Work Text:
Guardian Moon signals the start of the coldest time of the year, bringing with it frosty winds from the north. They ravage Fódlan all the way down to the lumpy foot of Hresvelg, and everyone know, from the beggars on the open street to the to nobles in their hard-to-heath castles that during the next moon cycle and a half the mounds of snow will only grow bigger and the wilderness only more barren. By the time Pegasus Moons flies over the sky the devastation has usually become quite white and beautiful, hills as tall as a full grown man and as hard as the walls of a fortress up in the north, but in the beginning, and for a long time down in the south, the snow is a powdery layer speckling the fields, lumpy and black after fall’s harvests. Bernadetta doesn't care much for Guardian Moon. Not at all.
The winter storms are a definite end to all the plants that have clung to life through fall and the beginning of winter and turns the flatlands, such as those that existed around the holdings of Varley, especially dark and desolate, seeming like an endless stretch of nothing.
The existence of winter makes green houses in turn the best invention that people have ever made, at least in her opinion. Bernadetta had gotten acquainted with the spectacular one at the monastery right after she was enrolled. It's a marveling mix of architecture and magic barriers that makes it possible for mandrake to bloom on the pillars, and vegetables to be harvested all year round. There are also eternal ferns that creates screens of privacy against all other visitors, though she still prefers to pick her visits at the last possible hour before curfew when most have already gone to bed, the same way she goes about picking up books from the library or snacks from the mess hall to compensate for the communal dinners that she skips.
This night though, the night of vigil, she is up and on her way to the greenhouse even later than usual, and the visit hasn't even been planned. If anybody had asked her earlier that day, "what are you planning to do for the night of vigil, Bernadetta," she would have answered, "I thought I would stay in my room and, you know, pray on my own," (like I should) although in reality she would most likely have ended up reading her current novel about the knight, the swan that is a cursed princess and a magic kingdom up in the sky … That was the plan, but she can never predict when the unsettledness comes. Sometimes it's like the feeling of being watched — the feeling that she hates, that makes her body stiff like a plank — follows her even when she is alone, and on the worst days the invisible eyes peer through even the thick walls of her rooms. When that happens the only thing she can think to do is run away to one of the other few places where she can feel secluded and safe and hope that they don't pursue her.
Actually, it might be because it's the night of vigil that she feels this way right now. One of the few occasions when she won't get a penalty if a guard catches her hurrying through the halls this late, because they will just assume that she is on her way to the chapel (because she ought to be). It's the day that preceded Saint Seiros Day when the saint is said to have first shown herself in a village and healed all their sick. Ever since, every person in Fódlan is supposed to spend the night praying, like the people in the village back then did, when they could do nothing to help their dying family but begged with hope that the goddess would send salvation.
The chapel would be occupied by acolytes and students who sit vigil, and her father would definitely expect her to be among the attendance, dutifully kneeling in front of the altar and engaging in the longest prayer of the year. All until sunrise. In Varley holdings, each year, they always did that. Her family is responsible for the religious matters after all, and supposed to set an example for the commoners. As far back as she can remember, she has spent the Night of Vigil in a freezing cellar where she has had to kneel directly on the floor for hours together with father and mother. It's supposed to be arduous because you are replicating the suffering that the village people felt before the saint arrived. The nights were at its darkest and they had to prove their fealty and faith. Whenever Bernie wasn't able to keep consciousness the entire time, or shook so much in her nightgown that she wailed her father always got so mad.
The cold really isn't something she can stand. Even walking through the corridors inside the monastery she has garbed herself up in a coat and boots like she is planning to go outside — no shot, with the snow already so thick and with a minor storm going on since yesterday. Only a madpie would do that. She passes mistletoe and crystal decorations that have been put up in preparation for the Saint Seiros Day that will follow, and the entire time she feels more guilty, because she isn't making herself deserved of the celebrations that will happen then.
The grating doubt, repeating again and again in her brain, that she should be in the chapel, that the fact she isn't is the reason behind the awful harried feeling, that maybe he will ask people if she has been seen on the ceremonies, makes it so that heading to the greenhouse takes twice as much time as it usually does, because she switches direction midway and goes toward the chapel, then stops in her tracks as soon as she starts hearing the organ and thinks "but I wanted to check up on my venus traps too" and so turns back, only to change her mind again after a few meters, and walk sternly all the way up to the doorway, close enough to peek inside.
The people in attendance are mostly priests but she does spot Mercedes kneeling on a pillow in front of the altar, head bowed, looking peaceful. Not only the music but also the fact that everyone seems to be allowed to interrupt your praying and retreat to the back of the chapel to chat with others makes the atmosphere less austere than she would have expected. Somebody has cramped mattresses on the seats for anyone that passes out before dawn and one person even goes around and offers people drinks from a large lidded pot that contains some smoky warm liquid. Profesor Manuela is one of the people who is taking a break and is engaging people in lively conversation without qualms, sometimes laughing loudly.
It's all very relaxed and different and Bernadetta comes to the conclusion with relief that this isn't how her father would want her to spend the Night of Vigil anyway, and so — "I can't be blamed for not participating. It just wasn't possible to do it like I usually do" — she backs away, shame mixing with a strange elation, and half-runs off to the greenhouse like she initially intended.
The moment she steps over the threshold and the warmth and smell of wet earth greets her body relaxes somewhat, and she soon unties her coat. She exhales, notes with satisfaction that there is no lantern light or noise which would indicate the presence of somebody else, and walks in a meandering pace toward the spot that belongs to her. Every student is allowed to reserve a plot for their own growing experiments. As soon as she found this out she had planted one of the flytraps that turns into adorable wine red flower with striped teeth when they grow up, and although right now it's pale and inactive during winter 'cause there's still less sunlight than before even though the temperature is stable, it's still alive which feels like a miracle considering that it's such a sensitive plant. Back home, with its drafty rooms, she has never been able to make one live past the summer.
There are times that she feels like she and the plants have very many similarities, and not just in that her hair resembles a raggedy black cabbage. The gold apple trees, the potato stalks and sleepy magnolia also need their warm and enclosed space; if somebody got the idea to break a window it wouldn't take all of them long to shrivel up in the cold air from the outside.They are not entirely the same, of course. Flowers can stay put in their room forever and not have to deal with a growling stomach, leg-cramps or something wrong in the soul that makes them feel hunted. With practice she has gotten good at ignoring stir-crazy muscles or bed sheets that start smelling a bit funky — that is when she usually ends up doing embroidery or painting, distractions that are really enjoyable to boot — but she isn't so lucky that she can always escape the unsettledness. At least for now, the eyes haven't pursued her here.
The moonlight that falls down from the garret windows gives the plants a different colour pallet than usual, more toward the blue, teal and navy. After greeting her plants she takes a walk through the room and admires them all. It's too bad she thinks that it isn't good for the eyes to paint in faint light or she could have brought a canvas and brushes and tried to capture the nuances. Though maybe … She puts a hand in a coat pocket and pulls out pieces of silky string that has been left over from various embroidery projects. There are enough that she hasn't been able to bring herself to throw away that she could pick out and compare a whole set of bluish colours with the beautiful shades on the larkspur for example, and even though she doesn't run around with needles anymore, she can still save the strings as a frame of reference when she wants to recreate the flowers later.
She puts herself on a marble bench underneath a window so that the moonlight will illuminate her hands and works for around fifteen minutes until she meets a hurdle. The larkspur has a bright yet dark nuance at the edges of its petals that she simply doesn't have an equivalent among her strings. An idea comes to mind though, when she looks to the side and notices an albinean berry plant that has seen better days. Half of the fat, bell-shaped flowers have already dropped to and scattered against the ground. It has exactly the kind of blue, and you are supposed to be able to extract colour from it. That is at least what Renata von Vestra says, the ancestor of hers who loved flowers so much that she traveled all over Fódlan to catalogue them and left traveling logs in their library that were partly responsible for sparking her own interest in botanics. Since Renata is one of her childhood heroes, she is inclined to believe her when she claims that the clothes sellers in Albinea boils wool together with the flowers to give it a strong deep blue colour.
Surely it's allowed taking from another person's plant when the flowers have already fallen? There is such an abundance too. She leans down and begins to sweep flowers into her hand, whistling a bit as she gathers. Right when she starts to look for an available pocket to put them in, one that isn't already occupied by other things that she has gathered for her projects, she feels a sharp cold strike her back. She becomes paralyzed, thieved flowers — because that's exactly what they are, stupid Bernie — falling from her palm. It's not her conscience talking, nudging her away from stealing in a very overt manner. Oh, how she wishes it was. But the cold she just felt was an actual gust of wind, and it can only have been produced by the door to the green house opening and something entering.
She doesn't believe in idle coincidence. If it was a person appearing why hasn't she heard a noise, and why hasn't there been a lantern light? Already her heart knows why. She was already on thin ice, neglecting her duty toward the saints during one of the holy nights, and then she took what belonged to someone else. Doesn't matter that it was a tiny thing, she still committed a sinful act, and now retribution is coming. Some kind of vengeful spirit, a punisher wraith. The room isn't comfy and safe anymore; it's a cage now, the warmth cloying and the shadows closing in, a closed in box where she awaits her end.
Stiff and slow, like a door with rusty hinges she turns toward the source of the gust. The silhouette, darker than night itself, is merely confirmation of what she now knows. There it is, moving without the sound of footsteps, the flash of a pale, soulless eye. Everything above her waist line breaks out into goose flesh. Where else would you meet a ghost than in the holiest place in Fódlan, after you've been impudent enough to sin? Truthfully, she reads novels instead of praying every day; this has been a long time coming. Her actions have brought something evil here, she can tell just by the presence it exudes, and it moves closer. Probably knows she is here.
The greenhouse has one main path, bringing the visitor on a winding tour through the entire space, and she knows that as long as the wraith walks forward it will encounter her, and here she is sitting right under the skylight. The feeling of being watched is back and now it's no mere suggestion. It's like arrows trained on her body, cruel points of jagged death.
Ah no Bernie, don't pass out. So much foliage in this place; there's still a chance it hasn't seen you yet.
Telling herself this keeps the asphyxiation-through-fear at bay for the moment. Passing out is the least smart thing she could do, right after starting to scream and attempt to reach the exit by running past the wraith. She doesn't want to face her just punishment in this instance. Getting additional assignments in class because she hasn't showed up for a few lessons she can expect, but this ghostly entity will probably consume her soul and let her boil in its stomach for the rest of eternity. With sluggish, jelly-weak movement she edges off the side of the bench and sinks to the ground, curled up beside it. There good, now she is less visible. A little more time to do something. It's do or die, Bernie.
Nobody knows as well as she does how easily she loses her composure. At a moments notice it's like she is balancing on a knife's edge where tipping to the wrong side will have her either black out or begin to run around in an aimless, panicky tissy, but, as she has been forced to find out during the bandit routings that she performs together with the Black Eagles, when it truly is a matter of life and death she can enter yet another state, where in the middle of racing heartbeats and fears there's a part of her that is able to think logically, that weirdly enough seem to be able to survey her options more clearly and calmly than when she feels safe
This is what happens now. She watches as the silhouette walks closer slowly, a map of the greenhouse layout unravels in her mind, and a coldly deliberated plan is beginning to get made. Deftly, like a lizard discarding an old skin, she slips out of the coat, immediately feeling much smaller and more nimble, while the discarded clothing, leaning against the bench, could be mistaken for a person on its own, cowering and trying to hide. Her hand then takes its own initiative and trails its way over to the very large and heavy flower pot containing the berry plant.
Hang on a second, she thinks, is she really going to…
Yes, the other part supplies. Sometimes attacking is the best defense: another lesson from the battlefield.
She digs her fingers into the earth and removes the plant as gently as can be, then she presses the pot to her chest and starts to sneak. If taking flower petals without permission was bad enough, taking the person's pot is truly stepping over the line, but shame is overpowered by the desire to survive. If another vengeful spirit appears she simply has to strike it down as well. At the moment though she is focused on the one that is slowly approaching, still without footsteps though if she strains her ears — doesn't she make out the sound of breathing? The hoarse mausoleum-rattle of the undead risen. It keeps a moderate pace, stops sometimes and leans over — sniffing for prey behind the corners she translates the actions to.
Her own breathing has all but been erased; she makes it unnoticeable like she taught herself to do when she was small and wanted to convince the person who was knocking on the door to her room that there was nobody inside. She didn't exist. Deliberately slow, she crawls forward, toward a particularly thich fern which extends its leaves over the path, at the edge of the square of moonlight. Not a perfect hiding spot, but since she hopes it will work for long enough, especially since the first thing the wraith gonna see is probably the coat hiding much more amateurishly behind the bench, and if she guesses correctly then by the time it does …
Is this going to work, she doubts the moment she reaches the fern and makes herself tiny beneath it. Trying to hit a ghost on the noggin with a pot. Won't it just pass through?
Do or die, Bernie, is the answer that she gives herself. This is the best plan she has if she wants to buy enough time to run and reach the exit.
From this spot she can't see the wraith anymore, especially since she doesn't dare turn her head anymore, only the eyes. Even so she knows when it's close. It's more instinct than anything that her senses supply. A black foot extends into her line of sight, connected to an equally black leg, taking a step then stopping. It sees the coat. Her grip around the pot is sweaty. Don't mess this up, Bernie. Oh, don't mess this up. Don't just pass through its body.
She makes herself wait until it takes one more step, attempting to make out what's covering behind the bench more clearly and putting it beside her. That when she stands up and swings, and she can't help screaming as she does so. The pot is heaved straight toward where she reckon the head to be located.
– Bernadetta, the wraith starts, before the object collides with it.
Two factors mess up the trajectory a little: her arm is weaker than it seemed to be inside her mind's calculation and too short for a figure this unfairly tall, though it still a hefty impact and the surprised outcry from her target is cut short by a grunt, then it crumbles to the ground. Before it has even reached it she is sprinting straight for the exit, barely able to believe that her attack actually worked. She struck the wraith; it wasn't intangible.
Halfway there she gets the one errant thought that its voice was sounding awfully familiar, then promptly realisation comes like a mountain falling down on top of her.
The felled figure, more visible now underneath the moonlight, is certainly dark and imposing, but he is not a ghost.
– Hubert, she squeaks, still in disbelief.
What is he doing here? What has she done? She runs back and leans over her classmate and closest confidant to her future emperor, and upon confirming that he is not moving, straightens again and begins to pull at her own hair.
– Great, just great Bernie. Excellent decision making. Start the holy night off with pilfering, only to transit into cold, bloody murder.
Her strike has left a red mark against the entire right side of his face, standing out starkly against chalky skin, and beneath the raven bangs the eyes are half-lidded whites. Her thoughts feel like they are screeching to a halt and moving uncontrollably at the same time. Hubert is, and always has been, a person who could terrify her by simply glancing her way, and reasonability simply isn't something she's capable of in his presence. Whatever he does she is bound to interpret it as a sign of some evil plot or a plan to sacrifice her to the demon realm that she still isn't totally unconvinced that he doesn't have dalliances with. But she has never wanted to kill him, and the longer that she has gotten to know him the more she has seen the signs of kind things that he can do. Like always giving her and other classmates little reminders about eating nutritiously and finishing assignments in time, or making sure nobody gets exposed on the battlefield, or stopping himself from smiling and laughing when he noticed that it frightened her. He's the person who looks out for everybody else; he shouldn't have to die.
Even worse: what if he isn't dead yet, but he will soon be because she is just standing here with no idea what to do? Oh, why can't Do-or-die Bernie help when it's other people's lives in peril?
As if her lament worked like a signal to herself, she remembers that she does know something about medical treatment. Since she prefers to stay in the back during battles, she has ended up close to where Linhardt is working lot's of times, and has seen him snap at mages who exhausted their magic energy and who don't know a single thing about how to administer first aid without faith spells (though not really snapping; more like mumbling "idiot" in a more irate tone than usual). She can recall what he was showing. First you make sure he can breathe.
With a whole lot of effort she pushes Hubert's limp body upward and props his back against the closest convenient pillar. Isn't there a risk that the tongue falls backwards somehow and blocks the airway? She believes that Linhardt mentioned that? Grateful that unconscious people have no memories she pries Hubert's jaws open and peers into the mouth as well as she can. His breath smells kind of nice, she notes idly. With all the coffee he drinks she wouldn't have thought it would be this fresh … Hang on, what is she even thinking right now?
Face flushing, she pulls back, refocuses. Is she even doing this in the right order? Shouldn't she check his pulse to tell if he even has any life left to breathe with. She grabs a wrist, aware that she could also check by the throat but after smelling the inside of his mouth being anywhere in close proximity to his head feels too intimate suddenly. Cheeking the wrist works perfectly in any case, as she finds what she's been hoping for, a steady throb, which means she hasn't ruined things unmeasurable yet.
Another thing she discovers is the strange, gravely texture of his skin. It feels too strange not to wake her curiosity. Does he wear another set of gloves underneath the white ones that she has never seen him without? Because it's impossible for her not to look, she peels back the silk layer for a quick peek. Following that she spends a moment trying to comprehend what it is that she is making out in the faint lighting. Two simultaneous feelings creeps into her, an unshapely concern in the tummy and the suspicion of intruding on something distinctly private, so she pulls back the glove admonishing,
– You shouldn't have done that, Bernie.
More than one boundary is being crossed. With Hubert in particular she has always been fearful of putting as much as a finger on him, likening it to choosing not to touch a dangerous animal like a black panther or something. Sure that fur looks really beautiful and soft, but petting it? No way; she'll die. With him unconscious that sense of danger is replaced by the trepidation of entering new territory. Although she tries to be practical and impervious about it, her palms are still buzzing. Hopefully he will be able to forgive her invasiveness, or, better yet, never find out.
Better, better yet, show some more signs of life soon.
The next step is to stop the bleeding. Easy, she thinks at first, since she hasn't cut him any, only dealt him the biggest bruise that he probably got in his life, then it hits her that there could be bleeding on the inside, like in the head. How is she supposed to stop that?
This is too much for me, she thinks and considers the possibility of fetching someone with faith magic to heal him; she did see both Mercedes and Manuela in the chapel. Still, it's like her brain kept this idea concealed from her until now out of shere unwillingness, and even as it relents she continues to hesitate. It isn't just out of selfishness — maybe in the time that it would take for her to find help and make herself coherent enough to convey the emergency it will become impossible to save him — although she does feel terrified of revealing to anyone what she has done, trembling at the thought. They're gonna throw her in a dungeon they're gonna execute her for treason what is she supposed to say to Edelgard?
Calm yourself, Bernie. Be calm. She looks around, vainly hope to see Linhardt miraculously apparate from thin air, but instead her gaze stops at the vegetation that surrounds her.
That is right. There is another option. Over there's a tree with noa fruit and not far from it, spring miracle, both with strong medical properties according to Renata von Vestra. Oh please, don't let her hero worship be misplaced.
She shakes her head to clear the doubts. Throughout all the ages people who didn't live close to a priest with healing spells used herbs instead, and that worked for them. It has to work for her too. All business now, she picks up what's left of the flower pot, it having cracked in two (probably like Hubert's skull). After she rinses it off all the earth with the help of a stationary stationary water can nearby, it makes for the best bowl available, and so she rushes to the spring miracle and starts to bend open the capsules beneath the leaves that contain the beans. Whoever takes care of it must have infused it with a lot of magic, because the plant has produced a lot. Renata reported that it was so revitalizing that sick people would become like new just by ingesting a couple.
It isn't like she's piecing together facts she barely recalls either; at home there were so few books that weren't forbidden, that wouldn't ruin her if she read them, distract and make her less attractive to a suitor, that she ended up reading the ones she did have again and again, and vividly imagined each scene in them.
From the noa she tears off a bunch of leaves, recalling that they are good for treating concussions, and a concussion is the least of what she has given Hubert. She keeps her gaze down at what she gathers, only looking up when she stands right before him again, looking up straight into his eyes, open aware and piercing like an executioner's blade.
Naturally, she yelps and drops everything in her hands, the pot breaking into even more pieces and remedies scattering over the floor tiles. Hubert grimaces at the noises as if they just pushed a needle into his brain.
– Bernadetta, please. His voice sounds hoarse, and very, very tired.
She goes back to not knowing what to do, her mouth gaping and making a lot of blubbering noise. Hubert's brow is slowly furrowing.
– My memory is very blank at the moment, he concludes.
At this point she can't keep herself back anymore.
– You're alive, she cries, throws herself forward and wraps him in a hug.
Hugging is a new thing for her to subject him to, but also very much an act of necessity since if she doesn't get an outlet for all the emotions bubbling up inside she will be at risk of passing out again. He tenses, either out of surprise or plain old pain, then deflates and pats her back.
– I was going to ask if you could tell me what just happened, he mumbles above her head, it fitting in pretty nicely underneath his chin.
– I thought you were a ghost, she sobs and lets out the tears that she has been penting up. Feeling dumb, hopeless, wishing to unload everything, and maybe, just maybe, receive a bit of comfort despite it all, though she forces herself to let him go since he isn't in the best shape to have her clinging to him like a squirrel to its comfort-branch. Also she is afraid she'll dirty his uniform with snot.
What seems to bother Hubert more than whatever she is doing is piecing together events in his bruised head. Slowly though, the ominous smile appears.
– Oh, I would never have taken you for someone capable of ambushing me, he says, sounding more impressed than angry. You struck me. With intent to kill no less.
– I'm really, really sorry, she says, not able to deny that she had been trying seriously to kill him.
– Don't worry, I'm fine as you can see, he replies. From him that's a rare obvious lie. The bruised side of his face is swelling, and the furrowed brow might have as much to do with the pain of thinking as the exertion of it. He swipes his tongue over his teeth, making her wonder if she have broken off a couple of his molars too, but the only thing he ends up spitting out into plant dirt
is a bit of bloody phlegm, so either his mouth was lucky or he has swallowed his own teeth whole.
– I can fetch someone to heal you, she says and is about to turn, only for his words to halt her.
– Don't; the less that sees me like this the better.
Groaning, he attempts to shift himself into a more comfortable position, and when she sees that he's straining she immediately crouches down to help him.
– It seems you took your earlier lesson to heart, that it's not possible for you to escape me by only running, he comments so close that she catches the deadnettle scent of his breath again.
– But, I didn't know it was you, she automatically defends herself, looking at his shoulder instead of his face and then uses the pretence of gathering the herbs she dropped earlier to turn to the ground. She can tell that her expression is a mix of embarrassment and pained shame.
– I tried to find medicine to help you, she says.
Catching sight of the noa leaves, he gets an eager look.
– Give me one of those, he points at the headache remedy, and pinches it tightly between his fingers as soon as she extends the most nice looking leaf to him, then he closes his eyes in mental preparation then both hand and leaf begin to glow purple.
Magic is a phenomena that Bernadetta can mostly stare transfixed at, admiring the practitioner without understanding anything of how he can accomplish what he does. At this point the magical theory courses have not managed to impart much to her, and what small spells she can cast are mostly the result of her having a crest rather than any intellectual accomplishments.
The classmates who are the most gravitated toward magic on the other hand even have little magical tics, like performing spells has become something instinctual. Hubert's hands will sometimes drip and swirl with that same black matter as all of his spells, especially when he's being scary at someone, and ink spots will bloom alive on his gloves then disappear just as quickly. Because she is looking at the gloves she can't help but recall what's beneath them and wonder … Them looking like that. He isn't unwell somehow?
– What are you trying to do, she asks.
Hubert reopens his eyes, sharp attention directed fully at the now glistening leaf as if he is looking to burrow holes into it with his will.
– The great inconvenience with herbal remedies in comparison to faith magic is that they are slow to take effect, but through reason magic I can augment its structure to make the results show itself near instantaneously.
With that he puts the leaf in his mouth, chews and swallows.
– I see, she says.
Then he continues, perhaps sensing that she doesn't really without further explanation, taking a second leaf and starting to repeat the process.
– This leaf contains substances — or strings might be another way to put it. Yes, imagine it the same way that you would craft one of your embroideries out of different kinds of strings. The difference is that in the leaf the composition is so very fine, the strings interwoven so tightly, that the human eye can't hope to distinguish them.
– Oh, I get it, she interjects, surprised at how she actually does. It also seems to her that his forehead already displays less pain, and that the unbruised side of his face shows a fresher colour.
– The healing properties are really only a happy accident, due to the strings of the leaf entering our body and affecting it — you could say that everything in the world is a mix of strings just like the leaves and when mixing them interesting reactions may occur — but if you are aware of which strings have that beneficial effect that you want then, with the right spells, you can manipulate it intentionally to strengthen.
This concept is something Bernadetta has never heard about before, not from the teachers nor from scientific classmates, but looking at the world as one large tapestry resonates with her.
She always thought that only faith magic could be good for healing. It's touching that he would go through the effort of crafting an entire explanation just for her to understand in the middle of crafting the remedy for his own concussion.
The second leaf is eaten as quickly as the first.
– Furthermore, he says after swallowing. The noa also contains a devastating poison that must be neutralised magically. An overdose, like the one I would have gotten if you had fed me all of those leaves at once, will kill a man in minutes.
– Wha…, she starts, choking from the terror that sweeps through her at realizing that she was that close to…
That's when he starts chuckling and she understands that he just played her for a fool.
– Don't say things like that, she protests. I've been worried sick that you would die.
That's the other side of Hubert, she thinks. The one that loves messing with you, even after a blow to the head.
– Oh can't you spare me a little revenge after the hit you gave me, he retorts.
Feeling at once how drained of energy she has become, Bernadetta sinks down to the ground, leaning against her propped up knees. Hubert meanwhile seems to be recuperating as swiftly as he advertised he would, seating himself more upright by his own power, reaching up a hand to straighten his collar, fixing his hair, recuperating some of his usual aloof air.
– But since we are on the subject, he says, changing his tone, the next time you are handling somebody unconscious you should avoid propping them up into a sitting position like this. It will be harder for them to breathe that way and could end badly. If you want to I could show you sometime how to put people in a stable side-ways position. Or you could let professor Manuela teach you.
– Sorry, yes, that sounds good. She nods lamely. Probably she will end up picking the option to speak to Manuela, because even now she's unsure if she could ever dare herself to seek up Hubert willingly and have him give her lessons. Even though he just showed that he knows how to explain things so that she understands.
– What did you come here for, she asks. Why weren't you carrying a lantern?
When he cocks an eyebrow she realizes how the question sounds like she might be putting blame on him for what happened, and maybe a small awful part of her wants to do that, wants to be mad at somebody other than herself.
– I mean, I expected everybody to be somewhere else tonight, she continues, fumbling.
– Ah, you are wondering why I'm not in the chapel praying for the vigil. He sounds as if he would definitely roll his one visible eye exaggeratedly if he considered himself a man that did eyerolls.
Have you ever seen me frequent that room of insipid gawking when I'm not required to?
– I'm not there everyday myself so …
–I can assure you that I have no interest in forcing myself to remain awake for an entire night, reenacting an old tale without anything to gain for it. At least I have never seen Seiros arrive at the churches at the breaking dawn to soothe all of the praying peoples' woes.
His disregard is so derisive that maybe she should feel shocked to the core, but because it's Hubert it just serves as a reminder of the open secret that he doesn't care much for the church or what it preaches. It makes her feel a bit uncomfortable since he is implicitly saying things about people that they both know that are firm believers, but thoughts like "heretic" don't enter her head. This is simply Hubert's way of being Hubert; he doesn't show respect to anyone or anything just because he has been told to.
Funny, that she tends to forget that people like Petra who hasn't grown up with the church's teachings and Hubert who doesn't care, also exist in the monastery. There are even more that seem to feel ambiguously about faith or at least not ponder a lot about it, and sometimes everyone has to attend a religious ceremony, but the Night of Vigil is not one of them.
It's reflections like that makes her question in hindsight if her own woes have been a bit overblown. A wraith coming to punish her for not attending the prayer tonight was probably never a great likelihood. There would have been hundreds of people getting haunted in that case. That she so vividly thought so feels more silly than real.
– As for your question about my lack of lanterns, he continues. I prefer not to be noticed by any unwelcome eyes whenever I move about, which makes a lantern inconvenient. Something that you yourself can probably relate to, seeing as you didn't bring one with you either.
– Ah, she says, conceding the point to him. Who is she to question someone for wanting to stay unnoticed?
– Of course, he says, choosing to not bring any form of lighting, I would also have to accept the risk that somebody will be startled by my presence and react much like you did. Moving forward, I will have to make sure to incorporate your aptitude for stealth into our battle strategies.
– Oh no, she mumbles, although she mostly feels relief. He really isn't mad. In his mind it was an accident, and she isn't even totally at fault. She wonders how many other people would regard such an assault like that. Maybe it's only Tuesday for him. The look he gives her is something she doesn't recognize, like she is an interesting letter that he is reading. At the lack of a more sensible way to describe it. It makes her feel a little scared, but also warmer inside.
He picks up a miracle bean that rolled near his boot and examines it.
– Where have you learned which plants have healing properties, he asks.
– Oh, it's just things I've read, she replies, awkward since he makes it sound like something extraordinary. Honestly your knowledge seems more in depth; that spell you did with the leaf was amazing.
– Still, reading is one thing, memorizing the facts as for when unexpected events occur is another.
He swallows the bean that he has been regarding. She also picks one of the ground and pops it into her mouth, just to enjoy the taste.
– The people who invented this method live in a community that doesn't follow the church of Serios, he begins, and have refused the usage of faith magic over all since it is said to derive from fealty to the goddess. Due to this they have invented magics that are unheard of anywhere else.
– You can't be talking about any community of people in Fódlan, can you?
This is the first time she has heard of a group like that and she has a hard time imagining it. Ewen in people come from other countries where they pray to something other than the goddess, like Petra does, it's still a religion. If a people doesn't have any god to believe in, what then would they have?
– There's no need to look so impressed, Hubert tells her with a scoff. Ultimately these people ended up like most religious fanatics, only they created their own cults of beliefs to worship without question, never realizing that they replicated what they openly detest. Goes to show how much folly seems to be naturally occurring within humanity.
There are many times with Hubert where it sounds like there is an entire story behind the words he says that he never divulges anything about. If he has adopted these peoples magic, why does it sound like he detests them? She wishes that she wouldn't get so shy and keep herself from asking him to elaborate. As is the conversation is allowed to turn away from this particular sidetrack.
– Of course, an interest in plants can extend to more than just their healing properties, he carries the conversation along. More than a few work as effective poisons, especially augmented in the same manner …
Is this what you would call a casual talk, Bernadetta wonders. She may be too inexperienced to tell for sure, but the topic and morbid smile on his face makes her doubt it. Also she wonders if the beans have the side effect of making people more talkative than usual.
– Should you admit these things to me, she asks him
– I've realized something, is his finicky reply. Since you have already crafted so many ominous theories about me I can tell you anything and it will simply sound like one baseless assumption among many if you would try to tell anyone else.
Should she feel embarrassed or threatened?
– Wait, she says, because like he just said her mind tends to make up theories quickly whereas he is concerned. Is that why you came here and didn't want to be seen? You are taking plants to make poisons out of them.
– Oh, how I wish that would be the case, he declares, because where Bernie feels shame in general he has none. Much to my disappointment few people tend to plant anything useful in that regard. In fact, even the medical plants seem to be a minority. Most plants here are like that lilac bush over there. Decoration without any additional utility. Why anybody would want to waste time growing one is beyond me.
– Does everything need to have an utility, she says, feeling defensive on the lilac's part. Maybe it could just be pretty and have a really nice scent.
Although she has her preferences as well there doesn't exist a single plant that she actively dislikes. Promptly she then buries her face into her arms and groans.
– Now I'm doing it again, accusing you of doing bad things.
Seeing her in this miserable position, for the first time since he woke up and she hugged him, Hubert turns a bit awkward. When she looks up again, he has fled with his gaze toward the lilac, regarding it, sniffing.
– Sometimes you might do it for good reason, he comments, then:
– You kept asking me what I'm doing here tonight, but the same question could be extended to you. Why spend the Night of Vigil here?
Maybe it wasn't his intent, but the question makes her tense.
– How come I in particular am not spending the night praying, you mean?
– If that's how you want to interpret it.
Of course, even if he doesn't care for the church, he still has beliefs, and that is to live up to the duty that your lineage places upon you. Just look at how he serves Edelgard. It's like she has always been told: in the Adrestian empire the Varleys are the religion.
– They don't really celebrate it the way I'm used to from home, she says.
The noncommittal reply amuses him for some reason that only he knows.
– Interesting, would you then say that the way they are carrying out the ceremonies within the monastery is wrong?
– Of course not, she snaps. Yet another thing about Hubert: he might pick apart and twist what you say until he has created entirely new meanings from the words. She could never claim that about the site that is the seat of the archbishop herself. It wouldn't even enter her mind.
– It's just a matter of interpreting things differently, she elaborates.
She has had to read the holy texts too after all, and apart from stressing the hardships endured during the long wait there are also verses that speak about community, and how the people of the village helped each other keep their hope alive. If this is how they celebrate it at the monastery then it can't be wrong.
– The people in the chapel do seem to be enjoying themselves, she says.
– Were you there?
– No — I mean, I was on the outside looking in. Passed by.
Though that really bakes the question why she didn't choose to enter. She ducks her head and fiddles with her thumbs.
– Furthermore, maybe by putting yourself through something that takes determination you might feel more rewarded when the day of Seiros comes and you get to celebrate and eat food.
In the monastery the ones that don't make it through the whole night praying or even the ones that didn't care to attempt, are going to be allowed to participate in the festivities. It's something that includes the whole school, with no reprimands attached. Deep inside she can admit to herself that if the holidays in Varley holdings had been like those at Garrech Mach she would probably have shared the happiness that so many others seem to feel for it. Only at this point she can't escape the anxiety that comes from merely seeing them approach in the calendar. Guardian moon has far too many such days, bringing up memories that makes her nauseous while everybody around her finds it wonderful.
– You might have a point, Hubert says, surprising her because she had thought his dislike would be unbudging and had been asking herself why she was even trying to have a debate. A reward does give a person more satisfaction if she feels deserving of it. I'm merely questioning the choice of activity. If you want people to strain themselves to feel satisfied afterwards you might as well make them do something beneficial to the community, like ploughing snow from the streets. Well, I suppose that now I'm back at only assigning value in terms of usefulness, like I did with the lilac.
He shrugs, but does look critical of himself.
– I keep making excuses so that I don't have to take part in anything though, she finds herself admitting on her part. Even though I should. With the holidays in particular.
– What do you mean?
– Because …, she hesitates on the word "duty". Since my family … it might be … you probably think less of me.
If there was ever one good thing about being married away it would be that she would get a husband who would probably be more willing to be head of the family than she ever did. As a child, kneeling on a freezing floor the thought was even a comfort. One happy day of not having to do these things any more, of handing over all duty to somebody else and wiping her memory of it, living happily out of sight for the rest of her life. Of course, as unmarriageable as she is now, that will never happen and instead she is looking toward the endless commitment. She, the countess of Varley? Why did the world have to be so cruel?
Merely the thought brings her close to sobbing in front of Hubert again. He has listened through her entire prattle with a firm and unreadable expression. Only when she stutters into quiet does he reply.
– If what you are trying to say is that you are not embracing your lineage, and you are comparing yourself to me, you ought to know that I only keep to my duty because I have chosen to. It looks to me like maybe you are choosing differently. I know I would think lesser of you if you were more "dutiful" in this instance.
The words are said in his familiar frank manner, but with a touch of kindness in the tone that is more rare. Then the madpie starts rising to his feet.
– Hold up, hold up, she cries, jolted back into agitation. Don't you think you need more rest?
– That is precisely why I'm heading to my own room where I have a proper bed and not a stone floor. Thank you for this evening chat, Bernadetta. Despite the circumstances it has been pleasant.
Even though the medicine has clearly made him better, he still sways on his feet and needs to steady himself on the pillar.
– Please tell me you are not planning to walk on your own, she pleads.
She strongly suspects that this is exactly what he is planning, remembering the time she overheard Linhardt complaining that one day "the unbearable workaholic is going to push himself so hard working that he will collapse, pretending that rest is something only other people need". Once Hubert gets the idea to carry something out …
– I'm fine, he says, takes a breath, then staggers toward the exit.
– In that case I should go with you, to make sure you make it the entire way.
The idea that he wouldn't clearly makes him embarrassed. It's probably the first time in a long time that anybody has implied to him that he can't do something without help. He has the same aggravated look as when Ferdinand is seated at the desk beside him in class, talking, and Caspar at the other side shouting.
– Please Bernadetta, you can let me walk on my own.
– I can't, you should know I can't, she protests. The concussion that he is planning to waddle around with is the one she dealt him, and her responsibility that he tries to wave away. What if he falls and hits his head a second time? How horrible wouldn't that make her feel?
With an angry huff she plants herself before him, extending her arms to the sides. They probably make for a silly image, a tiny girl that acts like a wall in front of somebody that imposing, but Hubert slumps so much that she suspects she could bowl him over if she tried.
After meeting her eyes for a moment, he understands.
– Fine. I supposed you don't have anywhere better to be either.
– That's right, she replies, satisfied at having won her little victory.
It's an awkward thing, attempting to prop him upward when she is that much smaller, but she thinks of herself like a crutch under his arm and does her best to act as one.
– If I fall I'm going to pull you with me, Hubert mumbles.
Even so he ends up leaning onto her, so that by the time they reach the dormitories she has gotten an ache in both her neck and spine, which she carefully conceals from him. Paradoxically it makes her feel strong. That someone like her is able to support someone like him. She supposed she also proved tonight that she would be able to assassinate someone like him, but that she is less proud about.
The next few days, including the day of Seiros, she doesn't see Hubert. Not strange at all, she thinks. Even though she felt assured at the time that there were no hard feelings between them, that might just have been her wishful thinking. Who wouldn't harbor a grudge after being struck near dead by a flower pot? Just think about it. People would laugh at the elogies. Anybody would detest her for doing what she did. Even hate her.
It's at this point it dawns on who it is that has been avoiding who. She doesn't want to see his lips curl in distaste at the sight of her, and hasn't visited a single place where he tends to be.
Well this won't do Bernie. Even if she is anxious about it, he deserves better than being avoided.
The issue about going looking for him though is that she would need a plausible excuse for why she hasn't been seen for almost a week now. The truth would make her far too ashamed.
Then she gets the idea, and that idea settles, prodding at her mind until she finds herself a shovel, doubles her own sizes in winter clothing and heads outside. Facing the gusts and trudging through mounds of snow away from the clear paths, she locates the one lark tree where she saw cattle gourd grow the same spring. They are a knobbly and unassuming herb, not something anybody would choose to grow in the green house unfortunately, but even if the plants themselves are lying wizened beneath the snow, it's the roots that she is after. Renata did write that those could be mashed and made into a balm that worked especially well for damaged skin and tissue, an obscuria she found out in a forest-surrounded village where the residents would prefer to use it even when a priest with faith magic was at service, and Renata herself got enraptured enough that she noted down exact instructions on how to prepare it from the local wise-crone.
She hacks down into frozen dirt until her hands feel like they could use some of that balm themselves, and retrieves a handful white roots, the size of her nails for her troubles.
It will probably be enough, she encourages herself, and that she hasn't been seen because she's been busy preparing a "I'm sorry" gift is the perfect cover.
Sufficiently encouraged, she dares to visit Manuela, whom she has failed to ask if she could teach her the stable-sideways position, but who is delighted to help her make the balm and also wrap her blisters in bandages. They are mashed and mixed with distilled water, wax and other fats, everything heated and stirred, cooled and whipped smooth. In the end she has created enough for a bottle that fits in the palm, but better a little than nothing. Actually she feels sort of satisfied; it's soft and smells nice.
Then, of course, comes the real hard part: handing it over. The second thoughts set in on cue, and can be roughly divided into three categories. Number one concerns the fact that she just spent the whole day making a gift that he could probably have made for himself quicker with magic. That's not just inefficient, but like a whole statement of inefficiency she would put right in his face. Number two is the reluctance he showed about receiving medical attention from anybody else. Pride could be involved, but he might also suspect her of trying to poison him. That is what she would think. Number three is that her meaning has been for him to use the remedy for his hands, because the look of them is another things that has never stopped buzzing around in her head since the incident, but giving such a gift could be an obvious hint that she knows about something she shouldn't.
Three compelling reasons as to why she might want to give up on the entire endeavor, return to her room and put the bottle in a drawer to be forgotten — it would be far from her first act of surrendering, it would even feel normal — but then she just happens to still have the gift in her pocket when she goes to the mess hall at midday and spots Hubert seated at a table in the periphery of the room, a bernie-comfortable distance from the doors. It's not do or die, but nearly feels like it as she swallows and steps forward. She manages to grasp a hold of the impulse and ride it out the entire walk to his table, stopping at the side opposite of where he sits.
With a perfect posture like always, doing everything by the book-of-dinner-etiquette, he eats his potato and pork stew like an austere statue of onyx in the bright and noisy room. He gives off the cordial air of being satisfied if slightly bored by his meal and is staunchly ignoring every curious glance he receives due to face still being an even split between white and purple, the damage on overt display. (You should have made him something for the face. Stupid Bernie) An uncomfortable reminder to her and an eye-catching statement to everyone that "something" happened.
– The staircase beside the classrooms, Hubert says.
– Huh?
He gestures to the bruise.
– I tripped when I climbed the staircase. Truly, the false security of everyday surroundings makes for a devious trap. A single slip …
At first she is confused as to why he is telling her this lie, then it hits her that she has been staring, and everyone around them believes it's because she is seeing his wound for the first time.
So that's his cover story, she thinks. So what happened in the greenhouse is our secret now.
His comment has the additional benefit of bringing her out of the state of initial paralyzation as her mind contents with the fact that he has looked up at her without any disgust, that his voice got that sing-song hint of gladness, and she reaches into her pocket — the wrong pocket, and so what follows are stretched out seconds of mumbling and stressed jerking at her own clothes until she can present the balm to him. Her face burns and her muscles are stiff, but she stares at the bottle as if it's an amulet that's meant to grant her courage.
– I wanted to give you something as an apology for what I did. For everything — for homework. That you had to help me do my homework.
She has just seen Hubert's expression go through a journey: with surprise and curiosity coming first, but then his eyes look alarmed as he flashes a glance to the side. Edelgard herself is seated to his right, as is Dorothea, both with clear interest in what is happening — and isn't that funny, that she somehow didn't take note of any of his dining companions before now.
She hopes that her own prattling explanation will be able to satisfy the two intrigued women. Especially Dorothea, whose eyes are sparkling for some reason.
Hubert clears his throat, decidedly not sparing his company a second look as he plucks the bottle from her hands and regards it.
– Some sort of herbal lotion, I suppose. What's it for?
Don't reveal yourself, Bernie, she urges mentally before replying.
– Balm for the hands, because, you know, it's winter. During winter everybody's skin get dry and cracked, in general.
– Indeed, he says as if he's trying to puzzle something together, looking a second time at her hands that she is still keeping extended without thinking about it.
Chuckling sheepishly she pulls them back toward her chest.
– You made this yourself? From scratch?
When she nods, he looks even more pensive.
– Thank you, Bernadetta. This is a most thoughtful gift.
The happiness at her gift being accepted, is slightly mitigated by the spot that she realizes that she has put him in, right in the center of a lot of attention, where he doesn't seem very comfortable at all. If it was her, she would probably have tried to run away at this point. They might actually have what is called "a significant something in common". Thickheaded Bernie who didn't realise.
– Anyway, sorry to disturb you in the middle of your meal. I'll leave now.
– Hold on, he calls, and she halts, looks up.
He has stood up and is extending an object of his own toward her.
– A funny coincidence, I had thought to hand this to you the next time that I saw you.
She feels herself going tunnel visioned again, barely registering that Dorothea makes a tiny, delighted gasp and that Edelgard is struggling to keep a finicky smile under control.
A stone, she thinks at first, although it's coloured a faint purple and is perfectly oval-shaped.
– As thanks, he elaborates when she only stares without comprehension.
– But I've only done things that must have been a bother to you.
With the word "bother" being a big understatement.
– Not at all, he says. The times that you think yourself to have been bothering me, I've found enjoyable.
– But…
– Let's not debate it. Only accept this, please.
When she takes it, cautiously like it might bite, it's compact but with a surface that is soft to the touch.
– It's soap, he says. and with that all the different observations click into place. She is used to the thin slabs of wax that the monastery provides. This is the first time she has put her eyes on a soap made to look this pretty.
– Did you also make this yourself, she asks, clutching the gift to her chest, but doesn't even hear him reply that "it's bought actually", because another thought comes to her and she blurts out,
– Oh, is this connected to the time half a year ago when I hadn't washed myself for a month and you told me that I needed a better hygiene routine? Cause if you are noticing me slipping again, you can just tell me and…
– No, he quickly diverts her galloping thought process. You've actually improved a lot in that regard, and this wasn't related to that. I made it because I thought you might enjoy the scent.
– Ah.
She brings the soap up to her nose and sniffs.
– Lilac.
The edge of his lips quirks in a cautious smile.
– I got the impression that you liked it.
– I do.
She feels like she might cry, or shout, but … Let's not make this a bigger scene than it already is, Bernie. For him especially.
– Thank you Hubert, I will cherish it, she says through her somewhat thick throat.
All of the thoughts that are rushing through her head right now, she will have to sort out in private, probably though the rest of the day and the night too. For now she decides that the best course of action is to take the opportunity that has just presented itself to retreat while she still hasn't messed up anything unbearably. With a polite nod to everybody at the table and with admirable feigned calm, she turns and walks straight out of the mess hall. Naturally she stops right behind the corner where she can still make out Dorothea's voice as she exclaims,
– For goddesses sake, Hubie. You gave her soap? That is basically a veiled insult.
– I didn't ask for your opinion, Dorothea, and get your mind out of the gutter. It was nothing but a repayment of favors.
– Oh, don't think for a moment that I'm going to fall for that. Two people don't simply show up with gifts for one another and call it a coincidence. Something has happened.
– I must admit that I am curious as well, Edelgard chimes in.
At which point Bernadetta has received too much nervous energy to stay put and listen any longer, and so briskly continues into the hallway. Hubert is smart; he'll be able to make it through their questioning she bets, head still reeling.
Now on the familiar path back to her room, a corridor lined with windows facing the white outside, she brings the soap up to her nose again, then giggles. Dorothea is right that it was a little bit socially inept of him. It's funny to think of him as more awkward than he seems. Now she is glad that her balm wasn't for the bruises; that would have been like insulting his face.
You really dodged an arrowhead there, Bernie.
For once she feels pretty satisfied with how things carried out, considering she was the one trying to give something away. Maybe next time she'll manage to be less awkward. Her good mood might just be because the sky has cleared up and is letting down sunlight, for the first time this week. As she gazes out into the glistening yard where tiny tits are jump-jacking over the snow crust, enjoying the sunlight, she thinks that there are good days too during Guardian Moon.