Author's Note: apologies for the looooonnnggg hiatus – Our newest bundle of joy arrived three weeks early on May the 6th with several health-related hiccups in tow. Needless to say, that caused a great deal of both stress and elation for the wife and I. Luckily, the worst of it appears to be behind us.
I've still been hammering away at the edits – as I'd prefer to just drop the whole story when completed at this stage – but couldn't not contribute to Edeleth week. Expect the conclusion of the paralogue within the next week or two, and then some huge dumps next month. Thanks for your patience, everyone!
Immediately after scouting out the Varley Manor, Edelgard, Lady Rusalka and I rode with all haste towards the landing area on the shores of the Airimid. Owing to the damnable state of the roads, we were again reduced to riding single-file at times – surely a humiliation for whoever judges an empire by the quality of its infrastructure. With each passing moment, I felt a sense of failure begin to creep into every crevice of my mind, chastising me for losing consciousness in the aftermath of the brawl at the townhouse – and by extension, losing track of Bernadetta and allowing her to fall into her father's clutches.
As a result of these thoughts, I began to channel that intense frustration at the ancient highway itself – whose general state of disrepair would have never incited such passion in previous marches across it with my father's company.
This anger began to meld with that aforementioned sense of failure – and started really gnawing at the fabric of my sanity in unexpected ways as a result. In a fit of silent, aimless frustration, I drew my sword at an oncoming civilian trade caravan that attempted to claim the right of way. Ostensibly, this action of mine was to hasten our own progress… but it also felt cathartic. And damn if I can recall ever feeling catharsis in quite such a way, before…
I had to reference that term – catharsis, that is – in one of the library's dictionaries earlier this moon when preparing an entry. It's a good one, I think – to describe this soup of emotion, too. It's complex – and intimidates one enough upon first encounter to avoid asking questions.
Anyway, as the caravanners recoiled in terror, I then began to ask myself what actually separates simple satisfaction from complex catharsis… a monstrous, confusing task if there ever was one.
Needless to mention – this errant behavior of mine ended up being extremely counterproductive to the mission, which I must confess to in these pages. In hindsight, I realize that the three of us would've been better off just riding onto the embankment ourselves and letting the caravan pass us by. For their part – the merchants, thoroughly terrified at my sudden, silent, and threatening escalation, capsized their overloaded carriage in an attempt to make way for us. They happened to be transporting crates full of nails, whose messy expulsion rendered the roadway into a massive, potentially fatal obstruction for our mounts.
Detouring around the wreckage took some time, owing to the miniature caltrops strewn about. This, in turn, forced us to descend from the road, clear below the embankment and into the marshland below Our horses – gallopers who preferred stone-paved roads (sans caltrops) and well-beaten paths, now found themselves thoroughly out of their element.
Curiously, my mucking up of things went more or less unnoticed by the two Adrestian Ladies. In actual fact… both seemed rather impressed at my abject failure. Since I'm unable to express any sort of emotion one way or the other, Lady Rusalka saw fit to call me "resolute" as our horses bucked about in entrapping mounds of mud.
Still, this struck me as… darkly humorous given how profoundly irresolute I was feeling at the time.
As usual – it's probably for the best that I literally cannot laugh.
Not that I would laugh for very long even if I could, however – as there was no time to be wasted on expressions like that until Bernadetta was back under my care. That rationale was the reason why I threatened the caravan driver in the first place, though…
…So is that what I should actually be thinking?
Circular logic like this is troublesome, isn't it? Writing about these things in a diary is supposed to help – my father said as much, at least… but I don't appear to be much closer to an answer about why my feelings are the way they are. And that would be less troubling if a little green gremlin wasn't snickering in the background every night I put pen to paper.
Lofty considerations like those occupied my mind for the remainder of the ride towards the rendezvous point past Gronder. Our trio observed a general silence for most of that time, save one interruption at around six in the evening – about halfway towards our destination.
After clearing her throat quite loudly, Lady Rusalka attempted to ask me what the "plan" was – a question which I had no issues with answering, given how she had committed to joining the rescue operation without protest.. Just before I could turn around and vocalize "the plan" to the diplomat, however… I was issued a sharp glare by My Student – who hurriedly brought her horse alongside mine.
The Heir to an Empire – with her patented icy, amethyst glare that currently committed to a delicate balancing act between aloofness and agitation – uttered the following:
"Lady Rusalka is wearing a high-cut dress, My Teacher…"
This comment of hers received my own patented blank stare in response. What else could I provide after being supplied such information? After a squirm, she continued:
"...I am just informing you that it would be highly… unscrupulous to turn around and converse with Lady Rusalka so freely at present." she adds, with a firm shake of her head.
Frankly, I didn't and still don't understand how that was a concern – given the fact that I had seen Lady Rusalka's white cotton bloomers twice before on this very ride. In the spirit of brevity, however – I chose to defer to Edelgard. An auxiliary reason was an acknowledgement that the world of women is still confusing and nonsensical to me.
Each passing day with Edelgard makes it more so, actually.
Perhaps I should just let My House Leader manage my interactions with women in the future, so I don't get any more confused than I am now?
…Is that a reasonable request?
Probably not – considering that I have to ask myself about it now. After some further silent analysis on the remainder of the ride, I remember that micromanagement isn't really Edelgard's strong suit anyway. She's more of a big-picture thinker.
Perhaps I could ask Hubert, then? He clearly has a talent for intrigue of that sort. Dorothea would make another fine candidate, too.
And Lindhart's smart as whip. All fine candidates.
Naturally, as demonstrated in those aforementioned questions, whatever insight into the strategic situation I had prepared quickly devolved into curious wonder. At the forefront of those spat of dangerous, silent inquiries, however – was one worth more immediate consideration:
…Why would Edelgard take issue with me seeing another woman's undergarments?
Could that itself be a concern of a strategic or tactical nature?
Distraction is one tool of many that an army can use in pursuit of victory. Could Rusalka still be an enemy, then…? Those were my most immediate speculations.
Even so… this shouldn't cause much concern, even though I'd be utterly assed on how to express that to the Adrestian Princess riding beside me. To wit, I've seen plenty of naked, looted corpses of both sexes. In my estimation, absolutely nothing about women struck me as particularly interesting or noteworthy before, alive or dead.
Then, like now, I just find the so-called fairer sex endlessly confusing – even when they're dead. To that end… I'd like to avoid that circumstance befalling any of my students, given how little I understand them already. At least now – alive, that is – they can answer my questions.
But I would be lying if I didn't say there was something deeper at play, as well.
In point of fact, the thought of a single spiky lock of Bernadetta's hair being harmed is enough to provoke pure malevolence towards the entirety of House Varley, and the Adrestian Empire writ large. A malevolence that is even deeper, proactive, and more sustained than the utterly passive sort of malevolence that earned me the title of "Ashen Demon".
And, if Edelgard was harmed, I'd…
Words fail to describe the violence I would inflict upon those who attempted it. I would chase them to the ends of Fodlan, burn entire villages to the ground, gas urban centers without remorse, unleash feral wyverns in cathedrals… and inflict on them the very same pain I plan on inflicting upon Claude someday…
As I think those things, however… the other occupant inside my head is frowning. And huffing. And puffing.
So maybe that's wrong?
Desperately trying to shake off the bloodlust, I try to fill my mind's eye with passing considerations of a less violent sort. Unfortunately, that goes terribly awry as well. One particular thought, perhaps spurred out by circumstance, keeps banging about in my head. The thought is – terrifyingly – about what Edelgard would look like when naked.
Is that a normal thought for a male my age to have…?
…Maybe not – but anyway…
…As this thought is thunk, my loins feel a bit uncomfortable as well. Honestly, I'm not sure what else to describe that as – because I've never felt anything like that before, and thus am damned to explain it here.
The closest I can get to identifying it is as follows: as a sensation of blood rushing about that region – but then dissipating away as soon as it arrives in the neighborhood of my prick – warded off by some inexplicable dam. In that sense – I am thankful, as the act of pissing with that thing so engorged would be frustrating, I'm sure.
Needless to say, I need my blood elsewhere anyway – particularly rushing about my brain, and perhaps my more vital limbs… especially if I'm required to kill people to protect Edelgard and Bernadetta.
All that said… upon re-reading my own writing – what I described doesn't seem like a normal reaction to have down there, does it? It's probably very strange and unnatural, in fact.
I am increasingly sure of this abnormality because somewhere – well-ensconced in the deep recesses of my otherwise empty mind – a little green gremlin is laughing at me.
If Sothis is happy – it must be wrong.
Whenever she's amused – bad things tend to happen.
"Status report."
These are two words I direct towards Jean-Luc Ermenfrid zu Sion, a subordinate of my father – and therefore, ostensibly my subordinate. In addition to his role in my father's company, the Srengian also happens to be the fellow who taught me to read and write. This status as my boyhood tutor has always made my ability to issue orders to him… somewhat strained, however. The situation at present, unfortunately, smacks of that evergreen circumstance.
As I utter those two words, the officer laboriously brings his one-armed, weathered frame to attention from his usual slumping lean on an ever-present pike. A trail of lazy spittle then falls from his lips onto the ground.
Although Fallstaff the Deserter was my father's longest-serving Lieutenant, zu Sion is undoubtedly the most competent, well-read, and seasoned of the company's small cadre of junior officers, a clique that has tightened considerably in the wake of the skirmish outside Remire. It was there we lost our cavalry commander, du Guesclin.
Still – I suppose I shouldn't be all that concerned.
Srengians – zu Sion's people – know how to make war.
With those compliments in hand – I should also acknowledge here that this curmudgeon also tried to murder me last winter. My reaction to that – a story for another time – is why he no longer is in possession of his right arm above the elbow. Ever since that little brush-up, he and I have maintained a respectful, professional distance from one another. As far as I know, neither of us have described the event to our erstwhile commanding officer, either.
My father's principal complaint regarding zu Sion's armlessness at the time was regarding the unpredictability of gangrene. Naturally, my cut was far too clean for that to ever be a concern.
I suppose I'll have to address that situation in more detail at some point in the near future, though – especially if we're going to be working together on this mission, right…?
Currently, the Srengian is standing guard at the entrance of a perfectly fortified, platoon-sized camp, nestled on a promontory overlooking the landing beach where the Brigidians will arrive in one day's time. The campsite's perfect arrangement and tightly-assembled bamboo palisade leave no doubt in my mind – zu Sion must have done what he always does – establish a base of operations in commanding terrain with perfect, mathematical precision.
His lips part in a similarly measured way to deliver his response:
"Corporal Polenta's team has established a picket five miles due South at a fisherman's hut."
My neck pivots along the river in that general direction… but my eyes stay glued to the Lieutenant.
"Rest of the logistics platoon is present here along with your students." he finishes cooly.
Corporal Polenta, from what I can recall, is another member of the walking wounded, rather like his commander. My father's company doesn't have a pension plan, so the best fate one of our rank and file can hope for after a grievous wound is a transfer to the logistics platoon.
This unit – distinct from our chasseur platoon, which has fully fit and active soldiers in it, functions as our supply troops and, in truly desperate situations – a rearguard. Typically, when our chasseurs complete the day's forage, the game is prepared by Cpl. Polenta, and consumed in a camp arranged and constructed by the twenty-odd soldiers under zu Sion's command.
Polenta – if I can remember correctly – lost a limb to actual gangrene on our last campaign with Holst. His rather determined retreat from Almyran territory with a leg being rapidly claimed by necrosis earned him a promotion and transfer to this unit. At the time, I questioned my father with a raised eyebrow about the utility of such a decision – as few of the platoon were in such a sad state as the Corporal.
I'm starting to understand his decision now, I think.
With that being filed away back into my memory – I finally bring my eyes off the Lieutenant, and turn them out in the distance towards the campsite proper, where I can see lanterns inside some of the smaller tents – clearly belonging to the Eagles. My father's company uses larger hide tents designed to house troops of six – usually correlating to squads within an individual platoon. The Eagles nest in the smaller Academy tents that can comfortably contain a pair.
This is all to say: at first glance, everything checks out.
The rest of my Eagles are safe, clearly.
Only Bernadetta remains in danger – and that is my error – and my error alone.
"Understood." I reply, taking a few extra moments to return my gaze towards the Lieutenant. As I do, he hocks a trail of mucus and spittle to the ground after a cough. He's been hacking since I first met him seven years ago… but it's never progressed past that. A curious circumstance, given how tuberculosis is quite common in the region he had been residing in prior to working with my father – the swampy, lawless valleys centered around the lone settlement of Saurin, deep in Alliance territory.
"These fucking brats can't pitch a tent to save a life." He quips, and while I know this to be true… I am compelled to defend the Eagles.
"I taught them how." I note, rather desperate to bring the blame on myself instead.
He shakes his head and huffs – a routine enough reaction from one of my father's old contemptibles. With a hack-and-hock that delivers a fresh wad of mucus-ridden spittle to the ground, he continues:
"Teach them better then, you goddamn idiot. One of them was lining his with bougainvillea."
A fair critique. Typically, you don't line your tents with local grass on a beachside. The thorns will make any attempt at rest… rather uncomfortable – and may even tear right through the lining of a particularly thin tent.
Although I don't know who in particular did something like that… if I had to guess, it'd be…
"Ferdinand…?" What was meant to be a thought escapes my lips rather suddenly.
This is not meant to be a criticism of my ginger lancer – and actually – I think I intend it to be a compliment of sorts. Ferdinand, in his eagerness to reproduce his lesson from last moon, likely attempted to line his tent with the local reeds. It's a most Ferdinandian thing to do, in fact.
Getting unnecessarily bent out of shape over such a trivial breach of camp assembly protocol is also a very Zu-Sionish thing to do, as well. Everyone is in perfect accord.
The commandant thoughtfully twirls what's left of the hair on his head – a few strands that dangle down from his temple. These thin, wispy things originating on the opposite side are combed over his bald head that rests hidden under a morion.
"Is that the fire-crotch?" He queries.
Fire-Crotch is a Srengian term for a redhead. That much I know.
Zu Sion must have really exerted himself to not remember my ginger gentleman's name and title, particularly given how intent Ferd is at announcing it everywhere he goes.
"Yeah." comes my confirmation.
An expert at dragging out conversations I have no interest in feeding into, the old soldier presses forward, unabated:
"That slack-jawed sycophant has nothing but nice things to say about you."
A sharp exhale is heard behind me – but I'm not sure from whom, as I can tell Zu Sion has not finished with his assessment yet. It's a circumstance you can only understand after having been the target of one yourself.
"Anyway, that's why I can tell he's full of it. You've got about as much charisma as his Emperor's arse."
He always concludes with an insult to the recipient of his rant. Now I know he's done.
Unfortunately, at the mention of her Father, Edelgard – who up until this moment must have stood rather aloofly behind me, now steps forward to intervene. With hands at her hips, she does her level best to glower menacingly at Zu Sion… but fails, naturally.
The commandant cannot be intimidated.
In the wake of his placidity, she snaps:
"...Looking at yourself, one could hardly bear witness to either aesthetics or charisma. What gives you any right to speak about My Father, the Emperor, in such a manner?"
In his typical Srengian fashion, zu Sion can't be bothered to acknowledge a female with anything akin to eye contact.
"Which hole in the Imperial harem did this thing crawl out of?" He asks me – as if I know what "hole" he's talking about…
Why would a harem have a hole, anyway? Aren't they supposed to be private residences for wealthy women? Would they not use a door like any other manorhouse? Before I can supply a reply, however – amethyst eyes are turned upon me… and unlike zu Sion, they melt my resolve rather quickly.
"...Just who might this be, My Teacher…?"
That very innocuous question was unmistakably uttered from a very un-innocuous Angrygard. That query is actually rhetorical, however – as she offers no space for me to actually respond. Instead, she returns to glaring at zu Sion.
"I wish to know this worm's name before striking him down to preserve the honor of House Hresvelg."
Clearing my throat, I reply:
"Lieutenant zu Sion, logistics platoon, Victual Brothers."
My identification of his rank and the name of my father's company seems to stymie her just a bit, however. Whatever mask she had decided to place on her face at that point clearly slipped in position, ever so slightly. Turning away from the Srengian, she then turns her full attention to me as she sets about repositioning a new expression.
"...Does this man not report to you, given your status as your father's second-in-command? You are a Captain yourself, are you not?" She asks after a few tense moments.
A murky issue if there ever was one – as I'm not sure if I can still be considered my father's adjudant. By any right, the professorship absolved me of any rights I had as a commanding officer, I suspect. The company has always existed due to the will and strength of my father… to the point where I have doubts about ever leading it myself. I've certainly abdicated that responsibility as of late.
For argument's sake, however – and given the fact that zu Sion officially seconded to the Eagles for this mission, I offer a matter-of-fact statement:
"More or less."
A thin white eyebrow shoots up.
"Then–?"
But – well before she can embark on her next response, a hulking figure from behind her shoves her shoulder and returns to squaring me up.
While looking down at me and me alone, he utters:
"-Pipe down, you malicious-looking midget. This is no place for amateurs."
And even though he's looking at me – I know who that's really directed at. Srengians do whatever this posture is supposed to be as an insult to the individual who's not being looked at. I know because this is how the old warhorse would criticize the decisions made by my father – by critiquing them to me instead.
It should be noted that when zu Sion isn't hunched over in a petulant slump, he towers over most Fodlaners. I'd guess him to be about six-foot-six – which, given the number of Srengians I've killed… is probably quite average for their men. They're tall folk, is what I'm getting at.
From my periphery, I notice Edelgard reflexively reaching for a handaxe at her belt. If she keeps that up, an old soldier like zu Sion is bound to notice… if he hasn't already. This might be evolving into another "Dimitri in the training grounds" situation… and so I raise an eyebrow at the handaxe-holder.
…After that. My House Leader contents herself with a bit of posturing:
"...The so-called amateur that you insist upon talking down to happens to be Edelgard von Hresvelg, Heir to House Hresvelg and the Adrestian Empire."
And much to my surprise, zu Sion's beady, maize-colored orbs fall away from mine and square up with Edelgard's. Getting on a knee – the right one, as the left one has an Almyran wyvern tooth lodged in it – he spits on her boot and then offers:
"Lass, you're lucky you weren't born in Sreng. Where I come from, if you're not left to die on a cliffside, they send little freaks like you to the traveling circus – blueblood or not."
Taking note that the old dog hasn't learned any new tricks – I take one graceful step in between the two potential combatants. My other foot, still in mid-air as I close the gap between the two – is then redirected toward the exposed toes of zu Sion, who wears the open, greave'd sandals of a Srengian phalangite.
Careful not to dig the eperon into his foot too deeply, I deftly halt and withdraw the strike as soon as I notice his face grimace in a cocktail of shock and utterly excruciating pain.
The old man bowls over in an instant, allowing Edelgard to tower and glower over him in imperious, Imperial fashion. Unfortunately, however – she seems more surprised about my sudden outburst – and those amethyst irises fail to lock onto zu Sion – and meet mine instead.
This of course is endlessly curious to me. When I was bludgeoning the Brigidian to death with his own radius bone for Bernadetta, my House Leader looked on with the most nonchalant placidity. Now, at this relatively non-lethal intervention on her behalf… she seems rather taken aback.
…Might this act have been chivalrous?
At some point in the future, I'll have to run this by either Dorothea or Ferdinand, given how knowledgeable they are about those customs. After drinking my fill of her expression, I turn to my old subordinate.
"Don't belittle my students." I reprimand – but I have to admit, these words seem to bounce right off his combed morion and ring rather hollowly on that steel helm of his. The Srengian's head takes note of that and shakes itself in derision.
"Soft as ever. I pity them." Comes his comment – a bold one, given the fresh blood flowing from his foot.
Still – I suppose he should be commended in these pages, at least – as those are pretty tough words from a geriatric who's at my mercy for the second time in as many years. After some effort, the veteran rises and ascertains the object of his pre-stomp hate.
"So, you're hand-holding the future Emperor, are you?"
To her credit – Edelgard holds frame and stares the fellow down, even though zu Sion's returned to towering over her. It would be less convincing if she hadn't flushed pink the moment before – but credit where it's due.
"Did you teach her how to glare like that?" he asks acidicly.
I doubt that – as she was glaring… at Claude in Remire, I think – roughly a week before I was christened her teacher. I'm not sure if I really glare, either… I just stare blankly most of the time.
Turning to Edelgard with a raised eyebrow – I notice that the face that receives my look isn't Edelgard at all, but Redelgard.
"...Ah, she fucked it up!" comes the triumphant clarion call of the old soldier.
"Fucked up what, precisely?" She asks – and resorts to offering a thoroughly gaslit expression first at zu Sion… and then at me. I wish she'd just offer that expression to me, however… as it's hard to trust zu Sion treating it as gently as I want to.
Hobbling back towards me after shouldering the Heir to an Empire, zu Sion takes an opportunity to lean in towards me. As he does, the pike in his hand descends in kind, positioning itself squarely between My Student's arm and mine. After catching a whiff of his terrible breath, I'm told:
"Command tent's where it usually is, boy."
After a moment no longer than an exhale, he adds:
"I'll rustle your flock."
And I notice that both Edelgard and I – reflexively, I'm sure – have our hands hovering over daggers sheathed at our belts.
The rest of the Eagles assemble in the command tent shortly thereafter – and with the notable exception of Petra, look thoroughly worn out. I'm forced to assume that the Lieutenant inspired sufficient dread to keep them in-line and working hard… a trait that might be useful in the coming moons if they are ever threatened by interlopers again.
Would Duke Varley have stolen away with Bernie under his arm if he was too busy pissing himself in fear in my very presence? Food for thought. I should probably be more sociopathic in those moments of great need. If I had casually murdered his two guards and serving girls before fighting his champion – perhaps he would've shown proper restraint in dealing with his daughter.
In any event, the command tent itself is a rather convincing mock-up of what our headquarters usually looked like on the Throat – although it was missing most of my father's furniture collection. Lanterns tied-together from the roof beams illuminate the room as a sort of ersatz chandelier, and exactly seven feet below them is leveled ground where a wooden folding table rests.
On top of that folding table is a hand-drawn map of the surrounding countryside, prepared by the company's cartographer, an exile from Morfis who is currently posted with Corporal Polenta's picket several miles downstream. Unable to recall his name… I find myself somewhat embarrassed.
His position has been marked on the map with a lacquered-wood thumb-tack. Nearby are his initials claiming credit for the work, "L.B.". Shaking my head, I wrack my brain for his name to no avail – further evidencing how any pretense of command of the company has fallen quite far from my grasp. Still – I regret nothing, and need not to consider trading the Eagles for a man whose name I must have known for years, but can't even recall now.
Just after I finish taking stock of the new environs, my lips purse and I feel a sudden pang for a cigarette – perhaps some sort of muscle memory from the last campaign in Almyra. Before I can act or comment on this random stimuli, however – the tent flap in on the opposite side of the tent is parted. Through that flap emerge the Eagles.
The students have a somewhat glazed look in their eyes, all colored red with bloodshot exhaustion. My guess is – given the faint odor of sweat, sulfur, and shit that surrounds them in a cloud… Lieutenant zu Sion must have cracked the whip and pushed them hard in assembling the manure-based explosives.
A pity, as an entirely new plan is taking shape in my mind that would render that effort pointless.
With the remaining Eagles assembled, I first address the class by expressing my fault to the Eagles for losing Bernadetta. My House Leader then explains to her junior colleagues that one cannot hold themselves accountable for nobles that do not uphold their promises, completely undermining my point.
We probably should've discussed that beforehand.
After getting initial statements out of the way – I try my best to seek out the Eagles individually to better appreciate what they've been up to my absence. Such is my job as their teacher too, after all. As I do this, their energy seems to return in fits and starts.
Hubert is among the first of the exhausted Eagles to fully reinvigorate after seeing the safe return of his Lady, and immediately rounds the table and sets about querying her – presumably about the trip. As he does, I notice that Edelgard is quick to make a silent note of his stench by scrunching that celestial nose of hers.
As the Heir to House Vestra then pulls her aside and out of the tent for what must be some well-deserved catching up, I find myself in turn being pulled aside by our Songstress – who in a rather deft maneuver is able to glide me away from a groggy-looking Ferdinand, with his arms outstretched in what must have been an oncoming bear hug. After watching a zombified Ferdinand embrace nothing but air, my eyes fall on our Hubert of the Heart.
"Hey, Professor…!" she begins with a wink. She, much like our actual Hubert, appears to have found her second wind as well.
That said – Dorothea must be plotting something, I realize rather belatedly – and suddenly feel mentally mogged. The emerald irises that oppose me suddenly tower over me like two invincible colossi.
"...Dorothea?"
The rather curt acknowledgement on my part – the last of my defenses – does nothing to unsteady her.
"Do you want to go for a swim with me later?"
Admittedly, it takes me a moment to process that question – namely because of the obvious facts about the Airmird's local fauna. I politely inform her that:
"The Airmid river is full of flesh-eating piranhas."
For whatever reason, that plain, very factual statement of mine prompts two green eyes to roll upwards with all the grace of a ballerina.
"Obviously, Professor! What I mean is that there are rockpools! They're about a mile North of here! Y'know, piranha-free and downwind of the manure-smell…"
As much as I would like to preside over some R&R for the students on the eve of what might just be a bloodbath – I have to ask:
"You're not worried about Bernadetta?"
Which prompts a head-tilt and a slight-sway from the songstress.
"I obviously trust you to get her back, Professor! I mean – really…?"
If only I had a heart that could melt at such a statement. Instead, my empty chest just feels very warm and incredibly content at what a fantastic comrade I have in Dorothea. Taking my silence as her cue, she continues:
"While you and I are waiting, though... why not take every opportunity to unwind that we can?"
And in the face of such logic, who am I to argue?
"Fine. After the lecture." I note.
Curiously, the penultimate and final utterance in that five-syllable sentence crumple Dory's brow in bewilderment.
"...Lecture?" she whines.
"Lecture." I confirm.