shame that, in a world where people mindlessly worshipped her, she left children to starve alone in street corners. “Then the right person overheard me singing… and suddenly I was in the opera. I was a songstress. And my goodness did the nobles like me.”
For once, he is silent. In some stupid moment of impulse, she takes a step closer to him and crudely shoves her hand into his own, the touch bringing her the courage to form her bitter memories into words.
“The people who used to spit on me and call me an urchin? They praised my voice and my beauty. A nobleman who had once kicked me gave me the most gorgeous shoes. I almost asked if it was a joke.”
“So that is why you despise nobility,” he says softly, thumb tracing patterns on the back side of her palm, and she can almost bring herself to look up at him - almost. “But why do you think I am the same as them? Do you really believe that is the kind of man I am?” He sounds almost hurt and there’s a tiny part of her that wants to pretend nothing had ever happened between them and wrap her arms around him and tell him no, of course not, you’ve been nothing but kind to me and everyone and all I’ve ever done is scorn you .
But she remembers the day in that fountain, and knows that can’t be true.
“That’s not how I remember things,” she says, so quietly she can barely hear herself. Perhaps telling him this will make things right between them. Perhaps he will apologise, and she can forgive him for the way he was brought up and they can eat home baked pastries in the warm sun of spring once the war is over. “It was the very day I was discovered… I was in high spirits. Nothing was wrong in the world. I secretly bathed in one of the town’s fountains, hoping to wash off some of the dirt from the streets. I sang the same song the opera composer overheard earlier that day.”
She could leave it there. She could smile and tell him a stuffy noble with ginger hair walked by and made her feel self conscious and that’s why she’s been so cruel to him.
But she can’t. She can’t go on not hating him, not hating him one bit, and keeping this locked up inside.
“And that’s when you appeared.”
“…Me?” Comes his incredulous reply after a moment, and she feels so embarrassed that she dared to even hope he might remember she drops his hand like it burns. Of course he doesn’t remember. She was just another dirty street urchin to him. “No… it could not have be-“
“Don’t play dumb.” She interrupts him harshly, blinking to keep the tears forming in her eyes at bay. She hates him, she reminds herself for the first time in years. He hates her! He hated her then and surely he hates her now.
A dirty street rat. That’s all she is to him.
She thinks of his beautiful, curled mane in the sunlight, of his golden eyes glinting at her across the dining hall, of the heart shaped freckle on his nose she’s kept a secret for years. She thinks of his laugh and the honey tones of his voice and how her name sounds when he says it and she’s furious she ever noticed. Of course he doesn’t think of her the same way. Of course he doesn’t find her beautiful past outward appearance, like any other noble who threw themselves at her feet once she could afford a half decent gown. Why would he see her as anyone worth truly being around?
She’s just Dorothea.
“You glared at me.” She accuses, making no effort to hide the strain in her voice, “the same look I’d gotten from every other noble. Then you ran off.”
She swallows thickly, cheeks burning and heart hammering the way she’s become so accustomed to around him.
“When we met at the academy, you were a different person. All smiles and friendly words. You’re were a bee, Ferdinand,” she spits out, a notable effort to not adorn him Ferdie - because why would he want a nickname from a poor, filthy street urchin? - “a bee attracted to a flower in full bloom.”
The air hangs heavy with the weight of her words, and she hopes the goddess is cringing up above.
“Dorothea,” he mumbles, and she almost wants to hit him for saying her name with so much warmth and affection and softness when she knows how he really sees her. “Dorothea, please listen. This is a misunderstanding.”
“A mis-“ she scorns, raising her hands to protest, but he catches her wrist with his hand and she bites the inside of her lip, letting him, against all better judgement, speak.
“Dorothea, when I saw you… I could not take my eyes off you. I was hypnotised.” His voice breaks as though he is about to cry, and she feels like sending her first real prayer to the goddess to just kill the both of them now. “Your beautiful voice, your elegant face… droplets of water on your skin that glittered in the sun. I thought you were a water nymph.”
“Stop it.” She hisses, although the imagery rings true, she won’t let herself be fooled for one second into believing the sugar lacing his words, although she makes no effort to remove her hand from his grasp, her anger waning slightly as she looks up at him in a manner she imagines makes her look pathetic.
“Don’t lie to me,” she whispers. Please don’t let this be a lie , she thinks, I couldn’t handle that.
“No.” He insists, his hand moving from her wrist to curling a strand of her hair around his fingers, “no, it is true. I was only a child. The vision overwhelmed me. That is why I ran.”
Dorothea blinks up at him, so desperate to believe him she can feel the desire physically hurting her chest.
“You should never have run away,” she mumbles, the moonlight filling the room surrounding him in a glow that made him look almost angelic.
“I plucked up the courage to return, but no one was there.” He murmurs, his fingers trailing back down to her hand, lacing his fingers through her’s properly, this time. “I thought… perhaps it were a dream.”
The old cathedral is so quiet she can almost hear their heartbeats, the sounds of their conscious breathing, the air so thick between them it could almost be cut with a knife. She wants so badly to believe him. She wants so badly to believe him it feels like something terrible is crushing her heart.
“Maybe I can believe you.” She eventually breathes, “I’ve wanted to ever since the day you made those pastries… I thought then you maybe weren’t like the others, but…”
She looks up at him, his eyes melting as they lock gazes, and she knows she could never hate him, even if she tried.
She could never hate him, but the way she is beginning to feel is too much to bear. There’s too much going on in the world, too much horror to be spending her days mindlessly daydreaming about freckles and curly ginger hair and how it would taste to steal pastry-flavoured kisses.
She can’t tell him.
Not yet.
“There’s a lot I have to let go of, Ferdie.” She settles on.
“Of course,” he replies so earnestly she almost forgets her previous train of thought and reaches up and kisses him full on the mouth, but she’s not ready for that yet. Not when the future is so uncertain.
“I am glad we had this conversation,” he continues, mindlessly playing with a piece of her hair, and she supposes this is okay for now. “You know, I do not mind you thinking of me as a bee. Life as a simple drone, circling a queen… it sounds quite wonderful.”
“Don’t drones keep the queen safe from other bugs?” She giggles at the absurdity of the situation, “I like the sound of that.”
He looks down at her a moment, offering her a smile of such warmth she doesn’t know how to process it.
“Yes,” he agrees, his eyes flickering down and lingering on her lips for a moment, dragged back up to her eyes as though it never happened bar the blush to his cheeks, “yes, so do I.”
If Dorothea is sure of one thing, it is that Ferdinand von Aegier certainly does not hate her.
VI.
The silence that follows the final roar of the dragon is so deathly Dorothea thinks for a moment she might have lost her hearing entirely.
That is, until Caspar starts shouting goddess-knows-what, and Bernie bursts into tears, that Dorothea realises it’s over.
It’s over.
It’s finally over.
The war is over, the troops realising by the second and the streets already livelier than she has seen in years, and all she can think about is Ferdinand von Aegir.
“Ferdie?” The sound of her own voice is foreign to her, quiet at first but slowly growing in desperation as she pushes her way through the streets of Fhirdiad, barely even registering the rubble and smoke as she walks past couples and siblings and parents with their children and more tears of joy than have been wept on the continent for centuries.
“Ferdie? Ferdinand?”
The burn marks on her arms are naught but a dull ache, her mind barely even registering the presence of those around her and she sees a flurry of dark green hair crash into a frenzy of blue and she notes that Linhardt and Marianne are safe, of course, and out the corner of her eye she can see Petra thanking the flame spirit and Lysithea crying in a heap on the floor as healing magic surrounds her, but all she can think about is finding Ferdie, her poor, stupid, chivalrous noble Ferdie who always threw himself into danger without a moment’s hesitation for the sake of someone else and whose missing presence was causing more and more anxiety with every passing moment.
“Ferdie?” She shouts again, gaining a weary look from a passer by, and her heart drops to her stomach as she thinks don’t look at me like that, don’t pity me, he can’t be gone. He’ll find me. He always does.
“Ferdinand?!” She finds herself screaming across the kingdom capital, throat hoarse with the effort, and almost finds the nearest wyvern rider to commandeer their animal and search herself because he has to be nearby, he has to be safe because the war is over and she loves him so much it’s breaking her heart.
That is, until she hears his voice calling her name in return, and she feels so much relief wash over her body she collapses to the ground.
“Dorothea!” She hears, and she doesn’t care how stupid she looks, tears stream down her face as she looks up to see his beautiful amber hair in the distance, as bright and warm as a fire on a cold winter’s night, his wonderful hair that she’s always loved so much even if she tried to convince herself she didn’t.
“Ferdie!” She shouts again, of pure joy this time, shakily getting to her feet only to be bowled over by such a great amount of force from his arms scooping her up she’s quite sure she almost gets whiplash and realises for a brief moment in time why people believe in the goddess.
“Dorothea,” he repeats, whispering her name into her hair like it’s the name of a deity. “I found you.”
She clings onto him with such strength it’s a miracle he manages to lean back to catch a glimpse of her, but he does, one hand smoothing down her hair as the other reaches up to cup her face and brush her tears away, the heart shaped freckle on his nose marvellously untouched by the dirty of the battlefield.
“Dorothea, you must forgive me for the abruptness, but I realised out there I have to tell you something.” He says, red creeping onto his cheeks, and she wants to cry and laugh and say I love you, I love you, I love you so much , please never leave my sight again. His fingers fumble around in his pocket for a moment, taking a second to produce a somehow almost pristine handkerchief with his initials neatly sewn into the corner, and she has to suppress a giggle at how delightfully Ferdinand the entire situation is. “I know you are not one for noble tradition, but please, take this token as-“
“Oh, for the goddess’ sake, Ferdie,” she laughs, and he thinks it’s a more beautiful sound than any song ever sung. “Can we please do this the commoner’s way?”
He smiles so widely it almost hurts his face, arms still wrapped so tightly around her it would take a second war to tear them apart, “My darling Dorothea, you should know by now I would do anything for you.”
She reaches up to press her lips to his, the kiss soft and warm and so familiar it feels like home, the sounds of happiness and celebration she has not heard in years surrounding them, and Dorothea decides it is all going to be okay, after all.
“I love you, Dorothea,” he whispers against her mouth, “I think I always have.”
“I love you too,” she breathes, brushing her lips against his again, and then his cheek, and his forehead, and the heart shaped freckle she noticed far, far too long ago for someone who supposedly hated him. “I think I always wanted to. I’m sorry it took me this long.”
“My love!” He proclaims, so loudly a dozen passers-by look on with smiles, and Dorothea has to stop herself from crying again. “Never apologise for that!”
Someone else from the crowd nearby lets out a cry, another father and son reunited, and Dorothea stands up, reaching out her hand to the nobleman on the ground.
“Come on, Ferdie.
Let’s go home.”
As he takes her hand, amber eyes melting into pools of sweet honey as he looks at her, Dorothea has never felt such love in her life.