Chapter Text
The stone relief of her mother, high, commanding, and powerful, cast a long shadow in the light of the moon. Standing at the head of the pulpit, it glared down, like an eagle perched on the precipice of a cliff, searching out its next nonbeliever to smite.
At least, that was the scholarly consensus as to the long-dead sculptor’s aim. But as the person who had commissioned the thing on behalf of the church, who had provided the woman, now considered one of the romantic geniuses of physical art, with exact directions and dimensions, it was a stinging bit of irony that her mother’s gaze as she remembered it was so misinterpreted. Sothis was a woman who possessed a harsh reproach, it was true. She had expected much of those around her. But only because she had an ironclad belief in their ability.
The gaze had intended to be a reminder of the Goddess’s ever-watchful vision, her ever-present driving force. It was supposed to have been inspirational, reassuring. To make one feel like they were never alone.
That the continent saw it as despotic and frightful spoke to a change that she didn’t want to ruminate on in the dead of another sleepless night.
What light the dark, overcast skies allowed streamed through the stained glass strategically positioned behind the statue, a thousand refracted beams of red, yellow, blue, green, combined with the candles to cast an eerie light over the church. Sitting at the head of the rows of pews, she had to crane her head high to see them, passing overhead like a rainbow of shooting stars across the vaulted ceiling.
What would her mother think of her actions? Of her own reputation? This familiar weakness of the mind was a visitor of rare appearance, only ever choosing to appear when she felt herself come close to the revival. She would, luckily, be able to ask her dear mother those questions soon. But her mind ran wild with the answers, both positive or negative. It was no wonder she hadn’t been able to sleep.
The great double-door entrance groaned. Another visitor? At this time of the night? Not even Seteth chose to worship this late. Manuela, perhaps, come to apologize, to love, to worship after a night of drunken revelry?
The intruder made their slow pilgrimage towards her mother. If it hadn’t been for the blanket of silence draped over the cathedral, she wouldn’t have heard the steps. That ruled out Manuela: that one was as attached to her high heels as she was to her liquor. No comment was made of her presence there: whoever it was hadn’t noticed her in her place amongst the shadows, much of her ceremonial robes and headdress resting in her room.
Forward and forward the steps came, until at last their owner stood afore her mother, their head trained high back, their light flaxen hair, shining in the nascent moon's light, tied in a braid that ran to their breast, repentant.
She of course recognized the person standing before Mother, their hands clasped under their chin. She knew everyone of her professor's students, especially those most pious. And it was little surprise to witness Mercedes von Martritz in a church, prostate before the progenitor. Why she was there at such an inhospitable time though, was a mystery.
The woman knelt upon the cold stone, her eyes closed, lips murmuring the rehearsed prayers that all worshipers began their communication with. Soon those glossy lips, glinting in the inconsistent light, paused their recitations, and Mercedes hunched into herself, concentrated upon the mental image of mother.
Rhea was content to watch, from the corner of her eye, the woman’s breathing ease, the tension bled from her. It wasn’t very often that she got to observe others without the prostrations and praises and exaltations that her office demanded. She likewise felt the stress, the tension, drip away as she watched.
Was it a confession? A plea for her peers? One did not come before the Goddess at this time of night unless the issue had been weighing on their mind, as she well knew. But fate had an odd way of working: and as she parsed through the possibilities of her extempore companion, something in the ceiling creaked. It wasn’t a loud noise, nor a very unexpected one. But all the same, it brought Mercedes von Martritz out of her silent communication with the goddess, and into one with her.
“Ah!” Mercedes said, eyes widened, back straightened. This close, she could make out the color of the woman’s neatly manicured fingernails, ten turquoise digits, the same shade as her eyes, extending past the edge of her slender fingers. “O-oh my, Lady Rhea…”
“Forgive me, my child. You seemed so earnest in your prayers. I did not want to interrupt.”
“I see... ” Mercedes rose from her perch, wiping the dust and dirt from the hem of her skirt, as black as the night sky, and her deep azure leggings. Her high-pitched squeak still echoed through the high roof. “I’m sorry, I thought I was alone. I didn’t see you.”
“I hadn't planned on being seen.”
That at least seemed to bring some levity to the situation, and Mercedes giggled, moving back to whence she came.
“Well, I don’t mean to intrude. I’ll leave you in peace, Lady Rhea.”
“My child?” she said, and Mercedes paused, an unsaid, instinctive question that their respective stations suppressed; but equally so did their stations, and their faith, prevent the Blue Lion’s cleric from leaving without being dismissed. She took a small bit of pleasure in forcing the woman to wait at her attention, this minor abuse of power. She would take further pleasure in her next.
“Might I know your reasons for coming?”
She’d expected a blush, a shy, sort of demure deflection. Something coquettish.
What she hadn’t expected was for Mercedes von Martitz to shut down. As though, for a fraction of a second, the woman inhabiting the body ceased to be. She almost thought to reach out and take her temperature.
“... I don't want to bore you.”
“I would not ask if I did not want to be bored.”
“It’s… nothing.” Mercedes said, convincing neither of them.
“My ch-”
“I’m sorry, but I just remembered something very pressing I have to take care of. Please excuse me.” Without waiting for said excuse, Mercedes turned about-face, her now loud, confident strides carrying her from the pulpit.
“My child.”
It wasn’t a request; it wasn’t taken as one either. Mercedes, her hands furled into fists, mouth pursed, thick eyebrows slanted in anger, forced an equally unconvincing neutrality as she turned to her summons.
“Forgive me, but… I would rather not be alone tonight.” She said, and something of the fury she faced faded.
It was easy to manipulate these humans, once you knew them; they were the same now as they were a millennia prior. And as Archbishop, there were no files out of her reach, no knowledge that could be hidden from her at this, a monastery equal parts as much of a place of faith, as an idol dedicated to her mother. She was omniscient, here. She knew what made Mercedes smile, frown, laugh, cry; could twist her around her finger as easily as a ringlet of hair.
“I… see.” Mercedes glid back, her steps now no louder than they’d been when she’d walked the aisle to Mother, and stood with a certain uncertainty over her, casting her own infinitesimal shadow. Rhea patted the empty bit of pew aside her, and Mercedes fell into place, a bastardization of a frown, a scowl, and a curious purse on those lips she now noticed were glossed with a light pink glaze.
“Forgive me young one, but my thoughts have been towards my mother lately, and I would like some distraction. I would like to sleep sometime before the month's end.”
It wasn't a lie. Sleep and her had always had an odd fellowship; it came in inverse proportion to thoughts of her mother. As an immortal being, or as close as one could get without becoming attached to the lore surrounding the Sacred Chalice, it was perhaps to be expected.
But it was only a small bit of the truth, a kernel hidden amongst so much blubber: as though she would ever deign to tell a human the doubt raging in her heart.
“Your mother? Is that why you're here?” Whatever irritation that still hung on Mercedes brow was either gone, or hidden so skillfully as to be invisible.
“Amongst other things. But… yes, that's correct.”
“Hmm…” The woman craned her head back, so that they both stared at the Goddess's still image, each seeing something different in that ancient stone. A thunderclap, somewhere on the horizon, enlivened the dead of night with a muted crack.
“Did you lose your mother?”
“Mmh.”
“I see.” The warm undercurrent that often suffused the pens of Professor's Byleth and Hanneman when writing of their students, and one in particular, became clear. When Mercedes spoke, it was with a hidden flourish underneath that infamous falsetto, a warm, somewhat teasing inflection that seemed to turn its listener subconsciously.
“I came here to pray for a family member too.”
Reah looked to her: she kept her gaze on Mother.
“Did you?”
“Yes, my… my brother.”
“Your brother…”
Mercedes giggled.
“Amongst other things.”
She felt her own lips twitch upwards.
“I am sorry for your loss, my child. As I know, burying someone dear is always an ordeal.”
“No, he's not dead. At least, I don't think he is. He's… missing.”
“Then by the Goddess's will, may you be reunited with him quickly.”
“By the Goddess's will…”
Something had come over her companion, and although Mercedes hadn't given it a voice, a sardonic twitch of her shining lips was easy to read.
“Have faith in the benevolent Goddess. Upon graduation, you will have the experience, skills, and connections necessary to find him.”
“Ha!”
She hadn't expected the child to laugh in her face at the mention of her mother: it was the only reason she hadn't excommunicated the young blasphemer on the spot.
But there too was something disconcerting about the woman generally acknowledged as the most pious amongst that year's crop laughing in the Archbishop's face, especially after obeying her demand to stay.
“Upon graduation?” Mercedes raised her hand and lowered her gaze in tandem, so that she could direct her glare to the faint, glowing outline of the crest on her dorsum. Her turquoise nails flashed in the light.
“Thanks to this, the only thing I'll be upon graduation is some nobleman's womb. My adoptive father only ever agreed to fund my education because he thought he could use it as an opportunity to marry me off. So he could move up in the world.”
Anger was ugly, and even on someone whose makeup was applied as impeccably as Mercedes's, it twisted those fine, fair features into something resembling how she had looked, when at last she had lain eyes on Nemesis.
“... Sometimes, I wonder if I'll ever see my brother's face again.”
The cleric's eyes wore out the back out of her hand, and they were again raised to mother. She hadn't a clue what to say, and the feeling, apparently, was mutual. So they watched Mother's statue, an ocean's, a galaxy's worth of unsaid dialogue sitting simultaneously noticed and unsaid. Lightning, flashing far in the distance, sent spears of multi-colored light streaming through the stained glass.
In time, Mercedes left the church without further word, her braided hair swaying like a pendulum, encroaching thunder's bright light illuminating the shawl, quite like her own, though smaller, that hung on her shoulders. And, as the great bell in the great clock tower tolled its last for the day, she did as well, as the far-off storm thundered away, the peaks of the surrounding magic mountains little more than blackened serrated edges lit intermittently, the world's fangs reaching up for their creator.
Rhea was many things, but stupid was not one of them. She knew that the crest system she propagated had created tragedy in the millennia it had been in existence. Tens of, hundreds even, of thousands oppressed by her command.
But never before had that old realization when faced been the cause of any guilt. She looked to the sky, searching for the moon she knew in her heart was still there: all she could see was the darkened blanket suffocating the sky.
What would Mother think of her now?