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Part One: The Amaryllis
A heavy bag, adorned with a large embroidered hedgehog, sits open in the corner of Bernadetta’s small tent, the items inside strewn haphazardly across the tarp.
The majority of the contents were befitting of a General during wartime. Tunics to be worn beneath armor, a spare bridle, vials of medicine, bandages, and a satchel filled with fresh arrowheads. Needles and thread, gathered in a small wicker box, stood in stark contrast. Bernadetta seizes the box with eager enthusiasm, a relieved sigh escaping her lips, having been briefly convinced she’d left the prize she so dearly loved at home in Enbarr.
Bernadetta’s appointment to the role of General in the Imperial Army in 1181, one year prior, had raised more than a few eyebrows. On nights before critical moments in her portion of the military, and in increasingly scarce moments of silence such as this, Bernadetta vividly remembered the booming voice of Leopold von Bergliez.
. . .
“You cannot, you simply cannot , be serious, Vestra. You would appoint an eighteen year old to Major Generalship? Assign her command of thousands of Adrestia’s archers? And not just any eighteen year old, but the Varley girl? The heir and scion to one who so flagrantly opposed the Imperial Ascension, along with Ludwig? Her? ” he’d spat, slamming a fist upon the table emphatically, shaking it enough to threaten spilling Hubert’s ink.
Bernadetta flinched.
“There, you see?!” Count Bergliez continued. “This girl is not fit to be pressed into service as a footsoldier, let alone to command the northern flank of the Imperial Archers!”
“Her Majesty trusts her,” Hubert returned firmly, and for the first time since her arrival in the Minister’s war tent, Bernadetta removed her gaze from her boots, casting Hubert a sideways glance. “As do I.”
“Trusts her, does she?” Leopold scoffed. “I can’t say that’s of any comfort. Her Majesty has also placed her trust in--”
“Enough,” Hubert interjected curtly, and the icy tone of his voice sent a chill down Bernadetta’s spine. Her heart hammered in her chest, her pulse echoed in her eardrums, and her vision swam as anxiety poured over her every nerve like viscous oil, waiting for someone to strike a match.
“It is inarguable that the former Count Varley has irretrievably severed any hope to return to Her Majesty’s good graces. He is as craven as a cornered churchmouse and not nearly half as competent,” Hubert acquiesced. “Bernadetta von Varley, on the other hand, is another matter.”
That made Bernadetta look up still further. Unable to make eye contact with the Minister of Military Affairs, she instead fixed her gaze upon the detailing of his armor as Hubert continued to speak.
“Bernadetta von Varley possesses an extraordinarily keen eye. Her marksmanship is beyond question, and it is chiefly owing to her precision that the platoons of wyvern riders deployed by the Archbishop’s second-in-command, Seteth, were deterred. Miss Varley possesses talents that many, including yourself, can never hope to achieve.”
Bernadetta’s eyes widened. A compliment? From Hubert?
“I would ask that you defer to the supreme judgment of Her Majesty on this matter,” Hubert concluded sharply, and Bernadetta could imagine him fixing the Count with one of his piercing stares. “Our decision is final. You will accept her into the rank of Major General, and that is an order.”
. . .
In the present, Bernadetta sighs, pulling a strand of thread through the eye of a needle. She pulls viridian thread through the white cloth, trying to quiet her mind.
Everywhere the young General marched, she led the Imperial Archers’ northern flank on horseback, protected on either side by her entourage of four lieutenants. Her archers followed, each of the five companies arranged neatly and traveling in organized sections. The cacophony of nearly one thousand horses’ hooves was incessant, and Bernadetta heard it echoing in her ears long after retiring to her tent. Now, however, as she begins work on the final details of a crimson flower, a pleasant quiet settles over Bernadetta at last, and she sighs, exhaling the day’s exhaustion through chapped lips.
Slowly, she establishes a short stitch, adding small details to the petals. With each deft puncture of the white linen backing, her anxiety begins to melt away, replaced by an eager anticipation to see her finished product. As she gazes at the petals,whose shape calls to mind the blade of a lance, Bernadetta’s mind returns to Hubert.
“Her Majesty trusts her. As do I.”
Bernadetta smiles. As Major General, only three people in the whole of the Imperial Army outranked her; Count Bergliez, Hubert, and Lady Edelgard. And Hubert, the Count’s own superior officer, had defended her. She had grown closer to Hubert over the course of two shared campaigns, and Bernadetta knew that words of praise fell from Hubert’s lips as rarely as snowfall in Brigid. And yet, somewhere, beneath a cold and calculating exterior, lay a glimmer of confidence in her, General Varley of the Black Eagle Strike Force.
If such a person believed in her, then who was she to argue with him?
It is with this sentiment in mind that Bernadetta neatly snips her thread. Pulling back the embroidery hoop, she grins at the result: an amaryllis, set in a brilliant crimson.
Perhaps she would affix it to her quiver. After all, the amaryllis was a symbol of pride.
Part Two: The Hyacinth
The canvassing of Bernadetta’s tent had been exchanged for multiple layers of a far thicker material, set in animals’ fur. And yet, despite having grown up in Adrestia’s Oghma Mountains, Bernadetta shudders from the cold. The bitter winter winds stung particularly sharply in Kingdom Territory. Her hand shakes as she struggles to work thread through the eye of a needle, ruminating on the events of the past moon.
Stolen intelligence, intercepted by one of his spies, had clued Hubert in to the knowledge that County Charon was assembling large platoons of Pegasus Knights and Holy Knights in an attempt to regain control of Garreg Mach. Originally, Hubert had intended to assign Lysithea’s division to accompany Bernadetta’s to oppose the Charon forces. However, after hearing that talks between House Ordelia and House Edmund were at last progressing in the Empire’s favor, Hubert had elected to accompany Bernadetta himself.
Bernadetta groans, attempting to release the tension in her body, her breath collecting in a puff of steam. Leading a counteroffensive against hundreds of Pegasus Knights had taken all of her strength, both physical and emotional; her mettle as both a combatant and commander had been severely tested, and in front of Hubert, no less. Her back, arms, and head were still throbbing from the effort.
“Focus, Bernie,” she whispers to herself. She was determined to finish her embroidered hyacinth today. She pierces the canvas of her embroidery backing particularly forcefully as the memory of the conversation which followed their campaign begins to consume her subconscious.
. . .
Hubert sat at the edge of a firm cot, his body appearing almost comically lanky as he sat, hunched over, on a wooden stool that was entirely too small for a person of his height. A thick book was laid over his thighs for support as he wrote on a scrap of parchment.
“Do you have any other details for me?” he asked, pushing the curtain of his overgrown hair from his eyes, only for it to immediately fall in front of his face again.
“N-N-No,” Bernadetta stammered, half from the cold and half from her nerves. “That’s, um, that’s the end.”
Hubert nodded, tucking his quill and his notes into his breast pocket. He paused, uncertain, and Bernadetta noticed the way his visible eye flitted back and forth, between her and the tent entrance, as though deciding whether or not to say something more.
Finally, he spoke. “How are you faring, Bernadetta?”
“M-Me? Why do you ask?”
“Your leg,” Hubert said awkwardly, deliberately avoiding Bernadetta’s gaze. “I understand that, before you slayed the enemy commander, she threw you from the ballista.”
Bernadetta’s face burned. “I’m sorry!,” she squeaked as shame crept over her body. “Bernie’s just…no good, worthless…”
Hubert’s brow furrowed, and he clenched and unclenched his fists, struggling to select the right words. “No apology necessary. I am merely trying to…I wish to ascertain…you are a General in the Imperial Army, and…”
Bernadetta opened her mouth, a question on her lips: Are you…worried about me? Before she could muster the courage to ask, the words died in her throat. It was impossible. There was not a soul alive who would worry about her.
“And you are not worthless,” Hubert added with what Bernadetta surmised to be a forced gentleness. “You made quick work of the enemy commander, after all. When her women saw how quickly you disposed of her, many turned tail and fled. Craven, but wise. Heh. With a performance like that, I daresay I would be frightened to meet someone whom you deemed worthwhile.”
The words sounded almost foreign to Bernadetta. “Why are you complimenting me all of a sudden?”
“Why?” Hubert parroted, bemused. “Because I meant it. I am not in the habit of false flattery.”
Bernadetta rubbed at her face, embarrassed. “Sorry,” she offered after a few moments, her voice muffled by her palms, still pressed to her face. “Sorry, I know it’s, um, it’s rude not to accept a compliment, I just…i-it’s hard for me, I guess.”
“So I see.”
“You’re a lot nicer than I thought,” Bernadetta blurted. Immediately, regret surged through her body, her face turning a brilliant shade of crimson as her gray eyes widened in terror. “Sorry…! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry….!”
Hubert turned his gaze to his boots in an effort to hide his expression from Bernadetta, his body rigid and hands balled into fitful fists.
“It is…alright,” he finally murmured. “I don’t mind.”
. . .
In the present, Bernadetta grimaces.
She had never been the most conversationally adept of the Strike Force, and each social error she made, no matter the magnitude, clung to her subconscious like molasses on downy feathers.
“What’s the matter with you, Bernie?” Bernadetta mutters to herself, frustrated. Hubert had complimented her, and she’d ruined it, as she always did. “This is why no one wants you around! Stupid, ugh…!”
Her conflicting emotions swirled through her mind, a tempest of glee and shame, pride and humility, all summoned by the same person. Even Hubert himself was an enigma; at once her superior officer and her comrade, at once somewhat personable and rather unattached.
Bernadetta had never known the sensation of being cared for. At the very most, she was an anvil; a tool for her father, and yet one routinely beaten and broken down. And so, it was impossible for her to comprehend Hubert. As a premier sniper, was she merely a tool to him as well? Or was it possible that Hubert genuinely cared for her?
Bernadetta huffs, staring at her unfinished hyacinth. She was well versed in flower language, and she knew that the hyacinth’s meaning differed depending on the hue. A purple hyacinth was an expression of gratitude: “Thank you for understanding me.” However, the blue hyacinth was more dour: “You’re heartless.”
Her newly embroidered hyacinth was indigo. A perfect medium, neither blue nor purple.
She groans, setting aside her embroidery with exasperation. Its meaning, like Hubert himself, was utterly indecipherable.
Part Three: The Gardenia
Bernadetta rushes down the halls of the Imperial Palace, suppressing the urge to break into a run. She could nearly hear Ferdinand’s voice in her mind, emphasizing the importance of ‘noble conduct,’ even in times of war.
The warm summer sun kisses her round face as it filters through the windows, the soft summer breezes rustling the leaves of nearby trees. She had half an urge to throw the windows open and enjoy the floral scents that the Garland Moon always brought, but Bernadetta knew better. Any potential opening in the Imperial Palace was far too dangerous--particularly while Lady Edelgard was present.
She had spent the day engaged in a meeting with the Emperor herself. Ferdinand had also been present; it had been Bernadetta’s first time seeing him since the Aegir Insurrection of 1183, over a year prior. In more ways than one, he was unrecognizable to her. His hair, once neatly trimmed, had grown to the middle of his back, and his eyes, once alight with passion and zeal, were dull and accompanied by dark circles. Lady Edelgard had summoned Bernadetta, Hubert, and Ferdinand together to give orders; the trio were to engage in a three-pronged assault on Celtchar, the capital city of Marquisate Daphel.
The notion, Bernadetta realizes with mild surprise, does not phase her.
Lady Edelgard and Hubert had each given her plenty of military orders, and she had engaged in campaigns with each of them. Hardened, and far removed from the girl she’d once been, Bernadetta did not doubt her capacity to rise to the occasion. More than once, Her Majesty had personally ordered Hubert to work alongside her, reminiscent of the way their Professor once had, nearly five years ago. Ferdinand’s company was a surprise, but a welcome one, although she privately dreaded the inevitable spats that her companions were sure to engage in on their lengthy march to the Alliance war front.
Knowing that she would have precious few moments to herself in the days and weeks to come, Bernadetta hurries to her office, eager to channel her energy into a new embroidery piece. Once she arrives, she gathers her wicker box of needle and thread, opening it to take stock of her materials.
Bernadetta frowns. Owing to her increasingly scarce free time, it had been many moons since she had last replenished her stock, and now, she had precious little thread in any color other than a simple shade of cream. However, she is determined not to let the setback ruin her afternoon. She rises, rushing to her bookshelves to procure a thick tome bound in coffee-brown leather, embossed with golden text: The Flora of Fodlan, an Anthology.
As she skims the pages, searching through the illustrations of white flowers for inspiration, Bernadetta reflects on another meeting, held between Hubert and herself in private, before Lady Edelgard had summoned them.
. . .
Bernadetta raised her hand to the mahogany door of Hubert’s office, and she shivered with uncertainty and trepidation. A written summons from the Empire’s spymaster would be enough to frighten even the most unflappable of Adrestians, and despite her growing bond with the man, Bernadetta could not prevent the fear which crept over her like strangling vines.
After summoning her courage, she knocked, and was nearly instantly greeted at the threshold by Hubert, who swung the door open for her.
“Thank you for your time, Lady Bernadetta,” Hubert greeted. “Please, sit.”
Bernadetta hesitated again before she nodded and walked stiffly to the spare chair, smoothed her dress, and sat.
“Um, wh-what is it?” Bernadetta asked nervously, her eyes trained on her knees. “Did I do something wrong?”
Unable to help himself, Hubert sighed. “Nothing of the sort.”
Despite his words, Bernadetta’s attention honed in solely on the huff that had escaped Hubert’s lips, and anxiety coursed through her body, burning at her subconscious until it has fully engulfed her.
“B-But, you’re angry…!”
For his part, Hubert seemed to recognize his error immediately. He flinched, jolted in place, and fussed with his gloves.
“I apologize, General,” he offered. “It was my intent for this conversation to be a pleasant one. But, as you have surmised, pleasantness is…not my forte.”
Bernadetta willed herself to relax, exhaling forcefully. A pleasant conversation. She could handle that.
“O-Okay, yeah…!” she acquiesced. “How, um…wh-what can Bernie do for you?”
To her bewilderment, rather than answer her, Hubert’s cheeks took on a pinkish hue, as though stung by the Faerghan winds. Had she…embarrassed him somehow?
“Nothing, you--that is…no. Rather, you have already done something for me, Miss Bernadetta. I called you here to express my gratitude.”
Bernadetta’s brow furrowed. Was she imagining things, or was Hubert nervous? The thought is altogether puzzling. Hubert had been stern, austere, and foreboding for as long as she had known him, his words as pointed and cutting as the knives he hid in his sleeves. This version of him, fitful, bordering upon shy, was entirely alien to her.
“Are you, um…d-doing alright?”
“Yes,” Hubert returned, seemingly unable to meet her gaze. “I merely wished to say, your efforts in Duchy Goneril are appreciated. Were it not for your quick actions, I would have been slain.”
It was Bernadetta’s turn to blush. She remembered it well; a wyvern rider had come dangerously close to burying her axe in Hubert’s chest, but she had been shot down from her mount by a well-timed arrow. For just a moment, Hubert had been gobsmacked, frozen on the spot, as he processed what he had just seen.
“Y-You don’t need to thank me for that,” Bernadetta said. “You and Bernie, we’re teammates…! A-And, um…well…it’s a little silly but, if something happened to you, I’d miss you. A lot.”
Almost immediately, Bernadetta clapped her hand over her mouth, mortified at herself. Stupid, stupid Bernie, why would you say--
“Would you, truly?” Hubert asked, his tone uncharacteristically gentle, bordering on something… fond? Vulnerable?
“Yes,” Bernadetta confirmed before she could stop herself. “I mean it.”
After a few moments’ silence, Bernadetta at last looked up from the floor, only to be faced with the sight of Hubert smiling.
“My--ah, my apologies,” he stammered. “I know you do not care for my smile.”
Bernadetta frowned again and shook her head. “O-Only the spooky, evil one you use on the Church soldiers,” she countered. “Th-That one, just now…it was, um, nice! A Nice-Hubert Smile…!”
“A Nice-Hubert Smile,” Hubert repeated, at once flustered and bemused. “Is that so…?”
“Yes!”
For a moment, Hubert is unable to speak, face flushed and eyes trained upon the floorboards. He cleared his throat and slowly returned his gaze to Bernadetta’s face before he rather abruptly changed the topic.
“In any event, words cannot express my gratitude, General,” he professed. “I hope that you will take these words as the high compliment that they are; you have my deepest trust.”
. . .
In the present, Bernadetta at last arrives on an entry she thinks may suit the project. The gardenia, with cream-colored petals, would be an effective use of the thread she could spare. What was more, she knew their meaning well: “I trust you.”
With a smile, Bernadetta gathers the book in her hands and brings it to her desk, laying it down, open on the image of a gardenia. After preparing her embroidery hoop, she guides the thread through the eye of her needle with practiced precision. To earn the trust of Hubert was a high honor, and the memory of such praise echoes in her subconscious, warming her heart and face alike. As the outline of the flower begins to take shape, however, she begins to recall a long-held tradition.
This month was the Garland Moon. In times of peace, it was customary for women to weave white flowers into garlands, intended as a gift for close friends or potential lovers. Her eyes scan the descriptive text beside the illustrated gardenia in her textbook, and a particular line captures her attention:
“During the Garland Moon, these blossoms are ideal as the centerpiece for hopeful romantics.”
Bernadetta feels her face burn a brilliant crimson as the realization for just why the gardenia was so popular in garlands; its secondary meaning was,
“I love you in secret.”
Part Four: The Dahlia
As night fell upon the camp, Bernadetta zipped her tent closed.
Fifteen moons had passed since Lady Edelgard had ordered her, Ferdinand, and Hubert to Marquisate Daphnel. The journey had been long and arduous, and the military campaign fraught with adversity. During the fighting, Houses Phlegathon, Ifan, and Galatea had involved themselves, drastically lengthening the campaign. While the famed Hero of Daphnel had escaped with her life, many of her soldiers had been put to rout. Aside from weakening the Alliance, it had also affirmed Hubert’s suspicion that the Leicester lords were not as unified as their leader made them out to be.
Per Lady Edelgard’s orders, Ferdinand had stayed behind, attempting to provide stability to the region and negotiate with the nobles of House Daphnel. Though their leader remained steadfast in her loyalty to Claude, other members of the House were eager to join the Imperial forces, to which Houses Ordelia and Gloucester already belonged.
Hubert and Bernadetta, however, were making their way towards Garreg Mach monastery, where they would ideally reunite with Ferdinand in time for what would have been the Millenium Festival, during the Ethereal Moon.
Nearly five years had passed since the promise their Professor had made to Edelgard and the Black Eagle house, and sentiments varied among the three Generals as to whether or not their Professor would return--on that day, or any other.
Whether the Professor returned or not, however, Bernadetta had sworn a silent oath to herself; when she and Hubert arrived back at the monastery, she would summon him to her quarters and bestow a gift upon him.
The many moons she had spent in his company, fighting at his side, had profoundly deepened her connection to him. She saw no trace of the man who had scared her so profoundly that she fainted in his company. In his place, she saw a dignified General, a firm yet fair commander, and one who had, despite everything, believed in her.
It had been Hubert who asserted that Bernadetta was fit to serve in the Imperial Army as a General, even when she herself did not believe she could. Hubert had tended to her when she was injured, protected her on the battlefield, and expressed sincere gratitude whenever she returned the favor.
The thought at once pleases and saddens Bernadetta.
During her Academy days, she had rather bluntly refused Hubert’s apologies for frightening her, dismissing them as insincere; now, however, Bernadetta was certain he’d meant every word. What’s more, her fear of him had prompted Hubert to stop smiling and laughing around her for quite some time, all to ensure that she would feel safe in his presence.
Bernadetta’s opinion of Hubert, and her sense of safety and security around him, had changed dramatically as the war had stretched on. Now, she is determined to apologize, and can only hope it is not too late. A true apology, Bernadetta knew, would have to come from her heart. Accordingly, she had decided to prepare him a piece of embroidery, as a token of her sincerity.
“Sincerity,” she mutters to herself, gathering her embroidery materials. “N-Nothing else, okay Bernie? Don’t get any funny ideas…”
This time, she knows exactly what she will make. Seeking a reference image, she opens her textbook on Fodlan’s flowers. Despite the fact that she knew she ought to have only packed the necessities on a military campaign, Bernadetta is privately pleased that she brought it; each carefully rendered illustration inspired her and filled her heart with daydreams of a life spent exploring a peaceful, united Adrestia.
As her thread pierces the canvas, pulling through a strand of warm purple, she hears Hubert’s voice in her mind.
“Her Majesty trusts her. As do I.”
Bernadetta moves, slowly creating an outline.
“You are not worthless.”
The memory makes her smile as her flower begins to take shape.
“You have my deepest trust.”
At last, the outlining is finished, and Bernadetta gazes upon it, an emotion she cannot name welling up in her chest, threatening to leap from her throat. She wills herself to focus on creating the details of what was to be Hubert’s gift: a dahlia, set in a rich shade of purple. It was her favorite flower, and one whose meaning she desperately hoped to impart upon Hubert, once given the chance:
“I have seen your inner kindness.”