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Chapter Text

Dimitri

Castle Fhirdiad’s great hall is a dizzying thing. Four granite stone columns thick as tree trunks soar three stories into the air in every corner. Suits of armor - not statues, but truly, forged metal giants - stand before each of them: they only rise up to half the columns’ height, but that still leaves them so large. Each bears the crest of one of the Four Saints carved into their chest plate. Time has had its way with each of them; here a blotch of brittle red acne creeps along the edges of a helm, there fingers curl around the ghost of a sword melted down in times of desperation. Even the most diligent of kings could not have kept such impossible structures from beginning to go to rust, and Faerghus’s kings have not always been diligent.

The high ceiling tapers like the roof of a church, carved so intricately but so jaggedly that it might be mistaken for a hollowed out mountain. At the precipice of it all, a thin diamond window is positioned just perfectly to view the Blue Sea Star on the night of the Goddess’s Rite of Rebirth.

Four long oak tables line the length of the hall - tonight, the inner two have been cleared away. Their long cobalt draperies are so often the closest to a touch of warmth the space has. The tables lead to a raised dais, on which sits the royal throne. It is simple from a distance, hard granite with little finery: it is only up close that you can see the curling clawed arms, the carving of the crest of Blaiddyd encompassing that of Seiros. A black oaken placard on the wall guards the throne from above: like a fang ground dull from overuse, Areadbhar crosses Blutgang’s finer, serrated teeth. They gaze out on the hall, as jagged and cruel as they were during Unification. Though neither has been wielded in anger for years now, the promise remains.

That promise is everywhere throughout Fhirdiad. There is little else in the way of ornamentation: the space is wide and open, as much a mustering ground for soldiers as a chamber to receive supplicants. The hall is so often a reminder that at its inception, Fhirdiad was first and foremost a fortress. How easy it is to picture Loog von Blaiddyd calling on his war council from the heart of this lion’s den. How difficult to imagine the master of this domain any different from it: cold, hard, and domineering.

And how wonderful it is to see it tonight, all done up in glittering gold fey lights.

Tonight, the space has transformed. Gloomy candlelight has given way to magical golden orbs that bob and weave and seem to search out every corner of the room and drive out the shadows they find. White lions roar welcome from blue banners, unfurled across ordinarily bare walls. They are joined by a rainbow of smaller ones bearing the sigils of other houses from throughout the Kingdom: the Blaiddyds’ honored guests. A portrait of the royal family stands proudly behind the throne, nearly as large as it and a thousand times more vibrant.

The smell of herbs and smoked game drifts through the air. The rich melody  of a string quartet feels like it echoes from all around. Lords and ladies from across Fódlan glide and turn through the usually somber hall in time with the melody, a swirling procession of color. People laugh. They smack the backs of old friends and share first toasts with new ones.

So often Dimitri cannot bear all the formalities that come with being king. It feels like a dance with a thousands steps he must take before anything worth doing can be done.

Tonight, though, he must admit that pageantry has brought a warmth to his castle he can feel in his own chest.

Fhirdiad is a fortress: that much remains true, no matter what pains may be taken. But with a little effort, who is to say that it cannot also be a home?

When Dimitri can find a wall to put his back against, and can look out at the assembled masses from their fringes, it is so easy to imagine. Look at their joy, at the festivities here, in his own home! Not so long ago, he would never dare dream he could see such a thing.

No, actually, that isn’t so true anymore. It was long ago, wasn’t it? Twenty years since the war’s end; twenty years since Dimitri found his way.

The only trouble - and what a silly trouble it is - is that the King of Faerghus cannot be seen to be skulking in the shadows at his own party. He must make the rounds, pay respects and be repaid in kind. If Fhirdiad is to be a home, then its lord must play host. Somehow, despite everything, that is the part of ruling that never seems to get any easier. He liked this evening so much better when it was just his family and their personal kith and kin - but this sort of event must needs be open to all the Kingdom’s peerage.

Marianne seems to be handling it well enough. She is radiant in her blue ballgown hemmed with white fox fur. Her hair is done up in an elaborate bun held together by silver thread fettered with lilies and Dimitri is sure that she’s enchanted it: why else would she glow like that? She laughs politely (fakes a laugh, Dimitri can tell by the crease in her brow) at something Count Cornwall bellows.

Elise is at Marianne’s waist, the queen’s little blonde shadow. Whatever the count has said has made her bury her face a little further into the train of her mother’s gown. She is nine, and a part of Dimitri worries that she is a touch too old to be clinging to her mother’s skirts so tightly. Another part hopes she remains a little girl for as long as she wishes - and maybe a year or two after that as well.

And all at once, Dimitri is caught staring. Marianne locks eyes with him, the arch of her brow an ‘are you alright?’ imperceptible to anyone else. Dimitri cracks an embarrassed smile to reassure her, but the look doesn’t quite go away. There is a change in the music: the quartet have found their way to a waltz. Marianne takes the opportunity to excuse herself from Count Cornwall. She exchanges some brief words with Juliette Gaspard, Elise’s handmaiden, and then hands the princess off and makes her way towards him.

Dimitri’s worried her. Ah, well. Assuaging her will be easy enough. He takes a sip from his glass of wine. There is a satisfying burn, and it is enough to fortify him to step forward to meet Marianne halfway.

At which point, a gangly young woman bursts as if from nowhere, practically skidding to a stop in front of him. She wears the long-skirted dress uniform of the Officer’s Academy. It’s an odd choice, setting her apart from both the majority dressed in the latest silks and fine doublets and those like Dimitri himself, who keep to Faerghus’s old ways and come to court in the same polished armor they’d wear to battle. Perhaps she hopes to be seen as girlish despite her position? Her wild mane of brunette curls shows signs of a vain attempt to tame it down, and her eyes light up at the sight of Dimitri as she curtsies, “Ah, Your Majesty! Good evening!”

“Lady Eva,” Dimitri says automatically, motioning for her to rise. One formality flows neatly into another, and he continues, “Good evening. It’s an honor to have you with us tonight - I hope the trip from Enbarr wasn’t too harrowing?”

As the young Duchess Eva von Enbarr straightens, her glasses attempt to plummet off the bridge of her nose. Her efforts to set them aright are moderately successful, but it is clearly a battle she will be fighting all night. She stumbles over what is clearly a practiced line, “J-just troub- harrowing enough, Your Majesty!” He gives the poor thing a token chuckle, and she steps in a little closer, the tempo of her voice picking up as she does, “In truth, Your Majesty, the honor is mine! I can’t thank you enough for the invitation and may I say your home is - that is to say, Fhirdiad is truly a wonder to behold!”

Dimitri gives her a warm smile and an encouraging hand on her shoulder as if she were a comrade-in-arms. He remembers well enough the weight of responsibility on young shoulders, “Thank you, Lady Eva. You’re always welcome."

At that, he moves to brush past her, but she trails after him, her voice bright and utterly ignorant to being dismissed, “That means so much, Your Majesty! Sometimes I worry about the distance between our territories - that it might stifle the relationship between our two houses! But to hear you say that really is a relief-” she shakes her head, “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, I’m repeating myself. It’s just that I’ve always thought our houses ought to be close, and worried that I’m not doing my part to maintain that closeness!”

“You’re doing fine,” Dimitri says flatly, scanning the crowd. Whatever became of Marianne? She was right in front of him, how did he lose her?

Lady Eva places her hands on her hips, straightening proudly, “And I will continue to do so! I am as ever your humble and obedient servant!” This time, when she adjusts her glasses, it is a calculated action rather than a necessary one, “And of course I will be so whether it is in Enbarr, or at Garreg Mach!”

So wry, like she were sharing a secret: as if she’s forgotten the uniform she’s wearing. “Oh?” Dimitri asks dryly, still not meeting her eye, “You’ll be attending the Officers Academy, then?”

“I will!” she chirps, any sense of irony utterly drowned by her pride in that fact, “Not only that, I’ve been selected by Her Holiness to lead the Crimson Phoenix house, and so- Your Majesty?”

She falters at Dimitri’s light scoff, but he can’t help it. The house’s name change was in part his making, but a part of him will never be used to it. A fresh coat of paint isn’t enough for the Black Eagle house to truly be reborn apart from its legacy. But that is well before Lady Eva’s time. He waves her worries away as they are forced to stop short of where his guests step and twirl to the quartet’s music, “A wise choice on her part. I doubt there are any in your year with your leadership experience.”

Lady Eva stands a little taller at that, “You flatter me, Your Majesty!” He does not: she has been the Duchess of Enbarr since she was Elise’s age. Only natural that she would’ve learned a thing or two along the way, “And I assure you, I will use that experience to the best of my ability in learning alongside-”

“Your Majesty!” Sylvain’s gauntlet comes down on Dimitri’s pauldron with a low clunk. Dimitri turns to give him a relieved smile, only for it to fall from his face: Sylvain’s eyes are wide, his jaw set with worry. He spares the young duchess only half a look and a murmured acknowledgement, “My Lady,” and before she can return the greeting he leans in. He tries to keep his hiss low, but is unable to overcome his alarm to do so, “Your Majesty, a matter of grave importance has come to my attention, we need to speak at once.”

His arm snakes around Dimitri’s shoulders and steers him away at a light trot. Lady Eva lets out an exclamation and moves to follow, but they quickly lose her in the crowd.

Dimitri’s heart is already hammering in his chest. Something’s gone wrong. Where? How? He should’ve known! He should’ve prepared. Whether this is the machination of some previously unknown enemy or just an accident of cruel fate looking to punish him for lackadaisically thinking the Kingdom secure, he should be ready right now!

Sylvain checks over his shoulder as they go, and Dimitri takes the moment to break free from his grasp. Firmly, he says, “Margrave Gautier, whatever has happened, I can hear it here.”

For a moment, it looks like Sylvain might protest, but with a sigh, he nods. He still looks looks this way and that, lowers his head and beckons Dimitri to do the same. What could have him so worried about who hears?

He meets Dimitri’s eye and says, “I’m saving my friend’s marriage.”

He says it so seriously that Dimitri has to take a moment to make sure he heard him right, “What.”

Sylvain’s tone lightens at once, and he looks like a much younger man with a grin like that, despite the crinkles at his eyes, “Seriously, Your Majesty, Duchess Eva? She’s just a little girl!”

Near them, a couple of ladies hear and turn towards them, eyes agape with shock. Sylvain winks at them, puts a finger to his lips. Dimitri’s face heats and he’s not sure if it’s with embarrassment or a sudden need to strangle his friend, “Sylvain.”

The man takes a long pull of something clear that Dimitri is at once certain is not water, “Ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

“Sylvain!”

Not quickly enough, he backtracks, turning to face their eavesdroppers. At least he has some recollection of both of their positions, “Now ladies, I’m just having a bit of fun at His Majesty’s expense, no need for any-”

“Do you have any idea how worried I was!?” Dimitri has to keep from roaring, “I thought…!” that unrest in Sreng had spilled into Gautier Territory. That Dagda had at last given up pretense and launched a full scale invasion of Brigid. That half the realm had raised their flags in rebellion. That the rug was going to at last be pulled out from under him, and this fragile new era of peace would come to an abrupt, tragic end. That his own past was his children’s prologue.

“What!? No, I-” Sylvain has the decency to falter - that look of concern is no act. He reaches out again, thinks better of it, “Your Maje- Dimitri.” The familiarity does wonders to calm Dimitri’s nerves, and Sylvain’s smile is as pained as it is bemused, “I saw you struggling to shake the Little Lady von Enbarr there, and thought you needed a rescue.”

Dimitri takes a deep breath, then another, and at once he feels more foolish than furious. He rubs at his face, the metal of his gauntlet cool against it, and says, “Then… thank you. I apologize for my panic.”

“Honestly, I thought you’d’ve figured it out when we were making our escape there,” Sylvain says, taking another swig. He gestures with the now empty glass back the way they came, “Ah, good. Her keeper’s got her now, you’ll be safe.”

“That’s unkind,” Dimitri chides, but without much feeling. He follows Sylvain’s gaze back to where Lady Eva now converses with Ferdinand von Aegir, her eyes now wild and harried with worry for Sylvain’s phantom threat. Ferdinand’s hearty laugh is distinctly clear above the hall’s din, and the girl’s face goes red. Dimitri shakes his head, “We weren’t so different, once upon a time.”

Sylvain snorts, “Speak for yourself, Your Majesty.”

“If I must,” Dimitri shrugs, turning his gaze on him and quirking an eyebrow, “But I think we were both just as…” his tongue rests on the roof of his mouth a moment too long, looking for something diplomatic, “… as spirited as she is now, just as desperate to prove something. With the proper guidance, we found our way.”

“Well, not me,” Sylvain lies. He lifts his glass to his lips, seems shocked to find it empty, “I’m the same as I ever was.”

“And I’m sure Ingrid is well pleased by that.”

Sylvain guffaws, sticking his tongue suggestively into his cheek and raising his eyebrows. He is drunk enough, apparently, that he opens his mouth to say something that by the glint in his eye so rude that Dimitri would have to duel him in Ingrid’s honor - or worse still for the margrave, tell her. Luckily, he is not so drunk that he doesn’t change his mind before the words are out. Instead, with the tones of a child dragged from playtime to evening prayer, he tenders his concessions with dramatic, sweeping shrugs like he’s on the Mittelfrank stage, “Maybe she changed some things in me. Negligible things. Tweaks on perfection, really.” Dimitri gives him the chuckle that he wants, and Sylvain grins, “Ahh, there it is. Was starting to get worried, Your Majesty, you’ve looked like you were at a funeral half the night.”

Dimitri’s brow creases, and he the more he thinks about relaxing it, the more obvious it feels, “Is it…?”

His friend cuts him off, waves a hand airily, “No, no, nothing someone who doesn’t know what to look for’ll see. Still.” He clicks his tongue, eyes rolling back just a bit in thought, “No, now that I think of it, Margrave Rowan asked earlier if you were alright - but I think that was more… well if you’re going for easy points, the king’s melancholy is a good bet to take, no?”

“As opposed to you, who seem to be hoping to somehow benefit from the king’s ire,” Dimitri says with mock imperiousness, and the two of them share a laugh.

A servant passes by, and Sylvain sets down his empty glass in the same fluid motion he palms a new one. He knocks back half of it, and Dimitri asks, “Is that water?”

“Might as well be,” Sylvain mutters, “After Srengi spirits-”

“Sylvain,” Dimitri says as though it is a command.

In a way, it is, and one that he heeds, offering the glass, “Here.” Dimitri tastes it. It cools rather than burns. He is satisfied, but surely his suspicions are warranted? Sylvain doesn’t always need much prodding to cause a scene - that’s less true now than it was in their academy days, but it’s still something to guard against tonight of all nights. But maybe Dimitri’s just looking for things to worry over: Sylvain’s eyebrows shoot up again, seeing something on his king’s face that he needs not to show, “You’re… sure you’re doing alright?”

Returning the margrave’s water, Dimitri gives him a pained smile that feels both safe and true enough, “… honestly, I’m as nervous as when I was the one going.”

Sylvain nods. His grin is warm, with only a touch of the sardonic. If he dropped that touch, Dimitri would know he really did have cause to worry, “… yeah, that doesn’t go away. Sorry. Just wait until it’s-”

“Your Majesty!” the voice comes from over Dimitri’s shoulder, as joyous as decorum calls for while still a pointed reminder that he has other duties tonight.

“Ah, but there I go monopolizing the king’s attention,” Sylvain says with a wink, “We’ll talk later?”

“We will. Thank you, Sylvain,” Dimitri paints something receptive onto his face. Sylvain gives the look a subtle approving nod before he turns to face his subjects, taking in two lords: the first is short and stocky, with windswept mauve hair on a head the shape of a pavise, while the elder is slightly taller and much wider. His dark navy mustache, all that remains of his hair, looks like a caterpillar crawling across his lip, “Lord Burgundy, Lord Albany,” and the third of their trio is a woman in a ballgown that so glitters in gold that when the light hits it it’s nearly blinding, “Lady Müller.” They bow and curtsey as Dimitri acknowledges each of them, then rising the moment he beckons them to, “A pleasure as always to see you all.”

“Your Majesty!” Countess Müller says again, closing some of the distance between herself and the king, “First of all, may I extend my warmest congratulations-”

“Indeed!” Viscount Albany booms, not quite shoving the lady out of his way, “Truly a monumental time not just for you and yours, my liege-!!!”

“For all of Faerghus!” Viscount Burgundy either finishes or interrupts. He tries to sidestep the others entirely, only succeeding in entering Dimitri’s blind spot and forcing him to turn slightly to take them all in, “You must be so proud, Your Majesty, to be-”

“Thank you, all of you,” Dimitri says, hoping to cut off any talk of business before it starts, gesturing in turn to Albany and Müller, “And my congratulations to your families as well.”

Unfortunately, by the way Müller’s eyes light up even as her tone shifts downcast, that is exactly the opening she needs. He spares the slightest glance over his shoulder: Sylvain is somehow halfway across the hall from where Dimitri left him. He is now bowing before Ingrid like a young dandy, his hands clasping hers as he asks for her next dance. No rescue for Dimitri this time, then, “Oh, my liege, I’m afraid that congratulations aren’t what my family needs right now…”

And that is all that it takes for pleasantries to turn into an impromptu royal petition. Müller faces newfound unrest in her Albrecht lands after this year’s poor grain harvest. Albany and Burgundy are the victims of border disputes that both are careful not to say are with each other. The three nobles jockey with one another for Dimitri’s attention, walking a line like a tightrope: they must never directly ask anything of him, they must pretend that they are here only for the celebration. But they insinuate, and they cajole, and they prod him, they hope, in the direction of their cause.

Ordinarily, Dimitri would be more than happy to hear out his vassals. They rule in his name, after all, and theoretically on his behalf. Their subjects are his, and the woes of their territories are the woes of the Kingdom. Seeing the Kingdom’s problems and being able to solve them is what makes everything that came before worthwhile.

Even so. In a perfect world, they could forget about their concerns for tonight: this could be a celebration of how far Fódlan has come since Unification. That is, after all, why Dimitri opened invitations to lords throughout the realm - it would’ve been so easy to keep things smaller, with only House Blaiddyd’s closest in attendance. But any larger gathering is inherently a reminder to all in attendance that from Derdriu to Enbarr, Rhodos to the Locket, they are Faerghans all, joined in common cause of a better tomorrow. In a perfect world, instead of the next step in any individual’s grand political games, tonight could be a gathering of friends preparing to march on into the new era they toiled together to build.

They of course do not live in a perfect world, despite everyone’s efforts. There is always more work to be done, and so, a part of Dimitri reasons, surely he can afford to lend his ear now?

He could. Maybe they’d even make some unexpected, glorious breakthrough. Tonight is not the night to do more work, though. So Dimitri compromises, with both his conscience and with all of them, “My Lords and Lady, I would hear more of each of your petitions, but, ah…” in a moment’s inspiration, he holds up his glass demonstratively, “I’m afraid that…” he lets them fill in the blanks for themselves.

Once they do, they burst into laughter that rings hollow in his ears. Burgundy, young and impetuous, actually gives his king a performative clap on the back. He nearly jumps out of his skin with fright when Dimitiri meets his eyes after that: Dimitri can see in them a swirling tempest of gallows and swinging swords. He gives the young lord a smile to show that all is well, but still he scurries off as soon as he can excuse himself.

Which is the perfect opportunity for Dimitri to extricate himself as well - only to walk headlong into another gaggle of potential sycophants mixed in with well-wishers. It is an inevitability of any royal gathering: everyone with a name they’re even half proud of wants to speak with the king - and perhaps more importantly, be seen speaking with the king. Dimitri greets them amiably enough, but as the night wears on, his wide ‘Savior King, Champion of Faerghus’ smile begins to hurt the corners of his cheeks, and he has lifted his glass more times as an excuse not to talk business than to actually drink from it.

He finally finds Marianne again - no matter where Dimitri goes during these gatherings, it always feels like anyone he actually wants to be near is a world’s distance from him. She is now stood by the banquet table, hands clasped before her as she entertains their guests. Marianne makes it look effortless, her face bright and sunny and betraying none of the butterflies Dimitri imagines in her stomach. The lords gathered around her are mostly the old guard, lords who had come into their own long before the war, and who have seen no need to step down since Unification: Marianne’s adoptive father and the Duke von Gerth are among their number. There is a jolting second where Dimitri thinks one of them is Rodrigue; from a distance, clad in the turquoise caped fur cloak of House Fraldarius, Felix is getting to look just like him. One day, when Dimitri’s sure the Kingdom no longer needs him as a ruler, perhaps he will tell Felix that.

Felix must feel the eye on him. He perks like a hound that’s caught a scent, glares back in Dimitri’s direction. His face softens when he sees his friend, and he wordlessly raises his glass in acknowledgement. Dimitri returns the gesture, and Felix scoffs.

His hand runs down Annette’s back as he breaks from the group and makes his way through the crowd. There are some who try to stop him along the way - the Shield of Faerghus is nearly as prestigious as the king he shields - but Felix brushes past them the same as anyone else.

“You’re staring,” he observes.

“Hello to you too, Felix,” Dimitri returns.

Felix waves that away impatiently, and he adds, “Your wife is worried about you,” anticipating the next question, he adds, “She hasn’t said anything. It’s in the way she carries herself.”

Dimitri raises a skeptical eyebrow, “And you… can’t think of anyone else she might be worried about?”

“Don’t give me that, I’m the Shield of Faerghus,” somehow, it’s still a wonder to hear him say that with a straight face. As if it’s something he takes pride in, against everything he might’ve once insisted, “I know your family’s moods. It’s this drafty old castle that does it…” he gestures here and there, glaring at a bobbing fey light, “… though I suppose you’ve done it up well enough.”

“Oh, thank you. Most of the decor is Marianne’s-”

“Obviously it was her idea, don’t distract me,” Felix says, stopping just short of wagging a finger at his king and causing a scandal, “Next winter, come to Fraldarius. Even the birds know to fly south for-” he waves that away as well, “No, no, that wasn’t my point. Your wife-”

“Is no doubt worried about me because I was staring out into the crowd,” Dimitri says in the same tones he issues an immovable edict.

There is a long silence between the two of them. Dimitri can anticipate Felix’s next question without having to hear it - lucky, he nearly doesn’t, “Did you see someone?”

“No.”

“Someone uninvited?” he insists, pressing the operative word as though there was any doubt what he meant.

“No,” Dimitri repeats firmly - just short of harshly. Just about any other man in the kingdom would know to immediately drop the issue.

Felix doesn’t. He doesn’t so much as hesitate in the face of his sovereign’s irritation, much less flinch from it. Silently, he studies Dimitri’s face, brow knitted like he expects to find the lie printed there. That diligence is a big part of why he is Dimitri’s Shield - even if there are times it truly does test his patience. He can endure that: he knows what becomes of kings unwilling to face their vassals’ scrutiny and to heed their advice.

But tonight, there is nothing for Felix to find, and once he recognizes that, he lets his face relax into what is not quite a smile, but will serve, “Good.”

Dimitri chuckles, “Always happy to meet your approval.”

And, if he’s being truly honest with himself, it warms his heart to hear Felix concerned for him. The duke is one of a scant few in all of Faerghus who know of the uninvited guests who watch over Dimitri. That he meets what he would once have called madness with barely disguised compassion is a testament to how far they have come. It stands head and shoulders above any titles or oaths of fealty that lay between them.

As for the objects of Felix’s concern, they have been mostly silent for moons now. Not gone, but quiet. Sparingly, Dimitri will still catch one of them staring at him from a crowd or feel a hand on him and turn to see no one.

This very week, walking into this very hall, Dimitri was stunned to see his father standing before the throne, his pale white cape spilling over the dais. In life, King Lambert had struck an imposing figure - sometimes, when Dimitri is truly lucky, he reflects that in death. Somewhere deep down, he knows that he grew taller than his father long ago - that more recently, he has grown older than his father ever did. But when his memory is kind, King Lambert is still a bright and shining beacon of a man: a star shining bright enough that none might ever escape the shadows it cast.

At first, Dimitri had thought that King Lambert was gazing at his throne - still pining for all he had lost in Duscur. But no - his gaze was turned too high for that. His father had been looking past the throne.  He smiled when he turned to face Dimitri - smiled, shimmered, and was no more.

It is true for all of them: their faces no longer twist and distort in sorrow for their lot, and Dimitri’s ears no longer ring with their howling. Perhaps they are satisfied. Perhaps Dimitri is finally letting them go.

As if he’s heard Dimitri’s musings, Felix scoffs. “‘Approval…’” there’s a reproach there, but he lets it slide. He shifts in place, moving to stand beside Dimitri and gaze back at the fray he’s left. There’s the faintest glint to his eye as he changes the subject, “When we arrived, you didn’t ask me what I’d brought for the feast.” He crosses his arms, his lip twitching a little like he’s trying not to smile, “I was disappointed, went through all the trouble of a hunt and that’s the thanks I get.”

Dimitri eyes him, “Was it a boar?”

“Of course it was a boar.”

Appropriately, Dimitri snorts. Felix only lets out a single click of the tongue, but he can’t hide how pleased he is with his own wit. With false melancholy, Dimitri laments, “I remember that once you could invite a man into your home and expect him not to insult you to your face,” that draws a single ‘ha’ from Felix, and that is as much a victory as forcing him to yield on the training ground, “… what’s the Kingdom coming to?”

“Whatever its king and his shield have brought it to, I suppose,” Felix counters flatly. His eyes flick to Dimitri after that, then they return to the middle distance - or perhaps to Annette’s back. After a moment’s more consideration, he murmurs, “… I’d say we’ve done well enough for ourselves.”

“Well enough,” Dimitri agrees. But he can’t help but qualify it, “For now. There’s still much to be-”

“Not tonight there isn’t,” Felix snaps, not unkindly. He places a hand on Dimitri’s shoulder, gives it a jostle that feels more like Sylvain than himself, shakes his head at the incongruity of the action, “Go have a drink, Your Majesty. Tell your wife you’re alright. And enjoy your party.” Then he marches back off into the crowd, calling out over his shoulder, “This is supposed to be a happy time.”

Dimitri has never heard the reminder as a parting shot before. He pants a single laugh, then wonders why. Felix is right, of course. There is nothing for him to worry about. Nothing to fear.

It is a happy time. Is it so selfish of Dimitri to wish he could have shared it only with his truest friends, rather than all of Faerghus?

He casts his gaze back along the hall, towards the throne. A part of him expects - a smaller, irrational part hopes - to see his father there again.

The figure Dimitri sees instead is not King Lambert, but she is no less a shining white beacon. She has her back turned, hands clasped before her as she looks upon the family portrait. Her hair, long and choppy, seems to glisten an unearthly shade of green Dimitri has always pictured as the color of life itself. The flowing, thin white silks of an archbishop do not suit her nor Faerghus’s climate - Byleth looks more the part of a ghost than the ones who haunt Dimitri.

Any notion that she might be one of them is dispelled the moment that Viscount Phlegethon ascends the royal dais to stand by her side. The raised platform makes his bow look even more like a performance: he truly is on a stage. Byleth turns to face him, smiles awkwardly. Though she takes a step back, the viscount takes a step forward, already animating his every word with sweeping, flowing gestures. Dimitri needs no more cue than that to see that he needs to rescue his former professor.

He makes his way back through the crowd, striding with the kind of purpose that parts it despite the well-wishers and flagrant petitioners.

By the time Dimitri reaches the throne, the viscount has still not faltered in his diatribe. Without pause for breath, he says, “Your Holiness, you must understand: this feud between the Gloucesters and I is entirely of their making. I only wish, as Her Holiness’s loyal servant, to secure my family’s natural rights to-”

But evidently, it has gone on long enough that Byleth will hear no more of it. She snaps, “Lord Acheron, do you just not remember trying to kill me over this?”

Her voice is harsh, almost coarse. Dimitri can hear the long-ago years she spent as a mercenary in it. So can Viscount Phlegethon - or at least the danger. He sputters for a moment before finding his footing, stammering out, “N-now Your Holiness, I think we needn’t dwell on something from so long ago! You must understand: in the Unification War, I was deeply - tragically - misled! And you must remember, House Gloucester is not innocent in-”

“Ah, Your Holiness!” Dimitri exclaims as he at last draws near. He pointedly steps between them, his footing cutting out Viscount Phlegethon. Byleth’s eyes widen in a ‘save me,’ and Dimitri bows his head as much to convey understanding as for formality.

Viscount Phlegethon lets out a most unlordly gasp at the sudden arrival of his king and nearly snaps himself in half with his bow, “Your Majesty! May I please say what an honor - a privilege! What a privilege it is to be a guest in your home tonight. I was just speaking with Her Holiness about the situation in-”

Without looking at Phlegethon, Dimitri says, “Oh, I know very well what matter you were discussing, Viscount.” He tries to keep the words cheery enough, but with just enough hint of warning to convey how tired he is of circling around and around to this same damned matter every year. He counts out a second in his head to let the viscount stay supplicated before him, then gestures for him to rise with a smile and a waggle of his empty glass, “… but I’m afraid I haven’t any head for business tonight, you’ll understand.”

Viscount Phlegethon stares for a moment like a fawn cornered by a lion. He and Dimitri first met on the Great Bridge of Myrddin, on opposite sides of the Unification War, an encounter Phlegethon narrowly escaped with his life. Dimitri’s mere presence has put the fear of the Goddess into him ever since. Much as Dimitri has tried to banish the specter of the man he was, so many of his vassals still see it just over his shoulder and recoil. Would that their fear wasn’t so useful at times.

But this time, the moment passes, and a too-wide puppet’s smile spreads across Viscount Phlegethon’s face. He clasps his hands before him, laughs heartily but falsely, “Oh my, Your Majesty! Well, I suppose if a man can’t cut loose for a celebration like this, when can he?”

“Indeed,” Dimitri says evenly, “And so-”

The viscount must not realize that he’s just interrupted his king, or he’d no doubt run screaming from the palace, “I actually have two daughters off to the Officers Academy myself, you know - Sophia, my youngest, is just about the same age as-”

“And so, Lord Acheron!” Dimitri says over him, placing a hand on his back and steering him to the edge of the dais, “I’ll not have any subject of mine with a head full of dreary business. It is a celebration. Enjoy yourself.”

He does not so much shove Viscount Phlegethon down the dais steps as he gives his back a gentle thump, an offer to flee. It just so happens that the viscount takes him up on the offer. He stumbles down the steps, turning only to bow frantically again, “Of course, Your Majesty! I’ll do just that!”

He is already retreating into the crowd as Dimitri waves him politely off, muttering, “Go lose your head somewhere else.”

Byleth has slunk up beside him in the interim, giving him a grateful nod, “That was well done, Your Majesty.” The honorific sounds wrong from her lips, “Thank you.”

He gives her a tired smirk. Up close, he can plainly see the wrinkles in her brow - or rather, the carefully applied makeup meant to mimic them. It makes Dimitri question the streaks of white in her hair, though he’s never done so aloud, “You’re welcome, Your Holiness.”

A moment of silence passes between them. It’s a bit of a shame that their meeting tonight should be by the throne: they couldn’t have picked a more public part of the hall if they’ tried. There’s a whole political dance that neither of them wants any part of hanging over them whenever they appear publicly: the king cannot bow to anyone, but neither can the archbishop. So what happens when the two meet?

Generally, they will stand in comfortable silence and let the memories wash over them. Years and years ago, an itinerant mercenary had crossed paths with a sleepwalking prince. Who could’ve imagined that the simple act of helping one another would lead them to rule over Fódlan one day?

Sometimes, Dimitri worries that that reward is in fact a yoke he’s placed around Byleth’s neck. As a reward for her service, she has received yet more service. Whenever he tries to voice these concerns, though, Byleth always laughs the matter off - and even if she offers no other reassurances, that alone dissuades Dimitri’s concerns. Once upon a time, it was a rare treat to see her with the thinnest of smiles.

Now, there’s a nearly perpetual serene glow about her. There’s none of the roiling ocean that Dimitri occasionally feels within himself looming over her. She looks on at a sea of his subjects, her flock, and all Dimitri can see is content. One day he’ll finally learn it from her.

As the two of them gaze out over the crowd, the band strikes up a waltz that had been popular before Unification, and Byleth’s face lights up, “Ah - I love this one.”

“You’re free to find a dance partner, if you’d like,” Dimitri offers. He would offer himself for the role, but he’s not yet danced with Marianne tonight. As with everything else, the precepts must be obeyed. There’s rumors enough about him and the archbishop without deliberately courting them.

Byleth waves his suggestion away, “I love listening to it. It reminds me of…” she pauses. The faintest of shadows comes over her, and unless Dimitri misses his guess she’s a quarter of a century away right now. Then it passes, and she’s here and now again, and she shakes her head, “Never mind that.” She turns on a heel to face him, sweeping a hand out to encompass the room for anyone who might be watching them, “Quite a party you have here, Dimitri.”

He bows his head in thanks, “It’s been too long since the lords of Faerghus gathered under one roof. Now and again, some of them need a reminder that we’re all one kingdom. We celebrate together one night, and so we can push the realm forward together the next day,” Byleth clicks her tongue, and it occurs to Dimitri that he’s speaking in slogans right now. So he gives her the truth as well, “… and I wanted Remus to have a proper sendoff.”

And there that truth is, back out in the air. No - it had never left. It had hung over the night’s proceedings from the moment they were announced. Longer than that, even.

With the new year, Prince Remus Mordred Blaiddyd will set off for Garreg Mach. Dimitri’s boy is headed for the Officers Academy.

The portrait above the throne depicts him as he was seven years ago, at nine years old. Back then, his flaxen hair had been long enough that Marianne had had to braid it in a tiny crown to keep it out of his face. Ignatz did his best, but there’s still some of the scowl in his dark eyes, a little boy bored of standing still for too long. Surely he hasn’t aged a day since then? Surely not a moment has passed since Dimitri took a tiny, squalling thing in his arms and swore to him that he’d never know his father’s hardships?

Like she’s heard Dimitiri’s thoughts, Byleth echoes them, “I can’t believe he’s gotten so big…” she rests her chin on a fist, turns to look at the dour little boy Remus had been, Dimitri’s hand on his shoulder, “… we got old.”

Again, Dimitri thinks of the streaks of white in Byleth’s hair. Up close, he’s even surer that they’re dyed. He still does not pry, but he does toe the line of it, “… one of us did.”

She gives him a look and ignores the implication. She asks, “Poor Marianne must be beside herself. Is she holding up alright?”

Dimitri smiles warmly, “Better than I am, if I’m being honest. She…” he weighs his words, “… I think she’d be sick with worry if anyone else were the Academy headmaster.”

Byleth gives a showy flip of her hair at the compliment. Then a beat passes, and she looks at Dimitri, springs her trap, “‘Better than I am?’ Meaning…?” he looks away, but she presses, “Dimitri?”

Dimitri sighs, “I admit, I was a little worried.” A moment passes, and under his old teacher’s gaze, a moment may as well be an eternity’s interrogation. He concedes, “I’m still worried.” She crosses her arms, but says nothing - gives Dimitri no choice but to elaborate. It’s an old tactic and he recognizes it on anyone else. With her, he still falls for it every time, “Not because I don’t trust you - you know that has nothing to do with it. And not because I don’t trust him, but-”

“Because you don’t trust any situation you don’t have a direct hand in?” Byleth asks, too gently for how sharp the accusation really is.

“This is different,” Dimitri says, his words drawing a firm line in the sand.

Which Byleth promptly hops over as though it weren’t there at all, “It’s always different, Dimitri. That can’t be all it is.”

He winces, gives ground, “True enough.” For a moment, he considers - Byleth patiently waits for him to rally, “… why shouldn’t a father want to keep his son safe? He’s never-”

“Right. He’s never been far from your sight,” Byleth says, placing a hand on his shoulder, “So he has to spread his wings for himself at some point, doesn’t he?”

“… can he not wait?” Dimitri asks lamely.

“‘There is no halting the hands of time,’” Byleth says - believes that she has recited from the Book of Seiros.

Her mistake brings a smile to Dimitri’s face. The misquote is semantic, but passingly amusing given who she is, “Archbishop, I believe that’s ‘The hands of time shall halt for no mortal man.’”

Shameless, Byleth scoffs and declares (though she lowers her voice against the possibility that anyone might hear), “And I believe that I am the archbishop; it says whatever I like!” A part of Dimitri wishes he could learn her irreverence: he can scarcely imagine maintaining utmost respect the duties of one’s office while barely disguising contempt for the office itself. Perhaps Faerghus would be better off with a king who could take himself less seriously.

“Still,” Byleth says, “I hear where you’re coming from. Even if time must march on and all that, I wish it could march a little slower.” Looking back towards the painting - or perhaps past it - Byleth muses, “It was such a shock a few years ago, when Henri enrolled, I remember seeing his name on the roster and thinking, ‘there’s no way: he’s just a little boy.’ But then he gets there, and… well, you’ve seen him.”

Dimitri has: Henri Michel Gautier, Ingrid and Sylvain’s firstborn, is nineteen now and as tall a man as his father. “Was he the first?” the question is too vague, and Byleth’s eyebrow shoots up to demonstrate that, “The first student you’ve taught who was a child of another, I mean.”

“I think so,” Byleth says. Her brow knits with mild frustration, “It’s almost getting hard to tell: the years blend together, and-” she waves away any notion of ‘and,’ settling instead on, “I think so. And that was strange, obviously-”

“Not nearly as strange as having him make such a show of bowing and swearing fealty,” Dimitri chuckles, “It looks wrong - if it weren’t for the glasses-”

“He’d look just like Sylvain, I know,” Byleth laughs, before resuming her previous track, “But now… well it just feels like everyone from that first year has a kid going. And…” Byleth’s lips scrunch, her hands waving in an impromptu spell to call for the right words, “… it just feels so odd. For so long I’ve thought, ‘oh, the class of 1179 wasn’t that long ago-’ or I’ve felt like it never stopped being five years ago, if that makes sense.”

For the most part, it does, and so Dimitri nods. There are still nights that he wakes up and despite the decades of peace, he is sure that he will see Garreg Mach’s ruined monastery around him instead of the royal chambers. Byleth continues, “It just feels like… I suppose it feels like those days are well and truly behind us. And in my head I’ve known that, obviously, but confirmation is… it’s odd, that’s all. As if an era ended years ago, and I’m just now discovering that.”

Dimitri considers that for a moment. This is a point he and Byleth have disagreed on for a long while: for her, there is a nostalgia to her year as simply ‘Professor Byleth’ rooted in her first memories of peaceful days spent in those cherished halls. The time has a rosy tint for her: it was when she learned to be more than the Ashen Demon, more than a function of battle, but a person who could dream and who could love. Of course she has a certain fondness for those memories. For Dimitri, the fondness is there, but its color is different. For him it was a time when he wholeheartedly believed that whatever happened now, his destiny was written in blood and ash. And so the Officers Academy felt only like a brief respite before grim fate was upon him. All the smiles, all the camaraderie, every lesson and every joy was just a prelude to the sorrow that was coming. Dimitri could never have imagined the life he now has back then - but neither could he ever have imagined how bleak his path would become, for a time. And so Byleth imagines an innocence to the year before the war that Dimitri has trouble believing in.

But he’s getting better. Some days, he can think back to those times without a moment wasted on what had lurked in the shadows, and what had sprang from them later. That is always the great tradeoff, though: with fondness for the past comes heartache that it is past. And so Dimitri says as much for himself as for Byleth, “For anything to begin, something else must end.”

Byleth gives him a quizzical look, “Is that always true?”

For a moment, Dimitri thinks the answer is a simple yes - but no, there are other angles he can see. However, “In this case, it is.”

Byleth sighs, draws in breath to speak, lets it out instead. Whatever worries she has are once again buried, and she instead looks to that most important thread that they’d abandoned in their musings, “But Remus.”

Dimitri nods, “Yes. Remus.”

And for a moment, that’s all that they say on the matter.

There is, after all, very little Dimitri can say of his own worries that is both true and fair to his son. It is not that he doesn’t think Remus is ready for the Officers Academy. If anything, he needs it. He’s a bright boy, but there is so, so much he can still learn. When he was Remus’s age, tragedy forced Dimitri to arm himself against the world. He would never wish that on his son, but what if a more peaceful upbringing has left him somehow unprepared?

Byleth closes her eyes, hums to herself. When she opens them, Dimitri can see that she’s found what she believes is the heart of the matter. She looks at him, her  eyes searching, “You trust me to take care of him, Dimitri?”

“More than anyone,” he says without hesitation, because that is a simple truth, “More than myself.”

He means it lightheartedly, or perhaps as emphasis on how much faith he has in her. Instead, he hears in his own voice a lack of faith in himself, and if Dimitri hears it, certainly Byleth has.  She clicks her tongue, but doesn’t interrogate that any further. Fair. Instead, she says, her voice bringing him back through the decades to her classroom, “So you know that Remus needs this opportunity. And you have confidence in me to keep him safe. That leaves us back where we started, Dimitri: with you simply worried that you won’t be there to guide him.”

It is kind of her not to explicitly say, ‘and that’s not good enough,’ but it’s just as plain to hear in her tone. A part of him wants to deflect her whole premise. It would be so easy to just dismiss the very notion that Remus would ever deign to accept his father’s ‘guidance,’ or that it would ultimately do him any good. It is hard for Dimitri to be anything but honest with his old professor, though, “I worry that… that there’s too much of his father in him.” Dimitri shakes his head, chuckles, “He’d hate to hear me say that. But it’s true. I worry for him for the same reason I worried for myself when I first went to the Officers Academy. What if he finds himself misled, or faltering, or unable to rise to the occasion? What if his is a path as tumultuous as my own was?”

Byleth’s mouth thins as she nods along with him. For a moment, he thinks she’ll simply wait him out, force him to confide more with her silence. But then she says, “But you know that you don’t have to worry about any of that. Because if anything happens, I’ll be there for him.”

Deep down, that alone should be enough, but somehow, it’s still not, “And not just you,” Dimitri agrees, “Remus has companions as true as any I had to pick him up when he might stumble - and he’s not nearly so blind as I was then, so he knows that. There are people he can trust,” With an embarrassed laugh, Dimitri cuts through to the plain fact of his worries: that they are pointless, “And I should be wise enough by now to put my trust in them too.”

Byleth’s beatific smile returns as he speaks, and it’s nice to have been the one to reassure her for once. She arches a brow, asks, “Then…?”

And he follows where she’s leading him, stating, “Then I have nothing to be so concerned about. I worry because it is in my nature.”

“As long as you know,” Byleth says. As the music shifts again (something livelier, as if the players have sensed the king’s melancholy), she laces her fingers before her. She faces the crowd, watching as prospective dancers part and come together, and for a moment Dimitri thinks she’s going to speak as the archbishop. But the voice, breathy and gentle, is simply that of his friend, “Twenty years… I still can’t believe it.”

Dimitri gazes out in the same direction. Once upon a time, he could never have imagined it either. To look at the hall’s glittering lights, at the warmth that no one could ever have imagined in Fhirdiad’s heart, one could imagine there being no troubles in all of Fódlan.

It isn’t so. But tonight, perhaps it is. The road to a better Faerghus is long: perhaps it never ends. But tonight he can see how far they’ve come,  “… we’ve done alright by Fódlan, Professor.”

She smiles at the old title, glances at him, “Still more to do.”

“Goddess, there’s always more to do,” and his groan is only half a joke. As if to prove his point, Marianne emerges from the crowd, skipping a step or two of the dais as she rushes to his side. She curtseys absently to Byleth, placing her hands on Dimitri’s shoulder and standing on tiptoe to tilt her head up towards his. Dimitri places a hand on the small of her back, kisses her cheek, “My love. I’m sorry to have worried you, I-”

And then he stops short as she whispers three words in his ear, and for just this moment they are all that is important in the world.

“Remus is missing.”

Remus

In the forests just southwest of Castle Fhirdiad, there is an old dirt path off of the main road. It’s an old, poorly maintained thing - and with the recent snows, the only evidence it’s there at all is just a little more space than you’d expect between frost-capped black pines.

Toto grunts and spits as they gallop along it. To hear the horse’s complaints, he could be gasping for breath - but more likely he’s exaggerating. Toto is a good horse, if a dramatic one. He is a hulking, shaggy grey speckled destrier, as much a workhorse as one for riding. He almost wasn’t fit for either: Toto originally comes from the Gautier stables, and proved too aggressive for all but the most seasoned riders. Back then, he bucked and he kicked like he was wild, and wanted nothing to do with anyone fool enough to try to ride him.

Sometimes, Remus thinks that if he were a normal boy, Toto would want nothing to do with him either. But since he is not, he’s always been able to calm the horse. Even now, he places a hand on Toto’s neck as they ride, utters a soft, “Almost there, boy,” and his breathing steadies.

Remus is so focused on Toto that he forgets how dense the forest is here, and he sees the branch and ducks his head a moment too late. There’s a sharp pain and the sound of fabric tearing. Remus shakes his head, rubs a sleeve along his face, the spot where the branch hit him hot against the chill in the air. Stupid. That’s like the first rule of riding: watch where you’re going. For his part, Toto does not so much as break his stride, so at least he was spared his rider’s inattention.

There’s little light, but Remus rides out here enough that Toto has some idea of where they’re going. The ground is starting to get steeper - if they could see the road, it would veer to the left here, a hillside path to the lake. It sparkles invitingly even in the pitch dark of night, the moon and stars reflected in its still surface. Remus never bothers to force Toto down that path: it’s a bit too winding, and far too poorly maintained for a horse to take. And so recognizing where they are, Toto trots to a stop. For a second, Remus thinks he’s going to rear up dramatically, as if this were some old legend of knightly honor. But he doesn’t, and Remus takes the moment to dismount. With Toto’s size, it’s like hopping off a cliffside. Remus isn’t short, but neither would he call himself tall: the animal stands nearly half a man taller than him.

As Remus takes a moment to stretch, Toto nudges his head against his shoulder expectantly. He laughs, muttering, “Alright, alright,” and rummaging through the pack tossed over his shoulder until he finds an apple. He holds it out, and Toto snaps it up greedily, his crunching deafening in the quiet night. Remus smiles lightly, strokes the beast’s neck, “The most mercenary horse in the world, I swear. There’s another for you when we head back.”

Toto chuffs skeptically, and Remus nods in understanding, pulling his cloak around him, “I know. It’s too late and too cold to be doing this, I just…” he shakes his head. No matter how much Toto seems to understand, what fresh madness it’d be to try and justify himself to a horse. Remus pats his muzzle again, “… be good, okay?”

Then he heads off down the path without bothering to tie Toto’s reins up: he won’t go anywhere.

A light dusting of snow is bright enough to light Remus’s way.  Even so, he tries and fails to snap thumb and forefinger together to conjure a flame for that purpose. Some nights he can manage it: tonight, the mental picture he needs to paint must be frozen over. A pair of crows seem to chuckle at his efforts from somewhere above. Remus glances up in their direction, but all he sees is a tangle of witch finger branches.

In a moment, it doesn’t matter anyhow: he arrives at the lake’s shore. It’s more of a pond, really, an imperfect circle barely thirty meters across. The trees give way to its shore, leaving Remus with open skies once he reaches it. It’s a clear night, and nestled among the myriad stars, the moon is lopsided, just on the waxing side of full, and leaves a silver sheen on the pond’s ice. On a night like this, Remus doesn’t need a torch’s help to see what’s in front of him - everything is bathed in a ghostly imitation of daylight.

One of Remus’s boots sinks almost to the knee into the muck as he approaches the lakeside, and he sucks in a surprised breath, half expecting the summertime scent of bracken. Instead, all he gets is cold, dry air. When he lets the breath out, it frosts over before his eyes. With a grunt, he frees his foot. After all the recent snows, he had expected the ground to be completely frozen.

That it’s not could be a problem. Remus places a foot gingerly on the pond’s surface, puts his weight on it so slowly it’s almost painful. The ice holds, and he is quicker to put the other foot atop it. For a moment, he stands there, listening for a break. There isn’t one - thought there is a gust of wind that makes him hug his cloak to him. In the newfound light, it’s apparent that his crash into the branch tore a seam in his hood.

When he’s sure that the ice can hold his weight, he gives an experimental jump, deliberately smacking his boots down as he lands. If it’s going to break, better for it to do so here than when he’s out in the middle of the pond. The ice groans, but it still holds. Good enough.

Remus walks slowly, listening to his every step. There isn’t a lot to hear, but he has to be ready to bolt if the pond is warmer than he thought - than he feels. The too-heavy step followed by a heart-stopping crack never comes; eventually, Remus finds himself standing in the middle of the pond. He turns once in each direction, trying to decide if he’s really found dead center. It looks good enough, and so he shrugs off his pack, gently setting it aside. His cloak comes next. Remus is loath to lose its fox fur lining, shivers the moment he’s reduced to his ocean blue doublet. With its silver trim and ridiculous epaulets, it’s better suited to the party he’s left than to the elements. It’s also just the slightest bit too tight: Remus pops its collar button, and all is right with the world, if a little colder.

His cloak finds itself repurposed as a cushion: better to deal with a light chill than to sit on the ice. Remus settles down, crosslegged, and leans back on his hands to look at the stars. The space where the Blue Sea Star should be is finally vacant, and only half the Ethereal Moon gone by. There were some whisperings as to whether or not it was some kind of omen when it failed to vanish within the moon’s first week. A collection of auguries even warned Remus - warned Father, really - that it might not be the time to go to the Officers Academy. Why not wait until portents were better?

Thank the Goddess that Father doesn’t believe in that kind of nonsense. Imagine if Remus had had to actually say why he was so dead set on enrolling this year - if he’d had to look Father in his eye and say, ‘I want to go now because next year I’ll be as old as you were when you went.’

Remus winces. It sounds so stupid whenever he tries to put that feeling into words. There’s more to it than that, obviously. Remus isn’t just petty. But that is the only reason he can think of that is clear, succinct, and observably true.

It’s not that he’s suffocating at home. It’s not that he has any goal that Garreg Mach Monastery would help him achieve - nothing concrete, anyway. It’s not like he believes Mother when she says that she thinks Garreg Mach might help him just the way that it helped her (a part of Remus has trouble believing it ever did all that much for her: so much of her strength is just a natural part of who she is). It’s not that he announced that he would go, and to go back on his word now would be to admit to cowardice he’s not ready for people to see in him. It’s not that now that so many of his peers have followed The Prince’s lead, it would be humiliating to be left behind by all of them.

It’s not that this, and not that that, and not that dozens and dozens of different things. But it’s also not not any of them.

Remus glares up at the empty space where the Blue Sea Star should be. So many of his reasons - his excuses - for going to the Officers Academy hinge on some imagined test, some chance to prove himself that Remus is going to be the only person on earth paying attention to.

Looking for a real reason is pointless and stupid. He wants to go. That should be reason enough.

He is going. He doesn’t need to justify it to anyone.

But if he had to, could he do it?

Remus lets out a heavy sigh, allowing himself to fall onto his back, his head thunking against the ice. He closes his eyes, draws in another breath so cold it dries his mouth. Then he exhales, imagines expelling all of his worries with his breathing. He tries it again, and then one more time for good measure.

The third time works - or works for the most part. Good. Remus isn’t out here to make himself crazy, he’s here to relax. Just the solitude can normally do that - its only drawback is that sometimes it’s Remus’s mind that needs to quiet down, not just the world at large.

Supposedly, the ball back in Castle Fhirdiad is in honor of The Prince enrolling in the Officers Academy, of Remus becoming a man. If it had been up to him, there’d have been no great grandiose party celebrating him for the arduous task of writing an application letter he knew was going to be accepted no matter what it said.

Suppose he’d just sent the archbishop a scrap of paper that said only, ‘I’m going.’ What was she going to say? ‘No, you’re not?’ ‘No, Your Highness, you have to do better than that?’ ‘No, crown prince of Faerghus, I refuse to allow you to sully my halls with your every beastly step?’

Lady Byleth would never say such a thing. That isn’t her nature, at least as far as Remus understands it. But even if she did, what would that do except lead Father to finally stop pretending he was sharing power with the Church of Seiros?

So it isn’t arrogance or entitlement that leads Remus to conclude that if he had wanted to go to Garreg Mach, he’d have gotten to on the basis of that alone. That’s just a fact. The Prince gets whatever The Prince asks for - whether he deserves it or not.

And that leads inevitably to the conclusion that any party that Father wants to throw celebrating Remus enrolling at the academy is inherently ridiculous. At best, it’s simply ignoring how little Remus had to do to ‘achieve’ this, at worst it’s actively patronizing him for it. Oh, congratulations, Remus, you’re finally making something of yourself, we’ll throw a parade.

He shuts his eyes tighter, sets his jaw against that line of thinking. It’s stupid. After all, Remus knows that the ball isn’t really for him, that his acceptance to the academy is merely the justification that frames it. This is one of those things that a royal family just has to do. The king exists to unify his kingdom. Meeting with the vassals under his command from time to time, pretending that all the nobility is one big group of friends, is a part of what goes into that. Remus understands that.

He also happens to know that he’s not cut out for it in the slightest.

Case in point, tonight has just been an endless stream of humiliation. Humiliation is the wrong word: Remus is, after all, the only person with the faintest inkling for how uncomfortable he’s been since the arrival of the first dozen or so guests. Father, whatever other faults he has, can greet that procession of strangers and pretend right back at them that they’re the closest of friends. He takes their reverence as his due. Of course he does: he is the Savior King.

Remus, however, is not. He’s just The Prince - there is no achievement attached to his status. He was only born to it. Yet people flock to him, their faces splitting with smiles as they act as if he should so much as know who they are. As if they have the faintest idea who he is. They goad him to lend his support to whatever their latest feudal triviality is - as if he is informed enough to have opinions on such things or has any power to act on opinions he may have.

The worst are the lords with daughters his age - or honestly, most of the girls themselves. Knowing smirks and winks about how, ‘Ah, His Highness is getting to be that age,’ are one thing, but how exactly does one respond to the timid, awkward advances of someone who is probably surprised to see how thin The Prince’s shoulders are, how sunken the bags under his eyes? Time and time again, Remus sees people seeing him, the flash of disappointment that he isn’t the fairy tale charming prince they’d dreamed up - and then they all just paint on a smile and treat him like the man they imagined anyway.

Bloodsuckers like that are supposed to die off with the winter. Yet whenever Remus states an opinion on anything, it seems like everyone in the room agrees with him. Then when he contradicts himself a minute later, because Goddess forbid he ever be certain of anything, the same crowd smiles and nods and praises him for wisdom beyond his years. The only hint that they even notice the discrepancy is in their wry smirks, so subtle that Remus could be imagining them.

But then that thought always leads inevitably to a niggling doubt: is this one of the ones who calls him the ‘Beast Prince’ just out of earshot?

And once Remus thinks of that, it’s all he can think of. That there is a sea of people who pretend that he is perfect and charming and witty, even when he is none of these things - and that an unknowable portion of that sea sneers the second he turns his back. It colors every bit of smalltalk, every casual glance, every quirk of the lip. And suddenly, Remus is sure that all eyes are on him and all eyes are disappointed and he just… he shuts down. He drowns.

Tonight, in his desperation to breathe again, he ran away as surely befit the proud and noble crown prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. Truly, the most heroic retreat. A chill wind passes over his face, and a part of him has to acknowledge what a stupid move that was.

The rest… where it was deafening, now it is silent. Where there was judgement, there is no one. Where there were expectations, there are none.

It’s not bliss. He’s still alone with his thoughts, and that can be one of the most dangerous places to be. Mother tells Remus that he will always be his harshest critic, and he doesn’t quite believe her - but he is the only one he’ll never escape.

But it’s better.

Remus runs hands over his face, breathes in, breathes out, watches the mist rise from his mouth. If he just focuses on that, he’ll be fine. Then he can try and make something productive of this little temper tantrum.

He isn’t sure how long he lays there, just staring up at the clear sky and trying to make the storm clouds in his mind’s eye match it. Maybe an hour, maybe longer. Maybe only a couple of minutes.

Eventually, though, he gets to his feet, stretches. He hops in place on the ice’s surface, giving it one last chance to concede that it can’t support his weight. Then he reaches into his pack, takes out the wooden sword stashed there.

It’s nothing special: an experimental swing reveals that it’s lighter than Remus anticipated, maybe due for retirement. He could have brought the oaken masterwork Ashely gave him last year. That sword is meticulously carved and rounded: in some lights, its tan ‘blade’ honestly does look like metal. The crests of Gautier and Fraldarius are carved into either side of the blade fuller, just above the cross guard, “So Odette and I can be there to protect you, even when we’re not,” she said when she gave it to him.

Back then, he was too embarrassed by the production she made of the gift, of the fact that she’d think he needed their protection, of the fact that she was probably right. All he could do was mutter his thanks. He’s wanted to amend that, to really let her know how much he appreciates the gesture. The chance has never come up, but the sword truly is beautiful, and would be better served as the training weapon of a master. It’s wasted on Remus.

Not least because he really shouldn’t use it for practice: he has a bad habit of misjudging his weapon’s durability, or swinging with no care for it. Whatever else is true, Ashely is too good a friend to shatter her gift like that.

Still. He can imagine. So he does.

Remus pictures the weapon in his hand, wider and heavier than this nicked and splintered placeholder. He points it forward, bows to his invisible opponent - no, his invisible opponents. He is the prince of Faerghus: surely he can handle a challenge?

With a deep breath, he lowers his center of gravity, then charges forward. His footsteps are clunky and heavy in his ears - a good swordsman would be silent. He wouldn’t need to let out a roaring exclamation with every slash. He wouldn’t switch which hand was on his weapon and which was free to grapple with his opponent - or if he did, he would do it faster, more fluidly. He wouldn’t overcommit, he wouldn’t waste movement, he wouldn’t be so sure of victory that he left the door open for defeat.

The deeper into his own head he gets, the faster and more ferociously Remus moves. The world grows red, and what started as genuine critique, as a running commentary to help himself improve, turns to a slurry of ‘he wouldn’t he wouldn’t hewouldnthewouldnt,’ and the fact that Remus is destroying himself from within only frustrates him more.

If he were here, if the Savior King could see him, he would fold his arms and shake his head. He might smile, he might be gentle, but all the while he’d be thinking, ‘what am I going to do with that one?’

Face him, maybe. Put him in his place. Show him just how wide the gulf between them is.

Finally, the spell is broken. Remus slips slightly as he lunges forward, and as a result brings his sword down hard on the ice. The ground holds as if he’s hit a wall, and the vibration up his arms is a good sort of pain. So he smacks his sword down again, more deliberately this time, and his roar seems to echo into the night.

Remus can hear his breathing, deep and ragged, see the little crystals on it. There is something dry and burning, yet freezing cold in his throat and his chest. It’s always so much worse being able to see the signs of his own weakness. He knows he’s learning, knows he’ll get better - knows he has to get better. Still…

Still what? It isn’t like Remus has a plan for what he’d do with power. If someone asked him now, what would he say? The old cliches - ‘I need to protect the people I care about,’ ‘I need to be a good king for the people of Fódlan.’ He knows that he can’t do either. Not yet. Not for years and years to come. So what’s the use in beating himself up over it? None.

Except that is complacency, and down that road is indolence and failure. If he doesn’t try, he inherently fails. If he does, he still fails. If he can’t even name the thing he’s trying to do, of course he fails!

Like a child, Remus smashes his sword into the ground again. It just barely chips the ice, a tiny indent from the weapon’s point - the weapon itself lets out a warning creak, like it’s ready to snap if Remus abuses it much more. It can suck it up.

Remus lets out a bitter laugh at that thought. He’s one to talk.

He drops the weapon, lets it clatter to the ground, and rubs a hand over his face. Breathe. Find your center. A dozen instructors have given him the same advice. If Remus follows it, he can overcome the hurdles in his own head.
 But what nonsense it is, when you think about it. Where exactly is Remus’s ‘center?’ How is he supposed to find it?

By not being intentionally obstinate. Breathe. Remus does, and loses himself almost immediately, chuckling darkly at what an effort it can be just to control himself. Like a child. Or a wild animal.

He tries again, inhales: deep. Exhales: long. There is nothing but the two actions. Nothing to worry about beyond them. He does it again, and again, and as many times as it takes to find his way to something close to calm.

Then he picks up his sword, and he tries again.

Remus focuses on his form now, judging it by the stance his shadow takes alongside him, long in the moonlight, and adjusting accordingly. He faces the blade forward, loosens his joints, gets ready to wield it with either or both hands. A last line of defense; people who need shields shouldn’t be holding swords.

One more breath for luck, and Remus lets himself flow.

The first enemy would be to his right. He turns his sword and strikes fast, decisive - painless. Ah, but that leaves another coming at him from the left - their sword (no, their spear, that’s the better visual) arcs wide and vicious for his neck. He ducks, just in the nick of time. One step back, keeping low, and then thrust up to standing when the lancer comes in to impale him while he’s down. An easy transition from that into his next movement: after all, there’s another coming from the side. Remus grips the blade with both hands, growls as he imagines cleaving through the dead lancer, slashing around to face the enemy that comes after him-

And is startled to see someone standing there now. So much so, in fact, that he lets out an unmanly squawk, the sword flying loose from his surprised hands. As it echoes into the night, Remus cannot help but think that in a real fight, a mistake like that would be deadly. He can’t slip up every time that the choreography he imagines goes the slightest bit awry.

It might actually be worse that he didn’t make the mistake in a real fight: then he’d just be dead, and not have to worry about the embarrassment of being such a poor swordsman. As it is, he has an audience - now Sir Dedue is witness to his shame.  

Sir Dedue is a mountain of gleaming silver in the moonlight; even with the deep blue trim to his armor, he shines like a spirit. He carries an axe, gigantic and wicked as he can be, and its head forms a halo behind his own like something out of a depiction of the Saints. It’s a wonder that he would come out onto the lake with such a heavy thing - and in full plate too! Remus wonders if it’s more impressive that Dedue came out onto the ice at all or that he apparently trusted each footfall on it enough to make his way to the center in silence. His face is stone, but Remus is sure that he sees his lips turn up a little, “Surprised, Your Highness?”

Obviously, that’s why he made a noise like a cornered rabbit at the sight of him. But in another way, no. Remus straightens, putting a hand on his hip and blowing a bang out of his eyes, “Not really.” He makes his way to his dropped sword to rescue it as nonchalantly as he can, like he hadn’t just flung it away at the sight of his father’s retainer, “Figured that you’d be the one they sent to go get me.” He grimaces: that’s too flippant, too petulant, and Dedue deserves better. He tries a halfhearted, “Sorry.”

“Think nothing of it,” Dedue says, and it’s always hard to tell what he really means. Is that ‘I know that getting ready to go to the Academy has been nerve wracking for you, I understand,’ or ‘I am freezing and disappointed in you, you ungrateful brat?’

The former feels too understanding. The latter feels unfair: Remus is sorry! Just not for leaving the ball when he did: only that Dedue should be inconvenienced traipsing through the woods at night in the dead of winter in search of his wayward prince.

No, Remus isn’t just sorry for that: Mother is probably worried. She always is whenever he disappears like this. He’ll have to apologize to her when he goes back. Though if Remus really regretted that, regretted any of it, wouldn’t he have thought better of fleeing his own party in the first place?

“Your Highness,” says Dedue suddenly, half a note of gentleness in his voice, “‘Think nothing of it’ means ‘think nothing of it.’”

Remus feels his face heat, and so refuses to turn around and show his embarrassment, “… am I so transparent?”

“Only when you allow yourself to be,” Dedue says. His words are stony as ever, but years of practice has taught Remus to look for the subtleties of their texture. These are skipping rocks: smooth and light. No harsh critique, merely advice. Advice Remus knows he needs to heed.

So he resolves not to argue, picking up his sword and turning on a heel. It feels even flimsier in his hands than when he first began: something else in it must’ve snapped. Remus gives it a test swing. It should feel the same, but he still frowns, mutters, “Something’s off.”

“What?” Dedue asks. Remus only shrugs; if he could put into words what was wrong, he would. All he has instead is a feeling.

The best explanation he has, delivered with another phantom slash, is, “I feel like this is going to break.”

“Perhaps then we ought to head back to the palace, Your Highness?”

Remus lets a breath out of his nose that will pass for a laugh. One of the best things about Sir Dedue is that there’s next to no guile in him: that was pathetic. Like tricking a child with candy. Or a horse with oats, “No, Dedue.”

At least he takes the rejection in stride. He does not even blink as he says, “Very well.”

There should be a pause there, and Dedue should follow it with, ‘It’s just…’ or, ‘However, might I say…’ or some bridge into an admission that he doesn’t really accept Remus’s decision to stay here. Remus waits for it, and if it comes, it is only whispered on the wind. If Dedue has nothing else to say, Remus won’t make him, but neither does he. He looks out into the black of the forest on the other side of the lake, and when it is all he can see, he rears back to resume his training.

Perhaps he’s wrong about his sword: it’s performing as well as before. Truly, the best weapon in all the land to heroically hack away at nothing. It feels so stupid a thing to do with an audience (even an audience so determined to appear inanimate). Like he’s a child playing at being a knight, and there is his watchful guardian to make sure he doesn’t trip and hurt himself. But this is legitimate training: the repetition is the point, making the forms and the movements second nature. Remus could do it without a sword: if this one does break, he just might.

But his focus is only half on his efforts. He still feels Dedue’s eyes on him even if he can’t see him, even if he stands in silent stillness. It’s always a battle of wills with him: so many of the palace guards can be willed into leaving or at least confessing what they really want to say by ignoring them for long enough. Not so with Sir Dedue; Father’s shield can quietly loom and observe well past anyone’s patience.

It’s a challenge, in a way. So Remus accepts, consciously, aggressively disregarding his presence.

But something about it gets into his swordplay. He tries a bit of footwork Odette has shown him, a nimble little bobbing prance on the balls of his feet that looks just the slightest bit idiotic on anything but the pegasi it’s modeled after. Done right, it plays havoc with the opponent’s perception, lets you weave between oncoming blows. Done wrong, Remus stumbles on his own two feet and nearly face plants on the ice, catching himself with his free left hand.

Dedue says nothing, and Remus is sure he imagines the intake of breath through his nose. It’s the wind.

Still, acting as though his fall never happened, Remus finally gives in, lets out a sharp, “So!”

Only in the ensuing silence does Dedue finally speak, “So?”

“Was it Mother that sent you to get me?” To show how much he doesn’t care, he resumes his shadow fencing as he asks the question, “Or my father?”

For another few swings, Dedue is silent, and Remus wonders if he heard the question at all - or perhaps if he’s simply chosen not to take what he perceives as bait. Just before Remus can prod him again, he says, “I suppose neither.”

He snorts, “Meaning?”

Dedue shrugs, “Your absence was noted, Your Highness. His Majesty was the one who informed me of such,” implying he didn’t notice it on his own, “… but I received no order to come and retrieve you.” He gives that a moment of space, as if it has any weight, “I volunteered to do so before any such order could be given.”

“Aw. Well isn’t that sweet,” Remus says, turning. He hopes his sneer is merely sardonic, not truly nasty, “After all, a good servant anticipates his master’s needs.”

If Dedue has any response to that, it is only to stand somehow taller, his hands behind his back in perfect sign and semblance of a knight at attention. He gives Remus the space he needs to consider what he just said, and when he does, he’s instantly revolted, wincing, “That is- Dedue, I-”

“I am His Majesty’s vassal and knight, and I am protector of your family, Your Highness. There is a sense in which you are not wrong to call me a servant,” Dedue says evenly, but sternly, “But if you believe there is a slight, perhaps you should think before you speak?”

Remus flushes. He knows that! It’s half his problem!

“Dedue, I…” Remus grimaces. If he issues any apology, Dedue will only deflect it in a way that makes him feel all the worse. So he tries again, fails again, “You know I don’t think-” finally he huffs, shakes his head, “Goddess, you know what I meant.”

“I do, Your Highness,” and there’s that skipping stone tone that passes for gentle. Sir Dedue has the patience of a river carving out a canyon. He has been rewarded for it with a horrible little beast he is sworn to protect. And because he somehow knows that’s what Remus is thinking, he says, “I do not take offense, Your Highness.”

Remus spits, “You should. I was cruel.”

The words are sharp, and so they bounce off Dedue’s armor, “Perhaps.”

It is somehow the most irritating thing he could do. Can’t he just say, ‘you were, and I accept your apology?’ Or even a biting, ‘yeah, I’m used to that from you, Highness?’ He has to just take it!? “Surely you can stand up for yourself better than that!?” Remus snaps, “You’re not some throw rug for me - for anyone to walk all over, you know, you’re allowed to get mad when we take advantage of your…!”

Words fail him in the face of how little this is clearly making a dent in Dedue’s facade, and he only lets out an inarticulate, hacking growl at the back of his throat. He whirls away from Dedue, gives the air a few butcher’s chops, and only then does Dedue ask, “Take advantage of my…?”

Remus glares at him. He doesn’t need help. He answers the question with one of his own, “When my father definitely didn’t ask you to wander off into the freezing cold at night, why didn’t you remind him that you’re not his errand boy? Or… or you could’ve sent a servant or one of the squires! You didn’t need to-”

“I am well aware of what I needed and did not need to do,” Dedue says, the plates of his armor shifting as he folds his arms in front of him, “Have you considered, Your Highness, that I might’ve been worried for you?”

“No, Dedue, I…!” Remus starts to snap again, following his own stupid energy, and then he catches himself. Rubbing at the back of his head, staring at the frozen ground below, he mumbles, “I… did not consider that. Sorry.”

The wind howls again, and it blows right through Remus’s doublet - seemingly right through to his bones. Dedue lets out a breath that is either the world’s quietest chuckle or its sparsest shiver. He doesn’t let it distract him, “Why did you leave tonight, Your Highness?”

“I just…” Remus’s brow furrows as he tries to release some of the muscle tension brought on by the chill, “… it’s stupid.”

“Neither of us will know that for sure until you say it.”

Remus laughs despite himself, “At which point we’ll both know, right?”

Dedue, of course, does not so much as acknowledge the jest, “Your Highness.”

“Fine,” Remus sighs. He’s grateful for the dark - even if he did turn around, Dedue might miss his humiliated flush - he does, after all, have to admit to being a tantrum throwing child, after all, “I just… I got this feeling that my being there didn’t matter. That I could just leave, and no one would notice.” He shrugs, “So I did.”

There should be some small relief in being able to say that out loud. Perhaps there even is, but it’s outweighed entirely by how coiled Remus is, ready for the obvious retort. ‘Well I’m here, Your Highness! Mommy and Daddy realized you ran away again, so technically someone noticed you were gone!’ And then Remus will have to explain that that isn’t what he means, and he will have to figure out what he means, and in the safety of his head, where all of this turmoil is wordless rumblings and hissing distrust, it all makes so much sense. Spinning feelings into words is like pulling down a star from the sky.

But for all his worries, right now Dedue doesn’t demand they interrogate Remus’s reasoning. He stands there patiently, waiting for… what? For Remus to go on? For him to realize how stupid he’s being? He knows that, Dedue doesn’t need to rub his nose in it.

The wind gives a warning whisper again, and Remus eyes his abandoned cloak. They could just go back. That would be the end of things, at least. He got his break from the festivities: now he should be able to make it through the rest of them. He glances at Dedue, “How long was I gone before Father sent you?”

Dedue looks up for the briefest of moments, then back to Remus, “Indeed; how long?”

Ah. Of course. They’ll make a lesson of it. Remus looks at the moon, tries to remember where it was when he first set out from Fhirdiad. He holds out his thumb to measure the distance, “A couple hours. Two, maybe closer to three,” he looks at Dedue for confirmation. He grants it, “Doesn’t that prove my point, though?”

“The young Lady Fraldarius has been asking after you,” Dedue offers.

Remus glances at him, tries to imagine the world where he had a moment (or the desire) to gossip with the young ladies of the court as to the prince’s whereabouts. Try as he might, he can’t picture it, so he challenges, “Oh? How is she?”

Dedue only falters for a second. He hides it well, but not well enough, “I did not personally have the opportunity to speak with her, Your Highness, however-”

“Then go and do that,” Remus jabs, deliberately petulant now. Dedue’s eyebrows raise just a smidgeon, and he cocks his head at the slightest of angles. Getting a rise out of Dedue sometimes feels like a victory, but it’s always haunted by a guilty twinge afterward - especially after Remus’s outburst just now. He concedes, “I… plan to talk with Lady Ashely before setting out for Garreg Mach. Or at least send her a bird.”

“Yet you don’t think that tonight is a fine opportunity to do that?” Dedue asks, his surprise at Remus’s cheek replaced by… something else. It’s hard to tell if that’s exasperation or simple curiosity.

By rights, it could be either - talking to Ashely tonight would be the thing that made the most sense. Remus has no argument against that, so he turns away again, resumes cutting down illusory opponents. They offer no surprises, but that isn’t nearly as satisfying as it was a moment or so ago.

And ignoring Dedue does not erase him, “Your Highness, may I suggest we return to the palace?” Remus’s nostrils flare, and he pointedly beheads a phantom. Dedue is undeterred, “If you still need a moment to breathe, I could prepare the training ground for you.”

“Dedue, if you want to go back, go back.”

He actually sighs - Goddess, Remus is getting to him tonight, “Do you not think that a training dummy would serve as a better opponent than the air?”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not.”

The pinkest of tinges creeps into Remus’s vision as he rounds on Dedue to tell him off, but the shield charges ahead before he can do more than open his mouth, “On the average man, that last strike would only come up to their shoulder,” Dedue holds up a hand to about his bicep to demonstrate, “A training dummy, or perhaps a partner would provide a visual cue to-”

“Fight me yourself if you think I’m doing it wrong!” Remus spits.

That ultimatum normally stops Dedue in his tracks. He goes on and on about his duty to the royal family, quietly revels in his role as their protector. To raise his axe against the prince, even in practice, is anathema to him. Scarcely does he do much more on the training ground than provide a moving dummy.

Tonight, then, is a rare treat: Dedue eyes the point of the wooden sword, considers, and says, “Perhaps I will.”

He is always so matter-of-fact about everything he says, sometimes meaning is lost in monotone. Remus can barely believe his ears, and is torn instantly in two directions. The first is a kind of giddy glee: Sir Dedue is going to actually fight him. He’s going to get his chance to prove himself against one of the great heroes of the Unification War.

The second, born when the statue comes to life and Dedue starts reaching for the massive steel axe at his back, is terror. Remus has finally done it: he’s annoyed Dedue to the point where he’s going to teach him a lesson. Perhaps he will even survive to learn it.

That axe is distinctly an unfair advantage. It looks like it weighs as much as Remus does, even the flat of it will easily chop through a tired and battered training sword.

Dedue holds it out between the two of them, then drops it suddenly. Remus is sure he imagines the death knell that rings out when the weapon hits the ice. When he eyes it nervously for a second too long, Dedue follows his gaze, gently saying, “It’s thicker than you think, Your Highness.” He then stomps twice onto the ice in demonstration. When he doesn’t immediately plummet into the lake, Remus is satisfied.

Mostly satisfied, “I didn’t bring another sparring weapon, so unless you’ve got one…” he trails off, shrugs lamely.

“Balance, then: I will face you armored, but unarmed.”

Remus grins, hopes that his nerves don’t show. Maybe if he pretends to bravado, it will come to him, “Careful of that ego, Dedue. I’m better than the last time we sparred.”

There have only been a handful of times that Remus has managed to convince Dedue not to check his strength against the prince, all of them in the past year. They have never ended well for Remus, but at least they ended quickly: towards the end of summer, he was unconscious after one such bout for longer than the session itself.

That time isn’t far from Remus’s mind now - if Dedue remembers it at all, it is invisible on his face. He dips his head, “You are.”

Despite himself, something warm lights up in Remus’s chest. Dedue is one of the worst liars that he’s ever met - so if he says that, then he has noticed improvements. If nothing else, Remus has that tonight. He bows over his weapon in thanks, “Alright. Then shall we get started?”

Dedue returns the gesture, arms wide, “By your leave, Your Highness.”

Both of them come out of their bows, shift into battle stances. Dedue breathes in, taking a step back - Remus gets ready to fling himself to the side in case he lunges, but the fists that come up are defensive. He holds his sword just behind him, one hand before him to grapple with his opponent - it will do no good against this stone wall, but Remus can pretend.

He circles Dedue, trying to plan out the angle of his initial assault. What exactly are the weak points of a shield?

Around, above, and below. That’s an answer, but not necessarily a useful one.

In Remus’s mind’s eye, he can imagine a leaping, flipping version of himself striking between every gap in Dedue’s armor and spinning away before he can retaliate. As long as Dedue doesn’t resist, that will go fine - but if he does literally anything, there might be a problem.

Motion catches Remus’s eye. Slowly, Dedue raises an arm and rotates it in its socket. Something other than armor clicks into place, makes Remus impulsively turn his neck from side to side.

But that motion was interesting, wasn’t it? The pauldrons of Dedue’s armor are massive, like onager rocks tied to either shoulder. Can he even lift his arms over his head with that weight?

That’s a silly question. Of course he can. A better one is, can he do it quickly? That’s less clear. Maybe not.

But that all raises one more question: did he just try to help Remus? Is that a hint?

Dedue has been poked and prodded into - supposedly - facing Remus for real, and he still is confident enough to hold his hand and point out his own weak spots?!

Remus’s vision starts to haze again, and he is charging before he realizes it, swinging wildly. Stupid. Maybe if he were up against an inexperienced and skittish enemy, that might catch them off guard, but this is Dedue. He’s never dropped his guard in his life.

And he doesn’t now. He takes a quick step back, his open palm coming down on the wooden blade as it passes by him, smacking it to the ground.

It completely ruins Remus’s momentum, and he staggers to keep from falling. He regains his footing just in time to scramble back from a gut punch he can feel on the wind.

His shoulder twinges protest. His arm is more sore from just that pass than from all his efforts tonight. Dedue hits like a tidal wave - is he taking this seriously or not?

With another grunt of exertion, Remus swings his weapon back up and across - a brilliant reflection of a move that just now failed. Dedue parries it as absolutely now, too. All he does is backhand the weapon and it completely changes trajectory, pulling Remus’s arm with it.

He regroups, two shaky steps back. Both hands on the hilt, his sword before him, his breaths are ragged already. Dedue’s fists come up just below his face, his weight forward. Calmly, evenly, he says, “Careful with your anger, Your Highness.”

And before he can try to remind the prince how to breathe, Remus lets out a hiss, lunging again. This time, when Dedue moves to block and shatter his assault, he ducks, almost rolls, thrusts up. The blow needs to come from an angle Dedue isn’t defending. A shield’s weakness is its side.

But Dedue is so lightning fast, even in all that armor. In an instant, he is a step to the side of Remus’s sword, and the weapon is in his hand. He pulls, and Remus has to stumble forward on the added force.

The slightest breeze is a thousand tiny frozen pinpricks against the sweat on Remus’s brow. Under his panting breaths, Dedue’s voice is starting to sound like it’s underwater. He has apparently forgotten his irritation with Remus: a reminder of the gap between the two of them would do that. Now, Dedue has decided that this is a lesson, “You lash out at any slight, real or imagined, Your Highness. Fury can be useful on the battlefield, never doubt that.” How can he? “But it cannot be all that you are.”

Some weak voice whimpers that it isn’t mockery. But it sounds like it is! Remus whirls, strikes again. This time, Dedue does not even respect him enough to parry. He only steps back, and the blade hisses harmlessly before him, “It only serves your enemy.”

Of course that’s true. It’s the oldest cliche in the book, and still, still Remus falls short of it every time! Roaring, he raises his weapon high, imagines it splintering into a thousand pieces against Dedue’s chest plate. No - he imagines the chest plate shattering. If Remus had his family’s monstrous strength, if he had the Blaiddyd crest, if he had every gift the Goddess had showered down on his father, he could do something with this anger!

But he doesn’t. So the blade comes down, and Dedue does not even budge when he catches it. Remus can barely hear him when he says, almost sadly, “As you can see.”

Something acidic, or maybe just an animalistic snarl dies on Remus’s lips, replaced by a humiliating yelp as Dedue raises the weapon high, and Remus with it. So he can quickly lift his armored arm over his shoulder - and Remus’s full body weight besides. Liar! Bastard!!!

Perhaps a foot above the ground, his legs dangling, Remus kicks impotently. Dedue studies him, and Remus wishes he would just slam him back down. Put him out of his misery. Treat him like a real opponent.

“Highness…” at the very least, could he spare Remus this condescending worry!? “You’ve torn the seam of your doublet.”

Somehow, that does it. All Remus can see is red, something in his veins roars with a boiling fury. He lashes out, and for a brief moment there’s such a primal, visceral satisfaction at the crack and the surprised grunt when his fist catches Dedue right between the eyes.

Then gravity and wear snap his sword in two, and he tumbles to the ground again, smacking his head hard against the ice. The haze of rage fades and once it is gone and Remus thinks for a moment about what it left in its wake, he sits bolt upright, “Dedue! Are you…?”

“I’m fine, Your Highness,” Dedue says. He pauses, grunts. Remus can’t tell in the moonlight if he’s broken his nose. He hopes not.

The night air is chillier after his crest’s heat, and his head always seems to pound just after it comes over him. Remus draws his knees in to his chest, tries to look past the lake’s surface and into its depths. Even they are too accusatory, and so he shuts his eyes, “I… I’m sorry. I didn’t-”

“Your crest?” Remus looks up at Dedue, nods once, immediately casts his eyes back down. Dedue doesn’t seem angry. He never seems to feel anything. But how can he not be!? Here he is, trapped as the prince’s keeper, subject to callous mockery and scorn. And now, a prideful sucker punch. The most patient of the Saints would be annoyed by now. After all he’s done, Dedue doesn’t deserve this kind of treatment! He ought to- “Your Highness.”

The words are closer than Remus expected, and they startle him out of his mental death spiral. Dedue has kneeled before him, placing them nearly at eye level. His hand comes down on his shoulder, “You are lost in your head again.”

“I…” there is no argument to be made with that, is there? “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Dedue says, gently squeezing Remus’s shoulder, “Your Highness, please remember that we were sparring. I would be a poor partner if I begrudged you a hit.”

“But-”

“No, it was not an honorable hit. But I have found that the battlefield is not always honorable.” Remus can’t help but eye the grey scars that line every inch of Dedue’s face. A part of him wants to ask. But not tonight.

Tonight, he sniffs, tells himself it’s the cold, “But… dealing with me shouldn’t be a battlefield, Dedue.”

“It is not,” he lies, “And I know that the one that lashed out just now was not you, Your Highness. It was-”

“You don’t need to say it,” Remus says flatly. Too sharp; he is the one at fault, no matter what Dedue says, “I’m still sorry.”

“Then I accept your apology, Your Highness,” Dedue says - thank the Goddess, finally at least acknowledging that Remus has done wrong by him. He pats his shoulder, begins to stand - it’s a longer, more creaking thing than kneeling was, “Shall we return to the palace?”

“In a minute,” Remus flops back onto the ice, hissing as his head smacks down harder than he expected. The moon and stars are little bright islands in a black sea when he lays like this: as long as he looks straight ahead, there’s nothing but them, not even in his periphery. He closes his eyes, “I’m just… I’m still not ready to…”

Dedue does not make him admit weakness, which is kinder than he deserves, “Of course, Your Highness.” He shifts, and Remus can just see him standing at attention, his vigilance absurd. The woods are dense around Fhirdiad, but safer than they’ve been in years. Packs of wolves brave enough to go after humans don’t live this far south anymore. And the roads around the capital are supposedly safer than they were even before the war. Still, old soldiers have old habits.

For himself, Remus will be satisfied with simply being a passable soldier. It won’t allow him to leave one last worry unaddressed, “Why did you do that with your arm?”

“Highness?”

“Before. In the fi- our sparring session,” that isn’t specific enough. Remus sits up, rotates his arm at the shoulder in demonstration, “That. I thought…” now, out loud, it sounds moronic, “I thought you were dropping a hint. That you couldn’t raise your arms over your head.”

Dedue looks at him for a few seconds, gives him time to really come to terms with his idiocy, “I assure you I did no such thing.”

“I thought… that maybe you didn’t trust me to figure out a way to fight you on my own,” and now Remus realizes that he sounds paranoid as well as foolish. Dedue’s arm had simply been tired; perhaps because of the massive suit of armor he wore all day, every day, for decades now. Yet Remus keeps talking, “Or that it was a trick, so that-”

“It was neither,” Dedue says, “Respectfully, it is as I told you: some of the insults and tricks you jump at are of your own invention.”

A part of Remus wants to snap that he knows that. It’s something he’s heard over and over again. But if he needs to be taught it one more time, clearly he does not know it. He sighs, lets himself fall back down - gentler this time, “I still have a lot to learn.”

Dedue makes a noise, somewhere between a simple affirmative and encouragement, “And you will.”

Despite himself, Remus smiles. He can almost believe it. Maybe next moon, when he goes to the Officers Academy, he will.

Chapter Text

Willow

When Willow first saw Garreg Mach it utterly failed to live up to her expectations. That first sight was, after all, a sketched likeness her brother had given her for her birthday in one of his letters home. Ashe has always been many things, but an artist has never been one of them. His blocky scribbles told the story of a big ragged block with growths that must be towers hiding behind a too-slanted slope of a hillside.

It hadn’t matched at all with how flowery his descriptions of it got: ‘And then we crested one last hill and it was just there! One moment there was nothing to see but the treetops above us, shading the road. Then suddenly they opened - like a curtain before an opera - and on the horizon there was a castle in the sky. Willow, I’m not ashamed to say that the first sight of it took my breath away. It looked-’ and there he’d crossed out a false start or two, each inadequate to how it had appeared, ‘It looked like the Goddess Herself had made it. Like mortal hands never touched the stonework, like no one had built Garreg Mach, they’d carved it out of the mountains. There’s this mist that hangs over it from a distance in the morning, and when it settles over the castle you just know that this place is eternal. That you’re stepping into a world where time stands still and legends can be born.’

He’d gone on at length; Ashe had probably labored over the letter for so long trying to get the wording just right, but never seemed satisfied that he’d said enough. If Willow had felt generous then, she could have used her brother’s words to fill in the gaps his artistic folly had left and understood the picture for the wondrous, otherworldly castle that he’d meant to depict.

But at ten years old, Willow had decidedly not felt generous. Garreg Mach had stolen her big brother - made him miss her birthday! And come to find out that it was just a big dumb cube in some big dumb foggy mountains? In her letter back, Willow had reminded him that Castle Gaspard had misty mornings too, and Castle Gaspard was a big impressive castle - and oh yes, Castle Gaspard actually had his family there, so next to that Garreg Mach it didn’t look so impressive.

In his (suitably admonished) reply, Ashe had admitted that he couldn’t do the Academy justice and that one day Willow would just have to see it for herself. Then she’d understand.

If he’d insisted on the majesty of Garreg Mach Monastery, Willow probably would’ve dismissed it out of hand. But he told her to see it with her own eyes. That always was - still is - her best policy anyway. So she held onto his advice, clutched it to her chest as the world split apart around her. Ashe has always been good at rallying people like that: even when Willow can’t see it for herself at first, there always seems to be something he can point to just over the horizon and say, ‘hey, if we can make it through this tough time, we can get there.’ There were so many nights during the Unification War that Willow gripped her brother’s atrocious little drawing until the edges crinkled and frayed and told herself they had to make it through because she needed to see it for real.

And she did: years after the war, after the archbishop deemed Garreg Mach fit to reopen its doors. After Ashe had already handed his titles off to their middle brother Rowan and left Fódlan. After Willow had already notched a year at the School of Sorcery to her belt. After she was eighteen and sure she was too old and knew too much to have her breath taken away by fairy tale castles in the clouds.

And then she’d crested one last hill and the canopy of the treetops had given way to open sky and it was just there. Like it had always been, like it always would be.

In the west, with its myriad roads snaking into Old Faerghus, Garreg Mach Monastery has a sheer curtain walling it - a white cliffside made unnatural by how smooth it is. When the castle first comes into view it’s far enough away that the lower half of those walls is still hidden by green capped mountains. Yet still they loom impossibly high - guard duty atop them must feel like looking over all the world. Some spires still peek over the wall, as if deliberately piquing curiosity for what lies beyond.

The mystery (if not the majesty) is diminished by the eastern view of the castle: there, where the roads are steeper and more treacherous and sturdy walls line every mile leading to Garreg Mach, there is less need for one on the monastery itself. And so Garreg Mach is a church writ large. Twin belfries soar to either side of a chapel for giants, their light blue spires blending into the sky - surely the highest points in all of Fódlan. White stone stands stark against the skyline - at sunset, the monastery is bathed in gold. An air of the ancient hangs over everything - but not because Garreg Mach is old, not because it is crumbling— because it is not. Secluded in the wilderness, far from anywhere else in the realm, there sits a castle: you’d think it would be a ruin. Instead it is pristine. Instead, it is a miracle.

Willow was lucky enough that it was sunset when she saw it for the first time with her own eyes. Yes, that meant continuing on well into the night, but she got to see the moment that the sun shone on Garreg Mach and every pale stone was bathed in light; golden and glorious.

Yes, when she saw it, Willow’s breath had caught in her throat. Yes, she’d teared up like it were the end of a long journey and not its very first step. Yes, she’d written Ashe that very evening to tell him he was right all along and to send him her own depiction of the castle. It wasn’t much better than his - worse if anything - and the only improvement her letter could make on his feeble efforts to do Garreg Mach Monastery justice was in its penmanship.

It was the perfect beginning to her time at the Officers’ Academy. Her love of magic had already had its chance to blossom in Fhirdiad, but it was only when Professor Annette pulled her aside and asked if she would help tutor some of her problem students that Willow realized she actually had any talent for it. At Garreg Mach, she flew for the first time, and high above the clouds, watching even the monastery shrink to nothing, realized with heart-stopping finality and frantically kicking legs that she never wanted a pegasus’s reins in her hands again. She met folk from across Fódlan, what felt like a dizzying array of perspectives she’d never have believed possible - and her class was supposed to have been one of the smallest in years!

Her brother’s take had always been that Garreg Mach’s seclusion meant that it felt like it was its own isolated place separate from the rest of Fódlan: like it was a peaceful sanctuary from a wild world. Willow had tried to see the academy from that vantage point, but as her time there went on, struggled more and more to do so.

Sometimes she had slipped through the castle between classes, exploring its hundreds of thousands of nooks and crannies, trying to uncover every secret it hid. Occasionally her exploration led her to the top of a tower she hadn’t known she was ascending, or outside the monastery walls and into the castle town at Garreg Mach’s feet. In those rarest of times, she would look back on the monastery and never be more certain that this was where all the colors and flavors and peoples of the world flowed and blended together, that this wondrous place was what they all became.

So thought a romantic little girl who had not traveled further west than Arianrhod and no further east than Garreg Mach itself.

Willow is less little now - perhaps still just as romantic, but certainly more practical about it. She isn’t sure now what she’d say to the starry eyed little girl, so certain that she had found the center of the world. She’s seen some of the world now: the idea that there might be a center seems less and less likely with each new horizon.

But she has to admit, when she crests that last hill and Garreg Mach is there once more, her heart still flutters just a little with the old magic.

Today, wisps of grey-white dust midday’s brilliant blue behind the monastery: it’s more a reproduction of Ashe’s the first view than Willow’s. Lady Byleth knows how to plan a march; she’ll not have them still on the road late into the night.

They’ve been moving at what feels like a decent clip to Willow since Fhirdiad. Maybe that’s down to the archbishop’s mercenary days - or her stint as commander of the Royal Army, or some combination of the two. Experience leading a far larger host must translate to seeing along her party now. They might not even be a hundred strong: there’s only Lady Byleth, a few other Church officials and members of the Officers Academy’s faculty, and their assortment of aides and knights retainer. When Willow resolved to attach herself to the archbishop’s retinue after Prince Remus’s party, she’d envisioned a train half a mile long - an army of gold and white. Maybe Lady Byleth only took who she needed for propriety’s sake to make the journey easier.

Or maybe it’s been so easy and so quick because Fhirdiad to Garreg Mach’s a familiar road to Lady Byleth: the love between her and the royal family is already the stuff of operas. Willow can picture on any given day that the archbishop, drowning in parchments from across the realm and frazzled by the burdens of her station, might look out her window and decide to ride for Fhirdiad on her own, with or without accompaniment. She must know every shortcut, every way that she can speed even the largest host to her destination.

Or maybe the Goddess knows that Willow is squirming with nerves in the back of her carriage, and to punish her for some sin she never atoned for from her wasted youth has granted the horses Her swiftness.

It isn’t really that Willow’s hoping for a delay. When they set out, she had meant to find the archbishop’s carriage and ride with her at least of part of the way. Then they could’ve gotten their conversation - or at least, the parts that Willow’s been dreading for the better part of a moon now - out of the way.

That was, of course, a vain effort. Willow should’ve known from the start that Lady Byleth wasn’t going to be in a carriage; she’s never been one to lead from the back. If Willow squints, she can see her in the road ahead: even ahorse, she is a little more than a black fleck at the spearhead of their column. Sometimes, the archbishop slows enough to mingle among her followers - just long enough to check to make sure everyone is alright. Right now, she seems to be pulling ahead of them, heedless of how they trail behind.

Willow doesn’t know how she does it. The second day of their journey she tried to ride alongside the archbishop so they could finally speak. Now, she isn’t sure what fantasy she’d been living in where she thought she’d be able to catch up to her. Willow isn’t the worst rider in the world, but if she ever wants to keep Lady Byleth’s breakneck pace, she’ll need an endurance she simply doesn’t have. Even if the archbishop weren’t determined to make their trip a race, Willow wouldn’t be able to handle the discomfort of being in the saddle for so long. Just her recent trip to Arianrhod left her with enough riding sores to last a lifetime.

So before even noon of that second day, already out of breath from her effort and her legs screaming, Willow had to give up on any attempt to speak to Lady Byleth before they got to the monastery. Her consolation prize for slowing down was Yuri, who  kept a more leisurely pace and at least made for pleasant conversation and better sightseeing, if not quite enough to distract from her aches. They only had the one dance to catch up back in Fhirdiad. From all the signs he’s already forgotten about that, or he’s playing like he does so well that it makes no difference.

There was a time where that would’ve broken her heart just a bit. When Willow was a little girl, she’d been just as in awe of Count Rowe’s adoptive son as all of the young ladies of the court. To her, he hadn’t looked so much like a commoner uplifted into the nobility - she could never have imagined Yuri with sweat on his brow from a hard day’s work, or clothes dirty and damp from a night spent in an alley. No, surely he hadn’t been raised up: surely he’d descended, a perfect and beautiful angel, from his place among the stars? It felt like there’d been countless nights visiting House Rowe in Arianrhod where Willow had hung on his every word, where she would’ve given a finger just for him to look at her and smile, where she’d been sullen for days afterward when he did not. As for words that had passed between them, of those there’d been far fewer - other than the courtly necessities, Willow had never worked up that kind of courage.

When Yuri quietly vanished from the Rowe courts, so many of his admirers had pretended like he’d never existed. Not Willow. Now and again, she still would find herself staring at the ceiling thinking about him - wondering what he was doing, what his life was like, if he ever thought of her. The Rowes had done their best to bury what had become of their wayward adoptee, but even Willow knew that there was some sort of scandal for which Yuri was no longer welcome. Even without knowing the first thing about what had caused his fall from grace didn’t stop a young Willow from being certain he’d been framed by some sinister cabal. More than once she’d gazed out her window in Castle Gaspard, picturing Yuri in golden armor atop a pale white charger. With gleaming sword in hand, he’d come back to Arianrhod to reclaim his birthright - and as long as she was daydreaming, what was wrong with casting herself as the damsel he’d rescue over the course of his triumphant return?

Her (embarrassing in hindsight) fantasies came fewer and further between, but they still came - until Ashe went to Garreg Mach and told her he’d found Yuri in, of all places, the spiraling catacombs beneath the academy. Did it shatter her image of gallant Yuri Rowe, unjustly maligned noble scion and Willow Ubert’s true knight? Not completely - but by then Unification was coming and there were other things to worry about. So too when she went to the Officers Academy herself: the wonder and adventure of seeing him again was ever so slightly drowned in that of Garreg Mach itself.

Still. Even in her academy days, Willow might’ve been crushed to learn that Yuri couldn’t remember a dance with her. Now she has other concerns, and has known far worse scorn besides - but something about his still stings just a little. Yuri has changed in a way she can’t explain: he still dresses in silks as impeccable as they are flamboyant, still keeps his hair long and flowing and his face clean shaven and rosy cheeked. But there’s a sharpness to him, a ruggedness that wasn’t there in their youth that Willow can’t help but like. She’s brave enough to actually talk with him now, which is itself a pleasant change: he is blunter than she remembers, but charming despite it. He smiles easily - almost savagely, and the dimples when he does are the closest that any wrinkles come to marring his face.

He is, in short, still very much someone Willow could fall for, but now she likes to think she is more careful about matters of the heart.

From Yuri, Willow has learned that the Officers Academy’s faculty has a yearly get-together at a tavern in town planned for when they get back. It’s half a night on the town and half a planning session for the school year. Maybe less than half on the second part: Yuri calls it ‘one last night to heckle all the latest noble brats from afar before we have to do it up close.’ It sounds like fun, but Willow is worried about going out with the faculty without being absolutely sure she actually is one of their number. Hers isn’t the final say on that front, after all. And of course that brings her back to Lady Byleth and if she’s going to worry about their meeting anyway, she’s resolved that she might as well do it from comfort.

Over the years, Willow's learned you can never be too openly grateful to Rowan, else he’ll know you owe him one - but she leapt at the chance to ride with his family to Fhirdiad. She at least managed to resist temptation when he suggested she borrow a carriage to bring her to Garreg Mach, but even that was a near thing. Almost certainly she’d have succumbed if Linhardt hadn’t been there to offer she share his and Caspar’s. And Rowan can hardly complain: it is true that it’s been too long since Willow’s seen the two of them.

Not since Dagda - five years ago now. Even if she knew little of them besides that they were friends of Ashe before her path happened to cross theirs, there are some things that inextricably link people no matter how distantly they’d known each other before. It so happens that one of them is the moons long comedy of errors by which the three of them went from impromptu traveling companions to fugitives from justice with a Dagdan prince calling for their heads to the honored guests of Emperor Kourosh VIII himself. For Willow, it had easily been the most harrowing experience of her travels and the closest she’d come to death since the Unification War - and back then she’d never had a blade to her throat. For Caspar and Linhardt, it had all been just another little adventure in a long journey that had been packed to bursting with them. They were as fazed by the bar brawls at the start of their journey as they were by the attempted palace coups at the end of it: which was of course to say not at all. The blasé way they’d handled everything that had come their way (Caspar bullheaded and optimistic, Linhardt practical if mildly irritated) had come close to keeping her sane through the whole ordeal. She’d almost come with them on a ship to Albinea when they’d decided they’d stayed in one place for long enough - the only thing that had stopped her was the absolute certainty that wherever they landed, they’d either find another tornado or set it off themselves. Once was enough for her.

So Willow had let the wind take Caspar and Linhardt, and said a little prayer asking for the same providence that had crossed their paths before to one day do it again. Now, the Goddess answers that prayer, and She is even kind enough to do it in more peaceful circumstances. Five years is a long time: so much has happened in the interim that Willow wants to tell those two.

And as an added treat, a sympathetic ear for all her woes - but not too sympathetic. Willow’s been able to vent from Fhirdiad to Garreg Mach essentially to the wind:  they’ve spent some time catching up, but when Linhardt’s been awake, he’s generally been more focused on his book than her - a new edition of the omnibus of the Greater Crestilogical Mysteries. That’s fine, that sort of reserve is normal for him - if anything, Willow might be worried if Linhardt was so changed by their time apart that he was over-flowingly affectionate with her. The tome is so thick that its crisp vellum pages look wrong somehow: it should be ancient, crumbling. Linhardt looks almost like a child with it splayed across his lap, hunched over to squint at the wisps of penmanship as they trundle along. A part of Willow knows that for courtesy’s sake she should ask about the book (any new mysteries since the last time Professor Hanneman compiled them?). Another knows not to: if she did, Linhardt would tell her, and then she’d be the one napping. What a waste that would be; Willow’s watched plenty of scenery roll by in her days, but she’ll never get tired of it.

Maybe it’s nostalgia, but there’s really nothing like the Oghma Mountains. Whenever mountains get this big, they’re always dusty, lifeless things or else too frozen and inhospitable to ever truly appreciate. That’s not to say that Willow doesn’t appreciate the red gold sheer walls of Fódlan’s Throat or the dense black woods giving way to ice and snowy peaks in southern Duscur Territory. She’s come to treasure her moments in those spaces, so far away from the rest of the world that they might as well be on another one entirely, nearly as much as she does the halls of learning that first called to her across the seas in the first place.

But here the air is thick with mist, and moss and lichen splay across marble stone like someone painted them there. There’s magic in each rolling hill; Willow can almost feel the spot where white pavement gives way to hallowed ground. There’s no change in the road itself, just a tingle in her spine and a certainty that’s surely at odds with the butterflies in her stomach. It takes a moment to get used to, but then once Willow’s done it, it’s like coming home.

It’s been peaceful with Linhardt as her sole companion for so much of the journey (Caspar apparently won a racing horse in Fhirdiad, Goddess only knows how, and has not parted from it since the trip began). Willow can almost imagine herself her carriage’s sole occupant - and a part of her, the part of her that is still Lady Willow, can’t help but be pleased by the luxury of it all. Linhardt clearly oversaw the production of this carriage: where there might otherwise be at best plush seating, his vision is wider and more spacious - you wouldn’t know it from the outside, but of course Linhardt insists that his carriage have bedding instead of seating. Books are stuffed into shelves above the seats so tightly that they wouldn’t move even if it weren’t for the jade and gold lined casing that locks the shelves in place. The brass handles underneath the seats suggest even more amenities, though Linhardt hasn’t taken part in them on this trip and Willow has yet to ask. Maybe if they were going to be on the road a little longer she’d indulge.

Something about that prickles at the back of Willow’s neck. Even knowing in her head that it’s nerves, she still swats at it.

There’s nothing inherently wrong with liking the finer things. Of course she does: she is a noble lady of House Gaspard. But she wasn’t always, even if she sometimes has trouble remembering the streets as something that actually happened to her and not a story her brothers tell. And besides: there’s a trap to luxury. A sweet trap, but one that will get you stuck all the same. Linhardt needs someone to get him up and moving - needs a Caspar in his life - or he’d lay in this carriage for the rest of his days. But that means he can afford to give in to indolence in a way that Willow can’t: if she lets herself stop, who will make her start again? Rowan? Sure, but only on his terms. No, managing her appetites is a job that falls to Willow alone. There are enough noble ladies in the world content to be pampered and pretty and not much else.

That, and she can never tell who might be watching. What if the carriage was a test? What if Willow’s already failed somehow in Lady Byleth’s eyes? They’ll get to Garreg Mach, and the archbishop will finally come into the carriage before Willow has a chance to leave it, shoo Linhardt out, and seat herself across from her. There’ll be a long pause and finally she’ll sigh heavily and explain, “There is a great deal expected of students at the Officers Academy, and they need to see that they aren’t the only ones putting in effort. They aren’t going to see that in petty luxuries and people taking the easy way out.” Then she’ll pat Willow’s knee and dismiss her from service before it even gets started.

The carriage jostles as a wheel hits a cobble out of place and Linhardt lets out an ursine snore as if in protest. Or maybe it’s to mock Willow for the foolishness of her manic worries. Willow slaps the sides of her face, shakes her head. She’s being ridiculous. She’s looking for ways that this isn’t going to work, that it isn’t real. All she has to do to prove herself wrong is look back out the window: there Garreg Mach is, growing ever-closer. It’s just barely past noon, but hasn’t the castle already taken some of that golden glow she remembers so well?

Willow’s come back after all these years. Once upon a time, the idea that she should see the monastery at all - let alone study there - was a distant dream. She never imagined that one day she would go to Garreg Mach to be a professor at the Officers Academy.

~

For all of Lady Byleth’s haste, the sun is nearly set by the time they arrive behind dreary blue-black clouds.  The wind whips when Willow leaves the confines of the carriage with a crack that warns that the Ethereal Moon might have another snow left in it.

All the more reason to get her things in in a hurry. Willow takes a deep breath and immediately regrets it: there is very little nostalgic about the smell of the monastery’s stable grounds, but a lot that’s familiar. The stable bustles with activity: some of the grooms lead off horses three at a time, even as servants seem to leap over one another to whisk away luggage and escort honored guests eager to get to their quarters after the long ride. Someone absolutely ought to crash into someone else, but there’s a controlled chaos to it all. Linhardt stretches and unceremoniously drops down from the carriage without so much as a ‘by-your-leave.’ He flags down a groom and mumbles something about unhitching the horses around a yawn. Willow attempts to slip into the luggage compartment of her carriage without anyone noticing. She’s traveled enough these last few years to get used to it: she knows how to pack dense, but light.

Willow only has the two baggage chests. There’s the large, dark one with its intricate once-silver enamel carvings of twisting and creeping vines splayed over it. Its edges have been rounded out and its silver mostly dulled to grey; equal parts worn by time and love. But it serves its purpose and even when it stops doing so Willow will hesitate to part from it. It was a gift from Ashe for her eighteenth birthday and a not-so-subtle hint that she should visit - a hint that Willow was more than happy to pick up on. The other is smaller and always lighter - with its mirrored sides and dainty golden gilding, it should be fragile. Willow can only read Morfisian haltingly and the faintly glowing blue runes all throughout the chest’s interior were inscribed there by a hand unconcerned with being legible. According to the merchant who sold it to her, the magical symbols instruct the chest as to how much bigger it is than it appears on the outside, and that it will weigh as much as it does empty as when it’s stuffed full. To pay for the little treasure, Willow had had to give up her apartment and sleep on the streets for the last two nights of her stay in Morfis City; it has repaid that debt to her dozens of times over. The two trunks are enough for all of Willow’s belongings and she can handle them herself. No need to put a servant out; they look harried enough.

She hooks her arms under the larger chest, the smaller one tipping a little this way and that balanced atop it until she finds proper balance. The only trouble with its magically ordained weight is that it never knows that it’s supposed to be heavy enough to be planted in place. Once Willow’s satisfied it’s secure, she starts off at once - barely making it eight steps before she realizes that she has no idea where she’s going. A part of her was so sure she’d be heading to her old room in the corner by the foot of the stairs to the indoor dorms—but of course that isn’t true: some lucky student gets to see the sun sparkling on the monastery lake and to snag an apple from the greenhouse before class (and to retch for a week straight when the corpse flower blooms). Willow is… well she’s somewhere else now. Where, exactly, who can say?

For want of hands, she attempts to nudge a boy of about fifteen as he leads of a pair of dappled white garrons. Her, “Excuse me…?” is so much more meek than she’d intended; it really is as if she’s a dazed, somewhat lost teenager again.

The boy’s scowl is just barely on the right side of impertinent, “Someone will be with you shortly, milady.”

“No wait, that isn’t-” but he’s already gone.

All well and good: Willow gets better assistance anyway in the form of thundering hoofbeats. Lady Byleth pulls on the reins, and her pitch black courser trots to a stop with a few token snorts at the indignity. She dismounts almost with the same motion, putting her hands on her hips and stretching with a groan that almost makes Willow laugh. She distinctly does not look like the Archbishop of the Church of Seiros right now, no matter what the flowered tiara on her head suggests. Her riding leathers and the jagged sword at her belt both scream ‘mercenary’ (or maybe, though Willow would never say it aloud, they whisper ‘bandit queen’). She has this way of casually reminding everyone around her that, yes, she is indeed human. There’s a disarming approachability to her that seemingly extends to everyone - as if she doesn’t even realize the import of her position.

But then she looks at you with those knowing, impossibly bright green eyes, and at once she’s the archbishop again. Willow stands taller, almost at attention in her gaze as she approaches and says, “Willow. How’re you holding up?”

A part of Willow wishes she’d said ‘Professor Ubert,’ but Lady Byleth has always been a little familiar with her. Maybe she has Ashe to thank for that. Maybe Lady Byleth really is just like this with everyone, but that feels impossible.

Willow sets her load down and curtsies, wondering a half second too late if it was deep enough, or if she should have physically lifted the hem of her blue and white gown rather than miming the action. She’s gotten too used to skirting formalities in her brothers’ courts, where a wagging finger is the worst reprimand she’s likely to get. But Lady Byleth doesn’t even do that, so Willow doesn’t apologize, “Well enough, Your Holiness. Glad to be back!” That’s only half a lie. It hasn’t fully sunk in that she is back. It probably won’t until she can get settled in.

Lady Byleth puts a fist on her hip, her eyes assessing, “Now is that a ‘well enough and I’m eager to get down to business,’ or a ‘well enough, but I need to sleep for a day or two?’”

Oh wow. They’re moving right into work, then. Willow clasps her hands before her to keep from fidgeting, “Your Holiness, I… uh…” she spares a glance at her two trunks, giving the larger one a light kick for emphasis, “I still need to get settled in, but after…?”

“After!” Lady Byleth agrees, crossing to Willow’s pile, “Can I give you a hand with your luggage?”

A part of Willow can’t help but admire that she didn’t offer someone else’s help rather than her own. Another has always struggled to just let her whoever she was staying with play host, “Oh, that won’t be necessary, Your Holi-”

“And you can drop the ‘Your Holiness,’” Lady Byleth winks, “I suppose you’re technically a Church employee now, but it’s not really the capacity we’re going to be working together in. So just ‘Byleth’ will do.”

Willow blinks. It is a command from the archbishop; she has to at least try. The name doesn’t even get off of her lips before she’s shaking her head, “I… think I might be physically incapable of that Your Holi-” but she catches herself, laughing nervously, “Can we split the difference, Lady Byleth?” Lady Byleth chuckles to herself and graciously assents, “But like I was saying, I don’t really need help - there’s not a lot here.” She picks up the Morfisian chest for emphasis, giving it a toss in the air to show how light it is, “Really I just need to know where I’m going.”

Lady Byleth blinks, “Was that not in the letter…?” She sounds so genuinely confused that for a moment Willow isn’t sure. But no, she’s positive that what she’s received so far from the Officers Academy has been a letter accepting her application for her position, another welcoming her to the faculty and informing her when she needed to get to Garreg Mach, and then a third announcing which of the four houses she would be placed in charge of at the beginning of the school year. So she shakes her head, and Lady Byleth smacks the heel of her hand into the side of hers, “No, we didn’t tell you, did we. Alright. Some things have moved around a bit from when you were here: do you remember where Professor Manuela-” Lady Byleth shakes her head, pinches the bridge of her nose in thought, and snaps when she conjures the right name, “Where Professor Annette’s office used to be?”

“I do,” one too many times turning up somewhere in the monastery that she wasn’t meant to be had seen Willow there often enough. A slightly brighter head than your average troublemaker had meant that instead of copying lines, she’d been put to work grading her classmates’ tests - a punishment that could be almost as sating as the crime, “They- you-” Willow finally finds the right name, “We finally moved the infirmary out of there?”

“Back in… I’m going to say ’97,” Lady Byleth says with a smile, “Can’t always rely on the idea that one of the house professors and the castle physician are going to be the same person. I can give you-” she shakes her head, waves Willow off, “I’m getting ahead of myself. Please, get settled in. I should be in my office by then. You’re sure you couldn’t use a hand?”

Willow insists that she’s fine, and Lady Byleth gives her what she hopes is an approving nod before looking over her shoulder and calling out to Cardinal Seteth. There’s a split second where Willow thinks she’s going to hand off her horse’s reins to him, but he falls into step beside her, speaking furtively and lowly as they head off towards the stables. He looks back over his shoulder only the once, and though Willow’s heart seizes at how sharp his gaze still is, their eyes never truly meet, and she rests assured that she’s not the subject of his scrutiny.

She gathers her things and makes her way from the stable grounds. If memory serves, the easiest way up to the Academy’s second floor would be to hug its outer wall, making a hard left only when she runs out of castle and gets an open view of the canyon and the rushing river miles below them. At first, that’s even the route Willow’s taking, but there’s something strangely familiar about every step: it’s nearly been twenty years since she was a student, but she could’ve just as easily walked this path yesterday. So why not take a slight detour?

There’s the faintest tingle in her neck as Willow hums to herself, brushing through the narrow pathway between weathered stone walls and meticulously trimmed hedge ones. The way is narrow: unless you’re looking for it you’ll almost certainly miss it. But for that very reason, it’s the perfect spot to duck into when, say, you hear guards patrolling in the middle of your nighttime wanderings. Or maybe it’s more a place to meet away from prying eyes for a nighttime rendezvous. Or just a quick and easy shortcut from the stables to the student courtyard; Willow’s barely finished a verse of her humming and she’s there.

There’s less ivy strewn over the walls than she remembers, but it’s also still winter: perhaps that will change. The fields outside the old classrooms are a little piece of spring already sewn onto the landscape. Little buds of white and marigold are already starting to sprout in grass lush enough that a part of Willow wants to flop down into it and watch the last of the day go by. Hedge fences are unseasonably dense and green, though there are no flowers strewn throughout them yet. Velvet banners used to hang over each of the three wide common rooms that once served as the Officers Academy’s primary classrooms: now they line the wall across from them. They get better light this way, but more likely they were moved to account for the Academy’s official expansion to four houses. Willow passes by the shrieking red phoenix, the howling grey wolf, and the proud and dignified yellow deer with due reverence, but the only one she tips her head to is the roaring blue lion. It’s not quite the salute warranted, but it will understand that her hands are full.

The common area is wide and long enough, but still somehow smaller than she remembers it being. How can that be true? Maybe it will look bigger, somehow, once the space is filled with chattering students. Or maybe this is a lesson for her: however large it looms in her memories, Garreg Mach is a space like any other, and she can fill it as easily as anyone else.

And all at once her heart is racing again at the thought. Willow lets out a short breath, half a laugh at her own expense; one nostalgic whim, and her nerves are fraying again. She puts the garden behind her at too brisk a clip: she nearly bowls into a pair of Knights of Seiros in crisp, blue-tinted ivory armor. The younger of them, maybe a squire, holds the door to the faculty building for her, which is kind - but then he calls her ‘ma’am,’ which feels less so with each passing day.

Soon, she arrives at Professor Annette’s old office. It still has the cots from the room’s time as an infirmary - maybe her predecessor was sleeping here. Or have they just not been cleared out, even now? The desk is new: black stonework interspersed with rosewood, neither carved or gilded but polished to a shine. Willow isn’t sure that she likes it: it looks a little too martial for her tastes - something about those clawed feet and jagged edges. And shouldn’t it be against the far wall, not shoved into the corner?

There’s a moment that she just stands in the middle of the room holding her things, stupidly wondering where it’s alright to set them down. It comes to her all at once that anywhere is alright, this is her space. Willow chooses the ugly desk, puts her hands on her hips in triumph. She surveys here new domain and says aloud to keep herself honest, “I’m not unpacking now. Just getting a change of clothes.”

She then proceeds to empty out both trunks onto the floor, and spends a good twenty minutes finding temporary homes for all of her odds and ends before she realizes what she’s done.

Among other things, she’s kept the archbishop waiting. Willow scrambles into a simple blue cotton dress chosen almost at random from the pile. The white flowers that dance up and down the sleeves and around the upper hem disguise that it’s basically a sleeping shift. Willow disguises that further, tying the dress around her hips with a leather strap as she power-walks down the hallway to the archbishop’s throne room. Belatedly, she remembers that meeting with the archbishop is, in fact, an occasion and that she ought to have dressed up more for it. Willow should have applied some rouge, or put on a necklace, or at least looked in a mirror to make sure she was presentable before heading over. She hopes Lady Byleth does not notice.

The archbishop’s throne is flanked by a stained glass depiction of the Goddess’s ascent to the Blue Sea Star (a bundle of white roses standing in to symbolize the Goddess Herself). It is a little dull now as dusk fades, almost a random assortment of colors towards the back of the room. In the daylight, though, it casts the throne in an appropriately heavenly glow. You can truly believe that whoever sits that throne speaks with the Goddess’s voice - though Willow has never actually seen the archbishop do so.

Today is no exception. The doors to the antechamber are closed behind her, and Willow cautiously steps further into the empty room, as if a wrong step will wake and infuriate Lady Byleth.

Willow nearly jumps out of her skin as the door to the chamber’s adjoining office creaks open, and she crosses her eyes in frustration at how jumpy she is. She is a grown woman, and she needs to convince her new employer of that. How’s she to do that if she keeps forgetting it herself!?

Cardinal Seteth steps out, arching an eyebrow to see himself not alone. He gives Willow a tired smile, “Ah. Lady Gaspard, hello.” Clasping his hands behind his back, he gives her a look that she can’t help but squirm under. Ever since her academy days, the cardinal has had this way of making her think of all of the ways she could possibly be coming up short.

Actually, come to think of it, maybe he learned that look in the same place Rowan did. And once Willow thinks of it that way, maybe Cardinal Seteth isn’t so intimidating after all. She returns his smile, sketching a quick curtsey, “Good evening, Cardinal.”

“Seteth, I insist,” he chuckles without mirth as Willow chews her tongue trying to think of a good workaround for that, “I shall never grow used to my title becoming such public knowledge. Old men and our habits.” He snaps his fingers as if he’s just thought of something, though there’s no hint of discovery in his voice as he adds, “Come to think of it, I ought to be calling you Professor Gaspard, oughtn’t I?”

“Well, if you’re Seteth, I can just be Willow,” she says, even if her prospective title rings so charmingly in her ears, and even if such familiarity with the archbishop’s right hand feels just a little too unorthodox. It threads the old needle that technically, she is in fact Willow Ubert unless Rowan’s the one you ask. Correcting the archbishop’s right hand on that point would be the kind of self-satisfied posturing Willow can’t stand about so many of her station.

For a man of his age, when Seteth smiles a genuine, warm smile, there aren’t nearly so many wrinkles around his eyes as Willow would expect. There’s a part of her that’s almost envious, “Let us call that a deal - and with that, I must go about my business, and leave you to yours. Her Holiness has been expecting you.” There’s nothing sharp in the statement, just fact. As he passes her, there’s a surprisingly teasing note in his voice, “No doubt you’re eager to finally see her office as well.”

For a second, Willow doesn’t understand what he means - and then when she does, her face heats.

Once upon a time, Professor Annette had stood before her class and gravely informed them that one of their number had broken into the archbishop’s office in the middle of the night. Though she’d asked the culprit to come forward, no one ever did. However, the anonymous offender had been so ridden with guilt that she’d actually gone to confession that week. When the stern voice on the other side of the curtain had asked why she’d done it, all she’d been able to say for herself was the truth: she’d only been curious to see the inside, as she was curious to see all of Garreg Mach. Her confessor had surprised her with a fatherly laugh, and tasked her with the penance of sweeping the upper dorm rooms - and to knock before she entered any of them.

It was a good lesson - even if for that one confessed trespass, there’d been dozens Willow has still never been found out for. She gives Seteth an embarrassed smile, “I’ve learned a little patience since the Academy.”

She hopes that she doesn’t need to more explicitly admit to anything than that. Willow will if she has to, but wouldn’t it be better for her so-called learned patience to carry the assurance that she isn’t quite that little girl anymore? That the cardinal can trust her with the children of Fódlan’s elite?

By Seteth’s nod, it does, “Then I look forward to working with you, Professor.”

And so he goes. Willow remembers to knock before she lets herself in to Lady Byleth’s office.

A part of her expects the archbishop to have changed into her full regalia in the interim since she’s seen her last. She hasn’t, though she’s picked up a flowered silver diadem somewhere along the way; it’s incongruously delicate. Her brow furrows slightly as she scribbles away with quill and ink. She hasn’t bothered to light any of the candles even in the creeping gloom: a swirling fireball bobs about her head and casts flickering shadows this way and that. One falls across her face, and then vanishes as she looks up, grins, “Ah, Willow! Have a seat, we’ll get started.”

Willow sketches another quick curtsy, mumbling her assent. There are two overstuffed armchairs before the archbishop’s desk. She picks one, practically sinks into it, crossing her legs at the heels. She’s careful to sit up straight, fold her hands in her lap. She needs to convince the archbishop that she’s a proper lady, someone sensible enough to listen to. Willow’s done that before, she can do it again. Nonetheless, one foot taps nervously at the air the second she takes her mind off her posture.

She should be relieved to see what a mess Lady Byleth’s desk is: piles of scrolls sit to either side of her chair like twin mountains. Not one but three brass candleholders show off the withered remains of melted wax. So Willow shouldn’t be nervous: the archbishop is a person. She can be reasoned with.

Lady Byleth sees Willow checking out the state of her workspace and smiles sardonically, “Excuse the mess. You know how it is.”

“Oh, I’m sure mine’s going to be just as bad once I get settled in,” Willow says, more because she knows herself than any reassurance. The archbishop chuckles, leaning back in her chair, and Willow inches hers forward toward the desk, “Lady Byleth, you said before that you wanted to meet with me?”

“And I do!” she rises abruptly, taking her magical light with her. To keep from being left in the dark, Willow has to follow as she briskly moves towards a bureau at the back of the room that houses a plain porcelain tea set adjacent to a low table with chairs. Over her shoulder, Lady Byleth calls, “You’re still a mint girl?”

“I- yes,” the archbishop is so oddly familiar (how does she even remember that?), it’s taken all of the wind out of Willow’s sails. Absently, she conjures her own light, hanging it above her head like she does for reading. Lady Byleth hums lightly to herself as she prepares tea, and Willow is abruptly compelled to prompt, “I assumed we’d be talking about the coming school year?”

“And we will be,” Lady Byleth says, snapping her fingers to coax her teapot to begin boiling. She turns on a heel, crossing her arms before her, “Have you had time to go over the roster?”

Plenty. Too much, in fact. Willow wets her lip, “I… have, Your Holiness.”

She tsks, “We talked about titles, Willow,” yes, but that was before they started moving towards the hard part of this conversation - right off the bat, no less! Lady Byleth cocks her head to the side expectantly, “What did you think?”

Willow looks at the ceiling, which is too far off to offer any help even if it wanted to, “I…”

“I get the sense you want to be blunt,” Lady Byleth chuckles, “Please, feel free.”

Well… she asked for it, “Respectfully, Your Holi— Lady Byleth, I think you made some sort of mistake.” Willow dares to look at the archbishop’s face, and thank the Goddess it hasn’t contorted in fury, but that beatific, understanding smile is somehow just as bad. It’s as if she hasn’t understood a word Willow said, so she goes on, “I- Prince Remus alone ought to be placed in the care of a professor with a little more experience!” And now that that’s out of her mouth, the stopgap is pulled and the rest spills out of her, “But you have - this roster has - me in charge of the other heirs to…!!!” she ticks off countries on her fingers, “Brigid. Sreng. Dagda!? My Lady, the situation in Dagda is-!!!”

“Incredibly precarious, I know,” Lady Byleth says gravely, and that should be relieving. If she remembers that, at least she’s not completely disconnected from reality.

But then her kettle whistles, and she swivels again to pour, “But what I don’t understand, Willow, is what that has to do with your role as the Blue Lions’ professor.”

Willow gapes at her. Isn’t it obvious!? Apparently not: all she can do is sputter, her hands trembling before her as if she can shake sense into the archbishop, “It… Your Holi— Lady Byleth…!”

“Take your time,” Lady Byleth places a cup into her hand and takes a sip of her own, frowning lightly, “Needs a lime. Hold on.”

And again she turns her back on her. A part of Willow wants to explode. It’s the same part that was so sure that this conversation would be shorter - and would end with her immediate ejection from the Academy.

‘Your Holiness, I’m not cut out to be teaching the future rulers of four countries!’

‘Oh my, that’s true. Come to think of it, why did I hire you at all? Get out of my monastery!’

This can’t end like that. She can’t admit to her inexperience, even if it should be an obvious fact. Willow hasn’t always known what it was all for - all of her hard work, all of the myriad things she’s learned in all the myriad lands she’s been. But now that she’s realized it was always bringing her back to Garreg Mach, she can’t throw it away just because she isn’t ready for this specific task!

But at the same time, it’d be too selfish to take her first bumbling steps into teaching with students with this level of pedigree following behind her! How will she live with herself if the mistakes of her first year as a professor plunge four realms into a destitution and turmoil that even her worst nightmares can’t conjure!?

No, this has to be nipped in the bud, and so she tries again, “Your Holiness,” and she tramples over any objection,  “Surely a professor who’s been teaching for longer than… than not at all before this year would be better suited to this group?”

Lady Byleth hums tunelessly, nodding along, “Well by that logic, I should give the position to Professor Hanneman.”

“Exactly!” Willow breathes, practically melting with relief.

“He is the longest serving teacher at Garreg Mach, after all. He’s been here even longer than myself…” she muses, and only as she’s turning does Willow realize that there’s a ‘but,’ “… but he also hasn’t left Garreg Mach monastery in years at this point.” She sighs, shaking her head with what has to be pity, “Getting a bit old for it. And of the three countries he traveled to when he could, two of them no longer exist.”

“That doesn’t matter, he…” but Willow has to trail off: she can already see how it does.

“… grew up in a different Fódlan,” Lady Byleth says. She crosses to Willow, offers a wedge of lime on a napkin, which she numbly takes, “In his Fódlan, Dagdans were Adrestia’s mysterious, monolithic rivals, while Brigid and the Sreng were little more than savage barbarians. I’m not saying that he thinks that way, only…” she sighs, raises her tea to her lips, “… I struggle to imagine him being able to keep the peace between cultures he doesn’t understand.”

“I… maybe you’re right about that,” Willow concedes. She takes a sip of her tea - if anything, just to give her time to think. Lady Byleth was right, the lime and the mint blend in a way that’s unexpectedly refreshing, “I just… I don’t know that I’d be much better.”

“Where have you been the last few years?” Lady Byleth asks, and at first Willow thinks it’s rhetorical. Then she starts naming names, “Brigid. Sreng. Almyra. Morfis. Dagda. I might even go so far as to say that you’re the best travelled person working at the academy right now.”

“But… but that was different, I had guides and help and-”

“And you were immersed in the local culture. You learned all kinds of perspectives that most people wouldn’t think of,” she gives a knowing look, like the two of them are sharing some secret, “And… well, for all of our foreign dignitaries in the student body this year, my duty as archbishop is to the people of Fódlan. So I have a responsibility to make sure that Prince Remus gets the most out of his time at the Officers Academy.”

And sure, all of that makes sense, “But-”

“And,” Lady Byleth presses, “I’m certain that at least a part of that is helping him navigate the different peoples and perspectives he’ll need to as king. Who better to guide him through that than someone so worldly?”

It’s impossibly high praise. Willow can barely stand it, her face is so hot right now, she must be bright red. She looks into her cup, only half seeing her reflection in the dim light of her magical torch, “I… only worry that you’ve been oversold. About my skills, that is. Your Holiness.”

This time, Lady Byleth does not correct her about titles. She closes her eyes, and there’s all of the serenity you’d expect from her position in her voice, “So many of my students over the years are so… uncertain of their own abilities. They think that because they don’t come from nobility - or the right strain of nobility, or they lack a crest, or this or that or the other thing, they’re starting a few meters back from those who do have those advantages. So they’re always the ones trying to learn more, to get that leg up they think they need to reach whatever their dreams are. And so often, they never even realize when they’re standing shoulder to shoulder with the best of the people they’re trying to catch up to.” She opens her eyes, laughs airily, “All that to say, be confident in yourself, Professor Willow. I picked you for a reason.”

“I just…!” Willow blurts before she knows for sure what she’s going to say. That’s alright it turns out: Lady Byleth waits for her. She’s already dealt with so many of Willow’s worries about the position - just swept them away like they were never of any consequence. The only one left aside from nerves looms large, but in her heart, Willow is sure it’s only paranoia, “… there’s just a part of me that worries that I’ve been set up for failure.”

Lady Byleth blinks, “… not by me, I hope?”

“No! Or… not deliberately…” she shakes her head, feeling rather foolish, but something in the arch of Lady Byleth’s brow makes her continue, “… by my brother.”

“Ashe?”

“Rowan,” Willow groans, though the thought of Ashe sends a new worry up her spine: she’s going to be teaching Senan. It’s been so easy to worry about him in the context of ‘the prince of Brigid,’ she’s barely had time to worry about him in that of ‘her nephew.’

But the prince is a worry for another day. The margrave is one for now, “He… was talking about a donation he made to Garreg Mach in light of the school year.”

It sounds lame in her ears, as Lady Byleth tactfully observes, “Yes, we received that - I assumed it was because Christoff and Juliette will be coming to the Academy this year.”

“Right,” Willow says. Good Goddess, she’s somehow managed to make herself look more like a child than any of her brothers’ children, and she’s done it in front of her new boss at that, “… there was a part of me that worried that maybe he was… that is…”

“Hoping to see you saddled with a class you weren’t ready for?” Lady Byleth asks, her smirk bemused, but not condescending. Willow nods, “Well, I assure you, that wasn’t the case. He didn’t even mention you in the letter,” and somehow that’s worse. Taking another sip of her tea, the archbishop observes, “It sounds like there’s a story there, though. You’ll have to tell it to me off the clock - I never really got the chance to know Margrave Rowan like you and Ashe.”

He is, after all, the only one of the siblings who never went to the Officers Academy: the Unification War came before he had the chance, and he never found the opportunity to correct that later. And that means that Lady Byleth only knows him from what others say about him - an unnerving thought. Maybe that’s why Willow comes to his defense, “The rumors about him-”

“I try not to give too much mind to rumors,” Lady Byleth says gently.

“Some of them are true," Willow blurts, causing the archbishop to raise a brow, "but he’s a good person, I swear.”

Lady Byleth sips her tea, her eyes closed, expression neutral, “Then I believe you.” She lowers her cup and smiles, “In any case, Margrave Rowan has had no say in the house rosters this year.” She sticks her tongue in the corner of her mouth, as if considering how true that is, and must decide that the answer is, ‘true enough,’ because she only appends, “At least as far as professors are concerned. You are the Blue Lion house professor because I decided it, and for no other reason.”

“I still…” but now there’s no argument Willow can raise against her appointment - against the appointment she wants, so surely she should just smile and go along with the archbishop’s reassurances? Why must there be this doubt in the back of her mind, this certainty that a mistake has been made?

Why does Lady Byleth only nod thoughtfully, why does she agree, “You still.” As though that means anything?

The archbishop sets aside her tea, clasps her hands under her chin. She looks, for a moment, like she’s praying. But her eyes are open, shining brightly in the torchlight, and she finally says, “Willow… that’s not going to go away, you know. That feeling - the one where you’re sure that someone better could be in your position. Like whoever assigned it to you was mad to do so.”

Willow wants to argue with her - no, she wants her to be right, but she also wants her own fears to be rational. In her head, she knows she can’t have both, but the only times she thinks with her head are in a classroom.

Lady Byleth cocks her head to the side again, the slightest challenge in her eyes. Willow finds that she can’t meet it even before she asks, “Do you truly think you shouldn’t be their house professor? Is there any reason why it can’t be you who teaches Prince Remus?”

“I…” Willow swallows, “… I’ve just never taught a prince before. I’m not sure that I… that I can.”

“That’s alright,” Lady Byleth smiles brightly, “Neither was I.”

It does nothing to soothe her worries. And yet somehow it helps.

~

Lady Byleth speaks with her for maybe an hour more after that. Once the hard part is out of the way, and Willow’s greatest worries have been assuaged, the rest flows smoothly. Most of it is putting texture to shapes that Willow could already imagine. It’s almost strange how ordinary the rest of her briefing is. This is the rough outline of the schedule for the beginning of the school year. That is where Willow’s sleeping quarters will be - a part of her had assumed she’d be living out of Professor Annette's office (her office, she has to remind herself). Lady Byleth promises a more in depth tour of the Officers Academy’s grounds before the year begins - evidently, there have been more changes than she’d expected.

For now, though, the archbishop gives her directions to the faculty dorms (and Willow pretends that she does not know the building already even through Her Holiness’s knowing smile). She instructs her to get fully situated and make herself comfortable in the old-new space.

Armed with this task, Willow resolves herself to make her way back to her office first. There, she can get everything into some semblance of order and she can properly agonize over how she’s going to approach her class. It turns out she isn’t so rid of her nerves as she’d thought: they come pouring back the moment she’s out of Lady Byleth’s sight, nearly flooding her mind by the time she’s back in the hall.

Because yes, Lady Byleth has faith that Willow can handle a class with a headcount so full of crowns, but what if she’s wrong? Shouldn’t Willow already have some strategy in place, some perfect team building exercise to bring her Blue Lions together right from the get-go? Because she doesn’t have one - she isn’t even sure if she’s supposed to ‘Your Highness’ the royals while they’re her students.

So that’s what she’ll do: she’ll sit at that overly austere little desk and come up with a perfect way to convince not just her students but herself that she knows, in fact, exactly what she’s doing and that they can all trust in her guidance.

A small, rational part of her screams in the back of her mind that any attempt like that is going to be fruitless at best, actively self-destructive at worst. Willow’s been on the road for weeks now - a few restless nights in Fhirdiad do not a break make. She’s all hazy with her new position. There’s no way she’ll be able to concoct a foolproof plan around names she can’t even put to faces yet. Not tonight at least.

Still, Willow knows herself: just because a task is impossible is no reason not to beat your head against a wall trying to complete it anyway.

Willow sets herself before her desk, unfurls a blank parchment beside her roster. She has to give up momentum to turn her office upside down looking for her quill case, and then more to decide which is the right one for the job. It’s clearly the raven feathered one with the nib sharp enough to draw blood. Carefully, she copies down every name on her list, leaving space for notes under each one - because surely making a list is the same as making a plan?

When she’s done, and the two identical pages stand side by side, the same names scratched into each, Willow discovers that it is not. The prince’s name - her prince’s name, her future king’s name burns brightest of them all. What on earth is she to make of him? Half the reason she’d even wanted to go to Fhirdiad was to get the chance to meet Prince Remus. Willow could’ve gotten some some early rapport, maybe even a sense of how they might work together. Somehow, that never materialized.

This leaves her only with the impression that she got of the prince from Juliette. When she hadn’t been able to find Prince Remus at the party, she’d gone of course for the next best thing: her niece’s impressions of him. Juliette had been handmaiden to Princess Elise for the better part of a year. Of course, that was work of its own sort and she’d have been kept well and truly busy (even at the party, she’d spent more than half the time with the girl at her side). But that still meant that she’d been near Prince Remus. Lived in the same castle as him, dined with him, maybe kept his counsel? She’d have some impression of him.

And apparently, Juliette was holding that impression as close to her chest as she could. She’d been almost overly tactful in how she’d insisted she had barely exchanged words with the prince since coming to Fhirdiad - but didn’t that hint at something? Whatever Juliette truly thought of Prince Remus, she wasn’t going to say it in front of his little sister. Didn’t that especially color the carefully chosen words she did have for him? Princess Elise might not have heard the word ‘irascible’ or ‘melancholy’ yet, but weren’t they a more generous way of saying ‘surly’ and ‘aloof?’

The princess herself had tried her best to help as well, tugging at Juliette’s dress to whisper in her ear. Juliette had smiled, patted her charge’s head in appreciation, and said, “Her Highness would inform you that His Highness is the best at tea parties,” and quietly conceded, “He’s very good with her.”

But it had been a concession. As if she was implying that the prince is ordinarily prone to fits of pique or at the very least mildly sullen, just not where his sister is concerned. That paints a picture of… what exactly? Is Prince Remus going to be a problem student or just a surprisingly human one? Should Willow expect someone arrogant and above the fray, or maybe insecure and in need of a professor’s encouragement? Willow had still thought she’d have a moment with the prince himself. Does the fact that she hadn’t confirm her niece’s assessment? She should’ve gotten Juliette alone, asked her to clarify - Willow needs to know what she’s working with.

Too late for it now. Lamenting tools she doesn’t have won’t conjure them into her hands. Willow puts a hand to her forehead, rubs, and concludes that she needs a drink.

And as luck would have it, she has one waiting for her, doesn’t she?

~

Just outside Garreg Mach’s inner walls sits the Alebarrow Tavern, a stone’s throw from the shops and stalls where the summit of the city gives way to the foot of the monastery. It is literally impossible to miss if you take the gate from the marketplace: once you’re through, it’s the first building on your right. A sign depicting a stumbling merchant pushing a cart full to overflowing with amber juts out onto the street for any who miss the building at first glance. The tavern was built into the castle after the fact: its north side wall is the polished white stone of the castle itself, which should be quite the contrast to the cozy rustic air its faux-worn wooden walls suggest. As it stands, the stone is all but covered in paint: a mural depicts scenes of revelry (supposedly in the wake of the Second Battle of Garreg Mach), with Saint Seiros’s cloaked figure floating above to bless the proceedings, tankard in hand.

As far as Willow is concerned, she’s right to do so: the Alebarrow’s house brew is bright and light, with an apple aftertaste that reminds her of home. It seems to sparkle, almost golden, in the glow of fey lights scattered along the ceiling. A part of Willow wonders if the publican is a mage themselves or if they simply have the sense to get one in their pocket.

It’s a quiet night in the tavern - or it would be, but Caspar is there. He broke off from the group not long after Willow arrived. When it became clear that everyone else was going to balance business and pleasure tonight, he stumbled off into a corner where he’s been dicing and cursing with a pack of Srengi mercenaries in thick wolfskin cloaks and horned helms ever since. A part of Willow had to steal glances at them for a while at first, terrified that she’d already managed to stumble (and so unprofessionally) upon one of her charges for the year. But the warriors are too grizzled and too old - Willow has her doubts that Prince Sigurd can grow a beard yet, let alone one as scraggily and grey as this lot. She also happens to know that the scars on the one in the far corner are ritually applied to mark outcasts - unless something dramatic has happened, the prince won’t have those either.

Willow doesn’t have to worry about him right now. Or rather, she can worry about him, but she should do so aloud. There’s supposed to be an element of group planning to this night out, after all - better to take advantage of that.

It’s actually a bit of a smaller crowd than Willow expected. Somehow, when Yuri described this to her, she pictured being stuck at a long table with dozens of scholars and knights she’s never met, with only a select few being the professors and training instructors Willow will actually be working with. Instead, there’s four here other than her, and the only one she doesn’t know personally, she knows by reputation.

Diminutive and slight, Lysithea von Ordelia is the picture of the old adage of the ‘mage made of glass.’ Her light pink eyes are sharp behind half-moon glasses: when she looks at Willow for the first time, there’s the distinct impression that she’s not just assessing her, but finding her wanting. As the night has gone on, some of that severity has left her, but it seems to spike back out in unexpected waves. She has a single streak of grey hair nestled just off of center in the bangs of her brunette bob cut, grown long to cover the wrinkles on her brow from a life of withering looks.

She directs one at the parchment in front of her now, “Oh Goddess, would you look at this!?” To give the others an opportunity to do so, she takes a pull of her tankard - she has been nursing the same drink since Willow arrived, “Theodore Victor… I still can barely believe that Ignatz even has a child!”

“The mind boggles,” Linhardt says without feeling.  Technically, he isn’t a professor at the Officers Academy, merely an assistant to Professor Hanneman.  However, Hanneman’s tenure had already been long drawn out when Ashe attended the Academy: teachers’ nights outs are distinctly no longer his bag. Linhardt has duly taken his place.

“Honestly,” Lysithea spits, crossing her arms and glaring at her parchment like it owes her answers, “Whoever was placed in charge of shuffling the students this year ought to be ashamed of themselves.”

“And I’m sure,” Yuri drawls, eyes closed as he takes a sip of his wine, so deep a red that Willow can’t help but think, ‘vampire,’ “that your concerns have nothing to do with being slapped in the face by just how many of your old classmates have children old enough to be off to the Academy.”

“Oh Goddess,” she groans, “You sound like my mother.” Her face pinches for a moment and Willow can already hear where she’s about to go.

After all, she’s heard this lecture enough times from her brother that she can recite it; she does so, cutting in with a haughty, “‘Honestly, dear, it’s well and good that you’re still interested in research and learning and whatnot, but when are you going to meet a nice boy and settle down?’”

Lysithea lets out a delighted gasp, shaking her shoulder - it’s so at odds with her first impression that it makes Willow jump, “Willow! Willow, you understand!!!”

Yuri mimes applause against his wrist, “Excellent play there, Ubert - that one can get prickly if you don’t get on her good side fast.”

“Even if you do get on her good side,” Linhardt mumbles, barely audible.

Lysithea huffs at their teasing, wobbling a little bit on her stool, “Don’t listen to a word they say, Willow!”  The woman digs her nails into Willow’s shoulder a little, pointing accusingly at Yuri. Now that Willow gets a good look at her too close for comfort, her gaze is rather unfocused, isn’t it? “Teaching is just fun playtime for those two… those two…!” she shakes her head and moves on; apparently, nothing is bad enough to describe them, “I remember how hard it was starting off here! If you need any help, don’t hesitate to come to me - I’ll be more than happy to mentor you!”

Willow smiles awkwardly, “I… will actually probably have to take you up on that one, Professor Lysithea.”

“Don’t hesitate!” she repeats, shooting a triumphant smirk Yuri’s way as she sits up straight again, taking an almost dainty sip of her drink. There’s a challenge in her eyes.

Yuri meets it with a roll of his own, “Yes, well done, Lysithea, you’ve managed to bully the new hireling into placating you so she can keep the drunk lady off of her. A stunning victory.”

“I did not bully her!” Lysithea snaps, and Willow gets the distinct impression her seat is about to become a battlefield, “And I’m not drunk!!!”

Linhardt lifts her tankard, waggles it from one side to the other. It sloshes only slightly, maybe a little more than half empty, “Soon, though.”

“Oh hush!” Lysithea says, rounding on him to snatch back her drink. She holds it protectively to her chest before looking at Willow, her face red and faux-desperation in her voice, “Do you see how it’s been!? Being the only sensible professor surrounded by… by…” her eyes cloud slightly as words fail her again.

For a moment, she seems so adrift that Willow feels she has to provide her with something to say, “Ingrates?”

Lysithea seizes upon it, “Ingrates!”

“I’ve done nothing,” Yuri says, amending it with, “To you. Tonight.”

That sends Lysithea to her feet, her voice coming rapid-fire, “You continue to shame the reputation of this storied academy by your continued association with-!!!”

“And we know that I prefer to think of it as Her Holiness shaming it by her association with me. If I don’t seem like a proper professor, don’t worry about it: just remember that I’m not,” he says back. It sounds rehearsed, like he’s said this before, and he does so cooly enough that Lysithea’s anger has nothing to feed it. She shakes her head in disgust as she slumps back into her seat.

Willow shifts uncomfortably in her own. It’s starting to feel just a little like they’re getting afield of both their reasons for being here and the boundaries of friendly ribbing.

She has, of course, heard the rumors of who Yuri LeClerc became after he was Yuri Rowe - of who he was even during his time as an adoptive son of the Rowes. His star has flown so high and shines so bright though!  If he is the Savage Mockingbird, lord of his self-styled criminal empire and king of Abyss in all but name, there must be pieces of the puzzle that Willow is missing. He is friend and confidant to not just Lady Byleth, but to King Dimitri as well. Surely neither of them would suffer someone like that to live if there weren’t some key information that Willow’s yet to discover - let alone placing the children of Fódlan’s noble houses in his care.

It’s so odd, because Willow remembers being a little girl, when Lord Lonato brought his adoptive family to pay homage to his lord’s. The first time she set eyes on Yuri, he had been so beautiful and so dignified that afterward she’d asked Ashe in a hushed whisper if they’d just met the prince. And he’d laughed, of course, and said no - but noted that it was probably about as close as they would get.

To think that they all would climb into so much higher circles than Ashe had imagined, even as Lonato Gildas Gaspard plummeted to earth and House Rowe found its fortunes catastrophically reversed. Ashe, Yuri, Willow herself - all they had to do was set aside their titles and embrace their freedom, and they’d found themselves with all they’d ever wanted and more.

Maybe Rowan will understand that one day too. What a scandal it will cause in Gaspard Territory if he ever does.

But here and now, Willow forces something conversationally curious into her voice, “Yuri, you said you’re… uh… still not a proper professor? Does that mean…?”

He waves his hand idly this way and that, though his eyes are grateful that she’s set them back on a less sensitive trail, “A few years ago Her Holiness finally got me to take the official title,” Willow can’t decide if she likes the way that Yuri says ‘Her Holiness.’ Isn’t it just a little too mocking? As if he’s heard her, he shakes his head, “This is the last year though. Once we’ve got things settled with the prince, I’m done.”

Willow nods, her brow furrowing. That… makes enough sense. She wasn’t privy to all of the decisions that saw the Officers Academy expanded to four houses, but she remembers all of the Ashen Wolves in her year talking about how mysterious it was that their dreamy young professor kept insisting that he wasn’t a real house professor, that he was only temporarily going to be serving in the role until a more suitable candidate could be found. All this time, and Yuri’s never found someone who satisfies him. That… feels fitting, somehow.

Linhardt has his doubts, judging by the tone of his hum. He observes, “And last year you were getting out before ‘all the royal brats start pouring in.”

“That was different,” Yuri says. The others make skeptical noises, so he focuses his attention on Willow, “… I talked with Byleth and we decided that it was going to be a bad year to completely shake up the faculty,” he raises his eyebrows knowingly at her, and she gulps, “… figure that’s also why Her Holiness hasn’t replaced any of the graybeards like Hanneman and hags like-”

“I am younger than you, LeClerc!!!” Lysithea snaps before he can even level the insult, “If I’m a hag, you’re a fossil!!!”

He chuckles, and something about that sets Willow’s mind at ease. Whatever tensions there are between them are calmed for now, at any rate.

But Linhardt still isn’t satisfied. He leans forward on the bar, lacing his fingers in thought, “And the year before that,” he presses, “you were going to finally give up the position once you won that Battle of the Eagle and Lion-”

“Prophet and King,” Lysithea and Yuri say together.

Linhardt rolls his eyes at their pedantry, “Eagle and Lion. And then you won the Battle. Of the Eagle. And Lion. But you never so much as submitted a resignation, let alone-”

“That was different too!” Yuri says, though for all the irritation creeping into his voice, he fails to elaborate on why it might be different.

“Well,” Linhardt bats his lashes, resting his chin in the palm of his hand, “It just seems to me like it’s different a lot. Yuri, there comes a time that you have to just admit that you’re an Academy professor.”

“You’re one to talk!” Yuri shouts, now openly flustered, “There’s a saying, Lin, about crows and ravens and who can call each other what!!!”

“Hm,” Linhardt considers that, taking a drink, “I must never have learned it. Caspar and I have just been so busy, Yuri - you know, traveling the world, seeing this and that while you’ve been… where exactly?”

“You’re a terrible creature, Linhardt von Hevring,” Yuri grumbles.

“I mean…” Willow grimaces when she realizes she’s said it aloud, gives Yuri an apologetic look for which he gives stone in return, “You were here when I was a student, and you did say it was going to be your only year back then, so…”

“You can have this one, Lysithea, there is no love in her,” Yuri says, so deadly serious that Willow feels the color draining from her face. Only then does his smirk return, “I kid, naturally. Ashe would never forgive me if I left his baby sister out to dry for this, my last year teaching. Which brings us back to where we ought to be…” he plucks Willow’s roster from the bar, lazily scanning the page. He sets it aside, holds up a finger as he drains his glass, then signals to the barkeep for another. Leaning forward, he points to the list, “There’s an interesting little quirk you missed.”

She blinks, “… and… now you’re going to tell me what it is?”

“I am!” he says brightly, “But I wonder if you can’t spot it on your own. A hint: you’re all hung up on the princes and the princess. You’re not alone in that.”

Willow returns her attention to the parchment, her brow furrowing again. Lysithea scoots in beside her, reading over her shoulder, “I think you’re bluffing, LeClerc. Just trying to seem cleverer than you are.”

“You can think that if you want,” he says, taking a sip of his fresh glass of wine.

He thinks she’s too worried about her royal students. That means that what he’s seen isn’t among them. That doesn’t exactly narrow it down: there are dozens of Blue Lions coming to the Officers Academy this year - certainly, not all of them from families as decorated as the royal scions of four countries, but none of them anything to take lightly. The houses Fraldarius and Gautier have both sent a daughter this year. The youngest daughter of House Ifan, branch to the royal line, will take her place at  Garreg Mach as well. Rowan’s adoptive daughter Juliette is on her list - Willow already heard back in Arianrhod that her niece was taking her leave of the royal family to attend the Academy, but not that she’d be in her house. Then there’s Lord Charon’s heir - Lyisthea was right, there’s not nearly as much variety in the regions of Fódlan each house is pulling from this year as there was for Willow’s own. But there are a few from the former Alliance - and that’s where Willow starts to notice the pattern.

She sets her tongue in the corner of her mouth, hearing the dawning concern in her own tone, “Duke Goneril’s daughter, Duke Gloucester’s-”

“Lorenz is sending Emma too?” Lysithea puts in, nearly knocking over Willow’s tankard getting in to confirm it. When she does, she scoots back, rolling her eyes dramatically, “As if the twins won’t be punishment enough. At this rate it’ll be a whole year of Lorenzes!!!”

“You don’t even have to worry about this one; she’s Willow’s problem, you old bat,” Yuri jabs. Lysithea squawks, but though she nearly falls from her stool trying to swat him in retaliation, Yuri pays her little mind, returning to the list, “… yeah, the more I look at this, the more that I think a whole bunch of someones were greasing another bunch of someone elses’ palms trying to get their daughters close to Prince Remus.”

The Blue Lions this year do seem to have just a handful more girls than one would expect if it had been a truly random pull. There could be someone’s hand in that. Willow tries to imagine Lady Byleth taking that sort of bribe, and no matter how she squints she just can’t see it, “Or it could be a coincidence…?”

Yuri scoffs, “No. No such thing as a coincidence; that’s lesson one.”

“Well, I just have trouble picturing Lady Byleth-”

“Well, that’s the thing: it wouldn’t have to be Lady Byleth, would it?” Yuri leans back against the bar, crossing his legs and pondering the ceiling, “She doesn’t just have the Officers Academy to worry about after all: everything the Church of Seiros does - all their charity missions, bolstering the Royal Army, just the day to day functionality of the Church throughout Fódlan - that’s all her prerogative. So obviously, one woman can’t handle all of that, so she takes help where she can get it - even if she doesn’t know for sure that she can trust their scruples.” He places a hand on his chest, grinning, “Present company obviously included. But, she puts some functionaries in charge of who goes into this, that, or the other house at Garreg Mach. Folks to hold the lots before we draw them, essentially.

“And that smells like an opportunity to an ambitious lord, doesn’t it?” He doesn’t explicitly call out Rowan, so Willow shouldn’t think of her brother first. It shouldn’t even sting if he does hang that name on Rowan - it’s accurate, certainly. Willow still tenses at the thought, “Especially this year. All they have to do is pad some nobody on the church’s salary, and suddenly there’s a chance that their daughter might be queen of Fódlan! Frankly, Willow, I’m surprised there’s noble ladies in any of the other houses.” Yuri chuckles, “It’s just that none of these hopefuls seem to have expected everyone else having the same idea. A couple of them should’ve checked their pride, sent a son instead - His Highness can’t marry every pretty thing in a skirt they send flouncing by, but he can find a steadfast knight or three somewhere along the way.”

Willow examines him for a long time, then wets her lip, notches an arrow, “Yuri… with all due respect,” he lets out a sharp ‘ha!’ and leans against the bar with anticipation. For a moment, Willow almost thinks better of saying anything, but she presses on, “You have the distinct sound of a man who is just so beautiful,” he predictably gives his lilac hair a flip at that, at which point Willow looses the barb, “… that he has managed to fall in love with himself.”

For a moment, it is as though no one has heard her (though Linhardt chokes on a pull of his drink). Then Yuri straightens, his eyes wide with surprise as they meet hers, his mouth hanging open, stunned into silence. Beside her, Lysithea cackles as she catches up, hugging at Willow’s arm and declaring, “Oh, we are going to get along famously!!!”

Willow laughs along with the rest of her new colleagues, and uses a quick sip of her ale to privately fret. Yuri’s right after all, but not as right as he assumes - it can’t be that every girl in Willow’s class has been planted through a bribe with the expectation they might seduce the prince. They wouldn’t bother putting on a farce like that in a third-rate opera house.

Who’s to say it’s not true for some of them, though? Faerghus has always had its share of proud lords ready to raise their own prestige by any means necessary, and this is a rare opportunity. King Dimitri keeps a small circle of close confidants: though there will always be this gala or that ball for aspiring social climbers, will they ever be able to compete with House Gautier or Fraldarius? For moons, though, Prince Remus will be outside of the reach of Fhirdiad - and what a tempting prize a place at his side must be. It shouldn’t be a wonder that there are some among the nobility willing to offer up a daughter to shoot for it.

There’s only one who worries her, though. Would Rowan aim so high if he thought he could make the shot? Certainly. Does he? No. No way! Juliette is only a Gaspard by adoption to a lord who is only a Gaspard by adoption: a commoner twice over in the eyes of half the realm. She bears no crest, and no matter how Rowan might pretend otherwise, House Gaspard isn’t truly one of Fódlan’s high houses now, he merely plays like it is. Even if His Highness wants to, surely the prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus isn’t going to make someone of such low birth his queen.

But Rowan did manage to insert her into the royal family as attendant to the princess. How many moons has she had by now to use that to get close to Prince Remus - closer, maybe, than she’d ever admit if her aunt came nosing in about it? Would it really be surprising if Rowan had planned that in advance of an unexpected Academy romance?

No. He hasn’t done that. He certainly hasn’t told Willow anything about it.

But when has that stopped him? Willow resolves that if her brother writes to her asking that she make sure Prince Remus and Juliette have assignments that force them to work together, she’s going to sit her niece down and gently explain what her duties to House Gaspard do and do not entail.

A new school year, Willow’s first as a professor, and she has to worry about who’s trying to use the Officers Academy to play a game of queens. It’s so insipid. She wishes Yuri hadn’t pointed it out to her so she wouldn’t have to acknowledge it.

“I wish they wouldn’t do that!” Lysithea cries out, her thoughts echoing Willow’s. She snatches her drink, taking a swig that’s long and clumsy enough that a thin trail of ale slips down the corner of her mouth. The tankard clatters onto its side when she tosses it down - fortunately (or not), it’s empty. Lysithea rubs at her mouth with her sleeve, then points at the ceiling like some doomsaying priest and slurs, “Ev’ry year they jus’ send alla their kids - they don’ even want ‘em to learn anything, they’re jus’ wannem t’ meet and and and t’socialize!!!” She waggles her eyebrows in a way that’s at once scandalous and scandalized, “It’s like they think this Academy ’s some kind of… some kind of…” she pauses for a moment, her brow furrowing and her mouth working silently as she looks for the right word, finally settling on, “Matchmaking service!” There’s enough venom in the words that Willow wonders why she didn’t just say ‘brothel’ if that was what she meant.

“Well,” Willow says gently, considering setting a hand on Lysithea to settle her on her seat: she’s all at once rather wobbly, “Garreg Mach is… an important part of any young noble’s life. It’s only natural,” if unfair, “that some people will want to take advantage of that. I’m sure it’s not as bad as all that…”

“You…!” Lysithea points her way, shaking that finger like she’s trying to spear a fly, “Y’don’t know yet, Willow! But you will!!!”

“Ignore the drunk lady,” Yuri says.

“‘m not drunk.”

“Yes you are,” he says without missing a beat, “She’s just remembering a past that doesn’t exist. This kind of family politicking was always there at the Academy, we just didn’t notice it because the world was going to hell at the time.”

“Speak for yourself,” Linhardt says before Willow can remind Yuri that she wasn’t actually at the Officers Academy before the outbreak of the Unification War, “… it’s the strangest thing now. My father used to insist that I take time out of my busy schedule for teatime with Imogen von Rusalka.”

Yuri snorts, “I… have to be honest, Lin, I can’t see you doing that.”

“Of course you can’t, I never did,” Linhardt says, waving a hand airily, “Goddess only knows how he had time to juggle worrying about that with everything else he was plotting.” He pauses, smiles wanly as he inspects his drink, “Well. According to Yuri’s theory, the new Lord von Hevring must not share the amorous ambitions Father had for me. So you won’t have to worry about Nora, Willow.”

“Nora?” she prompts him, though she might remember the name from her brother’s politicking in Arianrhod. House von Hevring is their neighbor these days: Rowan always seems to be poking his nose at their territory and bothering Willow with what he sees. She can memorize the delicate thread of thoughts that turns a spark of flame into a raging bolganone, but she can’t seem to keep her brother’s tangled political web straight.

“My niece,” Linhardt says matter-of-factly. Then his brow furrows, and he traces an invisible family tree in front of him, “My father’s uncle’s grandson’s daughter. Making Nora my… second cousin once removed? Clunky. I’m going to say niece, and you can’t stop me.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Yuri chuckles.

“You’re not worried about that?” Willow asks, and Linhardt gives her a clueless look, “Having to teach your… well, your niece. I know you didn’t exactly leave your family on good-”

“Making me a bit of a stranger in their eyes, no?” Linhardt shrugs, “If anyone, I’m worried about Caspar. It’s not exactly the best of luck that we’ve got the next Lord von Bergliez going to the Academy this year, given… everything that happened,” he grimaces at the understatement, and a chill runs down Willow’s  spine. He tries for nonchalance, and for the most part he finds it, “Technically, I’m not teaching anyone. Professor Hanneman is, and I’m… well, I’m helping. As long as he doesn’t do anything dramatic like retire-”

“Which you know he’s been signaling he’s going to do, Lin,” Yuri says, “You can’t just pretend you don’t pick up on his cues forever.”

“Watch me,” Linhardt glances over his shoulder as a victorious crow suddenly erupts behind them and Willow follows his gaze. Caspar stands with both his fists raised above his head. He doesn’t look like someone worried to be reunited with family after things ended badly. He looks like a conquering hero - and there, the largest of the mercenaries is doubled over on the table, his head buried in his arms, his enemy laid low. By the way he clutches his wrist, he’s just lost an arm wrestling match. One companion consoles him, the other guffaws at his defeat.

Caspar sees them looking, jerks his thumb at his vanquished foe, “Lin! Lin, drink up, Olav’s buying!” He turns around and shouts in just the worst Srengi Willow’s ever heard, “He drinks atop Olav!!!” She’s never heard the guttural insult that Olav flings up at him, but by his companions laughter, it’s a colorful one.

“I was just thinking I could use another,” Linhardt says fondly. As if by magic, he holds out his hand and the barkeep places a tankard in it.

“Me too,” mumbles Lysithea.

“No,” Yuri says sharply - and given that she’s practically facedown on the bar, maybe that’s a fair assessment, no matter how she wordlessly whines. He glances at Linhardt, eyebrow quirked and asks, “Hanneman?”

“If he wants me to be his replacement, he can use plain words and ask me,” Linhardt says flatly, raising his new drink to his lips and taking a long pull. When he’s finished, he adds, “… at which point I will refuse him.”

Willow can’t help but laugh, “Well do it while you can, or apparently you’ll get stuck.”

“What about you?” Linhardt asks, giving her a sideways look.

She chuckles again, “Well I want to be a professor, I don’t mind if-”

“I meant teaching family,” he says, “You wonder if other people are worried about it, so should I assume that you are?”

Willow considers that for a moment. Linhardt’s always so direct about this sort of thing - there’s a way in which it’s refreshing. All of the highborn pressure about being careful about what you’re going to say melts away: it’s not like he’s going to concern himself with that, so surely he won’t mind if Willow does the same? But she still wants to get the words right, “No. Not really.” She examines the ceiling, “Not with Juliette, she’s a good girl. And Senan… I guess I just hope that I’m not too familiar with him. The rest of the students still need to think of him as a prince, y’know?’”

“No they don’t,” Yuri says with a shake of his head, “The first thing that all of your royal brats are going to do on day one is very magnanimously get up in front of all of their classmates and say,” he clears his throat, sitting up spear shaft straight in mocking imitation of nobility at its most cluelessly idealistic, “‘Everyone, while we’re at the Officers Academy, I want you all to think of me as just another student - so there’s no need to bother with titles or anything like that.’” He loosens his posture, adding, “Or they won’t say that, and that’s how you’ll know you have a prick on your hands.”

Lysithea straightens, woozily blinking at Willow. She furrows her brow, like it’s taking all of her concentration to get one last piece of advice out, “… if ‘e doesn’ do it on ‘is own, tell Remus ‘a say that.”

Willow considers that for a moment, and Linhardt mistakes her silence for a lack of understanding, translating, “‘If he doesn’t do it on his own, tell Remus to-’”

“Willow gets it!” Lysithea glowers at him, and she’s right, Willow does.

“… I actually hadn’t thought of that, though,” she adds, “… I’ve kinda taken it as a given that he’s going to be my house leader, but never thought about what that means when he’s got three foreign royals sharing his house.”

“Well, definitely keep thinking of it as a given,” Yuri says, “I don’t think there’s anyone in the realm who thinks that he’s not going to be. You’re either gonna give the job to him or it’s going to scandalize all of Faerghus.”

Willow scrunches her lips. Somehow, that doesn’t satisfy. She isn’t sure who she’d put in the position if not for Remus - somehow, that prospect never occurred to her. Even now, she’s at a loss - which means she’s been more concerned about her charges’ pedigrees than their abilities. She’ll have to correct that before the year starts.

Even once she’s done it, though, Willow will still either have to make Remus the Blue Lion house leader or brace for impact. Try as she might, she can’t picture herself in an actual feud with Faerghus’s crown prince. But even if Remus handled it with grace, someone would have something inflammatory to say if Willow passed over him for house leader. But that’s a moot point. She doesn’t need to worry about the aftermath of a decision she isn’t going to make, “I suppose there’s truth to that. What about the rest of you, though? Since the you all had a choice, who did you pick for your house leaders?”

As one, they say, “I didn’t.”

Willow blinks, suddenly sure her new colleagues are playing a joke on her, “Uh…”

“I didn’t pick a house leader for the Crimson Phoenixes because Professor Hanneman did,” Linhardt says, eying his drink and conceding, “Though I was consulted on the matter. You know Eva von Enbarr?”

Not personally, but Willow knows of her. She nods, “That makes sense.”

“Mm,” Linhardt agrees, “I think Hanneman figures that she can serve as a tertiary authority figure for the house - if she can run Enbarr, she can run the Phoenixes.”

Yuri makes an unconvinced noise, “We’ll see. I met her at the prince’s party: she seems like a lot.”

“They all seem like a lot before they get to the Academy,” Linhardt says. It would be generous, but then he adds, “… and they usually are.”

Willow gives that a token ‘ha,’ then turns to look at Yuri, “You’re still deciding the house leader after the year’s started?” She remembers in the past that the Ashen Wolves had to win some kind of contest to decide on their representative.

“Leadership is earned,” Yuri says simply, though it’s so obviously more complicated than that.

“By winnin’ trust!” Lysithea chirps, looking dazed but pleased with herself, “Tha’s why this year, Poffessr Byleth said I could try somethin’ new with th’ Deer!”

“She’s going to have them vote for house leader,” Yuri explains without embellishment, and Lysithea squawks that he’s ruined the mystery, “She’s very proud of it. When she sobers up and tells you about how ‘oh, it’s an experiment with some of the best ideas to come out of the Leicester Alliance, from the very house that used to represent them,’ pretend you’re hearing it for the first time.”

“I’ll ‘member,” Lysithea grumbles, crossing her arms. Her face is in full flush now, “Not that drunk.” No matter how indignantly she says it, it’s still a concession on that count.

“I can still act surprised?” Willow offers lamely. Lysithea stares at her like she’s trying to figure out if she should be annoyed or not.

The moment passes before she has a chance to decide - in fact, the moment is flung bodily away. Caspar dashes at full tilt up to the bar, practically flinging himself over it and nearly knocking Lysithea to the floor as he calls out, “Hey, Graham, do you got any drinking horns back there?!”

“You know I don’t,” the barkeep says simply, not looking up from the glasses he’s polishing.

“That’s whatever, listen!” Caspar grins, “I need your most expensive spirits in your weirdest lookin’ cups! You know I’m good for it!!!”

The barkeep - Graham, apparently, glances at Linhardt, who shrugs, “You know he’s good for it.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” Graham mutters, but he does disappear out back.

“Are you causing a ruckus?” Linhardt asks like he’s talking to an overly excited cat.

Caspar cackles, a hand clapping down on Linhardt’s shoulder, “Nah, but I’m gonna! Olav’s going double or nothin’ on a drinking contest,” he squeezes, “Lin, I’m gonna need moral support.”

Linhardt eyes the others apologetically, asking, “How do you go ‘double or nothing’ on him paying for your tab tonight?”

“Iunno, that’s what I wanna find out!”

“Caspar, I’m technically working right now,” Linhardt half whines, though he keeps his eyes on Willow and Yuri as if to add, ‘though that could change.’ He’s always billed himself as the one voice of reason in a mad world, and yet he’s spent the last twenty years letting an adventurous madman talk him into just about anything.

Blowing a raspberry, that madman stands straight (swaying only slightly), his wide stance and crossed arms suggesting a wise old war monk, “Never drink and work. Get all your drinking done first, then-!” Caspar doesn’t even finish the adage before he practically barks with delight as Graham returns with two glass steins the size of Willow’s head. Someone - for reasons utterly unfathomable to Willow - clearly went to great effort to blow the glass into some of the most hideous grotesques she’s ever seen. The one is bulbously fat and laughing, its jaw with sharp teeth caving into the mug while pig ears protrude from its sides like little wings. The other is so pinched in on itself it might’ve been sucking on a lemon for the last year, with a bulging forehead dotted in bubbling warts and a square jaw that can’t be contained by the stein’s shape. Caspar takes the pig, gives it an experimental heft, “Yeah that’s perfect - why do you even have these!?”

“They were a gift,” Graham says flatly, as if that explains them perfectly, “And if they break, Caspar-”

“They won’t break,” Caspar returns, rolling his eyes and nearly dropping it. He lets out a relieved chuckle after fumbling to catch it, bragging, “I have catlike reflexes.”

“And a good handler,” Linhardt adds, sighing dramatically as he stands and stretches. He eyes Yuri, saying, “I hate to duck out like this, but…”

“Party’s losing some of its fire,” Yuri agrees, inclining his head to where Lysithea may actually be sleeping on the bar now, “Doubt we’re getting any pearls of wisdom for the new year out of this one.”

Linhardt dips his head in thanks, once to Yuri and once to Willow, and then rallies Caspar to return to the mercenaries. As he goes, Willow eyes Lysithea, tentatively reaching out to put a hand on her shoulder, and then giving her a light nudge when that gets no reaction. She shifts away with a groan of complaint, and Willow asks, “Is she going to be alright?”

“This is normal,” Yuri says dismissively, “Cheap date, that one. Get her one ale and… well, as you see.”

“It’s just…” Willow sits back, considering, “Well, it’s surprising. Lysithea von Ordelia’s kind of… well, she’s a big deal in magical circles - even discounting the ways she revolutionized crestology. When I was at the School of Sorcery in the capital, I had to cite some of her work as a student dozens of times, and I was always all starry eyed about ‘oh wow, she was younger than I am now when she wrote this.’ So like, I had this idea built up in my mind about what Lysithea von Ordelia must be like-”

“Don’t let her know that she’s basically your hero, it’ll go to her head.”

Willow gives him a sideways look, ignoring the heat in her cheeks, and he flashes a suitably abashed grin and gestures for her to go on, “… and this wasn’t really a part of that image. If that makes sense.”

“It does,” Yuri says, swirling his wine in consideration, “… if it’s any consolation, whatever you imagined probably lines up a lot more neatly with sober Lysithea. She’s just…” he takes a sip to pick the right word; it must kill him that it’s as simple as, “She’s just nervous.”

A part of Willow wants to be surprised. Lysithea von Ordelia, magical genius and longtime professor of the Officers Academy, nervous about what should be to her just another year of teaching? Impossible. Unheard of!

And yet it really isn’t at all - she’s not in the same boat as Willow, but it’s a similar enough one. Nodding slightly, Willow says, “If I could change one thing, I’d have tried for this position sooner. Get some practice under my belt before…” before worrying if she’s going to let her brothers’ children down, before worrying if she’s going to let the prince down, before worrying if she’s going to let Fódlan down, “… before now.”

Yuri nods, gives her a serious look, “You know you can come to us at any time if you need help. It’s not fair of Byleth to toss you to the sharks like this.”

“I know a thing or three about dealing with sharks,” Willow says, she hopes with some of his confidence, “… but thank you.”

He takes a flourishing gentleman’s bow from his seat, and she giggles and mimes applause. A moment of quiet - or a moment quiet enough given the din from the corner - passes between the two of them. Finally, Yuri gets to his feet, “Want to watch Caspar lose his double or nothing?”

“I’ll stick around here, keep an eye on Lysithea,” she says, and he nods in understanding.

“We’ll get her home after they’re done here,” he mutters, like it’s an easy but inconvenient item on a shopping list. Then he changes tack, bluntly asks, “Still nervous?”

Willow almost shakes her head, but answers truthfully before she can do so, “Yeah. Less so, though.”

Yuri smiles, his gaze assessing her. Willow’s heart always seems to beat a little faster when people look at her like that, she always seems to try to stand up straighter even when she’s seated. What if they don’t find what they want to? What if for all of her efforts, she’s found a way to fall short?

One day, she’s going to learn how Yuri stays so cool. She’s going to feel eyes on her and actually relax against them: ‘yeah, I know you’re looking. Of course you are, I’m amazing.’

… or not, and instead she’s going to accept that these nerves are a part of who she is. So much of magic is accepting the impossible and making it bend to your will. Why should how Willow comports herself be any different?

And Yuri only smiles lightly once he’s done searching her. He doesn’t even say any last parting shot before he turns on a heel and makes for the far table. Maybe he found what he wanted, and now it’s just up to Willow to see it too.

And maybe she has: the Officers Academy at Garreg Mach has lived for so long in Willow’s memories as a divine citadel of knowledge, towering and eternal. A place where the strong, the beautiful, and the wise congregate to impart their knowledge on those less perfect.

Even now, it’s a little ridiculous to try to organize those worries into something coherent, something Willow could share, even if she wanted to.

Maybe all Willow really needed was a reminder that the Officers Academy’s staff are human, the same as her.  Garreg Mach is everything she imagined it as, but not quite so imposing; not quite so forbidding. Yes, it is a place where the elite come together, but they light the way for others to follow them; it’s a long path, difficult to walk even with guidance. For some, it’s a little too much. For others, it was never their true goal in the first place, only a parallel course to it.

But once upon a time, Willow was diligent enough to follow. Now here she is, discovering what’s at the end of it: Professor Willow Ubert, ready to light the way for the next generation - maybe even for generations - to come.

It’s a dream - but it’s a dream that might come true - and that thought warms Willow’s chest maybe even more than it terrifies her.

Chapter Text

Ashely

For most of the year, the streets of the town that trails in Garreg Mach Monastery’s mountaintop skirts are packed to bursting with people from across Fódlan and beyond. The flowing white robes of local Church officials are almost swallowed by Garreg Mach’s alabaster walls. Despite them, color explodes in every direction: bravos from along the Airmid in tight doublets and wide brimmed hats move among sturdy mercenaries whose thick furs look more suited to the mountain clime. Knights in full plate strut along so imperiously that whatever business they’re on might come directly from the king himself. Some halt their stride only for the ladies they stand sentry to: in every cut of gown from across the continent they float along the roadside like lilies on the Airmid, seeing what there is to see.

And there is plenty for them to see! Crowded before a mishmash of ancient marble statues, thatched roofed houses, and multicolored canvas stalls, Garreg Mach’s locals and its visitors alike line the streets to ply their trade. Blue topaz glassware from Charon Territory winks in the sunlight at one stall, barely a meter from another where golden Gaspard ciders flow freely and another that displays cotton tunics cut in the latest eastern styles along with all the dyes to make them truly beautiful. The faint smell of dry, sizzling Duscan spices dances through the air even with the source well out of sight, intermingling with shouts and songs and the sparkling flames of performers magical and mundane.

It all comes together to somehow prove Garreg Mach’s point, its purpose: this is the center of all things in Fódlan. All will find their way here eventually. With Faerghus slowly but surely opening up to the world in the wake of Unification, that only gets more and more true every day.

And perhaps this twirling kaleidoscope of all that is Fódlan would ordinarily be less concentrated along the winding main road leading from Garreg Mach’s base to the monastery proper. Perhaps that road would normally be less cleared - stands and stalls wouldn’t simply line the streets, they would spill onto them. Perhaps there would be less emphasis on all of the fine wares that have found their way to the monastery if it weren’t for the time of year.

The Officers Academy will begin a new school year soon, after all: its opening ceremony is one week from today. So while all of the most powerful - and more to the point, the richest families in Fódlan flock to the monastery to see their young scions off, who can blame this Garreg Mach local or that wandering merchant for looking to come away with some of their coin?

In her head, Ashely knows that the reason for so many of the sights, so much of the wonder that surrounds her stems from that kind of mercenary pragmatism.

In her heart, though, she has to ask who cares where it all stems from, so long as it grows into something beautiful? And Ashely is more inclined to believe her heart even at the worst of times. She is more so with it hammering in her chest, her neck starting to ache from whipping her head this way and that to take in everything. She cannot keep the wide smile off of her face or the wonder from her eyes when a slender woman with long red hair tied back in a ponytail jogs alongside Ashely’s horse, holding up a brooch inset with a sapphire, its silver thread so delicate it could be made of spider silk, and calls out in tones as honeyed as they are rapid, “My Lady, my dearest, dearest congratulations - and what better way to celebrate the new year than with something new to make all of your classmates jealous? You’ll find no better price, only-!”

Without looking over at the scene unfolding beside him, Father snaps an order, and the woman is ushered back from the road by two spearmen in Fraldarius blue. He shakes his head in mild disgust.

Ashely cranes her neck to see if she can discern how much the woman wanted for the trinket. She is lost in the crowds that throng along Garreg Mach’s main road, but for her trouble Ashely is rewarded with the scent of baking cornbread mingling with the warm, almost bitter one of hot chocolate. Not for the first time since arriving, she wants to tug at her father’s arm and convince him that a brief detour in town can’t hurt. Not for the first time, she restrains herself.

Father can only be persuaded to consent to so many detours per day, after all. Riding at his side in the front of the Fraldarius convoy, Ashely can see the frustrated lines digging deep into his forehead. There’s nothing that fascinates him about Garreg Mach’s town, there’s nothing worth marveling at. For Father, Ashely suspects, a crowd of strangers singing his praises and trying to sell him novelties is merely exhausting. He mutters something, too low to hear, that she can guess is along the lines of, ‘Should’ve stayed in the carriage.’

So when Ashely sees a tumbler in garish green and pink motley hop from the arms of a woman on stilts two meters high, pirouetting in the air to land atop a tavern’s signpost, she says aloud, “Amazing!” Father hears her, and his smile is small, but it’s there.

He’s so obviously been fretting about her - not just on the trip from Castle Cuchulain, but all throughout this past moon, from the return to Fraldarius’s capital from Fhirdiad to now. It’s a quiet, inward kind of worry that most people don’t know how to spot, and only Mother knows for sure how to fix (whether with a soothing word in his ear or a sharp flick of his forehead depends on some nuance of Father’s moods that Ashely has given up on fully deciphering).

In truth, before they set out, with his crossed arms and his set jaw and his narrowed eyes, Ashely actually started to worry for a little while that she’d done something. Father rarely explodes at even the worst errors or misconduct - he seethes. Sometimes, that’s worse than if he’d yell. It means he’s trying to figure out how to address what’s bothering him without cutting his target’s throat open on his tongue. And if that target happens to be you, then while he figures it out, you’re left to worry about what you might’ve done.

Usually, Ashely doesn’t have to worry about that: she has something of a knack for avoiding her father’s ire. When she doesn’t, though, she can at least bear his silent disapproval in stride. Ordinarily.

This past moon though, preparing to embark on the adventure of a lifetime, Father’s icy stare had been a press on her shoulders, and every time Ashely felt it was another weight added to it. Finally she’d broached the topic with her mother, trying to keep her voice from shaking despite how desperate she’d been to know what she could’ve done wrong. Mother had stroked her hair and calmed her nerves, reassuring her that her father was just still not fully aware of how sharp his face could be.

That same evening, Father had come to Ashely’s chambers and stood almost sheepishly in her doorway. He’d spoken awkwardly, haltingly, somewhere halfway between Father’s voice and Duke Fraldarius’s, and told her about how when he first went to the Officers Academy, he stole away from Cuchulainn the night before the retinue Grandfather had provided for him had planned to head out. He’d avoided the main roads, trekking through forests and mountain ranges and living on his own wits until they brought him to Garreg Mach’s gates. He hadn’t wanted to suffer through all the pageantry and the posturing of a highborn heir’s arrival at the Academy, and so he simply decided that he would not. And so, he told Ashely, he would not force her to go through what he’d refused to.

His words had carried the unspoken warning that people would note if a second heir to House Fraldarius in as many generations flouted what was the done thing. They also hinted that he would pay little mind to anyone’s wrinkled noses and shaking heads, if that was what his daughter wanted.

Ashely is always grateful for the implication: so often, Father will say, ‘This is what the Kingdom expects of you,’ but his eyes will add, ‘and if you’d prefer to do that, you have my full support.’ It makes Ashely wish she had a little bit more rebellion in her heart. No need to stray from expectations if they look like an adventure in their own right, after all.

As a young man, maybe Father balked at the idea of arriving at Garreg Mach as heir to the Duchy of Fraldarius instead of as a simple warrior. Maybe he couldn’t stomach how people would take in a breath when they saw the young lord and his accompanying host of knights retainer in flowing blue and white parade regalia. House Fraldarius makes less of a show of itself when it puts to the road than some of the other noble families in Faerghus: there is no gilded armor that will dent under a solid hammer swing, no peacock crested jeweled helms to weigh the horses down. If Fraldarius is to show off anything, it is not its wealth or its splendor, but a barely exaggerated show of its might. Maybe even that little would be all fuss without meaning to Father.

But for Ashely, riding at the front of that host by Father’s side, it’s like a dream. So the helms of her father’s retainers value function over form - still Ashely arrives with a train of knights at her back and at her beck. There’s even a touch more ornamentation than if Father had seen to things on his own: Mother insisted on seeing her off, and the duchess of Fraldarius’s tastes for luxury - or at least comfort - are finer than the duke’s. And so their retinue expanded to a series of carriages to ride behind Father’s honor guard, first just for Mother and a few servants. That grew to include room for some select members of Cuchulainn’s court, which had meant accounting for their staff as well. That had meant more wagons to keep the growing host in supplies, and that had meant the addition of a rearguard to protect House Fraldarius’s unexpected guests. In the days of preparation, Father grumbled that he ought never have released Odette from his service to go back to Gautier Territory. A squire could’ve helped him manage what had been a party of a half dozen and instead ballooned to nearly ten times that number. Now, something in Ashely’s head turns the same sentiment feather-light and shining gold - it is as if the entire ducal court has followed her to Garreg Mach to see her off and wish her well. Her Officers Academy uniform may be a bit plain for how heady the occasion is in her mind’s eye, even with the addition of a teal shawl lined with white rabbit’s fur and emblazoned with the crest of Fraldarius on its short cape. She’ll have to lose that: it’s making her sweat with nerves, and she aches from too long in the saddle - but this really does feel like her moment. When the people of Garreg Mach look at the Fraldarius convoy in envy and awe, Ashely can really believe they’re looking at her.

She won’t always get to be a star like that. Is it so selfish to take the chances she gets?

Not selfish, perhaps, but maybe a little presumptuous. Of course all of this isn’t just for her - and there’s more to coming to Garreg Mach than the celebration of her arrival. That’s part of it, but the eyes on her today aren’t just celebratory - they’re watchful. Ashely has at last the chance to step forward herself to represent her house - now she has to show that she’s earned that chance.

Riding alongside her father is a part of that. He is the spearpoint of their column, and that makes Ashely… perhaps a second point, maybe not so sharp. Wherever they go, people can look up and say, ‘there goes Duke Felix - and look, there’s the future duchess.’ And they think… what, exactly? That Fraldarius will remain in good hands? That Father still has work to do grooming his heir?

Ashely isn’t so sure of the picture they make, the two of them side by side. Is it as obvious from the saddle that he dwarfs her as it is afoot? Ashely just barely has a centimeter or two on Mother, and she is beginning to despair of getting any taller. All of the lords and knights in her imagination are shining giants. Of course there’s more to a lord, more to a leader than that. In her head, Ashely knows that. But how convincing is she, next to a titan of the Unification War, as the woman who will one day take his title?

Ashely hopes she is convincing enough. Ashely is sure she is. If she doubts, it’s only proof that she needs to try harder until she believes in herself again.

So she rode from Cuchulainn to Garreg Mach, even when Mother offered her a place in her carriage. So she ended each day’s ride with a sparring session without Father having to ask it of her. So, when Father grew irritable with their large retinue’s slower pace and rode so far ahead that he lost their vanguard, Ashely was not far behind him.

That night, they’d gotten the chance to rough it. For so much of the trip, Father had been quiet, determined, speaking only when there was some practical demand and otherwise content to listen in bemused silence to whatever babble came to Ashely’s mind about the adventure that awaited her. Separated from the rest of their party with the sun caged in a thicket of bare tree branches above their heads and a barely paved road beneath them, Father had mused aloud that this was more how he remembered the journey to Garreg Mach. A solitary expedition with only his own strength to rely on.

Ashely still isn’t sure if he meant ‘and that’s what you should have done.’ She doesn’t think so. He’d sounded too wistful.

And she isn’t sure she’d ever want such a thing as Father described. Ashely can rely on her own strength, but why just her own strength? Isn’t knowing when there’s someone you can lean on - someone you should lean on - its own kind of wisdom?

She asked him that, and he smiled and squeezed her shoulder. Her chest swelled with no small pride.

Father hadn’t spoken again until they’d decided to make camp for the evening. He’d pitched a simple canvas tent  over his bedroll with stray branches for its makeshift poles - a quick and easy job for a soldier on the move. He’d probably thrown together hundreds of them during the war. Then he’d helped Ashely do the same after giving her just a few minutes to try to struggle through on her own. Abstractly, she knows how to do it - the need to do so without help has never arisen though. Another thing to improve on - and probably one she’ll learn at Garreg Mach.

She could make a fire easily enough, though. They’d gathered the wood and tinder, and Father had crossed his arms and looked to her expectantly. Ashely knows well enough how to use a flint and steel, but in that moment she’d wanted to do something a little more impressive - something to make up for her failure with her tent.

So she’d clasped her hands before her like she was praying - or like she was trying to hold a frightened bird gently, but firmly. In the space between them, she imagined the images to call the spell: a circle getting smaller and smaller, yet always containing the same space within its borders. For the final image, the one that makes the magic real, the circle expands back to its original size, but somehow now with double the contained space - and the friction between its substance at the start of the exercise and at the end should create the spark that turns to fire.

There’s a part of Ashely that is always nervous that it’s not going to work, but that part has been fizzling and fading with each successful effort. That night, when she scarcely sketched through the motions of the exercise and a flame still sprung into being, crackling merrily in their makeshift pit, Ashely dared dream that she isn’t a beginner anymore with magic. Half the point of the exercise is, after all, figuring out how to rush your thoughts through it. Anyone can eventually get the hang of the steps to cast a fire spell - effectively sounding them out. A skilled mage is one that doesn’t have to linger on the impossible thoughts, and that is when genius like Mother’s happens.

Ashely still can’t make the wind do her bidding, but that night, she’d managed a fire pit. Every step counts. She’d looked back at her father, and he’d nodded in approval, said aloud, “You’re getting good at that.”

And maybe that had made her stand a little straighter, put just the tiniest chirp into her voice, “I have a good teacher.”

Father had made the noise he makes when something is true, but not otherwise worth commenting on, and Ashely had wondered for a moment if that was going to be that. Then he’d asked, “You’re sure that’s not where you’d rather be?”

She’d blinked, uncertain of what he’d meant. Sometimes, Father’s thoughts will go down these long and winding pathways, and he’ll forget to leave signposts for you to follow along. Ashely had asked, “… at home?” And in case that was what he’d meant, she’d put reproach into her voice, “Daddy-”

“At the School of Sorcery,” Father had corrected, and it had surprised Ashely.

Applying for the School of Sorcery in Fhirdiad had been an experiment, mostly. Ashely had wanted to see if her still budding arcane talents would be enough to pass the entrance exams. Mother’d been even younger than her when she’d taken them and gone on to honors and accolades as a student, but Mother had had the advantage of the right crest to smooth out some of the rougher edges of magical study’s early stages. Ashely’s wouldn’t be the same sort of help.

But her own abilities were enough to earn her a writ of acceptance to the School of Sorcery - and how embarrassing that it had arrived the same week that she’d placed another application, one for the Officers Academy. Really, how many people ended up having to draft a letter to one of the most prestigious schools of the arcane arts in Fódlan to say, ‘thanks, but I think I’ll go do this other thing instead?’

Father hadn’t said anything when she’d first told him she was going to turn Fhirdiad down. Ashely had figured that he’d taken that for granted - maybe he’d even  thought, ‘Thank the Goddess, she’s done with this magic phase.’

Ashely hadn’t thought that he’d taken the School of Sorcery any more seriously than she had. But there he was, gravely asking if it was what her heart had desired all along - and this, not two days ride from the Officers Academy!

Father hadn’t so much as acknowledged the dumbfounded look she’d given him. He’d rubbed at his back, and with a light groan gestured for them to sit by the fire. Ashely had watched the way that shadows danced on his face as he gazed into the flame, “… there wouldn’t be anything wrong with it, you know. If you wanted to spend a year honing your magic before heading off to the Officers Academy.”

“People study magic at Garreg Mach too, Father,” she’d pointed out, and he’d opened his hand to concede the point - but also to gesture for her to continue. She hadn’t been ready to do that, so she fell back on, “And they learn a lot more besides. I just don’t want to overspecialize.”

He’d eyed her, surely not deliberately sharply, “And it has nothing to do with the fact that The Boy is going?”

To Ashely’s credit, she’d only sputtered for a moment or two, “N-no!” And she’d made sure he was looking at her when she rolled her eyes, “No, Father, I’m not throwing away all my own hopes and dreams to chase a boy.” When that didn’t sound strong enough, she’d added, “And it’s not just Remus - Prince Remus! - who’s going. Odette-!”

Father had waved that away. “That isn’t what I asked,” he’d said. His mouth formed that uncomfortable line that it always did whenever Ashely showed a sign or two of being a bit too grown up for his tastes, “I asked if you’re only going because Prince Remus is.”

It had taken a moment or two for Ashely to see the distinction, and she’d pulled her knees up to her chest in embarrassment when she did, “… obviously that’s part of it. One day he’ll be the king, one day I’ll be his Shield of Faerghus.” She’d looked at her father, eyes shining just a little, “So… it only makes sense that when we debut for all of Fódlan, we do it together! Let everyone see the next Loog and Kyphon, the next King Dimitri and you!”

Father had scoffed, and Ashely’s face had heated. She’d been sure he was going to say something caustic, and by the furl of his brow, he’d been about to. But he’d pulled it back, looked gently at her, “Remus isn’t Dimitri. And you don’t have to be me. You know that?”

“Of course I know that-”

“Then I don’t want you making decisions that will affect your whole life based on living up to fantasies,” he’d said - and there’d been a terrible moment where Ashely had been sure, had been positive he was going to declare that they were turning back for Cuchulainn. Even without saying it, he’d sent her mind to racing with a thousand half formed arguments - and the cold certainty that if that was what he’d decided, there would be no convincing him.

But he’d gone on, “If you go to the Officers Academy, I don’t want it to be because all of your friends are going this year, or because you want to live up to some ideal of what Dame Ashely, True Knight would do. I want it to be because you want to go, because you feel ready.”

For the most part, that had relaxed her worries - Father couldn’t very well say that hers was the opinion that mattered and then change his mind a minute later. But her voice had still come out small, uncertain, “Do you… not think I’m ready?”

Father had actually laughed at that, a single barking ‘ha!’ He’d put his arm around her, “This is your life: what I think doesn’t matter. But if it did… I think that if it’s what you really want, you’ll rule over the Academy.”

More words had passed between them that night, but those were the ones that stuck with Ashely the most. They had rung in her ears all through the night as she had tossed and turned in her bedroll, trying to find sleep on the forest floor. They had stayed with her as the rest of their retinue had at last caught up to them the following day, and Father returned to silence. Even now they still rattle around in her head as she spares a glance at her father. His jaw is set, his brow furrowed. He is a man constantly finding the world falling short, but never lowering his standards enough to expect it to.

But his confidence in her had come so easily, so instantaneously. What else could Ashely do but take it in hand and hold it close to her heart? It could be her secret weapon at Garreg Mach: if ever she should have doubts in herself, all she has to do is remember what Father said, and that will chase them away, sure as the morning.

The other side of confidence, of course, is responsibility. You have to prove that you were worthy of having people believe in you, that it was justified all along. Ashely hopes she’s done a little of that these past few years - she’s been the best lady of the court she can be (there are so few opportunities throughout Fraldarius Territory, or at least it feels like there are). She’s minded her lessons, she’s rarely missed a day’s training. There’s dozens of directions for her to grow in, all she needs is the right place to do it - and here they are.

Perhaps there is a part of her - something small, something that’s still a little girl - that is more nervous than excited, fidgeting in her saddle. This really is setting out on her own journey - and all that that implies. When was the last time she was away from Mother and Father for so long? Has there ever been a time?

But there’s another side to that too. Ashely won’t be debuting alone: Remus and Odette will be by her side. Of course they’ve always been there in some capacity - the Houses Blaiddyd, Fraldarius, and Gautier have been close since before Unification, and everyone says that they have grown only closer since. Her bond with them is an ancient thing, a storied thing, a thing that goes back as long as she can remember. So it continues to Garreg Mach. Nothing should be different.

Surely it will be, though? If this is their first step into adulthood, surely the three of them will stride more boldly if they do so hand in hand?

Ashely is sure that they will. She barely resists the urge to kick her heels, to take Garreg Mach’s city streets at a gallop. It’s only a little ways off now, but Ashely still can’t wait.

By Ashely’s best guess, they reach the monastery proper around noontime. Stable grooms come to take her horse almost the moment that she dismounts, but in truth Ashely barely registers their presence. She’s too busy trying to keep her feet anchored to the floor. It’s a losing battle: she bobs on the balls of her feet like a child, her heart races like she ran here from Cuchulainn.

Technically, she’s still in Garreg Mach’s marketplace: a few ragtag vendors sell medicinal poultices and surplus weaponry. But once she races up that last stairway, she’ll be on Academy grounds. Doesn’t that merit just a moment to drink in her destination, finally so clearly in view?

The entrance hall is as stolid a keep as Ashely’s ever seen: its stone walls are high and rugged, white stone bronzed by time. There’s something jagged about the whole thing. Ashely can’t shake the thought that with all the places where wind and time have worn away the structure, an enterprising climber could find handholds enough to take them right to the rooftops. It only has a few windows, each with florid stained glass that glitters in the sunlight like jewels in a crown.

The twin doors of its massive metal gate are thrown open, a spearman in shining silver armor standing vigilant. Even with the white feathers pluming his morion helmet, he looks almost more like a doorman than a true guard: there’s something that’s just so jolly in his manner.

Ashely can’t help herself: she takes the steps two at a time, heart soaring. As she lands at the top, the gatekeeper chuckles good-naturedly, calling out, “Someone’s excited!”

She flashes him a smile she couldn’t fight if she tried, “Of course I am!” And then she remembers her courtesies, dips into a curtsy, “That is, of course I am, Sir Knight.”

“You’re all ready for the new year, then?” the gatekeeper asks, and it’s like music.

Ashely nods firmly - because she’s more than ready, she’s so eager it’s turning into a sort of joyful madness. She’s been running toward the Officers Academy for so long now. It’s always felt just barely in eyeshot, a little speck on the horizon - now she finally, finally gets to see what lies beyond it! It’s almost too much to bear; now that they’re here, it’s all she can think of, to the exception of everything around her.

For example: it occurs to her that she’s bounded ahead of her traveling party. Not exactly behavior fitting her station, but surely it’s understandable now? She twirls on her toes to check behind her, half expecting Father to be giving her a disapproving look - this wouldn’t be the first time she’s indulged in this particular bad habit. Instead, he stands by the side of Mother’s carriage, a hand extended towards it. Mother takes it, stepping down to his side. She’s dressed for a ball: the bodice of her gown is teal, its hemlines furred. Its skirt is white, silver embroidery intertwining the crests of Fraldarius and Dominic.

Looking up the walkway at Ashely, Mother leans on Father’s shoulder, whispers something in his ear. Father smiles, and Ashely gets the distinct impression she should probably be a little embarrassed. She refuses to be. She cups her hands around her mouth, calls down to them, “Mother! Father!! What’re we waiting for, let’s go!!!”

Mother calls back up, “You go on ahead - we’ll catch up, Ashely, don’t worry!”

Ashely’s first instinct is to take her mother up on her offer and dash into the entrance hall. Out of the corner of her eye, she can already see families from throughout Fódlan scattered throughout the wide hall, seeing off their children - her classmates. Who’s here? Anyone she knows? Anyone she never would’ve expected to meet? Of course she wants to find out. Of course she wants to get started.

That, however, would truly be letting her excitement get the better of her. She’s being entrusted to represent her family, better to spare a thought or two for doing so correctly. The future Duchess Fraldarius must be patient, she must observe the proper etiquette for this sort of thing.

So she waits as her parents more sedately take the steps, noting idly that the gatekeeper has stiffened to full attention. He’ll have recognized the Fraldarii, then, and is now lamenting being so casual with Duke Felix’s daughter. A part of Ashely wants to whisper to him not to worry, but she knows that isn’t her place - and all saying that ever seems to do is make people worry more. He puts a fist to his heart and starts to take a knee as Father reaches the top; Father dismisses him to at ease with a sharp flick of his hand without sparing him a glance.

Father still has that hard look on his face - there’s something in Ashely that absurdly wants to laugh at it. He looks like he’s going to battle; he can be so grim sometimes.

Mother, however, is sunlight. Her smile is wide, her eyes sparkling, her steps feather light as they cross the threshold to the entrance hall together. Once they’re inside, she tosses decorum aside, throwing her arms around Ashely with a wordless exclamation of joy. Father gently nudges them out of the flow of traffic, but Mother still holds her tight, sniffing just the once when she thinks Ashely won’t hear, “You’re really here…”

Ashely squeezes her mother, rubs at her back. A part of her worries that she’ll cry: it doesn’t happen that much (weddings and happy endings are her weakness), but if Mother does, Ashely definitely will. That’s far from the impression she wants to make, “I can barely believe it either.”

Mother gives her back a weak swat, “You’re allowed to be proud of yourself right now, Ashely,” She steps back, cupping Ashely’s face in a way that should be embarrassing, but somehow feels right for the moment, “I certainly am. Look at you - my baby girl, all grown up and ready to…!!” for a moment, words fail her and she can only let out an almost girlish exclamation, “You’re gonna blow this school away!”

Ashely feels a tingle in her spine, tries to stand a little taller. Mother has a good intuition. Hopefully she’s right now too.

“Oh - hold on…” She frets lightly over Ashely’s hair, humming to herself as she tucks blue-black tresses behind her ears where they’ve come loose. Ashely does her best to hold still, grateful for a step she might’ve missed on her own: she’s had little time with a mirror the past few days, and more than enough riding to ruin the plait crown Mother’d tied for her when they first set out. Besides, it occurs to her that this will be the last chance for her mother to help her with her hair for a few moons' time. Unprecedented. Strange to think of. Ashely will have to learn to trust a mirror and her own hands as implicitly as she does her mother’s, and that thought is vaguely bittersweet.

There’s a nervous delight to Mother’s doting on her - it’s been building since Ashely applied to the Academy. No, even earlier than that: Mother was just as enthused when it was still the School of Sorcery they were tentatively aiming for. Why not? In her day, Mother was a star pupil at both schools - and rushed headlong into the Royal Army when her time at Garreg Mach came to its abrupt close. So much did she she excel both as student and soldier that when the war ended, she was Lady Byleth’s first pick to be house professor for the Blue Lions - a position the archbishop once held herself.

Ashely’s tried to imagine being such a talented scholar that one day the voice of Saint Seiros trusts her with her old job. Or even better, walking away from that position to start a family because that’s simply what her heart desires. It barely feels believable: it sounds like something out of a fairy tale.

It’s certainly nothing Ashely can picture for herself one day: there’s a different path laid out for her. Oh, she’s happy to walk it, of course she is - sometimes she wishes she had so great a stride that she could follow in her father’s footsteps, but still keep a foot - a toe, at least - in her mother’s.

She’ll have to echo Mother in a different key than how she does Father; well, what’s a melody without harmony?

“You’ve got that faraway look,” Mother says, a conspiratorial smirk on her face, “And just what are you planning?”

Ashely lets out a breathy laugh, “Oh, just…” she waves a hand into the expanse of the entrance hall, “How to even get started!”

“We won’t keep you,” Mother says, “… long.”

Father says idly, maybe mostly to himself, “Her Holiness will want us to visit.” Ashely isn’t sure if that means with or without her. There’s something in his tone that seems to imply the latter - that paying their respects to the archbishop is in part a way to force the two of them to let her spread her wings on her own.

But though he says that, Father lingers. He clears his throat, and Ashely straightens to something like attention. Duke Fraldarius’s face has come over him, hard and imperious. Mother gives him a look, which he ignores, “Now, Ashely. I know you’re excited to be here. But remember that this is a place of learning, and that you come to it as my heir, and representing your house.”

“Of course, Father,” she returns. Formality slips into her voice as stiffly as it does in his. It’s like they’re playing a game of masquerades - she almost can’t help but smile at the thought, “I will do my utmost to bring glory to House Fraldarius.”

“… good,” he says softly. He chews on his tongue for a moment, considering, “… keep up with your training. But don’t neglect your schoolwork.”

“Felix,” Mother says sharply. Father eyes her, and her eyebrows shoot up in some code between the two of them that Ashely has almost decoded. This is, ‘Stop hiding behind decorum and just say what you mean.’

His expression softens, but only a little, “… you remember what we talked about.” That could be any number of things, and when he adds, “When we talked about The Boy.”

Mother’s eyes widen, and she is not as subtle in stepping on Father’s foot as she thinks she’s being. Luckily for him, she’s also not as forceful - or maybe he just has thick boots.

After all, she must think… actually, Ashely doesn’t want to know what her mother thinks Father meant by that. Maybe just that he’s being overprotective and embarrassing. Certainly not that he’d urged her to be her own advocate, to not let Remus or Mother or him or anyone define her path.

Ashely does understand that, and so she nods, “I haven’t forgotten.”

“I stand by it. All of it,” Father says. With a grimace, he adds, “However… I would be remiss in my duties as Duke of Fraldarius if I did not ask you to keep an eye on His Highness. You were right that one day - if you choose to be the next Shield of Faerghus - he will be your burden.”

Ashely laughs, letting her stance ease back to neutral, her tone reassuring, “His Highness isn’t a burden to me, Father.”

Father makes a noise that sounds just ever so vaguely doubtful. Before Ashely can say more to support her claim, Mother adds, “Ashely, don’t worry too much about all of that.” In a vaguely comic reversal, this time Father’s the one to shoot her an incredulous look, and she’s the one to ignore it, “The Officers Academy is one of the few places that a person’s station doesn’t matter - or at the very least, it matters less.” She smiles wistfully, “You’re going to meet people from all over Fódlan, from all sorts of different backgrounds. It’ll be amazing, and wonderful - and overwhelming at first. Don’t be afraid to lean on your friends-”

“‘- and remember to always be there for them to lean on?’” Ashely suggests with a smile. Mother returns it, nods once. They’re all retreading ground now. The trouble with the start of any adventure is the parting that happens at its beginning.

Her parents must feel that way too - Ashely can see on both of their faces how they’re struggling for one last thing to say, one last delay.

Father finds it first, “… what are our words?”

Mother gives him another look, lets out a weak chuckle, “We all really must be out of things to say if-”

“Our words,” Father insists. His tone is almost sharp, his eyes boring into Ashely.

She meets his gaze as if she’s parrying a blade, “Grow stronger so you can live, and live to grow strong.”

His features soften, and he nods. Not, Ashely is sure, a ‘good, that’s correct,’ nod. It’s more like… like House Fraldarius’s guiding ethos has put something into words that he can’t. Father speaks softly, almost inaudibly, “You embody those words better than I ever did.”

It could be the simplest of encouragement: a last reminder to walk tall before they part. But Ashely has learned to read between the lines - and that is why she can’t help but laugh. Her father is a war hero, the finest lord in all of Faerghus, a legendary warrior. He also, sometimes, is a coward. She rushes forward, hugs him around his waist, “I love you too, Daddy.”

There is a second where he only stands awkwardly. But when Father hugs her, he squeezes Ashely tightly, enfolding her in the kind of warmth that so rarely comes to his face. Mother joins them, and for just a moment, Ashely is all but smothered in their love and support.

It should be embarrassing, really. If any of the students in her house happen to see this, it probably will be embarrassing. Ashely doesn’t care.

Soon, though, some unspoken certainty decrees that it’s time for Ashely to set out on her own. When they part, Ashely strides with purpose into the entrance hall - as if she has any earthly idea where she ought to head first. She hopes her steps look confident, that they wash away any reserve doubts that her parents may have.

She ascends another stairway, only having to weave around the other students and their various entourages once, about midway up. To either side of the stairs, a pair of bronzed statues of knights stand vigil, silver tinted swords with blades a story high thrust into the ground - like the ones in Fhirdiad’s throne room (or maybe the ones in Fhirdiad are like them). A blond boy Ashely faintly recognizes with just so many flowing limbs gesticulates wildly at them, relishing the artistic and architectural feat that they represent. In his reverence, he nearly steps into Ashely’s path and she has to turn on a heel a little to weave around him. It’s nothing worth getting worked up about: he should be impressed. The ceiling here is as high as the grandest cathedrals Ashely’s ever seen, and the statues still seem to scrape their heads on it. The bronze tint of their stonework has been carefully maintained across centuries, still glittering and never going to green, with little jewels adorning them enough to make them glimmer, but not so much as to be gaudy. There is a way in which they look less like statues and more like two fastidious giants set to guard the hall. Ashely finds that she can’t spare the moment to stop and take them in, even though they’re her first official look at Garreg Mach Monastery, even though they promise so many more wondrous sights to whatever student is ready to press on beyond them.

When Ashely steps past them, she makes a hard right and presses her back into a wall. After all, she has her own pair of giants in her life to marvel over - and it turns out that she’s going to miss them more than she’d ever imagined.

Once she’s sure that she’s alone, Ashely allows herself one sniff, and dabs her eyes on her fingers (when she ruins her uniform, it will be with hard work, not sentimentality). One breath in, one breath out, one pump of both her fists, and she wills the widest smile back to her face.

It would be silly to look back when ahead of her is the adventure of a lifetime.

Granted, that adventure isn’t going to officially start for one more week. Students are flocking to Garreg Mach from all over Fódlan - all over the world if some of the rumors Ashely overheard in Fhirdiad are true. While that will certainly make for a student body as kaleidoscopically colorful as the monastery’s finest stained glass windows, gathering them all in the center of the continent is undeniably a logistical nightmare. Caravans can be waylaid, freak storms can set ships off course - there’s really any number of reasons that it’s simply more practical to give students a week or two to arrive before any official opening ceremony.

That’s all well and good. It’s actually fantastic: it gives people relatively early to the party - people like Ashely - a chance to get their bearings for Garreg Mach Monastery. It’s technically not completely new territory for her - once, when she was nine, her family took communion for the Goddess’s Rite of Rebirth here instead of in the capital. But Ashely wasn’t exactly scouting out the monastery’s layout back then.

And truth be told, she’s not doing much more of that just yet. When Ashely starts getting a feel for Garreg Mach, she’s sure she won’t be doing it alone.

In the meantime, her wanderings aren’t aimless, but she’s almost purposely not getting her bearings. A courtyard strewn with flowers and fluttering banners of the four houses empties out to a stone walkway whose balcony overlooks the towering cathedral. Near there, a dusty, bumpy stone staircase, its cobbles set wide enough apart that now and then steam hisses into the air from geysers somewhere deep within the mountain Garreg Mach sits atop. The stairway leads, of course, to the monastery’s saunas, but the sauna boss turns Ashely around when she reaches them: the landing is apparently otherwise a dead end. That should put her near the training ground - Father mentioned that they were near each other; there is apparently nothing quite like a decent steam after a day’s training. But when Ashely makes a wrong turn, she finds herself by the pond, the air incongruously tropical due to how close it is to the greenhouses.

One sight gives way to another gives way to another gives way to another, and sometimes it seems that there’s no rhyme or reason to Garreg Mach’s layout. If Ashely were paying enough attention, she’d be throwing together a mental map of where she’s trekked. When she does start a more serious scouting run of the academy, maybe she’ll actually draw one.

But that is a matter for when she finds Remus and Odette. Which raises the natural question: where have they gotten off to?

It feels likely that they’re here already. Odette’s letters suggested that she was probably going to beat Ashely here. That hardly feels fair: Gautier Territory is farther away from the monastery than Fraldarius, and they’re not necessarily out of the woods when it comes to winter yet. Maybe she means that she’s flying in - actually, that’s exactly how she’d want to arrive, isn’t it? Odette would want the clouds Garreg Mach emerged from to be below her.

Remus will probably have arrived in a more official capacity - likely as soon as Garreg Mach opened its doors to arrivals. That’s not his punctuality, it’s the Kingdom’s. It’s a momentous occasion, a crown prince going off to the Officers Academy. It’d just be good politics for Remus to arrive early and to arrive ostentatiously. There was probably a retinue attached to him that would’ve made the Fraldarius party seem paltry in comparison. Ashely can imagine a whole rehearsed ceremony, King Dimitri and Lady Byleth taking the moment to publicly renew the royal family’s ties to the Church of Seiros. Remus would’ve had his part to play as well, his own lines to say.

Goddess, the poor thing - he must’ve hated it.

… although, come to think of it, if anything like that happened, then surely House Fraldarius would be a part of the royal entourage? They weren’t, so that likely that means that Remus didn’t arrive at the head of some big formal procession.

Now that could be because one wasn’t planned out - for all that he must keep up a public face, Ashely actually suspects that His Majesty doesn't care much for spectacle and grandeur beyond what duty calls for. He's like Father in that way. It's entirely possible he'd forgo that sort of thing if he thought propriety would allow it.

But alternatively: maybe Remus didn't arrive with a retinue because he decided on his own not to stick to the plan? Unconsciously, Ashely picks up her pace, though she’s not sure where she’s rushing to. If Remus decided to break from the royal party to arrive on his own terms, that basically puts him in the wind. For that matter, if there was no grand ceremony for the prince’s arrival, Ashely still isn’t sure where he’d have gotten off to. Or maybe her guesswork is wrong entirely, and Remus isn’t even here yet.

Ashely shakes her head. No use worrying about that - she doesn’t even know for sure that there’s anything to worry about.

Mud sloshes under her boots. Absurdly, Ashely lifts a foot and frowns at the muck on her sole as though she’d expected anything else. There’s the distinct fragrance of horses about, earthy and almost pleasant as long as you don’t think too hard about what you’re actually smelling. Distantly, there is the shriek of a wyvern that must’ve caught a whiff of the same scent. A series of wary chuffs follows it, and the nervousness sounds so human that it actually makes Ashely laugh.

She smiles to herself. This is a good call on the part of her feet: if her friends are bumming around anywhere at the Academy, the stables are a decent guess.

And sure enough, she only has to poke her head in a few of the pegasus stalls before she finds Odette.

She stands just outside a stall, her hands on a pearl white pegasus’s snout. The beast nickers and paws a little at the ground, and gently Odette coos, “Hey, you’re okay. See? It’s all the way over there, it can’t hurt you-”

“Odette!” Ashely calls out - though a part of her would’ve been fine with sneaking a treat and listening to her friend telling Harby what a brave boy he is. She’s so much more self-conscious about babying him when there’s other people about.

As she is now: when Odette whirls, there’s the slightest pink to her cheeks. She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees it’s Ashely. Her hand comes up to casually scratch at Harby’s head, and she says, “Ashely! You’re already-”

Ashely cuts her off with a hug that audibly knocks the wind out of her. It’s not strictly decorum for noble ladies, but they’re alone in the stables right now. She squeezes Odette once, then hops back with a bright smile. It fades as she takes her friend in, and incredulously she blurts, “Did you get taller!?” It’s only half a joke: it doesn’t feel like Odette was a full head above her when she was staying in Cuchulainn. Ashely puts her hands on her hips, feigns a stern pout, “We talked about this, you’re not allowed to until I catch up!!!”

Odette laughs, sheepishly fiddling with an unruly strawberry blonde curl. She hasn’t cut her hair since they last saw each other; it’s practically all the way down her back now, and getting to be a bit of a mane, “I must’ve forgotten, sorry.”

Folding her arms with show-irritation, Ashely says, “It’s okay. This time. But no more!”

“I’ll do my best,” Odette says with a grave nod to give that all of the solemnity that it absolutely does not deserve. There is a beat where the two try to keep a straight face, then it passes and both of them break down in giggles. Those too pass, and Odette leans back against Harby’s stall (the pegasus affectionately starts to nip at her hair until she swats him away), “You must just be getting in - didn’t expect to see you for another day or two.”

“We made good time!” Ashely grins. More than a little of that probably has to do with Father forcing their retinue to keep pace with him or fall behind. Probably a purely accidental gift on his part, but one Ashely appreciates all the same, “You?”

Odette makes a noise like she just found half a worm in her apple, “Ashely, I’ve been stuck in a carriage with my entire family for over a week now.” Ashely lets out a sympathetic wince, which her friend nods maybe a little melodramatically at. Odette has four brothers - two older, and two younger. Add Margrave and Margravine Gautier to the mix, and it feels like almost too many people for one carriage - especially given that from all that Ashely’s seen, the more Gautiers you get in a room, the louder and more unruly they all get, “Seriously, the whole ride was nothing but ‘Now Odette, the thing you have to remember is…’ and ‘You know, when I was at the Academy…!’ I swear, sometimes I wish I could’ve just walked.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Ashely says brightly, hopping over a place where the muddy stable floor has made a puddle of itself to stand at her side, facing the stall. Admittedly, all the Gautiers together can be overwhelming, but as an only child herself, it’s easy to envy the family’s (occasionally violent) camaraderie, “… the way you all stick together like that.”

Odette shakes her head with a light laugh, “I wouldn’t really call it ‘sticking together.’”

“I would,” Ashely says matter-of-factly, “Your brothers care about you getting the most out of the Academy, so they’re giving you all the advice that they can.”

The noise Odette makes means, ‘I see your point, and you’re probably right, but I wish you could be wrong so my brothers could just be annoying.’ With a sigh, Odette turns to stroke Harby’s neck, saying, “This poor baby-” she flushes as she catches and corrects herself, though Ashely pretends she didn’t notice the slip, “Poor Harby had to be cooped up for the whole ride.”

Ashely asks, “Actually, yeah - you didn’t fly in? I’m surprised.”

“No,” Odette sighs, crossing one leg over the other to tap her toes against the mud floor, “We were going to, but Father was all like…” she puts on a bumbling bass that sounds absolutely nothing like Margrave Gautier, “‘This is an important part of my baby girl’s life’ - he said that Ashely, he actually called me his baby girl - ‘and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to be there for it!’”

She rolls her eyes and Ashely gives Harby’s snout a scratch. He chuffs good-naturedly, a surprising blast of heat on her hand, “Well, it’s technically true, y’know? Like, even for house politics, seeing you off is just what a lord does to show the other lords he has his act together.”

“Yeah…” Odette concedes, because she has no choice - but her tone makes it clear she wishes she did, “But…” she hesitates, “Well…”

“What?”

Odette looks away, says quietly, “… I was looking forward to flying in with Mother.” Even quieter, she adds, “… when we got closer, I was gonna ask her to race me - don’t laugh!”

Ashely tries, but for a moment she simply can’t, “Oh Goddess, you’re adorable sometimes.”

Sinking down couple of centimeters, Odette mutters, “I am not.”

Odette is certainly allowed to think that, and Ashely knows better than to insist. But even if she keeps it to herself, she knows the truth. Odette might’ve grown into one of the hardest working knights aspirant that Ashely knows. She might have gotten light on her feet and quick with her lance. She might’ve even worked up the courage to publicly ask Father to take her as a squire - the only one he’s ever taken as far as Ashely knows.

But Ashely still remembers a time that Odette clung to her and Remus’s shadows, that she used to practically hide whenever someone else tried to talk to her. It might not be fair to still have that image of her in her head when Odette’s spent so much time trying to fly away from it. Ashely can’t help it - after all, how can you be proud of someone’s progress if you have to forget where they started? Maybe this is what being a big sister would be like.

“And now she’s thinking something weird,” Odette observes dryly, and Ashely can’t help but laugh because it’s true. Shaking her head, Odette changes the subject, “… you said you just got here?” Ashely nods, and she muses, “I’ll have to pay my respects to your father.”

“He went to see Lady Byleth,” Ashely says.

“Mm. Mother and Father went to see her as well…” That’s no surprise; it’s such a natural thing for a lord to do on a visit to Garreg Mach that Ashely just assumed as much without Odette saying so. Odette pales a little as she observes, “… which means they’ll all run into each other,” There’s something in her tone signaling she dreads the possibility.

For the life of her, Ashely doesn’t get why. Their families’ longstanding friendship is the biggest part of how her, Odette, and Remus ever even found one another. “Maybe we can do some kind of family dinner in town before everyone else heads home?” she chirps. To see the horrified look she gets in return, you’d think she’d suggested they build all of Odette’s brothers a little shack outside her dorm room so they can check up on her whenever they get worried. And maybe she’s right. Not much point in leaping from the nest if everyone else in there just comes diving after you a second later.

As nonchalantly as she can, she adds, “Maybe Remus can come along too if he’s here yet.”

Her friend smirks, “Smooth,” and Ashely can’t help but be embarrassed. With a roll of her eyes, Odette says, “Well no, Ashely, since you’re asking, I haven’t run into His Highness yet. Haven’t left the stables yet, as you can see.” Ashely opens her mouth, and Odette cuts her off, “And no, I haven’t seen his kicking, biting monster either.”

That doesn’t necessarily signify anything. It isn’t that unusual for highborn students to bring along a favorite horse or pegasus from home. But it isn’t a requirement to bring along your own mount: it’s just that one you’ve potentially spent years practicing with is always going to be a better choice than one completely unfamiliar. That, though, might not be as much of a problem for Remus as it would be for anyone else. Even some of the wildest animals have always liked him: it’s the sign of a good heart.

“Toto’s not that bad,” Ashely murmurs, and when Odette snorts she adds, “… anymore. He let me ride him, you know.”

Odette whistles, and it hits a slightly sarcastic note, “Remus let you near Toto? Wow.”

Ashely shoots her a look, “Odette.”

“Ohhh, wait, you meant Toto stopped being a brat long enough to-”

“Be nice.”

Two words, and Odette’s smug look is gone, her brows furrowing, her voice defensive, “I’m not-! Ashely, he-!”

Definitively, Ashely shuts down whatever excuse she’s trying to conjure, “Remus has enough problems in front of him without having to worry about us being on his side.”

Odette weighs that for a moment, and only slightly sulks when she folds her arms, huffing. Conceding the point. “Sorry,” she says. She shakes her head, shakes whatever frustrations are blossoming in there out, “I… just need to get some of it out of my system before we see him. You know how sensitive he can be - I mean, you of all people-”

“He’s not the only one who can be,” Ashely reminds her, trying for just stern enough to keep things light.

By Odette’s sigh, she’s succeeded - mostly, “Fair…”

“We’re all on the same team,” Ashely says gently. And then she adds a touch of brightness to her voice, “Actually no, that’s literally true isn’t it?”

“Unless one of you two changed houses?” Odette asks, and Ashely lets out a little yip of laughter at the very idea. Leaning in and lowering her voice, she adds, “I heard some people have already done that, you know. The school year hasn’t even started!”

“Well. We’re lucky then!” Ashely says, though a part of her is curious who would be so quick to jump ship like that. Or indeed if anyone really has; rumors can be so strangely pointless. That’s not important right now: Ashely stands tall, tries to will the stars into her eyes, “We started out exactly where we need to be!”

Odette straightens, tosses a lock of hair out of her eye. She can play it cool all she wants, but there’s things she can’t hide from Ashely. The two know each other’s dreams, the parallel course they both race along. Odette can say whatever she wants to about Remus, Ashely still knows that Remus will have no truer knight, “A good thing too - if he wants to get anything done, Remus’ll need us.”

Ashely isn’t so sure how true that is - he’d find his way on his own, wouldn’t he? But she has no need and no intention to find out, not when she’s already come here to be at his side. With a flash of a grin, she says to Odette, “Well of course he will. Any king needs a decent spear and shield!”

Odette blinks, thrown briefly, “… am… am I the spear in this…? I mean I must be, but-!”

She lets out a yelp as Ashely finally just takes her hand and pulls her from the stables. Swiveling on a heel to shoot Harby a salute (which the pegasus chuffs disinterestedly at), “Harby, you hold things down here while we’re off!”

“While we’re…?” Odette gives her a puzzled look, “But where’re we…?”

“To find Remus, of course!” Ashely chirps, for a moment forgetting to turn that into ‘the prince’ or ‘His Highness’ while they’re outside, where anyone can hear. No, but they’re at the Officers Academy - here, it’s perfectly fine to be familiar with him. Here, they all stand on even ground, “We’ve got a week before classes start - let’s use the time to get ready!” She starts along the first path she can find, dragging Odette behind her. If he’s even here yet, Remus could be anywhere - so if Ashely’s to look for him, she can start wherever she feels like, “I’ve already got so many ideas!”

Odette protests, but only lightly, and laughing. She can pretend all she wants, but her pulse has to be racing too, right? Years dreaming of this new adventure, and now they’re here. For her part, Ashely can barely think for the sound of her heart pounding in her ears.

If it’s what she wants, Ashely will rule the Academy. That’s what Father said.

So if she wants Remus to rule the Academy, and her and Odette to stand in support of his wise and just reign, she can have that too, right?

She knows she can.

Theodore

The window to his dorm is just starting to sparkle with dawn’s first rays when Theo wakes. He yawns - more a routine than exhaustion, he’s used to waking up and being up. Something in the pit of his stomach is antsy to do so now, but he lets it squirm and takes his time. An oft-neglected aspect of time management is knowing how to relax. Languidly stretching, he extends a leg out from underneath the covers and into air just a touch more brisk than the night before; quickly, he snatches it back.

For just a moment longer, he lets himself lie there arms akimbo, and smiles serenely at the ceiling. Garreg Mach is so quiet at this time of day, you’d never expect it. Back home, Theo’s parents run a tavern and inn with his uncle: it is named the Twingalley Tavern in a nod to the two merchant families they hail from. The Twingalley is cleverly placed such that it wears the bend of a tributary that flows into the Airmid River like a shawl; some of its nicer rooms gaze out at the waterfront for the patron’s choice of a sunrise or sunset view. Even more clever: it lies just off of the main road from the Great Bridge of Myrddin to Garreg Mach, so it will always have business from those making pilgrimage (especially this time of year), and yet it’s not so close to either point of the journey that business can be drowned by competition. Hospitality has been his family’s livelihood since shortly after Unification. It’s only natural, therefore, that Theo knows a thing or two about comfort: it has been his business to know about it.

Silk sheets in his own bed is new to him though. Theo rubs a finger idly against them: smooth, almost as if there’s nothing there at all. He sits up and only notices them falling away when the morning chill hits his chest.

It didn’t occur to him to expect luxury at Garreg Mach Monastery. Yes, the Officers Academy is so popularly imagined as a place where all the noble children go to play croquet and bat their eyelashes at one another, but it is a military academy. Such attention to comfort is a welcome surprise, but still a surprise.

He slides out of bed, meticulously making it and smoothing the sheets. There are probably servants who would do that for him, but Theo knows what it is to be in their shoes. The Casagranda Institute follows a similar yearly schedule to the Officers Academy; even if he had not graduated last year, Theo would’ve been on break right about now, and without any lessons to get to, he would’ve been needed to pitch in at the tavern. So if he were home right now, he’d have woken at about the same time as here when one of Uncle Raphael’s roosters crowed. From there, he’d have slipped by the guest rooms, checking to see who was still abed and who had started their day, tidying up whatever he could as he went. He’d have had a lot to do: this is actually one of their busiest times of the year, when families come from by scores from the Kingdom’s southeast ahead of the school year. Hopefully Kristin and Emanuel, his younger siblings, are handling it well enough without his guidance.

Today, instead, Theo will start with a workout. Nothing extreme. If he wanted true training, he’d go to the training ground; that’s what it’s there for, that’s why it’s called that. Humming quietly to himself, he decides on something simple: ten pushups, ten squats, ten crunches. And he’ll do three quick sets of each. On a whim, once he reaches the last one, he adds an extra two of each. Perfect: invigorating, but not tiring.

Theo rises, places his hands on his hips in consideration. Is he going to morning prayer today? It’s as important to take care of the soul as it is the body, and the cathedral is a feast for the eyes, but that’s just the problem, isn’t it? If Theo goes to the Grand Cathedral again, he’s going to feast on it, he’s going to want to take in every inch of its resplendence. He’s already allowed himself a full day of that kind of distracted sightseeing. Theo came to the Academy early so he could get a head for its layout: he won’t get that if he paces a trench between his room and the cathedral.

So compromise: he kneels, he claps his hands together, and he intones, “Goddess gentle and strong, thank You for this day and for every day.”  There, morning prayer. Sometimes flattery, however much She may deserve it, is better left implicit.

Theo dresses slowly, deliberately; there’s still a little magic to the fasten of each button of his uniform. It feels like he’s donning a suit of armor - but before a joust, not a battle. So there’s something a little flashy to the way that his jacket hugs his shoulders, or the way the gold trim on his pant legs emphasizes the tone of his thigh. He gazes in the mirror, inspecting himself, and wonders for a moment why he looks so fuzzy. Then Theo clicks his tongue, raises a finger in realization, and turns on a heel to retrieve his glasses from the bedside table. They’re new, a gift from Father on their recent trip to Derdriu: though their lenses are woefully thick as ever, they’re sharp enough to disguise that fact. On return to the mirror, yes, that’s much better.

His yellow-green hair is just about orderly enough on its own; Theo barely needs to run a comb through it to make it behave. If he really wanted, maybe the thing to do would be to shake it out a little - no, something tells him that he can’t quite pull off ‘rakish.’ His jaw is too pronounced for that, the dimple of his chin too… too something, though Theo can’t quite say what. He runs his fingers along his cheeks, idly considering. Maybe with some scruff…?

A moot point: there is none to speak of. And if there were it would be liable to make him look more the part of a wild ruffian, besides. He stands tall: rigid at first, then casually. There has to be a nice halfway point between the two of them: something that says to anyone here who might think themselves his social betters both ‘I can mimic all your social graces with ease,’ and ‘they come so naturally to me, look how relaxed I am.’ 

And that’s the crux of any worry he has right now all alone in his room, isn’t it? There obviously is a precise, perfect vision of himself he can present. There’s a golden angle people can see him from where Theo won’t just blend seamlessly into Garreg Mach’s noble patchwork, he’ll shine among them. That vision, that angle: those are the things that Theo needs to pin down before the year starts. He’s closing in on both of them, but he doesn’t have either yet. And so his curse is a just a flutter of anxiety to pick through every morning. For now, for exactly the space of time that he is alone any given morning, that’s fine. But these worries can’t follow him to class: they have to stay in the dorm room. Now whether that’s possible… well, that’s it’s own separate thing to worry about.

But then these are exactly the sort of things, when the school year starts, that Theo will be helping his housemates manage, aren’t they? So even this can be its own lesson to learn: he can practice on himself. His reflection tilts its head just a tick. Its lips don’t show any teeth, but its smile still widens: indulgent, but warm. That might be The Look: the perfect blend of affability and confidence. Not a jumped up peasant’s look, but one of a leader.

One thing is certain: the most idiotic thing Theo could do with his time is stare at a mirror making faces at himself. So without any further preamble, he nods as if to announce his departure to his reflection and turns on a heel. His hand finds his pocket, swats its way back out, and he strolls from his dorm room into Garreg Mach’s dormitory courtyard.

He takes one more moment to breathe in the dry, cool morning air. There is immediately something smoky on it that makes Theo’s mouth water. He strides with purpose towards the dinning hall. His dorm isn’t far from it: luck has placed the gateway of a hedge wall directly across the cobbles from his dorm. Go through it, take a right through the garden, and there you are.

It’s amazing how thick the walls of the Academy are - none too different from those of any other castle, Theo supposes, but he’s lived in so few. Outside the dining hall, there is peace, silence but for birdsong. Open the door, and noise explodes like an Almyran cannon.

No, that’s an exaggeration: for now, the sound is more the rumble of a conquering army’s hoofbeats, a warning of the cacophony to come growing ever louder. It’s still early after all, and the long rows of tables are sparsely filled - the hall is maybe at a fourth capacity, if that. But students’ in black and gold make up the majority of those seated. One thing Theo has learned over the years is that if left unchecked, any room with more than five people his age is liable to turn into the loudest place in Fódlan. His lip twitches. One morning, he’s going to be on his game enough to get here ahead of the entirety of the din, and he’ll enjoy his breakfast to the sound of it starting up.

Theo gets a taste of that experience now. The dining hall isn’t in full swing yet, but it’s building to it. Anyone who’s here right now is someone with the dedication to use personal freedom to get an early start - and so someone with their own aspirations, their own pieces to move into place before the school year begins. Or alternatively, these are the people who have had their dedication drilled into them through their upbringing, and kept ahold of it when they left the nest. Either way, Theo should be paying attention to who’s who - these will be his peers, after all. Those destined to be both his closest allies and his fiercest rivals are likely in this room right now.

That’s almost a little hard to believe: they seem like any other assortment of youths Theo’s seen - it may even be that they’re a little more unruly. A freckled boy with roguishly messy silver hair dashes past Theo and into the dining hall’s serving line, crowing with victory as another, this one with slicked back dark hair the color of the bags under his eyes, huffs up behind him a moment later. At a nearby table, a pair of girls gossip animatedly about Prince Remus: the one with wide, bright eyes chirps that today they’ll finally find him. Somewhere towards the back of the hall, some of the older boys guffaw and jostle one another over some money that one owes another - they don’t say it’s to do with gambling until the wolfish behemoth they’re centered around crosses his arms and roars that he doesn’t pay up for rigged matches. He gets nearly a half dozen smacks to the back of his head for being so brazen, and Theo worries for a moment that there’s going to be a fight.

But no, they’re all laughing a moment later: it’s just its own group with its own rules. That’s the trouble with being adjacent to the nobility, but not one of them. There’s all of these pre-established circles of who knows who, and who does and doesn’t get along, and it’s all academic for now because Theo can’t really penetrate any of them yet. Certainly not in this wider social context. He isn’t really someone who walks into a room and all eyes instantly shift to him. Theo’s going to have to prove by word and by deed exactly what he brings to the Academy, and all of this lot will have to learn to appreciate that. He supposes that he is, for better and for worse, an acquired taste.

In the meantime, he is next to a nonentity. As Theo steps into the hall, a young man seated nearby with dusty brunette hair tied back in a messy ponytail suddenly slams a hand down on his table hard enough that Theo nearly jumps a little. The boy stands just as abruptly, hurtling past him with a glare that should be reserved for an enemy yet doesn’t even see Theo, and Theo turns quickly to the side so they don’t collide. The boy doesn’t so much as glance back in apology.

The tan, straight-backed girl that he’s left behind is little better. She lets out a long-suffering sigh before turning her head look at Theo. Her lips raise in a smile that looks practiced, and her amber eyes flicker over his face. There's something to her that looks vaguely Brigidi, but Theo can't put his finger on exactly what - a part of him is curious about that. She is not nearly so interested in him: Theo is fairly sure he isn’t imagining that her eyes dull a little when she determines that she doesn’t recognize him, “My apologies for him.”

She is courteous, but only to the point of necessity. Theo can be that too: he puts a hand to his chest, dipping his head, “Think nothing of it.”

And she doesn’t. She gives him one more not-smile, dabs at her lips with a handkerchief, and is on her way without a word. Theo only lets out a silent sigh through his nose, and gets into line to be served.

Breakfast is bangers and mash served with a drizzle of mixed berry jam. Someone in the kitchens was overly fond of garlic making the potatoes: it doesn’t drown the natural flavor, but it tries its damnedest. It’s still delicious, but Theo’s mother makes better. He nonetheless enjoys it in relative silence to the clamor growing around him; as luck would have it, the table that the rude boy and dismissive girl abandoned is still empty when Theo gets his food, and so he is able to enjoy most of his meal by himself, one eye on the tapestry of humanity around him.

There is a niggling doubt in the back of Theo’s mind: so many of the faces he sees aren’t familiar. That isn’t unusual, for the most part: Theo is the new element here after all. But it’s been a few days that he’s been at the Academy, and he’s made it his business to at least introduce himself to as many people in his house as he can. Professor Lysithea was quite obliging when he asked to copy down the class roster for that purpose after first arriving. The better to establish a rapport later after all. There have been a few classmates he’s met since then - not only is it truly difficult to track down any given person at the Academy, not everyone was as punctual as Theo, and he’s tried to remember that many of his classmates might still not be in Garreg Mach. Griffin von Edmund and Boris Holden Albany were some happy exceptions, even if both of them seemed more bemused or perhaps bewildered by Theo than anything else. But none of them seem to be in the dining hall.

And so a query: if Theo has theorized that most of the students who are up early are the more dedicated students, and he cannot pick out many of his housemates among their number, what does that say about said housemates?

Perhaps nothing. Perhaps just that his theory is wrong, and there is no inherent correlation between when a Garreg Mach student gets up and how diligent they’ll be.

But…

Theo eyes his plate. There’s a clean line where it goes from full to clear, two different kinds of neat. Only a few flecks of mash spoil the image: he tries to move them with his fork back into the pile, but they don’t fit neatly enough.

He leans back a little, lets out another inaudible sigh. These are exactly the kinds of worries he knows that he doesn’t have time for. The same doubts that if he lets grow in him he knows will invariably spread to others. Then where will he be?

What Theo needs is a distraction - work is a distraction. So perhaps he’ll wolf down what’s left of his meal and-

“Guild-master?”

For less than half a second, Theo wonders if he imagined the small, familiar voice behind him. He turns his head (he tries to copy the almost regal elegance of the noble girl who dismissed him. It’s there, he thinks) and lets his own practiced smile spread across his face, “Well, this is a surprise! Hello there, Rosa.”

It isn’t actually a surprise. It was one when Theo looked over his class's roster for the first time and saw a commoner’s name he recognized. No need for Theo to tell her that he already knew she’d be here: she’s skittish enough without thinking people are keeping tabs on her.

As it is, Rosa Esperanza is looking just as harried as she always seemed at the Casagranda Institute. Her eyes are wide and there’s a faint flush to her cheeks like she’s just been running. Her dark teal hair is braided and tied back in a tight ponytail that goes just past her neckline. It would be a neat little bit of controlled chaos except for the few rebel flyaway springs that desperately wante to hang in front of her glasses. She clutches a bound leather journal to her chest like it’s just tried to escape, a bright smile coming to her face, “I thought that was you! I always figured you- that is, obviously you’d be able to- but anyway, you’re here! At Garreg Mach, I mean!”

“I am,” Theo says. There is no way to swing one’s legs over a table bench with any real grace, but he thinks he approximates it enough, folding one over the other and gesturing to Rosa, “And so, I see, have you.” She nods vigorously at that, and he smiles, “Congratulations. You were getting breakfast - care to have it with me?”

“Oh!” she tries to tuck her hair behind her ear again, not even seeming to notice that it’s to no avail, “I, uh… well I wasn’t necessarily- I just wanted to see what they were serving and-”

Theo cuts her off, airily saying, “You know, it’s truly a marvelous thing, the Officers Academy dining hall. I wonder if there’s any other place on earth where anyone can drop in and get themselves a meal for free.”

Rosa blinks as that registers, murmuring, “Oh…” again. Jerkily, she holds out her journal, her voice rising to a squeak, “Uh… in that case I’ll… that is, Guild-master, do you think you could…? If it’s not too much trouble, I mean, I just don’t want to lose it or spill something or-”

“Of course,” he takes it, setting it neatly beside his plate and letting his hand rest idly on its cover, “… but you’ll have to stop that, Rosa. I’m not your guild-master anymore - as far as I’m aware, there is no students’ guild at the Officers Academy.”

She nods - two sharp, awkward ticks, “Oh - you’re right, uh… er…?”

He sighs, throws her a bone, “Theo?”

“Theo!” Rosa stammers, “I - it’s not that I forgot your…! It’s just, y’know, ‘how formal should I-!!!’”

“I think you and I can skip that entirely, Rosa,” Theo says gently. Shifting slightly back towards the table, he gestures to the serving line, “Go get some breakfast and take a deep breath, we’ll talk.”

Two more of those ticks, and Rosa scurries off. Theo watches her from the corner of his eye, only a little bemused.

If there was going to be anyone else from the Casagranda Institute at the Officers Academy, it was going to be her. She was in the year under him - and so the second year of the Institute’s time operating. It offered them both, as it offers the children of all subjects of Gloucester Territory regardless of class, a general education with instructors and facilities funded by the ducal treasury. There’s ways in which you could argue that the House of Gloucester founded their experimental academy more for people in Rosa’s situation than Theo’s. Father doesn’t call in that many favors from the Victors - if anything, he seems to run more than his fair share of errands for that side of the family. But he could have borrowed a little money from the family trading company to hire a tutor or to send Theo and his siblings off to pursue their education elsewhere. The Gloucesters’ generosity meant that Father never had to. As far as Theo is aware, Rosa’s has no such luxury. The Casagranda Institute offered her an opportunity to learn that simply wouldn’t have been there if she’d been born just about anywhere else in Fódlan.

And that would’ve been a shame because even if she can be - to be blunt - a bit of a stammering, stuttering mess at times, Rosa is actually quite bright. From all that Theo understands, she had better marks at the Institute than his own. She’d been Theo’s easiest pick when the school began experimenting with the concept of a students’ guild and his class elected to place him in the unenviable position of figuring out what exactly one of those looked like. She’d fulfilled the role of steward admirably enough that Theo hadn’t had to spend a moment worrying about the treasury - all he had to do was ask, and Rosa would know if they had enough for this, that, or the other project. And so the two necessarily worked together for the better part of the school year - in truth, Theo had relied more on her than on his guild chancellor, nominally his second in command.

He’d never imagined he’d be able to keep doing so - so having Rosa at Garreg Mach is an unexpected treat.

That said, she nearly trips over her own two feet rushing to the table. Theo waves away her apology, and when she vaults the bench to sit at his side, he insists she get some food in her before they worry about anything else.

Rosa wolfs down her mash like’s going to be taken away if left alone for even a moment - obediently, she waits until she’s halfway done before turning her head to ask, “So… uh… Gui - Theo! How long have you been here?”

“At this table? A few minutes now,” he says with a coy look. Rosa starts to say something else, but he takes her real meaning before she can, “At Garreg Mach? About a week.”

“A week!?” she repeats, paling just slightly. Her grip on her fork tightens nervously, “Were we supposed to get here that early? I didn’t-”

“Oh, no - I just wanted to get a feel for the Academy,” Theo explains, “It’s more efficient, I think, to get some sense of how to get around before the year starts and we’re all on a schedule.”

“Well, I had the same idea - don’t want to, y’know, be late for any classes or anything,” she says, “But I just got here yesterday.”

Theo shrugs, “Maybe I was overcautious.”

“Or just diligent,” she gives back.

“Well. I hope you’re right,” Theo says. He takes a bite of his food, deliberately taking his time to make it into a beat, “Oh, come to think of it, what house will you be starting in?”

“The Golden Deer!” she chirps, and Theo is about to say that he is too when she adds, “The same as you! I… uh…” and now she’s second guessing saying it like that, and the stammer is coming back into her voice, “Well I talked with Professor Lysithea, and she let me look at the class roster before- Theo?”

She cuts off when Theo laughs. He waves a hand to dismiss that, “No, don’t worry, you’re fine.” Great minds think alike and all that, “It’s just… well, you’re working just as hard as when I last saw you, aren’t you?”

There’s those two sharp nods again - maybe it’s a little more confident this time, “We’ve gotta - got to - be, right? There’s so many people from noble families who must be leagues ahead of us right now - we’ll have to work twice as hard to catch up.”

“I wonder,” Theo says quietly, and though she makes an inquisitive noise, he doesn’t expand upon that. So far, his impression of a lot of his social betters is, generously, skeptical. He eyes Rosa sideways, smirks conspiratorially, “Anyway. When you spoke with Professor Lysithea, did she by any chance confirm a certain rumor about the Golden Deer this year?”

She makes that noise again, cocking her head to the side. Theo probably shouldn’t enjoy that she’s looking at him like he’s the most mysterious and interesting person in the room. But he does. Rosa asks, “Rumor? Theo, I don’t really… well, rumors aren’t really my thing, y’know?”

“I do,” he adjusts his glasses slightly, and unconsciously she mimics the action, “This one, though, is a rumor that this year the Golden Deer house leader is as yet undecided.” He eyes her, “We’re going to vote on who it will be.”

Rosa blinks, considering that only for a moment before she says, “You have my vote, Guild-master.” This time she uses his old title deliberately, and this time he lets her.

Theo hadn’t thought there was ever any doubt that Rosa would have that kind of faith in him - he hasn’t really considered even the possibility that she might not. Still, her confidence is gratifying, relieving in a way that’s hard to put into words. He sets a hand over his heart, dips his head, “And you have my thanks, Guild Steward.”

Rosa giggles girlishly at that, but is quick to snap from flattery to business, “But I’m probably not the person you’re most worried about convincing?”

She asks it with all the clear invitation of a prompt, and Theo is eager to take her up on it, “Much as it pains me to say, no. There’s a certain… let’s think of it as an aristocratic sensibility to some of our housemates. Some of them are destined to one day hold their own titles and rule their own lands, so it’s only natural that they might chafe under someone else’s leadership.”

At once Rosa’s eyes are sharp, and she steeples two fingers under her nose as she contemplates her plate like she’s trying to divine the way forward from its remaining crumbs, “It seems to me that that bunch would end up sorting themselves out - if they’re all voting for themselves, then even just you and I would be enough to-”

“Yes, but they aren’t alone, are they?” Theo cuts her off, not unkindly, “Other, shall we say more reserved folk - noble or otherwise - are more likely to gravitate towards someone they know is already on the path to leadership. The Kingdom trusts that, say, Lord Boris is suitable to reign over Albany. Why shouldn’t the Golden Deer have the same trust in him?”

Rosa scrunches her face slightly, and has to take a careful breath to stay tactful, “I… uh… spoke with Lord Boris. I don’t really… I don’t think he’ll be a problem. That is, not a problem, but-”

“Think of him more of as an example of the other sort, then,” Theo replies swiftly. He’s met the young Albany lord too, it isn’t lost on him that Boris seems a little unapproachable at first blush. That sort of badmouthing behind someone’s back still might lead to a certain awkwardness when classes start up - exactly the kind of thing that a good house leader will preempt, “Perhaps he knows that he lacks the rhetorical skill to be house leader in his own right - surely, then, his next natural move is to look to whosoever has what he lacks?”

Rosa nods slowly and murmurs, “Makes sense.” She still eyes Theo thoughtfully, asking, “… and you don’t think anyone’s going to look at you that way? I mean, with your family and everything - your father… and I mean…?” She shrugs, “The Victor name isn’t exactly unheard of.”

“That it is not,” Theo agrees evenly, “… and when people hear it, what do they think of?”

“…” she has to think about that for longer than you’d expect. Fair: while the answer is obvious, its significance is less so, “… art, most likely. Is it true that your father painted the royal family’s portrait?”

“It is,” Theo agrees, “… as is the fact that he fought at King Dimitri’s side in the Unification War.” She actually starts, and Theo smirks; she’s just proved his point, “Which I had to tell you for you to know. As for the rest of the Victors…” he shrugs, tries to say as nonchalantly as he can, “Well, they’re rich.”

“Fabulously rich,” Rosa adds, just a little incredulous.

“But not gloriously so.” Theo says with a shrug, “Theirs is a wealth built on trade and tariffs. Cutting costs and pinching pennies. There’s no valor in it, no legend.” He gestures to himself as he might to a serviceable, but unremarkable piece of furniture, “So all of our noble peers with their heads full of tales of knightly honor and cunning stratagems are going to look at me and think ‘ah, that one’s from a family of accountants.’ Or they’re going to look at me and think, ‘ah, that’s the one with a famous painter for a father.’ It is possible that my uncle on the Victor side of the family owns the debt of this or that lord. But that sort of work… the aristocracy think it’s dirty. There’s more notoriety to be had from it than fame.”

Rosa hangs on his explanation, and it’s hard to tell if she’s internalizing it or just watching him talk and letting the full meaning wash over her. She eyes her plate again for answers, noting, “You know a lot about how the nobility think, Theo.”

“I have been blessed with the opportunity to learn,” he says simply. With a reassuring smile, he adds, “And now so have you.” With that, he rises and takes their empty dishes, “But for now, we have a different task at hand: we’re not looking to discern what our classmates think - we’re hoping to shape it before they decide for themselves.”

Scurrying beside him, Rosa nods along, adding, “Then… that’s also part of why you got to the Academy as early as you did?” He smiles: she’s already got it, “… basically to canvas for votes?”

“Think of it more as… attempting to leave an impression,” Theo says, leading her from the dining hall back into the gardens. As they walk, the cacophony of the hall fades almost instantly, replaced by birdsong and conversation set more to a murmur than a roar. Theo gives a short wave of acknowledgement to a few faces he recognizes from the past few days. There’s three boys, two girls - the sons and daughters of minor lords and landless knights from Geraint and Enid Territories, with the heiress to a barony in Gaspard Territory thrown in for good measure - each laid out languidly on a checkered blanket. Breakfast and books of poetry have been thrown about haphazardly amongst them. One of the knights’ sons, currently strumming almost tunelessly at a lap harp, even deigns to wave back.

Rosa has to stop and turn her head at the group, dazzled by the supposed elegance and carefree nature of the supposed elites. Theo has half a mind to let her know that they aren’t actually the biggest fish in the proverbial pond - not a one of them is strictly competition.

If that honor belongs to anyone, it belongs to the young man who rises sharply from a white wicker table by a hedge strewn with white roses. He sets down a porcelain cup so forcefully that some of the tea splashes out, dripping over the side. He’s about as tall as Theo, but doesn’t quite have the broadness of his shoulders - more wisp and willow. His hair is violet and frames his sharp and angular features like a particularly windswept theater curtain. A solid black beauty mark sits just below the corner of rosy but thin lips. He points so accusingly in Theo’s direction that at first, he’s sure that he’s somehow wronged the young man. His voice rises like he’s used to giving commands, “There you are!”

For a moment, Theo almost wants to answer the call before the response comes: “So I am.”

Theo sighs and follows Rosa’s double take at the voice behind them - it is, after all, almost identical to the first boy. So is his appearance: as the two young men shout across the way at one another (much louder than anyone need be at this hour), they could just as easily be screaming at their own reflections, “May I ask why you’re shrieking about it first thing in the morning, Rupert?”

Rupert Gloucester crosses his arms, puffing out his chest. Theo takes a step back to allow Daniel Gloucester to cross to him unimpeded. Rosa is slower to do so - there’s a moment where it clearly clicks for her who these two are, and she’s starstruck and frozen. She ducks back just in time: Daniel moves through the space where she was as if he hadn’t even seen her there to begin with. He rests a casual hand in his uniform back pocket despite the forcefulness of his stride: something in his body language says, ‘I’ll listen to whatever you have to say but don’t think I’ll do it on any terms but my own.’

If it impresses Rupert, he does an excellent job of not showing it.“You know, Daniel,” the first boy seethes. He makes no effort to lower his voice, even once Daniel is right in front of him, “Morning prayer is in some circles seen as a duty for nobles of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.” He sets a hand on his hip, “And yet you don’t seem to be bothered by it - and not by family bonds either! Where, exactly, were you at breakfast?”

Their every action is so considered, their every word so loud - like they’re performing a play for the assembled students. But the fury in Rupert’s eyes is real enough - if this is all for show, it’s not just for show. Curious heads are turning now from across the green to see what the commotion is about. The twins pay them no mind - if anything, Daniel seems a little louder as he replies, “Probably the same place you’ve gotten to whenever it’s time to hit the training ground, Rupert.” He says his brother’s name like it’s a particularly loathsome parasitic insect, “Do you think there’s some kind of merit in coming to the Officers Academy if you’re not going to pursue your own physical improvement? Or do you just intend to sit on the sidelines growing fat and happy while the rest of us-?”

“Typically shortsighted, Daniel!” Every syllable of the first two words is a fencer’s pinprick, and ‘Daniel’ is the coup de grâce. Rupert waves off his twin’s argument with long, flowing sweeps of the hand that have to be more for onlookers than anyone else, “Yes, yes, I’m sure that you’ll perform marvelously once the school year starts thanks to all of your hard work swinging a lance at a training dummy and playing Princess in the Tower with all the other toddlers!”

“Shortsighted!” Daniel laughs, high and harsh and very false to Theo’s ears. He turns, arms spread wide for the benefit of onlookers, “You heard the man, everyone. My dear little brother thinks I am the shortsighted one in the family!” He shakes his head, cheekily adding, “Goddess, if he only knew!”

“I know that you probably don’t even realize what the word means,” Rupert hisses, “Do try not to embarrass yourself like this - you might not have the wit to have any shame, but some of us-!!!”

The riposte comes before the thrust it answers is complete, “Don’t have the wit to even know what the word wit means?”

“You’re just repeating what I said!!!”

Yes, he is, and Theo finds that he doesn’t need to hear any more of this. He places a hand on Rosa’s shoulder, leans down to whisper, “Why don’t we make an exit before… well, before any of this gets ugly.”

“Before… what…?” she has to look between Theo and the quarreling brothers for just a few seconds before she hurries behind him. Even then, she’s still taking last glances at where the two continue to tear into one another, “Theo… was that…? I mean… are those two…?”

“Duke Gloucester’s sons? Yes,” Theo answers without looking back. There’s bound to be people down by the pond and the greenhouse today - likely even new arrivals. Surely the first day after getting to Garreg Mach is meant for relaxation and sightseeing. Why not take advantage of the chance to be someone’s first impression of the Academy?

Rosa remains distracted, however, letting out a quiet little ‘eep,’ “Goddess - I didn’t even say anything or bow or or or I guess I should’ve curtsied - Goddess, I don’t even know how to curtsey right-!”

Theo turns his head only slightly, gives her a sideways look, “And if you did know and you had done so, neither of those-” he swallows a more cutting word, softens it, “Neither of those two would have noticed you anyhow.” For just a second, Rosa misunderstands, and hurt sweeps across her face. Theo sighs, turns it into a deep breath, and corrects himself, “Rosa, my father has known Duke Gloucester since their time at the Officers Academy. I’ve met the family multiple times now.” He tries not to make it sound like bragging - it should be easy, it’s really nothing to be proud of. But it should also be easy to keep the venom from his voice as he concludes, “And Lords Daniel and Rupert still didn’t so much as recognize me when I spoke to them here.”

Rosa clearly doesn’t know what to make of that. Theo hopes he hasn’t lost her - she looks lost, almost scared. She spares one more look back at where the two Gloucesters are still at one another’s throats. She hugs her journal to her chest, musing, “They… seem like they really don’t like each other, huh?”

“Mm,” Theo nods with a wistful sigh, “I’ve considered the possibility that it’s just for show - think about how loud they’re being about it, how performative. It’s almost like they’re saying, ‘Look at me! Pay attention to me! When the school year starts, remember me!’”

Idly, Rosa’s journal opens, almost of its own accord. She materializes a small pigeon-feathered quill as if from nowhere - Theo’s even less sure where she got ink for it, yet still she scribbles as she says, “I don’t really think so…” her eyes dart to Theo, as if asking for permission to go on. He pretends not to notice: what Rosa needs to learn is that outside of a classroom, she doesn’t need permission to speak at the Officers Academy. The resulting dip in the conversation is only a few steps before she finds her courage and fills it, “It just… even if they were being showy about it, the um… the underlying dislike felt real. To me.” Finally her resolve splits just a little, and she asks, “Or…?”

“No, you’re probably right,” Theo says, and Rosa breathes a sigh of relief, “I think there might not be room in either of their lives for anyone but themselves. Even a twin is too much,” he adds. The words come out more vindictive than he likes them, so he qualifies them, “That is… the impression I have of them so far. And since I apparently don’t know them, I have to go on just that for now.”

Rosa dips her head a little, looking like she’s trying to see Theo from a different angle that might explain his frustration better than the simple truth. Carefully, she asks, “Theo… were you… um… close with them?”

“Close?” he repeats, toneless.

She shrugs, eyebrows raised slightly, “Either of them, I mean. O-or…”

Theo finally takes her meaning, and he lets out a single light bark of laughter, “No.”

“Okay,” she buries her face in her notebook, flushing slightly as she resumes writing, “You know… particularly if they’re not getting along… I mean, House Gloucester is one of the highest houses in the land, they’re both probably…”

She trails off, and Theo prompts, “Probably?”

Rosa eyes him over the top of her notes, “Well… they’ll probably both want to be house leader, right? I… uh… I saw that they were both Golden Deer, so…”

“You’re absolutely right,” Theo says, a hand finding his hip, “They absolutely will both try for the role.” His lip quirks upward, “And tell me, Rosa, based on your first impression of those two, who do you think is better qualified to be house leader?”

Her lip twitches, but she manages otherwise to keep her face still. Very civil of her, very polite. In return, Theo only raises his eyebrows knowingly. They don’t need to say anything more on the matter than that.

Even if Theo has his doubts that either of them will ever be house leader, he’s not looking forward to the twins’ power struggle. If their behavior holds throughout the election, the petty viciousness they bombard one another with is just going to be such a headache for everyone. And whoever does end up house leader will have to deal with however the Gloucesters choose to sulk - Theo hopes it’s as two equal but opposed dissenting voices, and not a united front.

But that’s a thing to worry about later. For now, Theo turns on a heel, continuing on towards the pond. Someone murmurs, “Wait, is that…?” and he cranes his neck in their direction to see what’s drawn their attention. Nothing of substance - a few pockets of students hugging the walls at the foot of the stone staircase back up to the dining hall. They all seem to be just a little bit in awe of something on the pond’s dock.

Rosa hasn’t noticed it. She pipes up, a half step behind him, “So then… Theo, what are we looking for, exactly? Just… to meet people?”

“Partially,” he says, still trying to see what the fuss is about. Three figures sit on the edge, two letting their feet dangle into the water, the third sitting crosslegged  despite her uniform’s skirt. Beside her - not quite so far away from the student that another person could fit between them, but still apart - sit two women, mercenaries perhaps. The one in the middle almost certainly: she is almost prototypical in her mix of burnt orange leathers and brighter rough-spun cloth, with a single iron pauldron thrown over a shoulder. The student fiddles idly with a tan cape tied trailing from the mercenary woman’s waist. To the far right, a third woman in a ragged black coat and a straw sunhat casts a line, turning her head to speak in tones too low to hear. Theo can’t help but watch the picture they make for a moment - he imagines a family, long lost but home again. There’s something almost familiar to all of them, something he can’t quite put his finger on. But he likes the picture. He puts his thumb to his chin, wishes that the sun were setting in front of them: the golden glimmer on the water would say something. Father would be able to say precisely what.

Theo only half hears himself as he explains, “It’s for us as well - this is going to be some of the only unstructured time we’re going to have at Garreg Mach. It will be prudent to see who our classmates are left to their own devices.”

“Makes sense,” Rosa agrees, distracted. She comes up by Theo’s side - almost seems to hide behind him as she looks down at the dock. Her breath hitches, her voice lowering to a shocked hiss, “Theo! That’s the archbishop!!!”

Theo starts: yes, now that she mentions it, it most certainly is.  Bright green hair slips from beneath the woman in black’s hat, and yes, actually, that is most certainly Lady Byleth’s profile, her at once lackadaisical and knowing smile.

He’s used to seeing her in the flowing gowns of her station. Theo hasn’t met the archbishop often - though it isn’t lost on him how unusual it must seem to other commoners that he’s met her at all. Father and Uncle Raphael could never grow as close to Her Holiness as, say, King Dimitri or Duke Felix had, but they still talk about her with a sort of respect and almost familial fondness entirely separate from that of believers reverent of her station.

Theo has always been thrown by how familiar Lady Byleth can be. Whenever they’ve met, she’s always asked after whatever his latest interest might be or how his studies are going. When Theo graduated from the Casagranda Institute at the top of his class, Lady Byleth arrived at the Twingalley the night before the graduation ceremony ‘to celebrate more personally.’ At the very least, she maintains that there is a relationship between herself and the Victors and Kirstens. For one so high to pay mind to those so low is always at once refreshing and suspicious. The Archbishop once taught royalty, not mere traders’ sons, even before rising to preside over the Church of Seiros. Surely those are the circles she moves in now?

It’s odd to see her so clearly slumming it here. Theo eyes the girl in the Academy uniform. She has the same orange hair as her… captain? Mother, perhaps? No, actually, it’s a shade or two lighter - more a marigold than a true orange, isn’t it? And it curls in places where her captain’s hangs straight. There’s tan on the back of her neck, or maybe a slight sunburn - they’ll have come from up south, then. Or abroad. Meaning…?

Meaning something Theo can’t decide. He muses, “I wonder who she’s speaking with.”

As if she’s heard him, the girl suddenly turns her head. She’s maybe a year or two younger than Theo, with freckles splattered across her face and a look in her eyes that’s fiercely searching. No, actually, hunting, and they just found what they were looking for: Theo. Their eyes meet, and the furrow of her brow asks, ‘saw you looking. What do you want?’

Theo doesn’t want anything but to fulfill his curiosity. So he smiles brightly (a kind of embarrassed ‘oh my, I’ve been caught,’ that surely implies he means no harm) and raises a hand briefly in greeting. The girl does not return the gesture, narrowing her eyes before turning back to her captain and the archbishop, scooting just a little closer to them.

The message is clear enough, and Theo turns his back on the image of Lady Byleth and her guests, “Well. I appear to have been caught staring.” Rosa’s eyes widen, and for a moment her mouth works but no sound comes out. Theo spares her her whatever nightmare she’s dreamed up, “… which I’m sure will be fine, but was certainly rude of me. Shall we take our leave?”

They do, and yes it’s a bit of a shame. The mystery of exactly who Lady Byleth is meeting - meeting in secret, her garb could argue - and why will have to remain at the back of Theo’s head, the slightest of gnawing distractions. Ah well. The year will start, Theo’s faux pas will fade into the past, and he can ask the girl he’d been mistaken for gandering at about what was happening there. Or perhaps he won’t - the knowledge will in all likelihood prove irrelevant, and surely he can conjure up something more thrilling and less mundane than the truth?

Without breaking stride, he closes his eyes for just a moment. It’s a tougher story to craft than he expects, and his arms fold as he considers. But then he’s got it, and he announces, “That right there was Lady Byleth’s sister. She kept to the mercenary life after Her Holiness took the cloth, and it’s very much estranged the two of them - we just witnessed their first meeting since the war.”

Rosa blinks, a half-step behind. There’s something almost childlike in the wonder on her face, Theo almost regrets this little thought exercise, “That’s… incredible. I mean, I guess I always knew that Her Holiness had to have some kind of family, but-”

No, that’s far enough. Theo chuckles, “And she almost certainly does - and maybe her guests even are part of it - but I admit, the rest is just speculation on my part.”

“Oh,” Rosa says, a little disappointed and flushing slightly. Her brow furrows, and she sets her gaze on the ground before them now, “… it sounds good though.”

“Doesn’t it?” he replies, “I say we make it our truth until someone proves otherwise.”

Now that she’s in on his imaginings, Rosa can laugh at them herself, “Sounds good.” Thoughtfully, she asks, “And what does that make the girl? Lady Byleth’s niece?”

Theo shakes his head, conspiratorially says, “Her daughter.”

“Theo!”

“I know!” he exclaims with mock-incredulity, “It’s shocking, isn’t it?”

Rosa giggles into her journal, shakes her head, “That’s - that has to be blasphemy.”

And maybe she’s right. But if it is, then it’s also a little bit of fun for now, “I’ll repent it later.”

She points a warning with her quill, “You’d best!” It quivers in her hand, but surely just this level of confidence is a step forward for her? Theo holds up his hands  in surrender, and the two return to business.

They don’t get as much done as Theo would have liked to. Now that he has someone so demonstrably in his camp, it would of course be preferable to make noticeable progress so that he might keep them there. But they go to the training ground, and while things are in full swing there, there’s no one about who Theo knows are Golden Deer this year. The same goes for the cathedral (while he’s there, Theo actually does leave a small slip in the confessional box admitting to his jesting libel against the archbishop).

Maybe both are for the best: training and prayer are a concerted effort towards the betterment of the self. Who wants to be in the middle of tuning one’s physical instrument or catering to their spiritual health only to be interrupted by someone merely looking to stand out? Actually, the people focused on self-betterment right now are the last people Theo would want to give that first impression: they’re the ones pursuing it on their own.

And once again, when Theo cross references that truth with the fact that he can’t seem to find any Golden Deer at training or prayer, he worries that that signifies something.

He hopes that concern doesn’t show on his face: Rosa is looking to it for guidance. Theo glances at her and she asks - asks again, by the note of worry in her voice, “Do we want to try the old common rooms? I thought I saw a picnic in the courtyard there…” Her mouth scrunches, and she taps her quill against it, “Or maybe a tea party? Is there a difference?”

“Let’s go find out,” Theo says with a smile. She’s absolutely right, of course, people at leisure are surely going to be the most amenable to an ambitious commoner inserting himself briefly into their lives. Maybe they’ll even be impressed by his relative hard work - they’ve chosen to use their free time before the school year starts to laze about on the grass while he’s opted instead to prepare for the year to come. Diligent. Reliable. Focused. The qualities of a house leader.

They arrive in the courtyard, and there is neither a tea party nor a picnic to be seen. There is, however, a commotion bellowing from the common rooms themselves - a burst of high, shrieking laughter peals out at a pitch that makes something crease on Theo’s forehead. It sounds like people who aren’t even aware that they should have a care in the world.

Somehow, there’s a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach at the realization that no, the tumult isn’t coming from the common rooms - just one of them. The Golden Deer.

It doesn’t necessarily mean anything. It’s not even necessarily Deer in there: it’s not like the space specifically belongs to them and no others may enter. Even if they are all Deer, and this is what they’re choosing to spend their time on, it speaks to Theo’s high work ethic, not his housemates’ low ones!

Silly. He’s looking for people in good spirits, who might be excited to meet someone new. By the sounds of things, he’s found them. What’s wrong with that? Theo adjusts his glasses and heads for the common room, gesturing with a finger for Rosa to follow.

They stop in their tracks once they hit the threshold.

There are perhaps a score of students crammed into the back end of the room. They’ve pushed all of the benches and chairs back towards the desk the professor would lecture from, backs to the doorway. Others stand, the unlucky shorter ones hopping a little in place to see over their fellows. It’s mostly girls, and a casual glance over how properly they sit and how tall they stand suggests mostly noble girls. Of exception, the only head that turns Theo’s way when he comes into the room is a muscled giant near the doorway, arms folded and leaning back against a packed bookshelf - actually, that’s the same muscled giant Theo heard roughhousing in the dining hall. He gives Theo a curt nod that he only sees from the corner of his eye. Holding court at what would’ve been the professor’s desk - no, atop it like it’s a stage, stands a boy.

And he is gorgeous.

No, he is a statue in marble brought to life.

His hair is too light a blond for a sunset, but that’s still the word that Theo keeps coming back to. Sunset. Or sunrise! It falls freely about his face - he has this natural rakishness that looks like either he painstakingly cultivated it or simply woke up truly blessed. He has these long, flowing limbs that seem infinitely expressive, almost as much as that smile, so uninhibited in its joy. His uniform jacket is undone, and flaps about him as he moves. So are two buttons on his shirt: Theo’s eyes keep finding his collarbone. A rose quartz stud glitters in one ear - what made him decide not to match it in the other one? Theo finds at once that he desperately wants to know. Oh Goddess, Theo is staring - he’s not even just observing and can be mistaken for staring, he’s just staring.

“Who is that?” Rosa whispers, or Theo whispers to himself, which would be foolish - he and Elias have met. House Cornwall is a regular business partner of the Victors’ main branch - and so it happens that Father will occasionally have to run errands to their seat of power in Derdriu, and so it happens that Theo will occasionally go with him, and on the rarest of occasions, see the duke’s son and heir. That was always just a fleeting glimpse at a layabout wastrel, maybe a few exchanged words with no more weight than the air it took to breathe them. Until today, Theo has never looked at Elias and seen a hero of the Tome of Comely Saints brought to life.

And until today, Elias has never spoken and filled Theo with anything but contempt for what he heard. Now, as he elegantly flows, spreading his arms wide, “And then - and then!” He ushers the crowd assembled into quiet, and miracle of miracles, he gets it. He can bend low, looking some lucky girl seated before him in the eyes, and practically whisper, “And then. Our heroine is alone. There’s no one but the Luna Knight and we the audience. We finally, finally get to hear once again who she is in the dark. The moment crystalizes: slow at first, no sound from the orchestra, nothing but dancing fey lights until finally-!”

“Oh Goddess, Eli, we get it!” The voice rings out suddenly, piercingly, from beside the object of Elias’s attentions. The malice in it is clearly meant to be playful, but the way it cuts through the tapestry his words weave still makes Theo’s eyes narrow, “You’re a sucker for a pretty song!”

He’s so dramatic with how he throws up his hands in outrage. It should look like the most transparently false thing in the world, and yet it’s charming. How is it charming!? There are a few giggles, and the first girl, the one Elias was so doting with attention, eyes the other. Her voice rings out crisp, just the slightest note of clip to it, “Bit of an understatement to call it pretty, my lady. You’ve of course seen the play - or at least read the score, so you know it’s a beautiful piece of work. Lord Eli is perfectly right to-”

“But that’s the thing, isn’t it?” Elias stands up straight, shaking his head, “Beautiful isn’t the word either! It’s annihilation. It haunts me,” he clutches one hand to his chest, extends the other for the girl seated before him, every fiber of him beseeching, and what witch would deny him whatever he asks next? “Fiona, sing for us. It’s the performer that makes the opera come alive after all - I can talk about what you did all day and never capture what the moment means!”

The girl - Fiona, Theo supposes - tosses a lock of hair over her shoulder. She’s teased out so many more curls, but isn’t nearly so inexplicably perfect as Elias’s.  Some faraway analytical part of Theo’s mind manages to recall her name from not just the class roster, but from opera house playbills in Edgaria. Fiona Trombauer. Supposedly Mittelfrank’s latest and brightest new star, but she couldn’t really be, or what would she have been doing away from Enbarr? Clearly rapturous in the attention she’s receiving, she says, “Oh and I’d love too, Lord Eli - but I’ve just the slightest bit of laryngitis, you’ll have to forgive me.”

Elias jerks back from Fiona as if struck. The diminutive girl - a third blonde (overly glossy, overly childish with its big blue ribbon centerpiece) - who spoke out of turn before nasals, “She doesn’t work for free, you know! Why should she sing for you if she’s not being paid for it?”

For just a moment, Elias makes as if to rummage through his pockets for loose change, but Fiona holds up a hand to stave him off. He sighs dramatically, “Very well - then I’ll do it myself!” there are a few - mostly shrill - cheers as he stands up straight, clears his throat. He takes a long, agonizing moment before. Theo is dimly aware that he’s taken another step into the room.

The moment goes on just a little too long, and the giant by Theo and Rosa taunts, “Quit stalling!”

It breaks Elias’s composure, and he points accusingly, eyes briefly burning with rage as he roars, “I’m getting to it, Vincent!!!” though he’s already broken and fighting a grin that gives the lie to his show of anger before he’s finished it. He breathes deeply again, closes his eyes - someone else giggles, and immediately he snorts as well. He glares (if a glare can be so clearly affectionate) at Vincent, snapping around laughter, “Now look what you’ve done!”

The third time is the charm, though. Elias shakes off the two false starts, begins again, and this time after he does, his voice rings out into silence. It’s a strong, rich tenor that could be the only sound in the universe for all anyone should care, “War leaves its trail / In moonlight so pale / Its shadows they flow in rivers and rivers-!” he cuts off with a wave of his hand, so suddenly that it makes Theo grit his teeth a little, even as half the assembled students burst into applause. Yes, his voice is beautiful, any idiot can hear that. But surely he could finish the phrase and not leave them all so unfulfilled? Breezily, Elias says, “But I’m butchering it. ” Liar. All the worse because he doesn’t seem to realize he’s lying! He extends both hands towards… towards the girl. Farina. Philomena? “Fiona.” That’s it! “I beg you. I know you have to take care of your voice, but please, not just for my sake!” He opens his arms wide to the crow around him, “Do it for all of us!”

They cheer, they goad Fiona, and it does not seem to affect her a wit. She crosses one leg over the other, looking unbearably smug, “Flatterers only get worse the prettier they sound, my lord.” There’s just the slightest hardness to her flippancy - like she’s really saying, ‘no, stop asking.’

Elias takes it in stride, flowing into a bow, “Then I hope I don’t run into any today, my lady!” With a wink, he rises, “I am, after all, a sucker for pretty songs!”

It’s a good way to back off while keeping the mood light. If Elias is doing it deliberately, it’s actually quite clever.

Then, of course, he has to go and ruin it. Elias scans his crowd, and there’s something in his breezy look that snaps Theo out of whatever madness came over him. Because of course, he’s just looking for the next noble lady to smother with flattery - it’ll probably even be another Fiona. Someone he can compliment to the stars above while giving himself the in to show off to the wider crowd. How tiresome. How dare Theo ever have been charmed.

He shakes his head, turning to leave - and yes, it’s the slightest bit painful to walk away. Theo puts a hand on Rosa’s shoulder, and she lets out a yelp of surprise - he shouldn’t blame her for having been spellbound, he was, after all. With a forced smile, he says, “Let’s go. I think everyone here has company enough.”

Rosa nods meekly. She looks like she’s coming out of a trance, like she has no idea where she is. Theo bites back a scowl, makes for the exit - and then stops in his tracks, because Elias’s voice rings out loudly enough that it cuts through the rest of the commotion in the common room, “Excuse me - you there!”

Theo’s heart suddenly hammers in his chest, and something in him desperately wants to run for the hills. But that would be stupid. That would, in fact, cut the legs off of any chance he has of being house leader - how would he even explain his flight. So he turns, for a second hoping for two opposite things - that Elias is talking to someone else, and that Elias is talking to him.

By the radiance that shines from his face, and his exclamation of, “It is you!” Elias is talking to him.

He hops down from the desk, a path clearing itself for him as he marches up to Theo, and for a heart pounding moment Theo is absolutely certain he’s either going to be punched or embraced and either one will kill him instantly. Thank the Goddess that neither comes: instead, Elias grips his shoulders like an old comrade in arms, beaming, “Theo! I knew it - I knew you’d be here!”

Theo isn’t so sure that he really is. Surely he’s a little bit above them, watching this conversation from the ceiling? His mouth works, and for a moment, no sound comes out. Then, finally he manages, “Yes. I am he.” And that’s just… just so much worse!!!

Elias cocks his head to the side, and a few curls fall into his eye, “Oh… do you prefer ‘Theodore?’ I’m sorry, when we spoke before-”

“Theo is fine,” Theo says, although how fine he is is a matter of debate. He tries to stay calm - Elias is right: they’ve spoken before, and last time, Theo didn’t think much of him at all, did he? Was he simply not looking then - or has he somehow unlearned his own dignity?

The only thing for that is to relearn it. Theo tries to keep his voice cool, steps back, adjusts his glasses - unfortunately, Elias is still just as bright and just as perfect once the world refocuses, “When we spoke before? I’m surprised you remember-”

Theo hadn’t meant to say that. He doesn’t need to deal with explaining what he means by it - and Elias rescues him from it with a laugh, “Of course I remember, silly!” Elias turns back to his crowd - so many faces have suddenly turned to take him in, “Theo here and I had a lovely talk about the history of some of the paintings in Derdriu.” Did they? They must have, why else would Elias say it? With a wink, he elbows Theo lightly, “Of course, I didn’t realize your father was Ignatz Victor - I must’ve seemed so pretentious!”

“Ignatz Victor?” someone chimes in, “Like… the war hero?”

Theo draws in a sigh, opens his mouth to speak, and Elias shakes his head, “No - Ignatz Victor, the man who’s revolutionized art in the Kingdom! The royal family’s own professional portraitist-!!!”

“That’s not actually true,” Theo says quickly, adjusting his glasses again and wondering why a moment later. Shrugging it off, he says - feels like he stammers, “Father’s only done the one painting of House Blaiddyd - he’s certainly not on retainer or anything like that.” He forces a smile, “We wouldn’t have to bother with the inn if he were.”

“Huh,” Elias breathes, seeming genuinely surprised, “I would have sworn - he has such incredible work!”

“He does,” Theo agrees - that much is, after all, impossible to argue. But he needs to add, “Though I actually don’t think it makes him any less the war hero.” He tries to stand proud and tall, tries to dare Elias to contradict him. Now if he could just meet his eye without his face heating…

His brow furrowing as if he’s already forgotten whatever line of thinking could lead Theo to say that, Elias suddenly chirps, “Oh! Oh, of course. I don’t mean to diminish…” he trails  off, waves that away, ushers them on to the ‘but,’ “… it’s just I really think it’s his work since Unification that truly matters to the soul of Fódlan.”

“Though there’s not much use in a well-nurtured soul if the body’s been ravaged,” Theo counters, honestly surprised by his own wit.

And yet Elias meets it easily, letting a single delighted ‘Ha!’ ring out before he bows his head to concede the point. He asks, “Do you paint at all?”

“I… dabble,” Theo says, and it’s only half a lie. It sounds so much more impressive than ‘the most I ever get done is a few doodles in a notebook that scarcely pass for art.’ But he can’t bring himself to fully omit the truth, and so he adds, “I’ve got a lot of the theory and history in here, but when it comes time to do anything with a canvas…” he shrugs.

Elias nods, perfectly understanding, and there’s the most curious touch of melancholy in his voice when he says, “We can’t all be our fathers, can we?” But before Theo can interrogate that - before he’s even sure that it’s there - it’s gone, and the light dances in Elias’s voice again as he turns slightly, his gaze passing from Theo’s face, to his chagrin and relief, “But look at me! Blathering on like that and not even asking to be introduced to your friend here!”

Rosa squeaks - Theo is forced to admit that he forgot she was there for a moment. She bows sharply at the waist, yelping so quickly she invents a new, meaningless word: “Rosaesperanzamylord!”

Elias blinks, “Pardon?” Behind him, some of his cohort laugh. The girl who’d previously sat by Fiona, now having pushed her way to the new front of the group just a pace behind them, has a particularly nasty bark.

Theo pays her no mind, clearing his throat as he eyes Rosa, willing her to relax. She seems to unconsciously register where he’s trying to coach her to, and finds her way there slowly but surely. She stands stiffly, but upright. It’s a start. Still, why not help her a little more? “Elias, this is Rosa Esperanza - we went to school together.” A beat too late, he realizes that that isn’t specific enough, “In Gloucester Territory, there’s a program where-”

“The Casagranda Institute,” Elias nods, “I’m familiar.” He is!? Without elaborating, he low, effortlessly prying one of Rosa’s hands free and kissing it. Theo lets out a long breath through his nose (dismayed to hear a chorus of similar huffs among Elias’s hangers-on) as he simpers, “Charmed, Lady Rosa.”

“Th-the pleasure is mine, my lord,” Rosa stammers. Her eyes widen, and she snatches her hand back, covering her mouth, “The honor! The honor is mine, my-”

“It can be pleasure if you like,” Elias grins, standing tall once again. He wags a finger, some false reproach in his voice, “But no more of this ‘my lord.’ We’re all equals here at Garreg Mach Monastery - those are the rules. Think of it as the next logical step from-” he shakes his head, “No, I suppose your Casagranda Institute is the next logical step from here.” He waves that away, “Whichever came first, I’m nobody’s lord here.”

“Yet you have so many ladies, Eli,” Fiona drawls from somewhere at the back of the crowd.

Proudly, he retorts, “Because I am a gentleman!”

“You… know about the Casagranda Institute, Elias?” Theo asks, incredulous. He honestly had never considered that anyone outside of Gloucester Territory paid the school any mind.

“Of course I do!” Elias laughs, his tone turning just slightly wistful, “I’m a fan - though I suppose I’m a fan of just about any brainchild of the Divine Songstress herself.” Something seems to occur to him, and he arches an eyebrow at Theo, “And that goes for you too, by the way - no more of this ‘Elias’ nonsense. Eli. Please, I insist.”

Eli. Like the sound of a man finally resting in the shade of a tree after a long day’s toil. Theo smiles, he hopes not overly nervously, nods his assent, “Eli it is.”

Elias - Eli - grins, puts one hand on Theo’s shoulder and Theo only barely registers that he places the other on Rosa’s, “Now then. I was just about to suggest we all take tea - would you care to join us?”

“That would be lovely,” Theo says before his brain has a second to think about it.

“It would!” Eli beams, “And you two can tell us all about Casagranda - I’ve been dying to find out how it’s actually meant to work!” He has a spring in his step as he makes his way from the common room, turning on a heel suddenly only to point a question at Theo, “Oh! And how could I forget. You’re a Deer, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re a Deer, I’d hate for us to have to be enemies later.”

There’s a split second where Theo has no idea what Eli’s talking about. Where it’s all just pretty noise to match the picture of him standing so languidly, so confidently before the threshold. The Golden Deer house banner flutters in the wind as if to coax Theo back to reality, where more than this magnetic boy exists. His throat feels dry - yes, tea is definitely a good idea, “I am. A Golden Deer, that is.”

Eli beams, “Wonderful!”

It really is, isn’t it?

Eli turns again, one arm pinwheeling to gesture for the others, and leads the way from the common room. All Theo can think to do is follow him.

Phoebe

Phoebe von Aegir has been cheated. Stolen from, really. For any prospective student of the Officers Academy, the trip to Garreg Mach Monastery is supposed to be this adventure of a lifetime. From the window of your carriage, you’re supposed to get to see the landscape slowly shift from the comforts of home to all the myriad people and ways of life along the road into the Oghma Mountains until finally you reach the mountains themselves with all their mystical ambience and the promise of something new and remarkable in their heart. You’re supposed to be distracted only by daydreams of what you’re riding to and by your family, as they wrack their brains for one final piece of advice to give you before they have to send you on your way. It’s supposed to be the last hurrah of the first part of your life, building up to crescendo into the second.

This whole stupid trip has blundered from one thing going wrong to the next since before they even set out.

It started with her mom. When Phoebe applied for the Academy, they’d all talked about it and Mom had sworn she’d be there to see her off. She’d been going to make the trip. She’d promised! But as the actual day had approached, Phoebe had watched her mother hem and haw and get more and more nervous about the long journey from Boromas to Garreg Mach and she’d begun to brace herself for Mom’s inevitable change of mind.

That would’ve been fine. Phoebe would’ve understood. She would have!

Except that when Mom sat her down and taken Phoebe’s hands in hers, she’d had the nerve (the audacity!) to ask her if she was sure she was ready to go to the Officers Academy. She was still so young, Mom insisted, and some of the back roads into the mountains could be so dangerous and anyway would she even be alright on her own for that long and yack yack yack yack yack!

Never mind that they’d already talked about all of this, and when Dad was the one saying it was fine, somehow it was fine. Never mind that Phoebe already has to accompany him on so many of his trips to and from Enbarr, as befits his daughter and heir. Never mind that the age point doesn’t even make any sense - Phoebe’s a year older than Prince Remus, and he’s going! She’s three years older than her brother Bertoldt was when he went to Garreg Mach, and Mom didn’t have any problems with letting him fly free then!!!

(In her heart, Phoebe knows that Mom’s reticence now is a byproduct of her easy blessing then. It’s a big part of why for most of the carriage ride, she’s been trying to surreptitiously draft an apology for yelling at her before she left.)

So Mom was out. Fine, fine. Worse things in the world - Phoebe loves her mother, obviously she does, but she’s not always the easiest traveling companion. Too much fussing and babying for Phoebe’s liking. Instead, when the day came to go, she’d hugged her (so tightly that for a second Phoebe thought she might be planning to force her to stay after all), made her swear up and down to be good and to be careful and to write her twice a moon - no, once a week - and sent her on her way.

Sent her on Dad’s way, actually. That was the second thing to go wrong. It was decided, with Phoebe’s begrudging consent (because how could she realistically say no?) that they were going to make a stop in Enbarr. Which was not on the way and would in fact triple their travel time, but needs must. After all, they had to go get Eva.

Eva. The Duchess von Enbarr. Dad’s little pet project. A woman who was supposed to already have had her grand adventure at Garreg Mach, but she was too busy getting the stick up her ass surgically lengthened until she was quite literally the dullest, driest person in not just Fódlan’s history but also its future.

Alright, that is a bit much. It isn’t that Phoebe doesn’t like Eva. She’s fine with her.

But Goddess is she a killjoy.

Case in point, here’s why they even had to go get her: a few days before they were to head off to the Academy, Dad received a letter from Enbarr. Eva informed him (and Phoebe could just hear the neurotic panic in her voice when Dad relayed this to her) that there was a problem with the sewer system in lowtown Enbarr again, and Eva was desperately trying to reallocate funds to once again fix it. But she was running into trouble scrounging up the necessary money for the project without allowing the absurdity that was Enbarr Palace to fall further into disrepair. And she still needed enough left over to keep the city watch paid. So Eva wanted Dad’s advice - not in how to deal with any of that, that would be too obvious. She wanted to know how she should word a letter to the archbishop - to Archbishop Byleth, head of the Church of Seiros - explaining that she might arrive at the Officers Academy late for the opening ceremony because she had to do work.

And… it was like… Dad should’ve just written back and said, ‘trust your steward to figure out where the money’s coming from for the city budget, that’s literally their job.’ But Eva would never have heeded that kind of advice, because she’s likely never even heard of ‘delegating’ or ‘priorities.’ So Dad resolved that instead they’d have to detour down to Enbarr and physically drag her away from her desk if that was what it took. He tried to frame it as an adventure. They were rescuing Eva from her worst impulses - there was heroism in the journey.

Admittedly, it was a valiant attempt. Phoebe even enjoyed most of the trip down to Enbarr, laying out plans of attack with her father - how Eva could be coaxed or cajoled or forced to go with them. There was a fun second or three where she could imagine that they actually were going to rescue the duchess, chargers whinnying and buckles all a’swash - the way it must’ve been when Phoebe’s parents marched on Enbarr with the king at the end of the war.

The reality, though, was much less interesting: they’d simply shown up, Dad had demanded that Eva go with them, and Eva had meekly acquiesced and apologized for wasting his time (not Phoebe’s though). Not ten minutes later did Eva nudge Phoebe about her posture, as if she’d somehow forgotten the part where she was only with them because she was too much of a workaholic to leave her duties without someone making her. Phoebe had of course ignored her (perhaps even slouched a little more), but had already started to dread the rest of the journey - over a week of unsolicited advice coupled with Eva’s own personal little dorky ‘older and wiser lady of the court’ smile and wink.

(Sometimes, when Phoebe’s truly ungenerous, she sees that smile and imagines Eva secretly thinking, ‘but you’d know how to act like a lady if you were a real lady, Phoebe. Like me’).

But going to Enbarr hadn’t been all bad. It allowed for just a touch of serendipity. After all, whenever they’re in the city, Dad always makes sure to pay Ms. Arnault a visit. It’s always the best part of the trip - it’s the only part that’s never for work, just checking up on a friend. Phoebe gets to hear the latest and juiciest from the opera house - so much more fun, so much more meaningful than any courtly gossip. They’re all trying to do something, to build something, and so the drama between them all adds flavor to that. When Phoebe sees a show on the Mittelfrank stage, she can think of how impressive it is that the actors playing Loog and Kyphon can still have such stage chemistry after how viciously they broke up. Or she can marvel that the chandelier prop Ms. Arnault has had a whole team of stagehands working on actually ‘falls’ the way it’s meant to.

(By contrast, noble gossip is all, ‘oh, she’s so much prettier than her,’ ‘I can’t believe he was invited here,’ ‘oh Goddess, what is Phoebe even doing?’ Stupid. Boring.)

And a bonus - no, actually. Not a bonus. Definitely the most exciting part of any trip to Enbarr. When the House von Aegir visits the House of Arnault, Phoebe gets to see Robbie.

It’s really just the weirdest thing: Phoebe legitimately can’t think of a time that she didn’t know Robbie. Some of her first memories aren’t from the castle in Boromas, they’re her seated at a table in Ms. Arnault’s flat, a pile of scripts stacked under her on her chair because without them, she was too short to see above the table. Her mother is there, and her brother, and Ms. Arnault, and no Eva to deal with, and always, always, right across the way, Robbie.

And so many more of her earliest memories are with him too: sneaking off into the city when they were supposed to be in the apartment. Whoever was meant to mind them would always focus on Phoebe - she wasn’t Dad’s heir then, but she was still a young noble lady and so took priority. So Robbie, who could usually sneak out mostly unnoticed, taught her how to fall. And once they were sure she’d learned properly, he’d excuse himself, and Phoebe would check out the window, and eventually, there he’d be. So Phoebe would fall, and Robbie would catch her (and only very rarely would he drop her, and when he did they’d both hit their heads and both start crying and the whole escape would be ruined). They’d dash into the city, and Phoebe would always trust him to know where they were going because they were always going to the same place. The Mittelfrank Opera House.

They’d never go in through the front door. Obviously not: Ms. Arnault would’ve had a conniption to know that they’d slipped their minders again. But there was a space around the back where the wall had never quite been repaired properly, or maybe it was just supposed to slide in and out of place like that. They’d sneak through it, and that would place them backstage, and from there it was all a matter of finding their way up. Robbie would always already know the way, and once they’d found it, it was a straight shot to his secret passage. He’d give her a boost so she could actually get up to Mittelfrank’s crawlspace, the one that, if you follow just the path that Robbie mapped out in some faraway time beyond Phoebe’s ken, brings you into the opera house’s rafters. He showed her a view of the stage that just about no one else even knows exists, pointing excitedly as they sat in on rehearsals, whispered what this or that part of the play was for and who all of the players were and whether they were any good. Phoebe had always gotten distracted by how brilliantly Robbie’s eyes would spark, and he’d always have a special smile just for her when he said that one day it’d be him on that stage.

They’d eventually gotten too big for the crawlspace, and Phoebe can’t remember if that was before or after her minders in Enbarr got wise to their escape ploy. By then, though, Robbie was able to more officially be there for opera rehearsal, and by extension, Phoebe was allowed to stay by his side. It was a little easier to make out faces from actual audience seats, but Phoebe never forgot the view that had been theirs and theirs alone.

Robbie had remained a part of her life ever since, even when she was away from Enbarr and could only confide in him via letter. He’d been the one she could tell any secret to, the one she could be anywhere or do anything with. It had been like having another brother, but this one had chosen her, and this one didn’t cast such a shadow when he shined that someone so small as Phoebe could never escape it.

And then one day it had happened: Phoebe had sat in Mittelfrank’s audience during one of the worst points in her life - not even a full year after she’d become heir to House von Aegir. She had slumped in her seat and crossed her arms and complained loudly to her father that she would not enjoy the production, how could she possibly?

And then Robbie had come out on that stage, and suddenly there’d been no one in the opera house (in the whole big stupid world) but the two of them. It couldn’t have been that long since they’d seen each other, and yet his shoulders had definitely gotten broader, his jawline just a little sharper. The mischief that had lurked in bright green eyes had changed to something truly devilish. And then he sang, and Phoebe’s jaw had hit the floor. Somewhere, somehow along the way, her best friend had turned into a man.

Despite what some people whisper behind her back, Phoebe isn’t an idiot. She knows that you don’t get butterflies in your stomach when someone walks into a room or forget how to breathe when you see them for platonic reasons.

She hadn’t figured out what to do with this new… factor to Robbie then. She still hasn’t. But he’s still everything to her that he was before she saw him on stage. Now he’s just this as well.

So what a wonderful, beautiful world the Goddess had made for Phoebe when She determined that the year that Phoebe should go to the Officers Academy, Robbie’s whims would lead him there as well. And what a favor Eva, of all people, had done for Phoebe: if they had to get her in Enbarr, it only made sense that they should bring Robbie along too, right? Ms. Arnault is always busy with the opera house, she can’t necessarily afford the time to take her son to Garreg Mach herself. She sighed and fretted over not being able to see him off herself even as she thanked Dad for the favor.

There was maybe some tiny, tiny, tiny part of Phoebe that felt bad for Ms. Arnault. Most of her, though, was more excited to see Robbie. To share a carriage with Robbie! To steal glances at one another and fight laughter when Dad says something grandiose and roll their eyes when Eva says something downright idiotic. Of course there’d be no opportunity to speak privately, Phoebe would never expect something like that out of these circumstances. But in her fantasies of fantasies, she pictured the carriage compartment with just herself and Robbie to fill it, with maybe Dad riding by on horseback now and again to chaperone. That would’ve been realistic enough! That could’ve been what happened!

It wasn’t, of course - because the next thing that could go wrong did. Phoebe got to see Robbie again and make this journey with him, that much is true.

What’s also true is that when she saw him, there was a girl at his side. A girl with dark hair down to her shoulders in a bob that was messy, but artfully so - not Phoebe’s ever-tangled mess of orange. A girl he didn’t tower over - who looked like a woman at his side, not a kid sister. A girl whose curious, bright yellow eyes make Phoebe think of a fox, and once that thought was in her head, suddenly this girl’s every motion had a grace that Phoebe could never hope to match.

She is Aster Bronstein. She was apparently a stage hand for Mittelfrank who is also off to the Officers Academy (when Eva learned that the four of them are all bound for the Crimson Phoenix house, she made a delighted noise that Phoebe is too miffed not to think sounds like a donkey’s bray). And no, Robbie will not explain why she’s going with him or how he knows her, but Phoebe can hazard a guess.

But making a scene about that would accomplish nothing except losing her a friend. And then where would she be?

So Phoebe was quiet as they set out again, and spent all of the first day of the journey from Enbarr to the Academy trying not to seem like she was sulking and to talk herself out of doing so at all. Nothing had really changed, after all. Robbie just had another friend. Another friend who was a girl. Another friend who was a pretty girl.

(It took a lot of soul searching on the trip, but Phoebe has determined that she is not jealous and she will not be jealous, because that is quite possibly the stupidest thing that you can be. And she will determine that over and over again as many times as she needs to).

Objectively, on that first day, the five of them crowded into one carriage must’ve painted a fairly ridiculous picture. On one side, Dad and Eva dominated any conversation: at length, Dad mused about Garreg Mach Monastery, and all of the ‘best time of your lives, you think you know what you’re in for and you think you’re excited enough for it but you don’t and you aren’t.’ He meant well, but sometimes Dad forgets just because someone is quiet, doesn’t mean it’s because they’re listening intently to you. Of course the only words of his that Eva didn’t hang on with rapt, doe eyed attention were the ones she could follow up with her own notes to add to his lecturing.

But then on the other side of the carriage, Phoebe, Robbie, and Aster crammed together in an awkward silence. Aster seemed just as content to stare out her carriage window as Phoebe was, only turning her head back in to ask the very occasional question. By the third hour on the road, Phoebe didn’t trust herself to say anything, so even if Dad and Eva hadn’t devolved into a buzzing sound in the back of her head by then, she wouldn’t have been able to ask anything. That left only Robbie to sit politely, hands in his lap, smiling and nodding. Well, that was a burden he should have borne. He was the actor, after all.

Still, when they stopped for the night to set up camp, what a relief that was. Once they were settled, it was all just blissful silence and clear, open skies. Wonderful. Relaxing. Traveling should’ve always been like that, not cooped up in a carriage.

And Phoebe will stand by that, despite the fact that even in their moment’s reprieve, Eva had the nerve to try to help Phoebe pitch her tent, and for just a second Phoebe had been sure she was going to scream at her. The only thing that stopped her was Robbie’s hand on her shoulder and the bright smile on his face as he told Eva that he knew a thing or two about roughing it, he could give Phoebe a hand.

Or more to the point, the way that smile melted away the second the duchess’s back was turned. And the way what replaced it was so exasperated, even with that ironic glint in his eye. He’d looked at Phoebe, and it was like they were sharing a secret. Robbie had barely even had to say, “Good Goddess.”

But it was wonderful that he had. “For real though,” Phoebe had replied (and only a second later realized she could have said ‘my hero,’ instead), and it hadn’t covered nearly a fraction of how relieved she’d been for him to have her back.

And then they’d just let the moment pass and set up Phoebe’s tent together. What little they’d said had been trivial - like no time had passed since they’d last spoken, like they weren’t heading somewhere that would change everything for both of them. And what a relief that was. Whatever might happen in either of their own lives, whatever might already have happened to them, Robbie and Phoebe could always slide back into their own sort of normalcy.

So an aggravating day and a peaceful night. Not a bad tradeoff. If things had merely continued in that vein for the entire week, that would’ve been fine.

Except that the next day, Phoebe’s safety net had completely abandoned her.

House von Aegir traveled with a small host of knights retainer, like any of Faerghus’s high houses. That meant that they also had to have a retinue along of all the supplies and people needed to keep knights in action - a few grooms for the horses, cooks and pages and servants for the knights - oh yeah, and extra carriages.

The second day of travel, Robbie and Aster apparently decided they’d had enough of listening to Eva and Dad talk at them, and magicked up one of those extra carriages all to themselves. Phoebe still isn’t clear on the details of how they pulled it off, or what exactly they said to her father to excuse themselves. She wasn’t consulted, after all.

So from the second day on of the Enbarr-to-Garreg-Mach part of the trip, Phoebe was alone in a carriage with her father and Eva. From the third day on, she thought she was going to have a nervous breakdown.

Mostly the actual content of what Phoebe faced was unchanged. Dad talked, Eva talked - now it was Phoebe’s job to smile and pretend to listen, but otherwise, mostly the same. Maybe there was a little more direct needling from Eva; ‘Phoebe do you need help with your hair in the morning? Phoebe, your skirt’s a little too rumpled. Phoebe please stop jiggling your leg like that - and careful about that crease in your brow.’ Once she actually tried to physically show Phoebe how to sit up straight. Like, she mimed tying a little string connecting her head to the carriage ceiling, all with this stupid little ‘see? This is how I do it’ grin on her face. The worst part was that Phoebe was sitting up straight, she’s just short.

(Alright: when Eva did that, Dad gently reminded her that Phoebe was first of all not in need of constant correction and second of all not really Eva’s responsibility yet. Yet. Goddess gentle and strong, Eva’s going to be Phoebe’s house leader.)

But that was all something expected, something that Phoebe had known was in store from the moment she knew Eva was making the journey with them; there was still something different about facing it alone. There was something that stung about the fact that Robbie and his… his person were in another carriage just behind Phoebe’s. Alone. Free to talk to one another about whatever they might’ve wished, and neither had even considered that maybe she’d want to escape too.

She didn’t blame Aster so much. What was Phoebe to her or her to Phoebe? Fine, whatever, water under the bridge. But Robbie - oh no, this sort of thing wasn’t going to stand from him. Every night at camp, Phoebe resolved that she was first of all going to let Robbie have it, and second of all going to get on her knees and beg him to let her join the fun carriage.

And every night at camp, she chickened out because it would not be good optics for her family for Phoebe and her father to arrive separately at the Officers Academy (or for Dad to be traveling unsupervised in a carriage with an unmarried noble lady). It’s not that Phoebe actively wants to not be a good heir apparent to her house, and besides that would just be skipping out on a neutral toned lecture now in exchange for a stern one later. And anyway Phoebe has her own sort of pride that won’t let her beg unless she truly must and furthermore: good Goddess, what if Robbie’d said no!?

Too many ways it could end in catastrophic failure. Only one way it could end even slightly well. Not asking Robbie wasn’t cowardice, it was just math.

But the week just went on and on and on and on and on and by the time they were crossing the Great Bridge of Myrddin, Phoebe happened to glance out the window and see a particular branch that had been taken by the Airmid’s rapids. It just flowed ceaselessly by, no idea where it was going or whether it was going to survive getting there, and Phoebe just thought, ‘wish that were me.’

So that was where they were at by the last leg of their journey. If Mom had managed to leave home for a single lousy Goddess forsaken week, at least there would’ve been someone to talk to at this juncture. Or someone to say to Eva, ‘hey, why don’t you see how the kids in the fun carriage are doing and this can just be the von Aegir carriage like it was supposed to be?’ Or, or… just someone Phoebe could look at and roll an eye and hope understood! Instead, nothing! Nothing, not one thing, no help at all, thanks a lot Mom. And where was she instead!?

… she was at home, of course. Probably pacing, possibly ripping out her hair with worry. Frantically tearing open any missive for word that Phoebe had safely arrived, and that Dad was coming back.

Phoebe wished for the rest of the trip that she hadn’t had that thought. It settled in her stomach like curdled milk. As soon as she got settled in to the Academy, she had to get a head start on that letter of apology.

An unplanned detour to get an unwelcome guest and an unfaithful best friend so she could have a lonely journey listening to interminable sermons only to arrive at the end and have just a touch of unwarranted guilt mixed in for her bitterness at being so wronged.

Or, alternatively: a generous use of her time to help an overworked girl with no family and also two lowborn students who would only naturally relate better to each other than to Phoebe, and the opportunity to listen to and learn from two reigning lords of their realms ruminate on leadership. Opportunity, that’s the word. Isn’t ‘opportunity’ also the word for ‘chaos’ in some language? Like, Dagdan or Duscan or something like that?

Bertoldt would know. Bertoldt would’ve made so much more of all of this than Phoebe did.

By the time they finally, finally, finally get up to the foot of Garreg Mach Monastery proper, Eva is right to critique Phoebe’s posture, and Phoebe is dying to get out of the carriage.

When at last they do stop, and Dad slaps his knee like he’s getting ready to rise, Phoebe is already flinging herself from the carriage door before he can say, “Well, shall we?” She lands with a splat into the muck of the monastery’s stable grounds. Her high socks are splashed with muddy water and hug her legs here and there. In a minute the wet silk will cling grossly and she’ll regret this, but right now it’s just so satisfying to be out.

So of course Eva tries to ruin it. She leans out the carriage door, steadying herself with a hand on its frame as she cries out, “Phoebe! You can’t just-!!!”

Thank goodness Dad chuckles. It takes all of the wind out of her sails, makes her look to him in confusion. He nudges a little past Eva, putting his hands on his back to stretch once he hits the ground, “It’s only natural to be excited, Eva. It’s been a long journey.”

“But… Duke Ferdinand, her uniform…!” Eva sputters lamely.

It bounces deliciously off of Dad, and some childish part of Phoebe desperately wants to stick her tongue out at Eva as he turns to face her. She manages to repress it, “I’m sure that she’s plenty ready to clean it on her own.” He eyes Phoebe now, an eyebrow arched, “Isn’t that right, Phoebe?”

She looks at her shoes. Leather polishes easily enough, right? “Yeah…” without looking up, she mumbles, “… black socks never get dirty anyway.”

Dad laughs at that, not unkindly, but Phoebe’s face still heats. He places a hand on her head and ruffles. He doesn’t mean that unkindly either, but she still scrambles back and makes a face at him. With only an amused sort of reproach in his voice, he wags a finger, “We’ll see if you still think that after a few moons cleaning up after yourself.” Phoebe wishes that look in his eye would be a little less knowing, “You won’t be able to leave it all to the servants here.”

“I won’t!!!” Phoebe protests, hating the whine in her voice. It’s not like she never does her own cleaning at home. Like, not literally never.

“Maybe that’s a team building exercise the Crimson Phoenixes can undergo!” Eva chirps, suddenly appearing at Dad’s side. She cups her chin, nodding to herself even as she thinks aloud. Her voice does that thing where it picks up speed the more up her own butt she gets about her ideas , “Yes - a laundry day could be exactly the kind of thing to maintain house discipline, while also being something we can do communally together! And it’s not too strenuous, so even after a week’s training…!” She trails off, nods vigorously, “It’s worth a try, at the very least. But I think it’s a great idea!”

Oh yeah, Phoebe’s sure that all of the Phoenixes will be very excited to have Eva breathing down their neck about how clean their smallclothes are. Brilliant leadership. Gold star.

By Dad’s pained smile, that’s exactly what’s going through his head too, even if things might be a little kinder in there than in Phoebe’s. He nods slowly, “It doesn’t hurt to try, Eva. It is important to keep the house feeling like a unit, even off the battlefield, after all.”

But…? But!? Phoebe can hear the but, she’s just itching for her father to say it - preferably followed by, ‘… that’s a stupid idea because no one’s ever going to thank you for making them do chores.’

It never comes, though. He just lets the idea trail off and lets Eva keep making her big stupid ‘Eva do good?’ goo-goo eyes at him. At least he doesn’t indulge her childish need for his validation (honestly, and she treats Phoebe like a baby!). Instead, he turns to Phoebe, and there’s something she doesn’t like in his voice when he says, “Phoebe, come with me, please.”

There’s just the slightest note in his tone that sounds like she’s going to get a talking-to. Just a little bit too much, ‘you’re behaving like a disappointment right now, Phoebe, and I don’t want to humiliate you by letting you know that in front of people you know.’

So the smart thing to do is to just go along with it, right? Which is of course why Phoebe’s eyes dart to the carriage, where a pair of serving boys from home have already started the work of retrieving her trunk from its baggage compartment, “Well I should really help with unpacking…” she tries to bat her eyes demurely, probably looks like someone threw sand in them instead, “I mean, y’know - get started on that ‘doing my own chores and stuff’ first. Right?” She looks at Dad, tries to gauge his face. There’s a crease to his brow, but Phoebe honestly can’t think of why he’d be mad at her. Still, in case he is, she puts some sugar into her voice, says again, “Right, Papa?”

One eyebrow arches on her father’s face. His lips pull back in a bemused smile. If he weren’t sparing her pride right now, he might outright ask why she thinks she’s in trouble. Instead, he’s kind enough to say, with only the slightest hint of sarcasm, “I commend your dedication, Phoebe. But please come with me.”

Ah well. It was worth a shot. At least Eva will remember her. Maybe not so fondly as Robbie might, and maybe he’ll draw his breath in pain to tell her story. To his Aster-person. Ugh.

Dad begins to make his way from the stable grounds, and Phoebe drags her feet a little following him. A part of her wants to kick up mud, but that definitely won’t help.

No, it really will: Eva moves as if she’s going to follow them. She’s got such long, gangly legs that she’s by Dad’s side again in two steps, simpering, “Duke Ferdinand, should I come along too? If you have any last minute advice, I-”

“Eva,” Dad says, and Phoebe has to admit she relishes the faint exasperation in his voice. Maybe it’s vindictive of her, but she does, “I appreciate your enthusiasm.” And here’s the ‘but!’ Better late than never! “But I think you might be better served right now by finding Professor Hanneman. He’ll know a lot more about your house’s schedule for the year than I.”

She considers this, bows her head, “That makes a lot more sense, doesn’t it? I have such tunnel vision about…” she curtseys. Very prim, very proper (except that slight wobble when she crosses her legs. Ha.) “Then I will take my leave, my lord.” Tentatively, she asks, “Will I see you before you head back to Boromas?”

Dad smiles. There’s a split second that he looks just absolutely exhausted, and Phoebe hopes he says no. Instead, he puts a hand on Eva’s shoulder and says gently, “I’ll try to make time.”

Instantly Eva brightens, straightening back up to full gargantuan height. She chirps, “Then I’ll see you soon, Duke Ferdinand!” she turns and heads in the opposite direction from them. She probably thinks there’s something conspiratorial (the word she’d use is likely sisterly) in her voice when she says to Phoebe, “And I’ll see you in class!” As she passes, Eva tries to squeeze Phoebe’s shoulder, but she rolls it out of her grasp. If Eva notices, she’d have ceased to be Eva. Phoebe sticks out her tongue at her back.

Dad sighs lightly, and Phoebe pretends she didn’t hear it. Whatever his worries about Eva are, they aren’t her problem. Eva isn’t the one he should be focusing his attention on right now.

Then again, if he were, maybe Phoebe would have less to worry about. Dad coughs - not a real one, just a little reorientation tactic. A little period he sometimes puts on the end of a moment. He looks to Phoebe, smiles thinly, “Right then. Shall we?”

“Let’s,” Phoebe says automatically. As they make their way from the stable grounds, she spares a glance at the second carriage from their party. Robbie and Aster are already gone, and with them her last chance to delay whatever’s coming.

Phoebe has been so in her own head for this whole trip that she hasn’t had the chance to really take in Garreg Mach. The enormity of everything around her really is breathtaking - its walls rise so high, its stained glass windows glitter so marvelously, it’s like she’s been sucked into a storybook. She wishes she could stop for long enough to admire some of it - certainly, looking this way and that does slow her pace.

When her father notices, he stops for a moment. All of the energy seems to be out of his voice as he puts one hand on her shoulder and extends his other across the way, “Over that way… well, most of the Academy is that way. But from here you’ll see the greenhouse and the pond, as well as most of the dorms…” his face is wistful for a second, “I spoke to your mother for the first time there.” Phoebe looks up at him. This isn’t a story she’s heard, and he takes her unspoken prompt, chuckling, “You wouldn’t think things would turn out the way they have by that first meeting - she sprained my wrist by the end of it.”

Phoebe snorts in surprise. Her mother… well, it’s not that Phoebe doesn’t know that she’s a war hero too. It’s not like she hasn’t seen her in action. It’s still hard to imagine her overcoming Dad like that. Yet the question that comes to her lips isn’t ‘how?’ but, “… why?”

Dad winks, “Because she was my eternal rival.”

This time, Phoebe has to laugh outright, “Liar.”

He laughs, and they continue on their way. As they head into Garreg Mach’s entrance hall, Phoebe is distracted from trying to imagine Mom snapping his wrist over her knee by the two massive suits of armor standing guard over the walkway up into the monastery grounds. Well, no, they can’t be real suits of armor - the Church would never have wasted that much good steel on decoration. At the very least, the Empire would have melted them down during the brief period they held the monastery during Unification.

Still, the statues look like two golems in plate mail, even if it’s only a veneer. Phoebe squints at their helms, notes the little wing tips of their visors, and announces, “Fourth Century.” Dad nods with a proud smile, but she’s less sure when she says, “Imperial centurions?”

“Knights of the Hammer,” Dad corrects, “Or at least, they’re meant to be.”

Phoebe arches an eyebrow, eyes the statues’ tree-trunk swords, “… then why don’t they have hammers?”

Her father smiles at her, and Phoebe can’t help but appreciate the pride in his voice that she’d even ask that, “Because by the fourth century, no one had seen a Knight of the Hammer since the Saints warred against Nemesis. So to honor them, the stonemasons cast them in the likeness of elite warriors of their own age.”

Desperately, Phoebe tries to think of something clever to say to that. All that comes to mind sounds downright sycophantic in her ears, “Maybe if they’d carved them today, they’d have made them look like the Astral Knights.”

Dad laughs, and Phoebe flushes, feeling stupid. He’s at least kind as he concedes, “House von Aegir’s warriors are certainly some of the crown’s finest.” But then there’s the tones of a lesson to learn in his voice as he adds, “But it would be foolhardy to assume that the crown is supported by our strength alone, Phoebe.”

Phoebe’s hands curl into embarrassed fists at her side, and defensively she shouts, “I know that!” She’s a little loud: her voice echoes a touch on the high ceilings. But that’s the basics of the basics - the Kingdom’s strength comes from its knights’ and lords’ cooperation, not from any one individual family’s might. Even King Dimitri can’t just hold it all together by strength of will alone. It would be laughable to think that even the king’s most pivotal vassals, like Dad, could be the core base of the Kingdom’s power. But that wasn’t what she’d meant, obviously, and if her father thinks it was, he must think she’s such a child, such an idiot!

And now there’s so much worry on his face, “Phoebe-”

She huffs, takes a step toward him, “Dad, I’m not-”

“Woah, careful there!” calls the man she just nearly walked into. Phoebe starts slightly: she didn’t even see him: he must’ve been taking the steps two or three at a time. He’s older, around Dad’s age. More broad, but shorter, with bright cyan hair that spikes up in odd places and a few nicks already in his white plate armor. His smile is friendly, “Sorry there, little lady: didn’t expect you to…”

Then he notices Dad, and instantly his face falls, “Ferdinand… hey.”

Dad’s mouth is a thin line, and Phoebe hasn’t heard the low, almost dangerous tones in his voice for… well, since she became his heir, “Caspar.”

Phoebe does a double take. She’s heard that name before, but never had a face to put to it until now. She always imagined… someone else. She always pictured Caspar von Bergliez lounging somewhere in a Dagdan pleasure palace, a silk shirt unbuttoned and someone feeding him grapes. The kind of person who would shirk the responsibilities to his house. This looks more like a soldier - a cowed soldier, but still. Someone who works hard and fights harder, someone her father would be proud to count as an ally. Then again, once upon a time - long ago, during Unification - he was.

The smile finds its way back to Caspar von Bergliez’s face, but it’s a more awkward thing now. He shifts from one foot to the other, nods at Phoebe, “This is your daughter, then?”

“Yes,” her father gives Phoebe a glance, and she quickly stands up straight, “Phoebe.”

“Cool, cool…” Caspar rubs at the back of his head, and he opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. He tries again, “Well… good to see ya, but I’ve gotta… y’know…”

“We won’t hold you up,” Dad says.

“Alright. It was good to see you!” Caspar ducks around them, nodding at Phoebe, “And good meeting you, Phoebe.”

The right thing for a noble lady to say here is, ‘and you as well, Sir Caspar.’ But Dad isn’t minding his manners right now, so surely that’s a signal that Phoebe shouldn’t mind her own?

Caspar doesn’t acknowledge the snub. Not at first, not until he’s a couple of meters away. Then suddenly he turns and says, “Hey, Ferdinand-”

“What,” Dad snaps, and Phoebe actually jumps at the venom in his voice.

And Caspar flinches at it too. He does that little trick of trying and failing to speak the first time so he can succeed on the second. Slowly, gently, he says, “… Lin’s teaching here this year. It’s not official or anything, but he’s helping Professor Hanneman with - it doesn’t matter.” He waves that off, takes a breath, tries again, “Anyway, the Professor’s got me workin’ on the training grounds. Gonna help coach some of the kids this year and whip ‘em into shape and whatnot - you know how it goes.” One more try, and this time he gets out whatever it was that he meant. His eyes are earnest, but hard, and that extends to his voice, “My point is… I’ll be looking after your daughter. I promise to take care of her.”

The look that Dad gives him for what should, should just be a formality between them… Phoebe would hate to be on the receiving end of it. Her stomach turns, and for a moment she’s sure there’s going to be a fight. Then her father nods. It doesn’t take, so he nods again, lets out a long, ragged sigh, and says, “… thank you, Caspar.”

“Of course,” he says. Taking a step back, and then another, he forces one more smile, “That’s the least-” Caspar shakes his head, amends that, “That’s all I can say.” And he goes, rounds the corner, and is gone.

Phoebe’s father looks at her, gives her that same forced smile, and makes his way up the steps. Phoebe follows him, the two of them straying closer to one of the massive statues like a pair of listing ships. Dad practically collapses into sitting once they’re parallel to the stone knight, rubbing at his forehead with two fingers. His words are trying not to be bitter, but they are, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be…” he shakes his head, “I’m ruining this for you.”

“You’re not, Daddy,” Phoebe says, surprised at her own meekness. She sits by his side, fumbling with her hands. Her father slings an arm over her shoulder, and she lets him pull her towards him, squeezing lightly.

For a moment, the two of them just sit on the steps together. A few families pass by, but Phoebe pretends not to notice them. She fidgets slightly, and her leg starts bobbing without her even noticing. Dad finally lets her go, and she makes sure to keep posture as she breaks away. It’s the least she can do. Some of the verve is back in his voice when he speaks, “Do you know where we are right now, Phoebe?”

She blinks. This is a trick question, but she can’t parse why, “… Garreg Mach Monastery? Or do you mean the entrance hall? This is the entrance hall, right?”

“It is, but that’s not what I meant,” He smiles indulgently at her, “This is the last place I spoke to my father.”

Something spidery tries to crawl down Phoebe’s spine. Dad talks about Grandfather Ludwig only sparingly - and always as an object lesson of some kind. Back in the day, he’d always be warning Bertoldt, ‘don’t do this, this is the kind of thing your grandfather would do.’ Maybe he told Bertoldt the story of how things turned out for Grandfather Ludwig here, one last cautionary tale - maybe he’s going to tell Phoebe now. She tries to piece together that story just from her father’s face. No, just weariness and faint nostalgia. All that leaves her to say is, “Oh.”

“Mm. He was standing right there,” Dad says, gesturing down towards the bottom of the steps, and his eyes cloud slightly as he looks at the spot. Phoebe follows where they’re gazing, but can’t see into the past like he seems to be - she can’t follow him there, “I can’t remember what I said to him, or what he said to me. But I remember thinking ‘the next time I see this man, I will have surpassed him. I will be a better Duke von Aegir than he ever could be.’”

Phoebe has no idea what to say to that either, so she says nothing, waits for her father to come back to the present. When he does, his smile is pained - it gives the lie to when he looks at Phoebe and says, “And now here we are - and I find myself in my father’s place.”

Yes, but what place was that? Dad knows what he was thinking when he last saw Grandfather - what’s he learned now that he’s the one sending off his heir? Sending off his heir again? Phoebe looks at her hands, murmurs, “… I don’t think that I’ll be a better Duchess von Aegir than you by the time I’m done here.” She looks at him, “And… I wanna see you again before then.”

“You will,” he says, “And you don’t have to be.” Slowly, he says, “I know it’s been hard for you - all of this. I know that you never expected-” he shakes his head, “None of us expected things to turn out this way.” One more sigh, “And I haven’t been the help to you that I could be, and that isn’t fair to you and I’m sorry, Phoebe.”

Phoebe’s leg is bobbing. She tries to stop it - puts a hand on it to hold it in place. That just gets the other one moving instead. Dad smiles gently at her, puts a hand on her head, “It’s okay to be nervous. Be kind to yourself, Phoebe. And try to be patient with Eva-”

“I don’t want to talk about Eva!” she snaps, and regrets it a moment later. But if he’s going to compare her to someone, it should at least be Bertoldt. Then at least Phoebe can be his child, not the detritus left over from a tragedy that her father has to bear upon his shoulders.

But even if that is frustrating, Phoebe knows she should be better than that. Father’s daughter and heir wouldn’t throw a tantrum like that. She looks an apology at him, and he has the nerve to have that accepting, only slightly exasperated smile, “Very well. Then be patient with yourself, Phoebe.”

“You already said-”

“Be kind and be patient. Don’t feel like you have to compare yourself against anyone else, don’t force yourself to go at a pace you’re not ready for. It’s fine if you encounter something you can’t do, something you don’t know - you’re here to learn, to grow: if you didn’t have room to do either, you wouldn’t be here right now.”

The words shouldn’t hit like arrows in the chest, but they do. ‘Don’t feel like you have to be strong or smart yet, Phoebe. I know you’re not as good as your brother was, that’s fine. You can get there. Eventually.’

And suddenly her head is pounding, and Phoebe’s father pulls her to him again. He holds her tight. She sniffs despite herself, solemnly swears that she will not cry. As if she’s already broken that promise, he runs a hand through her hair, murmurs, “I love you, Phoebe. Your mother loves you too.” That could be enough, but then he has to lie to her, “… we’re so proud of you.”

Something awful in her wants to push him back and call him what he is: a liar. Liar liar liar!!!

Oh sure - Dad must be thrilled to replace an heir who was clever and strong and charming with a tiny boy-faced goblin who has no head for courtly politics and no charm for courtly graces. Who in the hell would be proud of Phoebe?

She’s shaking, and she doesn’t know why until Dad whispers, “It’s alright. I’ve got you.” She tries to believe him. It would be so much easier if she could. For want of that, if Dad just holds her a little longer, Phoebe is sure (Phoebe prays) she’ll be able to at least pretend to be fine.

And he does, and she is. Phoebe does not cry. No one can prove that she does: her face is buried in her father’s chest.

And so what if before they part, Dad asks her if she’s sure she’ll be alright, if he says he can stay with her a little longer if she isn’t? If when she assures him she’s fine and he does go, her eyes are red and puffy, and she sniffs just once, that doesn’t prove anything. Maybe Phoebe has allergies. None of the students glancing her way with their raised eyebrows and swallowed smirks know that she doesn’t.

But just in case one of them does, she dashes up the stairs as fast as her legs can carry her. She doesn’t stop there, rushing through Garreg Mach’s halls without so much as sparing a glance at her surroundings. They don’t matter: she can look at them later, when this terrible, awful, disgusting ichor has been cleaned from every corner of her mind and she can stand tall and proud again.

Thank the Goddess she has the presence of mind to notice someone in her path before they collide. There’s a split second where she thinks that it’s Caspar von Bergliez and she’s going to swing at him, but it’s not. This old man with more wrinkles than clear skin, with a monocle absurdly set before reading glasses, with thinning white hair perfectly coiffed in a way that would’ve been stylish thirty years before Unification can only be Professor Hanneman von Essar.

… and admittedly, some of what tips Phoebe off to that is the girl at his side. Eva took Dad’s advice: she found Professor Hanneman, and now here she is, once again intruding and fussing and just being the worst! She steps toward Phoebe, her brow furrowing with worry as if Phoebe’s somehow her responsibility, “Phoebe? Are you alright- you should know better than to just run in the halls like that, you nearly bowled over poor Professor Hanneman-” she falters when she really takes stock of Phoebe’s face, her voice lowering like she’s trying to calm a spooked cat, “But never mind that - what’s wrong, why are you-?”

She gets too close, and Phoebe pushes her away. Damn it, she doesn’t fall over, but the surprise on her face is still clear. Phoebe rallies, tries to be her father for a moment - the version of him that she thought was going to publicly murder Caspar von Bergliez - when she hisses, “Oh would you fuck off!!!”

Maybe she’ll get in trouble for that later. That wasn’t patient of her. And maybe it’s not the best first impression to make with her house professor. But it’s worth it for the absolute shock on Eva’s face.

Phoebe’s running again before anyone can say anything. Maybe Eva shouts something feeble after her, but seriously, who cares?

It’s only by luck that she doesn’t have to slow down and catch her breath before she reaches the training grounds. There’s the clatter of wooden weaponry, the soft twang of bowstrings and the ‘thwip’ of arrows singing through the air. Phoebe takes a deep breath: it smells like sand and sweat and there’s just the faintest taste of iron on the air, but maybe that’s just from biting her own tongue all week long. Doesn’t matter. She’s here now: she can let loose.

And the perfect outlet is right there for her: there’s a boy the size of a house just loitering in the middle of the arena, his back to her. His mahogany hair is braided on the top and shaved on its sides - Phoebe isn’t sure she’s seen anything like that before. She circles closer to him, takes a good look at what she’s about to get into. The giant's nose ring is a stupid idea for a warrior, it’s just gonna get pulled out of his face one day, and then he’ll regret everything he’s ever done. Then again, judging by the scars on his face (three jagged lines, Phoebe’s gonna guess claws), he already knows a couple of things about fighting.

As she gets closer and can see his front, she sees that he’s not alone, and not really loitering. There’s a someone standing just before him, he was just too small to see over the curtain of the giant’s body. He’s got shaggy hair the color of dark sand hanging just above his shoulders - and as Phoebe gets close, she notices some surprising muscle to the smaller boy’s shoulders. His arms are wide, inviting - classic ‘come at me’ pose. A white painted circle indicates the space for brawling practice, and the little guy is pointing to it. Phoebe’s home.

Once she can actually hear the two of them, it becomes abundantly clear that home is currently filled to bursting with macho posturing. The little guy bobs his head like some kind of territorial bird, “So what’re you gonna do!? Gonna take a swing?? C’mon, big guy like you, what’re ya scared of!?”

The giant is no better, “Here I stand before you!” he booms, throwing his arms wide as well, turning as if to present their ‘conflict’ for all the world to see. There’s a little music to the big guy’s voice in a way that Phoebe can’t quite place, “Open and vulnerable - you will get no better shot! Strike me!!!”

“You afraid of a little man like me!?”

“I’m not!” Phoebe calls out, and both of the boys seem shocked to have someone come between them like this - and there’s that irritating doubt that comes over everyone’s face the second she takes the field. Yes, she’s a girl, yes, she’s small. These are both observable facts, can they not waste time on them? Phoebe puffs out her chest a little, tries to match their energy, “I’ll take you both on if you want.”

And now the little guy hems and haws. He grimaces a little, running a hand through his hair, stopping to scratch the back of his head, “Look, uh… my lady… no offense, but this is gonna… like it’s not really delicate work-”

Well neither is Phoebe. Shrimpy doesn’t get out any more because she’s already sucker punched him in the face. One good cross sends him reeling, and then she can follow the momentum to put him down with a knee into his gut. Something in her blood thrums, draws back a fist to continue the onslaught, but she catches herself. He sinks to his knees, gasping for breath. He’ll be up in a second - and probably mad. Good.

Phoebe widens her stance, brings up her fists, and turns her attention to the big guy. Goddess, now that she’s staring him down, it’s readily apparent that she barely comes up to his pecs. But she can swallow whatever nerves that does or doesn’t raise - mountains are supposed to be climbed. Phoebe tilts her head, a half-deliberate mockery of the kind of demure flowers the little guy was just afraid of trampling, “Just you then, Tiny?”

Maybe it’s just the blood pumping in her ears, but the words that come out of the big guy’s mouth don’t make any sense. But the way he says them is awesome: he breathes them with this reverence like Phoebe’s the most amazing person he’s ever seen, “… incredible. I accept your challenge, my sister.”

No, don’t ruin it. Phoebe isn’t anyone’s sister anymore, and she doesn’t want to think about that. She doesn’t want to think about anything, that’s what a fight is for. 

This time, she waits for the big guy to crack his neck and get ready before she throws herself at him. Then the world is all motion and thunder and fury and brief flashes of pain. Phoebe’s breath comes in pants, her blood is on fire, and if she stops moving, this massive roaring wall of flesh will crush her - so she won’t ever stop moving. Not until he does.

There’s no room in a brawl for any kind of worries. So she lets them drift away. Her world is fists and chaos, and in it, Phoebe is free.

Layla

The spiral stairway is straight out of so many dungeons from so many horror stories brought to life. There’s no magical lighting, just natural flickering flames dancing in the gloom. Even those are few and far between - it looks like there’s a black iron sconce bolted on the wall every half-circuit around the stairway, and a little over a quarter of them actually have a torch in them. Sometimes, there’s enough light to make out the recurring carving on the wall - the hooded woman is probably meant to be Saint Seiros, but she’s so time worn that she could as easily be some angel of death. Just once, Layla has to stop and take in the spot where some cheeky spider has made its web right over maybe-Seiros’s mouth. Someone had to plan that in advance, right?

The way is dank, dark, and cramped. Maybe, maybe two people could walk side by side - provided both of them fasted for maybe as little as a week beforehand. At least Layla’s going the right direction - plunging into its depths two weeks ago was a claustrophobic nightmare she’s not overly keen to repeat.

If the Ashen Wolves are seriously going to use the communal dorm rooms in Abyss - well first of all, they’re all going to have nerves of steel. Second off, just the daily climb up to the rest of Garreg Mach Monastery is going to do wonders to help make them the fittest house in the academy. Maybe that’s the idea: turn them all into a bunch of toughs with no fear.

That wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. And it’s not like Layla’s been laying low in Abyss because she’s so lazy to be daunted by a fifteen minute walk up to the surface. She’s just had her own business to take care of - and who doesn’t want to check out the sights to see in a secretive underground city? Especially if she’s going to be splitting her time between there and topside?

From what she can gather, Abyss is a lot less seedy than it was in decades past - that makes sense. Before Fódlan’s Unification, the Church couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to ignore the community of outsiders in Garreg Mach’s catacombs or go all ‘purge the heretics’ on them. King Dimitri and Archbishop Byleth are a lot more mellow about that kind of thing - they seem to have just picked the head of a local gang who has a couple more scruples than his peers and semi-officially put him in charge. Turns out that when a crime lord gets backing from both the secular and religious authority, they functionally just turn into a regular lord - who knew?

(That the crime lord appears to be Layla’s house professor sounds like it is a fascinating story that she can’t wait to dig up.)

And once the lawless underground has someone who can call for backup from upstairs, it isn’t that long before it’s not so lawless after all. From there, one domino hits another until suddenly Abyss is looking like a real city. Not one that anyone’s likely to be in a hurry to build a vacation home in - too few beaches by Layla’s estimate. But the Abyss that she’d always heard stories about was one where castoffs from the surface were literally building their homes out of trash. Layla’s come too late to see that Abyss, and honestly? Good for the locals.

It’s not a bad part of town anymore, basically. Not a great one - the Wilting Rose Tavern probably shouldn’t be letting in kids in Officers Academy uniforms, but it does. Layla got a whole spiel when she arrived (she suspects all the Ashen Wolves got it) that students can venture into Abyss, same as the surface town at Garreg Mach Monastery’s feet, but they should probably stick to a couple of designated and well-patrolled areas. So of course Layla’s been spending the last few days deliberately pushing those boundaries and seeing what comes after her. She can pretty confidently walk down Abyss’s streets without worrying too much about getting jumped - give her a couple weeks to get used to the layout and she won’t have to worry about that at all.

And that’s why she’s going back topside now: she’s got her head for one part of her home for the next however long - it’s time to start taking in the other part. Layla hasn’t run into a lot of Academy students down below either: most of them saw all of Garreg Mach’s towering grandeur and forgot there was a seedy underbelly, even the ones who’ll be living there. That’s given her some time to work on her introductions - now to put that into practice.

Finally, she reaches the top of the stairway: the seams on the false stone wall glow golden. Layla pushes gently at it, and for the first time in half a moon, she sees the sun. She has to shield her eyes and blink back spots, but the warmth on her face is worth it.

Now, to business; bumming around is always the best kind of business.

Judging by the position of the sun, she’s gotten up here a little bit before noon. That’s a habit she’ll have to break before classes start, but they haven’t started yet, have they?

Probably it just means she’s missed breakfast. Lunch is always better anyway - actually, that sounds like a fantastic idea right now. Layla’s stomach gurgles agreement, and she’s on her way. Her pace is leisurely, but she keeps her eyes sharp: always something to raise the old eyebrows if you’re looking for it.

An example: she has to slow to a stop when she catches sight of a girl through an archway in one of the Academy gardens who’s just… spinning. A slow twirl, seeming to grow faster and faster, her russet braids whipping with her motion like the steady flow of a river. Her hands are raised high, like some god tricked her into tying puppet strings to her wrists and that’s how this started. A small crowd of curious onlookers hangs about her, their expressions a mix of awe and utter bafflement. Layla errs a little more towards the former - there’s something a little hypnotic to her performance.

Trouble is, it’s blocking an entrance to the dining hall. There’s the smell of something lovely wafting from in there, but there must always be, right? That’s what it’s for. Layla resists the aroma - it doesn’t look like Spinning Girl is stopping any time soon. That’s fine, there’s other entrances: and the hall is by the Academy’s pond. Layla can circle around to it to wash up, maybe splash some water on her face.

She inspects her reflection while she’s at it. Bright green eyes smirk back at her, mocking the mess that’s become of her hair. The top knot she’d been keeping the worst of her curls in hasn’t come completely undone, but there’s more spilling down onto her back than not by now. Probably nothing for that without a mirror. The braids at the side of her face she can deal with, though, and she spends a moment on tightening them. The rest can be a dark brunette mane, that’s fine - she’s put off eating long enough.

If Layla were planning to write home, she wouldn’t do it about lunch: the fillet of fish in a bed of assorted vegetables is almost well seasoned. Red pepper, garlic, and ginger are a nice start: the job is unfinished without at least some more paprika, though.

She heads back out the way she initially intended to come in: sure enough, Spinning Girl is still spinning away. Some of the faces of her onlookers have changed as people got bored and went on their way, and there’s a lot more puzzlement than wonder now.

There is a loud yowl, and though that can’t actually be what started to slow Spinning Girl’s performance, it certainly feels like it. Her feet move slower, slower, until she isn’t moving at all, but facing where a fluffy black cat, one of the monastery’s strays, is perched on a hedge wall. She dips her head to it, lowering her hands only slightly, palms spreading out almost in supplication, and closes her eyes once, meaningfully.

Then she lifts her head and stands tall, turning one more time to take in the crowd that’s gathered around her and calling out, “‘All of the swords and all of the spells of war are as nothing before a cat’s single blink,’” in the loud, clear tones of a recitation. She looks this way and that at her crowd, meeting their eyes and smiling serenely. When she looks at her, Layla can’t help but notice the red in the corners of her eyes, “This I heard from Brother Yorick, who heard it from Brother Harlan, who heard it from the Itinerant Mother Amelia…” and so on.

As the chain continues, most of her crowd disperses. It’s a long list, and people have better things to do than sit through a babbling chain of citation. Layla, who has a little more experience listening to this kind of performance and has some idea of what it means to the people who go through it, just folds her arms and waits for them to wind down the centuries to its conclusion. She is the only one still listening by that time the girl - the Eastern Church priestess, Layla supposes - with the reverence she’s maintained throughout at last bubbling over, says, “… who heard it from Saint Cethleann.”

There’s a moment of quiet, and then Layla shrugs to herself and applauds. Why not? That’s what you do after a performance, right? The girl’s smile widens just a touch, and she puts a hand to her heart and bows at the waist, “Goddess’s blessings upon you, sister.”

“And also on you,” Layla responds automatically. It’s only as an afterthought that she adds, “Sister.”

But by then the priestess in student’s garb is already drifting away, looking somehow like she’s floating just a few centimeters off the ground. When she’s gone, Layla wonders if she was ever there to begin with.

(She hopes so. If, say, you find yourself looking for good hashish, a friendly Eastern Church priest will hook you up. Oh, and they probably also provide spiritual guidance.)

Either way, it was all a fun little diversion, but Sister Student is only going to be one of Layla’s classmates this year. And at that, it’d take quite the stretch of imagination to say that Layla ‘met’ her.

So Layla takes her leave as well, humming to herself as she makes her way to the stable grounds. It feels like that makes sense as a place to people-watch for a bit: at the very least some new arrivals will have to stable their own horses, right?

She weaves through the crowd of servants hard at work and new students hard at play. This is the kind of hustle and bustle is nothing new to her: one of the few advantages of her size is that it’s easy to dodge around people without them so much as noticing. You can be a ghost, and ghosts get to observe whatever they want without repercussions.

There’s a barrel that catches her eye, set snugly over in the corner of the castle walls. Straying towards it, Layla gives its lid an experimental knock: the echo is dull. Nearly full - she’s going to guess oats. It doesn’t have the smell of anything less toward than that. So she hoists herself up onto it, leans back, and pulls a knee to her chest. Now all she has to do is wait and watch the world go by.

Layla isn’t quite sure what she’s looking for precisely. She’ll know it when she sees it. There was a rumor about how blue runs the blood of one of the possible students arriving today. To be honest she doesn’t know what she’ll do with that even if it turns out to be true.

But nobody ever got anything meaningful out of pondering who might happen to stroll by. Or above. A shadow passes over Layla, followed by a screech that sets even the best trained horses to instinctively pawing nervously at the ground.

Layla shields her eyes to take in the wyvern: it’s a young bull, its scales a green-black, maybe a thirty meter wingspan. Its head is gnashing like it wants to bite its rider. Which is fair: the idiot’s painted their family sigil (a white wolf bearing its fangs - Layla can’t quite think of which family that’s supposed to be) on the webbing of the poor thing’s wings. At least Layla hopes it’s paint.

Nearby, a young man shares her concern with a breathy click of his tongue, “Who tattoos their wyvern?” He shakes his head, wild lavender locks bobbing lightly in the white ribbon he’s tied them back with.

Near him, a young woman struggles to bring a chestnut mare to a halt. The creature is still spooked by the wyvern’s shriek, and no amount of her tugging at its reins (Layla suspects a novice rider) will make it stop pawing at the ground like it wants to bolt. She finally gives up and has to dismount awkwardly, one foot getting caught in the stirrups - yep, that’s a novice alright.

The poor little clown: she’s getting stares, and there’s a little more venom in some of them for the looks to just be about making a fool of herself. Her dark skin and long silver hair marks her as Duscan - Layla’s a little surprised how many stares that’s getting her. Isn’t that particular black mark on Faerghus’s history supposed to be over? Layla watches her pointedly avoiding the looks, gently (almost tentatively) holding up a hand to her horse’s snout to calm it.

The boy - apparently they arrived together - calls out to the Duscan girl again, paying little mind to the eyes on her or her trouble with her horse. His own nickers and one ear flicks, but otherwise remains calm,  “I mean really, who? In this day and age!”

Through gritted teeth, the girl says, “Maybe you should go tell them that, Lord Kleiman.” Layla knows that name. Why does she know that name?

“I just might!” He turns in the saddle, flashing her a grin that probably sparkles in some lights, “And don’t think I didn’t catch that, Reza - I’ve told you, there’s no need for any of that here!”

“Doesn’t…” she grunts, tugging at her horse’s reins again, “… doesn’t feel right.”

“Well you’ll need to get used to that - oh, honestly…” he clicks his tongue, and his horse turns around so smoothly that it’s like they’re one animal. He takes the other beast’s reins from the girl - Reza, Layla supposes, and says something quiet and soothing to the other horse that actually seems to be working. Aloud, he says, “You can’t be so nervous with them, or they’ll pick up on it - and you know what, actually, that isn’t our problem at this point. Girl!” The boy adopts downright imperious terms, and for a second Layla doesn’t even notice he’s looking right at her - until he clicks his tongue, “I see you there - don’t think you can get out of work by hiding! I’ve a horse that needs-”

“Oh for the love of…!!!” Reza shakes her head, mouths something that sure looks a lot like ‘imbecile,’ before saying aloud, “She’s obviously a student, milord!”

Lord Kleiman blinks a little, some flush coming to his cheeks as he realizes his mistake - and he should be embarrassed. For one, it’s adorable on him. Makes him look like a confused puppy. For another, Layla’s wearing the academy’s uniform: not exactly dressed for servant work. He sputters, attempts to recover, “Oh… er… my apologies, miss. I only thought that… um…”

It would be fun to find out what he thought, and why, but sadly, torture is wrong. Layla leans forward, resting her chin on her knee and batting her eyelashes, “Do I look like a servant, milord?”

Lord Kleiman pauses, sensing a trap but clearly not knowing how to not ride right into it. So he just doesn’t answer, “… well if you are a student, then we’re to be classmates, and I insist you not call me ‘milord!’ My name is Zacharias Ricardo Kleiman, and-”

“Oh, well, if you insist!” Layla chirps, not even trying to fight her grin, repeating, “Do I look like a servant, Lord Zach?”

“I… suppose… I thought that you did,” Zacharias says, shrinking just a little - joke’s on him: sitting in the saddle basically puts him on stage, “But-!”

No buts necessary: Layla’s already got what she was after. She winks, blows him a little kiss, “Thank you!” Both he and Reza he are far too baffled to reply.

Layla pushes off from the barrel. While she’s hopping down to earth, she hasn’t yet decided if she’s going to go over and introduce herself or disappear into the crowd and leave the two in suspense. There’s merits to either idea: an air of affability has just about as many benefits as one of mystique. The decision is taken out of her hands, though: no sooner have her feet hit the ground than a horn blows from nearby, its report low, almost buzzing, yet loud enough to turn every head in the stable grounds.

The sound came from Garreg Mach Monastery’s front entrance, and the crowd that gathers there doesn’t flood, but it’s also more than a steady trickle. It’s obviously someone announcing themselves, and that’s just interesting enough that Layla lets herself get caught up in the tide. The Officers Academy pulls students from all the noble families of Fódlan, and everybody makes so much noise about equality of students regardless of birth while they’re here. In other words, at Garreg Mach almost no one can truly expect their particular pedigree to warrant attention just for showing up unless they’re a truly pompous sort of fool.

But like any decent rule, there are exceptions. Prince Remus is the first Faerghan royal to attend the Academy since King Dimitri’s day. Faerghus might not be so excited about dignitaries from other countries, but surely their own prince is due for some rose petals to line his path and weeping mothers holding babies for him to kiss? The only thing is that Layla’s pretty sure that Prince Remus already showed up a few days ago - the word is that he’s laying low, keeping to himself.

(Layla’s fairly certain she heard something about a daughter of House Gautier cornering His Highness and yelling at him for avoiding her, but while juicy, that’s a thread for another time.)

But if it’s not Prince Remus, that doesn’t leave too many possibilities for who would need this sort of reception. Already, Layla can hear someone calling out what is unmistakably a long, dull list of titles everyone is supposed to be impressed by, even if she can’t quite make out the exact wording. Brigid and Sreng are both supposed to be sending princes of their own, but there’s something just a little less gilded about that. Nobody ever accused either of those countries of being true peers (dare one say rivals?) to Faerghus. An Almyran prince might get that sort of full royal treatment, but Layla would be truly surprised to see one of those here.

Which leaves two options as far as Layla’s concerned: the first is that this is some duke’s kid who’s too stupid to know that the only thing that made them top dog back home was provincialism. That would be funny, but it wouldn’t draw the sort of crowd that Layla has to stand on tiptoe just to see through.

And the second possibility… well, as Layla gets closer, wedged in between a couple of boys unaware that she’s trying to look past them, she sees that it’s more than just a possibility.

The carriage that stands before the Academy front gate is distinctly unlike any Layla’s ever seen in Fódlan. For one thing, the shape of it is off: instead of a flat-topped or slightly curved box, it tapers into a dome, from which rises a single silver spike adorned with banners of every color, each enchanted to smolder at their edges. It looks like some sort of government building on wheels, not someone’s personal means of conveyance. Drawing the carriage are two pitch black horses, each bedecked in multicolored tassels that hang from their reins, as well as from ceremonial armor affixed to their heads and backs. The carriage is utterly, embarrassingly bejeweled, emeralds and amethysts lining its trim, the doorway, the curve of its wheels. The carriage almost glows where the sun hits it, the result of a gossamer-thin coating of gold over the whole thing.

Standing to keep the crowds at bay are four… they are either soldiers or animated suits of scaled armor (surprisingly plain next to the finery of the carriage itself). Honestly, they could be either: each of them wears a white porcelain mask, bearded and expressionless. None of the Darigan have drawn the spears at their backs or the curved swords at their hips, and each carries themselves with a calm sort of matter-of-fact implication of violence. Like they expect that their reputation precedes them, and that therefore there will be no need for their particular set of skills.

A fifth figure, this one unarmored and in flowing white robes that hug a corpulent frame, reads from a scroll. Layla’s ear can catch some of the trills of his ‘r’s,’ but otherwise, his Fód is that of a native speaker, “… and so, good people of Faerghus, do I bestow upon you the sublime honor of her presence. I present to you she in whose veins flows the heavenly fire, I present to you she from whose heart pumps the water of life. I present to you Yasmin Roxana Khosravi Scheherzad, Jewel of His Imperial Majesty’s Eye and Crown Princess of the Empire of Dagda.”

Layla finds herself wishing, when the carriage door swings open, that it had been imbued with a magical glow, or maybe some smoke for the princess to emerge from. As it is, that is quite a lofty title for a girl dressed in the Officers Academy’s uniform to wear. She is of average height, but her straight back makes her seem taller. Some midnight blue hair falls in two streams over her shoulders. The rest is wound up in an elaborate braided bun threaded through with thin silver chains that meet on the princess's forehead, an amethys teardrop shining like a third eye. Her face is powdered (not as much as Layla’s always heard that Dagdans prefer), some rouge applied to her cheeks. The bow of her lips is painted a deep red. Her gaze is regal, impassive to the curiosity she is regarded with.

Curiosity and, it seems, something slightly more visceral.

Someone shouts, “Slavemonger!”

Another is more direct and more cutting, “Barbarian!”

Of course, they’re only so brave because they’re in the back of the crowd. The darigani move as one anyhow, hands flying to the weapons at their sides in preparation for an attack. Touchy. Maybe too much so, but Dagda didn’t become one of the world’s foremost empires by by being careless with its royalty. Princess Yasmin raises a hand and snaps her fingers, saying (not shouting, saying), “No.” They sheathe their swords and take their places kneeling at the steps from the carriage. For a second, Layla wonders if the people who cried out might’ve been plants - a chance to show off the power the princess could command with a word. She holds out her hands as she descends slowly, deliberately, and her guardians take them reverently, guiding her down to the Academy’s cobbles.

Layla’s sure she imagines the harsh intake of breath when the princess’s foot touches down, but if it’s real then it’s nonetheless warranted. There’s a reason this crowd has stuck around now that the mystery of who’s at the source of the commotion has been solved. It may just be that Layla’s witnessing history right now - has there ever before been a Dagdan royal in Garreg Mach’s halls?

Princess Yasmin takes her time, either relishing her spotlight or just knowing the steps to the dance one does in the public eye. The bureaucrat who announced her bows low as she approaches, and she places a hand on his shaved head to grant him permission to rise. Her face is sweet - and that helps to hide the venom she thinks she’s hidden in the Dagdan tongue, “I was told there would be none of this nonsense.” Though he sputters a moment, she doesn’t wait for an explanation or excuse. She glides toward Garreg Mach’s gatekeeper and speaks aloud in better Fód than Layla expects, “I should like to speak with Archbishop Byleth. Might you bring news of my arrival to her?”

There’s nothing wrong with the armor of Garreg Mach’s castle watch. It’s got that whole ‘simple and plain strength’ vibe that the Church goes for these days. But it just so happens that next to the finery and fierceness of Dagda’s Darigan, it sort of ends up looking like the watch might as well be wearing hollowed out wooden barrels. The gatekeeper seems to recognize that, bowing his head to Princess Yasmin, just a little shake in his voice, “I… yes, of course, Your Highness. I’ll report this to her at once.”

The princess smiles sweetly, “I thank you.” It’s only as the gatekeeper scurries off into the castle that her smile fades - not to nothing, she’s still on, still under scrutiny. But her smile is thinner, and there’s less chirp in her voice as she returns to Dagdan, “They should’ve known we were arriving in advance. Yet neither the archbishop nor Prince Remus was here to receive us.”

“No, my lady,” a second girl replies in the same language. Layla starts in surprise - she was so caught up in the ceremony that she didn’t notice her leaving the carriage. To look at her, you wouldn't think you could miss this girl in a crowd. Bright auburn curls practically explode about her head, fettered here and there with multicolored jewels. A dark teal and and bright lime green swirl inward and inward on each other on the shawl she wears over the shoulders of her Officers Academy uniform.

Princess Yasmin eyes the girl, some amusement in her eye, “Am I being snubbed?”

As much as Layla would love to stick around for a princess’s gossip with her maidservant (and as curious as she is how and whether Lady Byleth allowed Dagda to bring any of their particular sort of servant onto hallowed ground), the crowd is starting to disperse. Everyone got to see what the fuss was about, got to witness the arrival of a foreign princess, and now everything left is boring politics to them - time to go. That means that it’s time for Layla to make herself scarce too. Yasmin’s going to be her classmate this year, she’ll see her around: but they don’t have to meet now.

Layla scuttles through the last of the hangers-on, dipping past Zacharias. He’s got his arms folded and his eyebrows furrowed, and Layla hears him confide to Reza, “I’m still conflicted about her being here. After all Dagda’s done…”

Reza looks away when he says that, her eyes briefly locking with Layla’s. The Duscan girl rolls her eyes meaningfully, and Layla gives her a sympathetic wink. That gets a sensible chuckle, at least.

As she makes her way through the stable yard, Layla considers her options. If she wants to duck around the princess and the archbishop’s meeting, she’ll have to steer clear of the front entrance to the academy grounds. If her mental map is right, that narrows her options right now. Both the academy library and the Shadow Library in Abyss are off in the west, and she’s stuck out east. She could go check out the wyvern pit, but wouldn’t that be missing out on her reason for coming back topside?

Most of the places students are liable to be milling about are out west too - there’s a nice little hedge garden for tea parties and what have you just nearby the stables, but that doesn’t feel like the right spot right now. Nothing for it but to cross before the grand Church-Dagda delegation starts making their way through the Academy.

Only faintly does Layla hear a girl call out, “No, seriously, I think it’s this way, Emma!”

A second replies, “But they’ll be at the entrance, and that’s-”

The first chirps, “Hey, don’t you trust me?” and does not seem to care about the hesitancy of the second’s response.

And honestly, Layla should’ve been paying attention to those voices - and how close they are. She turns on a heel and her heart nearly leaps into her throat as she just about walks headlong into the worst person possible.

Melissa has mostly dodged the curse that plagues Goneril women and actually cleared 160 centimeters (or maybe she’s hit it exactly, Layla doesn’t have a tape measurer on her). Layla isn’t so lucky, and so at least when she keeps her head down it’ll prevent their eyes from meeting. That’s for the best, even if subservience naturally triggers Melissa’s haughtiness: her hands go to her hips and she sneers, “Watch where you’re-!” but then she shakes her head, her bright pink ponytail whipping a little. Its tie might actually be made out of pearls, “No, sorry, I should be looking too-” and now realization dawns on her face, “Wait a minute-”

Layla lowers her voice an octave - and damn it, she’s so frazzled that she puts on some country girl accent that she absolutely can’t sell, “Sorry, m’lady, didn’t mean to interrupt your leisurely-” she ducks around her, failing to notice the tall girl Melissa’s walking with and stepping right into her. She has short purple hair and a beauty mark under one eye. She flinches back a bit as Layla bumps into her. Layla recovers (well, she tries to), babbling, “Oh, and pardon me again, I’ll just… I’ll go now!!!”

Melissa steps towards her, “No, seriously-”

Too late, Mel. Layla has already turned the first corner she comes to, and once she does she’s sprinting. Flaring nerves and her rapid heartbeat aside, she’s got her head back about her now - at the very least, there are no more collisions. When she’s sure she’s gone far enough, she goes a little further, and after one final turn, she presses her back into a hedge wall and lets out a sigh of mixed relief and frustration.

Layla’s left Abyss for how long now before nearly blowing this? Two hours? Three? She whaps the side of her head with the heel of her hand, “Dummy.”

Not that it really matters. If Layla gets found out, what’s the worst that will happen? They’ll write her parents, she’ll get a stern talking to… and with any luck, she’ll get to stay at the Academy anyway.

But she’s posed herself this challenge. Baba could do it, so Layla should be able to as well.

Layla steadies her breath, gets ready to get back into it. On her exhale, she blinks in surprise at another matching it, just to her left. She turns her head at the same time that another girl does the same. They stare at each other for a moment with the same harried nerves, and for Layla at least, when she sees her worries reflected in this girl’s face… well they can’t be that bad, can they? Look how silly they look on someone else. The girl must feel the same way: when Layla breaks down laughing, so does she.

Layla is the first to recover, wiping at an eye as she asks, “So. Who’re you running from?”

The girl runs her hands through a long, earthy green drill of hair, “My father.” A strange little smile comes to her face when she says that that Layla doesn’t quite understand.

That’s a question for later, though. Wincing sympathetically, Layla asks, “I’m gonna guess…” she taps her chin, observing the girl. There’s a faint gawkiness about her, like puberty is still playing hell with her - she must be one of the younger students. Which means that in all likelihood her pursuer is… “Fussy and overprotective?”

“And smothering and obnoxious and good Goddess, he might as well be my own personal jailer!” she huffs, crossing her arms. Some slightly wicked realization glints in her eye - Layla thinks she might like it, and when she looks at her, she seems to relish saying, “The man doesn’t so much as acknowledge that he’s my father for years and years, and now has the nerve to act like this!”

Oh now, that is juicy! Layla leans in a little, her voice conspiratorial, “Who is he? If you don’t mind my-”

She does not - she does not at all, “Cardinal Seteth.”

Layla’s eyes widen, “No way!” Not just a noble scandal, but a priestly one! “Doesn’t that make you like… Church royalty?”

The girl giggles, “Oh, no - more like… like a skeleton that will no longer stay put in the esteemed cardinal’s closet!” She waves that away, “And what about you? I assume you’re hiding as well?”

Okay, here they go. Layla draws in a breath. Show time, “I… it’s dumb.”

“Oh, I’m sure that it’s not,” the girl says.

Layla eyes her, smiles sardonically, “I’m from Goneril Territory - way the heck out east?”

“I’m familiar with it.”

“Mm. To be precise, I’m from the village of Akdhib,” despite her better judgement, Layla glances at the girl’s face to see if she’s been caught, “Do you…?”

She shakes her head. There’s no recognition in her eyes, only a slight puzzlement, “I’m afraid not."

“It’s in the mountains, just on the border of Almyra. My father…” Layla makes a show of hemming and hawing about it, “He’s… kinda…”

“An Almyran himself?” the girl asks helpfully.

She’s on the right track, but Layla still shakes her head. “No - well, yeah, but it’s not just that,” Layla explains. She huffs, crosses her arms, “He’s… not the sort of person who…” she takes in a breath, says quickly, “He’s kinda… a bandit?”

“Oh,” the girl says. And then, as the realization sinks in, she says it again, “Oh… my. I’m so sorry, I-”

“Don’t be. I mean… he was always gentle with my mother and me,” Layla says, trying to keep a steady hand on her voice. This is supposed to be her at her most vulnerable, and there’s such a particular impression that she wants for what that looks like. She has to be fond of her father the man, but conflicted about her father the warrior, “… but I always knew that there were… well, there were people who he wasn’t so gentle with, right? That’s how he could even throw together the money to send me to Garreg Mach.” She shrugs, lets out an embarrassed laugh that sounds a little fake in her own ears, but hopefully will fool this girl, “So I just got here, and who’s one of the first people I run into but Duke Holst’s daughter. The very lord my father terrorized to get me here, and I’m just… schoolmates with his daughter. There was this split second where I was terrified she knew who I was, and… well, here we are.”

While she spins her yarn, the girl watches her with wide (disbelieving?) eyes. But she nods, and Layla can see the stars forming in her eyes, “I… must admit, there’s a certain kind of romance to that, isn’t there? A bandit king’s baseborn daughter, sent to build herself a better life through his own ill-gotten gains, only to find herself in the presence of a child of her father’s enemy - you are something out of a storybook, aren’t you?”

Layla laughs nervously, and doesn’t have to fake it this time, “I just worry that some people might not see it that way.” There’s a beat, and she gives the girl a look, “‘Baseborn?’”

“Oh!” she starts, shrinks a little, “I’m sorry, it’s just… well the nature of your… situation led me to believe that… were your parents wed when?” She shrinks a little more, blushes, “It’s just, I only suspected that you might be, um, like me.”

She says that last key phrase so quietly that Layla’s half certain that she only heard the words in her own head. The tiny hope there is so fragile, so adorable, Layla doesn’t know what to do with it. A part of her wishes that she were able to quash the girl’s imaginings without a care, but she can’t find the callousness in herself to do it. So she looks at the sky, wishes for the winds to carry her apology to her mother - Baba would no doubt find this small change to her story deeply amusing, “No no, you’re right. It’s just… ‘baseborn?’” She winks, “Sounds like some old granny’s way of talking about us - y’know, right before she shoos us from the room so we don’t embarrass the guests.”

The girl perks up a little as Layla speaks, still a little pink. She considers for a moment, “Oh, well, you know what I mean…” yet still she corrects herself, “A bandit king’s bastard.” It sounds like it’s the first time she’s ever said the word - an effect not diminished by her delighted, conspiratorial smile once it’s out there.

“And a cardinal’s bastard,” Layla returns, and the girl giggles into her hand. She’s an odd one - if Layla had to guess, she’d say Cardinal Seteth must’ve kept her sheltered. She hopes that the reality of being a walking scandal doesn’t dull the joy she takes from that word too much. Looking at the rose-strewn topiaries around them, Layla repeats, “A bandit king’s bastard and a cardinal’s bastard… walk into a hedge maze. How do you suppose that joke ends?”

“First, I think, the cardinal’s tells the bandit king’s her name,” the girl says, holding out a hand, “I am called Gweneth.”

“Just Gweneth?” Layla asks, arching one eyebrow.

She nods, “Just Gweneth.”

Fair enough, “Charmed, my lady,” Layla drawls, taking the hand and squeezing once, “I suppose then the bandit king’s replies to the cardinal’s, ‘And I’m Layla Hallaj.’” She clears her throat, waits a moment, and then repeats, “And I’m Layla Hallaj.”

Gweneth giggles, “You’re a student, Layla Hallaj?” Layla takes note of her clunky  pronunciation of the surname, resolves to learn it by her next introduction. The other girl pays no mind to it, waving a hand to dismiss her question, “No, that’s silly of me, of course you are - the uniform-”

“You’re not the first person not to notice it, if you can believe that,” Layla says airily, “Though thank goodness you didn’t think I was a servant.”

“No,” Gweneth gasps, maybe just a touch overly surprised.

“Yes!” Layla returns. But she also doesn’t care to elaborate much further, and so she asks instead, “What house are you in?”

“You first.”

Oh, that’s the game they’re playing? Okay, that’s fine. Layla shrugs, “The Ashen Wolves.”

With a delighted little squeal, Gweneth returns, “Me too!” And something in Layla wonders if she would have said that no matter what house she’d said. Is she just that charming? “Then this meeting must be fate!”

“Oh yeah, definitely,” and despite her flippancy, Layla really does believe that. Coincidence is something the gods made up to disguise their works upon the earth, “After all, a couple of no-account commoners have to stick together, right, Gwen?”

Gweneth lights up, whether at the offer or just the nickname, who’s to say. She nods once, then when she finds that to not be enough, says aloud, “Right!”

Checking around the corner, Layla finds that there is, in fact, no one about. There probably hasn’t been for a while now - and so the two of them can both stop hiding. She pushes off from the hedge wall, stretches a little, “So. Gwen. How do you feel about libraries?”

Only here does Gwen falter, “I… a bit dusty and boring, if I’m to be truthful. I was hoping to-”

To avoid them until the year began, no doubt. Layla waves any notions of that aside, taking Gwen’s hand again and leading her from the garden, “You just haven’t been in the right parts of one yet. See, the trick is that if they never see you, no one can actually keep you out of the restricted sections. So as long as you have a lookout…” gesturing to herself, she grins, “And hey, would you look at that - you have a lookout! So. Wanna see what we can see?”

Gwen doesn’t answer, but her delighted smile does just as well. Layla can’t help but share her sentiment - there will be plenty of time to scope out the rest of her class in the coming week. Now she even has a follower to help her do it.

Robert

Whenever Robbie’s envisioned his time at the Officers Academy, he’s always imagined that he’d be busier. He’s had years and years to figure as much: he knew he wanted to follow in his mother’s footsteps long before he knew what he wanted to do once he arrived.

Mom would always laugh whenever he told her that. She’d shake her head and ask him why he’d ever want such a thing, and only smile indulgently at whatever response Robbie could cook up. Answering that question has gotten easier with age. And if Mom’s smile got a little sadder as Robbie’s answers got better, he would pretend not to notice it for as long as she pretended it wasn’t happening.

Only recently did she ever try to talk him out of it. It was the night that he got his letter of acceptance. Almost ridiculous; when Robbie was applying, she’d been his staunchest supporter. She’d helped him balance Mittelfrank work with studying for the entrance exams. She’d aided him in refining his magic - give him that little leg up on the competition that he’d needed. And she’ll never admit it, but a part of Robbie would be shocked if Mom hadn’t written to Lady Byleth at some point and given the archbishop a reminder that not all of her former students’ children are highborn.

If true, is accepting that hypocrisy on Robbie’s part? Maybe. That kind of nepotism looks so obnoxious on others.

But on the other hand, suppose you did consider his mother’s potential influence. What work did anyone without that particular advantage do that Robbie hadn’t? He learned the spells, he reached out to Duke Ferdinand and at his advice, to Duchess Eva to write his letters of recommendation (because surely Lady Evie is qualified to recommend who should and shouldn’t be her classmates). He sat his exams and spewed out all the memorized names and dates and figures to prove he had a suitable education, he waxed poetic across pages and pages on the significance of the Battle of Gronder Field until the wide exam hall was nearly empty and the ducal proctors warned him that they could not legally accept work that was even a moment late.

If Robbie is at Garreg Mach because his mother once studied under the archbishop, he has nonetheless earned his place. None of the noble scions here can say that - what was their exam score? Where are their essays?

But all of that is beside the point. Robbie set his mind to going to the Officers Academy, and so Mom threw herself into helping him do that however she could. And so by hook or by crook, inevitably a letter came for Robbie bearing the archbishop’s seal. He’d happened to be swinging by the market when the post arrived that day, and when Mom saw the thin packet of bound vellum, she’d realized at once what it was and had to know what it said. Robbie understands the intrusion, even if it’s still mildly irritating.

So he’d come home, and Mom had sat him down and let him read through the letter for himself. She’d given him a moment to bask in his accomplishment, as though she weren’t the one who’d been reminding him since he was born that he could do anything. Only then did she ask if he was sure.

When Robbie told her that he was, Mom had had a flicker of that faraway look that sometimes crosses her face when she thinks of the war. It was only there for a moment: Mom has had more practice hiding her thoughts than anyone alive. She can make her suffering nigh invisible. But Robbie still saw it: there might be others with more of a talent for reading people than him, but he closes the gap in their skills every day.

He hadn’t waited for a second question - that was a misstep on his part, it made him look defensive; but reassuring Mom had come first. Robbie had told her that he was going to be fine. The Mittelfrank Opera didn’t take many shows on the road, but Robbie had had that experience; leaving Enbarr wasn’t going to be entirely new to him. Neither was getting used to calling somewhere else home for a few moons. And besides, it wasn’t like he wasn’t used to rubbing the occasional shoulder with Fódlan’s high lords. Mom had asked him if he’d thought about what the time away would do to his career with the opera. He’d dryly replied that it would do the same for him that it had done for her - raise his name so high it glittered among the stars. She’d asked him one last time what he’d even want from the Officers Academy. Robbie had told her the truth: that the world can be cruel, and there are people in it that he needed to be able to protect from that cruelty. That the best way he could think to do that was to emulate the strongest person he knows.

When there had been no logic left to her worries, when they had been reduced to a fine blend of a mother’s natural concern for a son as he set off on a long journey mixed with the cinders of her own regrets, Mom had taken his hands in hers, squeezed them like she could press him back into her little boy. Gently, she’d said to him, “It’s going to feel like a dream. Like you’ve stepped into a magical world, a world where you walk alongside great heroes in the making, watching them get stronger and wiser with each passing day - and where you get to be one of them. Where there can be a thousand different ideals for what the future should look like, but somehow they all manage not just to coexist but to melt together. It will feel like… like flying. You’ll wonder just where your own limits are, and find yourself breaking them over and over again. You’ll catch yourself thinking that all that matters in the world is getting a little bit better, proving that you belong there. Everything you learn there will feel like talent for talent’s sake, like you’re learning the steps to a dance or the notes to a song you never knew you could sing.” Robbie had had to laugh when she said that, but it was a shaky laugh, and all it did was harden Mom’s resolve, “But you need to remember that it’s all real. It’s all a part of this world, the world that you come from - and no matter how beautiful it all might seem, there is a darkness to it.”

Then she let him go and dropped the matter. The resignation had shown on her face only for a moment or two - and it was replaced by an absolute delight that Robbie doesn’t think his mother had to fake. Because once Mom divorced the Officers Academy from the war that it had dragged her into, what an opportunity it was! The people he’d meet, the sights that he’d see - she’d apparently even come around on all the things he’d learn! Robbie has the feeling that she hadn’t been trying to convince him not to go to the Officers Academy by that point, only to ensure that he’d stay mindful of who he was once he got there. She doesn’t need to worry about that: Robbie knows who he is.

And who he is right now is a young man meandering from Garreg Mach’s cathedral after noon prayer and finding himself at a loss for what comes next today. He keeps wondering so long that he doesn’t even see the sprawling vista of the mountainside from the bridge that connects the cathedral to the rest of the monastery. That’s a shame: it’s one of his favorite views in Garreg Mach. For one thing, there’s the sheer openness of it: the monastery and the cathedral both have high walls that box you in, almost make you forget that you’re on a mountain. In contrast, the bridge parapets only come up to Robbie’s shoulders - the effect of traversing it is of being encased in stone only for a whole wide world to explode out in every direction. There’s something vaguely eerie about the thin fog that hangs over the landscape if you dare stop and look down. It gives this pale blue gloom to the rolling forests that provides a nice contrast to the thin white line of a river rushing so far below that no one can hear it. If you trace that river with your eyes, sometimes it feels you can follow it to where the mountains turn once more to flat earth. It must be how the Goddess sees the world.

But today Robbie’s in his own head and so he misses all of that. Instead, he starts in surprise when he realizes he’s wandered back into the tight walls and high ceilings of the reception hall. How could he be so distracted right now? Now, with more leisure time than he knows what to do with, what could be bothering him?

Just that, actually. Robbie’s still so used to working in the theatre, and the memory of rehearsing late into the night on that last week before a show goes up has set an instinctual worry tingling up and down his spine whenever he drops his guard. Only a few short days are left before classes start: being able to idle for even a moment feels aberrant.

There has to be something Robbie can do to get a head start on things. He was thinking that today might be the day that he plumbs into Abyss to thumb his way through the rumored Shadow Library. But is that running before he walks? There’s still plenty of books on magic in the Academy’s official library that he hasn’t mined - maybe it’d be overzealous to start on a new pile before he even makes a dent in the first. Or would it be a bad idea to even start trying to self-educate on arcane matters before he’s got Professor Hanneman or Linhardt monitoring his progress. Or is that some early onset sloth trying to drag him down?

Another path, maybe. Robbie’s head doesn’t seem to be anywhere that’s conducive to magical study. Maybe he could try uncovering some of Garreg Mach’s rumored secret passages? Rumors like that so rarely have any merit, but a castle so old, there have to be a few real ones - and Mom has dropped hints about a few areas Robbie wouldn’t mind investigating. There’s also starting to be these oddball little cliques of students flitting about the monastery with seemingly no other purpose than meeting new people. Robbie doesn’t fully get that: it’s not as though they aren’t all going to be introduced to their classes when the school year actually begins. It would be nice to get a handle on some of the competition before things start off, but is that necessarily a priority?

Potentially. Robbie can see the world where it is. It might be a good idea, for example, to have a few meetings with Eva - cement himself in her steel trap of a brain as someone to listen to. When doesn’t it pay to be friendly with your leader (or at least have an idea of what harebrained scheme they might be dreaming up next)?

Or if that’s unpalatable, which it might be, maybe today’s the day Robbie catches up with Phoebe. He’s left her afloat, and he can’t just ignore her foreverIt’s not that he’s been avoiding her out of any particular malice, it’s just… well, how exactly is he supposed to handle her? What are the rules for navigating childhood friendship on this stage? They’ll functionally be living together - how exactly does that work?

But Robbie doesn’t have any answers to any of those questions, so it’s probably better to leave her be for now. It’s not like he and Phoebe are starting from zero, right? Certainly not like he is with just about everyone else: his first impression with his house can’t very well be ‘Phoebe von Aegir’s pet commoner.’

There surely must be more Crimson Phoenixes for Robbie to meet and charm before classes start. He has no doubt that the houses this year will be heavily weighted toward the Blue Lions - everyone with a pulse will be trying to get a little closer to Prince Remus. But no way are the Phoenixes just going to be him, Eva, Phoebe, and Aster in a house all to themselves.

Aster. Come to think of it, checking up on her might actually be the play. They haven’t touched base in a couple of days now - really, only a few select words exchanged at mealtimes. Her choice. Much as she’s going to need his guidance, Aster is hoping to form her own opinions as much as she can, and only use him to fill in the blanks and correct false assumptions. That’s fine, of course - she needs to adjust to new surroundings the same as he does. Probably even more so.

But the more he thinks about it, the more that there is a plain and obvious purpose to speaking with her in private. Purpose alights in Robbie’s heart as he  starts to make his way swiftly through the halls: life is always so much more manageable with a plan.

Of course, the plan doesn’t account for how he’s to find Aster. The monastery is a big place: not always one you can hope to just happen upon someone, even one you’re actively looking for. So he takes a guess, and luckily for him, it’s a good one.

Today, Aster has found her way to the greenhouse. It’s so strange to step into its glass walls and suddenly trade the faint chill of Garreg Mach for something so much more tropical. There is some magic in place that keeps the greenhouse at different temperatures to keep plants from all over the world pleased despite their differences. The glass of the greenhouse creeps with artfully arranged northern moss not far from brilliant emerald palms springing from out of season Brigidi coconut trees. Neither is four meters from a row of Gaspard apple trees, tricked into flowering out of season. Flowers of every shape and color have been painted across the ground, year after year of gardeners mingling their seeds until uniformity becomes impossible. Birds chirp in the rafters, in awe of the paradise they’ve found.

Aster is sitting by a bubbling fountain so old that the centuries have eroded Saint Seiros’s head from the statue at its center. There’s an almost childlike wonder in her eyes as she looks at the water’s surface: it is almost completely covered in lily pads and blooming lotuses of ever color. It’s only as Robbie gets closer that he sees where the water rolls and the lilies sway with the movement of the carp swimming in the fountain’s basin. One breaks the surface: its scales glitter silver and crimson.

It’s picturesque, he’ll admit. Beautiful, even. The sort of thing that Aster won’t have seen for herself until now. When Robbie met her, she was working as a stagehand for Mittelfrank. After a moon of paying her little mind, accident of fate led to him discovering that she’d been secretly living in its backstage. From all she’s told him, it was the nicest place a girl on her own in Enbarr could hope to find.

Poor Mom. She’d nearly had a heart attack when Robbie had brought Aster home with him one night and asked if she could stay with them. This had been a few years ago now - apparently, fifteen was too young to be starting a family, and the two of them needed to slow down, and Mom was too young to be a grandmother. Of course, when Robbie had explained that things were very much not what she thought they were, she’d been more than happy to oblige.

(Mom had never let it slip before then that she’d been a homeless child once as well. What is so rotten in Enbarr that history keeps repeating itself, and what is so sweet in Mittelfrank that those who slip through the city’s cracks always seem to find their way there?).

Aster hadn’t stayed with them in the apartment for too long. She’d said at the time that she wouldn’t be comfortable owing them, and when Mom insisted, Aster simply opted to disappear one night rather than argue about it. Mom had worried; Robbie hadn’t: by then they’d talked about Garreg Mach, and Aster had resolved that she would join him there. They’d spent nearly three years apart, but Robbie hadn’t been surprised at all when Aster resurfaced a few short weeks after he’d gotten his letter of acceptance with one of her own.

Robbie still hasn’t gotten out of Aster exactly how she navigated her way through all the hoops commoners usually have to to go through to get to the Academy. Given where she was when they met, surely the entry fee alone would theoretically be out of reach for her? He has an idea or two, but deep down the question is immaterial and she’s not all that likely to answer it: so why ask?

Whatever she’d done and wherever she’d been in her absence, it’s hard to imagine she’d have seen anything like the dense jungle of Garreg Mach’s greenhouse. There’s a certain level of verdure that turns into its own kind of luxury.

So of course Aster is transfixed by the fountain, by its bobbing lilies, by the simple tranquility of free running water with no purpose but to soothe. A part of Robbie almost doesn’t want to interrupt her - seeing her so at ease dampens his sense of urgency. The rest of him is a little amused by how she starts when he gives a perfunctory cough.

When she realizes it’s only him, the surprise disappears from her face like it was never there. She rises to her feet, dusting off her knees, “Robbie.”

“Aster,” he agrees. He lets something light pepper his voice, “You seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“It’s peaceful here,” she replies, which Robbie isn’t so sure is quite the response that goes there. Aster nods across the way at a series of small metal trellises, paper charms hanging from every wire. They encage a few freshly planted tomato bushes, and she explains, “A boy who was in here earlier asked my help building those. Tall,” she gestures with a hand as high as she can hold it above her head, as if Robbie doesn’t know what ‘tall’ means, “Light blue hair. Called himself…” she furrows her brow, tries to conjure the name. It’s a decent performance - Robbie’s found that Aster actually has quite a head for details, “… Connor von Bergliez.”

She leaves the question implied, but Robbie nods in understanding anyway, “Mm. He’s from Bergliez Territory-”

“Shocking.”

“Hush. He’s heir to the county, I’m pretty sure,” though if he is, only by the dubious virtue of his family’s recent civil war. Robbie doesn’t know the full details of the conflict and only a little of what it robbed the kingdom of - and that’s enough to inject bitterness into his words, “Heir to swords and battle cries and bloody Gronder Field,” there’s a moment’s silence, and Robbie is deliberately patronizing, “In the war, Gronder Field-”

“I know my history, thank you,” Aster huffs, and Robbie gives her a grin that makes her eyebrows furrow. She crosses her arms, murmurs to herself, “He seemed nice. He sang to the plants a little when he thought I’d left.”

Robbie smirks, and maybe he’s just a little condescending, “Well, as we know, all singers are moral paragons.”

“Leave me be if you’re in a mood,” she says, any irritation he’s earned masked by an air of boredom, “I was only asking because he’s to be our classmate, and I wondered if you might know more than me about who he is out there.”

Aster gestures vaguely to some far-flung ‘there,’ and with a shrug, Robbie says, “Only what I told you.” He tries to color his voice with something like an apology: needling sometimes comes a little too naturally to him for his own good. Besides, she’s right - it can only help for her to know as much as she can ahead of time about the company she’ll be keeping, “No, that’s not true. There was… House von Bergliez had a disagreement about which branch was supposed to inherit the county. I’m pretty sure that the man who won it is Connor’s father.”

“That seems a fairly big detail for you to leave out, Robbie,” she says, and he rubs at the back of his head. There isn’t much reproach to her tone, but still. Aster chews on her lip, considering, “Should I know about it…?”

Robbie shakes his head, “I think people will understand if you don’t. You’re a street urchin - boring dynastic politics are above your pay grade. But I wouldn’t ask Connor-”

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Aster asks sharply. He makes a noncommittal noise, and her nostrils flare a little, “Robbie.”

“Sorry, sorry, I kid,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender, “… but that’s about the extent of what I’ve heard about them. The only von Bergliez that my mother knows is Caspar. I don’t think they care all that much for the arts.”

Aster nods a little. Almost as an afterthought, she says, “Thank you. Did you need anything…?”

“Yes, actually,” Robbie says with a snap of his fingers - their diversion has been nice enough, but yes, there was a reason he went looking for her, wasn’t there? “I need you to come with me. There’s something I want to show you.”

When he doesn’t elaborate, Aster arches her eyebrow, but she follows him nonetheless. Robbie leads her back the way he came, keeping a brisk clip and trusting her to be able to keep up.

Once he’s brought them to the bridge, Robbie stops short, with Aster taking just two more strides before she halts as well. He slings one arm over her shoulder and gestures theatrically to the building before them, “That right there, Aster, is the Grand Cathedral of Garreg Mach.”

And what a cathedral it is: in truth, it is more like a secondary, smaller castle set beside the rest of the academy. The walls are wide as any of those that surround the monastery, even if they’re interrupted by twin belfries thick and tall enough that either would be an imposing enough church in their own right. They frame the cathedral’s portcullis, polished black iron and silver bolts a fine juxtaposition to the building’s crisp white stone. Banners stream from each belfry as well - on a white background the red, almost featherlike crest of Seiros of the Church alternates with a white lion in an azure sea that represents the Kingdom. Past them, the massive central dome looks just as weathered and wizened as the rest of the structure that you’d never believe it’s less than twenty years old - at the onset of Unification, a few lucky catapults hurled a rain of boulders through the belfries and caved in the old rooftop. The conical dome that glistens with silver trim now was built after the war. The whole thing sits atop a precarious precipice of mountain, a towering spire of earth only about as wide as the building itself. The longer you look at it, the surer you become that it should plummet into the ravine below. Yet it never does.

And it doesn’t seem to faze Aster in the slightest. She eyes him curiously even as she shrugs him off. Clearly she hasn’t taken his meaning yet, “I’m aware of that.”

“Really?” Robbie blinks at her like this news is utterly baffling to him, “Well that’s funny, because I haven’t seen you at prayer. At all.”

Aster snorts, and her fist finds its way to her hip. Now does she think she’s earned the incredulity in her eyes? “Seriously?”

Robbie almost says something harsh, but catches sight of a pair of boys in Academy uniform passing by. So instead, his tone is airy, “Well I was just starting to think that maybe you didn’t know where the altar to the Goddess was.”

Shaking her head, Aster steps closer even as she lowers her voice, “I have absolutely no intention of-”

“I think you should make an appearance,” Robbie says, just as quietly but in tones that pierce, “For your own sake. Trust me.” Her lips scrunch a little, and then a little more when Robbie winks, “What’s the harm in asking for a little divine intervention?”

Maybe that’s a bridge too far. This isn’t quite the time or the place for this argument - Robbie’d hoped to avoid it altogether by choosing somewhere public, but no, that doesn’t seem to be in the cards. Rolling her eyes, Aster says, “I don’t need-”

But luckily, Robbie doesn’t have to find out what she needs or doesn’t need, and neither does anyone nearby. Just to his and Aster’s side, a voice breathy from running rings out, “Excuse me, hi, sorry to butt in - are you Robert Arnault?”

Since Robbie is, he gives Aster another wink to warn her that they aren’t through here (and gets another eye roll by way of reply), and turns to face the voice. He forces his grin a little wider, his voice a little brighter - he is the very picture of all the nobility want to see in those who perform for their amusement. When he sees the little lordling lady who addressed him, he has to hold back a gasp. He feels like his face falters for just a moment, but the stars in her eyes give the lie to that worry. So he pretends that the hairs on the back of his neck haven’t stood up, simpers, “I am! Do I have the immeasurable honor of addressing a fan?”

The girl makes a little noise somewhere between a squeal and a gasp for breath. She’s maybe a head shorter than Robbie, her fluffy bob a dark green that’s almost black. Her black silk barrette almost blends into it - maybe to make the two white-yellow roses attached to it look like they’r blossoming from her head. They bounce as she bobs with excitement, hands clasping and unclasping, “It really is you! I’m Nora von Hevring and this…” she looks over her shoulder, seeming surprised that there’s no one there, and gestures for a girl a few meters away to hurry before she turns back to Robbie, stepping in in such a way that she just about cuts off Aster from him, babbling, “I’d heard you were here at the Academy, but honestly I figured that was just a rumor. Can… can I shake your hand?”

“I’ll do you one better, Nora von Hevring,” Robbie says, his voice silk. He dips expertly into a bow, lifting Nora’s hand to kiss the tips of her fingers. For a second, he thinks she’s going to fall over when he breathes, “After all, the honor is mine.”

Nora snatches her hand back, covering her mouth with both hands and making a high pitched noise into them. Robbie catches Aster rolling her eyes and taking a half a step back from them as he rises. Before he can say anything else, Nora is gushing, “No, but it’s really mine! I’ve seen all your main stage shows in Enbarr, you’re just… you’re incredible!”

“Oh, not as great as all that,” Robbie says dismissively, “I still have a lot to learn.”

“Then you’re going to be the best there ever was one day!” Nora chirps, and because it would be improper to agree to that, Robbie instead chuckles and dips his head in thanks, “That last one you did - ‘The Blue Sun Rising…’” she shivers dramatically enough that maybe she should be the actress, “You were just… I was sobbing. The part where-“

“My mother was furious about that show,” Robbie inspects his nails, “She’d been insistent that a real Brigidi singer ought to play the queen, but…” he shrugs. Backstage drama is sometimes charming, but generally not where investors get involved, “I suppose audiences weren’t quite ready for that.”

“Even so, you were brilliant!” Well of course he was. Mom had practically written the role with him in mind. Surely this girl should understand that when circumstances bend over backwards for you to succeed, it isn’t so impressive when you do?

If she does, she doesn’t acknowledge it. Nora’s friend has finally arrived at her side. Despite a certain regal beauty about her, she looks so, so tired - probably from dealing with this one. Her light pink hair hangs in a loose braid over one shoulder, seemingly torn between whether or not it’s going to spill free altogether. She eyes Robbie, then Aster, then Nora, “Nora, who-”

“Persephone!” Nora practically sings, affecting a certain grandiosity that really doesn’t sit well on her, “It is my immense, nay, immeasurable honor,” she sneaks a look at Robbie as if it’s somehow cleverer of her to use his phrasing, “… of introducing Robert Arnault! Robert, this is Persephone von Rusalka!”

“Oh…” she nods at Robbie, and her lips quirk in an almost-smile that doesn’t reach her eyes, “Hello. It’s a…” she stops short, “I… uh… I loved you in Edge of Dawn.”

“Oh, thank you,” That would be impressive - Robbie hasn’t had the chance to perform in what people call his mother’s magnum opus yet. He pays the mistake no mind, going back into his bow and taking Persephone’s hand as he did Nora’s. He feels like some kind of automaton whenever he has to repeat going through these motions, “And may I say-”

“Please don’t do that,” she says flatly, taking her hand back and stepping back a short ways, “I just…” she struggles to put what ‘she just’ into words, then gives up and shrugs, “Let’s just not go through… all that.”

Robbie knits his brow, genuinely puzzled. Nora gives him an apologetic look, and he quickly corrects course, “No, no, I understand. We’ve only just met after all - surely I ought to at least buy you dinner first,” Persephone smiles at that, but it’s another halfhearted one - a sort of ‘I understand that I’m supposed to make a face like this here, but I don’t care to.’ For her part, Nora giggles into a knuckle. If she gets that joke, why did she let Robbie kiss her hand? He can think of a few reasons, but it wouldn’t pay to say any of them. Instead, circling a little to his left (and out of Nora’s bubble), Robbie gestures to Aster, “And as long as we are still all getting acquainted, this is Aster Bronstein.”

“Hello,” she says, not quite mimicking Persephone’s intonation. Robbie’s close enough that he can poke two fingers into her back without the noble girls noticing. Aster stiffens, clumsily curtseys to Persephone. She says again, “Hello, my lady.” Then she repeats the action, turning it out towards Nora, “And… um… my other lady.” Robbie resists the urge to smack his forehead.

Luckily, these two must just put it down to a lowborn bumpkin’s lowborn graces. Nora gives her an odd smile like she just noticed she was there and an awkward, “Oh! Yes. Hello, Aster.” Then she returns her attention to Robbie, and all of the energy is back in her voice, “Were you just headed to the cathedral? We just got done and-”

“And so I was headed back,” Persephone says, breaking off from the group and continuing down the bridge. Over her shoulder, she says, “Nora, if you want to meet up later, I’ll be…” she considers, shrugs, “… well, we’ll find each other.”

Nora makes a surprised noise, starting after Persephone but stopping short suddenly. Ah, the conundrum: she wants to go with her friend, but so badly wants also to be attached at the hip to Robbie. How will she reconcile the two? With a twinge of embarrassment, she chooses - admirably, at least, “I should… I should really go with her. It was great to meet you though, Robert!”

He nods in understanding - and you know what? Now that they’ve met, he’ll give her a small treat, “Robbie.” Nora’s eyes light up when he says it, and her cheeks turn just the slightest bit pink when he says, “My friends call me Robbie, and I suspect we’ll be great friends, Nora.”

Nora nods once, grinning from ear to ear. But then she remembers that for once in her life there’s actually something she has to do, and so she dashes off after Persephone. Only once she reaches her does she think twice, turning around and calling over the faint winds, “Robbie!”

Good thing she can’t see the pinch in his brow. Her intonation is all wrong - that kind of shrill cry is going to tear up her throat one day. When Robbie calls back, he has the good sense to project, not shout, “Yes?”

“What house are you in!?” she shrieks. Persephone has already left her side. Impatient, that one.

Robbie cocks his head to the side as if the question confuses him, but really it’s just for Nora’s anticipation, “The Crimson Phoenixes.”

And by the happy squeal that follows, so is she. Well. What luck, “Then I’ll see you in class, Robbie!” Then she turns and quickly runs after her friend.

Robbie watches her go. He wonders if his easy smile is believable enough. Maybe he only looks smug. A part of him can’t help but be - this has been a long time coming.

In the corner of his vision, Aster hops up to sit on the bridge’s parapet, eyeing where the girls stood only moments before. For a long moment, she visibly considers whether to say anything at all, then turns her eyes on Robbie. When she can’t find the answer she’s looking for on his face, she has to ask, “Was that…?” but even then she trails off.

It’s only then that Robbie lets the smile fade from his face, “It was.” He idles towards Aster, stands by her side - still unable to to take his eye off the end of the bridge. Aster hesitates before she puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes once and awkwardly before taking it back. Robbie gives her a reassuring smile - though not one he’d necessarily share publicly.

Robbie doesn’t need reminders of why he came to Garreg Mach. He’s lived with them all his life. But even so, what a precious gift this one is.

Ashely

The castle town below the Officers Academy still buzzes with activity. The festival air of the city is still going strong - it seems to last for most of the daylight hours and then die off with the evening. It must be exhausting - from what Ashely can gather, the jubilant welcome starts to fade within the first week of classes. Until then, the singsong cacophony of the locals and traveling merchants hard at work shouting the services they offer to anyone is present as ever. There are of course the new arrivals - barely more than a day now from being late arrivals - gawking at every little thing in a way that makes Ashely smile. Was that really what she looked like less than a week ago? Goddess.

She’s found herself something of a safe spot somewhat separate from all the ruckus. Along the road there is a space between a dyer’s and a glassblower’s that isn’t quite big enough to fit another building. Maybe a someone not planning to plant any roots could set up shop there for a few days, but not so long as the space is taken by a statue done up in polished white marble. Saint Seiros stands proud and defiant in her warlike aspect, robes flowing from under plate armor. Her face is hidden in the billows of her hood; her thin crown with its sharp winglets is her primary identifier. Secondary to it is the circular shield she holds at chest height - it bears her crest, but so do the shields of thousands of believers across Fódlan. Accident of fate - probably during the war - saw the sword hand that she thrusts skyward broken off. The stone to fix it has gone to other projects, and so instead someone has affixed three strings of flowering vines to crawl around her upraised arm.

It’s distinct enough that it should be an easy meeting spot: the white stonework dais the statue stands atop is conspicuously wide, as if offering itself for anyone who needs a moment to sit and wait. Ashely and Odette have happily taken it up on its offer.

Happily at first.

Determined to do something, Ashely hops from her seat on the statue’s edge and paces back and forth a couple of meters. Not enough to get swept up in the flow of foot traffic, but enough to satisfy her own restlessness. That done, and it being readily apparent that there’s no reason to stand yet, she hops back up onto the dais, leaning forward to rest her chin in her hands, “He’s late.”

Odette, laid out backwards with her hands for a pillow, her legs dangling off the statue’s edge, opens a skeptical eye. When she doesn’t get a response, she sits up, flatly replying, “Ashely, he’s not coming.”

“We don’t know that for sure!” Ashely says, hating the whining note that’s snuck its way into her voice. She rubs her hands on her face, hopes that will somehow restore some semblance of respectability, “I saw him this morning! We had a nice breakfast and everything!!!”

“‘Then I turned my back and… poof!’” Odette whines, raising her voice an octave to tease her. When Ashely glares at her, she at least has the decency to look abashed, “… I’ll check the training ground when we get back.”

“Oh no way, what a surprising turn of events for you,” Ashely returns, and the sarcasm is just a little more caustic than she’d wanted it.

And it touched a nerve - this time, the whine in Odette’s voice is genuine, “Hey, don’t get mad at me - I showed up!”

Since that’s true, Ashely gives ground. Even if Odette technically started it, she can be sensitive, and no matter how frustrated she is (is getting: there’s a key difference there) that’s no reason Ashely should take things out on her. With an exasperated sigh, she lays back as well, her voice apologetic, “You did. Thank you, Odette.” And in case her friend has any doubt in her, she says it again, “Seriously. Thank you. It’s nice to be…”

And while she’s looking for the right word, Odette finds her own. She suggests, “Listened to?”

Ashely wants something a little kinder than that, but honestly? “Yeah.” Letting out another, much more exaggeratedly ragged sigh, she says, “I told Remus about this, right? I didn’t imagine that?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” which is fair enough. Of course Odette doesn’t know. Against all odds and all of Ashely’s efforts (and most of Odette’s and surely at least some of Remus’s), since coming to Garreg Mach, the three of them have yet to all be in  the same place at the same time. 

All in all, things have not gone to plan the last couple of days. By now, Ashely had hoped to pin down who the key members of the Blue Lions were going to be. She’d hoped to sort out who wasn’t just looking to coast their way through the Officers Academy, but who was serious enough about excelling that they’d be interested in joining strategy meetings before the school year even began. She’d hoped to get a vague outline of who worked well with who. Who already had some leadership experience and who needed a helping hand to guide them along? Whose ambition was going to make them a valuable asset and whose was going to turn them into a rival to Remus’s authority as house leader? That last was perhaps most important - sometimes a good rival could be even more of an asset. There were so many people to meet, and each one of them brought new variables with how they interacted with all the others - the greatest of Ashely’s hopes was that she’d be able to get a head start on internalizing their wants and needs before classes start and she has to.

Categorically, Ashely is behind on that front. And unfortunately, a big part of why comes down to her own failure to get ahold of Remus. The whole idea of team building exercises and structuring house leadership breaks down if the house leader isn’t there - all she’d be doing is undermining him. So instead, it’s turned into a nearly daily hunt for him.

The day that Ashely had arrived at Garreg Mach, she and Odette had searched the academy grounds high and low for Remus until sundown, but to no avail. Since then they’ve resolved that two separate search parties are better than one for their purposes - and from a certain point of view, that’s even turned out to be true. Odette’s managed to find Remus once since. Ashely’s done it twice.

The first time she hadn’t even been looking, it was just completely by chance. Ashely had been starting her morning a few days ago, heading to the training ground for some early target practice only to find a bleary eyed Remus beating the stuffing from a dummy. They’d practiced their swordplay together until Ashely had suggested they get breakfast. They’d caught up as well as they could: Ashely had asked how he was doing, Remus had shrugged off the question and turned it around on her. She’d told him all about her ideas to prepare for the start of classes - she’d really gotten on a roll for a minute there. Finally, Remus had confessed that she hadn’t actually run into him getting up early for training, she’d caught him in the tail end of staying up late for it - he’d been having trouble sleeping again. So she’d told him to go get some rest, and that she’d be in the library when he was ready to meet up with her. He’d said that he would, and Ashely proceeded to wait for him in the library until after sundown. Perhaps not the most auspicious of first meetings at the Academy.

(Odette had been so angry when Ashely told her about it: apparently she’d let poor Remus have it when she finally cornered him the next day. All the same, she’d lost him just as soon as she’d found him too.)

At least running into Remus had confirmed that he was at Garreg Mach Monastery. Ashely wasn’t just chasing her tail looking for a boy who was still on the road. But that raised its own new worry, one that still tickles from time to time in the back of Ashely’s mind (right now, it’s outright an itch she can’t scratch): Garreg Mach is a vast and spacious castle, and one person alone in it is a droplet in the ocean - but students of the Officers Academy don’t have free rein of all of the monastery. Or at the very least, they have little reason to stray from the designated spaces afforded to them. So there’s only so many places within the Academy grounds that Remus could be - and if he were to stay put, two people looking for him would almost inevitably find him. So what does it mean that Ashely’s only seen the prince twice in the past few days, both rather early and both very much by chance?

Sometimes Remus does this. A moon will go by where he doesn’t write Ashely back - or like at the ball, when he slipped away without telling anyone. Sometimes Remus just needs his space, and that’s okay.

… it’s okay, but Ashely would be lying to herself if she pretended it was ideal.

Their second meeting was just this morning, and just as serendipitous as the first - Ashely had happened to go to breakfast at the same time that Remus was sitting down for his. And a good thing too: it saved Ashely the worry of whether she’d be able to find him in time today. Whether they’ll make the meeting or not is time sensitive.

Barring her wider sweeping ambitions of the whole house meeting up to begin their education together ahead of schedule, there were just a few key people she knew from the start she absolutely wanted to meet up with. This is going to be the first year since the Officers Academy reopened after the war that the future rulers of foreign countries will be in attendance. Arguably the very first, if the modern Holy Kingdom of Faerghus is a successor to the legacies of the Adrestian Empire and the Leicester Alliance as well as to that of Old Faerghus. Now, the future rulers of three polities from beyond Fódlan’s shores have come to Garreg Mach - the princes of Brigid and Sreng and the princess of Dagda. Luck (or shrewd politics) have placed all four royals in the Blue Lion house.

So it naturally follows that Remus, prince of the host kingdom and head of house for the Blue Lions, should be present for his peers’ arrival. For one thing, that’s just good politics: you invite someone to your home, you greet them at the gate. For another: it’s only natural that some egos are going to come pre-bruised with this royal trio. They have been placed under the authority of someone who, on the world stage, they share the spotlight with. That’s true for the other houses - Duchess Eva is peer to all her noble classmates, and the leaders of the Ashen Wolves and Golden Deer are still undecided matters. They might not end up being of high birth at all. Even so: the weight of having someone meant to lead you has to sit differently on royal shoulders. Meeting Remus early, getting to know him, might assuage that.

The opportunities to go through all of the motions of decorum for Prince Sigurd and Princess Yasmin have already passed. The prince of Sreng apparently arrived at the Officers Academy the same day that Remus and Ashely finally met up again - from all that Ashely can tell, His Highness has not left the training ground since. Ashely’s sparred just the once against him so far: there’s truly magnificent strength in his axe hand, but it’s not strictly the most skilled. That’s okay too! All of them are here to learn, even those of them destined to rule over kingdoms - but it’s a secret point of pride to be so sure that Ashely’s prince could easily best Sreng’s.

Princess Yasmin is more direct a flub on Ashely’s part - she’d caught wind of the day that the Dagdan princess would be arriving, and spent the whole morning looking for Remus before throwing up her hands and heading to the gate to receive the Dagdan princess on his behalf. That would’ve been fine: Ashely will be his Shield one day anyway. In fact, maybe it would be better to meet Princess Yasmin with a shield instead of with a ruler - things are frosty at best between Dagda and Faerghus: depending on which way the wind blows, they could become enemies as easily as not. Remus should be a little firm and standoffish with her - or no, maybe he should show that secret sweet side he likes to keep under wraps. Show Princess Yasmin that Faerghus doesn’t have to be a looming boogeyman over Dagda’s horizon.

And none of that reasoning matters a wit now, because Ashely was too late to meet the princess on her arrival, and from all she can gather, Remus was nowhere to be found for it.

That makes this is their last chance: they can go one for three. This one Ashely even has an advantage for: Prince Senan told her he’d be here in advance. Ashely is lucky enough to keep regular correspondence with the crown prince of Brigid. His parents know hers from their schooldays, and Father is sometimes called upon by the crown to serve as diplomat to De’Dannan, Brigid’s capital: the logistics of these trips are the affair of several moons, and so he brings his family along. And Ashely gets to spend a moon or so basking in the tropical paradise that surrounds De’Dannan and befriending its prince. Ashely has written Senan a thousand more times than she’s had the chance to actually see him, but either opportunity is its own treat.

As of his last bird, Senan was staying a night in Edgaria under the auspices of Duke Gloucester, and he figured the road would bring him to Garreg Mach by… well, by today.

(As for Edgaria, a part of Ashely has been trying to piece together what Senan was doing there since receiving his letter. Gloucester Territory feels just a little out of the way for it to be a natural part of his path to the monastery.)

So of course Ashely had gone out into town and picked out the most conspicuous statue she could find, writing back to Senan to look for her, Odette, and Remus there when he finally did arrive. And of course when the day came, Ashely seized the opportunity of her lucky encounter with Remus to tell him about the plan. And he’d said he’d be here.

And now it’s just about noon, and Remus is not here.

Ashely sits up again, shading her eyes to look up the road to the Academy. She tries to will every blond in the crowd to just be Remus. Unsurprisingly but worse luck, none of them transform into him.

Beside her, Odette slouches up and yawns, pointing down the road, “Prince Senan’ll be coming the other way.”

“I’m not looking for-” Ashely starts absently before realizing that that was deadpan, and she’s being teased. She crosses her arms, tapping her foot nervously against the statue’s pedestal, “… he’ll be here.” Then she asks, some of those nerves creeping into her voice, “Do you think they’ll get along?”

The noise Odette makes is noncommittal, and the way her eyebrows shoot up is not helpful, “I mean… I love Remus, but he can be…” her brow knits as she tries to think of the kindest thing to say that he can be. At least she’s making the effort. Gently, Odette says, “I think that as long as you’re there to babysit them…”

With confidence that Ashely isn’t sure she feels, she says, “I think they’ll get along.”

“Okay, and you would know,” Odette smiles. Her brow furrows again, “Actually, they’ve definitely met, right?” Ashely gives her a questioning look, and she explains her reasoning, “Crown princes of two allied countries… they’re gonna be working together one day. So it’s not like they’re strangers.”

Ashely weighs that. It’s… true. Trueish. False, but with enough of the appearance of truth that it can pass for it unexamined, “Well… Prince Remus isn’t a stranger to Prince Senan.”

Odette blinks at her, “… I don’t get the difference.”

“Yes you do,” Ashely says. When Odette opens her mouth to insist that she doesn’t, she adds, “It would be like if Lady Odette was the only version of you who’d ever met Prince Remus.”

It might not be the best comparison. Odette may be daughter to a margrave, but she’s third born - and with no crest to elevate her social standing any further than that. People probably don’t come to her hoping to curry favor the way that they do for Remus and Senan - the way that sometimes they’ve even done for Ashely. But the difference seems to click with Odette nonetheless. She makes an affirming noise, lets a beat pass them by, “… you know, it feels like Prince Senan’s running late too.”

“He didn’t say when he’d arrive,” Ashely says. She’s less worried about Senan showing up than Remus - though if it gets too much later, maybe she’ll worry for his sake. Are there consequences to arriving late to the school year at the Officers Academy - certainly there’d be a blow to prestige, but is there anything materially at stake?

Odette’s thoughts are elsewhere, though, judging by the incredulous look on her face, “Then what…!?” she sputters a moment, then tries again, “Then what’re we doing waiting around? Ashely, we could be doing something!”

“But then we might miss him,” Ashely explains. And… when she says it out loud, it does sound a little silly. But that doesn’t make it untrue!

True or not, Odette shakes her head, “… neither one of those two is allowed to make you wait for anything for the rest of the year.”

The way she says it, Ashely can’t help but giggle a little. Like she can’t decide whether she’s joking or not - and if she’s not, what repercussions there will be for the princes if they cross her. So just in case Odette isn’t joking, in case she’s getting too antsy waiting like this, Ashely asks, “What else would you be doing right now?”

And clearly she doesn’t have an answer to that, and it deflates her frustrations. But she wouldn’t be Odette if she didn’t try to have some answer. Looking toward the sky, she settles on, “… it’s a nice day. We could go flying.”

“You still can if you want,” Ashely offers, “I know that-”

“I’m not gonna leave you alone in the middle of town, Ashely,” Odette says, maybe just a little sharply. She clearly catches herself, “I just… I dunno. I would’ve brought a book if I’d known these two were gonna…” she trails off, spreads a hand to fill the void.

Ashely nods, understanding. Swinging her feet a little, she asks, “What’ve you been reading?”

“Still getting through ‘A Queen All in Red,’” Ashely can’t help but smile, pleased with herself - that’s one she recommended, “I’m enjoying it, obviously, but… well, my mind keeps wandering…”

“Gee, I wonder why,” Ashely teases, glancing back up at the Officers Academy, “Did you… get to the part where Sir Cal…?”

She doesn’t have to go further for Odette to pick up her meaning. The noise she makes is distinctly ugly - like she was punched in the stomach in the middle of groaning. Some passersby look her way and shake their heads, but she pays them no mind, “Such a prick! I nearly threw the book across the room!”

Ashely can’t help but giggle into her hands as Odette launches into a heated diatribe against the book’s prospective love interest turned antagonist. She had, of course, had her heart broken a little - it always is in these dramas that put two lovers on opposite sides of a conflict. But Odette can get furious with fictional people if you let her be. Sir Cal is apparently no true knight, someone truly beyond redemption, maybe even worse than the book’s actual villain if you look at it the right way, and Odette wishes great and terrible ends on him (she will be disappointed by the time she finishes ‘A Queen All in Red:’ Sir Cal’s treachery doesn’t take, and the heroine is more forgiving than Odette can be).

If Odette notices the ploy in shifting the topic to an imaginary knight’s misdeeds rather than a real prince’s, she doesn’t let on. Maybe she’s just too enamored of the story: the conversation shifts to the rest of the book so far, and there’s this childlike glee in Odette’s eyes as she and Ashely recount their favorite fight scenes and daring escapes.

It’s nice. Just something with low stakes they can be passionate about nonetheless - almost like practicing those feelings for when they might be less trivial.

But Ashely still can’t shake the feeling that there should be three of them here to do this. Remus has been reading ‘A Queen All in Red’ too. Out of the corner of her eye, she still checks the path up to the Academy. Odette must be looking out for him too - it can’t just be Ashely who’s starting to worry a little.

That worry starts to melt away even further into the background, because that has to have been a flash of silver in the crowd. Ashely perks up at once, craning her neck to see if she’s right, “Wait - I think that’s him!” No, she’ll never see him from this angle: Ashely shoots to her feet, and once she’s sure, she waves a hand above her head, calling, “Senan! Hey! Over here!!!”

Senan turns. Then he pushes his way from the crowd - they’re packed a little too tightly for him to run until he’s broken free of them entirely. His face is sunlight, “Ashely!”

“Senan!” she repeats. She hops down from the pedestal, and he’s just there to catch her around the waist. Ashely lets out a gasp and a laugh as the prince spins her around once, sets her back down. Beaming up at him, she says, “Look at you! You look incredible!”

He really does - it’s been moons (Goddess, maybe a full year) since they saw each other, and Senan’s clearly had a growth spurt. He doesn’t tower over her now, but he’s getting there. His shoulders have filled out slightly too - of course, he’s still lean, but there’s a wiriness to it now. Freckles dot a tan face, cutting off with the burgundy sweep of ink under his left eye. The three gold rings pierced into his eyebrow are new - so is the onyx gage in his left ear. In addition to the central braid that falls down his back, Senan’s long hair hair is done up in so many intricate little plaits that sweep his hair to the side like a silver wave. Tying them back up every morning must’ve taken up a day’s worth of his travel time from Edgaria to here.

Senan tosses a few of them over his shoulder with a showy shrug, “Well of course I do, Ashely, that’s a given - it’s why I didn’t open with how radiant you are!”

Giggling a little, Ashely waves that ridiculous notion away, “Stop that.”

He blinks in surprise, setting a hand on his hip, “You mean you don’t know?” Clicking his tongue in mock surprise, he says, “Well alright then - I suppose I’ll just have to tell you, in detail-”

“Please don’t,” Odette says dryly. Senan twirls on a heel, looking at her like he forgot for a moment that she was there. It gives Odette time to course correct, dipping her head, “That is… please don’t, Your Highness. It… er…”

“Wouldn’t be proper in so public a place?” Senan offers, “Yes, you’re probably right, aren’t you…?”

He trails off, and Ashely jumps in to present Odette (as well as offering her a hand to get down to earth with the two of them), “Senan, this is Odette.”

“The famed Odette!” he practically cheers, offering her the Brigidi three-fingered warrior salute, “It’s nice to finally have a face to attach to the name.”

Odette puts a fist to her heart and bows stiffly, “Likewise, Your Highness.”

“Let’s not bother with any more of that,” Senan says airily, “Something something ‘we’re all equals here,’ something something ‘I’m just an ordinary student.’ I know I’m late to the party - Spirits, you two must’ve heard that rigamarole fifty times by now.”

“Actually, yes,” Ashely says, poking at Senan’s side. It’s a little odd to see him in the Officers Academy uniform: she’s more used to him in lighter Brigidi garb, “The opening ceremony’s tomorrow, Senan - where’ve you been??”

“Ah!” he beams - Senan loves a good story, “So there I was, Ashely. Visiting with Duke von Gerth, as one does. You’ll remember I arrived in Fódlan a few moons ago to…” he searches for the right word, decides that whatever it is can be encompassed by a wave of his hand, “… to keep the wheels on Brigid and Faerghus’s friendship sufficiently greased before classes start. But visiting with Duke Charles, well. I got so terribly bored that I had to check the royal itinerary - you can only imagine my dismay to see that it went…” he drops his voice to a low, drawling monotone, “A week in Gaspard Territory. A week in Fhirdiad. Then straight to the monastery.” He brightens, winks, “And I ask you, where’s the fun in that? So I resolved to steal away from the rest of my party and make my own way across Fódlan! See the sights, maybe take in a show in Enbarr or fish by the Airmid - you know, steal some art from Derdriu, that sort of thing!”

Ashely has to laugh - honestly, the audacity! “So you’ve just… wandered across Fódlan?”

“Not wandered really, I always knew where I was going to end up, and…” he eyes them both, grins, “Well I’m not technically late, right?”

“Alone?” Odette asks, her eyebrows raising in a way that she thinks is subtle enough to mask her surprise, “Your Highness, you-”

“Senan.”

Her brow knits in annoyance, “Fine. Senan, you didn’t think it would be… dangerous? For a kingdom’s crown prince to just go wherever he pleases unguarded?”

“Well, I’m not strictly alone,” Senan says, a note of mild irritation creeping into his voice, “I wasn’t quite able to keep one jump ahead of my guard, you see - this big lug…” he looks over his shoulder, starts a little when he sees no one is there. Sheepishly (though maybe this particular sheep knows more than he lets on), Senan admits, “Well he was there a minute ago.”

As if that’s his cue, another young man in Academy uniform races from the crowd. A peculiar lance is strapped to his back. Its point is more of a blade at the end of the long, red leather staff: curved like a shark’s fin and it looks almost paper thin. It’s not the only weapon on his person, though Ashely only notes that because Father has drilled it into her: there’s the slightest pair of unusual bulges to his forearm sleeves that suggest hidden gauntlets. She’d bet he has a pocket dagger or two as well. There’s a rigidity to his posture that screams ‘warrior.’

As for the warrior himself, he is tall, with skin the color of copper and mauve hair with small warrior’s braids hanging among the free-flowing locks that frame his face. Under each eye are tattoos of three interlocking sky-blue circles tailing a black triangle that points away from the center of his face. Ashely learned what those meant once, but it escapes her right now. Maybe she’s a little distracted by his hard jawline or the way his uniform hangs on a particularly athletic frame. In weary Brigidi, he growls, “Your Highness, please! You can’t just…!” Then he sees that Senan isn’t alone and straightens to full height, coughing awkwardly into a fist as he switches to Fód, “That is… hello. I greet you.”

Ashely smiles brightly, offering him a three-fingered salute, “Hello yourself.”

Senan sighs, “Well, I supposed we’re not done with introductions.” He drifts a little towards his apparent bodyguard, exaggerating how disinterested he is as he says, “My ladies, may I present Sir Malcolm Mulaney, Knight of the Blue Sun and hero of the Battle of Féth Fíada.”

“What occurred at Féth Fíada was not a battle, Your Highness,” Sir Malcolm says quickly, “As if it were, that would imply that the Kingdom of Brigid and the Empire of Dagda are at war, which they are not.”

“Yes, yes, sure,” Senan rolls his eyes - this is apparently a conversation they’ve had before - and he corrects himself, “Hero of the strongly worded disagreement of Féth Fíada. And Malcolm, these are Ashely and Odette.”

He dips his head to each of them in turn, “Lady Fraldarius. Lady Gautier.”

“We already did the part where we decided we weren’t doing titles - honestly, Mal, keep up,” Senan gives his knight a light rap on the stomach, looking this way and that, “What say we walk and talk? You can’t possibly imagine how ready I am to arrive.”

Without waiting for a response, he strolls back into the crowd with such matter-of-fact purpose that the only natural thing to do is to follow him. The closest to any objection is when Sir Malcolm’s eyes flick skyward for a moment, and in very quiet Brigidi, he says something like, “If we’d stayed with the rest of the caravan…”

In the same tongue, Senan volleys back, “And if all cats had stripes, we’d have a world full of tigers,” but Ashely honestly only recognizes the idiom because he taught it to her years ago.

Sir Malcolm would probably not say what he snidely suggests Senan do with his tigers if he thought that Ashely or Odette would understand it: it’s just a touch too anatomical. So it’s only fair to tell him: in her own passable Brigidi, Ashely chimes in - slower than she remembers being able to, but she’s still understood, “Only for you to know, Sir Malcolm, I speak your language.”

She tries not to laugh at the unmitigated horror on his face. She fails. Sir Malcolm’s face darkens, and he bows his head so low that he should face plant on the cobbles, “My apologies, ladies.”

“Odette does not, though,” Ashely says, though what condolence that is is admittedly dubious.

“Well then she’s lucky!” Senan calls back to them, having gained enough of a lead that he walks backwards to make sure they’re all keeping up, “Doesn’t have to hear Mal abusing his future king like that! Spares her her delicate ears.”

(Or did Senan say her ‘pretty’ ears? Brigidi has a word that means both, Ashely can’t remember if that’s it.)

Odette coughs rather obviously, her brow knitted, “The only word of all that I caught was my name.”

Which Ashely said just before laughing. Oops. She gives Odette a reassuring smile, returning to Fód - any further conversation will have to be in that tongue anyway, her Brigidi is rustier than she thought, “Senan and Malcolm were just… having a disagreement, Odette.”

“I suggested to Prince Senan that we ought to have stayed with his royal retinue - as well as our supplies - on our arrival,” Sir Malcolm explains, pointedly not looking at anyone in particular. He sounds a little like he’s reporting a necessary but blundering troop movement, “I… did so crudely.”

But now that he mentions it, Sir Malcolm has a point. He and Senan both have a brown leather rucksack on their backs, but Ashely can’t picture fitting much more into them other than a bedroll, maybe some rudimentary survivalist tools. The rest of their luggage… well, to hear Senan tell it, they must’ve left it back in Gerth Territory, in the far west. Then they circled probably south and east around Garreg Mach…

They’ve been traveling how long like this? Ashely isn’t sure if it’s impressive or vaguely horrifying. How are they clean!?

Unaware of the chain of logistics linking itself together in Ashely’s head, Senan speaks. Falsely stern (and barely resisting a smug grin), he asks, “Now Mal, would you like to repeat what exactly you said to me for the class?” When he’s satisfied that he would not, Senan turns back around, tossing back over his shoulder, “I think you wanted ‘just to let you know,’ Ashely.”

The second he says it, Ashely’s sure he’s right. She repeats the phrase under her breath, lets it take root again. This time it isn’t going anywhere.

“And speaking of not doing titles,” Senan says, though by now they decidedly aren’t, “Where’s his esteemed honored royal princeliness? I was looking forward to finally meeting the man and not just the legend.”

The wink he gives Ashely at that makes her face heat just a little. She finds herself dodging the question without realizing it, “Well.. Senan if you hadn’t been just too cool to show up at the ball in Fhirdiad…”

“But I was,” he shrugs, “Figured Remus and I should meet here, y’know? At the… seat of our education and the cusp of our destinies or whatever.” And then with just a slight conciliatory touch, he admits, “And we were halfway across the continent from Fhirdiad when the party was happening - didn’t think we’d make it in time.”

Ashely smiles at that and says, “He… we were all going to meet up here to greet you, but Remus hasn’t shown up yet.”

“We weren’t waiting too long,” Odette says quickly, like she’s trying to cover something up. Ashely gives her as surreptitious a grateful look as she can - though it’s not quite the help that she hopes it is.

“He’s been busy,” Ashely explains, she’s not fully sure who to, “And so it’s been a little hard to…” she shrugs, hoping that covers things there.

It doesn’t. Senan eyes her, asking so bluntly it’s like a punch, “He’s not avoiding you, is he?”

And that just cuts right to the heart of things, doesn’t it? That’s the inescapable itch in the back of Ashely’s mind: surely she shouldn’t have any trouble finding Remus so long as he wants her to find him. The Officers Academy is big, but not that big. Their paths should cross by accident - no, that is the only way that their paths have crossed so far. If they’re the exception and not the rule, who’s to say that the two times Ashely’s seen her friend have been solely because he slipped up, he failed to evade her?

Usually, she can write that possibility off easily enough. But if someone else says it, if she’s actually expected to argue against the thought and not just ignore it, Ashely can’t possibly escape it. It swirls around and around in her head, turning her mouth sour and stopping any word rejecting it in her throat.

Odette senses her spiral, Goddess only knows how. Maybe Ashely shifts in just the right way to signal her, or maybe her mouth opens and closes one too many times with nothing to show for it. But she comes to her rescue quickly, resolutely. When she says, “I don’t think that’s what’s happening,” it skewers any counterargument. And if it doesn’t, she follows it up so much more authoritatively than when it was just her and Ashely, “His High- Remus gets like this from time to time. He gets excited, and that makes him nervous, and - y’know, he just needs to catch his breath.” She rolls her eyes as if it’s nothing to be concerned about, “I think the anticipation is getting to him, that’s all. It’s not that he’s avoiding us,” and the way her eyes flick to Ashely’s molds that key word into ‘you,’ just for her.

It’s such a kindness, and it puts some of the spring back in Ashely’s step, but it’s also just the slightest bit funny. It was barely a few minutes ago that Odette was threatening Remus with dire consequences if he ever dared to cross Ashely again. But the second someone else casts doubt on him, she’s the first one to chase it away.

Ashely might only be the second, but she does her part. Nodding knowingly, she adds, “Besides, he’s got his duties as house leader to worry about - he’s probably been busy with a lot of prep work with Professor Willow. Possibly even with Lady Byleth.”

“Right!” Odette says brightly - but now that Ashely’s mood is restored, she relaxes a little, lets some of the protective layer of sarcasm seep back over her voice, “You know, because he’s technically an authority figure… Goddess, he’s gonna be insufferable.”

“It’ll be good for him - and for you,” Ashely giggles, playfully nudging her with her elbow. She puts so much of the imperious, into her voice that she couldn’t possibly be taken seriously, “You could stand for His Highness to put you in your place now and again.” Odette’s groan is just as exaggerated - you’d think Ashely had stabbed her to get her to make a noise like that.

A part of Ashely worries that it’s too obvious a bit of dumbshow on their part. Are they casually telling Senan ‘oh, everything’s fine,’ or screaming it so loud that he’ll have no choice but to assume the worst? It’s hard to tell what he thinks: his pace has slowed, and his mouth is a thin line. His ‘hm,’ is skeptical, but when he speaks, his words are bright, “Well I guess Prince Remus’s going to need help, isn’t he?” He winks at Ashely, “He’s lucky to have you.”

Ashely hopes that Senan’s right. She hopes that Remus thinks so too.

The monastery proper is already starting to loom so large that it devours the skyline - that will happen when the closest city is right at its feet. Ashely spares it a glance, tries to imagine where Remus has gotten off to.

There is a chance - a chance - that he’s just been busy. To be a house leader is a great responsibility - and it has to especially be one for the crown prince of the Kingdom. Hasn’t Ashely been egging herself on over and over again thinking that his time as head of the Blue Lions is a vision of the reign of King Remus writ small?

So Remus should be busy, he should be almost manically ready to face the coming year.

But what if he’s not? What if the towering responsibility looks insurmountable to Remus’s eyes? What if all the coming possibilities and unknowns that make Ashely feel like she’s flying only terrify Remus? And what if that fear has frozen him in place, made him so afraid to make the wrong choice that he makes none at all?

There’s a chance that that’s true too. A part of Ashely that she hates can more easily imagine it than not.

Well if it is the case, then Ashely’s job remains unchanged: she is to discover whatever obstacle is holding Remus back - whether or not that obstacle is anywhere but on the battlefield of his own mind - and to help him through it.

Now if only she knew how.

Remus

There are two shrines to the Goddess in Fhirdiad’s palace: the first is opposite the wing that houses the throne room. It is massive: three rows of pews fan outward from the altar. There, carved from marble whose silver lacquer began to flake centuries ago, Seiros in her guardian’s aspect presses her hooded forehead to the snout of a massive rendering of the Immaculate One. The dragon snarls, but somehow the latter day sculptor found a way to capture the moment Seiros calmed the beast, turned it into a protector of the faithful. Four golden idols stand at each of the paths to that scene, abstract forms that call to mind the Four Saints. The ceiling is fettered with silver carvings of each of the crests the Goddess bestowed upon humanity. They radiate from where the crest of Blaiddyd envelops that of Seiros, a symbol of the royal family’s pledge to honor and protect the faith. The room glitters and gleams at the slightest provocation, and it feels like there’s always courtiers coming and going from it. It barely feels like a sacred place at all - it’s not even a proper display chamber for artwork: in those, observers are quiet. The Shining Shrine always seems to be echoing with people’s voices.

The other shrine is a claustrophobic room just off of the royal apartments. Remus has always preferred it. There’s no finery - there’s in fact very little comfort to speak of. Remus could maybe stand shoulder to shoulder with his family in there without anyone touching the walls, but a fifth person would be a tight fit. The effigy of Seiros (in her reverent aspect, her gown exploding about her as if buffeted by winds as she holds up both hands towards the Goddess’s Shining Star) is unaltered stonework, not gold or silver. Reverent Seiros is meant to be the only depiction of the prophet who can show her face, but in the Mild Shrine, her features are worn smooth by the hands of every member of House Blaiddyd who ever asked her to act on their behalf.

It’s so quiet there. When he prays in the Mild Shrine, Remus hears his own heartbeat before the rest of the noise of the Kingdom’s capital reaches his ears. And it’s out of the way, and it’s dark… there’s so few places you can go in Fhirdiad to truly be alone. As the years go by and he somehow needs that more and more, Remus has made sure not to abuse the use of that one.

Garreg Mach Monastery’s cathedral seems like it leans closer to Fhirdiad’s Shining Shrine than its Mild Shrine. Secretly, it has split the difference. The finery is all there, but not in the performative excess of Fhirdiad.

Here it is again: the ceiling that soars up forever. Only this one has no direct holy iconography. Its construction lets the Goddess handle that: a hole in the pinnacle of its domed roof lets sunlight spill into the cathedral, and subtle enchantments Remus cannot hope to understand let that light fill into every corner of the space.

But there they are again: rows and rows of pews facing the altar. But there is no depiction of the prophet there, just a simple polished oaken lectern for sermons, backed by a wall that seems to shine with the magical sunlight. What need is there for an image of Seiros when her bones rest in the Holy Mausoleum just beyond the wall where the altar sits?

And here they all are again: monks and nuns and Knights of Seiros flit to and from the premises, working alongside monastery servants to keep the space orderly. There have been more and more students piling in every day too, whether for daily prayers, the odd confession, or just curious sightseeing. All of them have the good sense to keep their voices down, though: even at its busiest, the cathedral is at a low murmur.

Sometimes that’s the worst, though. When Remus has his head down and his hands clasped and can still hear whispers of, “Wait, is that the prince?” it’s like he’s surrounded by hungry dogs baying for him to look up and acknowledge them before they pounce.

They never do pounce, though. That’s the one thing, in those moments, that keeps Remus’s heart from pounding out of his chest.

It’s a secret truth that no one will ever bother you while you’re at prayer. That’s something Mother taught Remus a long, long time ago. Whenever the world gets to be too much for her, she told him, whenever she’s overwhelmed or lost or scared, she knows she can go to the Goddess. And if She doesn’t provide the answers, then at least anyone who sees Mother kneeling before the altar will have the decency not to disturb her. Communion with the Goddess is too sacred for mere mortals to interrupt, no matter their agenda.

Remus is overwhelmed now. He’s lost now. He does not agree that he’s scared now. But in the cathedral, at least he can pretend it’s possible to be alone with his thoughts.

(Though that doesn’t always do him much good. Time and again, his mind will circle back to that word - scared. Mother flees to the Goddess when she’s scared. The path that implication sends Remus’s thoughts spiraling down again and again makes his blood boil.)

It’s not been all prayer all the time: all a prince has to do to keep people away, it turns out, is to look like he’s busy. He’s treasured time the training ground, not just because going there actually feels like getting something done. There, if you’re quiet it just means that you’re focused. People can yap at him until he’s blue in the face: if Remus doesn’t respond, they can write him off as too diligent to hear them.

(Or they can privately roll their eyes at how the Beast Prince is standoffish and stuck up.)

The library isn’t so bad either. There are plenty of corners to curl up in on his own, particularly as the nights wear on. Remus isn’t sleeping well again: the moment his head hits the pillow he’s wide awake, and in the off chance he does drift off he snaps back to alertness before the sun rises. Sometimes reading helps. There is, unfortunately, nothing sacred about the latest book Ashely’s recommended him, and so if he’s seen thumbing through it, that’s apparently an invitation to strike up a conversation. The trick there, such as it is, is that sometimes if Remus just stands between the stacks looking contemplative, people will assume he’s a man on a mission and leave him to it for fear of getting enlisted in looking for whatever tome he’s after.

(Or they will laugh behind his back that the Beast Prince actually thinks that he’s fooling anyone.)

Or - and this thought is insane. Utter madness. Remus could simply… engage with the people who want his ear. Assume that they’re people and that even people who want something can still be reasoned with. He could use his mouth to make words and just act like a person instead of trying to figure out a way to flee the very second it looks like he might have to fill the role of The Prince for a little while.

No, ridiculous. That would never happen. It should never happen.

(He’d fuck it up anyway.)

But if it does happen, in particular Remus should seek out and speak with Professor Willow. She’s to be his house professor - the theory goes that as the Blue Lions’ house leader, he’ll be working closely together with her. In practice, he has had one stilted, awkward conversation with her where he excused himself with the half thought through rationale that he’d been just about to go train. Not a good first impression, but they could move past it.

Or he should follow Ashely’s lead: despite Remus’s determination to be on his own, she keeps finding him. And whenever she does, she has a thousand volleys worth of plans for how they can prepare for the school year: who they should meet with, what they should be doing. Just today, Ashely told him that Prince Senan was coming, and if Remus were smart, he’d have already headed out to join her in meeting the Brigidi prince. She’s excited for what’s to come. So was Remus - back in Fhirdiad. Now he’s here and somehow he’s… not afraid. But something like it.

He should seek out help from one of them. Or both! Or strike out on his own and do something - what did Remus think he was coming to Garreg Mach for? Did he think that he was just not going to have to step into a leadership role at the Officers Academy? That surrounded by the scions of every court in Fódlan, he somehow wasn’t ever going to have to talk to anybody!?

The thoughts come to him today as Remus wanders the academy grounds. He strides as if with purpose, but in reality he’s just making a circuit around the premises. It’s all so simple and so rational. Go to Ashely, prep for the school year. Go to Professor Willow, establish rapport. If he can just make himself do it!

And yet his heart is hammering away, and somehow Remus knows he can’t meet anyone in this state. All he’ll do is reveal the secret that he has absolutely no idea what he’s doing now that he’s here and that any faith his friend or his professor want to place in him is utterly, laughably ill-advised.

That thought comes so clearly to Remus, so much like he’d spoken it aloud that it stops him in his tracks. He’s… so obviously working himself into a big, idiotic frenzy. He closes his eyes, breathes in, breathes out, lets his feet take them where he knows he needs to go now.

If he can’t get ahold of his emotions, he really shouldn’t be trying to do anything to prep for his time as house leader. Therefore he needs to get ahold of his emotions before he tries to do anything else. Professor Willow and Ashely can’t help him with that, but the Goddess can - or at the very least, the meditative quiet that comes from asking Her guidance can. He’ll apologize to Ashely for blowing her off later.

This time of day the cathedral is of course not empty, but it’s not full today either - the Goddess is merciful. A few priests in white robes talk among themselves; they spare him a look as he enters the holy space, and Remus thinks that one of them is suppressing a smirk at his expense, but that’s the worst that comes of any of them. There are enough people in full plate lining some of the back pews that it might be a full chapter of the Knights: a woman with a smoking censer walks among them, whispering to each as she scatters a bag of ashes on each of their helms in turn. A servant in brown sackcloth leans against one of the cathedral’s pillars nearby the scene with a broom, patiently waiting for the ceremony’s conclusion.

There’s one student: a girl in the very center of the very front pew. For a split second that Remus’s heart stops because from behind, he’s sure she’s Ashely, anticipating his nerves and come to offer her support. But no: her hair is darker than Ashely’s, and hangs more freely as it frames her face.

Something’s odd about the way that she sits: her back is completely straight. Her hands are folded in her lap, but the girl hasn’t bowed her head before the altar. She’s staring at it, and as Remus drifts closer to her, he can see the slight furrow of her brow. Something in the look on her face is interesting in a way that Remus can’t put into words.

The girl must feel his eyes on her because her head whips in his direction, nearly golden eyes narrowed in suspicion. She’s pretty, even with that crease in her brow taking a turn for the hostile. Remus gulps, looks away, says, “Sorry,” but not so loud that she could possibly hear it.

The moment should now come where she realizes who Remus is and either falls all over herself apologizing for daring to look at him funny or skips straight to completely changing her approach and fawning over him. It will be unpleasant, but Remus deserves it: he, after all, is the one who broke his own rule of thumb and disturbed someone at prayer.

Only it doesn’t play out like that: the girl stands abruptly and briskly makes her way down the opposite row in the pews from the one Remus entered. She pauses only once to take in the knights undergoing their blessing, then picks up her pace and is gone.

Maybe half a minute passes before Remus catches himself staring at the space where she was. When he does, he has to chuckle darkly at himself: is it really so hard to believe that someone might not pay him much mind? Maybe the girl, whoever she was, just has some sense.

No, thinking like that isn’t helpful. It’s not why he’s here - it’s the opposite of why he’s here. With a sigh, Remus rubs at his face with both hands, lets himself sink down into the pew. The bench is lightly cushioned, but its back slants awkwardly and uncomfortably: it’s almost more natural to hunch forward than to lean into it.

And as it happens, that’s exactly where Remus needs to be. He closes his eyes, brings his hands together. First he interlocks his fingers. Then he changes his mind, lets each hand grip the other like he’s stopped abruptly in the middle of applauding. Then he changes his mind again, and brings his laced fingers to his bowed forehead.

Peace is supposed to follow right away. It never does: there’s always a second where all Remus feels is foolish. The Goddess has a continent’s worth of people with real problems to tend to, and he can’t even think of how to put into words what he asks of Her. He’s wasting Her time as well as his.

Then he always breathes in once, long and deep, until he thinks his lungs will burst. He lets it out, and everything that is unworthy about him is temporarily forgotten with it. Do it one more time, then again until he no longer has to think about the action.

Today, as he breathes, Remus catches a hint of sage on the air. It’s soothing, somehow. That’s the point. It helps to lead him to the place where all else falls away - where the self and the divine are all that’s left.

When there is nothing left in the darkness behind Remus’s eyes but himself, he invokes Her Divine, “Almighty Goddess, graceful and kind.” It’s all he’ll say today. Some people pray aloud. Remus rarely does himself - it always feels so much like a performance, like so much typical Blaiddyd ‘look how pious I am.’ Mother always told him that the Goddess hears the unspoken prayers, the prayers in people’s hearts loudest of all. She grants them their most secret wishes, the ones they would never know to ask for.

Often, that’s been lucky: Remus so rarely has any idea what he needs. Change. Always. But of what kind? Here he is, far from home - he has the change he wanted and no idea what to do with it.

What he needs, then, is guidance. A sign that can point him to the path forward. Remus asks for one - he would plead for it if he thought it would help. Sometimes it feels like the more desperately one prays, the more dire the need, the less likely their prayer is to be answered. No miracle cure springs from a village besieged by plague. Bread has never rained from the sky during a famine. When the armies of Edelgard von Hresvelg threatened to snuff out the faith itself, the Goddess sent only a tempest to answer Her flock’s cries.

It feels cruel. It feels arbitrary. It feels like in the wake of so much need going ignored, what hope does a sniveling brat praying for guidance have?

But Remus still asks. Because if Fódlan is hungry, if it is wracked with sickness, if it is scarred by war, what will set it to rights is the wise rule of a true savior king. Maybe, just maybe Remus can become that - if he can find his way. So let him have a sign. Let him have a path. Let him have the wisdom to see the one and the strength to walk the other.

It feels hollow to couch it in those terms. More, it is a bold faced lie, more callously unjust than simple selfishness would be; at least that doesn’t drape itself in a veneer of altruism. Can Remus really tell himself that he’s thinking of the kingdom when he asks the Goddess to sweep away the storm clouds in his head? Does he really mean to say that he wants Her to calm his nerves because divine intervention is the only way he’ll prove an adequate ruler?

If that’s true, then it’s pathetic. If it’s not, then he oughtn’t say it.

Remus’s hands shake slightly with frustration, and he is once again aware of the cathedral around him. Whispers reverberate off high ceilings into meaningless noise. Sage hangs lightly in the air, all but the faintest whiff drifting down the mountainside.

The woman sitting at Remus’s side breathes in, breathes out.

For just a second, the squawk Remus lets out is the loudest thing in the universe. The hissing ‘shh!’ that seems to come from the cathedral itself quickly tops it. Remus scrambles back half a meter on the bench, face heating with surprise and embarrassment. How long had she been there without him noticing?

She is Lady Byleth, which is something of a relief. Imagine if anyone else at the Academy had snuck up on Remus like this, if he’d made so much of a fool of himself in front of them. She is in the full regalia of her station; over her white silk gown, a blue and white cape tossed over her shoulders. The crest of Seiros is woven again and again into it in gold, until it looks more like angelic feathers than the holy symbol. Somehow she can sit up so straight, even with the weight of her fanning headdress.

They’re in public, technically. Remus should sit up straight - maybe even stand and bow. He can’t make himself do it; after his little outburst, his dignity can’t survive woodenly acting out the role of The Prince. Dipping his head a little will have to do, “Your Holiness. I didn’t see you there.”

“I can tell,” she says, dry but not mocking. Her hands are folded in her lap, and she might as well be a statue of the prophet for all that her beatific smile gives away, “We haven’t had a chance to talk since you got here, Remus. I thought I’d fix that.”

That’s true enough. Since Remus arrived at Garreg Mach a little over a week ago now (mercifully late in the evening and so mercifully free of much of the fanfare he’d dreaded), he’s seen neither hide nor hair of the archbishop. It’s given him time to get acclimated to his surroundings before reintroducing - or at least time he could’ve used for that purpose. Here they meet again at last, and he is only sparingly less adrift than when he arrived.

But the world has some mercy. There is none of the oppressive air of expectation he’d anticipated to hang about the archbishop. Somehow, Remus had figured that while he was at the Officers Academy, Lady Byleth would keep him at the more formal arm’s length she normally reserves for public ceremony. It would of course only be a formality - it isn’t exactly a secret that the archbishop makes personal calls to the royal court now and again (or if it is, it’s clearly an open one). So much of the structure of Remus’s time at Garreg Mach seems as if it’s built around theatre. Everything seems to hinge on a pretense that his being The Prince does not matter and that any advantages that role comes with and the pressures that it imposes are no different than there’d be for any ordinary student. Most ordinary students aren’t going to be able to say that the archbishop of the Church of Seiros is a personal friend of the family. So Lady Byleth must either be distant or she must give the lie to that pretense.

Given the choice, she seems to have chosen the latter to Remus’s surprise. That’s it’s own small relief: it would’ve been so odd to have to pretend to true formality with Lady Byleth. Her visits may be separated by moons at a time, but she’s been a constant presence all of Remus’s life, and confidant and secret keeper besides. She isn’t quite a third parent - she’s more like Sir Dedue; someone caught up in Father’s orbit who has made the best of it. Or more generously, family. Elise still calls her ‘Auntie Byleth’ unless reminded not to. There are times, though Remus would never dream of letting himself get swept up in them, that he truly believes he could tell Lady Byleth anything.

When those times come, he has to harden his heart and remind himself that Lady Byleth is Father’s friend, not his. If she has to decide between their interests, there’s not a doubt in Remus’s mind which way she’ll choose. So he tries to keep up the thinnest of guards with her.

Tiny bells on the tassels of her headdress tinkle slightly as she turns her head towards him, one eyebrow arched curiously, “Remus? You in there?”

“I… yes. I am,” what had she been saying before Remus got caught up in his own reverie? Ah, yes, “You’re right. We haven’t had a chance to talk.” He lets a beat pass, then sinks a little into his seat, “So… what did you want to talk about?”

Lady Byleth smirks slightly. Turning her body towards him, she gently places an arm on the pew’s back. Crossing her legs at the ankles, she says, “Well. I heard you recently moved into a new place. How’s that going?”

Remus flushes slightly. Yes, that would be the logical thing to assume this was about, “It’s… it’s going.” Her eyebrows shoot up, which is as close as she’ll come to asking him to elaborate. He does on his own, “I’ve been trying to settle in, but it’s…”

He finds that he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. ‘It’s hard when you’re determined not to so much as make eye contact with anyone.’ ‘It’s been a steady procession of opportunities squandered.’ ‘It’s like everyone’s staring at me while I jump from stone to stone across a raging river, waiting to pounce the second I slip, so I don’t slip but I don’t jump either, I just stand there like a jackass.’

All good options. Lady Byleth arrives at the much more bloodless, “… slow going?”

It’s a euphemism, but it’s a good one. Remus nods, “Slow going.”

Nodding to herself, Lady Byleth considers for a moment before she says, “You’re not alone, you know. The position of house leader can be a heavy load. Plenty of them have come to me before saying they have no idea where to even start.”

Yes, but how many of them were heir apparent to the Kingdom? How many of them should’ve already internalized years and years of preparation to lead?

But Remus is silent, and so Lady Byleth asks, “Have you spoken with your house professor?” he looks away sheepishly, and she smiles, “That sounds like a no to me.”

“I’ve…!” his voice echoes slightly, and Remus catches his frustration in his throat, “… I’ve spoken to Professor Willow.” What he did or did not discuss with her goes unasked for a moment, and he would get away with it if only the archbishop would move on. But she doesn’t, and he confesses, “That is, I’ve literally spoken with her. Once. We didn’t… get into plans for the school year.”

“Well you still can: don’t be afraid to lean on your professors, Remus. They’re here to help you learn,” Lady Byleth says gently, “If you’re ever unsure-”

“Lady Byleth,” Remus snaps, suddenly not caring who hears the petulant child sitting before the altar, “When have I ever been sure of anything!?”

There comes that ‘shh!’ again. Remus almost takes pride in it now, even if the look Lady Byleth sends in its direction could kill. When she turns back to him, her mouth is a thin line (irritated) and her voice is steady (carefully keeping her own temper where he can’t). Both are friendlier reminders than he deserves that whether or not he is The Prince, the person he just snapped it is The Archbishop. She still spares him her wroth, picks her words slowly, carefully, “I have found, Remus, that when you decide that something is true, it can  be quite difficult to disabuse you of that belief.”

Something awful in the corners of Remus’s mind translates: ‘you’re stubborn and don’t listen to reason.’

But Lady Byleth continues, “And once you learn when digging in your heels and insisting on your convictions is appropriate and when it’s not, I think that’s going to be an incredible asset for you.” Her smile returns, bright, encouraging, “Because you do need to learn how to ask for help. But if you ever believed you could do something with the same certainty that you always seem to think you can’t…” she shrugs, “Well. I hope we get to see that.”

Shifting uncomfortably in his seat, Remus looks at the floor, grumbling, “And we won’t if I keep avoiding everyone.”

“No,” Lady Byleth says, and that bluntness is so much better than the velvet gloves she’s been handling him with, “We won’t.”

Maybe it’s who his father is, maybe it’s people tiptoeing around his own temper, but somehow Remus always comes to the end of these childish outbursts unscathed. People bend over backwards trying to coax him into behaving properly, and he just… well, look at him. Is he really here for any reason other than to run away?

Ashely had wanted him to meet Prince Senan. She’d had a plan. He’d decided that he was going to do something else, even if all that it amounted to was nothing. But when they see each other again, she’s just going to smile brightly and buy wholesale any excuse he spins up. Maybe Odette will yell at him on her behalf, but inevitably Ashely will just cushion the necessary blow of that too. And they’ll just keep going like this all year. All their lives. Unless something changes.

“I feel like…” he pauses, because the words don’t come naturally. He looks up at Lady Byleth, sees the encouragement in her eyes, presses on, “I think that Ashely…”

… should be house leader. That’s how that sentence should end.

But that would be giving up his own chance to rise to the occasion. And Remus has too much pride to do something so noble. So he tries again, “… I think that Ashely has ideas for the school year too.” He shakes his head, “No, I don’t think that, she explicitly told me. So I should probably… lean on her too, I guess.”

Until she breaks free of him or simply breaks.

Lady Byleth doesn’t hear that gloomy thought: she brightens slightly, “Excellent idea - that’s the secret of being house leader, you know. It’s too big a job for one person. You need retainers.” With a wink, she says, “And if you already know who those people are, then maybe you’re not as behind as you think.”

Remus chuckles darkly, skeptically. It does not deter the archbishop.

If he were anyone else - if he were a commoner, but everything else about him was the same, would things be different? If the Blue Lions’ house leader was not Prince Remus, but was avoiding his duties and lashing out when approached, would Lady Byleth be so lenient with them?

She couldn’t be. He plays by a different set of rules than everyone else - a set that he has no right to lament: it favors him at every turn. But still. To be the person no one feared would splinter to pieces at the slightest touch.

Remus stands, “Guess we’ll find out.”

Lady Byleth rises alongside him, places a hand on his shoulder, leans in to whisper in his ear, “Remus. You’re going to do fine. If you don’t believe in yourself yet, believe me when I say that you should.”

She laughs when he rolls his eyes. As if it were truly a joke.

But Remus still starts on his way. Over his shoulder, he calls, “I’ll try not to let you down, Lady Byleth.”

“You couldn’t possibly, young man,” she returns - a tiny fraction of the formal distance their stations require restored. But she’s so earnest that Remus almost believes her.

But would it be so absurd for that to be true? Surely even Remus can’t find a way to sever the unconditional love that Lady Byleth extends for his family?

So what if he doesn’t know where to begin? The only thing he can truly do is start. It doesn’t matter where. Enough sitting on his hands. Remus doesn’t know where he’s going as he strides from the cathedral. But with or without him, the Officers Academy’s class of 1206 will start soon. If Remus waits until he’s ready to join them, he’ll be waiting forever.