First Kill: Linhardt

10:09 AM

"...I… killed them? What have I done… the blood…!"

Linhardt von Hevring vomits on the scorched ground beside a fallen enemy. He's claimed his first kill – using my sword, which I've lent to him – after citing his discomfort about using magic to claim another's life. I'm willing to grant him a stay on using his wind spell to cut a man to pieces, at least for the time being. When he uses that spell next, however – I suspect he won't have the time to philosophize about it. It will be in a kill-or-be-killed scenario. And Linhardt… Well, he's a genius, after all. He'll process the gravity of the situation in sufficient time to utilize the incantation, I'm sure.

So I lent him my sword without complaint.

Regardless, he protested bitterly.

It can't be helped, though.

My sleepy slage drew the short straw.

Before descending into the valley, I whittled down some twigs with my dagger, clenched them in my fist and presented them to my students. Edelgard, recovered from her initial surprise, had eagerly volunteered to reap her first soul, with Hubert then volunteering to kill her first kill for her, but both of those firmly defeat the point of an exercise like this. One should claim their first life matter-of-factly, so that it becomes second nature – enthusiasm just blinds warriors to the reality of circumstance. For example, Holst is a very enthusiastic fighter. He is also missing a few fingers and also has some sort of groin disease, both the prices to pay from excessive enthusiasm on-and-off the battlefield.

I should probably not disclose this story to them, however – particularly not with Claude and Hilda in earshot. I suspect they resolved to stalk us as soon as I took the Eagles into the valley. I even heard a sharp exhale of laughter when Linhardt started puking. When I turned my head to see that snickering, I noticed a pink twintail duck behind a boulder.

Nothing about what just happened was amusing, though.

Linhardt did the man no small favor.

Writhing in agony from third-degree burns reaching up to his groin, the fellow who Linhardt finished off wasn't long for this world – and any assistance moving onto the next was probably appreciated on his part. He was certainly beyond any reasonable expectation of life-saving care from my healer. Given the circumstances, a soldier can only really expect a swift coup de grace.

This is what I assume, of course – the young man, probably my age – was only incoherently calling out for his mother – presumably to end the suffering and kill him already. It's a small solace that I never knew mine, should I fall like him on a battlefield – I would probably not look so pitiable. Lin hesitated as he brought the blade down on the young man's exposed throat, slick with sweat and choked-out blood. He gave that poor fellow a few more seconds of pain than he deserved in doing so.

That mercenary was, rather macably, burnt to a crisp inside his heavy steel armor. In the process, it no doubt fused to his flesh and mixed its poison mercury-and-tin casting alloy directly into his bloodstream. The toxicity of the affair must have made him delirious, which is why he was probably calling out for his mother instead of commenting on it.

"He was thankful." I say, as Linhardt hands back my scarlet-stained sword.

Linhardt grimaces at these words and turns back to his first kill, eyes glassed in death.

"Professor… how could you even pretend to know such a thing…?"

As always, my gentle genius makes a fair point. But I think it comes from his own silver-spoon upbringing, having clearly never seen a man die slowly, as I have thousands of times – and not always by my own hands. When that spectre comes, it does not always appear as merciful as Linhardt's thrust to the throat. Oftentimes, in Almyra, death came too slowly for many. I suspect their slaves wish it would come with each passing day.

"Projection." I reply.

This throws the Heir to House Hevring for a loop, and I realize now that it must have been a particularly poor explanation because of this. Bringing a hand to my chin, I notice his clear, cerulean eyes consider my point in confusion.

"...Huh…?"

Scratching my hair next, I figure an anecdote would be the best way to go about explaining this. Looking back at the peaceful expression on the horribly mangled soldier – I simply supply:

"I'd be thankful."

This assumption of mine prompts a slight shake of Linhardt's head, but I'm gathering he is beginning to understand – however fragmentarily – the nature of war.

"...I suppose you would have, Professor… however–"

"He was your enemy." I cut him off here not out of rudeness, but out of consideration.

There are no howevers when lives are on the line. All of these students would have been killed without much thought by these dead and dying mercenaries in the Canyon. Edgy Female Ferdinand, if she remained here, would be hooting and hollering for their skulls. Enemies like these are pitiable in their final moments, but professionally – their lives are not worth the vomit on the torched soil that Linhardt has offered them.

They were trying to kill my students. No amount of suffering on their part would be sufficient instruction on the error of this decision.

Even though I don't utter a single word of these thoughts – Linhardt seems, at long last, willing to grant them.

"...I suppose that is true, unfortunately. All the more reason to dispense with all this fighting and enjoy an afternoon nap."

That's a sentiment I can work with.


First Kill: Bernadetta

10:16 AM

"P-Professor, I-I found someone…!

Walking over to the once-hostile that Bernadetta identified, I spot a helmeted-knight on her stomach, digging her own grave with twitching, spasming legs. I've seen this before, of course – sometimes severe whiplash will cause uncontrollable muscle movements, and otherwise impair one's control over their own extremities.

Upon closer inspection, a horse-shoe print in her metal plate armor signals roughly what I expected. The lady cavalier probably tried to make a break for it on her horse after the bombardment started, and was thrown off in the chaos, presumably trampled upon in the process and reduced to a near-vegetative state.

Faintly smelling piss and shit – I find myself taking solace that she retired on a full stomach.

Bernadetta stares at the lady cavalier rather pitiably.

"I-I… really don't care if they were stealing anything… can we just leave now?" she asks.

Looking up at my sniper, and frankly… rather bewildered by her statement, I say:

"The mercenaries didn't steal anything."

And she returns an expression just as confused back to me.

Still, mercenaries aren't bandits. As a former mercenary myself I feel compelled to mention here that we don't, as a matter of course, steal much at all. Otherwise, what would separate a mercenary from a bandit? Lords will sometimes hire bandits as irregular troops, and they do as expected – pillage and carry off peasant women. Mercenaries may quarter themselves in a home, but they don't steal the belongings of that person, or make off with their family. Otherwise, that would ruin the professionalism of the company.

My father never allowed such things, at least. Violence was saved for enemies and not one's allies.

"...W-what about the bandits…?" Bernie inquires.

I point to the dying mercenary whose breaths are beginning to fade.

"That's a merc." I clarify.

"H-how do you know that?!" I'm asked by an increasingly exasperated archer.

Bringing a thumb to my hollow chest, I reply:

"I was a merc."

Bernadetta looks out across no man's land. It occurs to me that she may have never considered the possibility of their being anyone but bandits on the field – much less professional soldiers. I recall that as soon as I started my lecture, she ran off behind a rock and probably wasn't paying attention to the content much at all.

Which makes her yeoman's work at artillery spotting all the more impressive. I also gather through this that Caspar must have gotten her back up to speed as the bombardment began in earnest.

"P-Professor, this is too much…!"

Bernadetta must have yelled out thirty-different bullseye coordinates from the canyon precipice, so I doubt that this is too much in comparison to all of that, at least.

Desiring to speed the process along, I flip over the woman with my boot. Her armor is rather thin, along with her frame, and it does not take much exertion on my part to reveal her front – in order to offer Bernie a chance at a clean finishing blow.

Bernadetta freaked out at what the motion revealed however – a mutilated female with a burn wound had burnt half her face off – completely obliterating her nose and half her right cheek. It was quite recent as well – she must have been one of the final victims of the barrage.

Noticing us with her remaining eye, she wheezed out something unintelligible. The Goneril Cocktail must have singed her tongue off as well. This prompts a horrific scream from my shuddering shut-in.

"Aaaaaaah…! What happened to— her face—!" Bernadetta yells, prompting looks from half the class and a wet heave from Linhardt, obviously – but Dorothea as well, now.

"Burn wound." I state.

Bernadetta shakes her head in absolute fear. After gaining a slight amount of resolve, she manages to ask:

"S-shouldn't we just leave her be…?"

Shaking my head in reply, I command:

"Take aim."

"P–Professor…"

Unsure about how else to communicate my seriousness, I draw my sword.

"Take aim."

At this, my shut-in sniper starts to sense the non-negotiability of my command to her.

Bernadetta nocks an arrow and draws her bow.

"Loose."

At this, Bernie then releases a point-blank arrow-shot directly into the skull of the once dying – now dead – soldier. Realizing what she's done, her terrified gray eyes stare up at mine. They remain there for a time, but I don't sense that the terror behind is squarely directed at me. I'm rather used to watching people imprint their emotions onto my blank face… and I don't get the impression that Bernadetta is doing that at all.

And that's a relief.

"She's thankful." I say with a shrug.

This clearly isn't sufficient for Bernie, who recoils and spurts out:

"I-I killed her, though – why… thankful…. f-for what, Professor…?"'

The idea of sending her back to her tent crosses my mind at this point, given how she's losing all intelligibility. But I can't let her off that easily, can I?

My eyes fall back on the dead woman – whose lone eye stares up into the sky in tranquil stillness. Turning back to the Heir to House Varley, I reply with:

"Your mercy."


First Kill: Dorothea

10:22AM

"Professor, can you hold my hand while I do this?"

Dorothea's free hand is her right hand, as she's clutching her open spellbook in her left. This leads me to believe that she was born left-handed, a curious circumstance for someone with interests in the arts. My father claims that those who are left-handed are also "left-minded" – individuals without a temperament for the arts and letters. He would often say this as an excuse for when I had killed someone who was destined for an interrogation room, noting that my lack of imagination was due to my left-handedness and left-mindedness.

This query by the Hubert of the Heart brought Edelgard to my – right – side almost immediately. While I could sympathize with Dorothea at this moment, most of my cognitive energy was devoted to Edelgard, as usual. And… It was nice to see My Student next to me again, admittedly.

The Heir to an Empire had been conferring with the other Hubert for much of the morning, even through the ballista operation exercise. Throughout much of the bombardment, I noticed her pacing in frustration. Then, when Hubert noticed that I was noticing her frustration, he whisked her off back to camp under an excuse about his sudden forgetfulness regarding her extra pair of gloves, or something to that effect. I was going to ask about particulars – as I would be willing to keep an extra pair of gloves in my satchel – but the rest of his explanation was lost in the unintelligible screams of the dying echoing off the walls of the canyon.

Which brings me back to Dorothea, who is currently looking rather dejectedly at a young myrmidon who convulses back and forth on the ground – the top of his head scalped by flames. A few remnants of brown hair grace what's left of his scalp, most of which is planted in the sandy ground. All said, that was a perfectly acceptable method of putting out a minor burn wound. His severe burn wound, however, will likely end up killing him within a few hours – given the bloody mud that surrounds him.

Dorothea is an adult – and she is older than I am. Shouldn't she understand the reality of what she is about to do?

"Why?" I asked.

My Songstress looked at me as if I was the most callous, unfeeling individual who ever walked upon earth. In some respects, she's probably right.

"...Professor, I've seen plenty of people die before, but… I've never been the one to actually – you know…"

Her trailing excuse doesn't sit right with me, especially given her behavior recently. Looking into her jade-colored eyes, which then fall away from mine in a fashion reminiscent of Edelgard, I opt to press further.

"You encouraged Bernadetta." I say.

I say this recalling Dorothea giving a pep talk to my shut-in-sniper just before heading into the canyon. Apparently my pep-talk was insufficient. I am sure of this because after my terse pep-talk, Edelgard then felt the need to give a very distracted-sounding pep-talk, which only succeeded in terrifying Bernie more than my initial very focused-sounding pep-talk – which actually didn't terrify her at all.

Why is Bernie more afraid of Edelgard than she is of me, I wonder?

For the record, I think Edelgard made a great speech, even though I didn't really listen to anything she said. I found myself watching her hands quite a bit, and she was gesticulating quite a bit as she spoke, stealing glances at me – and then Hubert – and then the canyon (?) – and then back to Hubert – but most importantly, back to me – before at last returning those purple eyes of hers back to the Eagles.

My mind then drifts back to that morning on the training grounds where Claude had Edelgard poison me. Prior to that, My Student had dragged Bernadetta out from her dormitory, and she expressed some relief about the course being taught by me instead of Lieutenant Shamir. I wonder why that is?

Does Bernie understand that I'm protecting her?

I hope she does.

At this moment I find myself experiencing a hint of warmth wash over me.

But there is no pain to accompany that warmth, and as a result – I find myself feeling that such an emotion must be incomplete in some way.

And this hurts me while feeling none of the requisite hurt. In a word, it is a terrible sort of confusion. One that bedevils any attempt at explanation.

But, perhaps that means that I'm just making a poor extrapolation.

Before I can extrapolate further on this extrapolation, however, Dorothea rouses me out of my fugue with an answer:

"Maybe a gal like me… needs some encouragement, too..."

There's a slight, sharp inhale to my right, and this presages the expected pain pulsing out from my peritoneum. This, of course, prompts additional bewilderment. While I'm used to Edelgard's words causing me warmth and pain, Dorothea was the last to speak, and her halting tone may have been what provoked my concern.

But there was still the inhale.

Could even small mannerisms like that from my student cause such a reaction?

It couldn't be that, could it?

Moreover, it would be wrong to assume that Edelgard has sole domain over my feelings, wouldn't it?

I find myself wanting to protect Dorothea. But that does not cause me pain like it does with Edelgard – only warmth.

And that doesn't make any damn sense to me. So I find myself trapped in a logical nightmare, wondering what about Dorothea provokes the absence of pain when pain is almost all I feel around Edelgard.

A query to Sothis goes unanswered, so I am left to confront this alone.

As I do – I start to take stock of the emotions of others around me, particularly Dorothea. Maybe her fearfulness is what prompted that warmth – more precisely, that emotion coupled with the fact that I could alleviate some of that fearfulness, in spite of my own nature. And of course, I could do this by the comparatively small gesture of taking her hand in my own. In spite of my perpetual frustration with the Operatic Obfusicator, my mind falls back to the statement I made on St. Macuil's – one that I uttered without giving very much thought about:

Dorothea deserves happiness too.

And happiness is absence from fear, right?

I felt happy – I think – when Edelgard told me that I was desirable. The fear that she found me repulsive was eradicated in that instant, and the entirety of the world in all its wonder seemed to make itself apparent to me from that moment on. Even the Archbishop, who had been watching me hold My Student as she vomited at my feet, struck me as wonderful.

It's a fine feeling, happiness. And I only feel it around Edelgard… making the knowledge of her eventual departure from me next year one that strikes at my breast with unparalleled ferocity. So… if this one solitary gesture of mine can free Dorothea from fear, then it is my duty as her teacher to do it. Because happiness is wonderful, and every single one of my Eagles deserve to find it one day.

Without further hesitation – I take Dorothea's outstretched hand into mine. This, surprisingly, surprises the songstress, who must have been expecting me to do otherwise.

Edelgard must have been expecting me to do otherwise, at least.

Shortly after taking Dorothea's hand, I curiously brush my thumb across her palm, which is very very soft. Perhaps some women have soft hands. There is, of course, conflicting data here as Dorothea's palm is the opposite of Edelgard's, who is the only other woman I've taken by the hand before. At the very least, the hand of Enbarr's Most Eligible is much softer than Edelgard's – which I recall was so wracked in scar tissue that it was beyond sensation.

In spite of this, I find myself preferring Edelgard's. It reminds me of my own, and that is more comforting than the feeling of Dorothea's after such an analysis. People with soft hands should only hold the hands of people with soft hands, I think. Even now, this gesture between us feels unnatural – though obviously quite necessary.

This is another one of these observational maxims that I have been making lately that seems to resonate with me as good and correct, at least in the absence of Sothis who often identifies my maxims as foolish. Would Edelgard also consider them foolish?

Perhaps her and I would actually agree on them in principle, as we think similarly about many things. For example, she is not considering me for romance at all – and I am left to wonder if it's not for precisely the reason I identified the nature of my total incompatibility with her.

Because even though our thoughts are very much aligned, we argue about them incessantly. And that would make us terrible parents, and therefore incompatible for romance. Recently, I'm beginning to observe that some people are just incompatible with each other more generally.

For example, during the bombardment, which Sothis was awake for, I observed Ignatz and Lysithea arguing. Lysithea – I think – took some exception with the way she was being portrayed in the sketch that Igntaz was drawing. She claimed that making the ballista taller than her was insulting.

I strolled over at this moment and explained to her that the ballista when in direct-fire orientation was actually a full foot shorter than she was, but to do the indirect bombardment, we had to angle it upwards to fire in an arc. Lysithea was not pleased at all with this explanation, and asked if I had anymore candy. After explaining that my satchel was in my tent, she huffed at this – said that my forgetfulness was wasting her time, and then stormed off to get my satchel without asking permission to do so.

Ignatz expressed some concern about Lysithea being allowed to enter my tent alone, but after explaining to him that I had already slept with Lysithea during the camping trip, he became very quiet and sullen, apparently satisfied at this response.

That's a good thing, probably – because any romance between Ignatz and Lysithea would be disastrous. They were arguing, and Ignatz wasn't being chivalrous in his artistic depiction of her. They would be bad parents, I think. Naturally, I return to my essential maxim that two people who argue shouldn't become parents with each other at all.

When I thought this however, Sothis corrected me very angrily, and said that if I maintain such an opinion, I will die alone.

"You'll be there when I die." was my riposte to that, although it didn't really win the argument.

The toll one pays when debating with a progenitor, I suppose.

Sothis, of course, reminded me that she is not interested in me romantically, and therefore wishes that I wouldn't say things like that. This, at least to me, was a great relief. I had certainly not intended to express my romantic interest to Sothis – particularly because I don't have any. If she was interested in pre-emptively denying any opportunity, I could appreciate that.

I then endeavored to explain that we would naturally be poor parents because we argue with each other – to which… Through a blush, curiously, I was told very assuredly that I should be honored by any interest Sothis has in me, and that she was actually the best wife and mother in the whole history of the world, and that she often argued with her beloved about many pointless things, which had no impact on their ability to have children... who were also the best children in the whole history of the world.

Curious about this, I asked how such a thing was possible.

The solution, according to the Beginning, was to realize that women are always right and that men are always wrong.

There are some holes I could poke in this logic, but that would require me to divert too far from the purpose of this diary. I also realized that doing so would bring Edelgard into my critical crosshairs, and I don't wish to talk ill of her behind her back. Any critique of Edelgard should be supportive, and in no way rob her of the dignity which she so clearly is attached to.

As I think those thoughts, I am chastised further – with Sothis saying that I should lend the same uncritical support to her, and not my student exclusively… because Sothis is the Beginning, and Edelgard is just the girl in front of me.

When she was saying all this though, Lysithea was actually the girl in front of me, storming off in a huff to acquire the satchel from my tent. Lysithea also tried to give me a proper garland crown before it disappeared from her hands.

Was Sothis mistaking Lysithea for Edelgard?

I could never mistake them, of course.

This is because Edelgard is also my Beginning – thanks to Edelgard, I have begun to feel.

For a while, we then argued about the nature of women in words I cannot recall accurately. When I finally asked Sothis if she was in fact a woman, she stopped replying.

To me, she is very much a girl – and the differences between those two descriptive terms are different, aren't they?

Dorothea is a woman, which I understand as Old Enough for Romance. I don't wish to romance her, of course... but I wish her the best of luck, as her happiness is well-deserved.

Edelgard claims to be a woman, which I accept without protest because I defer to her. That said, Claude also mentioned that she is currently still a month away for being eligible for romance... legally speaking...?

Are the romance laws mandated by the Church, I wonder?

The Heir to an Empire does seem to like responsibility, though – so maybe she wants to take on that sort of role early. I can only hope she chooses a person who treats her well and agrees with her view of the world. Naturally, it could never be me – and though my chest wracks with pain at this, it also feels quite warm, perhaps acknowledging that a girl like My Student – who will be a woman soon – could never find a place in her heart for romance with a person like me. I am, of course, a person who exists without a heart anyway and is a repeat failure of chivalry. It would be presumptuous of me to ever expect anyone to care for me in that way.

If I could express sadness at these myriad considerations, perhaps I would. But my face remains unmoved. And that's good, I think – because my eyes are locked firmly with Dorothea right now, and an expression of sadness might make her think that I find her repulsive. When I thought Edelgard found me repulsive, there was a feeling that welled up that wished that no one in the entire world would experience the torrent of emotion that I felt in that particular moment.

Thankfully, the capped Eagle has no window into my thoughts, and I notice that my absent-minded brushing gesture across her palm has prompted Songstress to blush – in a rather Edelgardian manner. Tangentially, a pair of purple orbs are also tracing each movement with my thumb.

"...Are you reading my palm like the Almyrans, Professor…?" she asks, doing the eye-fluttering thing that women do which I don't really understand.

Perhaps if Edelgard did it, I might start to understand its purpose... but she does not seem like the type to flutter her eyes. And I'm thankful for that.

In any event, I shake my head in reply. I haven't the slightest idea how the seers of Almyra are able to predict futures based on palms, but I've seen them do it before. Unfortunately, most palm readers and fortune tellers are non-combatants, and as a general rule, I do not strangle the information out of noncombatants the way that I strangle warriors.

"Then why are we…" she asks, trailing.

Although she doesn't finish the query, I sense the rest of it, and grant that it's certainly a fair one.

"Your hand is soft." I supply, matter-of-factly.

This makes Dorothea's day, it seems She beams a smile towards me that feels quite new, and at that moment I realize that I've never had the time to really assess her smile before... and I suppose I'm only doing it now because of the possibly intimate moment that the two of us are sharing.

Like Edelgard's, it's a very curious sort of smile. But perhaps more intriguing at first are the mannerisms she makes as she does, which I'll describe in some detail here:

I first saw that Dorothea was being genuine about her happiness when I realized that her knuckles came to her chin as if by reflex, and as she did, her lips parted into a toothy grin quite naturally – a marked difference from her rather reserved smirks punctuated by the closure of her full, painted lips. Returning to the knuckle biting, I recall noticing it while walking through the streets of Derdriu among the urban poor. My father commented that such a behavior happens when children are raised without food security. Perhaps, in the company of nobles, she suppresses that tic.

Frankly, I don't recall her ever making the motion when she smirked. That smirk I noticed often, of course... particularly when she was talking with other men, and to a lesser extent – particular women: Professor Manuela,, Edelgard, and even to Lysithea during the camping trip.

This is not to say Dorothea appeared to like any of these people less, but rather – she seemed to crave their contact in a more guarded way.

Her more genuine smile seemed to creep in when talking with other people who she seemed to have a more easy relationship with – those being Petra, Bernadetta, Marianne and most recently Hilda, who spent good portions of the march to Zanado consulting my ward on "lingerie" that she had brought along with her on the trip. I'm not sure what lingerie is, but I assume it must be related to fashion, as the two spoke about "pushup bras" – the latter word of which is familiar. I know that bras are used by women to support their breasts during battle.

I also think a component of bra-wearing is that women have to have large breasts in order to justify wearing them.

Upon this thought, my gaze returns to the Adrestian Heiress, who is eyeing myself and Dorothea with unrestrained hostility.

Does Edelgard wear a bra, I wonder?

Edelgard has a very small chest in comparison to Hilda and Dorothea... leading me to believe that an article of clothing like that is unnecessary for her.

Are bras an acceptable gift to give to a woman?

Edelgard's birthday is this coming month, of course... and perhaps I should purchase her a bra instead of a chess-set, given her enthusiasm to join in the battle today.

As I think of her, My Student's inhale is exhaled in a shout:

"M-My Teacher…! That's a completely unnecessary public display of affection…!" she is pointing me and Dorothea holding hands, naturally. In fairness, we have been holding hands for several minutes now. Perhaps there is a time component to all this that I'm unaware of... due to my insufficient chivalry level.

But Dorothea seems quite comfortable. So I maintain the hand-holding, which prompts an enthusiastic eyebrow from the Songstress. Compared to Claude and Hilda pressing up against each other on the training grounds two weeks ago, I think this is a comparatively minor display, at least in my very incomplete view of things.

I also have no affection for Dorothea. This not because I find her repulsive, of course – it is simply because my chivalry is insufficient for such things like feeling romantic affection towards the opposite sex. Or the same sex, for that matter.

Anyway – even if I could do such things as romantic gestures, I probably would not do them with Dorothea, because we share many differing opinions. She enjoys whiskey. I prefer gin. She wanted to go off and have some kind of romantic interlude with me a few weeks ago. I don't know what romantic interludes are, even, and stole that phrase from one of Hubert's letters. She is clearly more knowledgeable than me in so many areas… yet I'm her professor, and I'm supposedly supposed to be teaching her things.

And I suspect I've learned more from her in the past month than I've really managed to teach, which is... bothersome.

The more I think about those circumstances, though – I realize it may be envy that is driving my dissatisfaction. Dorothea is clearly very knowledgeable about books, and chivalry, and romantic things like teatime and book-clubs. And while those aren't pertinent topics at a war college, they are concepts that would help color descriptions of war, or at least allow me to better explain the motivations of a warrior like Mauricius to my students. Yet I could never broach such topics, because I cannot teach what I do not understand myself.

In the face of all that, I know very little about books, having only read two of them cover-to-cover, and I know very little about chivalry, because Edelgard despises any act of chivalry I attempt. Additionally, only Edelgard seems to appreciate my taste in tea, and book-clubs must require some sort of threshold of literary knowledge to manage. In a sense, I'm kind of an unwashed barbarian.

Dorothea once accused me of being cosmopolitan. It is she who is truly cosmopolitan, I think.

And maybe that's something I find myself a bit jealous of.

Speaking of jealousy, Dorothea replies to Edelgard's quip about affection rather... indirectly:

"Edie – just… give me a minute, okay? You get the other twenty-three hours and fifty-nine minutes of his attention every day..."

Naturally, Dorothea isn't wrong here – and if My Student really needed them, I'd give Edelgard the other minute without a second thought.

Shortly after Dorothea says those words, though, Edelgard is covered in crimson – partly because of a blush, and partly because of splotches of blood that now adorn her face like freckles. I think Edelgard would look cute with actual freckles, but I also think she's beautiful the way she is normally.

Although cute might be a more fitting description at this moment. Anyway, the blood splotches are there because a frying-pan sized flaming rock summoned by Dorothea dropped from the sky and splattered what's left of the bandit's head. She's claimed her first kill quite distractedly, which I suppose is as good as doing so matter-of-factly.

I'm proud of the Songstress.

My Student is not so proud of her, though – and her eyes firmly affixed on my hand being held by the Bachelorette.

That gaze ends up bringing my own back to Dorothea's hand, but I find myself distracted by the array of gold and gemstones just above them on her wrist. Their aesthetics prompt me to comment:

"Those bracelets are impressive."

And that's the truth, or at least my truth. I have no innate taste for jewelry, but I've met plenty of nobles on campaign with Holst who do. They're the types to go into battle weighed down by pounds of baubles affixed to every extremity. At times, around the campfire – I would process what they had to say – the differences between eighteen karat and twenty-four karat gold, the meaning of this stone and that stone, along with their rarity, how diamond cutting was a closely-guarded secret of the Srengians, and how if one of their artisans was captured, they would chew on poison they kept tucked under a wooden capsule in their gums – that sort of thing.

In a sense, I have other people's taste for jewelry that I've synthesized and understand as trivia. So in effect, I can say with some certainty that most of the people I learned from would consider Dorothea's taste in jewelry to be quite refined. Therefore, I can consider her refined.

Dorothea is quite refined in general – although in a different way from the other Imperial nobles that I've met. In a way, she reminds me of the merchants of the Alliance, who were often tastemakers for the nobility there. In spite of not knowing how I gathered all of this unspoken trivia on jewelry, the Songstress seems to take the compliment at face value. She is quite insightful, of course – so perhaps she can gather my own expertise in other ways.

"You think so…? Well, we both have the same sign, so I guess that makes sense!" comes her reply.

More of the astrology nonsense. I am familiar enough with birthstones, however. Nobles tend to line their signet rings with them. I've seen Hubert's signet ring before, impressed with the Vestra dynasty's coat of arms – a twin-headed eagle with a sceptre acting as a superimposed barre. Perhaps it has something to do with their association with the Imperial household. The signet ring is lined with bloodstone, which seems very apropos for him.

In any event, I press forward with the compliment:

"They're Dorothean."

At this, the Dorothean Dorothea nods vigorously, clearly taken in by my appreciation of her taste and… my acknowledgement of its particularity, I suppose? Perhaps this is the solution with the Songstress – validate her interests and she'll stop interrupting my conversations with Edelgard so frequently.

"Most of them were just props from the Opera! We had an in-house jeweler, you know. The nobles expect us to look very high-class on stage."

Nodding, I assess the bracelets more closely. Dorothea takes the opportunity to guide my fingers along them, and uses my index finger to point out each of the engravings on them. Most are references to Imperial culture that I haven't the slightest window into, but one of the engravings finally catches my eye:

"That's a horse-bow." I note, upon seeing a horse-bow.

Edelgard takes a step towards us to scrutinize our two held hands – and presumably the horse-bow on the bracelet.

"Yes! That's our birth month, you know…! I thought it would be really pretty to have a sapphire one, but then I couldn't decide on that or the golden horse-bow… so I went for both!"

Admittedly, my curiosity is piqued by all this trivia. So I ask:

"Isn't sapphire mostly for rings?"

To which Dorothea nods.

"Oh Goddess, Professor – you know about that? Imperial promise rings are Sapphire, yes! But I think we're a little too old for that…"

That is not what I meant at all, of course. I haven't the slightest idea what a Promise Ring is, but I am familiar with signet rings, which tend to be jeweled.

"I see." is about all I can offer, my momentary interest satiated by confusion.

"Well, even so… we've gone way too far for a promise ring, Professor… we're holding hands, you know." she states, stealing a glance towards Edelgard.

…Is hand-holding actually more intimate than all of this sexual activity that Claude and Dorothea and Hilda and Sylvain and Maya… and everyone else for that matter, is always talking about? It seems I'm the only person who doesn't understand anything about this… apart from Caspar. Perhaps I must protect the brawler from all these sexual things as well.

Needless to say, that will be difficult because I don't really understand what they are, apart from their tangential relationship to the production of children.

Is the order of operations sex, then chivalry and then children…?

Or is it chivalry, then sex and then children…?

My father should have explained this to me, probably.

...Was Manuela right?

Shaking this thought out of my head, I return to the advice of my father – who encouraged me to express myself more a month and a half ago. The best expression I can manage is:

"Hand-holding is worthwhile."

I don't know if it's lewd to hold hands, but the people I've held hands with deserve happiness. And if hand-holding makes them happy, well – then it can't be lewd, because both my students are people I do not harbor lewd intentions towards, maybe. I naturally don't know what lewdity really constitutes, but from what I can gather... I am not lewding either of the two.

And Edelgard, whose hand I held before I even understood the supposed lewdness of handholding, is particularly wonderful. And since "wonderful" is a term I only ever found a use for after meeting Edelgard, I decided to turn to her to gather some confirmation of this fact, because so much about My Student is wonderful to me. Even the vomit that pooled at my feet on St. Macuil's.

As I turn, I note that Edelgard's expression is one of abject horror. But since Edelgard's face is making that expression, it too must also be wonderful horror. Wonderfully, she says:

"E-Even so…! You should be particularly careful about holding the hands of other women, particularly if you cannot hold your House Leader's – who is a woman herself!"

As usual, I have to admit that the Heir to Adrestia's logic here is ironclad. If Edelgard does not consider me worthy of holding her hand – I can only imagine that she does not consider me worthy of holding the hands of her future subjects. That's how being an Emperor works, right? You get all the responsibilities of being a noble with none of the benefits, given Hubert's description of her father's failures. And… given that very sad-looking portrait of her father that Edelgard showed me – the one painted by her mother – he seemed to be carrying quite a bit of weight on his shoulders. And… Varley silk is quite light, so it couldn't have been the maid costume.

Of course… this all is postulated without taking the opportunity to again acknowledge that I've already held Edelgard's hand once before. And when I did, she insisted on turning the palm that held it into a bloody pulp. How warm I feel remembering that evening… and how warm Edelgard always makes me feel…

"Your hand was my first time." I utter to her without hesitating for a moment.

I'm about to expand on how wonderful it was before the hand holding mine tightens, drawing my attention back to the elemental mage whose five minutes of attention apparently wasn't up yet.

Even though my eyes return to Dorothea, whose surprised expression is well beyond my capabilities to process, a reminder cements itself in my mind:

A reminder that I could not even begin to express the tumult in my chest to anyone but Edelgard, and Edelgard alone. Having the Songstress as a spectator might make me want to vomit. I certainly felt a bit nauseous when the Archbishop made her spectatorship known at Celica's, and it was only my desire to shield the Adrestian from potential punishment that provoked me to speak so passionately to Archbishop.

I think so, at least. Maybe...?

This is something that I wanted to consider further, but a yelp from Dorothea drags me out of further contemplation:

"Your WHAT…?!"

There is another tug on my cloak from the person who most often tugs at my cloak.

"...I-I-I cannot recall such an event, My Teacher…!" My Student yips.

This manages to wound me a bit, given how she recalled it just fine on the twenty-fifth, the first day of the semester, when I surprised her as the new teacher of the Black Eagles.

"The twenty-fourth of the Great Tree Moon." I remind her.

At that moment, I realize that she had not actually forgotten about the event – because her expression betrayed so much at this moment. Her words cemented this:

"W-wait… I must insist that you not discuss that topic further at this moment…!"

I oblige, but Dorothea presses on in spite of that warning:

"Oh Goddess, Edie… The Twenty-Fourth…?! Did you really jump him that quickly…?"

As soon as I uttered "first time", I also noticed Hubert begin to slither towards the three of us from the distance. He has now finished his march back to his Lady's side, sans the Srengian goosestep. On cue, he adds:

"...Curiously, it seems as if I lack some necessary information, and would ask you to detail that further, Professor."

Edelgard then whips around and attempts to either shield me from further questioning by Hubert, or shield Hubert from whatever answer I would provide.

"Hubert, that is… quite unnecessary..." she notes.

Hubert grants this after running a hand through his hair, and offers in reply:

"Perhaps… but I was merely inquiring as to whether or not the Professor had any additional anecdotes of a worthwhile nature to share, Lady Edelgard."

At this he extends an open palm to express his innocence. Realizing that he may also be desiring to join our team-building exercise, I grab it and take it in my own.

The disgust on his face is perhaps the only time I've seen an emotion that strong leave his face. And then I realize that him and I might be quite similar after all... as the only expression I can really make is a grimace.

"You too, Hubert?" I ask.

Before Hubert can reply, Edelgard swats my hand away from his.

"...Absolutely not." she corrects.

Hubert says nothing with his lips, but transmits a message of murderous intent through his eyes.

In spite of all that, though... I think he's coming around.

Ferdinand, doubtlessly sensing chivalrous displays of noble brotherhood, then appears in our semicircle shortly thereafter. I offer him my hand, and he returns the gesture with a hug.

I try to welcome Dorothea, Edelgard, and Hubert into that hug – but none of them seem particularly enthused about the present company. I have no idea why they would want to miss out on a fine exercise in camaraderie like this... but I must learn to accept how cold my students can be. They've certainly learned to accept my own detached-ness.

By the time Ferdinand and I had detached ourselves, the rest of the group had moved on towards the remains of the reservoir.


First Kill: Ferdinand

10:27AM

As the Noblest of Nobles and I journeyed to meet up with the rest of the class following our overlong… public display of affection – to use Edelgard's term, my Red Lancer and I noticed a wandering figure staggering about the field and clutching an arm that was totally blackened from what must have been one of the 349 incendiary bolts fired into the canyon over the past six hours.

In his unburned right hand was a saber which he held rather loosely.

This soldier, like the rest of my class, is making his way – far less directly, I'd wager – towards the bloody puddle that constitutes the remains of the reservoir in the center of the canyon.

"That's an enemy." I inform Ferd with a point.

The Heir to House Aegir stops in his tracks and assesses what could be his first kill on the field of battle. Unfortunately, this fellow does not pass muster.

"Professor, it would be ignoble of me to kill a man in such a state."

Recalling the state of the previous three enemies that were dispatched by Bernie, Dorothea, and Linhardt – I find myself wondering why an enemy who was at least still on his feet was so unworthy.

"He's armed." I add, pointing towards the saber.

Ferdinand shakes his head at this, and then points to the upside-down canteen hanging from a strap on that same shoulder.

"In spite of these bandits and mercenaries' status as our enemy, I would be remiss not to offer him a drink of water before challenging him to a duel."

It's at this moment that I'm able to cement my view of Ferdinand von Aegir as a wonderful person like Edelgard, eminently worthy of my time, protection, and eternal goodwill. In some respects, I find myself viewing him as a younger sibling rather than a student. My father claimed to have a younger sibling, long dead in some war fighting with the Kingdom that he doggedly refused to explain anything about. This erstwhile uncle of mine remains unknown to me, apart from my father stating that he was a few years younger than he was.

I, of course, do not know my father's age, and cannot even begin to guess at this long-dead uncle's age as a result.

Regardless, he was a warrior like my father, although an elemental mage, and not a lancer like his brother. This younger brother was also was apparently the reason why my father knew the only spell he could ever muster – fire. According to my father, when the two went into battle, he would often say to my late uncle:

"I'll watch your back."

And so, I say those words to Ferdinand, who replies with a more sincere expression of verbal emotion than I could ever bring myself to say:

"Professor, there is no need to say such a thing – I know you always are!"

At this, my chest feels warm. But it does not hurt. This leads me to believe that I am beginning to fail at understanding my emotions even harder. At least when my chest only felt warmth for Edelgard, there was a sensibleness to the pain accompanying it – at least in my mind. Now these incomplete responses signal something more frustrating – perhaps I am beginning to lose the ability to feel… as if I've overfilled a dam, and the floodgates have been opened in response.

Where is the pain, I wonder? Can one truly have feelings without the hurt that accompanies them?

That all said, being told by the most verbose Adrestian I've ever encountered that I didn't need to speak on the solidity of our relationship was certainly affirming. In a sense, it is a clear statement at just how far I'd come along in this grand act of feeling feelings. Admittedly, I even feel foolish for trying to run away from this gig. If I had run away, I would never have been able to become Edelgard's teacher.

And Ferdinand's

And Dorothea's.

And Bernadetta's.

And Linhardt's.

And Petra's.

And Caspar's.

And Hubert's, even.

And even Lysithea's, for a time.

From each of them, even now – I've learned so much about the world and about myself. With that in mind as well – it's only been a month since I began this responsibility in earnest. What does that say about all of the other things that I can experience in the other ten in which I'll be their Professor, I wonder…?

That wonder excites me a bit, and such a sensation is so very new and strange to me.

I find myself wanting to indulge the noblest of nobles in endeavors like this for as long as I'm able. There is of course – nagging knowledge that I might also be indulging him in the worst way possible, though.

Because when he takes leave of me… will anyone else watch his back in the way that I will?

…In that indulging, am I doing more harm to the Eagles than good?

Ferdinand does not give me the chance to question this further, and bellows out his battlecry:

"Halt, Villain! My name is Ferdinand von Aegir, Legitimate Heir of House Aegir of the Adrestian Empire!"

The villain does halt at this, and actually lifts his sword hand. I suspect this is done by reflex, though, as his eyes tell a very different story. This is a husk of a man operating on basic instincts, and those instincts are about as badly fried as his left arm. As he does this, the two of us notice the canteen strap slung across his shoulder sliding to the sandy soil. Ferdinand seems to take extreme offense at this.

"...You would dare to pre-empt my noble offering of water before I even propose such a gesture?! Prepare yourself, fiend!"

The soldier makes a slow, limpy lunge towards Ferdinand. My noblest of nobles follows my direction from the training day before the mock battle and charges at him with his lance held high above his head, angled expertly for a downward thrust. Bringing the point of the spear hard on his foe, he impales him to the ground, and his late opponent slides down the pole onto the ground, dead.

Proud of his handiwork, Ferd turns back to me with a grin.

"The Ruffians in this canyon are no match for a peerless noble like myself!" he shouts.

How could I not agree?


First Casualty: Petra

10:35AM

Curiously, Petra found the sole tent to survive the feast of flames in the canyon. It was tucked in a rather logical spot to survive such a cataclysm, of course – pitched in between one of the canyon walls and the reservoir. Given the barber's pole outside – knocked over and covered in ashes – its proximity to the water source and general distance from the rest of the camp made quite a bit of sense.

The barber's pole was also pink-and-white, instead of red-and-white, implying the barber was in fact a woman – and naturally catered to the females within the late mercenary troop. Such a thing was standard in many mercenary companies. On various seasons in which we held a large number of female soldiers, my father would avail himself of a female barber, kept on temporary retainer. Since female barbers also handled contraceptives, and other chivalry-preventing drugs that kept women from having babies on campaign, I would often assist them by picking silphium along riverways.

Once, a new barber was shocked at me entering a tent while she was shaving the armpit hair of a woman. Apparently, I had failed to announce myself. The woman having her armpits cleaned was a sergeant-at-arms of some veterancy in our company. Unfortunately, she was killed on our last campaign on the Throat, having molten silver poured on top of her during a ladder-scaling expedition. She had volunteered along with me for the forlorn hope and insisted on being the "shielder" – or the individual who bears the heat-resistant tungsten shield ladder-team leaders hold as they breach walls.

The Sergeant was a brave soul more generally. I recall her being a woman of about Manuela's age, and descended from country Barons in the Kingdom whose landholdings were too insignificant to appear on a map. Their barony in particular was subject to the County of Gautier, as I recall– a name that meant nothing to me at the time, but now has much more significance. On account of the barrenness of the land, that baronial family often employed their large clan in the profession of mercenary work. From what I recall, she was the eleventh of nineteen children sired by the baron father, and two of her siblings had participated in actions against the Almyrans and died in Holst's troop already.

Holst was famous for paying the families of dead soldiers quite well. But my father actually paid more.

And apparently, my father was also a minor celebrity of sorts in the Kingdom – oftentimes minor nobles like her would petition to work under him. I suspect that not every noble is as rich as the ones who attend Garegg Mach.

The woman, unfortunately, was enthusiastic in all things – but not familiar with the complexities of shielding. She also refused to educate herself further, noting that that forlorn hopes couldn't be that big of a deal if I always seemed to return unharmed from them. I was considered an excellent shielder myself – but I always found the activity to be a bit boring. Shielders typically established defensive positions by the ladders they first ascended, and covered retreats if necessary. The motto that Holst instilled with them was: "first one up, last one down."

Needless to say, her inexperience caused her to hold the shield at an angle instead of completely flat to her head – perhaps thinking that sloping the shield would offer additional protection from arrow fire. The point of a tungsten shield of course is not to absorb arrows – rather it is meant to absorb heat, hardening most of the silver, and rendering the molten silver droplets that descend down less harmful than a fresh bucket-to-the-face would.

The Sergeant did not understand this concept, and so the weight of the silver prompted her to lose control of the flow, delivering it directly into her forehead. The woman's face was melted off so thoroughly that it liquified her brain, burned through her occipital bone, and exited the back of her skull, leaking molten silver all the way down to her comrades, and killing the rest of her ladder crew in similar fashion. Holst and I were ascending the ladder next to hers and watched the whole thing in grim silence.

When their dead bodies finally fell from the ladder, her death-throe grip was the last to finally release. She died as she lived – a fine warrior, if a bit excitable.

It is a shame that I cannot recall her name… but I wasn't in the business of remembering names back then. Too many names died too quickly, and I only found myself remembering Holst's because he constantly referred to himself in the third person. When he played shielder, he said things like "first Holst up, last Holst down" as if there were any other Holsts. Perhaps there were, but I wonder why he didn't use his last name instead.

Now I know there are other Gonerils. One such Goneril is currently stalking us with a Riegan.

Hopefully, there are no more Claudes.

If I found a fortress full of Claudes, I would not know what to do with myself, given how many strangulations I would have to commit. I would be up on those walls for eternity, and never go back down.

In general, I preferred to never go back down the ladders unless absolutely necessary. You didn't need to retreat with your tail between your legs if your flag was flying above the citadel's tower by the end of the battle. That was a maxim my father disclosed to me – noting that my insistence on participating in the sieges would be ill-served by having to retreat from them. In a sense, he was looking out for my safety, I'm sure.

Additionally, being the first one up meant that you were then responsible for the safe ascension of others. Both of those responsibilities were impediments on taking blockhouses, which was my true calling.

Holst never demanded that I take on a Shielder's role, of course – but occasionally circumstances required it, such as being the only survivor of a scaling party killed by accurate arrow fire from the walls. Scaling walls by yourself is miserable business, though – and nothing I would wish on anybody – not even Felix. Perhaps I will be his shielder someday.

Although the Lion considers sieges cowardly, I suspect there may be a chance for me to change his mind… because in that assumption, he is very clearly wrong. Even now, part of me wishes he was present here so that I could demonstrate the bravery of the mercenaries who died in this canyon. This was in some respects, a siege. The enemy citadel was just in the ground as opposed to above it.

And while there was quite a lot of screaming early this morning, there was not half as much as I expected – and most of those screams were from the bandits, whose tents I targeted first. The mercenaries here died as true professionals.

The barber's tent, which Petra and I have just entered, also smacks of professionalism and must have been aligned with the mercs.

"In Brigid, the Barbers also are doing the paying. Perhaps there is treasure here, Professor!" Petra quips.

Realizing that she might be in a bad way financially because of the Empire's invasion of her homeland, I asked:

"Do you need money?"

To be quite honest, buying all of the artisanal chocolates for Lysithea and the cinnamon sticks for Edelgard pretty much cleaned me out for the month of spending money. But we are only three days away from the start of the next moon, and I suspect that I will have less time for frivolous spending when lectures begin.

The price of an Almyran chess set for import – recalling the markets of Derdriu, is about 4000G. This extreme expense – which costs more than 349 bottles of clear liquor from Celica's – again does comparatively little to help evidence the economic system at play here, but regardless – 21,000G will be available for Petra if she needs it.

I think I will also encourage her to get involved with Hubert's coffee enterprise as a sort of marketing executive, as I'm sure the people of Brigid could develop a palette for it if encouraged by their kind, charismatic crown princess. Hubert's goal to conquer all of the Bergamot trees for Edelgard is a noble one, I think – and I'm sure Petra would be willing to help that as well. She seems to have an ear for romance, much like the other Crown Princess that I'm a teacher of. Perhaps coffee is romantic?

I wonder if Hubert has sufficient chivalry to make a baby with Edelgard?

Something in my chest tells me not to consider this further. I'm about to consider it anyway until Petra interrupts me, finally ascertaining the meaning of my query:

"Oh… no, I am being most fine with the spending of things! In Brigid, our custom is to be looting our enemies after each victory! My grandfather once did the carrying of eight-hundred wagons of loot from the land of Nuvelle!"

"Impressive." I reply.

"Brigid had founding by… um… raiders of looting, many, many years ago!" she continues.

Raiders of looting sounds very much like a direct translation of their term for mercenary captains.

"Oh, Sgaothaich?" I ask, attempting to clarify.

Petra nods enthusiastically.

"Yes, Professor! Might you ever be doing the raiding in–"

Before I can answer this in the negative, I see a straight razor appear over and behind Petra's shoulder. In one swift motion, it tears through the canvas. In a flash, a woman then steps through that canvas, clad in the traditional white vestments of a barber. Petra, genuinely shocked by this, does not have the time to react before that straight razor is wrapped around her throat.

Then it slices her neck open.

And then, after a long nap, Sothis wakes up.


First Battlefield Rescue Operation: Sothis

10:40AM

Time has stopped moving forward, and Sothis and I are staring rather intently at Petra's neck – where the blood from her jugular is hanging in the air, frozen in the moment of her death.

"This is the result of taking children into battle, you know! How can you sleep so soundly while knowing that this could happen!"

Perhaps this reply is unfair, but I strate it anyway:

"Because I rely on you."

"Phooey, I may not always be awake for such an event! What will you do then?"

A fair question, of course. But is it worth considering the alternative when a time-hopping hallucination exists?

Probably not, but still... this does not actually contest her principal point.

"You're right." I grant.

"...Of course I am right, I'm the Beginning!"

Shaking my head, I ask:

"Are we rescuing Petra?"

"...Of course we are rescuing her, do you think I would allow such a kind person to die like this? Even though she is not a believer, her life is my responsibility nonetheless!"

Although there's a lot of talk about a Goddess, and Saint Seiros, and other such people... I've never heard anyone mention Sothis.

"Aren't I your only believer?"

"Phooey!"

And then time begins to lurch back.


10:39AM

After two failed attempts ending in two more dead Petras, I think I may have hit paydirt on the approach vector. Sothis has informed me that due to the distances involved and her relative well-restedness, I actually have about five more goes to make this happen – but I don't think I'll need them. Perhaps she can save them for later?

"My powers do not work in such a manner!"

I'm informed. This leads me to believe that I might be best off using her energy to perfect other rescue approaches, but I'm again cautioned by the prickly progenitor:

"If you wound yourself again this time, I may be less able to continue!"

She is right, of course – such a proviso certainly makes sense given the nature of her residence in my mind. The last attempt, which involved a diversion and then a headfirst lunge into my opponent – only resulted in me being killed by an unsteady swipe to my own throat instead of Petra's.

Frankly, I'm just not as good at saving people as I am killing people. Perhaps with Sothis present, however… I could learn the former.

"Point Taken", I reply – but I get the impression that Sothis is reading my thoughts anyway.

"Under my watchful eyes, you could become the best savior since… me!"

Her haughty reply to thoughts unintended for her access only confirms this fact.

"Let's go." I reply gruffly.

Sothis does not like being replied to gruffly, though.

"You should ask me nicely, as is befitting of a proper lady."

Sothis can go fuck herself.

"...Are you a proper lady?" I ask.

Another Phooey echoes in the Zanado of my mind, but my eyes are firmly focused on the real Red Canyon as reality returns. Sothis's meddling with the past has allowed me to establish closer proximity with Petra as the hair-cutting and throat-cutting assailant enters through the gap in the tent that she just made. As that razor blade attempts to meet Petra's neck again – I reach out my hand and catch it instead.

Clutching the blade causes it to tear through my skin and tissue like a knife through butter – but when it catches on my carpus, it seems to lodge itself in the cartilage there.

It hurts, but not half as badly as my chest felt when I realized I couldn't smile for Edelgard when she adorned my head with the carnation garland.

So in a sense, it doesn't hurt at all – because that pain struck me like no other wound taken in battle ever has. I've certainly been mangled worse than this as well – the leg that Dorothea claimed was statuesque certainly bears the scar of that.

And I suppose I must already be a sort of walking wound for not having a heart in the first place. As these thoughts threaten to overtake me, I force my eyes to meet a terrified Petra, whose face is covered in the blood spurting out from my gashed-up ulnar artery. This and the relatively minor pain associated with having my hand torn to shreds is enough to jog my memory of her language. In hating Brigidian, I command:

"Petra, thoir a' bhiodag às mo chrios agus shàth sa chas dheas."

Almost instantaneously – just as I requested, Petra grabs the dagger from my belt-sheath and digs the tip of blade into the left leg of the barber, causing her to free her hand from the straight razor and bring it down to clutch the blade now lodged in the femoral artery near her groin. While I had not specified striking her there – Petra is an experienced hunter – and probably knows the best way to deliver a fatal wound at any part of the body.

Such a strike will not kill her now, of course – but in about five minutes, she'll have already bled to death.

Perhaps realizing the nature of the wound – Barbers often amputate limbs in cases where magic cannot suffice – she staggers backward, fully outside the tent. As she does, she grabs one of the tent folds and nearly tears the canvas full of that side of the structure, giving me a clean view of Caspar von Bergliez, who is urinating near the remains of another tent.


First (Second?) Kill (Save?): Caspar (also Petra?)

10:42AM

Caspar, noticing the assailant from around the corner, immediately ties his pant strap back together and rushes towards the barber, tackling her at full speed. Shortly after this, he pummels her face into a bloody pulp with iron gauntlets, shouting "Yeah! Yeah! YEAH!" with each successive strike. After five hits, the woman's skull can only be recognized thanks to the clumps of hair and brain matter that is arranged like a semi-circular halo around what's left of the woman's head.

Caspar delivers another four after this for good measure. Then he stands up, brushes himself up, and turns to me and Petra.

My brawler, utterly ignoring the blood flowing like a waterfall from my clutched hand, quips:

"Are all real battles this easy?!"

Nodding – which I wasn't sure I intended to do – but may have done on account of my light-headedness from blood loss, I reply:

"You saved Petra's life."

At this, Caspar then looks at Petra, covered in my blood. Perhaps he thinks it's hers, because when he does this, he flashes bright red. I suspect he is not doing so because he wants to have children with Petra, though – rather it is a result of the awkwardness he feels around her. Perhaps, if I had a heart, I would blush when Edelgard says romantic things to me. But I have no heart, and cannot blush or be romantic with anyone due to my insufficient chivalry, of course.

But the sentiment remains.

"What…?!" Caspar shouts.

What indeed, Caspar.

What indeed…?

This dizzying query is interrupted by a familiar two words.

"M-My Teacher…?!"

Moments later, just as she did during the camping trip – she then failed miserably at applying first aid. Clutching my wrist and bloodying her white gloves, she yanked out the straight razor embedded in my palm, and set to work applying a healing spell.

Within moments, I see the bleeding stop, the muscles repair and the wound close – although it has already left a massive scar running across the entirety of my palm. I suspect it might even be bigger than the ones on her own.

Perhaps Edelgard realizes this as well, and spends a long time with my palm face up in hers, staring at the wound with the most greedy-looking expression I've ever seen in my one month of knowing her.

I think of criticizing her here for not going through the field dressing I taught her, but think better of it. Instead, I say:

"...You were watching my back."

At this, those eyes turn up towards mine and assess me with frustration.

"...I do not wish to see you come to harm, yet you are always doing such foolish things..." she mutters as Caspar and Petra stare blankly in the background.

As she says this, the inside of my chest is flayed alive with a pain far worse than the barber's cut – and perhaps far more painful than any torture Hubert could ever think to commit upon me – my thoughts drifting to him as he enters the tent shortly thereafter. The expression on his face is more acidic than usual, which leads me to believe he might have seen the assailant and perhaps wanted to test my abilities. Perhaps I failed whatever exam he was issuing, given that all I did was assist in Caspar's saving of Petra.

With my mind returning to the state of affairs just prior to the entry of the Marquis of Pickled Sausages, I think of how easy it is to be supportive of Edelgard in the absence of Hubert and our Hubert of the Heart. The tender words that My Student and I exchanged exchanged seem to simply wash over the two junior Eagles, who were also staring at each other silently in a similar fashion to the way Edelgard and I stare at one another so often.

In a sense, it's nice to be able to talk to Edelgard with just our Brawler and Huntress present, as Caspar and Petra are both serious people with no time for talk of romance like myself and Edelgard. Particularly Petra, as I learned during the campout that Brigidans are only allowed to pursue romance one month during the entire year.

Perhaps I would like to retire to Brigid, and in my elder years, I could freeload in the royal court of Brigid, where Petra could teach me how to hunt like they do. From what I've seen, they approach hunting like I approach strangulation – and this is worthy of compliment. If there is anyone who I could logically see myself getting on with well in the years after these kids graduate, it must be Petra, right? At least in the present company.

With Caspar, I would want to maintain a respectful distance to ensure that my lessons about respecting Bernie have actually taken root.

With Edelgard… I suspect I would simply distract her from all the important political stuff she has to do. Naturally, this would come in the form of arguments with her about the need to look after my health, my poor chivalry, and all of the small things that I do that prompt her being by my side all the time as of late.

In that way, I would just be a burden.

And if there is one thing I cannot allow myself to be to her – a burden would be the most intolerable, at least to me.

And in that sense, perhaps Hubert – who is grimacing at Edelgard's fawning over my palm – is right about a comment he made during that camping trip.

…That I should not come to visit Edelgard after her graduation.

In spite of how wonderful she makes me feel.

Because that is burdening her, so very clearly.

And that any time spent with her would be a detriment to the responsibility she bears.

What Hubert also didn't mention is that Edelgard does not have the ability to turn back time to make those responsibilities any easier.

If I could emote some sort of rejection of her care, I would. Instead, I just pull away my hand.

"...We need to complete our objective." is all I can manage.

In reality, what I mean to say is that… I don't want Edelgard's objective to see me unharmed bring itself into conflict with her own goals. That, like the pain in my chest at this moment… would perhaps cause me to cry, if I could cry.

But I can't cry, and that's a relief.


First Loot Crate: Claude & Hilda

10:44AM

After all the ruckus, and a few jokes thrown at Edelgard for fussing over my hand so aggressively, Claude finally presents himself to me along with his girlfriend. I greet Hilda first, because she is a nice person, I think – and I gruffly nod at Claude, who looks down at all the blood under my feet and quips:

"Something tells me that won't be the worst hit you end up taking for the Eagles, Teach. If you had chosen the Deer, you could've just sat back and let me and Lysithea do all the heavy lifting."

My eyes don't meet the pool of my blood on the floor, or the two olive-colored eyes that now stare into mine with a smirk. All I notice of Claude right now is that those once-emerald hued eyes seem to lose their luster in the shadows – which is something I've never realized about him before… given how most of our conversations – even going back to our trip to the Celica's, have been outdoors, and illuminated by sunlight, moonlight, or streetlamp.

Instead, most of my vision is focused on Edelgard – who is having a field day chewing out Hubert in the distance – who is also not looking at his Lady – but squarely at me with a squinting yellow eye. His eyes – probably much like my own – seem to have no luster at all.

This leads me to believe that he did indeed intend to let the assailant waltz into the tent and try to kill me. Perhaps Petra was collateral damage, however – and he had not intended her to come to any harm. As Edelgard continued to fuss over me a few minutes ago, I noticed him take an opportunity to hand Petra a handkerchief to wipe her face clean from my blood. Petra declined, and then chose instead to pluck the red splotches off her face with a finger and lick them – claiming that drinking blood was a fine iron source.

Hubert found this incredibly amusing – so he must hold her in some esteem, right?

From the distance, I can hear Edelgard chastise him with:

"...I instructed you to dispatch that assassin in no uncertain terms…!"

My Student then puts her hands on her hips, expectantly awaiting a reply that never leaves the lips of her butler.

Claude then inserts himself in my field of view.

"That ain't Lysithea. She's the better-tempered model, Teach."

I shake my head, recalling that recently-modified quip of His Deceitfulness from the other day which clearly offended Edelgard for some reason. Although Edelgard and Lysithea are both combative, white-haired girls (women?) who enjoy sweets and despise romance – they are very different people. Edelgard makes me feel the most wonderful, violent pain imaginable, and Lysithea is much more relaxing to spend time with. These very diverse circumstances, apart from the rest of their whole and unique personhood, make such a distinction very difficult to miss, at least for me.

In fact, I feel a tinge of anger at Claude for comparing them in such a way – perhaps on both of their behalf.

Maybe I should be Lysithea's teacher.

"Lysithea needs to rest now." I note, in observance of the doctor's note, clear about my own personal duty to her during the mission.

Claude feigns offense and shakes his head.

"She is, she is – Lissy caught a power nap, and even went back to us to complain about the rocky ground she and Leonie pitched their tent on. And… after hearing that gem from Ignatz about you two having slept together… I may have suggested that she catch a few Zs in your bedroll instead."

Claude says all of this very loudly – well above his usual conspiratorial tone – and this naturally attracts the Heir to Adrestia, who breaks off from her dressing down of Hubert, presumably to dress down me next. After turning around and confirming her approach, he continues in his usual tone:

"Good advice about that bedroll, by the way. I'm ditching the bag next mission."

At this I nod. Claude grins as if he's acquired some sort of inherent advantage over me in this conversation, but it's clearly well above my head. Perhaps if it stays above my head, it'll never reach the ground that me and Edelgard are standing upon.

He then glances over at My Student, who is now standing opposite me, having placed her hands on her hips as if I'm the one who is taking part in some sort of Hubertian intrigue. After this, Beta Buck turns back to me and inquires:

"So you're okay with sleeping with Lysithea all the time, then? Maybe she should just move in with you."

If Lysithea shared a tent with me, I could theoretically set up the tent some distance away from the main campsite and afford the students more restful sleep. At peace with this resolution, I bring a hand to my chin and nod.

"That's fine." I reply.

The stiffening of Edelgard back serves as a correction, I guess.

"...That is certainly not fine, My Teacher…!"

An attempt to extrapolate some sort of meaning in the safety of my own thoughts is interrupted by the heir to the Alliance.

"...If your House Leader can't fuck you at this moment, who is a woman after all, why would you allow Lysithea? That's what she was gonna say, Teach."

The grammar and vocal impression Claude just rendered were both worthy of an F, but he manages to get an A for replicating her vocabulary.

Edelgard, of course... takes extreme offense at all aspects of this rendition. Looking at me with squinted eyes, she fires back:

"I certainly do not henpeck you in that way!"

As if I'm the one who just delivered that impression.

Not wanting to dishonor My Student by critiquing that assumption in front of Claude, I fashion a quiet resolution to correct this misunderstanding later – in private, perhaps over tea to keep her from overreacting. In reply, I offer her a blank face – which she seems to imprint with her own guilt, as she often does.

"Of course, you must at least agree that I don't sound anything like that, do you not...?!"

This prompts me to shake my head and say words that have been tossing around in my mind for some time now:

"Your voice is wonderful."

Mere moments after expressing myself, Edelgard becomes Redelgard.

"You think my voice is…" she trails off.

Doing my best to forget Claude's presence, I nod at this and stare directly into her lavender irises, which keep rushing to meet mine, and falling away as if they slipped and fell on the words that I just spoke.

Perhaps Hubert was right… I'm becoming too chatty.

So I just nod resolutely and fill the air with silence.

In spite of this, Redelgard cuts through and yips:

"...W-well, t-that's not what I wanted confirmed, but–!"

Even if the Heir to an Empire wasn't asking for a specific assessment on the cuteness of her vocal fry, I still feel that she deserved to have my thoughts on the matter. I'm always willing to listen to her thoughts, mostly because I care about what she thinks and secondarily because I find her voice to be one of the best things in the whole world.

Her face edges out her voice slightly, though. Especially her face right now.

As I take the opportunity to appreciate my handiwork painted in crimson on her cheeks, Claude elbows my shoulder.

I don't look at him, but he continues:

"Damn… When did you get so smooth, Teach?"

This prompts me to bring my hand to my chin. Although my body is pretty hairless, I do possess a fair number of scars, one which I gained no less than two minutes ago, in fact. I wouldn't classify that as being smooth. Dorothea's hands were smooth as well as soft, for example. With this in mind, I find myself wondering why he's so confident about my supposed smoothness.

Claude – presumably – hasn't seen me naked unless he was spying on my bath in the lake a few days ago. Someone was spying on that bath, of course – but it probably wasn't Claude. He was fast asleep when I returned to the camp. The only people awake that morning were Marianne and Edelgard, in fact.

Edelgard wouldn't need to spy on me naked, of course. If she wanted to, she could just open the door to my dormitory at any time in the middle of the night and observe me asleep in my underwear. Hubert gave her the key, after all... against his better judgement, apparently.

Maybe Marianne reported on things incompletely from a distance?

…Was Marianne stalking me?

Still, I feel compelled to correct him.

"I'm not smooth." I correct.

His Deceitfulness seems to take my correction at face value, and rues performatively on it. After gauging Edelgard's relative interest in the conversation (she clenched her fists when I was referred to as smooth, it is worth noting) he presses on:

"Yeah… maybe smooth is the wrong word. Perverted, maybe? Only a creep would think Edel has a voice that's wonderful."

The Heir to an Empire looks like she's about ready to declare a war of aggression as he finishes his thought. Claude, of course, takes ample note of his rival House Leader boiling under the collar, and finishes with:

"...People who talk like that tend to spend all of their free time following girls like you around and reading your mail, Edel."

This finally pushes her over the edge.

"...Actually, he is the smoothest Professor in the academy…! It is only natural that an individual as worldly and experienced in… adult matters… teach the Black Eagles, as we are the most… mature and knowledgeable House in the Academy. Since many great novels about romance describe such matters as … a battlefield… it seems natural that many of us are now warriors. Soon we shall claim victories of the heart as well, in a true battle."

I like the last two words of that sentence, and have since edited my own entry on the lecture to reflect those two words.

We did fight a true battle here today.

Unfortunately, My Student said most of the preceding words in that monologue with absolutely zero confidence, and I'm not sure the actual thesis of her statement even stands up to scrutiny.

Regardless, I appreciate her all the same for trying to jostle her way into a position of superiority over the Deer's Leader through imagery and rhetoric.

And... of course...

Edelgard's voice is wonderful because Edelgard is wonderful.

Noting all of the fine sentiments expressed, however haltingly – all I can do is nod in affirmation. There is just too much to put into words. But at the very least, I wish to signify that I'm very proud of her.

Claude shakes his after bringing two fingers to his forehead.

"...You can't make this kind of stuff up."

Not a moment after this statement, a busty bosom brushes up against my shoulder, revealing Hilda with a massive, shit-eating grin… the type of grin that Holst would have on after taking a citadel.

…Am I a citadel to Hilda?

She is a Goneril, after all.

"...You two are such dorks!" she says, in a very Holstian fashion.


First (Combat) Kill: Hubert (Edelgard)

10:50 AM

Following the sudden appearance and death of the barber, I found the Eagles to be much more on guard. Claude was still quite chipper, but I suppose it's easy to be chipper when you can turn tail and run at a moment's notice, like he did at Remire. In some respects, having another archer on hand was also quite handy, though – even he is prone to retreat at a moment's notice.

The two among my students, curiously, who seemed most relaxed now were Hubert and Edelgard… and particularly Hubert, in spite of looking extremely frustrated while Edelgard was tending my hand. As I scribbled this observation into my journal, the Heir to House Vestra seemed to take note of my behavior in-between kills.

The Marquis of Pickled Sausages, I should add, is also about to make his first kill – as he located a fellow who is in the process of being painstakingly crushed to death by a horse's corpse. This massive, dead warhorse has managed to turn the soldier's lower half into a mess of broken bones and burst, bruising capillaries.

In spite of all this, the Eagles' intriguer extraordinaire seems nonplussed about this fellow's tortuous death directly below, and endeavors to send away a missive to Danton the Owl before finishing off this fast-fading fighter. One would think that as a torture expert, he would find the study of this man's dying moments to be a worthwhile academic pursuit.

After sending off the letter, he then focuses his energy on me, and not his actual target.

"Must you actually make a record of this, Professor?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.

Clearly I mustn't – but I very much want to, as it will help me be a better teacher. Perhaps Hubert would contest this argument of mine, like he so often does – so I choose not to express this in such precise terms. A simple explanation, if incomplete, will do.

"I must." is my incomplete explanation.

Hubert seems a bit agitated at the bluntness of my reply, and seems intent on needling me in a downright Claudian fashion:

"Are you under the impression that I have not taken a life before?"

This is of course a fair question, and one that is absolutely true. I get the impression that he seems intent on lying to me about killing someone on a battlefield before he actually kills someone on the battlefield… which leads me to believe that my master plotter hasn't actually done what he claims.

And that's fine, I should say. Hubert seems much more ill-at-ease when fighting, at least in comparison to his usual cloak-and-dagger behavior inside the walls of Garegg Mach. Both activities can have fatal results, so I don't see what big song and dance is for, honestly. I'm sure he's killed with words or poison before. But there's no need to lie about doing so in combat. This is not meant to denigrate his ability, which was clearly on display during the mock battle – along with his acting chops – but one cannot expect to be a master of terrain one has not fought on.

I don't have any pretense about being an expert at fighting in the snow-capped mountains of Sreng, for example. This does not mean that I haven't killed Srengians, however. I've just killed them in the sandy deserts of Almyra. This is a distinction that explains our current impasse rather well, but I find myself too distracted to explain this in any detail to Hubert.

If he just said something like "I've poisoned people before, but never killed them as an enemy combatant" – or some sort of flexing admission like that, we could just move on. Not that Hubert would actually speak in terms that frank, but the point stands.

But like I said, at this stage – I can't be bothered.

My lack of bother is because a certain breed of Edelcat has darted off from a recent spat with Claude and is now stalking her way back to the two of us, perhaps to present a victory, more likely to lick her wounds. Attempting to finish the debate here to give my full attention to her upon her reaching earshot, I reply tersely with:

"Not in combat."

Unfortunately, Hubert continues to ignore the actual point of the debate he initiated.

"...Do you need me to point out the holes into that presumption, or can you see them yourself?"

All I can see is Edelgard, Hubert.

At this point, all I can manage is a shrug, and this earns a squint. This leads me to believe that I might actually be getting under his skin. I'm unable to press this any further, though, because My Student seems intent on stage-managing any conversation I have with her butler.

"Why are you two talking with one another…?" she asks, extremely agitated.

She clearly lost the argument with Claude.

Hubert, surprisingly – also adopts a somewhat perturbed tone with his Lady.

"Because I am his student, Lady Edelgard. We are entitled to converse at times. If you require his tutoring, however – I shall observe from a distance."

The Heir to an Empire then brings her eyes to me, awaiting my excuse.

"I wanted to ask a question." I reply.

She shakes her head at this, and I find myself half-expecting a finger wag. It doesn't come, though – and in its stead, she notes:

"Well… if the question is about HubertI am certainly capable of answering it."

Tilting my head in bewilderment, I have to admit that I'm kind of shocked that she would say something like that… as if Hubert had no private thoughts or existence of his own. Is that… a normal opinion to have about other people?

Does she apply this logic to me as well?

Probably not, if she's opening my mail. That would imply that she must think that there's some other Byleth that she doesn't have access to. Will she be disappointed when the curtain is drawn back on my life, and she is forced to realize that this Byleth is the only Byleth, and that I was just standing by her side openly and without concern the whole time?

Although I never would allow her to read my diary… I suspect that her viewing these pages would at least confirm that. Maybe I can have Linhardt read my diary, and give her very controlled and regulated tidbits from it, in the form of suggestions.

Linhardt, if you are reading – please do not disclose any of this to Edelgard.

Coincidentally, Hubert refers to himself as a piece of literature of himself at this moment in his reply to his Lady:

"Naturally, as your servant, I am an open book. I would just ask you not to tear out any unnecessary pages..."

As he says this – the usually downcast eyebrow that is visible to me shoots skyward in what must be the Hubertian equivalent of submissiveness. It's certainly an expression I've never witnessed before.

Her gaze then returns to me.

"It's a mission-pertinent question." I clarify.

Edelgard's lavender irises dart around a bit, as if I've somehow stumbled into some sort of secret plot of a continental antagonist.

"Oh, well… Hubert is very apologetic about not warning you about the… assailant sooner. I've warned him about the consequences of hesitation in the future."

Blinking rather confusedly, I find myself appreciative of that bit of honesty – but I must admit that I'm also extremely confused as to why she insisted on disclosing it.

I look back at Hubert, whose face has been buried in his palm.

Then, I return my gaze to my Student.

"It's not about that."

Edelgard seems to realize – once again – that her mouth has gotten her into trouble, and stays silent for a time before finally replying with a Bylethian:

"...I see…"

Bringing my fist to my chin, I clear my throat.

"Has Hubert killed anyone in battle?" I ask.

Hubert seems poised to answer this, but before he does, she thrusts up a white glove at him. That white glove is also soaked in my blood. Reflexively, Hubert reaches into his pocklet for another pair of silken gloves.

"...In battle? I do not believe so…" she replies, in total ignorance of the gesture.

Hubert then cranes his neck back towards me.

"Lady Edelgard has not been witness to every action of mine, Professor. That is the essential nature of acting on her behalf."

...Are the two of them having a nothing argument?

Am I also a participant in this nothing argument?

"So you have...?" I ask again, directly.

At this he grimaces.

"I would like to remind you that I asked a question first. One that has remained unanswered."

This earns a shrug. It's about all I can muster, given how frustrating he is making a simple question such as this. Turning to Edelgard, I decide to tutor her, to use Hubert's word.

"Are you feeling okay, Edelgard?"

This... of course, works like a charm.

"Yes, My Teacher!" she replies, suddenly enthusiastic at my concern for her.

Naturally if she replied "no", I would murder everyone in this valley in an attempt to figure out what ailed her.

And unlike Hubert, I could do that with my bare hands, if I wanted to.

"Can I ask a favor of you?"

"Of course you can."

"Behead him, please."

"Naturally!"

As My Student lifts her axe – however, I notice a pair of bandits emerge from a small cavern nearby. Neither of the two appear to have any wounds, either.

"Get the jump on them!" A familiar voice shouts from the darkness.

Hubert whips out a silence spell on the first, and then begins to cast a Miasma spell. Unfortunately, the Miasma dissipates when it comes into contact with an amulet around the fellow's neck designed to ward off black magic. A piece of equipment that valuable must mean that this fellow was one of the sub-leaders of the bandit force.

As Edelgard swings her axe around to behead the opponent closest to her instead of the wounded man on the ground, I reach for my dagger and hurl it straight towards the throat of the enemy Hubert incapacitated. The blade meets his jugular with pinpoint accuracy, and he dies standing up. Shortly after, the rest of the Eagles meet up with us, perhaps drawn to the scene by the involuntarily gurgling sound by the zombified bandit. It takes a good two minutes for the spell to finally wear off and for the body to meet the dirt.

Looking at the class, I say:

"The bandit leader must be inside that cavern."

Everyone except Hubert nods. He then replies:

"Strange, I had assumed he would leap out with them..."

I question the Hubertian logic here, but perhaps it's Claudian rather than Hubertian... and it is over my head.

Edelgard doesn't quite get it either, it seems, and she strolls back to me with a resolute expression, gripping the handaxe at her belt.

"The Bandit leader is certainly inside, My Teacher. Allow me to dispatch him."

Although she's already claimed her kill, I'm certainly willing to allow her to take another. Everyone else has met their quota for the day, as I'm counting Hubert's failed miasma as a kill. I merely claimed an assist.

Running my hand through my hair, I answer with:

"Allow me to watch your back this time."

And fortunately, my expression of gratitude for her previous support is not lost on My Student, who nods eagerly in return. Hubert, again, makes his dissatisfaction known.

"I must insist that I'm better suited for such a responsibility, Professor. Allow me to accompany Lady Edelgard on the execution of their leader."

Hubert actually makes a fair point here, as he knows how to use a Silence spell, and I do not. Willing to grant that, I allow the final decision to be Edelgard's.

"I'll defer to you." I say to Edelgard.

Hubert, however, seems to think this deference is directed at him... even though Edelgard and I were locking eyes with one another. And still are at this moment, in fact.

"Hm. You are beginning to sound like a proper lackey. The acquiescence is appreciated, Professor." comes his reply.

"Hubert… My Teacher will join me. Please wait outside and watch over the Eagles." comes Edelgard's reply to his reply.

If I could smirk, I'd smirk.

Hubert can smirk, but at this moment can only grimace at his Lady's command.

"... Lady Edelgard, I must insist on joining the two of you."

Her gaze finally breaks away, and her neck cranes skyward to glare at her retainer on my behalf. I can't glare, either of course.

So I just stare at Hubert blankly.

"...Absolutely not." she says.

And how I wish I could emote at this very moment... in a way that I've never wished before.

With Edelgard, I wished to emote out of care.

With Hubert, I wished to emote out of spite.


First Duel: Bandit King

10:59am

I describe this event as a duel, although perhaps that is giving my student too much credit in dispatching the Bandit King. But if I am guilty of doing that, I must count myself among the most self-assured criminals in the entire world.

Upon entering the cavern we are greeted with a yell from the darkness. Snapping my fingers to create a torch rather reflexively, I then noticed that the yell was emanating from the man who led the attack on Remire on the twentieth of last month.

"Spoiled little noble! Just die like a good little rich k-!"

Bandit King does not finish this thought, however. An axe hurled squarely into his face kills him instantly.

"He thought that being born a commoner gave him the right to kill. Isn't that Despicable, My Teacher...?" I'm asked.

That question sounds both political and philosophical, and since Edelgard is far more knowledgeable and well-read than I am about politics and philosophy, I simply nod and say:

"You unhorsed his logic."

And a very genuine laugh that I am beginning to center my whole universe around echoes through the canyon, surprising even the girl who laughed it.

Maybe she does appreciate my deadpan. Although I didn't even really intend for that to be funny.

Is that what actually makes jokes funny, or is this just particular to Edelgard? Before I can ask, she trots off to retrieve her hand axe from the bandit's skull, content in her triumph. As she does this, my hand-made torch draws my attention to a series of engravings and symbols dug into the wall of this cavern, one eerily similar to the scenes I saw painted along the the caves within the Throat. After assessing these in silence for a time, utterly unable to make heads or tails of them in spite of being literate in their meaning, Edelgard appears by my side again. As she does - a single word makes itself apparent to me, a series of symbols that I've seen many times before, but was totally illiterate in until this very moment, it seems.

"Fell." is what it reads.

Before my eyes can skirt around for context, My Student steals away my attention.

"Do you notice anything strange about these glyphs, Professor?"

Hell, what isn't strange about them?

Even more strange is my ability to make heads or tails of them.

"I do." I reply matter-of-factly.

She nods sagely at this, seemingly enthused by my confirmation, but clearly doing a dress-rehearsal of what she intends to say next:

"Of course, I expected as much. The while canyon seems to be covered in ruins, each more curious than the last. They do not match the architectural style of any era or culture within the Empire. Or across all of Fódlan, for that matter."

I can only bring a hand to my chin in reply, but she takes this as license to continue:

"That can only mean one thing… The valley's civilization must have flourished and fallen in the distant past, long before the Empire was established. Who do you think lived there?"

"There are similar glyphs along the Throat, all the way into Almyra." I say at first, with all of the images and symbols that I've seen over the years coalescing in my mind into something entirely unintelligble.

"Oh… I was actually not aware of that…" She says, trailing off, but clearly indicating me to develop this point further.

Unfortunately, it's both Hubertian, Claudian, and Edelgardian... and thus so far above my head it might as well be celestial.

Shrugging, I reply:

"Whatever culture made them… must be long dead."

That was something my father muttered when he first saw the paintings. His interest in them was only passing, however. Whenever I located them, however... I found myself overwhelmed with curiosity. Naturally, I did not understand that sensation at the time, but I do remember spending hours staring at them and imprinting their images into my mind as if driven by an otherworldly force.

"Well, obviously, my Teacher... given their age. Although... it's possible they weren't even human, which would mean..."

Dragging my eyes off the glyphs, I return my gaze back to her. I then realize she's been assessing me for reactions the whole time.

What does she see in me, I wonder?

"You think so?" I ask.

"Perhaps their remnants actually still influence this world…"

"The Almyrans hate these things."

"...They do…?"

"They scratch them out of caverns along the throat."

"You witnessed them deface these glyphs yourself…?"

"Yes, mostly by accident."

"...Accidentally doing what, precisely…?"

"Taking cover in a sandstorm."

Edelgard clearly wants to press further on this, and I'm willing to be pressed by her, I realize. At this moment, I consider disclosing her that I can read the glyph in front of us... but we're interrupted by Claude, who enters the tent at a jog while clutching the passenger pigeon that Marianne rehabilitated.

"You can't be an exhibitionist if the guy watching is dead, you know." he informs us.

Exhibiting what, I wonder? Before I can ask for a clarification of vocabulary, the Adrestian asks for a clarification of intent:

"Whyever did you come in here?"

And admittedly, I'm wondering that as well, so I let the other matter drop. Claude does his typical routine of playing the wounded messenger in reply.

"Woah Edel, I'm just playing Mailman. Marianne sent this pigeon back along the road to Garegg Mach, and it came back with a letter. Ain't that lucky?"

"...A letter?!" Edelgard replies, almost instantenously.

I suppose the sudden ability to receive missives from the monastery after all of the silence is somewhat surprising. And perhaps all too convenient, given the circumstances.

Claude holds the letter high above his head in an effort to keep it from my shortstuff student's grasping gloves.

"By the by, it's addressed to Teach, Edel. I know you read his mail and all, though… but this is for his eyes, only."

Getting that kind of directive from Claude leaves a sour taste in my mouth, and it actually makes me want Edelgard to read all of my mail in the future. She confirms this sentiment shortly after by stating:

"Naturally, he allows me to read it because I am his House Leader and responsible for his safety."

I take the letter from Claude, much to Edelgard's surprise, and then hand it directly to Edelgard, much to Claude's surprise.

"See? My Teacher trusts me implicitly."

At this, Claude winks at me.

"Explicitly, too I'm sure." he says.

My Student then holds up the letter next to my torchlight and directly obstructing her view of the Heir to House Riegan.

"...I'm actually going to ignore you, now!" she snaps very cutely.

Admittedly, this is probably much easier because she's gotten the object of her immediate desire: my mail. But if her desires are as well-meaning as that, I suppose I can grant her the ability to do that. For what it's worth, Claude tried to poison me with tincture. Edelgard poisons me with feelings.

I'll gladly take the feelings.

She speed-reads the missive quite quickly, and huffs and puffs. She then hides the letter behind her back.

"Cardinal Seteth is both misconstruing our... mutual support for one another, and is also attempting to get us killed, My Teacher. For now, we should just ignore this and make our way back to the monastery. There is no other option that is sufficient."

While I appreciate the Bylethian summary there, I probably should actually read the thing. So I ask:

"...Can I read it?"

She shakes her head.

"...May you read it, you mean?"

Claude snickers and wheezes on a laugh.

"Damn. She's got you whipped bad, huh?" he says to me.

I do not get a chance to reply to this statement, but frankly I'm not sure I would anyway.

Replying to these statements is Edelgard's responsibility as my House Leader, right?

"Hardly. I am not whipping anyone. I was merely expressing my opinion on how suicidal this whole affair has become as of late. Clearly there is a diagnosable skill issue by the military planners at the Monastery. Naturally, My Teacher was hired to correct this."

His Deceitfulness must detect an opportunity here, because he gesticulates a bit before riposting with:

"You may have missed it while arguing with The Hubester, Edel... but Teach just wiped an entire mercenary company with a spare ballista and some booze. Nothing's suicidal with him around."

Was that a compliment?

What's the catch, there?

Turning to My Student, I notice Edelgard shaking her head quite haughtily at this comment and proceeding to run a hand through her hair quite triumphantly, as if she had secretly hired the mercenaries here herself only to be defeated by my tactical improvisation and her fine strategic vision.

Needless to say, this is just a Linhardtian analogy.

"Hmph. I certainly observed and appreciated My Teacher's effort far more than you ever could, because he teaches the Black Eagles." the Heir to an Empire quips after going through her motions.

Feeling the need to identify her own strategic chops as well, I add:

"Edelgard devised the overall strategy. My glory is hers as well."

Claude shakes his head after I state this with a Hildian, Holstian grin.

"How many blowjobs did she give to get you to say that, Teach?"

What is a blowjob, I wonder?

I consider asking Edelgard, who has turned bright red at this Claudian quip, but she never brings her attention back to me, and merely takes a step forward towards Claude after bringing a bloodied white glove over her mouth. I'd fear blood poisoning on her behalf if we hadn't already traded it last month with no ill-effects.

"Truly... you're a disgusting person. And are clearly jealous of our perfect teamwork...!"

Claude seems willing to grant this, but I suspect because he's already landed a big one in Edelgard's last reaction.

"If you say so." He offers with a shrug.

Reading the reaction a bit too genuinely, My Student continues on with:

"Of course you are– with my innovative reinterpretation of Srengian operational planning and My Teacher's tactical acumen and improvisation, the Black Eagles will remain ever victorious and…"

And while she begins another monologue anew, one that makes me proud but also very, very bored... my eyes drift down to the letter:


Professor Eisner,

I have been trying to reach you and your students for the past four days. Unfortunately, it appears that our owl communiques have been intercepted by the enemy. The rescue of this passenger pigeon by the Heir to House Edmund was quite fortuitous. Please express my thanks to her for her quick thinking.

Claude von Riegan has detailed your defeat of a sizable hostile force of mercenaries in Zanado. Please accept my appreciation for not involving the students in such a violent melee just yet. This was intended to be a mop-up operation, and not a full-scale engagement.

As it happens, I have gathered intelligence revealing that this company you faced was actually in the employ of Lord Lonato of Gaspard, a vassal of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. On the twenty-fifth of this moon, the chancellery of the Lordship formally declared a state of war between the County Gaspard and the Church of Seiros. Any attempts to mediate the conflict by Prince Rufus Blaiddyd, Regent of the Kingdom, have been ignored by the Lord.

When that declaration was issued, I attempted to forward a withdrawal letter to you and the students at Remire Village. Both letters did not reach their intended destinations.

This same Lord Lonato has also deployed his peasant levy to the village of Remire, and is besieging the Blue Lions and their escort. According to Professor Hanneman's last missive, the class had just completed the construction of blockhouses prior to the enemy force's arrival. The protection of those structures against the projetciles from the Gaspard longbowmen has proved invaluable to the students' survival.

Your excellent tactical advice here is noted, and I would like to express my gratitude in taking the initative in consulting the construction of these fortifications with the Crown Prince. Still, you should endeavor to actually consult your colleagues in the future as well, however – including myself. The Crown Prince is not your ward.

In expression of this appreciation, I will choose to ignore the fact that you oversaw the smuggling of contraband materials with you on the campaign, particularly a Ballista prototype developed by the Gloucester Armory which has NOT passed the Church of Seiros Arms Regulation Commission as of yet. Our missions are to be executed without the carrying of unmarked alcohol as well, which is also a strictly regulated substance.

Please understand that a future violation of Academy rules like this will result in me presenting to Archbishop Rhea a case for your immediate termination.

With that out of the way – allow me to get to the heart of the matter before us:

I need you to deploy towards Remire village immediately. Our complement of Knights is spread out across the region. While they have all been issued recall orders – many of these orders are currently being interfered with and intercepted by our opposition. I fear we will not have sufficient forces back at the monastery to deploy towards Remire for several days.

That is why I need your class to make a demonstration towards the peasant levy in order to buy us time to prepare a proper extraction. While I expressly order you NOT to engage in combat with the enemy, appearing on their flank would certainly cause a great deal of chaos in the enemy ranks. Hanneman reports that the opposing force is experiencing a command crisis at the moment, and dividing their forces further would be a boon to the survival of the Lions.

Please execute this mission without delay.

If necessary, food can be transported in local trails through the Remire woods to keep your students fed, within reason. The village fortifications have not been breached as of yet, and the siege is currently only attempting to waylay the village's access to the Arundel highway.

Finally, you have permission to withdraw back to Arundel City if the opposition attempts to engage. Arrangements have been made with the county's Lord, the Imperial regent, and a relative of the student who you insist on making romantic displays with. Please understand that if word reaches of me such things occurring in front of the Imperial Regent – I shall chase you out of the Academy myself.

Dutifully,

Seteth