Author's Note: I'll have a long-form reply to the usual suspects at the end of the next chapter. Trying to space them out a bit!
Memo to Self:
Did not bother replying to Seteth.
Edelgard offered to reply instead.
Left for her tent after ordering Hubert to remain behind.
Exited the tent three hours later, refused to talk about the contents of the reply.
She also did not use Danton, which made Hubert very concerned. She opted for the passenger pigeon that Marianne rescued. Should follow-up on this at some point in the future.
Returned to camp just past 11PM on the 28th. Spent most of the afternoon and evening with Petra, scavenging the canyon for additional rations. She still struck me as out of sorts from the near-death experience… which makes me wonder if the "saved" as Sothis calls them, can recall their own deaths in the similar way that I can – however fragmentarily.
Moreover, what were the consequences of interfering with time in this way…?
To this, Sothis answered that she was sleeping, which meant that she was in fact awake and had no damned idea herself.
In any event, the Brigidian and I pilfered enough bacon – thoughtfully sealed in glass jars –- within no man's land to supply the Eagles and Deer with an additional day of protein. This will go a long way towards fulfilling the dietary needs of the students before their next round of marching.
In spite of having other looted alternatives, I Insisted upon cornmeal cakes for an 11:45pm dinner supplemented with a small serving of bacon. There were no complaints from the Deer this time, as if all their appetite had been lost in the interim. Perhaps their birds-eye view of the Eagles in Zanado had at last humbled them to the reality of life on campaign.
Strangely, I could not say this about my own set of wards.
Curiously, Ferdinand led a parley party – joined by Linhardt and Caspar – over to my log while I was cooking, bent over and with fingers hard at work in the frying pan. Admittedly, I was not in the best of moods and may have grimaced at them slightly. With a tone that at first struck me as mutinous, I listened to them demand more diverse and protein-rich meal choices, noting that armies fight on their stomach – a fair point – and that they'd be willing to pitch in some of their monthly allowances for a properly supplied chuckwagon.
When I realized that this was not a critique of my mediocre cooking skill, most of the frustration dissipated.
Taking the suggestion at face value, I took some time to consider my reply, leaving my hands in the pan for too long and burning them. My sudden frown and throat-clearing attracted the attention of Edelgard and Hubert, who were previously engaged in feverish discussion on the far side of the campfire. Upon their return to earshot, I noted that as far as I was concerned, the expedition had left Garegg Mach with a properly supplied chuckwagon. Our core issue was the logistical failure of the Knights, whose camp was overwhelmed by our enemies, thus failing to keep us in proper supply at a critical juncture.
While the plan to be more self-sufficient from the beginning of the operation was sound at a surface level, increasing the number of wagons we traveled with carried risks as well, particularly in making us a prime target for ambuscade. More people driving the wagons meant less people available for scouting.
For the march back, I proposed a totally revised marching order: featuring eight scouts – in pairs of two – covering our flanks, front, and rear. This was stretching our manpower quite thin already, I feared – and also wanted to propose the idea of burning the supply wagons altogether to increase our relative speed, along with straddling the treelines in order to present a less cohesive target for ambushers.
No one in our errant expedition is carrying a shield with them, I should note – so we will be naked to the wind against a force of longbowmen.
A fourth wagon in a future scenario like this would be nothing but trouble if circumstances remained the same – which they never do, but the point remains.
My Student made her way over to my side and agreed with the first half of my assessment, which was comforting. She then cut me off, and suggested to me that in future operations, I should be more willing to ignore specific directives from Seteth and defer to her judgment instead. After replying to her that I already did, and that our victory here was due to her strategic initiative – she took the reins of the conversation and shot down the chuckwagon idea – presumably on my behalf.
Our Red Lancer then accused her of dismissing the idea only because he had suggested it, and noted that my critique of his idea was intended as a good faith counterpoint between brothers-in-arms – and not an explicit denial. This, of course, was all true. In reality, I had just wished to provide my own perspective, as the idea of making a firm decision now on future campaign variables struck me as the worst sort of armchair generalship.
I didn't mention that aloud, of course, because it would be accusing Edelgard of armchair generalship… but I did tactfully – if tersely – imply that Ferdinand's point had some merit, and was at least worth considering if we were to participate in a cooperative mission with the two rival houses together under less strained circumstances. My Student looked rather surprised at this admission on my part, perhaps not realizing how the whole debate was initiated.
She planted her feet with a quick recovery, though – reminding me that there was no enemy that she feared overcoming with me to guide her.
Following that statement, I drank down a familiar cocktail of pain and warmth welling up from my chest. It tasted like Dos Cravos.
Edelgard then insisted that as My House Leader, she was also my acting quartermaster – and that the foodstuffs brought on campaign would have to be approved by her in the future. Ferdinand, utterly shocked at what he called an "overreach of divine right", then rose to my defense – noting that only nobles could understand the necessity of living off the land, and that we should not carry any supply wagons at all in the future. Myself, as a noble individual, would inherently understand this as in opposition to the base and common suggestions of My Student.
Such an eventuality would be better – he informed me – than submitting to Edelgard's absolutism.
Ferdinand's assertions just now are patently untrue from a soldiering standpoint, but I just felt too tired to keep fanning the flames of the argument developing between the two. Since I defer to Edelgard and not Ferdinand – because she is My House Leader – I simply agreed to the former's request – much to the chagrin of the entire class – Dorothea, Petra, and Bernie arriving at the fire as as fearful spectators shortly after the future Emperor and future Prime Minister started arguing at octaves that disturbed all of the resting avian life.
The Heir to House Hevring lazily leaned on me, and directed me with his bodyweight some distance from the campfire shortly after all the yelling began anew. He endeavored to inform me through a yawn – and a powerfully illustrative analogy about sea urchins – that Edelgard was not always right about everything.
Informing Linhardt quite bluntly that Edelgard is a woman, and therefore always correct – I cited that Sothis had told me this directly. I then belatedly realized that Linhardt probably had no idea who Sothis was, given that she was living in my head and not his.
In the moments after, as he processed my statement in stunned silence – I found myself quite impressed at just how large his cerulean irises could grow. Interestingly, the Heir to House Hevring did not contest my reply, and merely wandered back to the campfire to sit on a log. Leaning forward towards the fire, he closed his eyelids, placed his forehead on a clenched fist and began to think.
Leaving him be, I found myself thanking him in silence for his efforts. Surely some insight in the coming days from him would be of great assistance to me. I merely needed to buy him time.
The rest of the Eagles – who had not heard my chat with Linhardt, but did take note of a very contented looking Crown Princess – then bored into me with eyes expressing total frustration as I returned to the group.
Even Hubert shook his head.
Edelgard then approached and informed me that she prefers oatmeal to cornmeal.
I suspect she actually prefers the sugar that oatmeal is usually dressed with as a warm breakfast, instead of having a particular preference in this or that cereal grain, though. I've got no particular issue with plain oat-cakes, but they tend to have even less flavor than plain corn-cakes. They're also far less filling… and we have some big eaters here. It is worth noting that on St. Macuil's Day, the person arguing for a lighter supply train consumed an entire baking tray's worth of Saghert and Cream.
That said, the nature of this argument from both sides was becoming very undergraduate, and very, very, detached from how actual armies functioned.
Considering they might be leading actual armies some day, I endeavored to return our purview to the practicable. This is easier said than done, of course – and I hate talking to begin with.
Generally speaking, nobles I fought with entirely forgot about the importance of logistics until it inconvenienced them – which I suppose was the heart of the matter before us, anyway. Perhaps the solution was to just avoid inconvenience.
Next mission, I will bring a large sack of cane sugar along.
Just after midnight, I took leave of the campfire and opted to retire. The Eagles along with Leonie and Marianne, had gathered around the dwindling flames for a late-night refreshment provided by Petra, who offered to everyone a bottle of Morgaine Champagne looted from the barber's tent. After Petra retrieved it, Hubert – in an impressive display of camaraderie – offered to open it for her.
Prior to this, Petra had been attempting to dislodge the cork with her teeth.
I do know that champagne is supposedly a classy form of alcohol, favored by the nobility for celebration. I can't stand the stuff, though. The carbonation never agreed with me.
Ferdinand was particularly saddened when I disclosed my distaste for the drink. He noted, quite somberly, that apart from thermal baths, Morgaine was also well-known for the various monasteries dotting the sides of ravines that produced this noblest of wines in ancient, cloistered cellars. Since I was destined to become the Imperial Chancellor in his mind – and receive the Barony as a fief – I had to accustom myself to the regional produce.
According to the Heir to House Aegir, one of the few redeeming aspects of my father's old Lieutenant, Falstaff, was that he patronized a renaissance of the domain's viticulture after inheriting the title through his childless uncle. Apparently, the production of Morgaine Champagne had declined when some politico-religious blah-blah called the Southern Church(?) closed up shop two hundred years ago. Because of all this intrigue, a reduction of monasteries took place – including the ones that produced sparkling wine. The recipe was nearly lost to history as a result.
It's a shame that things like religion and politics can ruin food – but religion and politics seem to ruin everything else they seem to touch – so I suppose that's to be expected.
As I parted from the celebration consumed by thoughts like the one above, The Heir to Adrestia stalked me like a predator hunting prey. When we had cleared the earshot of the champagne circle, she pounced like a feline and tugged on the back of my cloak with appreciable force – enough to bring me boots upward from terra firma in an awkward halt.
Turning around, I found myself with nothing to say – so we stared at each other in silence for a time. Eventually breaking the awkward air, Edelgard asked if I had a topographical map of Remire village handy. I did, and told her that I had saved one with the updated fortification plan from my last consultation with Dimitri on the twenty-third.
Noticing her recoil in disgust at the mention of my spending time with Dimitri, she then seemed to quickly recover her composure when I supplied the rest of the information regarding the fortification plans to her. This must have pleasantly surprised her, and she asked rather cutely if she could impose on me to discuss our strategy tomorrow evening, preferably over tea.
Edelgard's not imposing.
She's five-foot-two.
In fact, such a proposition pre-empted my own – which I had resolved to tomorrow morning anyway – so I agreed immediately – even offering to lend her the map to analyze my attempted approach. Noting that it was in my satchel, I beckoned her over to my tent. Perhaps doing so smacked of impropriety, though – because after I did, Edelgard's eyes darted around to make sure no one else was observing the two of us.
At present, the most likely candidate to do so – the Heir to House Vestra – was still at the campfire, occupied with the twisting of a corkscrew to bust open the bottle of bubbly. Even from this distance, he seemed to be having a grand old time – and I spotted a sort of rare Hubert – a fellow entirely in his element. Perhaps he carried around that corkscrew of his as an interrogation device, and felt quite at ease while holding such an implement.
I can understand and appreciate that sentiment. I'm most at ease when I'm killing someone with my bare hands, sinking my fingers along their jugular vein and watching the whites of their eyes well up with blood as their irises go glassy. Hubert is perfectly entitled to his own preferences. Clearly killing on the field of battle isn't his preference – and he's entitled to that preference, in spite of all the professions to the contrary that he made fourteen hours ago.
Dorothea, our other intriguer, was trying on lingerie in Hilda's tent, pitched next to mine. I can tell by the two figures inside contorting themselves in shadow play, giggling and talking about those elusive pushup bras. Claude was kicked out of Hilda's tent just before this, and decided to join Lorenz in his, who was rooming with Ignatz on the opposite end of the clearing. The Deer's resident sketcher savant had made his way back towards the Canyon one last time to finish his piece depicting the footbridge by the canyon entrance, which he mentioned a desire to turn into a full-fledged landscape painting.
When I offered to buy this work from him – he admitted a firm intent to keep it to himself, which is a decision I can respect.
I'd prefer to keep this diary to myself, as well.
I only mention my intent to bequeath this to Linhardt within these pages as a sort of grim eventuality. And being a warrior at heart – in spite of not having a heart – I know such an eventuality stalks me around every corner with far more precision than the Adrestian Heiress did just recently.
There is no telling that Edelgard, myself, the Eagles or the Deer will end up as lucky as we did in this Canyon yesterday in a future engagement of arms.
Although a certain amount of skill is required to win battles, war is mostly chaos. One's ability to improvise and stage-manage that chaos are the only tools that seem remotely useful, at least in my personal estimation. And if improvisation was a white-haired woman – she'd be far more fickle than Edelgard or Lysithea.
That is all to say – Remire could very well be the place where some or all of us could meet our ends.
I will throw my own life away in effort to save theirs without so much as a second thought to avoid that eventuality, of course. But if that comes to pass… I cannot guarantee their survival after my own life ends. That knowledge is something that has been occupying my thoughts since I started the scavenging effort with Petra this afternoon. It's a thought that I've never really occasioned myself to consider before, either – because I had never really gauged my life as important to others before.
But my life is a life that has a responsibility to protect others now… so it's not entirely my own anymore, is it?
At least since meeting Edelgard.
As my thoughts return to her more directly, she asks a question:
"Do you drink wine at all, My Teacher?"
It's a strange question, I guess – but standing outside my tent with one of my wards so very close to me after midnight is also very strange. Even stranger still is Hubert's complete inattentiveness. I can see him in my periphery struggling mightily with the champagne bottle, getting his screw stuck in the cork and prompting the unrestrained laughter of Bernadetta, who is sitting on the stump beside him.
When my focus returns to Edelgard, I notice that she seems a bit miffed about my total disinterest in her query. Perhaps I've been spoiling her with the chattiness that her butler has accused me of as of late.
She's also doing that thing where she shifts her weight around, as if she can't decide which leg she prefers. At present, her right boot is planted just ahead of her left boot, so it seems like she's swaying in – towards me at one moment, and then retreating back the next.
I make a go at seeming less bored by raising a quizzical eyebrow. As if waiting for the cue of some sort of muscle-movement on my face, she continues with:
"...I'm just curious because I've never occasioned to see you drink it before. I was under the impression that you did not care for it at all, but…I thought it better to just ask, I suppose?" she clarifies.
Why do Edelgard's clarifications always raise more questions than they answer?
Still, it can't hurt to answer it, I guess. Eventually.
Wine isn't something I'd drink at Celica's – or in public at all really – so I guess that observation makes sense. I do keep a few bottles of Claret back at my dorm, however. After Mercedes' party on the twenty-third – I had opened a bottle in advance of making a diary entry, in fact… until Danton dropped off that missive from Claude about the Ballista.
There's no particular reason for me to drink wine alone – and I'm not hiding anything by doing so. The particular wine I drink most often just happens to put me in a state of mind that lends itself towards contemplative writing. When I was adjudant for my father, I'd drink it rather mindlessly when handling materiel registers.
"Claret." I say at last.
This humble table wine, produced from hardy Malbec grapes native to the windswept shores of the Edmund Margraviate seems to pique Edelgard's interest in a manner that far outstretches what I assumed was its own cultural reach. Claret – at least in Leicester – is a soldier's wine, through and through. I've often seen entire cellars of the stuff hauled by wagon-train to the Throat to wet the gullets of Holst's band.
These facts, as they are – would generally cause me to think Claret would be a most un-Edelgardian sort of wine, because Edelgard is exceptional by nature. She is also from the Empire, But given how enthusiastic and jumpy those lavender colored eyeballs of hers are – fully sober, I should add – I suppose I must have stumbled onto something.
The emphasis she puts on her Edelgardian but also Bylethian reply also supports this emergent thesis of mine:
"...Truly?" she asks.
Sometimes, I get the impression that My House Leader gets wrapped up in things a little too much. At this moment, we're discussing a wine that runs for about 25G a bottle, I believe. It doesn't possess Morgaine Champagne levels of classiness.
But she's excited – I think. And this purely accidental common ground we seem to have established some sort of footing on is welcome, at least.
"Truly." I confirm with a nod.
Two purple orbs assess me accusatively after saying this. I suppose that's only natural, as Edelgard seems to constantly think all of my milquetoast opinions are somehow carefully managed responses to her own interests and preferences.
After adding a squint for good measure, she decides to press what must seem like a weak point in my defenses:
"... I remain unconvinced. I've certainly never witnessed you order Claret at Celica's."
Fair enough – I guess, so I reply with:
"The commissary delivers to the dorms."
The faculty are allowed to drink alcohol on campus, and an entrepreneurial student who did a work-study in the Knights Hall commissary several years ago happened to set-up this booze-courier service before being expelled from the Academy after murdering someone.
I wonder if I'll ever be expelled from the monastery for murdering someone.
When Manuela mentioned it – and the murderous student – at the faculty meeting on the twenty-third of last month, Seteth looked like he was going to have an aneurysm. I ended up making use of the service the very same day.
"I see…" Edelgard says – implying that she must have actually seen it.
"Saw the crate on the desk?" I ask.
There's a big wooden crate on the desk right now, in fact – if Edelgard didn't move it. The birchwood box happens to be marked with the crest of House Edmund. At times, when the journal entries get quite wordy, I flip the crate on its side and use it as a platform so I can write standing up.
At present, I'm really sick of standing – since I've been on my feet for the past twenty-eight hours, straight. Edelgard doesn't appear tired at all, though – and has become quite agitated again, as if she has access to some grand reserve of energy that she hasn't yet spent.
She did take a nap this evening while I was scavenging with Petra, though…
"...I-I fail to see how that question is relevant…" she snaps.
"You were the last person there." I reply.
Her back shoots up straighter than a ramrod, and a white glove rises.
"H-Hardly! I was only inside for a moment, and it was out of concern for your safety…!"
I'll grant her that, I guess. We are in the habit of looking after one another now… and that's no small comfort at the end of the day – with my ability to feel comfort owing itself to her anyway.
"Thank you, Edelgard."
And we both end up silent for a time at this – Edelgard's eyes doing their usual dance on the snow-white ballroom floor her scleras provide.
"...You are often in my thoughts, of course… But we should return to the topic at hand… that you were drinking alone, in your dormitory."
I see where this is going, damn it. I'm about to have my self-medicating habits micromanaged, I suspect. This was also not the topic at hand, but I indulge her:
"I drink while writing."
This reply gives me the impression that she's of two minds at the moment. He curled down lips give me the sense that she's not happy to hear that I'm drinking outside of her supervision and approval – but the manner in which her eyebrows shot up after the word "write" tell a very different story. That's Edelcat, and she's curious.
"...You write?"
Not wanting to get too specific there, I merely offer the objectively true if somewhat incomplete statement:
"Professors have paperwork."
This patently obvious fact disarms her quite clearly, causing her to almost lose her balance when leaning back on her left heel in that swaying motion she does, but she recovers quickly… and with a very cute laugh.
That laughter lightens my own thoughts and allows me a willingness to grant that I don't cut the idealized figure of an ink-stained staff officer buried in mounds of logbooks and ledgers. I doubt My Student would pay much attention to me if I was, even. The white-haired woman who stands before is rather fickle in that way.
"Heh. Well – I suppose even you must apply yourself with a pen at times, although… I must say that the image of you doing paperwork is rather… amusing."
Would she find a quarter-of-a-million words amusing, I wonder? Not that she'll ever read this, but… perhaps she might laugh if I told her about this diary someday. After I burned it for good measure. Still, I did scribble some assessments and other records into these pages, so it's not a lie to say that… in a way… this journal is paperwork.
That said, something tells me that my honor student might want to do some busy work. I can't say I'd be opposed to her covering for my own lack of education.
"I can delegate that to–"
Her eyebrows turn downward into a frown, but her contended smirk remains – and I rather like that expression of hers, even though I probably shouldn't at this moment.
"Absolutely not."
I raise an eyebrow, and this prompts another short laugh to break through and relax her face again. The image of her amusement melting away a frown is one that I always find myself returning to when thinking about Edelgard – perhaps it's almost the default image I project of her in my mind. And as I go on, the face before me in particular will remain most reminiscent of them all, I suspect.
It's even cuter than the expression made on St. Macuil's, particularly because of its mercurial metamorphosis.
"...Well, not to me – at least. Perhaps Hubert might have the time – and I would second him to you if necessary. He's quite good at paperwork, but… to be quite honest, I find all of that abhorrent." she notes, speaking very quickly for some reason – as if these words aren't spoken in her usual, rehearsed manner.
I let a moment pass and appreciate the warmth that such knowledge provides. And the pain, too.
And after that moment, for whatever reason, I feel a need to clarify that she doesn't find Hubert repulsive.
Even though Hubert apparently tried to kill me this afternoon – only succeeding in killing Petra, in fact – by letting the barber slip through his sight… I would want to express to Edelgard that he is in fact not a repulsive person. His behavior is repulsive at times, but I suspect he is doing that for what he perceives to be the right reasons.
In fact, his constant attempts to kill me are the reasons why I'm failing him as a teacher, I suspect. I need to find a way to demonstrate that I'm an asset to Edelgard, and not a threat.
"Paperwork, you mean." I clarify.
And she frowns, but I'm glad she does.
"Obviously, My Teacher…! Whatever else would I be implying?"
"Nothing."
Content in that confirmation, I'm willing to let the conversation die and call it a night at this moment. Edelgard isn't, however, and is scrutinizing my expression with renewed suspicion.
"Now I must inquire as to why you're grimacing… Did that sound so strange to you?"
Correction: I was not grimacing. Edelgard interpreted that as a grimace.
"It's just surprising." I offer.
A gust of wind brought forth from Edelgard's nostrils washes over my neck – a confirmation that we're standing rather close to each other. Her breath smells like bacon.
"Hmph. You don't look surprised at all." she asserts.
The most I can do is shrug.
"…Well, you shouldn't be, anyway. Even someone like me is entitled to moments of self-indulgence… And that knowledge shouldn't be any more surprising than your preference for Claret…"
I fail to see why drinking table wine alone at night is surprising.
"It's just wine."
She shakes her head, as if to inform me that it's not just wine.
"Even so, I consider your choice in wine to be a fine one…"
…Did she just compliment me?
My chest was feeling very warm in the aftermath of that statement, so it must be a compliment, right? If I could weigh it on a scale, too – I'd say the warmth would weigh more than the pain too – because it makes my chest feel… full? As if there actually was a heart inside.
Still... I'm not even sure I prefer liquor. If we're using the amount consumed as a metric, it'd be the Claret by a long shot, but it never felt worthy of mention until this very moment. Wine was just a more reliable drink anyway when the Almyrans were in the habit of poisoning wells with wyvern carcasses.
All that said, I'm almost certainly not going to argue that point with Edelgard at this moment. In fact, I find it rather comforting to be her guiding light in that particular arena of libation. I certainly couldn't do the same for wine – being too unrefined to appreciate all of the fancy vintages of the Empire that Ferdinand was endeavoring to explain to me just a few moments ago.
I like Claret. Simple as.
If that passes muster with My Student, I can be glad about that – but it won't really change my current consumption habits in any meaningful way.
"If you say so."
The Future Emperor takes the opportunity to wheel her body in a semicircle towards the entrance to my tent. She leans up against the flap. I can see a pair of white gloves – poorly hidden behind her back – fiddling with the buttons that hold it together.
I wonder what Edelgard wants to do in my tent?
"Might we… continue this line of inquiry for a moment, My Teacher…?"
Perhaps she wants to remain outside the tent for a little while longer, given how she hasn't invited me inside yet.
Although… it is my tent. Am I supposed to invite her inside…?
"Sure." I reply distractedly.
"...Who produces your favorite Claret…?" she asks, extremely intensely.
"The label?"
With a brief look towards a pissed off looking Hubert who's currently got the champagne bottle wedged between his legs on the log, she smirks.
"If you can't recall the brand… perhaps the region?"
I bring a hand to my hair and think, realizing that there's probably a trick question somewhere in here. The Alliance Lords are known for dealing with the Empire with their embassies, and I know for a fact that both Edmund and Kupala produce Claret along the dry, hilly coastline they share, just before the desert cliffs of the throat come into view.
None of the Alliance heirs that Edelgard openly despises are from Kupala, but Kupala also has an open embargo against the Empire, making it impossible for them to import Datefruit. One of the Imperial nobles who fought with Holst against the Almyrans had never tried one before joining a forlorn hope of ours.
He, unfortunately, took molten silver to the skull the night after trying one.
So she must hate Kupala, because she's very patriotic… in her own, Edelgardian way.
"Edmund." I say, truthfully actually – as I did generally prefer Marianne's family estates over Kupala's. They also have a intriguing coat-of-arms featuring a vesselhorn that's immediately recognizable in any liquor store.
Marianne is also a nice, gentle person who I should spend more time with, I think. She should know that not every person is like Sylvain and intending to hit her.
Unfortunately, this reply earns a dissatisfied squint from My Student.
"Hmph. I should have expected a predictable answer like that, I suppose."
At this, I shrug. This just incenses her further – but I have to ask in these pages because I couldn't ask them aloud: would any response at all actually please her in this situation?
Does she even want to be pleased?
Are we having a nothing argument again?
"...As it happens, the finest Claret in all of Fodlan actually hails from the fields of House Hresvelg."
Should I have guessed this was coming shortly after she got really intense about a rather coincidental preference for Claret? Owning vineyards is a noble thing, I assume. One needs a lot of land to own a vineyard, and landowning is a thing that nobles do, after all.
I've never seen Hresvelg Claret in any of the continent's liquor shops, though. Particularly not in Remire, but not even in the comparatively cosmopolitan city Hrym, which was a frequent stop of my father's company before crossing the Myrddin. It's worth noting that I've heard comments from fellow soldiers that Hrym is a shell of what it used to be, following a rebellion – but that hasn't stopped the liquor stores from being well-stocked.
I don't recall any Imperial Clarets at all, in fact. Just the Leicester varieties.
"Never tried it." I say matter-of-factly, trying my best not to seem offensive.
Her frown turns into a raised eyebrow at this, as if she has the opportunity to redirect the conversation along some path she actually wants to go, but is avoiding.
"Well… it's very exclusive, but you must. Your House Leader's family produces it, after all…"
Exclusive must mean that it's difficult to get in a store. Perhaps I can smuggle it in somehow.
"Maybe Maya can procure a bottle." I offer.
The flames behind her irises just had some accelerant poured on them with this very innocent statement on my part.
"Why would you ask a relative of the Deer when your House Leader is the one who will be inheriting the Estate, My Teacher?!"
Because you implied I had no way of getting it, My Student.
"You said it was exclusive. I'm a commoner." I say, in an attempt to highlight my previous rationale.
It feels very strange to compose this logic stream within the journal, given how I had been kicking around this idea for a while before actually expressing it verbally in almost exact terms.
To Linhardt, if you're reading – you can probably confirm that I've done so before in such a direct, verbatim, and logical sequence… and Edelgard is really the only person I can do this with, for whatever reason. It's as if I can give her the totality of my thoughts and opinions… and no one else. What is the answer here?
Perhaps I should read a book on writing to conquer this issue.
Or ask my father. He keeps a diary, too, after all.
I would ask Linhardt directly but he always seems very busy thinking about things when he's not sleeping, and I want to make sure he's able to bring what lucidity he can manage to topics important to him and his studies. I can't trouble him with this sort of thing, unfortunately.
Edelgard's reply confirms my confusion – perhaps by her total acceptance… but also total dismissal of my rationale. And what a strange comfort that is, in spite of the pain when she says:
"By now you must know that your status is irrelevant to me, My Teacher… so please allow me to acquire a proper vintage for you. Father… has been too busy… to oversee our estates over the past few years. I would not want your opinion to be colored by an off year."
Perhaps that's why I haven't seen it anywhere. A single bad harvest can convince merchants to keep the wine off their shelves, given how particular consumers can be. My own father – whose age I still am totally unsure about – claims that cabernet wine from the Brionac Plateau tasted much better last century. That was the only wine I've ever heard him claim to enjoy.
He used to drink it with my mother, he claims.
Now, he's more of a Kingdom Beer guy.
Still, the whole "last century" bit was curious.
When I asked him what he meant by that, he became very quiet and started sweating, even though this question was asked in sub-zero conditions during a trip through the Oghma passes in the midst of the Ethereal Moon… four years ago, maybe?
He stammered out that a noble gave him a very old bottle once. My father never accepted payment in kind, though. I wasn't in the habit of following up on statements back then, however, so I just accepted the explanation at face value. Perhaps it was a gift from the late Count Berglez. I can recall that he was one of the few nobles my father held in any personal esteem.
"I'd like that."
"...I shall write to my father, then. He can certainly manage that for us."
"He likes dry wine?"
"Of course…! He procured the grape seeds himself from a famous… botanist, I believe? Obviously the finest wines are dry, are they not…?"
She doesn't sound very sure about any of this, which is… strange.
"Depends on the grape." I note.
She sways back on her left leg, giving me the impression of her falling back from an overwhelming enemy.
"...Well, naturally the Claret Grape is the driest, is it not?"
Yup. She's got absolutely no idea what the fuck she's talking about. To her credit, though, she does actually look like she has an idea of what the fuck she's talking about, though. I'm only detecting these small mannerisms of hers because I think she's wonderful and My Student who I want to protect as long as I'm able.
She's either been misinformed in incredible detail or is getting better at bluffing thanks to all the banter with Claude. I'm banking on the latter because that would make me very proud of her.
I'm very proud of her all the time regardless, but my chest is warm right now and that's all I can really think about because the everpresent pain that accompanies it isn't really worth consideration anymore. It won't even take leave of me in my dreams anymore and only becomes truly noteworthy in particularly painful flashes.
"There's no such thing." I note.
If I could laugh, I'd laugh.
Edelgard isn't laughing though – instead a white gloved palm meets an embarrassed face at this moment.
"...Please explain, My Teacher…" she mumbles through her hand.
Bringing my index finger to my chin, I poorly prepare my impromptu lecture.
"Malbec grapes produce Claret wine. Holst used to ship barrels from Edmund. We'd ferment them in the caverns on the Throat. Same places where I saw the glyphs."
Interested Edelgard returns and she's suddenly very, very alert.
"...I see. And does that impact any of its flavor? Morgaine has a great many caverns, as it happens."
That's a decent question – but it's way too subjective for me to answer authoritatively. Is answering anyway part of being a good teacher, I wonder?
"Holst said it tasted better." I offer.
She has a firm respect for the Alliance Marshal, so maybe that will be sufficient to demonstrate.
"Oh, so it actually improves in subterranean caverns…? Do you agree?"
Now she's trapped me, though – I much prefer it when it's fermented normally. Putting my lecturing cap on, I say:
"It tastes worse, I think. The taste of the wine always differs that way, depending on how close you place them to the entrance of the cavern. The closer you get to the entrance of the cavern, the more the aftertaste of yeast is present. The barrels further back taste even drier than cellar wine, though."
"It seems very chaotic." Edelgard notes.
"Holst is chaotic." At this moment I massage my neck remembering one time he punched it… chaotically – to express some cocktail of anger and happiness he felt towards me once.
"...Do others enjoy it that way?"
No one would tell Holst they didn't enjoy it, but…
"Some do, some don't." I reply.
"This all sounds rather nonsensical, My Teacher." she says, leaning fully against my tent flap and returning her view to Hubert, who has still failed at opening the champagne bottle and has now enlisted the help of Caspar to provide a counterweight. He's a natural leader.
"Taste is subjective, right?"
Relativism is about the only philosophy I can manage, but Edelgard seems satisfied enough. I guess it's not hard to impress a seventeen year old with that, though. When I was seventeen and internalized that from Fallstaff, it seemed rather sage advice.
"Well, I suppose I could grant that. At the very least, it seems our tastes are quite similar… Wouldn't you agree?"
Nodding, I reply:
"Let's try it together."
And her eyes light up.
"Father's wine, you mean?"
"Any Claret you'd like."
It seems I finally stumbled on the right answer, at first – given the very relaxed smile that breaks out again when I say those words… but Edelgard being Edelgard, naturally feels the need to send up that smile in smoke and allows the corners of those lips sink in sullen resignation, saying:
"I… would certainly like all of the varieties, given your and Father's esteem for it. But, given the state of war between Lord Lonato and the Church… we may have less time together as the semester goes on. My own responsibilities are nearing as well."
This seems to be a pretty obvious statement – and actually dwarfed by the distinct possibility that her or I – or both of us – could die.
Shrugging noncommittally, I'm not sure what else I can really say here that Edelgard isn't intelligent enough to already know. If there's going to be a war – which it increasingly looks like there will be – then we shouldn't expect to spend much time together at all outside of classes and fulfilling our duties on campaign.
That's what a war is. You can't have it both ways, can you? I didn't go to any tea parties when we were charging headlong towards Almyran citadels.
"...And you would make no effort in trying to pry me away from those?"
I take a deep breath and find myself suppressing a yawn after noticing Linhardt do so in my periphery. This makes you-know-who frown even more.
"Not unless you wanted to."
"And you wouldn't want to unless I did…?"
Maybe I see what she's getting at here. If there was a free moment, she's asking me to be ready, right? The alternative is that she wants me to ask her out on time-wasting expeditions, but that's absurd – isn't it? My schedule isn't half as full as hers seems to be.
I try to take the middle path.
"I'll be there when you need me. I promised that."
And I get a middling response.
"Your answer is a relief in some ways, but insufficient in others… Why wouldn't you feel more motivated to do that?"
She's asking me a bunch of why questions again, which is setting off alarm bells. A nothing argument is definitely imminent unless I think of a way to extricate myself. Sensing my newfound alertness, Edelgard seems to assume that I'm thinking of ways to lie to her instead of ways to just avoid talking at all.
So I just close my eyes and try to use what's left of my slowing cognizance to try and formulate a reply. It takes too long for the Heir to an Empire, though.
"Hmph. I can also see now that you're adopting Hubert's habit of not communicating your intentions properly with me."
With some effort, I'm able to open my eyes. If I could make a surprised face, I would. But the most I can do is raise an eyebrow with a great deal of effort.
"You read all of my mail." I remind her.
And suddenly, the fiery eyes of a young woman enraged turn into the guiltiest two lavender orbs I've ever seen. She could just avoid this by not opening my letters… but something tells me that this trend is going to end anytime soon.
"O-Only because you have given me permission to do so as your House Leader…!"
Now she's making me feel bad with that pout of hers, and pouting women have never made an impression with me before.
How is it that Edelgard can do something like that, but Dorothea can't?
"...It's fine. I'm exhausted."
"Well, you must tell me tomorrow after a proper night's rest."
"OK."
After uttering this, she leans in and squints.
"That reply is hardly encouraging. I don't want you to drink wine alone in your tent."
I'm being henpecked, aren't I?
"I can handle booze." I state plainly.
At this statement, her cheeks light up like a drunk's.
"...And you are accusing me of the opposite?" she snaps.
"You're accusing yourself." I say after finally surrendering to a yawn.
All of this back and forth seems to exhaust the both of us after I say those words. I get the sense that the Adrestian is starting to run on fumes too, given how she's shifted the entirety of her thin frame onto the diving pole, which seems pretty nonplussed about the additional payload.
Still, her expression manages to progressively sour with each passing second until she says:
"...If you are trying to make me feel guilty for St. Macuil's… I have nothing to apologize for…"
And that couldn't be further from the truth. The vomit that fell on my feet was the most wonderful vomit I've ever stepped in, My Student. If only I could say that without being accused of deadpanning, either.
Unfortunately, my emotions are in solitary confinement and happen to be serving a life sentence.
"I had a great time, Edelgard." is the best I can offer.
Thankfully, it's just enough. If there's one thing that I can credit to my blank face – it's that people can place whatever interpretation they really want upon it. Mercy, malevolence, madness, melancholy – I've seen and heard interpretations of it all when people were begging for me to spare their lives or baiting me in combat.
And some part of Edelgard took the best possible reaction she could from it, I think.
We stay silent for a time, and my view drifts to the campfire, where Hubert has finally gotten the champagne bottle with a hairpin from Dorothea. I'm not sure how that ended up happening, but I'm proud of Hubert, Petra, Dorothea, and Caspar's efforts.
A white gloved hand tugging my sleeve and then immediately retreating back to her side returns my attention back to the My House Leader.
"...If that is the case, could I join you in your tent for a time, My Teacher? There is a matter of great importance that I would like to discuss with you… and perhaps it cannot wait until tomorrow."
"I'll always listen." I say, and I will – as long as I don't fall asleep.
The relief on her face is apparent at this. But the pain wracking at my chest shoots up all the way up to my brow to warn me against taking too much warmth from her smile.
And… I suspect my House Leader would have told me whatever that very important thing was – had I not opened the tent flap and revealed a sleeping Lysithea in my bedroll.
Surprisingly, the Deer's White-Haired Maven was resting on her side and not snoring at all. And I felt proud of her, even though she wasn't my student anymore.
Edelgard was neither proud of Lysithea or all that eager to disclose that matter of great importance anymore, however – and motioned to slap me across the face before curiously withdrawing her hand at the last moment. I believe she also called me a cur, or something like that under her breath, but I was just too tired and feeling too warm and pained to really get wrapped up in whatever insult she delivered before she went storming off in a huff.
I was very proud of her restraint, and glad she had trusted me – if only for a moment. Since the rest of the sequence was outside of my control, I shrugged at a fast asleep Lysithea, who would probably be bothered if she woke up to Edelgard and I talking about something important, anyway. Since Claude invited her to do that without my permission…
…Claude is the antagonist in my life story. I have to keep reminding myself of this fact.
Knowing better than to push my luck with either of the two white-haired women presently, I merely grabbed my satchel from the tent, pulled out the map – and left it by the entry to Edelgard's tent with a rock serving as a paperweight. I could see a shadow inside pacing with clenched fists. Petra was currently getting another glass filled by Hubert, so I knew My Student had retired safely for the night and took great comfort in that fact.
As the Eagles plus Marianne and Leonie finished off the Morgaine Champagne, I opted to hunker down in one of the empty supply wagons I was intending to set on fire tomorrow. Throwing my cloak over my body and curling up my legs, I resolved to get the rest fate seemed so intent on robbing me from.
Just shy of three in the morning, I roused out of a drifting slumber to see a figure in the shadows outside the wagon – a silhouette whose only illumination was from a pair of lavender irises. After a few moments, those eyes then realized that I was actually looking at them.
And then I realized, very belatedly, that the silhouette belonged to the student of mine who called me a cur three hours prior.
"Are you OK, Edelgard?" I ask groggily.
"...I'm fine, My Teacher – I've just been feeling restless."
One's either restless or fine, not both. Is staring at me from a distance even a cure to restlessness?
"Try sleeping." I suggest.
Attempting to rationalize some sort of solution apart from that isn't working, probably because of my very foggy mind.
"...I must admit that I'm thinking too much to sleep, to be honest."
"I'll always listen." I reply.
Perhaps she wants to revisit whatever she wanted to discuss in the tent.
"...Could I join you in there so we can talk more privately?"
After nodding a confirmation, I extend my hand – but much to my surprise, Edelgard's spry frame leaps into the wagon with a sort of enthusiasm that I can't even imagine having right now. Does this make me an old man?
Edelgard sits down about a foot away from me, and looks at me very expectantly – as if she rehearsed the entire conversation right up until this moment, but now was relying on me to take over. I lift my cloak in an attempt to take it off and offer it to her, but – much to my surprise, she takes the opportunity to simply slide up against me.
When My Student does this – I half expect to her to look back up at me for approval in a similar fashion to the way she did during the camping trip on the mock battlefield.
But she doesn't, and just rests her head on my shoulder, looking straight ahead as she does. And I'm happy she does that – because I'd never reject an opportunity like this, even though it's accompanied by the usual fracas behind my ribcage.
"Are you too tired, My Teacher? I would not hold it against if you wished to resume this chat tomorrow morning."
She asks, and I can sense herself straightening herself out as she does.
"No, I'm listening." I say, relaxing back onto the side of the wagon. Amusingly, when I confirm this, she more or less follows the shift of my body weight, collapsing back into what must be a cuddle... but my eyes are closed again.
"Might… you be willing to accept information from a source that I couldn't disclose to you at present?"
Turning to her and rousing myself a bit, I can see just how large those purple orbs have become as she analyzes each movement of my face... or lack thereof, given the exhaustion. She also asks this as if there isn't a shred of proof that I actually would... like I wasn't wearing the damn maid-dress last week. Women do this a lot, I am starting to notice. Men... aren't quite like that, are they? For example, Ferdinand accepted my trust at face value. Hubert doesn't trust me at all. All of my expressions towards the two after those initial assessments were made have been somewhat pointless. But Edelgard seems to vacillate between trusting me enough to be Her Teacher... but not trusting me enough to tell me anything, at times. As if her impression of me is constantly evolving and changing with each passing day.
Why is she like that, I wonder?
"I already do." I clarify at last, attempting to sound wounded by her constant scrutiny... but probably failing.
I know that my monotone does very little to elucidate the feelings that are boiling over in my chest. Those feelings are capped at my vocal chords. Edelgard, who is probably the best noticer of my unnoticeable emotions, can't seem to pick up on it, at least.
"Well… yes, you always do... but I suppose I'm just looking for... confirmation given the circumstances that lie before us... particularly the demonstration outside Remire."
I suppose it's only natural that she's thinking about it. I am too. And... without much effort, I can see where she's going with this.
"Hubert has intelligence?" I ask.
At which she smirks, and then nods, perhaps thinking I meant that as a dig before understanding the actual intent... and then catches one of her side-bangs in my elbow-greave, making a cute mess of her forehead in the process. I bring my opposite hand around to detach the offending piece of plate armor, and end up brushing the back of my hand across her right breast in the process. She goes bright red at this... and her mouth which was opening to make a reply just stays silent, open and still for a while... and I find myself wondering: why does she get like that? She doesn't have breasts.
It doesn't make her any less beautiful, but... only women who have breasts like Dorothea's should get all embarrassed when gestures like that happen on account of their size, shouldn't they? Edelgard has nothing to speak of there, and I certainly wasn't maneuvering my hand there in a lewd manner... I think... because I don't want to have a baby with Edelgard... I think...?
She recovers from that quickly, but I can still see the faint blush around her cheeks as she delivers her next line:
"It is rather… something like that… At the very least I can assure you that the Empire is not blind to the movements of Lord Lonato as he crosses through our sovereign territory. Especially when his irregulars are moving along a major Imperial thoroughfare. I should also mention that my uncle, the Regent, is in possession of these lands."
The same uncle who is Dimitri's uncle, too? He must be very patient at family dinners to maintain a relationship which each of them. I think we'll get on well if he ever comes to visit.
"I figured."
My confirmation does very little to put her at ease, however... and she's clearly running through various questions and scenarios in her mind.
"So, if I were to tell you that this was intended to be a trap… and that at this moment I was opposed to the Black Eagles demonstrating at the enemy force per Seteth's orders, would you believe me...?"
I try to shrug, although it probably comes off more as an abortive heave.
"Sure." I reply.
"T-that easily…?" she yips.
I'm met with a very curious expression from Edelgard, eyebrows up like a cat's tail, and I realize now that I must summon up whatever last flicker of energy I possess and attempt a lecture. Closing my eyes for a moment to focus, and clearing my throat, I begin:
"...It makes sense. The enemy has superior terrain, numbers and initiative. They also have a concentrated force that will be able to defeat us and the Lions in detail. Given that the force is primarily bowmen… our opponents can also dictate the range and time of engagement once we've been detected."
My chest collapses as soon as I finish, and I remain silent for a time. To her credit, however... My House Leader realizes that the lecture isn't over just yet. After cracking my neck and taking in some more air with a labored breath, I continue:
"...If their command is divided... they'll have even more desire to attack. Almyrans divide their commands, and typically there's one wing that strikes aggressively while the other occupies itself with parallel objectives. From what I've seen… leaders don't like to share their command... and the quickest way to avoid conflict is to partition forces. In this situation, though... that's actually useful."
That's the best I can manage, and for a moment I find myself, very consciously, seeking Edelgard's warmth. Edelgard is quite warm. But she's also very small... but I find myself liking that, and feeling motivated to warm her up too.
But I can't do that, can I? She'll start blushing all over the place.
She's blushing right now again, though, as she asks:
"...Then why are you so eager to share your command with me?"
Without a moment's hesitation, I reply:
"I trust you."
And for the first time... Edelgard does the fluttering eye thing, the mannerism that I've seen women do and have always maintained a primitive dislike and distrust for. But at this moment it seems wonderful and very cute and something that I could find myself chasing for the rest of my life... and none of that makes any sense.
"I would not wish to share command of the Eagles with anyone else, My Teacher." she says.
And when she says this, the warmth in my chest outdoes the warmth emanating from Edelgard, but still feels inferior to hers, for whatever reason.
But it shouldn't, should it? That should be expected.
From what I can gather, none of the other faculty would be giving her as long a leash and as much executive power as I do... so, while I'm happy about that... I kind of am entitled to understand that to be the state of affairs between us at this moment... at minimum.
Or perhaps that's arrogance. My mood sours when I'm sleepy.
Edelgard seems intent to fill the silence and steal away the possibility of me nodding off in peace:
"So... you aren't actively considering that there's any possibility for the mission to succeed?"
I try to shake my head back and forth... but it only goes back, and not forth.
"Not under the current circumstances."
She awaits the follow-up, which I provide with some effort:
"The issue is that Seteth expects us to demonstrate, and then withdraw. Not possible unless everyone was trained as a dragoon. Even if we… scrapped the wagons and utilized the pack horses… we'd still be six short."
"A... dragoon...? Might that be the word in Srengian?" she asks.
Nodding, I know that my student has a follow-up in mind, so I wait for her. She notes:
"I... failed to gather what that meant in context while reading a book about Srengian tactics, My Teacher..."
"Mounted infantry."
"I see..."
Even in my reduced state, I can tell that she clearly doesn't... and an idea begins to creep into the back of my head. But it's a very dangerous idea... and if executed wrongly could kill myself, Dimitri, Edelgard, the entire citizenry of Remire and probably my father, if he shows up early enough. It could also kill Claude, but that would be fine. Good, even.
So my mind begins to drift in that direction anyway.
"So… you are considering disobeying Cardinal Seteth's orders?"
Oh, My Student... if only I had the energy to explain...
"I am."
"And you would be willing to withdraw the Eagles back to Arundel?"
That's a rather fine idea... because you'd all be dead if you joined me.
"Yes."
"...Did you have a plan for that? I… tend not to commit much thought to retreating..."
I have a plan to cover the retreat... but not necessarily a plan to retreat. Does that make sense at all? Probably not, so I'm going to just agree with her because... I don't think much about retreating either. And the plan that's coming to mind, well... it's not a retreat. It's just an indirect approach that requires my students marching in the opposite direction of the enemy.
And then the enemy pursuing.
And then me gassing Lord Lonato's peasants to death.
Because... they're daring they get aggressive against my students, like that dead bandit-king in the employ of Fire-Frill Feather Figure. The Blue Lions, of course... are not my students. But much like Lysithea, I do sense that I have a tinge of responsibility for the proper education of Felix Hugo Fraldarius. Sieges are not cowardly endeavors.
Felix is currently being besieged, it is worth noting.
So, like Edelgard said... I'm not thinking of retreating, per se.
"That makes two of us." I mumble.
Looking at her, I feel as if she knows I have an idea, but is perhaps torn by the proximity of the two of us to push any harder. Do I have bags under my eyes?
"...Let's figure it out in the morning." I suggest.
I already have it figured out... in a sense... but I want to sleep on how exactly to propose this Edelgard so that she'll agree. When I say this, the amusement that overcomes her, and the short laugh that she emits... one that I feel across her body... forces me to close my eyes.
"Heh. I suppose it would be better to do so in the morning. You must be quite tired, My Teacher."
But now I don't want to sleep anymore. I want to spend every last moment of my consciousness talking with you, My Student. Why is that, I wonder?
I'm asking so many why questions lately, too. It's like I'm having a nothing argument with myself...
"...Still restless?" I manage.
To which she smiles, a smile that I notice only after dragging my eyelids open ever-so-slightly. But I'm thankful I did.
"Not… anymore. Actually… I find myself growing rather tired, myself."
Through an exhale, I utter:
"Get some rest."
For a time, Edelgard seems to do just that, finally resting her head against my arm. When she does this, there is a part of me that wants to ask Sothis to make time stop forever, but... Sothis is sleeping. And soon, I will be, too. My House Leader's voice drags me out of this thought, however... and I'm grateful that I didn't stop time, after all:
"...I know it must be something of a chore for you – but I always find conversations like this… reassuring. As if you understand my point of view in some ways. I hope that's not too presumptuous of me to say to you, My Teacher."
What follows is a momentary spur of energy, reminiscent of a sugar rush. As if My Student's words... in the right combination... had the ability to drag out the sputtering flame of my consciousness, and even invigorate enough to make me... if only for a second... forget just how tired I am. With that sudden energy, I needed not hesitate in telling her:
"That's all I want."
When I say that, Edelgard face turns against my shoulder, and I feel her little nose brush across my arm... sending a fresh wave of warmth and pain that overwhelms any other feeling that might make itself known. What is happening to me, I wonder?
Edelgard is utterly silent at this, and just returns what's left of my blank stare with those burning purple orbs of hers. The rest of her face is so new to me, though... as if I've never seen her arrange her brow in such a way, or her lips curl in such a manner. Her whole persona seems very rickety and unpracticed at this moment, but I can't focus enough to really describe any component in sufficient detail. The whole of this Edelgard, utterly unmasked, beggars any ability for me to contextualize. I'm unable to focus, anyway, of course. Meyes are so tired, it seems too difficult for me to even finish closing them.
"...Then you should become more demanding..." she suggests.
"Demands are complicated..." I whisper, not even intending to whisper.
Edelgard is also complicated, so I guess it's natural that she's demanding.
The smile she has after I say is very simple and honest, though... so perhaps I'm the complicated one and just projecting.
Or we're both complicated. And that statement seems very correct as I think it. We're complicated.
It's complicated. But also very simple.
Complicatedly, she asks:
"On the contrary... I consider them quite simple. Shall I provide an example?"
Simply, I reply:
"OK."
In spite of that simplicity, the word barely escapes through my lips.
"...I demand that you allow me to close the flap on the wagon…" she says, and I imagine that she flutters her eyes at this... but cannot see.
I don't reply to this either, because I'm already spent all my strength by the time she utters "demand".
The last thing I hear before losing consciousness is the canvas wagon cover slide, and Edelgard hum contentedly. I've never heard the tune she's humming... but I've no ear for music.
Still, Edelgard's humming is wonderful. Like everything else about her.
When I come to my senses, I feel the sun, indicating that the flap of the wagon had been opened again. Relief washed over me when I could also feel the rise and fall of Edelgard's breathing, though... each inhale and exhale exhibiting a pattern that has ingrained myself into the most instinctual parts of my mind. After opening my eyes, I noticed that Hubert was staring at me from outside the wagon. That was surprising... but I cannot emote, and he does not know that... so my nonchalant stare just causes him to squint.
Edelgard being curled up beside me - under the same cloak, no less... probably went a long way in explaining why Hubert was staring at me. The Heir to House Vestra remained very quiet. He also looked very hungover. My Marquis of Pickled Sausages must like Morgaine Champagne, and suddenly Ferdinand's crackpot plan to make me the Adrestian Chancellor seems very appealing, if only because I can keep the Eagles' Intriguer jolly and boozed up like he was last night.
As I shift a bit, this sufficiently brings Edelgard to rise as well.
She overreacts on my behalf, which I always appreciate – and endeavors to explain that we had gotten wrapped up in a debate about how to handle the supply wagons.
That's one way to explain it, I guess.
Hubert nods at her explanation after listening very patiently, and then informs me:
"Professor, I happened to get a report from one of my field agents. She claims that the corpse of a Knight of Seiros – wearing an official messenger's satchel, was spotted nearby. Care to join me for a look?"
I agreed, and Edelgard insisted on accompanying the two of us as well. Hubert's definition of "nearby", it should be noted, is one-and-a-half miles.
The fallen rider, clad in the armor plate of a Knight of Seiros, was at first unknown to me, but the steed was unmistakable. It was Dorte, and he was riddled with arrows, much like his jockey. How was I going to explain that to Marianne, I wonder?
Hubert was the first to close the distance and inspect the body. After emptying the dead man's messenger bag – my Marquis of Pickled Sausages informed me that the enemy had likely intercepted whatever orders this Knight was carrying. Edelgard, recovering from the surprise, told me that we should begin the retreat to Arundel at once.
Joining Hubert at the dead man's side – I then took note of the man's face, previously hidden in shadow under his combed morion. It was the unmistakable mug Sergeant-Major Talbot, my father's subordinate who guarded the mock battle campsite with the Eagles after Falstaff had deserted us.
His eyes were closed, but his permanently misaligned nose was a reminder of a bar fight he had gotten in Derdriu with a mercenary berserker from Duscur. He lost quite handily that fight – and now lost his life. Remembering my father's habit of tucking carbon copies of orders under the helmets of his adversaries, I realized that my father may have made the same consideration here, given how orders were being intercepted and redirected by the enemy. It should be noted that Almyrans have a spiritual taboo regarding touching the bodies of their fallen opponents. Only slaves are permitted to handle the dead.
Under such circumstances, hiding orders under the helmets of warriors ended up being an easy manner of encryption. And so, after observing a moment of silence for this fallen comrade, I flipped up his helmet, revealing a sweaty envelope folded and glued to the inside of his helmet.
Hubert's face went white at this moment, losing its usual yellowish hue. I wonder why? Overcome by other curiosities, my attention returned to the envelope as I reflexively unsealed it. Inside were two sheets of paper, written in my father's hand, that read:
Letter 1:
To my Kid
I'm sending a runner from the Knights. He's got orders to cut through ASAP & escort you to Remire along the forest trails. As soon as you link up with Talbot, get off the damn roads. Knights have been getting clipped up and down the highways from foraging parties. If they can't see you – they can't shoot you. Ditch the wagons, too. You're probably out of rations anyway.
I'm telling you this in case the Princess is reading this first and is looking for a third opinion. I figure you would have already suggested this already.
If you didn't, you're slipping.
Anyway, keep on high alert until you reach Remire. The troops besieging the village are going to be levies. Brats, basically – like your own. The hunters on the road are the ones you need to worry about. Ask Leonie – poachers kill to eat, and they kill at distance.
Lt. Nevrand and I got back to G.M.M. this morning (the 28th). I'm mustering the company and we're going to be the other wing of the envelopment. Leave the attacking to us. I'm serious.
As far as torching the bandits in Zanado… I'd say Holst would approve – but you were always his favorite shit-stirrer, so I probably don't need to tell you that. And I'm betting his little sis will pass on the good news once she gets back to the Monastery. I'd keep an eye out for a gift from him soon.
I got a letter from the Marshal earlier this month asking what we were doing for the campaign season. Told him about your Garegg Mach gig. Next letter he sent was him having a bird about you not choosing the Deer. He was their House Leader back in the day. I told him that you and Hilda hadn't been introduced, and that the Princess's butler had blackmailed you anyway. Don't tell him otherwise, you'd break his heart.
Not that he'd tell you directly, but he did try to play matchmaker. If you remember that time he asked you to chaperone his sister at the Derdriu Debutante Ball last year… he rescinded her invitation after you declined. Doesn't take a justicar to figure out what the plan was.
If you ever want to… you know, play the field a bit and consider your options, next month might be the time to do so. Holst is working on an excuse to set you two up during a Practicum Mission. Best case scenario, you two end up staying behind in Goneril with a Knighthood and a bun in the oven. Marriage is easy when you can bury your face in a pair like hers after a long day anyway… I speak from experience with your Mother.
Any kids you had would probably end up inheriting the territory, too, it seems. I'll let him tell you about the reason.
In any event… you should shoot off a thank-you letter if the guy sends something your way. I always wrote those for you, but… I figure you've grown up a bit, so I'm passing the buck. Be more mindful about that in the future, too.
Just because you know you're grateful doesn't mean that anyone else does.
-Dad
…I shouldn't have read the following letter at all, but I was at first unsure who my father was writing to with his address. Edelgard is the Crown Princess of Adrestia. But Petra is the Crown Princess of Brigid.
So… in an attempt to clarify, I read on:
Letter 2:
To the Princess
Happened to be sitting in Seteth's office when a passenger pigeon arrived bearing a 14-page letter where you declared that you have "absolutely no interest in romance" with my son pretty explicitly. Use a wyvern next time. When the bird perched on the cage, the pages came loose from its leg and fell all over the floor.
I was in there to deliver a report, but the Cardinal's sister had apparently taken a spill after trying to run upstairs while holding a very large fish. Can't make that shit up. He was in the infirmary across the hall for several hours fussing over a single bruise.
As my kid's father though, I appreciate your excruciating detail. He doesn't tell me or anyone else a damn thing. Him and I were total strangers before your letter blew through.
For the record, he isn't even formally the son of a Knight – as I had gone AWOL from the Monastery before he was born. You're giving him too much credit, although you would "never consider someone of Equestrian status for a potential relationship" anyway.
I've also never heard my kid use the term "invariably frustrating" to describe anyone before – but it's like I said in the infirmary… you know him better than I do as of late.
Understand that Seteth would think you're even more full of shit if he read your letter, though. All said, I think you're an honest girl who just gets misunderstood a lot. I'm an expert because my wife was also an honest girl who got misunderstood a lot.
Now, there's something you should know. See, Seteth is always telling me that my kid is making this or that lewd advance toward you, which you eagerly accept, even though he's coming from a Knight's loins, something you wouldn't consider. The Cardinal is being told this by a… messenger… who details each of your various – sessions – with my son in public spaces. The one he got last week was about you two bumping uglies at Celica's with Lady Rhea as an eager spectator.
Frankly, I kind of believed that one – I know what that woman is into – but the screed he got yesterday about Byleth supposedly snuffing cigarillos on your tits above the monastery ramparts didn't make much sense. He quit those the hard way, and it's way too windy to keep a light up there.
That said, I realize now why you hate my son so much – he doesn't actually do any of that and it must be insufferable. That's why this other novelist is so eager to get my kid fired, I figure.
So… Seteth is probably not the most reasonable fellow to address that letter to. Just my 2G's.
As for the messenger – last week, I spotted the owl that does this take a flight path directly from the second-floor dormitories. I'm an early riser. 4:30AM early. Turns out that it's coming from the address of a certain "Hubert von Vestra" who is... get this... sworn to your service and... surprise, surprise... my son's student. Yesterday, that bird made a the trip from pretty far afield. I spotted the little guy clearing the Monastery Walls on a return trip – flying in the direction of Zanado.
Suspicious, that.
No need to sweat it, though – coincidence has saved you again. Holst Goneril is looking to pair up his sister. The Young Marshal has been eyeing my boy as a potential Mr. Hilda Goneril since he saved his life on the Throat a few years back. Matrilineal betrothals are in vogue nowadays, as a future Emperor, I'm sure you understand.
But that works out, right? No need to "spare his feelings instead of issuing a formal rejection because, in spite of our constant vehement disagreement about the direction of the Eagles and our personal distaste for each other's interests and hobbies. I am his House Leader and care about his reputation". No one's going to gossip about you two "arguing" about Gratin Soup when he's announced as betrothed to one of the Deer, right?
It works out perfectly because he's not their professor – he's stuck with you, and "you two are steadily growing to despise each other." Obviously, my son's got the final call on all this, but by your logic, he'll accept because he also cares about his House Leader and her reputation, too. In spite of despising you.
As you said in the closing argument of your letter, his "insufferably feminine features would be most unsuitable for future continuation of the Hresvelg Line" too. Can't have that, can we? Most of the other 5600 words you wrote got lost in the shuffle, but boy do I remember that line perfectly.
I always thought he took after his mother, but I didn't think it was all that bad of a thing until just now. You just have a way with words, Princess.
That's why you stuck him in a hiked-up maid-dress for St. Macuil's, right? My kid obviously hated you so much that he agreed to it, too. That's the sort of thing people do when they hate each other, I figure.
If it's any consolation, his mother would've found you invariably frustrating as well.
Especially if our kid – who you hate and is unsuitable for consortship – was at fault in all of this, too. It's a good thing Sitri died giving birth, because she would have hated him most of all.
As for myself... well, Princess... I don't despise you at all.
Understandingly,
Jeralt
PS: I burned your letter. You should burn this one too, in case your butler catches wind.
And, just as a heads-up – next time that owl flies from Room 208, it's dead. Expect it to splatter.
