Author's Note:
Merry Christmas. Enjoy some fluff at the end.
Author's Query:
My colleague at the university holiday party me introduced me to the "sigma male grindset" meme done by the zoomer people. A question occurred to me as I drove home: Can Byleth be on one of these Sigma Male Grindsets if Sothis lives in his head rent-free, and if Edelgard is the only one who can prompt normal cardiac function?
Feel free to discuss this in excruciating length in the reviews after you're done getting your yule on.
Cheers.
"...I got 'em!"
The Eagles' archer looks at me with an expression of terror that eventually fades into pride.
Bernadetta has just shot an arrow through her tenth pheasant of the day. This would be an impressive feat if it were any other animal apart from the profoundly dumb and flightless Fodlan Mountain Pheasant, but I still am compelled to congratulate her nonetheless.
"Great shot, Bernie."
"R-really?!"
"Yes."
"I-I'm relieved they didn't notice me!"
They almost certainly did, Bernadetta. That didn't save them, though.
As it happened, there were mountain pheasants roosting along various nooks and crannies within the motte on the Northeastern end of the mock battlefield. I suspect they took residence there quite recently – their breeding season starts this month. All one really needs to do to lure them out of their nests is just leave them some food, so I dumped a few shovelfuls of cornmeal into the center of the motte. The procedure from there is quite simple.
I instructed Bernadetta to shoot one and only one bird. After the first pheasant falls, the remainder of the birds will scatter about and exhaust themselves within the motte, whose front gate I locked shut before climbing back over the walls. Because the poultry cannot fly, they typically just bounce around the perimeter of the walls – and into each other – before finally running out of energy. When they do, they waddle over to the cornmeal again to gather some quick carbohydrates. As they peck at the cornmeal, Bernadetta picks another to snipe.
Rinse and repeat this process every fifteen minutes or so. Three hours later, we have ten dead pheasants.
Today is foraging day – one of the most essential skills a soldier can have on campaign. Without food, armies stop in their tracks and the officers who command them often end up dead alongside the road. I would hate to see any of the Eagles die in the future over something as basic as not knowing the principles of forage – and I am starting to get the impression that the Empire doesn't exactly rule its people with a white glove as delicate as Edelgard's. They won't exactly have a lot of goodwill to spare if they can't even feed their troops, I suspect.
I find myself worrying about their future at times.
Since I'll mostly be powerless to intercede on their behalf after they take leave of me, I can only resolve to do my level best to teach them these principles now. Hopefully they'll stick.
Currently, I'm pairing up with Bernadetta in order to hunt wild game. This will be the protein portion of the meal. Hubert, Lindhardt, and Lysithea are gathering berries – my hope is that there'll be some sort of bush around here to provide sufficient quantities of edible berries in order to create a sauce for the pheasant. Unseasoned white meat tends to be quite plain.
Against my better judgment, I sent Ferdinand and Edelgard to gather apples from a tree nearby the entrance gate. That's where I hope we'll get the lion's share of nutrients that are essential in preventing scurvy. I know those two are prone to bicker, but they'll need to start being able to collaborate at some point. Caspar and Petra are back at the campfire. I have the two of them on chuck prep.
The end goal today is for the Eagles to be able to forage, prepare, and eat a meal that they collected entirely through their own efforts. Once they're able to complete that without poisoning themselves, I'll feel relatively comfortable about having prepared them to survive on campaign. At this point, I'd emphasize survive in lieu of a term like thrive – but perhaps I can get them to really gel as a unit in situations like these further along in the future. I have to remind myself that we're only a week into the first full month of lessons.
And yet, in spite of all that I do not know and cannot hope to predict in regard to their futures, I feel more attached to them than anyone else I've ever known in my life.
It's a strange thing to think, given that I've known someone like Falstaff for – according to my father – fifteen years. Frankly, I wouldn't be all that moved if I heard that he died in a ditch in the Zanado siege camp. And yet, I'm starting to think it wouldn't be all that bad to throw my own life away in that same ditch if it meant giving these kids a chance at theirs.
The conversation I heard with Edelgard and my father also stands out rather prominently in my mind as of late. Every non-mission related thought I've had today seems to be just replaying it over and over.
As I collect the carcasses, Bernadetta says to me:
"Um… Professor?"
I turn to her, focusing on those darting gray eyes of hers in an effort to shake myself from the tempest of my own thoughts.
"… What are we going to do once we've collected all these birds?" she asks innocently.
"We're going to give them to Petra so she can pluck and gut them."
"P-pluck them? Like rip all their feathers off?"
I nod.
"Can I… just go back to my tent? I really don't want to see all that…"
At first, I'm tempted to demand that she watch it. But I realize that come the day of battle, I'll need her loyalty first and foremost. And I don't think I'll get that by driving her too hard. I am possessed by another idea, though.
"Bernadetta, do you want me to have Petra collect their feathers for you?"
"...Why?"
"So you can fill a cushion with them. An embroidered cushion could make your chair in the classroom more comfortable."
"Oh! That's actually a great idea, Professor… Thank you!"
"It's no trouble."
Pick your battles, and try to win the terrain in the meantime. Clearly she's attentive when her hobbies are appreciated. I wish I could say such a theory worked with someone like Edelgard, but seeing this play out so well with Bernadetta gives me a bit of hope.
I also know nothing about Edelgard's hobbies. I should probably figure those out soon.
The squishing sound of Caspar driving his toes into a massive bucket of Albinean berries fills the air around the firepit. Curiously, I notice Hubert staring rather intently at his comrade dancing in the tub of mush and juice, deep in thought.
"Hubert."
"Professor."
"You seem captivated."
"Perhaps… I am mulling over the possibilities of this act being used as a torture device when I eventually assume the role of Household Minister."
"Punishment for Lese-Majeste?"
"No… I will maintain my idea of flaying the guilty alive for that particular crime. I am considering this for other offenses at court. Ones that you will likely never have to familiarize yourself with."
My eyes return to Caspar. Is it really punishment if the victim doesn't feel all that inconvenienced?
"Caspar seems to be enjoying himself." I note.
He shakes his head and chuckles.
"No doubt. But few Adrestian nobles have the same joie de vivre for the vicissitudes of life that Caspar does."
"I'll take your word for it."
"...That would be advisable, Professor. If Lady Edelgard insists on bringing you to Enbarr someday, I suspect that I'd need to find alternative forms of punishment that far exceed this in cruelty."
"Any ideas?"
"None as of yet – but do not underestimate my creativity. For her sake, I would suggest disappearing voluntarily after she ascends the throne. Otherwise, I may be compelled to make you disappear. What happens after that will not be pleasant."
All I can do is shrug in reply. I suspect at this rate, I might just have to.
As our conversation peters out, Lindhardt strolls up looking rather nauseous.
"Professor… are you sure… given the unsanitary nature of our classmate's feet, that such an act would not render the berries contaminated?"
I've eaten Albinean Berry sauce crushed by random merc feet for years. I don't know what the issue is here, but given the look from my drowsy doctor – there must be one. That said, I suspect Caspar's feet are a lot cleaner than a professional soldier who's marched twenty miles over rough ground, too. Most of this camping trip has just been spent lazing around.
It then occurs to me that he's been tenting with Caspar, and may have privileged information that I do not. That's worth exploring, isn't it?
"Do his feet smell, Lindhardt?"
"Terribly, Professor."
Perhaps the Younger Bergliez has some sort of fungus?
"Would you prefer to do this the next time?" I ask.
Lindhart shakes his head. I can tell that he's probably not enthusiastic about the amount of energy one needs to expend in the process of stamping the berries into mush.
"No… I think not."
Bringing a hand to my hair, I have to admit that I'm at my wit's end.
"Then why are you complaining about it?"
Lindhardt seems to chew on the question for a time before simply telling me:
"Hm. I'll… just take a nap then, Professor."
Walking over to Petra, I can see that she's having a grand old time plucking and gutting the birds – having brought nine of them to the skin already. Sitting cross-legged, she appears to be humming a Brigidian tune. I've heard it before, played by mercenaries on the throat who carry these sort of wind-pipe blowing instruments with them. The echoes they create in the Throat's canyons are unimaginable.
I take a seat next to her and observe her handiwork. My thoughts return to those instruments, however.
At times, they've scared off entire Almyran raiding parties just from the cacophony of sounds they emit. Strangely, Petra's rendition of that tune comes off more as a lullaby. I bring a hand to my hair in a reflexive effort to find the song's identity in the deep recesses of my mind.
"Do you have memory of my humming song, Professor?" she asks, turning to me expectantly.
Petra's quite perceptive. I can specifically recall the tune being played when the Brigidians celebrated one of their religious festivals on the Throat. Those were always a bawdy, raucous affair.
"...It's one about the Flame Spirit, right?"
Just after asking it, I realize what a very stupid question it was – given that I've been told by Brigidian mercenaries that most of their music is devotional in nature, anyway.
"Yes, Professor! It is a blessing we sing during the month of marriage."
"Ah, that's our Harpstring Moon, correct?"
"Our month of marriage is doing its beginning today, professor!"
That information roughly checks out. Various mercenaries had gotten engaged while fighting one another in the endless spats along the Throat. As I recall, however – there were no camp marriages, however. For the Brigidians to legally marry, they needed to return to have the ceremony on Brigidian soil.
Fodlan has no such custom. I've witnessed people get married in tents before a climactic battle. All that's required is a Priest. Before arriving at Garegg Mach, I thought the only requirement for the priesthood was magical fluency. Now I'm starting to grasp, only vaguely, the massive machinery behind it all.
And that's less of a comfort than I thought it would be. So much escapes my ability to understand. Does that make me a poor Professor, I wonder?
"I see." is all I can say.
Petra doesn't seem bothered at all, and continues on jovially:
"In Brigid, the beginning day of our marriage month is for the family of the Kings of Brigid. Today is the day my father and mother had their beginning as husband and wife."
I have to parse through her words again in my mind to gather what she means by this. I genuinely think it'd be just easier to converse in Brigidian, but I know how dearly Petra wants to improve. So I will help her in whatever way I can.
After a minute, it hits me.
"...Their anniversary?" I suggest.
"Ah – yes, that is the word for the people of Fodlan, Professor! I have gratitude!"
Her statement carries with it a natural follow-up on my part:
"Was your father the King of Brigid as well?"
Petra pauses at this, perhaps searching again for the right words. This takes a while, and after meeting my eyes, she just decides to wing it:
"Um… no Professor… he was just the same as… the Yellow King-to-be of Faerghus."
She must mean Dimitri.
"The Crown Prince?"
Her eyes light up and her expression relaxes. This rings a bell for her.
"Yes, the Mac an Rìgh!"
I nod. That was a term I've heard before – Rìgh is the term I've heard used by the Brigidians to describe their current King – Petra's grandfather.
"What about your mother?"
"...Our… circumstance is quite the same, Professor. My mother died bringing forth my sister. I was not old enough to have memory of her."
"Is your sister doing well?"
"My sister was not born with life, Professor."
There seems altogether too much tragedy in this world for a world that invests so much of its energy into worship of the Goddess – or for Petra's case, the Flame Spirit. It's something I've never really considered until very recently.
"I'm sorry."
"Do not be feeling such sadness, Professor. You could not be knowing…"
Gazing deeply into her eyes, I find an understanding behind them that seems to pass through the barriers of language. Communications across cultures does not seem as impenetrable a fortress when you can ram through the front gate with shared experience.
"...When the Large Man spoke of you in such a way, I felt sameness between us." she says, confirming what was just at the tip of tongue.
"I see." is the only thing I can manage as I sort through the tumult in my mind. She must mean Fallstaff's assessment of me not having a mother's love.
We're both silent for a time.
"Are you ever thinking of your mother, Professor?"
Shaking my head, I realize what a strange circumstance we both share. To carry around the vision of someone so important to you but who exists in a realm of total mystery whose threshold will never be crossed. The occasional story from my father provides precious little insight into the person who I owed my life to.
"Not really."
She nods.
"It is being too difficult to remember someone so long ago, is it not?"
I nod in turn. She gets it. How can you miss someone you've never seen or known?
My eyes fall down to Petra's hands, which are sticking the stem of a pheasant feather into a twisted Albinenan berry vine stalk. She's already ringed most of the vine – twisted into a semi-circle, with upright feathers already.
"What is that, Petra?"
She notices my gaze and jumps up a bit.
"Oh! These are wedding crowns of Brigid, Professor. It is how we celebrate the weddings of people who can no longer celebrate themselves. We would lay them burial place of family. Because I cannot be reaching Brigid, I will just leave them here on the grass of Fodlan."
"A fine tradition."
We stare at one another for an indeterminate amount of time, drowning in what must be each other's wordless empathy. Eventually, a mischievous grin from Petra begins to emerge.
"...Are you wishing to place one upon your head, Professor?"
I'm a bit surprised at the query, and straighten up a bit. Petra seems unperturbed by my reaction and informs me:
"The flame spirit would be happy for us to share the activity!"
Since I'm already in bad graces with the Church of Seiros, I might as well hedge my bets with the Flame Spirit. I take the other wedding crown, sitting on the ground in front of Petra's feet, and place it on my head. It fits snugly, but well enough.
I turn to Petra, who is giggling like a child.
"...What's so funny?"
"...You are wearing the wife's crown, Professor!"
I have no idea what the difference is, frankly.
"I will wear the husband's!" Petra offers.
From what I can gather after a squint, it just seems to have the feathers spaced more widely on the crown.
Petra must notice my confusion, because she starts explaining:
"...It must be so, Professor! Now, I must wear the King's crown when I become ruler of Brigid. The Empire does not allowing the people of Brigid to have a Queen. Just a King."
I suppose that's why Hubert mentioned that Edelgard would become "Emperor" instead of "Empress". I wonder what the reasoning is for that?
Right on cue, a person who could probably answer that question appears before us, but I doubt she's really in the mood. I say this because she's glowering down at me and Petra. Edelgard is almost assuredly about to snap at the two of us before Ferdinand, who is carrying a wicker basket full of green apples cuts in front of her and shouts:
"Professor! We have returned with the fruits of our labor!"
Ferdinand has mostly made up for the past three days of us not talking to each other very much with that single stupid pun. What a guy.
"I'm impressed." I mean this in regard to the pun, of course – but they're welcome to interpret this to mean general contentment with their efforts at apple picking.
"Hmph. Why should you be, it is a simple task – after all." Edelgard spat.
"What's wrong, Edelgard?" I ask.
She does that thing where her resolve melts a little bit in the face of my genuine concern about her wellbeing. I lose myself in her eyes when she does that – which might be a very dangerous thing indeed. I'm starting to really like her reactions to that question, so I think I'm going to do little-check-ins on her health more often now.
Naturally I'm already concerned about that because I vowed to protect her that night in Remire, but I suppose vocalizing that concern isn't such a bad thing, is it?
My chest hurts a little bit at this moment. She places her hands on her hips.
"Whyever are you wearing that stupid feather crown?" she asks viciously, with that petite little nose of hers turning ever so slightly skyward.
Should I tell her about the fire-frill feather figure I saw at Zanado? I surely don't look anymore stupid than that guy.
"Professor is being my wife!" Petra informs her.
"Incredible, Professor!" Ferdinand says, awestruck.
Edelgard doesn't say anything at all. She just squints.
It takes a very long and arduous explanation about the finer points of Brigidian custom to walk back from that exclamation of Petra's. By that time, the pheasants, cooked rotisserie, finish browning.
Everyone seems to enjoy the pheasant – much to my surprise. I suspect it's because of the Albinean berry sauce. Lindhardt is the only person to decline use of the dressing, but he chows down all the same. Caspar is the first to finish by a longshot and immediately starts jumping into the apple bin.
"How was the pheasant, Caspar?" I ask.
"Great, Professor! It's been too long since we've had any meat!"
It's been about three days. I worry about what he expects the food on the march to Zanado to be like. In all likelihood, it'll be more of the same cornmeal cakes, given Seteth's appraisal of the logistical situation last week.
My eyes drift to the rest of the class who are managing their meals in a more measured fashion. Eventually, my gaze falls on Edelgard, who's only picked at her pheasant. I notice that she's squinting again – but thankfully not at me. In fact, her vision seems to be squarely directed at something far behind me. I'm about to turn and check for myself before she gets up from her seat across the campfire, and plops down on the log right next to me.
"My teacher – you told the Guards to not let in any other students, correct?"
"I may have just specified the Lions. Why?"
"Look behind you."
I turn, and notice that His Deceitfulness and Hilda are chatting up the Sergeant-At-Arms posted by the gate. Claude flashes his yellow cape, presumably indicating to the Guard that he's a Deer, and not a Lion. The Guard allows him to pass.
"You must tell him to leave at once." She informs me.
Before I can reply to Edelgard, Claude is already waving me down.
"Yo, Teach!"
"Oh, it's Claude. How unfortunate!" Lysithea notes.
His Deceitfulness powers through her lack of enthusiasm and takes a seat on a nearby log, looking rather dejected that Edelgard is sharing mine. He turns back to his housemate.
"How's it hanging, Lysithea? Did you pick up that Fire spell from Mr. Ashen Demon himself?"
"Yeah. He's much more useful than Professor Manuela. But he's kind of a big baby, too."
Lysithea's assessments of character are truly brutal at times. What happened to this fourteen-year-old that prompted her to take on such acerbity? I wonder if it had to do with the white hair of hers.
"Do tell!" Claude says, striking an animated pose of intrigue.
"He likes headpats!" Lysithea replies.
For the record: I do not like headpats. I tolerated the headpats because Lysithea seemed borderline obsessive while giving them.
Claude then turns to me with a sympathetic look.
"Listen, don't let anyone ever make fun of you for expressing your identity. This world will never improve if we don't accept people for who they are."
Profundities leaving the lips of Claude von Riegan are always an unexpected occurrence.
"Sorry we can't offer you any pheasant." I say.
"No issues here, Teach. I enjoy white meat, but not like that."
An eyebrow of his shoots up and towards a certain pink-haired lover of his to clarify what I really didn't need clarified. I choose not to explore the implications of his meta-statement there. Hilda sits down on the log next to him after finishing her fussing over Lysithea.
"Wow, Professor! Did you change your hair, it looks great?" she asks.
"Mercedes did something." I reply, still not clear about what the Lioness even did even yesterday.
Hilda assesses my hair thoughtfully.
"You sort of look like that songster who sings love songs in Enbarr… What's his name… hey, Princess–"
Claude clears his throat and muscles into the conversation.
"So… I heard about Edel's little spat with Prince Party-Pooper."
At mention of her name, my student decides to jump in:
"And naturally you had to come and make everything worse, correct?"
Edelgard's eyes blaze at him. Under most circumstances, I'd tell her to relax a bit lest we get a repeat of yesterday, but Claude isn't working with the same portfolio of goodwill that Dimitri's invested in me.
In effect – go for it, Edelgard. I'm rooting for you.
Claude does an animated flinch backwards.
"You wound me with your cynicism! I came here to act as an impartial arbiter between two feuding houses!"
"Hmph. I doubt you could negotiate your way out of a paper bag." Edelgard notes. I'm proud of her ability to riposte like this.
That said, I should probably intervene before he trips her up in some double entendre.
After bringing a hand to my hair, I state:
"Yesterday, Dimitri… he went way over the line."
Tilting his head in an animated fashion, Claude takes to analyzing my statement.
"...Hey, gotta say – I'm surprised to hear you say that, Teach."
Edelgard rankles up at his quip.
"What precisely is so surprising about my teacher protecting his student?"
"Oh, nothing at all, Edel! He's your teacher, after all. No one else's, right?"
She goes flush at this. Will she ever stop taking this awful bait of his?
"I'll need to talk with him tomorrow. He can't just go around provoking my House Leader." I say at last.
"Woah. She really has been whispering sweet nothings into your ear, hasn't she?"
I glance at the girl sitting next to me. Those big purple orbs of her seem to recognize my admonishment just before she goes headlong into another verbal booby trap.
I look back at Claude and clear my throat.
"No. I think I was probably too lenient with him yesterday. His concern was genuine, but the way he went about it was unacceptable. He tried to initiate a duel in front of a Professor, with a bunch of unarmed students present on monastery grounds. That's… a bit much."
I balk a bit throughout my lengthy explanation. In spite of these past few weeks, I still hate lecturing like that. It occurs to me not long after that this might not be right line of work for me if so. Maybe this year will be a one-and-done.
"Yeah, Dimitri gave me the rundown, but his takeaway was that he was in the right." Claude notes.
"You two spoke?" I ask.
"I reached out to him after I heard the news through the grapevine, Teach – I've got spies everywhere, you know. Creepy Uncle Hubert isn't the only guy with a network around here."
My eyes shift to Creepy Uncle Hubert. He looks up from the Pheasant wing he was gnawing at with his yellow eye squarely affixed on Claude.
"...Naturally, I infiltrated von Riegan's shortly after arrival. Not that it was difficult. He met with Prince Blayddid yesterday at about 9pm on the gatehouse ramparts, his favorite place for clandestine conversation."
Everyone seems impressed at this revelation except Edelgard. And me, I suppose. I had a clandestine conversation with him at that very location not long ago.
His Decietfulness shakes his head and concedes:
"True enough, lapdog."
I jump back into the conversation before Hubert and him can trade further insults.
"That's not how I intended it to sound. I appreciate Dimitri's concern, but I trust Edelgard."
Claude looks at me with a genuinely stunned expression. His eyes squint at mine ever-so-slightly, as if he's attempting to assess my sincerity.
"Damn Teach, that's bold! I doubt she's all that intent on returning the feelings, either!"
Edelgard leans into a snap at him.
"... You speak awfully boldly for someone who knows so little. Who are you to know the contents of someone's heart?"
The Heir to the Alliance seems genuinely wounded at this, and then swings one of his arms around Holst's sister. He leans up against her in what must be something relatively romantic. I'm gauging this by Hilda's own behavior with me at the bar last Sunday.
He nuzzles her neck and then looks back up at Edelgard, who seems to be blushing at the sight of such a public display of affection
"No offense intended, Edel! You just seem like the type with trust issues. As for me, I'm an open book – if you don't believe me, you should ask Hildie over here."
Realizing what he's referencing, I meet eyes with Hilda.
"You two worked it out?" I ask.
"He's actually still the worst, Professor." she says while nodding. I guess that's a yes?
"We are in agreement, Ms. Goneril." Edelgard says at last, looking relieved.
Hilda seems to detect this relief in Edelgard's words, and a dangerous smirk creeps onto her face. She turns back to me.
"You know Professor, if you're still–"
"-He is most certainly not!" Edelgard says with pure exasperation.
"Jeez Princess, I didn't even finish!" Hilda says, pouting.
I turn back to the Adrestian. All the relief is gone from her face now.
You-know-who uses this as the perfect time to strike with one of his usual gaslights.
"Woah, does the possessive princess want to share something with the rest of the class?"
This, of course, sets her over the edge.
"...Can you just leave my teacher alone! Every day we've had to endure this or that visitor causing trouble for our lessons. You have Professor Manuela to harass, do you not?"
"Woah! So defensive, Edel."
I shake my head.
"She's right."
Claude turns back to me with a raised eyebrow.
"You guys are always welcome to observe. But I can't allow you to pick on Edelgard or the rest of the Eagles. They're my students, Claude. I will protect them."
He leans forward on his log.
"You know I'm not actually a threat, right?" inquires his Deceitfulness.
"Let's not revisit what happened last week." I say.
He sighs.
"Well… fair, enough Teach. I guess I've got to get out of your doghouse first, huh?"
I shrug.
"I'm sure you realize the best way to start."
The Deer's expression goes solemn for a moment, and then I sense a great deal of resolve from him. I'm willing to at least grant that he's reflective, if not exactly perceptive.
He turns to Hilda.
"What do you say we head back to campus, yeah?"
She shrugs.
"If that's what you want, Claude."
The two non-transferred Deer take their leave shortly after. After they do, I take a look at Edelgard, who is staring at the ground with those pale cheeks lit up in the evening twilight. I suspect she's thinking about something, so I drift my gaze over to the rest of the Black Eagles, who mostly seem to be just staring in dumb silence. Hubert, however, is looking smartly silent at the moment.
"I must admit that I was wondering when they'd finally drain that cup of goodwill of yours, Professor. It took far longer than expected."
I shrug.
"You guys come first. If I need to remind Dimitri of that tomorrow, I will."
The rest of the meal finishes up in contemplative quiet.
Just as we finish, it starts to downpour.
Arriving back at my tent, I detach my breastplate and fetch the paperback book that I've clipped to its interior. Getting settled into my sleeping mat and lighting a lantern shortly after, I jump back into the biography of Mauricius, comforted by the dull thuds of rain drops hitting harmlessly against the tent. I rest in safety knowing that a thick bed of hay rests in between me and the ground of the knoll which has quickly become waterlogged.
Just as I revisit a rather dry description of Mauricius's shedding of decorum and routine in Enbarr as a youth, I see a tiny fist pounding at the front flap of my tent.
An all-too familiar voice follows.
"Professor! Professor! There's no time to waste!" It's Lysithea.
I unclip the front flap of the tent to see an angry looking Deer staring back at me.
"Professor! It's raining! Move!"
Is she trying to enter my tent? Does she want to get me dismissed, or what?
"What's the problem, Lysithea?" I ask.
Her reply to this is to simply plow through me. As she plops onto my sleeping mat holding her nightgown, I realize that whatever happens from here is something that needs to be handled very delicately.
I tilt my head at the Deer. She takes this cue, thankfully.
"Edelgard didn't line her side of the tent, Professor! Everything is soaking wet!"
Poking my head outside, I see Edelgard standing outside, completely drenched.
Before I can say anything to her, or even assess her sorry-looking state, Lysithea yells at me as if I'm the one at fault here.
"Professor! Step outside! I need to change!"
I bring a hand to my head. Will no one rid me of these troublesome white-haired women?
As I stand outside in the torrential late-spring rain waiting for Edelgard and Lysithea to dry off and change into their bedclothes, I run through potential disaster scenarios in my mind. Obviously, I won't be able to sleep properly tonight – that will be unfortunate. If Seteth finds out that I'm bunking with the heir to Adrestia and House Ordelia, I'd probably be thrown in a dungeon. If my father found out, he'd probably be disappointed and slap me.
And then there's Hubert.
Hubert is also lurking diagonally behind me, underestimating my peripheral vision again.
"Hubert."
"Professor."
I wait for him to round the tent before turning to him. I'd raise my eyebrow, but I suspect the force of the rain would just drive it back down again.
"No jacket for this rain?" He asks. Hubert is also in his shirtsleeves.
"I'll need a blanket after this." I reply.
"A suitable solution given the situation…" He says – clearly as a sort of feint while he considers his next words.
I wait for him to prepare his monologue in silence. Our only company is the beating of raindrops against canvas.
"Professor, the weather is quite inclement, so I will endeavor to keep this as brief as possible..."
If Hubert's goal was to be brief, he probably should've used shorter words than that. I let him finish his downpour dressing-down without interruption:
"If you so much as touch Lady Edelgard's person in that tent, I will be forced to use you as my first experiment for that punishment we discussed earlier today. My father, Marquis Vestra, has entrusted me with full oversight of Her Highness's person. Understand that I will utilize that responsibility quite liberally."
I shrug.
"I just want to go to sleep." I reply.
I really do.
"Of this I have no doubt. I suspect your problem will not be your own preference, but the circumstances that you currently find yourself in regarding the Deer transfer."
"Speak Fodlanese, Hubert."
"In spite of her size, the girl snores with the force of an obese man. I would seriously doubt your ability to sleep under such conditions. Lady Edelgard has not been able to."
If there is such a thing as fate, I curse it at this moment.
"Thanks for the heads-up."
Hubert begins to pace in the mud, totally undaunted by the fact that he's barefoot.
"If Lady Edelgard attempts to initiate anything untoward with you Professor, please retreat to my tent immediately. I would be happy to surrender my sleeping mat to you."
While I appreciate the gesture, a natural question follows:
"...Are you saying she would?"
I think he glares at me, but now both eyes are completely unseeable due to the rain wreaking havoc on his coiffure.
"...Don't be flippant."
I shake my head.
"Get some rest, Hubert."
He shakes his head in turn, partially in an effort to restore his vision. He succeeds at this, marginally.
"A reminder, Professor: I am forever vigilant."
As he turns to walk away, I wonder if he's brought his satin sleep mask with him.
Lysithea does in fact snore with the force an obese man, to use Hubert's indelicate parlance. For the past hour, I've been leaning up against one of the tentposts to the side of my sleeping mat – knees tucked up in my cloak – listening to the sounds that emit from the back of her throat in abject horror. On occasion, Holst's band would run into wild demonic beasts on the Throat. She sounded an awful lot like one of those right now.
Initially, I suggested to Edelgard – who is occupying the sleeping mat with her – that the baying Deer should be flipped onto her side. My student did this with some effort, and succeeded in stopping the grating noise for a grand total of three minutes. Lysithea then flopped back onto her back and resumed the assault on our ears almost immediately after.
I try my best to return to the book, but am unable to concentrate. Eventually, I notice a pair of purple orbs poking out of my sleeping mat and looking at me with a mischievous expression.
"Are you alright, Edelgard?"
Although I can only see the top half of her face, the usually fierce expression on her brow melts a bit at my show of concern. I think I'm going to play this gambit for as long as I can – especially if I keep getting these results.
"Lysithea stole the pillow, my teacher." she replies.
I try my best to visibly shrug from underneath my cloak-blanket.
"Just steal it back." I suggest.
She shakes her head.
"You should give me another one."
I get a sinking feeling that she's trying to pilfer my blanket and use it as a pillow, much like she did during our picnic.
"...You want my cloak?"
The purple eyes squint and sink down a little bit into the sheet.
"Of course not! That will crush my flower."
"Your flower?"
Her eyes squint further.
"The one on your jacket, you fool."
I shrug. I have no idea what she's trying to imply, so I make an effort to return to the book. The Adrestian gremlin in my sleeping mat seems unsatisfied at this turn of events, and now sits up.
"What are you reading now?" she asks with an attitude.
I sigh.
"A book about the other fool."
She seems to immediately recall the assessment of her ancestor at our picnic before the mock battle.
"...Mauricius?"
I nod and then return my eyes to the text. Much to my chagrin, I can't seem to advance them along the page. I suspect this is because they keep getting drawn back into the purple orbs that are now staring very intensely at me. I return to those fiery eyes with what I hope is a blank stare.
"I want to read with you, my teacher."
"...You want to read about a fool?"
"It seems that I must learn about their ways, given that you are one."
Is she inviting me to join her on the sleeping mat? That won't be happening.
"I'm not going to fit on the sleeping mat." I politely inform her.
She rolls those purple eyes of hers and stands up. As she does, I take in the view in the dimmed lantern light. She wears a pale vermillion set of two-piece pajamas that accent her eyes and rather naturally remind one of her nationality. They're also, amusingly, at least a size too big for her. The sleeves cover the entirety of her arms and hands, and the legs of the pajama bottoms drag on tent floor. Adding her very thin frame into the final accounting, and it's almost a bit garish. But also – I'm starting to think – rather cute.
If I could smirk, I'd almost certainly smirk at how comical it all seems at the moment. The clothes themselves are doubtless made from the finest silk from either Varley territory or Morfis imports, but they look as if they're hand-me-downs from an older sibling of hers.
I wonder if she has siblings? I suppose if she's heir to the Empire, however – they'd be younger, right? And presumably female if they prefer men to sit on a throne like that.
Even in the unlikely event that she did have older siblings, that wouldn't explain why one of the richest women on earth is wearing such oversized pajamas, however.
It's got to be a personality quirk or something.
As I muse on this, she finishes her approach. She's got a very interesting expression on her face at the moment.
It's definitely the determined Edelgard – Brave Edelgard, even. But it seems like this bravery of hers is resting on a knife's edge. As if a single wrong move by either me or her would send her running out into the pouring rain in total embarrassment.
And this assumption of mine makes my chest ache a bit.
"...Lift your cloak." she commands at a tone just above a whisper.
Against my better judgement, I comply.
She plops down on my left side, right up against my shoulder. Her eyes are dead set on me, burning with such intensity that they seem to heat the space around us. She then yanks the cloak down to cover us both in its equally warm embrace.
Speaking of heat, as I stare at her like this, I can see her cheeks start to give off steam from the amount of blood rushing to them. We'll both be sweating if she keeps this up.
That said, did she really just lose all of her resolve as soon as she sat down? I feel as if I so much as opened my mouth right now, I'd send her running.
Still, if that's the sum total of her courage – I suppose it is quite bold of her. She's only a day removed from slapping me, after all.
She's even cuter up close, tangentially.
"...You should return your eyes to the book." she says, apparently maxed out on attention at the moment.
I return my eyes to the book, but I literally cannot focus on a single word. A significant impediment to my concentration is added by the fact that Edelgard has just delicately rested her head on my shoulder.
Neither of us address this immediately.
"...Is this alright, my teacher…?" she asks, finally. From my periphery, I can see her staring at me with pleading eyes.
I turn to them.
"You should return your eyes to the book." I say.
She does not return her eyes to the book. Instead, they narrow ever so slightly – but they're also joined by a devilish smirk. She can't seem to keep that curl of her lips at the desired distance, however – and it just melts away into a smile after she gives up on trying.
"You're terrible." she says at last.
"...I thought I was foolish?"
She shakes her head against my shoulder. My chest really starts to hurt at that moment, but can't seem to communicate that pain to my face properly, which seems to be pursuing its own agenda.
"You're both, in fact." she says.
We both seem to lose ourselves in each other's eyes for a time, just like in Remire. The act of gazing into those purple irises feels so deeply familiar to me now – but every time I look into them I find myself doing so rather greedily – as if each time I do offers some new experience or insight that I've never once had before until that very moment.
At last, Edelgard breaks what must be a very, very, long silence.
"...I was worried about you yesterday. I… hated the way you harmed yourself." she said, her eyes dropping away at last.
"It was for the lesson." I said with a shrug.
In reply to this shrug her head pushed against my shoulder with remarkable force.
"...Then don't teach me such things… I've seen too much blood pooling around me to accept such reasoning from you."
I feel as if she's just told me something rather personal about her past. I'd press on it if I wasn't completely entranced by her in the present.
"I'm sorry." I say at last.
This seems to sour the mood significantly. A furrow and a frown appear on her face, but they seem to relax as she draws the rest of her body against mine.
"Don't apologize. I hate it when you say things that you don't mean as well… if you intend to make a mess of things, have it be worth something next time."
On the bright side, she's not telling me to not do it again. I'd struggle to commit such a thing, but to her credit – Edelgard left it sufficiently open-ended.
Still, I feel compelled to lighten the mood.
"Do you hate apologies as much as you hate my hair?"
Her chest heaves several times in a silent series of laughs. I feel each rise and fall against my obliques. She looks up at me with crimson cheeks.
"...Maybe. I must say that I preferred your hair the way it was before."
At this I nod while trying in vain to hide a yawn.
"...Try to sleep, Edelgard."
"I'm not the–"
The yawn is sufficiently contagious to catch her in the midst of her protest. A few moments after her recovery, she rolls her eyes and says:
"...Goodnight, my foolish teacher."
Her eyes close shortly after, in spite of Lysithea's snoring. Sleep evades me for a time, until I resolve to focus on the pitter-pattering of the pouring rain.
It feels as if my chest hurts long after my eyelids draw down their curtain. Eventually it fades away with the rest of the world around me. The last thing I find myself noticing before the night takes me is how gently Edelgard breathes.
