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There’s two Petras in her hallway. Dorothea does her best to steady herself against the wall, pulling on the tapestry depicting some saintly ancestors doing something or other. But she doesn’t care about wrinkling—or goddess forbid, ripping—it. An overwhelming sense of guilt and disappointment hangs over her for the news she just delivered.
She won’t be attending Petra’s wedding.
The two Petras are politely distanced from Dorothea, at the lady’s insistence. Outside, two guards wait, dressed in bright Brigidian colours and crests depicting a gleaming blue sun. The Petras, not the guards which are multiplying, assure her: “Do not be worrying, Dorothea.”
“I’m so so sorry, Petra.” Dorothea says in a hoarse voice. Years ago, she’d be mortified that she is in the process of losing her voice, her talent, her assurance of a better life. Now, she only cares about apologizing to her dear friend who has crossed the ocean.
“There will be other times, I promise you!” Petra promises her.
A headache looms over Dorothea, fuelled by pressure and guilt. “But it’s your wedding. And you wanted me there as a witness…” Dorothea argues. “I knew I shouldn’t have taken that stroll in town. Enbarr is a pit of sickness in the winter.”
“It is not your fault.” Petra assures her gently. Dorothea keeps a handkerchief to her mouth, as to keep her sickness to herself. “Bernadetta said she would help if needed.”
“I’m sure she’s been to a lot of weddings, given her title as minister of religion. She probably knows the vows down pat.”
Petra smiles and pulls her fur coat closer to herself. “She is much changed, indeed.” She notices how Dorothea’s face falls and makes her voice cheery. “I will be back in the fall, we will see each other then.”
Dorothea longs to agree but can’t. “No promises.” She says before shooing Petra out of the hallway of Gautier Manor. “Go go! I won’t make the bride-to-be sick.”
Petra departs with a sad smile and a last glance over her shoulder. She departs into the arms of her guardian knight, who is waiting only a few feet away. They multiply once again, hazy double-visions of two couples hurrying through the thickening blanket of rain into their carriage.
Dorothea braces herself against the front door to see them off, clutching onto the frame with all her might, then decides the front door step is a good place for a nap.
Dorothea wakes up in her bed and feels like a rusty nail is being pounded through her head. The room is dark but she can hear the howls of rain outside the newly built estate. Dorothea’s hand goes to her head, as if the pressure from her hand will reduce the pressure in her head.
A jagged shard of candlelight slices through the curtains of the four poster bed. Dorothea moans and cracks open an eye. She sees her lover Sylvain holding a teapot, a look of softened concern on his face.
“Hey Thea.” Sylvain greets gently. “Can you sit up?”
She whines and manages to. Then, the sneezing comes and doesn’t stop. He offers his handkerchief which Dorothea tries to give back.
He cringes a little and gently says, “Sorry darling, it’s better yours than mine.”
“Oh.” Dorothea mumbles, remembering that he isn’t sick. “Right. I’ll have it laundered I guess.”
“Good idea.” Sylvain sets down a tea tray and sits beside her on the bed.
“Wait, why are you here? You’ll get sick.” She argues. “You’ll miss the conference.”
The same conference that brought the two down from Faerghus and set them up in one of the Hresvelg’s many guesthouses. It was to be a roundtable discussion between the remaining noble houses—Fraldarius, Galatea, Gaspard and of course, Gautier—on preserving borders following the fall and dissolution of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.
To say that this was important was an understatement. Sylvain had been preparing since Edelgard had first mentioned the topic months ago in passing. Gautier territory was the most eager to discuss it, given the borders on Sreng and the relationship that the new Margrave had been building between the Srengi people and Fódlan.
Sylvain’s reach didn’t end there. He managed to sway Ingrid’s brothers to come down; they had staunchly been against the idea for months, especially after the death of their sister. The remaining Fraldariuses—a cousin of Felix’s—had been implored by Sylvain to make the trip and would be down within the fortnight.
Ashe, the eldest of Lonato Gaspard’s children, and entitled to the estate before his engagement, had returned both to marry in the Fódlani church and to argue for Gaspard’s borders. Upon coming of age, his younger siblings—who would be staying in Fodlan—would inherit it, but for now, Ashe remained as the sole heir.
This was important. She thinks.
“Don’t worry about it Thea.”
“Syl,” Dorothea says. “You’ve been planning this with Edie for ages. I can’t be the one to take you away from it.”
“You’re not taking me away from anything, Thea.” He insists. “Drink this. It’s valerian and feverfew. It should help you sleep off the headache.”
Dorothea takes the teacup and sips the bitter herb tea. She cringes and looks at him. “If you’re staying here because of me, I’m still playing a part. Edie needs you there. The old Kingdom supporters respect the Gautiers and you. You have the most sway now.”
“Like I said, it can wait.” He insists. “If you mean half as much to Edelgard as you mean to me, she’ll understand. Besides, I’m sure she’s got her hands full with rearranging cabinet and wrangling Claude for a conference regarding the Leicester territories. They’ll be just as much trouble as us Faerghus rebels.”
Dorothea sneezes again and her head feels like it’s about to burst. She winces and sinks back into the pillows, shutting her eyes. “I have a feeling the Alliance nobles won’t be as open to being under the Empire again.” She moans.
“I’ve written to Count Gloucester. He seems more open to it. Or his wife did at least.”
“She’s always been more… politically minded.” Dorothea winces as her head feels like it’s about pop and her heart aches at the mention of a wife. She thinks of Petra, preparing for her Fódlani wedding without her maid of honour. “Goddess…”
Sylvain moves closer to her, crawling beneath the sheets. “What’s wrong?”
“I feel awful about missing Petra’s wedding.”
“C’mon, she understands.”
“But she wanted me to witness it so it would be official here.” Dorothea says sadly. “I feel like a bad friend.”
“If you weren’t sick, you’d be there, right?”
“I would.”
Sylvain inclines his head. “See?”
“This is the worst time to get sick.” Dorothea bemoans, then sneezes again. She sighs, eyes watery as she reaches for the wet hanky. “I should’ve been smarter. Why’d I go into Enbarr…”
Sylvain shakes his head. “No one could talk you out of it.”
Dorothea sighs and thinks of the reason why she went: to see the opera house. It had been badly damaged in the war and was finally about to be repaired, thanks to a large grant from a certain noble. Seeing it was worth the sickness, and of course, passing through the streets, Dorothea came across orphans and urchins like herself and shared her newfound wealth with them; regretfully, they shared their colds with her.
(But truthfully, she wouldn’t trade those moments for the world. The sparkle in the eyes of a woman who recognized her as the Mystical Songstress. The little boy who gasped when he realized she knew the emperor. Those make the head-cold worth it.)
Dorothea sighs and settles against his shoulder, curling into him.
“Drink that tea up, otherwise I’ll have to tell Ashe you didn’t like it.”
She keeps her eyes shut and forces a smile. “Did you tell him?”
“Duh. I asked him for ideas.” Dorothea watches as Sylvain leans closer and presses a kiss to her temple. “Can’t stand to see you sick.”
Dorothea heaves a sigh. “Please don’t do it again.”
“Do what?” Sylvain asks playfully as he takes her left hand. He kisses the back of her palm, her lithe fingers.
“This.” She says, feeling her headache lessen.
“I’m doing nothing.” He says. “Aside from thinking about how nice a big diamond would look on your finger.”
Dorothea sighs. “You want a sick wife with a runny nose?”
Sylvain looks at her like she’s asked a stupid question. He kisses her nose. “Is that even a question? Come on Thea, I’d marry if your nose was red and stuffy and you got me sick.”
Dorothea rolls her eyes. “You’re on the road to getting sick by sticking by me.”
“There’s no other place I’d rather be.”
She melts against him for a moment, thinking about how he’s so close to saying what she wants to hear. Being there in sickness is a good start; being there when she’s vulnerable is too; but she wants it all. The grey-hairs and achy joints and fading beauty and musing on the good old days of glory and youth. Waking up next to him when they’re no longer young and beautiful. Age, it’s golden hues and the passing of time and fleeting moments that become precious memories.
He said it once.
I’d rather be with you until you’re an old grandma.
If only he said it when he proposed.
She curls against him, breathing in his scent and feeling his arms around her. Her headache eases—unsure if it’s the tea or him—and Dorothea melts into him. He presses another kiss into her hair.
“Marry me, Thea.” He begs her gently, his voice soft and muffled.
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry Sylvain, but no.” She says.
“Not the right words?”
“No.” She agrees. “Not yet.”
“Will you tell me when I’ve got it right?”
“Promise.” Dorothea smiles and looks up at him. “You’ll know.”
They stay like that in bed for a little longer. A warm feeling makes a spot in her chest as the feverfew and valerian draw her to sleep.
A few days later, Dorothea is bringing him tea and cuddling into him while he moans about his poor head, and Edelgard delivers curealls she swears by.