Author's Note: Will have some long form replies for y'all at the end of the next one. Wanted to power through St. Macuil's Day first.


Claude von Riegan, blushing as brightly as Edelgard when she hiccupped this afternoon, has informed me that the quickest way to spot an atheist in Garegg Mach is to look around Celica's right now. At this quip, Maya Kirsten, currently wearing Sylvain's academy jacket, has rolled her goldenrod eyes at this as far back as they can go. They both decided to sit down with me just a few minutes ago.

They are not the reason why I'm here, nor did I welcome them to this table voluntarily.

The actual reason why I'm here is because I'm accompanying Edelgard... and accompanying her is that brown felt portfolio – which she has carried with her to the restroom after another hiccup. She has been in that restroom for a long time, possibly hiccupping, and probably plotting.

Meanwhile, these two saw me sitting alone – after descending from the patio stinking of cigarillos – and decided to keep me company, roughly fifteen minutes ago.

In that space of time, the Deer's Alpha Buck laid out a theory of his between sips of Daphnel Lite, a very watery beer from the Alliance. My father also deems it to be "piss" like the Bergliezauer – but the Bergliezauer, being a wheat beer, does not look like piss. Actually, the Imperial beer has an orange tint to it, and I've certainly never pissed orange before. My piss is mostly clear, and sometimes a sort of pale yellow after I go out drinking, which is the color of the Daphnel Lite, and thus – in my mind at least – more worthy of the piss moniker.

Unless my father pisses orange, of course. Perhaps piss is as subjective as aesthetics.

Anyway, I am thinking about piss and beer because Maya Kirsten, sitting in the chair next to me, has propositioned me again. That is to say – I'm trying to chase those thoughts away. This time, she wants me to participate with her and Claude in what must be – knowing them – a non-wholesome activity. This is of course… strange, because Hilda is nowhere to be found – and I thought Claude was only allowed to do those things with Hilda, especially if they may or may not be having a baby because Claude finished inside or whatever… but I'm willing to grant that maybe Hilda has grown tired of doing such things.

Strangely, an impression is forming that neither Maya nor Hilda actually want to have a baby with Claude yet, and this leads me to believe that… some(?)... These activities may be done for some other reason.

So… what's the point in doing them…?

Especially if they're painful, which Hilda gave me the impression that it was.

Even though I still know so little, I'm growing tired of hearing about this constantly and then not understanding all the damn time. Usually, these things just blew right past me as I had no interest in the topic, but now with an onrush of all these feelings pounding at my chest over the past month… I realize that there are so many gaps in my knowledge, or limits on my ability to perceive the world around me.

At times I get the sensation that I've just crawled out of a cave where all that surrounded me was darkness, livened by the occasional diversion of taking someone's life away while extracting tidbits of trivia from their final moments.

And those gaps, I reckon, are harming my ability to become a better teacher.

These thoughts of course – like the one this afternoon… consumed with the fear that Edelgard found me repulsive – might also just be entirely wrong-headed. Recently, I find myself wanting to start working through their validity by circling back into my diary and re-examining first impressions.

For example, I thought Maya disliked Claude, like she told me she did a couple of nights ago. And maybe she does, because she's wearing Sylvain's uniform, who is sitting at a booth in his shirtsleeves with some of the other Lions, nursing an Itha Stout – my father's favorite.

With that in mind, though – I also dislike Claude – and yet here I am listening to him. I am also listening to Maya proposition me about doing some strange thing with Claude that is far beyond my capacity to understand. It involves water and sports when we are on a mountaintop, and there are bodies of water anywhere around here. It is also far past normal sporting hours.

Shoving those thoughts away, I recall that Claude proffered me some data points about how the Church celebrates St. Macuil's day:

1. The Morning Mass was from 7am-11am

2. The Afternoon Mass was from 1-5pm

3. The Evening Mass began at 7pm – and should be ending now at 11pm.

He then made some assertions that I'm not so sure about:

1. The people who attended the morning mass would be tired and would retire early.

2. Very few students would have attended the afternoon mass because of the activity.

3. Naturally, those attending the evening mass could not be at the bar yet.

And Claude postulated that this would mean all those at Celica's are atheists. Those students are:

Eagles: Ferdinand, Edelgard

Lions: Felix, Sylvain, Ingrid

Deer: Claude, Lorenz

I, Manuela, and Maya are also here along with three dozen others – so presumably all of us are atheists as well. Manuela has several Knights of Seiros wrapped around her finger at one of the tables, and is holding court rather like an Empress – or Emperor, or whoever… and frankly, I have no desire to talk about such particular matters with her. Maya has not confirmed or denied this opinion, as I expect she likes to be mysterious. Finally, according to Hubert – whose black horse-drawn buggy I saw roll by a few minutes ago – I am perceived as a "rather public atheist".

Ferdinand and Lorenz are sitting together sampling some sort of Rusalka Chambourd that my Noblest of Nobles insisted I try earlier. This was just before Edelgard hiccuped and ran off to the bathroom. He's since left the drink on the table, deemed Edelgard disgusting and unfit for the throne, and insisted I review the Imperial libation prior to last call. Chambourd is a brandy liqueur, I believe, and brandies do have some medicinal functions – so I may offer it to Edelgard instead.

That said, I'm not sure which category Rusalka Chambourd is in. I recall my father mentioning to me once that brandy can be either "fancy" and "medicinal", and whenever I took ill in my childhood with a fever or cough – he would mix up brandy of a medicinal variety with some herbs, warm it under some coals, and then have me drink it.

And it worked, for the most part. He stopped making those for me after I started killing people for him, and I find myself wondering if that was the reason now. Does alcohol stop being medicinal after you've killed people?

As far as I know… Edelgard hasn't killed anyone yet (though not for lack of trying), so she should be fine.

Returning to the drinkers and not the drink, it seems that Churching is a thing that nobles like Lorenz and Ferdinand would be likely to do. Particularly, I recall Ferdinand saying as much at the infirmary. Moreover, he also mentioned that this noble-ness is also in part conferred by the Church, who must be a key player in Imperial politics as well.

Sir Lorenz, who I often shower next to, is also a fellow that is quite conscious and concerned about his own nobility. I also know he puts a high value on the necessity of female virtue, as according to him in our shower chats – he will need a properly religious, beautiful, and high class woman to become his wife someday on account of his birth.

Thankfully Edelgard has deemed that I'm not an individual fit for romance at this moment. I suspect that if I was, I would start to require standards like Sir Lorenz… and be impossibly confused by them as a result.

As for the Lions… I am less sure. Felix almost certainly only believes in himself – while Ingrid and Sylvain's thoughts on religion are quite unknown to me. They are residents of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, though – one would imagine they'd be likely to put stock in such a thing… but I'm starting to learn to leave my assumptions at the door with these kids.

So, circling back to Claude's thesis – I am ambivalent, so that would make me an agnostic? That's different from someone who has strong feelings one way or the other, right?

"So, what d'you think?" His Deceitfulness finally asks.

Agnostically, I shrug.

He shakes his head in feigned dejection.

Gathering now that this was a debate he may have had with Maya earlier, I assume that I was supposed to be the means to tip it in his favor, as I did admit to being not so sure about religion myself, last month. Does that mean that Maya is religious?

I turn to Maya who also shrugs at me from inside the Lion Lancer's oversized uniform – as if she somehow read my mind. Her cheeks are also quite flush, presumably meaning she's also been drinking.

"You look concerned, Professor – but he's the lightweight. Listen to how many words he strung together just to sound like an idiot." she tells me with upturned lips.

Given how many words I've strung together in this diary, I must be the biggest idiot of them all.

…I'm willing to grant that Claude is drunk, though.

Everyone at Celica's seems drunk or very nearly drunk right now, as the bar has been "open" for some time now. To my surprise, the open bar is thanks to an expression of magnaminty from the Archbishop – drinks are on her, tonight. Armed with that knowledge, it seems pretty easy to extrapolate that St. Macuil must have fancied a drink every now and again. Two notable exceptions in inebriation are me and my House Leader – arriving fashionably late after she spent an hour pacing inside her room.

She had a single cocktail before the afternoon's acidity kicked up. When Ferdinand arrived, she also got very agitated – and that appears to be a recipe for hiccuping… along with her very vulnerable smile and happy mood on Duedue's hand-cranked spinning teacup ride.

She has also just exited the restroom.

Noticing this, Maya reaches across the table and yanks Claude's yellow cape, tugging it in the general direction of My Student. He is given the opportunity to notice her before the Younger Kirsten then tugs Claude out the door, and clear past Sylvain – who I thought was her partner to do non-wholesome things with. Sylvain does not notice this, because his back is to the door.

Edelgard returns to the seat, adjusts the portfolio in her lap while looking down at it, and then returns her eyes to me rather distantly.

Looking at her now, I notice that the only wardrobe modification that she made was to switch out her pumps with boots – as Dorothea suggested to me earlier this morning and I've still failed to do. Although wearing my greaves – admittedly, would look… strange, I imagine.

This is going to be the first and last day I wear these pumps and leggings, though… I hope.

But if Edelgard asked again, of course I would indulge her – because she smiled today.

She's not smiling right now, though – and looks rather pensive.

"Are you OK?" I ask.

Thankfully, that question hasn't lost its touch– at least with Lysithea gone, now.

"...You need not worry, My Teacher – it is just some… agitation from the espresso."

Tapping the brandy glass, I suggest:

"Chambourd might help with that."

I watch Edelgard grab the stubby stem with the white gloved fingers of her left hand – and then… perhaps due to the contrast, I start to realize how long, thin, and delicately beautiful her hands are. In spite of the gloves that bar my access to their full view. I've seen her bare right hand of course, covered in scars all around… but the beauty is impossible to ignore now, irregardless of their coverings.

For most of my life, I had never believed that people could actually be aesthetically pleasing to me before. They could be killed aesthetically, of course – but in life? And I'm starting to gather that the more I see of Edelgard, the more parts of her body I find enrapturing. As if each passing moment is an opportunity to learn something new about My Student, in spite of spending so much time with her in the passing month observing her eyes in exclusivity.

Which I also would note – captivate me in ways far beyond my repetitive descriptions of them.

She takes a halting sip of the drink, and then follows up with another one carrying a bit more vigor behind it. I guess we found a new booze of choice.

The Adrestian hates cheap thrills, after all. And Rusalka Chambourd is anything but cheap.

"This is… yes, you're right… much to my surprise, it is quite… soothing…?"

Brandies are among the least acidic of all alcohols, so adding vanilla would make that adjective apropos.

"There's vanilla in it."

"That is why it is rather sweet, at least for plain alcohol, right?"

I think My Student trying to say "not a cocktail" – as Chambourd, given the vanilla and… raspberry, I think – is definitionally not plain alcohol, but I'm not going to be pedantic right now. Not that I am ever actually a pedant, but the point remains.

"Some brandies suppress coughs." I offer.

Edelgard has been alerted to new trivia, so her eyes shoot up back to mine. This is my favorite part of her, I think. And… I don't recall assigning favorite parts about anyone until – well, right about now.

"...Is that so?" she asks

Not wanting to oversell it, and remembering my father's distinction between "medicinal" and "fancy" brandies, I attempt to draw back a bit – as I don't want to lie to those very expectant eyes that are beginning to blaze with interest.

"Perhaps it's too fancy, though."

I wasn't blessed with the gift of gab, and I've clearly confused the eternal flames out of her. As she squints and leans in, I get the impression that I must have offended her patriotic sentiments, as well. Like earlier today, she leaned in when discussing Adrestia's response to Leicester's copper embargo. Or – I guess, House Ordelia's copper embargo in particular, as it's their monopoly.

"Whyever would it be too fancy for such a decent purpose? Just because it hails from Adrestia?"

At this, I shake my head.

"...Then what was the purpose of saying that?"

I point to the Eagles' Tastemaker, who is about to leave with Lorenz, and I watch two purple orbs drift towards our ginger gentleman… and then roll very cutely.

"...Well, he at least fancies himself to be fancy."

As my shoulders lift into a shrug, I watch a small, young woman… take yet another large gulp of aged Chambourd. And now, I'm starting to worry that a drunk Edelgard with reflux… might be an issue getting back to the dorms in one piece.

"You shouldn't drink so fast." I recommend.

She looks up at me like a guilty puppy – and the pain arrives.

"...I know, I am… simply intending to suppress this cough... My constant trips to the restroom were an obstacle to our success today."

The belching – I mean hiccupping – has been upgraded to a cough.

"You'll just get drunk."… but I'm also gathering that she might want to.

The look she gives me when I say that is almost… mischievous? And that's definitely the first time I've ever seen her make that kind of expression.

Even now, I'm bedeviled to describe it – but the closest approximation I can make is her usual furrowed-brow frown, but instead of eyes wide open… they're half shut. And her chin is turned up ever so slightly to allow for her to look down at me with those half-shut eyes.

To seal the deal is… of course, a blush that might be already potent amount of sugar and alcohol already working its way through her system. She's eaten… roughly eighteen slices of Saghert and Cream over the past 48 hours. That's two shy of on an entire dessert tray.

But… she consumes a lot of sugar, anyway. So it might not be that.

Then I find myself wondering… is all this time we share starting to have the same effect on her as it has on me? My Student doesn't leave me sufficient time to consider this further, however – as she immediately snaps back with:

"...Do you mean to say that you do not trust me to moderate myself…?"

There's a bit of a challenge in that query, too.

I'd rather her not start cutting into her palms again – but I suspect we're not ready to have that conversation yet, regardless of whatever's in that folio of hers.

So I shrug and say:

"I'll protect you, either way."

I watch that squint of hers draw her eyelids a touch closer. Edelgard then leans forward and rests her hand on her chin, with her left elbow squarely on the table between us.

In a word – it's unpricess-ly. But I'm not opposed to that, even though the Adrestian seems to be opposed to me… looking out for her?

What an impossibly difficult woman she is.

But I wouldn't change a single aspect of Edelgard if I could. Even the gaslight, almost Dorothean in precision, that follows:

"And I take it that you are suddenly concerned… because you actually believe that lie from our classmate this afternoon…"

Staring blankly is really the only appropriate response. Edelgard interprets this exactly in the way I was intending, though – which makes me guess she isn't totally lost to the liquor yet.

"...W-where he stated that random men and women accompany me to my room at night." she continues, taking a bit of surprise from my nonchalant response.

"Not really." I reply, shaking my head.

"W-well you should be…! How could you trust me as your House Leader if I did such a thing?"

Should my trust in her as a student be dependent on who she spends her time with? If it was, I probably would've lost it a long time ago given how Hubert acts. Is that Hubert's plan, I wonder?

The Heir to an Empire continues to clarify:

"Not that I am of course – as I mentioned… much in the same way that you are indisposed… that I also have no time for romance at this moment. With that in mind, I must inquire after the reason why you are attempting to cut off my consumption, then."

…Is this Claudian logic? I'm not exactly sure how the logical follow-up for "I don't have time for romance" is "stop trying to limit my drinking".

Maybe this is yet another trust exercise that I'm failing.

"I'm not."

Does she think I am? She's clearly working through some fresh scrutiny, so I then blurt out:

"...Just looking out for you."

My statement here seems to calm the fire in her eyes… but not the red at her cheeks, leading me to believe that she is indeed a bit buzzed, much like the twenty-third. Shaking her head in her palms, she then replies, almost as haltingly as I do:

"...Yes, you always do, of course…and… I remember you fussing after our visit to the Lions. It was unnecessary… I simply had a slight reflux reaction… perhaps from the espresso."

Since she's in a sharing mood at the moment, I might as well press:

"Certain drinks provoke it…?"

And the disagreeable Edelgard who I still appreciate but find rather frustrating exits the scene, having played her part. The half-shut eyelids lift to a more reasonable position, and she begins to assess my words rather than my intentions.

"Hm… Well, I suppose I am sensitive to spicy foods, yes. And now, maybe… acidic beverages?"

Nodding, I get the sense that she wants to continue – which she does:

" …But Hubert's letter said that the flavor was blood orange. Those are quite similar to Bergamot, are they not?"

"Bergamot is sweeter." This comes quite naturally from me, as if I somehow knew better than the tastebuds of the entire world.

What must be my stupid confidence behind that statement prompts the slightest smirk, and the Adrestian retreats from her lean. After sliding her chair closer to the table, she takes another… more measured sip of the brandy. Although I suspect, having cleaned out two thirds of the glass, it's far too late now to prevent the emergence of Drunkelgard.

"Still, might it have been disagreeable because of the temperature…? It was quite hot."

"You could've lightened it."

"What…?" she asks, her eyes widening in surprise.

If I could smirk – I certainly would, considering how she was effectively at the front door watching as Linhardt would bring over fresh, cold, cream from the ice-cellar in the dining hall all afternoon.

"Non-Huberts use cream and sugar."

I get the impression that she's looking back to Lysithea nearly overflowing the teacup with the heavy cream that we kept running to grab from the dining hall's icebox.

"I see… given his directions to you, I had assumed that the intent was to drink it black. "

There's no doubt in my mind that Hubert would consume espresso black, but… even most of the townsfolk took it lighter than that, and they're supposedly the type of people who prefer coffee. This is, of course – ignoring that I'm a commoner and prefer tea. And that… Dorothea is also a commoner and prefers tea.

"It's an acquired taste." I state with a shrug.

"Well, after today – I am not sure I have much interest in acquiring it… Still, I am surprised he recommended it in such a manner."

"Do you two share tea?"

A shake of her head follows.

"No.. I cannot say we do. We haven't seen each other… for a few years, and he never really had a taste for tea… even when we were children."

Another interesting fact with a story I'm likely never to get – as it seems both of them were apart for a time. Although I'm not about to press for details, I suppose Hubert's possessiveness makes more sense in that context.

"He knows you enjoy desserts, though."

Saying this somewhat distractedly, I suspect that she might have interpreted that as a question and not an observation.

"Of course, he would truly be a terrible… friend… if he didn't, would you not agree?"

Is she emphasizing friend there for a reason, I wonder? Hubert refers to himself as her servant. Still, I'm not trying to drag his name through the mud like he seems to intend to do with mine.

Expert on the Albinean Navy.

My guess is that he wanted me to look like an idiot there.

"Sure." I confirm.

"Then why ask such a thing?" she presses.

"I didn't."

And it turns out that suspicion was correct. To Edelgard's credit though – she takes note of my raised eyebrow indicating that I wasn't trying to lead her anywhere with that by saying:

"...I suppose you hadn't actually framed that as a question."

Confirmation: I didn't.

"Are you keeping the machine?" I ask – on his behalf.

To My Student's credit though, she seems to consider it. I had expected a flat-out denial given how agitated the espresso made her.

"While I'm impressed with its… innovativeness, I… hardly see much use for it."

Shrugging, I reply:

"It's a gift."

"So…? He has offered me plenty of gifts that I've found better uses for…"

At this moment – to pilfer her words – I'm tempted to try speaking something into existence:

"Hubert is sentimental."

And this provokes a laugh that I never hear enough. When the Heir to an Empire finally recovers, she knocks back the rest of the brady glass… which is less of a relief, but she's made her choice.

In about twenty minutes or so, I'll be seeing Edelgard drunk.

"...I can only imagine his face if he heard you say that!" she exclaims cheerily.

Taking advantage of the remaining window of sobriety, I offer:

"Still, you deserve it."

"...Deserve it?" she asks perilously.

Letting her sit on those four words, I find myself contemplating what I should say here. Brilliant is a word I'm wary of overusing – I've yanked it out thrice already today, and I suspect a fourth time would be deadening any value my next words would have.

"Your leadership was inspirational."

I found myself mulling over that word earlier this morning, when Ignatz was painting. Perhaps, like those painters in the Derdriu bar, Edelgard is my barmaid. And the barmaid for the entirety of the Black Eagles, as they… in their cringeworthy, dysfunctional, threatening way – won today, in spite of Hubert's meddling, and in spite of all the bickering.

A step was taken, in effect. Towards them not murdering each other in some territorial scrap like those bald eagles on the viaduct not so long ago. In a week, I'll be turning that territorial energy on some bandits. Although… I'll want to soften them up a bit before then.

The Bald Eagle in front of me flicks her hair and says:

"Well, perhaps you have swayed me a bit… and as you said, it is from Hubert."

My Bald Eagle's shoulders have already started swaying from her drink as well.

"Our win is his as well." I say, and I mean it. I just need to convince Hubert of that, don't I?

After I say those words, Mischievous-gard enters stage left.

"...And since you led us to that end, I think that you also deserve a gift, My Teacher."

And that gift resides in the folio, I suspect. And so I shrug, which just adds accelerant to the flame before me.

With eyes alight, Edelgard asks:

"...Could I impose on you to join me on the patio…?"

She's not imposing.


The wind is calling tonight, but it cuts against Celica's sidestreet-facing facade and not the patio looking out to the viaduct –which is strategically shielded by the barkeeps' second-floor residences, providing a pleasant reversal of the situation that prevailed the last time Edelgard and I ascended the steps and joined each other in private conversation in this oh-so-scenic spot.

The stillness here in the chaos that surrounds us provides a sensation that the two of us are in the eye of a storm, as the branches of budding trees sway against the nighttime gusts, and the fires in the viaduct street-lamps strut about in the moonlight.

But nothing quite flickers like the flames within Edelgard's irises, whose intensity betrays the fact that even now she is practicing, one last time, the very measured and very selected words that will comprise whatever she wants to share with me tonight.

"Well… this is what I wanted to show you."

Unwrapping the band around the folio, she slides out a heavy, white sheet of easel paper that is roughly a foot and half in height and two feet in length. And then I recall… that was roughly the size of Ignatz's work today.

But, rather curiously – she doesn't just hand it to me yet. For a time, she just stares at it with trembling white gloves, and a resolute expression.

"Promise you will speak to no one else about this, My Teacher."

"You have my word." she does, always.

"...This is a portrait… made by my mother, of the Black Eagles'… Class of 1145."

And then Edelgard thrusts it my way, as if her mind was telling her not to… but her body moved of its own accord, in heroic resistance against her will. Knowing how much My Student just trusted me here, I take and hold it with the gentlest grip imaginable, careful not to even press into the paper.

In the portrait I see the Black Eagles classroom setup in the exact seating arrangement we had today. Four chairs, with four individuals sitting in them – two girls and two boys. There are a few figures that catch my attention immediately.

Sitting in a center-left seat is a man – roughly my age, I suspect… or slightly younger – with parted, light-brown hair and slate-hued eyes rather similar to my own. He is wearing a maid-costume… with red leggings and pumps… also echoing my outfit at the moment.

Just to the right of him in the next seat is a girl… perhaps Petra's or Lysithea's age… a brunette with lavender irises – strikingly similar to Edelgard's. She is also wearing a maid-costume.

To the right of her, is a man with a messy clump of violet hair and black eyes – who's wearing a placid expression that immediately brings Linhardt to the forefront of my mind. But, upon closer inspection – his facial features unmistakably resemble those of Bernadetta von Varley. And then I notice that he is also wearing a four-fingered archer's glove… leading me to conclude the obvious. This is Bernie's dad.

Left of my doppelganger in the maid dress… is a fellow who appears slightly older than the rest of the class, perhaps around Dorothea's age, with swept-back coffee-colored hair and the same purple orbs as Edelgard and the girl two seats over.

The final figure of note is a man who is utterly unmistakable. Standing in between the Maid-Man and the Young Girl is a youth with spiky, dirty blonde hair and hot pink, dastardly retinas. He's leaning in, and has one hand on each chair in front of him, smirking devilishly. This individual is Fallstaff von Hrym, my father's AWOL lieutenant, and My Student's enemy.

"...Was this Fallstaff's doing?" I ask.

Edelgard shakes her head in shock.

"No, My Teacher…! The Maid Cafe concept was actually my mother's. She is sitting next to my Father, the Emperor."

My eyes dart in surprise down to the man in the maid dress.

"Your father is…?"

She nods.

"Indeed… he is wearing the maid costume. He… did so… to appease my mother. Unlike me, I am told she was quite difficult to please as a youth."

No… that sounds exactly like you, My Student.

On closer inspection though – I realize that our eyes and outfit are rather the only part of us that I can call a shared feature. This fellow's face is nothing like mine. It's as if it is carrying a great deal of trouble and angst... and that angst is just slashed into his cheeks and lips into like a million scars. Slumped as he is in this portrait – his whole aura is eerily familiar in manner. Sans the eyes… I know who has that face, and it's not me at all.

And… now I find myself asking a question that I didn't even feel like asking two hours ago.

Who gave the Crown Prince of Faerghus those garlands?

Impulsively, I blurt out:

"...He kind of looks like Dimitri."

Which sends Edelgard into a hiccup and a flash of red all over.

"...I-I think not…!"

Looking up from the painting, I realize that Edelgard looks about as vulnerable as I've ever seen her. And so I gently return this memento of hers, realizing that I've seen enough. As she roughly clutches it back, she says:

"...I-If I must say this, my father looks like neither of you – but I think his eyes bear a much closer resemblance to yours than Prince Dimitri's."

At this moment, I question if you get slate-blue eyes from murdering people. I don't really know if I was born with them – and never asked. I have seen my father's fade a bit in hue over time, however. Did her father's irises do the same?

As those thoughts toss around in my head, a more prominent one forces its way through my lips, reminded by the argument Edelgard and Ferdinand had in the infirmary.

"Did you want to repeat history?"

Another shake of her follows.

"Precisely the opposite, My Teacher… I wanted to correct it."

Watching her, I see her eyes – as if on cue – close and begin a dress rehearsal for the speech to follow. And… unlike all the other times she's done this, I don't find it all that annoying. Because I know this isn't a speech meant to obfuscate – it's one meant to illuminate. And when she begins, I listen with every bit of acuity that I summon forth:

"...When my mother proposed the activity to my father, who naturally was House Leader, he initially agreed but then lost interest in seeing the matter through and instead sought to plot his way to victory, probably with the consultation of… his friend, the future Baron Morgaine."

Was Fallstaff her father's Hubert? Incredible.

I'm starting to gather why I always found myself ill-at-ease around that man on campaign.

And perhaps why Hubert found himself ill-at-ease around that man, as well.

"My mother spent a great deal of time and effort in planning this endeavor… and even went through the effort of a self-portrait, alone in front of a mirror the night before the rest of the class arrived that day…"

Perhaps that's why Edelgard seems to have a passing interest in the arts, as well. And in burning the midnight oil.

"Impressive." I interject.

And then My Student grimaces – as if feeling a blow struck nearly two scores before.

"Yes, but… her vision was trampled upon in the end, My Teacher. All those efforts resulted in naught, and everything claimed was hollow, as good as pointless… None of the people in that portrait grew any stronger from it, and their weakness…"

The Heir to the Man in the Portrait trails off and leaves the conversation dead for several moments. Realizing she's lost initiative, I try my best to grant it back.

"Lost sight of the goal…?" I offer.

And then I see in an epiphany in those eyes that I myself realize it's become rather difficult to not seek approval from.

"That… is a close enough approximation, My Teacher… so, in order to move forward – I sought to prevail on my own terms and… do honor to the memory of my mother. Quite like you resolved when that woman…"

The events of earlier this afternoon return in a flash – particularly Leonie's offer of the garland flowers to me… in reality, meant to be sent to my father. And that must mean her mother must have passed along as well.

The lashes against my chest become unbearable at this point – and out of reflex, my neck draws itself towards the monastery, in what must be a rather pained grimace. Luckily, she does not see this, as her chin is drawn towards the ground, probably swirling in her own emotions.

"...And… perhaps I was concerned, a few nights ago, that I had lost my nerve as well. Hubert had offered to do the same as Morgaine did to secure our triumph… without knowing all of the context, of course. But… after seeing our efforts yesterday, and of course today… and a victory reaped by our own efforts, I feel as if we've righted a wrong. A small one, but a first step towards righting many others."

We've righted nothing, of course.

The lamps of a black horse-drawn carriage are far in the distance, as they cut across the night with magnified intensity. The Marquis of Pickled Sausages must have finished his trek across the viaduct.

Hubert… that fucking ratfucker.

He's made me an accomplice, now.

What a mess this all is for my mind now – which is just as torn up as my chest, too. The Beginning is also at the end of her day as well, as I get nothing from her in what should be a good opportunity for advice. Another issue creeps in as well… If I end up handing Edelgard the rest of Hubert's correspondences as she asked… she'll see him drop that little tidbit of information that he shared with me – against his better judgment. Apparently.

He did suggest burning the letter, of course. But is that not a breach of the trust I was so eager to give her?

But, now I'm wondering if it isn't better to let her have this one…

…And then work towards making sure the rest of her dreams are achieved the way she really wants them to be. Because, as she said: we need to move on and correct the past, and not dwell on it.

Still – does that make any better than him?

Time presses on and Edelgard does not let me consider this further:

"...Of course, I have you to thank for all of this, My Teacher – for both your… deference, but also… your collaboration. I realize now that… I could not have achieved this if we had not chosen to walk together upon it."

I'm thankless in this affair, and just as complicit, of course.

"I just wrote an outline." I offer, perhaps bitterly.

Currently, I realize that I'm feeling bitterness right now – something I've only observed in others – Dimitri, Hubert, My Father – and Edelgard's as well, if the portrait is any evidence. His daughter looks up at me with the most honest expression I've seen, and I might as well just stab myself with my own dagger for some relief for the destruction wrought upon me at this moment.

But this is what it means, isn't it?

To protect someone.

Not every battle I'll fight here will be with swords.

And I suspect I'll have to train myself to fight with this plea to withdraw. As if my choice to feel was a choice to march alone against an enemy that outnumbers me by the million.

I'm certainly on the retreat at the moment. From Edelgard now, too – who presses home her assault on my chest:

"...Even so, it is as you said – the mission brief detailed the goals so that others could understand them… without me needing to demonstrate the failures of the past in such detail. Bernadetta worked very hard on her baking, when… her father had a reputation for sloth."

I bring my eyes back to her. And I get the impression that whatever expression I'm wearing must be a bit different from my usual one.

"She did great." I say. And she did – Bernie must have spent thirty-five of the last forty hours in a hot kitchen baking.

Those kinds of shifts – which I've punched on the battlefield before, nearly broke me once. There's a long upward slice along my left ankle and calf – one that Dorothea was calling "statuesque" at the fitting. That scar, like a few others I carry on various limbs, is a memory of an oversight I made in such an exhausted state.

So I'm proud of Bernadetta at this moment – but that pride is overtaken by guilt at the knowledge that I'm hiding from Edelgard. She continues on, striking at me with each word:

"There may be a time in the future, as Emperor, in which I cannot prevail in everything so honestly… so…"

As long as I'm here, I'll give her that chance – if she still wants it. And if she doesn't, then I'll become a greater villain than Hubert in the pursuit of it. I've got my own failure to make up for now, I suppose.

But is it actually my failure?

Could I have stopped Hubert?

Would we have won without cheating?

A million other inquiries like these aim themselves like lances at my upper-right torso to the point where I wonder if I've got sufficient square footage for them all.

That question is pertinent because I want to take them all, with all the requisite stimuli sent straight to what remains of my logical faculties – because if one helps me answer her sufficiently, I'd take them all happily in the pursuit of that single scrap of aid. After taking these lances for a time, I'm prompted to ask a question:

"Edelgar–"

Snapping out of her own contemplation at the mention of her name, My Student immediately falls back from what she was about to say – a mask returning and desirous to cut me off:

"-No, I was speaking out of turn… I – wish to remain in the present at this moment, My Teacher."

That I can oblige. Although the strikes do not stop, and every part of my mind is telling me to be honest about what just happened – and an excuse of maybe someday proves utterly insufficient at this moment. Still, it is like this afternoon. I cannot drown myself in this guilt. So I bring my blank expression back to hers, and allow her to take her some solace in the fact that my face rarely betrays the torrent of distress that lies behind it.

Bittersweetly for me, she does exactly this, her resolute, commanding, controlling – and perhaps soon even mischievous demeanor returning. Those Edelgards I have grown to look forward seeing with each passing day here at Garegg Mach.

Scarcely missing a beat from my slate irises meeting her lavender ones, she says:

"You might be able to seek my permission for Garland Flowers now, if you wish..."

Can I even accept such a thing, with this knowledge? I'm about to ask that very question:

"Can–"

Before I'm cut off again… and corrected, amusingly.

"May, My Teacher."

And so I decide – against my better judgment – to use Hubert's favorite mantra, to play along.

"May I… have permission…?" I ask.

My Student shakes her head and replies.

"Absolutely not."

I stare blankly, and dumbstruck.

"... As it is already after midnight, so St. Macuil's day is over." she continues.

My gaze drifts to the moon, and its position grants me some certitude in this fact... as a sensation of resignation begins to creep in. But perhaps that's for the best, as I'll have to eventually shed these feelings as the flow of time progresses, and I need to kill more for these kids in order for them to maintain an innocence I've never had.

"However – as your House Leader, I have been thinking about an acceptable alternative."

These words return my attention to her.

And she has raised a very Bylethian eyebrow at me... one that makes me quite proud.

"...And because you value my constant efforts on your behalf, you should ask me what that is." she suggests.

"...What is it?" I comply.

Reaching into her folio, Edelgard pulls out a crown fashioned from red carnations. Eight of them, stems wrapped betwixt each other – and then I realize why she had been hiding those garnishes from the other night.

And the warmth that I occasionally feel when she makes gestures like this overwhelms me like kindling in a bonfire. And for the first time in my life…

I want to emote.

But I can't.

The jailer that is my face refuses to release an ounce of emotion that has been welling inside me since that night in Remire.

If I could smile the most vulnerable, sentimental, misshapen smile like the one Petra tried to fashion on my face at the conclusion of this damn holiday, I'd trade the opportunity to do so right now for every sensation and feeling that have been consuming me in totality for the past moon, rending me into more of a pulp than that bandit's axe could have ever managed.

I want to do that because Edelgard is smiling right now, proud of her efforts. Proud of us. Her face looks so relaxed, so genuine, and I start to wonder if seeing her do that the only thing I really want from this world anymore.

The knowledge that I can't return even an ounce of her emotion provokes an all-encompassing feeling of self-doubt to boil up, just like it did earlier this afternoon with Lysithea around. Those very first words that I composed in this diary… they are all I can ever be, I suppose – in spite of all my verbal protests to the contrary...

Hesitation.

I'm hesitant.

Hesitant to even respond to this girl knowing no number of words I ever say will ever replace the expressions that normal human faces offer. Expressions that I've been observing from the girl who I realize is standing so close to me now. I can smell her perfume, even... and naturally, it smells like those flowers, along with... amber? Or something like that.

Our noses are maybe three inches away from each other at this moment, and that upturned, celestial little nose is one I'd become a war criminal to keep from getting bloodied. I know this now, and I haven't the slightest idea as to why, or what the eternal damning flames I'm supposed to do about it.

At just above a whisper, she says:

"I-I thought this a suitable substitute, given how… I am your House Leader, and if I cannot offer you garlands… no one else may, either... But – there are no rules about carnations, right?"

"...There… aren't." I manage, as if each lip is held down by a boulder.

"And… of course, I remember that you said such flowers are used by the people of Dagda to commemorate victories."

And the husk that stands before you Edelgard, is more utterly dead and ruined than that country than your father invaded and put to the torch. I know that much about Dagda.

...I know that much about myself, as well.

"...They are." is the best I can manage.

But Edelgard doesn't care that I can't really speak, does she? Because I'm Her Teacher… and what little I give, she's grateful for.

And, perhaps I utterly broken by this knowledge… but I can't express it.

Moreover, she'll never see it.

I can't offer a thing to this woman who is offering me a crown of hand-woven carnations.

Not even a smile.

It's as if she's making an offering to the dead.

"...Then let us celebrate our victory, My Teacher." she says, and I want to rip my whole fucking face off.

In spite of that, most wonderful and overwhelming pain overtakes me at this moment, as powerful but as soothing as the one that prompted the halting of time in Remire just one month prior.

And I realize… that I hadn't that thought that pain wonderful then, as I do now. It was just pain. But now it's brought on by Edelgard, and that makes it amazing.

"...Thank you Edelgard." I utter as soullessly a golem. And that's what I might as well be, right?

Utterly unsure about what's going to happen next, I simply lock my gaze with hers and wait. Mischievous-gard then makes her third and most impactful entry of the night… and for the first time…

She's imposing.

Intimidating, even.

Totally fearstruck despite my blank face, I notice in terror at her getting on her tip-toes in those high-heeled boots of hers, and adorning my azure hair with her crown of crimson flowers. Those half-shut lavender irises, so proud, so excited, locking with mine... which I suspect betray nothing at all behind them.

The guilt – a feeling that I only felt the slightest twinge of when dining with the Lions on the 23rd, tears and claws and seems so fiercely frustrated at its inability to destroy a non-existent heart that it creeps up to my throat and holds my vocal cords hostage instead.

Those lavender eyes, looking so expectantly into mine… closer than I could have ever imagined… and I cannot even think a single thought about them.

Instead, something begins to creep into my otherwise empty mind…

Did I kill my mother?

Will I end up killing Edelgard, too?

Like all the others?

And those thoughts aren't just uttered by me. In this passing moment of lucidity, I feel like they're uttered by Sothis, too?

And then the wind shifts, taking myself and the Adrestian by complete surprise. Those lavender irises then go very, very wide.

At this moment she hiccups. And that hiccup – or coughs –or in reality, a reflux belch, throws a bunch of… wet, acidic, particles on this accursed face of mine in what must be retaliation for its stillness.

This is followed by a dry heave. Her lavender eyes fall from mine in shock.

What follows is a wet heave. And as frothy, yellow-brown liquid pours from her lips... I feel such relief that her eyes have fallen away from mine.

Because mine return nothing but the impression of an unfeeling monster, an Ashen Demon.

Currently, my legs feel very warm… as warm as my chest, really. But they don't hurt at all like that other body part.

Edelgard, I realize now is vomiting.

Her chin is down, her neck dipped.

My Student is vomiting at both of our feet.

All over our maid outfits in fact, given how terrifyingly close she got just a moment ago. And these observant, unmoving eyes can see everything she ejects in such detail – the eight slices of Saghert and cream that's been sitting in her stomach for hours… the syrupy Chambourd whose too-fast consumption probably predicated this whole reaction… I even feel confident enough to spot the espresso that has bedeviled her for the entire afternoon, in spite of how insane that all seems thinking back upon it.

As if by reflex, motivated by that other night… I bring my hands around to hold back those side bangs that curl out from her forehead just past her chin, and wrap them around the back of her head, which I then bring forward to my chest, where she resumes another upchuck of stomach goop and spittle into my apron.

Three more of those follow until I see her chest heave its last and slowly start to resume normal breathing.

But that forehead of hers, just above my unexplainable chest scar that's been there since birth, doesn't withdraw just yet. And so we remain there, standing in a pool of her vomit for a time… until a voice captures our attention from the direction of the staircase.

"Oh my – this is delightful."

Even though I've only heard that voice once before, its owner is somehow unmistakable to me. It's the Archbishop's. And Edelgard's neck is even faster to rise up and whip to it in spite of just whipping out an entire afternoon's worth of dessert-food.

But my student is silent.

Looking at the Archbishop, I see a face full of bemusement. The green hair that falls from her head, sways gently in the wind as she takes a few steps towards us. Her white dress whips ever so slightly in the wind.

"...Please do not mind me, Professor, Princess Edelgard… It has been a joy to know that you both are adjusting so well to the monastery."

My student, who I defer to in these situations, is still silent.

So I realize that the responsibility falls to me…

…and the crushing pain that has been overtaking me has mostly disappeared.

"...Having a drink?" I ask.

Her neck tilts towards me after assessing my vomit-covered student.

That said, I'm also vomit-covered, too, I suppose.

It's just not my vomit, it's hers.

"I must admit to preferring tea over alcohol these days. But it is a rare treat to take a walk around the monastery town. Occasionally, even someone as occupied as I likes to spread my wings and chat with the townsfolk."

Thinking back to the jovial fellow who owns this bar... Mizan, a Dagdan with indigo hair… Perhaps in his mid sixties, I realize that Garegg Mach has plenty of fine, decent people within its walls. That it doesn't just attract Claudes, and Claude-like individuals.

It attracts Edelgards too.

And even unsophisticated sociopaths like yours truly.

"They're good people." I add, and notice that Edelgard is watching me very intently, and not the archbishop, with those lavender irises that feel so… agonizingly far away now, in spite of the terror that brought to me when so close to mine.

The archbishop brings the tip of her right-hand fingers to her lower lip.

"They are… knights, monks, townsfolk and students alike… and seeing you so close to your students after such a short time… is just proof that you possess something extraordinary inside of you."

Her comment here… inspires me, strangely, to be a little more verbose as well. As if I was catching up with an old friend who I never had.

"The only extraordinary thing I possess… is a responsibility to the students I've sworn to protect."

And I'm not the only one who's surprised, either. Surprised-out-of-her-mind Edelgard has reappeared beside me and is staring at me as if a philosopher-king has replaced Her Teacher. Her lips of hers are starting to cake, covered in her own stomach's refuse. My Student's neck then snaps to the archbishop, as if the Adrestian realizes she's the focus of the archbishop's attention now – which she is.

". Do not fret, as neither of you have done wrong in my eyes. This monastery was founded long, long ago… in memory of a celebration… Tonight, I shall leave you to yours. Thank you for your time, Professor, Princess…"

With that, her bare, long, talon-like hands with manicured nails at the end of each finger that suddenly seem eerily familiar to me as well… as if they've reached into the very emptiest part of my chest and taken something from me long ago… pick up her long white dress that falls down to her ankles.

Following a curtsy, she turns and descends the stairs.

Leaving the two of us in alone in our silent, stunned, surprise.

And, of course… still ankle-deep in Edelgard's vomit.

My Student and I are content to stay in that pool for a time, staring at each other silently, at least until a pair of spotlights blare at us from below.

Revealing Hubert – in a butler's suit – waiting outside his all-black buggy with an open door revealing – you guessed it, a black-leather interior.

He's glaring at me.

Can he see His Lady's half-digested dessert at our feet, I wonder?

Another gust of wind strikes my face at this moment, as if all the world's futility and irrationality has just decided to wrap me in a Ferdinandian Bear-Hug.

And then leave me in a pool of Edelgardian fluids.

Prompting me to think:

What a wonderful world.

…Never thinking that the world was very wonderful until this moment.