Archive of Our Own

Dear readers,

There aren't words that can adorn the tragedy that has befallen our beloved Adrestia. The assassination of Her Majesty, Emperor Edelgard I, marks a dark day for the future of Fòdlan.

Nothing can describe the desecration that occurred in the heart of the Empire. It's with dread that we look at what lies ahead and wonder what will be of us. With Her Majesty's death ends the glorious lineage of Great Emperor Wilhelm I and Saint Seiros, the light that has been guiding the world since the death of the King of Liberation. Nothing but the second descent of the Goddess Sothis from the Blue Sea Star shall ever replace what we have lost.

But why? How has it come to this? The most sordid of hearsay points at numerous nobles in Her Majesty's court as the architects of this wicked deed. Nobody, not Count Bergliez, Count Hevring, Lord Arundel, or even Countess Varley, is safe from the accusation of having executed this abominable crime. After all, who could have opened the doors to tragedy but those who had been entrusted with the keys to Her Majesty's safety?

'Tis in the humble opinion of this writer that it would be unwise to blindly condemn the very pillars who supported Her Majesty in her noble dream to reunite Fódlan. Must we truly believe that those who bled for the Empire would now betray it? No, dear readers. If we must look for traitors, we must seek them not among the loyal but among those who would gain from Her Majesty's tragic death.

A certain son of the disgraced Duke Aegir, for instance, has long been known to provoke Her Majesty into frivolous duels in Her time at the Officer's Academy. Rightfully stripped of titles and land after the former Duke Aegir indulged in corruption unseen before in the annals of Adrestia, the scion of a fallen noble House could have retaliated against Her Majesty in rancour. Or shall we speak of foreign queens whose people once marched upon our shores with fire in their hearts, the same people who would seize our coasts and kill our children if not for the firm hand with which Adrestia has ruled for the last eight years?

Nonetheless, despite the numerous denunciations sprouting wings in the halls of the Palace of a Thousand Windows, we must stand united now more than ever. The barbarians in the North may seem to move solely to tighten their grip on the lands we had finally retaken anew, but the truth is another. They have cast their ravenous eyes toward the fertile heart of Adrestia.

Let us not forget how Loog the Usurper dreamed of a shattered Enbarr and stayed his hand only because the Central Church, in utter betrayal, bestowed upon him an undeserved crown forged from the blood of our people. Now his bloodthirsty descendant, Dimitri von Blaiddyd, whom the incompetent Lady Cornelia Arnim lied to have executed for his horrific crimes to reap undeserved rewards, dares to call himself sovereign of a throne that should never have existed. It's said that he sacrifices our brothers and sons beneath the howling moon—

Fleche closed the pamphlet and stood up. She rolled it tight while she marched down the hall that connected the inner rooms to the servants' wing.

She pushed the door open with her foot. Light entered with her, casting her shadow across the floor, the wall, and the lone occupant of the room. The air smelled like sweat and straw, as usual; there wasn't any window to open for a breath of fresh air. The only thing that fit inside it was a crude wooden frame her mother had wanted to break for firewood with a sack of straw laid on it.

Her brother's bedwarmer, Dimitri, the Blind Swan, whatever, sat at the edge of the frame, elbows on his knees, head clutched in his hands in the half-darkness, and his feet against the wall.

"I gave you her head… I did as you wanted… What else could you ask of me... I did it... I avenged you...!" he mumbled over and over.

He didn't even notice Fleche stepping closer until she smacked him on the top of his head with the rolled pamphlet. "Is this what you were talking about?" she asked over his startled squawk. She unrolled the gazette and shoved it into his face.

With a shudder, Dimitri's eye regained focus and latched onto the paper. He scowled fiercely.

"Yes," he answered at last. Then, his back straightened, and his expression hardened. "Are you here to avenge that woman?"

Fleche stared at him. Some weeks before, when he returned to the manor, he had babbled something about ending Adrestia's warmarch like he was an actor on some two-copper stage instead of explaining himself like a normal person. She had dismissed his theatrics then.

She dismissed them again. As if some dancer with a ruined eye could stroll into the Imperial Palace, slit the Emperor's throat, and walk out unharmed.

"I don't care about the Emperor. She denied my brother the rank he deserved and made him a mere intelligence officer," Fleche said with a snort. She looked at the pamphlet again and sighed before letting the paper fall to the ground. "To keep my stepbrother happy, I imagine. That man never forgave his father for marrying my mother."

Dimitri leaned over to take the paper, but he stopped halfway through the motion. He eyed her from head to toe. "If you're not here for revenge, then what is the purpose of your visit?"

With a snarl, Fleche pointed at the door. "Are you serious? Don't you know what is going to happen now that the Emperor is dead?"

His face lit up with understanding. She had expected glee, but his mouth curved downward instead. He looked away. "...Widespread unrest among the common people. Nobles fighting one another for influence and power. Lack of oversight, or even deliberate attempts at creating disorder for personal gain."

"Yes, and we're sitting ducks here!" She ground her heel on the fallen paper as she jabbed a finger into his solid shoulder. That worthless pile of ink hadn't been worthy of her already sparse jewels anyway. "My brother is being hunted like a common criminal! We're going to be seen as weak targets, and you must contribute if you want to keep filling your belly with our food!"

Like an arrow loosed, Dimitri was on his feet and past Fleche. "We'll need to increase our patrols of the weakest points and the most likely entrances of the manor," he talked to himself, already halfway down the corridor. Fleche had to sprint behind him to keep pace. Stupid man and his stupidly long legs. "We must find new sources of food. The risk of our current supplies becoming compromised will increase exponentially. Water should be fine, it rains regularly in Enbarr, but the cistern could be targeted..."

They made a narrow loop around the manor, through the servants’ back lane, across the entrance hall, past the boarded-up kitchen, and through the inner garden. Most of what Dimitri rattled off were measures they had already cobbled together weeks earlier to keep out her brother's enemies: planks nailed over every window, glass shards scattered along the windowsills, furniture stacked against doors, polished mirrors and plates positioned to peek around the corner, wires strung across corridors and entrances with metal scraps tied to them...

Fleche's chest tightened at the desolate sight. However, now that anyone could be an intruder, even desperate commoners, they had to defile the hollowed manor even more.

"How likely would it be for this building to be set on fire from the outside?" Dimitri wondered out loud while staring at the bare floor in the withdrawing room.

"Excuse me?" Fleche snapped. Immediately after, her tone softened; he hadn't meant it as an accusation. "...Oh. This manor was built with fire-resistant materials, like all the villas in the district. There's plenty of space between the various buildings, too, so we should be safe even if another manor goes up in flames."

"Nonetheless, smoke seeping in from outside would still weaken us. We need to secure proper ventilation without creating more openings for intruders..."

Fleche nodded along, adding her own suggestions to the growing list. For all of Dimitri's theatrics, the camp follower her brother had picked had some brain and brawn. That, and the fact he had saved her brother from unjust imprisonment, were the reasons why Fleche tolerated his presence under her roof.

Fleche remembered well the day she met her brother's bedwarmer. She had returned to Enbarr in haste after the commander of her former battalion interrogated her about Randolph's supposed crimes. The charges had frozen her blood in her veins. Hiding seditious material, abetting a criminal, treason against Her Majesty- any of them would have sent her brother to the gallows.

It was all a lie, of course. Her brother would never betray Adrestia. A jealous officer must have framed him to get him out of the way, or some snotty high-born noble wanted to have the commoner Bergliez thrown into a dungeon.

But the damage had been done. Their already meagre household staff deserted the manor in droves, a few stealing gold from her house in their departure. The guards were the next to go. Her mother locked herself in her room, where she alternated between wailing into a pillow and cursing Randolph's name to the heavens.

Fleche had to bolt the doors and drag furniture to block secondary entrances alone. She remained alone while rationing food and securing new sources, despite everyone laughing in her face and slamming their doors shut on her nose.

Then, one night, someone tried to get inside.

She ran out of the manor through the back entrance with a lantern and the sword she had taken before leaving her former battalion, dressed for sleep. She found three men picking themselves up off the cobblestones, one of them bleeding heavily from a broken nose. A stranger, tall, blonde-haired, clad in clothes crusted with the grime of travel, stood between them and the back entrance, holding Randolph's chest.

The ruffians, ragged men with patched clothes and gaunt faces, cursed under their breath as they scrambled to their feet. One grabbed a companion by the elbow and hissed something sharp. The third spat blood and a tooth on the stones with an ugly grimace.

Dimitri inclined his head.

The men hurled another curse at him and turned tail, boots scraping against the floor. They disappeared within moments.

With the immediate hostiles gone, Fleche focused on the stranger as he faced her. His calloused hands held no weapon, but the blood lapping the cobblestones where the lantern light struggled to reach proved he was far from harmless. Worse, both his arms and legs were much longer than hers; he'd be in her guard in no time.

Is this Randolph von Bergliez's home?, he asked, voice low and raspy.

She barely managed to tear her gaze away from the jagged ruin that was his right eye. Fleche pointed her sword at him and replied, Why do you have my brother's chest?

They moved inside eventually, where Dimitri revealed the events behind the accusations levelled against Randolph. Her brother had been hiding seditious material, masking it as a completely different type of entertainment. After Fleche skimmed through the books in Randolph's chest, she concluded that none of the material was treacherous; on the contrary. Her brother had even recovered a copy of Ruminations on Rulership by Apostle Aubin, a priceless tome, for which higher-borne nobles had sold entire properties. Obviously, the commander who ordered Randolph to destroy those rare masterpieces must have had rats for brains.

As for her brother, Dimitri had bribed the guard at the gate with his funds, buying them entry without her brother being arrested on the spot. He had then urged Randolph to hurry to the docks and board the first ship out of Fòdlan. Randolph had entrusted his chest and its sought-after contents to him, and then Dimitri had spent the rest of the day looking for their residence.

Fleche showed Dimitri to one of the rooms once used by the servants, small and windowless. Don't mistake this for generosity. This is me repaying you for the services you've rendered to my brother. When he comes home, your fate will be in his hands, she had warned him.

Dimitri accepted it without protest. He stepped into the dark room and sat down, folding himself into its narrow confines. And so he stayed.

As Fleche had anticipated, Enbarr soon descended into chaos. Even in the heart of the city, where only noble Houses dwelled, shoutings could erupt at any hour, and carriages clattered loudly through the streets at all times. Once, on a night thick with panic, she slashed the throat of some sellsword who, on a stroke of luck, had discovered an unknown breach in their defences. Fleche threw the body back onto the street.

They spent most of their days as if constantly careful not to step over sharpened stones. The complete silence amplifying every step she took didn't ease her taut nerves. They had long draped the furniture in white sheets to keep dust off, but now it looked like ghosts had taken up residence in their house.

To Fleche's bitterness, Dimitri proved better company than her mother. At least he patrolled without complaint, cooked, collected water and food, and offered sound advice from time to time. Her mother refused to leave her room and saw spirits in every nook and cranny.

Sometimes, the silence became unbearable. When that happened, they allowed themselves brief pauses between patrols. On one such afternoon, they shook the sheets hiding the withdrawing room free of dust.

"I had already cleaned that one," Fleche commented when Dimitri lifted the cloth from the settee.

"Then we're through," he retorted, smoothing the cloth back in place.

They stood there for a moment. Then, as neither moved to resume their patrol, Fleche moved to another piece of furniture and asked, "How did you meet my brother?"

Dimitri flapped the sheet covering the wall-mounted mirror. "I was performing my most popular act at the Adrestian warcamp in Arianrhod, and your brother was in the audience." He squeezed his eyes shut while rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I learnt later that another officer had dragged him to the pavilion after learning of his tastes."

Fleche folded the sheet over itself, smoothing it down with unnecessary care. She frowned. "And how did you become a dancer in the army? You're clearly from Faerghus and hate Adrestia."

"I..." Dimitri looked down at his wringing hands. "I don't hate Adrestia. I despise the Emperor for the death she has sown and her followers for spreading misery and destruction."

“That wasn’t my question,” Fleche said flatly. She lifted another sheet and snapped it once. “People don’t just wake up one day and decide to dance for the army invading their home."

"Aren't you afraid of me?" he asked suddenly, lifting his head. His good eye burned with a feverish light. "My hands are drenched in blood. I slaughtered soldiers and officers alike. I killed your invincible Emperor and her most loyal chancellor." His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. "The Empire suffers because of me."

Fleche rolled her eyes, then she stuck her tongue out at him. "As if! You bested some lowly thieves dressed up as officers. And if the Emperor truly died to the likes of you, then she can't have been as strong as she wanted everyone to believe." She flicked the final mote of dust off the sheet. "I don't care for Adrestia either. I've been thinking lately, and I realised the Empire did nothing for us. If we hadn't fought for everything we have, we'd have died beggars in the streets, and nobody would have cared."

The fire in Dimitri’s eye guttered. He turned away, lifting a sheet only to let it slip from his fingers and fall back over the cabinet.

"...I know of a woman who should have been born a noble in Adrestia," Dimitri said after a moment of silence. "Her father died while her mother was pregnant with her, so her House was dissolved before she drew her first breath. Her mother had to remarry fast to secure a roof and food." He reached out and smoothed a wrinkle Fleche couldn't see. "I'm not aware of what her life with her mother's second husband was. It must have been horrid because she refused to speak of it."

"My mother was a servant in the household of the former Count Bergliez and attracted the eye of my adoptive father," Fleche replied quickly. She glossed over the nights her mother spent crying in her new rooms.

She paused, then she added, sharply, "Don't think I didn't notice you evaded my question."

Fleche moved before the scream died, Dimitri right behind her. The pommel of her sword settled into her hand by instinct. The door of the back entrance rattled behind the barricade of furniture; Dimitri shoved it all aside with one arm, making everything scrape across the floor.

On the other side, a petite noblewoman, her dark hair intricately braided around her head in the latest courtly fashion, had been banging her fist against the door. Silk and velvet adorned her frame; grime smeared the sleeves and the skirt, and the cloth was cut in a few places.

Behind her, four men were closing in with blades drawn and eyes fastened on the noblewoman.

“Please,” the noblewoman sobbed, clutching at the doorframe. “They followed me—”

Fleche grabbed the woman by the arm and hauled her inside. Dimitri stepped past both through the door. It slammed shut behind him.

The noblewoman slid down against the wall. "They appeared out of nowhere- I wanted to visit my relatives-"

"So you went around without an escort or even a guard?" Fleche commented, one eye fixed on the entrance.

Shouts exploded outside; one cry was sudden and acutely pained, as if someone had just gotten their arm broken. Good, Fleche thought. They would think thrice before risking another limb.

Dimitri slipped back inside soon after, not a speck of blood on him, and began barring the door like nothing had happened.

The noblewoman offered a carefully arranged smile to Dimitri's back while he dragged the furniture back in front of the entrance. "Thank you for your assistance, ser. If not for you-"

Fleche slid her sword back into its sheath. "Spare me the flowery gratitude. Who are you?"

The woman straightened her back smoothly and dipped into a curtsey so graceful it bordered on art. "My name is Beatrix von Vestra. Please, allow me to remain here until it’s safe to return home."