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Without reluctance, Leonie follows the rest of the Deer into the town below Garreg Mach for a pint. When Claude suggests the night cap, she practically leaps at the chance, eager for the wash of barley and hops over her tongue. The perfect end to a hard day.
The day had begun with her usual early morning training, then tiresome war council that dragged and dragged until the sun dipped below the mountains and the moon took to the sky. A tense discussion on the future of Fodlan turned the discussion of how to get resources across the Empire-held Great Bridge of Myrddin to what would happen to the five great lords after the war.
The situation didn’t really effect Leonie, at least not much on the surface. Her plans had been set in stone since Jeralt visited her village all those years ago: she was going to be a mercenary and nothing would stop her. Sure, a war is a minor inconvenience, but a blessing in disguise. Fighting hard would get her noticed and get her name out there. Politics didn’t concern her, not when people were hiring her and her schedule was clear.
True, it would be a good idea to settle the future of the nobility and leadership. From the way Claude talked, he was bound to skip out again, breezing out of Fodlan just as quickly as he breezed in.
“Whatever happens, happens.” He’d said in the council room. “We can’t predict or change it. At least not right now.”
Lorenz had been quick to object. “But can we not plan?”
“What’s the use to planning?” Asked Hilda. “It’s a problem for another day.”
Marianne intoned her quiet agreement.
Lysithea had added, “Maybe not even our problem.”
Despite the dour mood left by the last Ordelia, Lorenz had persisted. “Once this war ends, we must be ready to lead or fight again. There is no way to tell which way the wind blows.” He had said. “And Goddess-forbid we lose, we must know what we face.”
Bernadetta von Varley, an Adrestian stow-away, had spoken up. “E-Edelgard plans on dis-dismantling the nobility!” She cried out. “Sh-She stripped Ferdinand’s father of his title… a-and o-o-other lords.”
Linhardt had yawned loudly, awakened from his nap. “I’ve also heard that the Kingdom has no plans of doing so… At least, the nobles that rally against Dimitri do not. Very little comes from the ravaged king these days, so I hear.”
“How’d you hear that Linhardt?” Leonie found herself asking.
“I keep my ears to the sky and my eyes to the ground, Leonie.” He smiled. “People aren’t as quiet as they should be during my nap time.”
The argument had persisted through dinner, despite Claude insisting that Lorenz give it up. He had for a while, reminded that it was improper to talk politics over a meal.
But Leonie knows the fierceness in his eyes. The future Count Gloucester, ambitious, determined, resolute in his convictions.
(And she kicks herself because she’s agreed to marry him some day.)
It was early on in the war, when she had been called to Gloucester by his request to protect a village and dispatch of some monsters. He had insisted to treat her to dinner, then called upon her again and again, despite her wandering nature, despite the distance between them, despite the imminent danger.
It was there, in the quiet halls of Gloucester Hall, when the Count went to Derdriu to convene with the other great lords, that Leonie learnt how to shut him up.
Like most other young men, Lorenz was—is—accomplished academically and in hobbies. He makes the pianoforte sing beautifully, and after a meal, he asked Leonie if she could play.
“No, ‘fraid not.” She stretched her arms skyward, satisfied from the meal. “My hands were more inclined stringin’ to a bow than a harp.”
Lorenz had looked down at the piano. “A pity. Music is a great pleasure of mine.”
“Sorry I can’t help you there.”
His eyes flickered to his. “And I assume you don’t sing.”
“I mean, I know a great ditty about the ways to a woman’s heart—”
He sighed exasperatedly, to Leonie’s enjoyment. “I regret asking.” He mumbled, sliding the cover over the keys.
“Oh, I’m just having fun with you Lorenz.” She’d said. “But no, I’m not a singer.”
“There goes our chances for a duet.” His hand lingered over the cover, the wood gleaming in the lantern-light.
“Well, maybe you could teach me a few keys?”
“I am afraid I lack the necessary patience to teach.”
“Good thing I’m a fast learner.” Leonie said, sitting down on the bench. She pulled up the cover, the wood banging as she turned to him, patting the seat beside her. “C’mon.”
They spent the next half hour going over keys, which Leonie—sadly born without a sense of rhythm—had struggled with.
“No, no, watch my hands.” Lorenz insisted, his evening gloves shucked away. His lacquered nails danced across the keys in the scale. “Look at how they move. Observe again.”
“You’re moving too quickly, Lorenz.” She murmured. “Slow down.”
He refused to, reminding her that she insisted she was a quick learner.
“Come now Leonie, you insisted you are a fast learner.”
Leonie had grimaced then got up.
“Just watch, once more, I’m certain you’ll get it this time.” Lorenz looked behind her, certain she was about to storm off. Leonie instead pressed her front flush against his back, her arms over his. Her rough, calloused hands rested on top of his.
She remembers thinking how soft his were. Prettily painted and moisturized. It reminded her of what girls were called back in her village—breadbasket brides. Some families were so determined to marry one of their too many daughters off to a nice noble family that they forbade them from doing hard labour in the fields or in the woods; instead they’d be pushed towards feminine accomplishments in sewing and painting. Their names would be common, but their beauty and marriage made them noble.
“Go on.” Leonie prompted.
Lorenz remained silent, his hands cold beneath hers.
“Lorenz? Hello?”
It took a moment, as if to process he was being touched, but he came back. And she finally got the scale, at least some sort of basic grasp of it. She also realized that if she ever needed Lorenz to stop talking, all she had to do was touch him.
(And yes, she’d gotten better at the piano during her time in Gloucester. The drawing room and it’s beautiful forte had always been made available to her. Surprisingly, practicing on the piano’s keys kept her fingers nice and nimble, perfect before sparring matches.)
The tavern owner and servers recognize them as former students and current soldiers. A few tables are pushed together in the corner of the tavern to accommodate for privacy, as requested by the more reserved members of the party.
“Oh good, the hearth is close. It makes for nice sleeping.” Linhardt says, flopping gracelessly into a chair.
Leonie’s had to sleep in some uncomfortable places and fancies herself a decent sleeper. She makes hard ground below her bedroll and stars above work, but Linhardt is either a marvel or an oddity… She’s yet to decide which. Leonie has caught him sleeping standing up on the battlefield a few times, prodded awake by a nervous Marianne.
He slumps against her shoulder, flopping against Raphael’s big, cuddly, built-like-a-brick-house bicep every so often.
The Deer divide. The most nobles to one side, closest to the hearth, and the commoners towards the cool window in against the wall. Bernadetta shoves herself in the corner, blocked from people’s view by Raphael. Leonie joins them, Ignatz and sleepy Linhardt and Marianne.
Lysithea, Cyril and Hilda seem bored of the conversation by now, like beating a dead horse, the point is moot. But Lorenz, ever-enthused, keeps going on. The server comes by with the first order, then another, including some pub fare for the table—okay, for Raphael—and Leonie asks for a shot of Faerghan vodka to deal with eavesdropping on her sorta-boyfriend’s conversation.
(It’s not really eavesdropping when he’s been talking about the same topic for the last five hours with little pause. And when his indoor voice is actually not indoor, just less enunciated. Damn nobles and their vocal coaches and speech lessons.)
“—There is a point, Claude.” His voice drops in volume. “If we lose this war, the Alliance will be shattered, we must have a plan if that comes to pass!
“And what’s the point. Whatever happens happens.”
“That is quite the laissez-faire attitude for a future Duke.” Lorenz admonishes. “If you ask me, we are best to remain united in the face of our enemies. You did that much during the five years of standstill. If we maintain the facade of looking united, our enemies may not trifle with us. Furthermore, if we present as if we are ready to negotiate with the victors, we stand a better chance of maintaining our borders and protecting the common folk who depend upon us.”
Leonie rolls her eyes at that one.
“—Oh you like acrylic?”
“Mhm! I-It’s what the best artists use in Adrestia.” Bernadetta says. “What do you like, Ignatz?”
“I’m more inclined to using gouache paints. It was the first type I was introduced to. There was a seller from Almyra who used to mix theirs with honey.”
“Wow, that’s interesting—I’ve uh never heard of something like that before—”
“—Claude, this is no laughing matter!” Lorenz admonishes sharply, calling Leonie’s attention from the great painting debate. “The Alliance hangs in—”
“The balance? Goodness Lorenz, calm down, you’ll be grey before you’re thirty at this rate! We don’t have to have everything figured out today! Here, I’ll order you another glass of wine, you obviously need it.”
“I’ll have you do no such thing! Be serious, Claude, what shall we do?”
Leonie glances back to Bernadetta and Ignatz. “Maybe you could should me your acrylics sometime? Raphael’s told me you’re an amazing artist!” Ignatz suggests hopefully.
Bernadetta shoots a glare up at a blushing Raphael. He holds his hands up. “Sorry Bernie…” He murmurs as she practically stumbles into an excuse and shuts down.
An idea comes to Leonie’s mind as she takes a swill from her third pint.
“Why are you even thinking this far ahead, Lorenz?” Claude asks as the server comes back with the requested drink. “Why not come up with a plan about how to get that grain outta Bergliez…”
“Because, Duke Riegan, if we do not know where we are heading, how are we to overcome the obstacles?” Lorenz sighs. “Lysithea? Have you a notebook handy? Claude would do well to jot these points down and construct a plan, the supposed master tactician…”
With the mention of Lysithea’s name—and Cyril who is dutifully pulling a notebook from his pocket to seriously offer to Claude—the rest of the Deer begin to pay attention.
Leonie heaves a sigh, throws back the rest of her drink. “Give me a sec guys.” Leonie says to her party mates. She drags her chair over between Lorenz and Claude, seated before the hearth.
She sits on it backwards, her arms crossed on the chair’s back. “Hey Lor?”
“Beg your pardon, Leonie.”
“Lor.” She says sharper this time.
“Leonie, I am quite busy, can it not wait?”
He tastes like sweet berry wine, the type that only comes in around her birthday in Ordelia. She got a bottle once, as a birthday gift, and it was damn good but much too sweet and expensive for her rustic tastes.
His body goes rigid in surprise as Leonie cups his chin, her rough fingertips grazing the spot where the collar of his suit jacket ends. Leonie hears a knowing giggle from Hilda, a little eep! from Marianne… Or was that Bernadetta?
The kiss is brief, and if Leonie’s being frank with herself, not one of her better ones. The angle was awkward, their teeth clacked. Lorenz was drawing a deep breath to remind Claude about the nobility’s duties towards the commonfolk, and a common woman shut him up. But what matters is that it was enough to silence him.
The table mostly silent except for a few giggles. She glances to Claude, giving him a quick wink as he laughs under his breath, shaking his head and tipping back his tankard.
The wind returns to Leonie’s lungs and she gets up. Without a second thought, she drags her chair back to her spot by Ignatz and nods to him and Bernadetta, both bug-eyed. “So, what’s the difference between acrylics, watercolours and… what was the one you use, Ig?”
“Gouache.” The two answer in unison.
“Yeah,” Leonie says, as if nothing happened. She takes a sip of her ale, washing away the taste of the wine and Lorenz. “so what’s the difference?”
Lorenz admonishes Leonie the entire way home. She buys him another glass of wine as an apology, but it is simply no use. She made a fool of him. He doesn’t know what transgression is worse: kissing her in public before all their friends, the fact that it was in a tavern, or the fact that he was about to deliver the final blow to make Claude finally pay attention to this crisis of planning.
“—honestly Leonie, it was quite rude and unbecoming.” He sighs
“Look Lor, I get it, but it’s hard to have a discussion with others when you won’t shut up about leadership.”
“I take offence to that statement.”
“The sentiment or the words?”
“All of it!” Lorenz stops before her door. Despite being annoyed with her, he wouldn’t deny her the proper behaviour of a noble, let alone a… companion.
(He’s yet to over-analyze their situation yet. Though, he assumes and subsumes, that he will spend many sleepless nights worrying if he is in love with Leonie Pinelli.)
“Oh c’mon…” Leonie rolls her eyes tiredly. “Both you and Claude have a point. Why make plans now when we don’t know the outcome? But why fly blind? I’m sure you two can find a compromise.”
Lorenz sighs through his nose. “It would be helpful if Marianne, Hilda and Lysithea gave their input. They will be part of the roundtable someday soon.”
“I know you’re worried, but focus on putting one foot in front of the other.” Leonie advises. “Assemble the little pieces and pull it together.”
(He hates that she’s right.)
He opens his mouth to speak again. She catches his hand and the words fall from his mind, his mouth. Being touch-starved does things to a person, especially a nobleman in love with a village girl. Her lips brush against the inside of his wrist as she brings his hand to cup her cheek.
Oh merciful Seiros. He blushes hard as Leonie drops his hand and smiles like a devil up at him.
“You’ve got the biggest trap in the army.” She stands on her tip toes. Her voice lowers. Her fingers curl around his ascot. Heat floods his face. “But it’s the only one I’d kiss.”
She tastes bitter and sharp and watery. Mead, or ale. He saw her order again and again, as if trying to out drink a shadow or some untouchable (and false) legend. And he recalls her throwing down a heady tip and quipping to the server, “for your constant runs”, implying that she’d been around a lot.
(Which she had.)
Her smile is intoxicating, similar to wine. It’s oddly sweet for such a rough-and-tumble soul, the kind of girl who could unknowingly stomp on his heart and shatter it into a million irrevocable pieces. It’s oddly innocent for a mercenary, the same girl who had arrived at Gloucester Hall with the eyes of a killer two years ago. It makes it all the more special; and given that she often doesn’t have a reason to smile, it makes it all the more special.
“You must stop that, please.” Lorenz pleads with her quietly.
Leonie laughs. His heart soars. “It’s my only weapon. I’ll use it as much as I have to.”
“What impropriety. I should be appalled at such actions.” He begins to ramble on as Leonie twists his ascot between her fingers.
“If I kiss you, will you shut up?” She asks.
He closes the space between the two of them. His hand cups her neck, his fingers in her hair. It’s deeper, softer and slower than the awkward clack that shut him up for a solid minute at the tavern, and gentler than the earnest kiss that she just gave him a moment ago.
“Come inside?” She asks breathlessly when he moves away from her.
His fingers tangle in between hers, callouses against satin. Words jumble in his throat. He follows Leonie into the darkness of her room, blindly following her quiet, delighted giggle that whispers into the night.