Showering after a weeklong-campaign is a rare gift, and one that I'll readily take when offered. As I step out of the steaming stall and into the foggy reflection of the bathroom's vanity mirror, I take note that the reddish belt around my midsection has failed to really recede into the fairer tones of skin that surround it. This brand was left behind by My Student's incessant squeezing of my abdomen during our ride back to Arundel, but – well, this sort of thing is hard to really complain about, isn't it? She was trying her best, clearly.

I'm just thankful that there's a shower. Not every caravanserai inn is as posh as Arundel's.

The facilities on the Throat never allowed for that sort of thing – not least on account of the paucity of the water on those sun-baked, sandy mountain ranges. One time, when the Locket itself had been besieged by an Almyran army, Holst grew frustrated with the lack of bathwater available in his command post – and in response to that frustration, busted open a casket of Edmund wine to soak himself in.

Watching me walk by, he invited me to join him – which I did after stripping down. His friend Balthus arrived shortly thereafter, on one of his brief sojourns from "retirement underground" – and was apparently already broke after spending the entirety of his salary on barmaids with his buddy the previous evening. This struck me as an odd financial decision to make, at least instead of paying down any of the accumulated principal on his defaulting loans. Holst ribbed him about that for awhile as I sat there in total silence, staring blankly at Balthus, utterly ambivalent about why people make poor choices like that. Only now do I find myself curious.

Tangentially, I always got the impression that Balthus felt slightly uncomfortable around me. When first introduced – in that wine-casket bath-tub, I should add – Holst referred to me as his "Demon". Balthus raised an eyebrow at that, and then shook his head after settling into the casket-tub. I made no protest at this appellation.

If that's what Holst wanted to call me, that was fine with me. I could go by whatever name he wanted as long as the money was good, at least until the 1st of the Ethereal Moon, which is typically when the yearlong mercenary contracts expired – or at least the mercenary contracts that Holst was allowed to sign off upon with the Alliance treasury. On the 2nd of Ethereal Moon, my father was usually already marching the company back to Remire for the winter, and would only make stops at Derdriu, Myrddin, and Hrym along the way.

From there, the company would disperse into smaller odd-jobs – ones that I never really found myself participating in very often. My body was usually exhausted and wounded from the relentless campaigning, and I took the opportunities in Remire to simply stare up at the ceiling of the mayor's hall guest rooms between bouts of long, restful sleep where no dreams of battle interrupted my rest. When the calendar flipped to the Great Tree Moon, my father was usually already in furious communicado with potential employers – usually Holst – and I could rouse myself for the nine months of mostly sleepless nights that would await me on campaign.

Everything was much simpler in those days – but I would not trade them for what I have now.

Anyway, our collective masses in the casket caused a fair bit of Marianne's family vino to spill out onto the desert sands – which struck me as quite wasteful, at the time – in spite of not knowing Marianne at that moment. In any event, we spent all night soaking in that tub, and only emerged, stark naked, when a number of wyverns cleared over one of the guard posts, killing a company of Gloucester mages in short order. I ended up killing two of those flying beasts unarmed – along with their riders – before returning to my tent to dress myself in proper armor.

I won't dwell on that action too much, but I will note that it involved me ripping the teeth from the mouths of one of the wyverns, and then using their molars as improvised daggers to gouge out the eyes of the riders along with the other mount.

Myself and Holst fighting in the buff (Balthus managed to slip into his underwear before jumping into the fray) ignited a number of rumors that I was in some sort of "Boys-Love" relationship with the Leceistrian Marshal – which he protested vigorously on my behalf – proclaiming the two of us to be "super-straight" in a large gathering of hungry, thirsty, and wounded soldiers around the stocks later that evening. His female bodyguards gossiped about it all of the time, though – and apparently there was some graffito to the effect of me, stark naked, strangling a wyvern with Holst looking on with pink cheeks to match his pink hair. This was doodled in one of the women's latrines, and when I went to inspect it, found the art to be a rather poor interpretation of me.

I was smiling in that caricature, and I've never smiled once in my whole life.

My father, upon learning about the graffiti, then had a long, stern talk with Holst, and from that moment after… I vividly recall Holst constantly talking about his sister – who I know now is Hilda – and how I could look forward to making "big, beautiful, babies" with her one day – providing my father continued to re-up the mercenary contracts and keep me on Holst's retainer when battles came. I suspect this is because Holst always thought I was saving his life, or when not doing that – improving his career prospects in terms of inheriting the Alliance over the individual I know now to be Claude von Riegan. I certainly never took credit for my own achievements, mostly because Holst was so eager to take credit for my achievements on my behalf.

Looking back, I know now that I was just killing people and following his orders without much consideration for either of those two things. If my father had told me to disobey Holst's orders – I would've, because I followed the chain of command back then, and didn't follow my very personal desire to protect my students. If my father interfered with Holst's commands, I would not protest. If my Father endangered the life of my Eagles… I would consider killing him, I think – because these students are mine. And I would do so willingly, and enthusiastically, and explain to him how glad I was to kill him in order that these children could draw another breath.

The first time I had willingly saved a life was when I threw myself in front of that axe for Edelgard at Remire, and I really and truly cherish that act, in spite of all of the pain and frustration it has caused me in the days that have followed.

What I mean to illustrate here is that all of this marriage talk – which seemed inherently unwilling by nature — made me vaguely uncomfortable… even though I never spent very much time in those days thinking about comfort. I preferred to think about warfare, and the idea of being dragged off into some barrack-bed to do something I was not interested in or knew very much about with some person I did not know made me very unsure in my own footing. Particularly if those activities would also mean that I'd be responsible for that stranger for the rest of my life.

My response to all of this was to just ignore it and try not to think or talk about it. In those days, silence was my friend. Now I fear that it has turned on me and become an implacable enemy.

I'm including this anecdote here because as I stared at that welt around my midsection, I was also musing on why I felt so comfortable about being mistaken for Edelgard's husband by that merchant. My Student protests romantic stuff like Holst, but thankfully isn't trying to get me to sleep with any of her siblings. Does Edelgard have siblings?

That question that I asked myself last month hasn't really been answered, but it's not something I really have much occasion to ask about… and it's probably for the best if I don't.

In the same way My Student doesn't want me to sound like Hubert…

…I don't want her to sound like Holst.

And this consideration of the Heir to an Empire, surprisingly, is actually meant to be a vehicle of consideration about Petra, who I had just spent the past hour and a half with at the blacksmith's. The Crown Princess of Brigid doesn't protest the idea of marrying me, doesn't want me to marry me to her (deceased) sister, and is content to tell me that she is considering me as a potential soul-mate, because I saved her life – and that is what soul-mates do in Brigid, among other things.

Petra, obviously, is my student, and thus unsuitable to be my wife, according to Edelgard.

Petra is also fifteen years old, thus doubly unsuitable for that, I think?

Petra is also not someone that I desire to be my wife, perhaps – but I also don't understand desire, or wives, or even babies, and why anyone would want any of those things… so I'm certainly willing to grant that I might be wrong about everything I just said. It's probably good that Edelgard considers my chivalry so poor that she'd interfere with other women's ability to marry me when she becomes Emperor of Adrestia.

I can't imagine myself as a father right now, particularly because I just imagined myself killing my father to protect Edelgard.

Like Dorothea, and Ferdinand, and all of the rest of my Eagles except my aforementioned student – I also do not feel terrible, excruciating pain in my chest whenever I interact with Petra… which makes me believe that perhaps I can't ever truly interact with them normally. If I'm not fighting back a grimace when I'm doing something out of consideration for their feelings, is that really even an emotion to begin with?

This is also ignoring the theological angle, which I guess I also have to be concerned about – as someone who draws my salary from the Church of Seiros.

While my father claimed to have met/and/or/married my mother at fifteen years old (or seventeen years old and eleven months), I'm becoming increasingly skeptical of these stories, not least because they directly contradict each other – but also because it is illegal in Fodlan to marry anyone who is under eighteen, per Church law.

My Mother could have been a foreigner of some sort – possibly even Brigidian, although I do not look Brigidian – but fifteen years old may be an acceptable age for marriage in that country, because they do not observe the writ of the Church – so perhaps she was?

I guess what I'm getting at is… like the ice bucket dialogue with Petra that preceded our trip to the blacksmith – Petra is very confusing to me, but not in an Edelgardian way where all the pain and warmth just answers any questions I have with a comfortable intoxication that makes me want to stand by her side as long as I am able… and there has got to be a one-word description for that, isn't there…?

Anyway, I was especially confused about all of this stuff when we went to blacksmith to exchange daggers with each other earlier– so I'm going to detail it below:


The Brigidian blacksmith that Petra insisted on bringing me to is a bald, bronze-colored, short and squat man with large biceps and an even larger gut. A gut that was reminiscent of that traitor Fallstaff's – making it a sort of gut that must be hard to keep inside something like a shirt or armor plate. Guts like that always seemed to be growing as well, on account of a fundamental lack of discipline regarding the grower of said gut.

This Brigidian, at least, seemed to dispense with the idea of shrits altogether – which I can respect – content to leave his chest bare to the evening breeze.

Anyway, across that chest, wrapping all along his breast, up onto his shoulders, and around towards his back were tattoos. From what I've observed in my mercenary days, this is a common enough feature among the Brigidians. From what I can gather beyond all that, the men wear tattoos in different shades of blue, and the women – including Petra, have their tattoos painted in varying shades of red. I've never seen Petra's tattoos below her face, but I suspect they're roughly similar given my previous experience.

The Blacksmith's markings are painted in a rich, deep indigo, which cut an interesting contrast to Petra's face tattoo, which glides in a crescent shape under her left eye, casting a dark maroon hue that matches her braided hair.

This blacksmith possesses that same crescent as well, but under his right eye, and in blue.

Many Brigidian tattoos are – as I was told by their mercenaries who I got on so well with – actually inscriptions in their written language, which reveal themselves as a series of dots and lines struck across a horizontal line. From what I could gather from the paymaster on the Throat, each one of those dots and vertical dashes signified a letter in their language, and their height and disposition along the horizontal strikethrough line was what signified their sonic association.

ᚁᚔᚂᚓᚈᚆ is my name in Brigidian script. The Blacksmith, after confirming that spelling with Petra, immediately set about tracing those characters into the dirk's hilt with an inkbrush.

"This be the boy of Fodlan you are owing life-debt to?" comes a question from the craftsman as he lines up the hammer and chisel.

"Yes! This is Professor Byleth!" Petra says, looking at me and then rather excitedly drawing my attention back to the blacksmith, who is preparing to engrave the name into the hilt now.

Just after Petra confirmed this fact, the metalworker then began to strike the bridge of the hilt with his etching tools, driving sparks into the air with each strike of the chisel. Speaking generally, I'm quite used to having new blades fashioned for me. None however, have born my name on them before… and I find it a bit distressing. Being new to this whole "relationships with other people" business, I find a particular urge to clarify that the relationship with Petra is not transactional, like putting one's name on a weapon would imply. Weapons are a commodity for killing, and one of the few basic purchases I was content to make on my own before arriving at the monastery.

Petra is my student, ward, and a person who I'd like to possibly count as a friend some day after her graduation – maybe so that I can freeload in Brigid to avoid Fodlan politics. Nothing about that stuff should be transactional in nature, right?

…And then I realize that reason sounds transactional, so I feel extra shitty.

That shittiness prompts me to blurt out:

"I'm her teacher. She owes me nothing."

And that's the truth, but I usually find myself speaking the truth when I blurt things out – so perhaps I don't need to keep mentioning that like I'm lying.

The young woman from Brigid, with the glittering auburn eyes so focused on the dots and dashes being delivered into the diamond-tipped hilt deserves a blank cheque on that offer of protection. She doesn't seem to be paying much attention at the moment – though, and looks intently upon the dashes being cut into the metal.

"You did be taking the blade for her, though?" The Blacksmith asks of me – his eyes never leaving his craft.

I'm presuming "taking the blade" here means grabbing the straight razor that turned her jugular into a spurting fountain in the barber's tent before I had Sothis turn back time.

His question earns a nod.

"Would you be doing that again?"

Bringing a hand to my chin, I realize that this fellow is probably genuinely curious about why I would do such a thing. And it's a fair question – and one I can answer quite succinctly, because it's the resolve I made to Edelgard was I plotted out a plan to fight the bandits at Remire that ended up being totally useless.

But even if the destination wasn't the same… the journey remains. And it's a journey that I intend to carry these kids on my back with me for, so that they need not worry about getting their boots in the mud and the blood.

"Without hesitation. I promised Edelgard to protect Petra with my life."

That night before St. Macuil's, I swore it to her – although looking back, she seemed much more fixated on the first part of my promise, where I specifically promised to protect her. Still – I mean what I say, and intend to follow through.

"The Tiarna of Adrestia…?" asks the Blacksmith from his workbench.

"The Professor and I have been fighting and winning many victories with Princess Edelgard, Iram. The Professor is the reason for the victories, and I have… been learning very much from him even in this shortness of time."

The Blacksmith finally looks up and betrays a bitter smirk that looks as if it has battled its way across his lips – bruised and beaten by regret and time.

"...Your father was finding his Gallóglaigh at a same age. His face would be beaming."

And that's a word I've never heard before, and is untranslatable to Fodlanese, apparently.

It's definitely not husband or wife, because I've met plenty of paired Brigidians on the Throat as mercenaries, and know the vocabulary words for those two states. It's also not "Teacher" – so maybe it has something to do with the life-debt that those two keep fussing about?

Another question that lingers is: could this blacksmith be a relative of Petra's, I wonder? Looking at the two in turns, I can't really see any real resemblances. The Blacksmith, if he didn't look so weighed down by his work and girth and… something else, doesn't look like the Crown Princess of the Brigidians much at all.

He has a roundish flat nose, gray-colored eyes, and his graying mustache bears the remnants of what was once rich, black hair. When he fetches another, thinner chisel for the strikethrough line in the hilt, I notice that he's bow-legged as well, and those legs are short and stubby, causing him to waddle more than he walks.

None of those qualities line up with my spiritual swordswoman, who has a sharp, aquiline nose, maroon hair, and is sinewy, long-legged… and with a proper caveat here… rather fully developed for someone as young as she is. And when I say that, I find myself fretting over that, like this adolescent who kills animals and men with the ease of a bow gliding through the air would somehow be troubled by my admission that men would find her desirable at such a tender age.

Still, for whatever reason – I find a protective urge welling up within me. I don't exactly know what I should be protecting her from in this regard – but… I resolve to protect her nonetheless.

This general discomfort spurs me to say:

"I worry about you."

And this sudden statement seems to take her aback – causing her cheeks to flush themselves in a rich and saturated carmine.

"...Do not be worrying…" she manages.

What is happening? I'm going to start uttering things like I did with Dorothea and Bernadetta if she's not careful with these reactions of hers. I get the impression now that telling people in public spaces that you intend to murder others on their behalf is not something that's commonly expected in social interactions – but that's literally how I feel about them.

That's what protecting them is, right?

The blacksmith seems amused as he looks up from his work.

"The Flame Spirit is dancing about her cheeks, Boy-Teacher of Fodlan."

Cutting through the Boy-Teacher remark without comment – I realize it now – Petra is a Brigidian, and the womenfolk of Brigid may blush for different reasons than the womenfolk of Fodlan. My mind drift backs to the ice bucket, and I say:

"I think you're hot."

She blushes even brighter, which makes me think I stated this concern improperly. I point below my eyes with my index fingers – because while I do not blush, I do have cheeks.

"...My cheeks are for ignoring…!" she yips in a fashion that's somewhere between… Edelgardian and Dorothean, maybe.

This is to say that I prefer Edelgard's yips to Petra's, but prefer Petra's yips to Dorothea's. Now I feel bad for ranking them like this – and I have no idea why, as there are other qualities in which Dorothea is markedly superior to the other two – particularly in things like magecraft, (Dorothea can both perform basic heal casts and use offensive spells) softness of hands (Petra's are not as hard and scarred like Edelgard's but not as soft as Dorothea's), and breasts (I only just realized Edelgard had breasts yesterday).

This is to say that Dorothea has many qualities that are wonderful and worth protecting as well – but her yips are not particularly intriguing to me. I also do not desire her, I think – insofar as I'm familiar with what desire is. Although – maybe she would yip more if she got very fat from eating and if I carried her everywhere. Edelgard – who seems to put a strong emphasis on health – would probably complain about that, though. What would Petra think?

Does any of that make sense?

Linhardt, if I'm dead, please leave your thoughts below – I'll leave some space for you.


My Byleth… if I see this manner of comparison again, especially about my hands which you said were "your favorite hands in the whole world"… you must understand that I intend to tear the fucking page out… and shove it in your face… and get rather cross with you… when you come back to me… BUT we have something VERY VERY IMPORTANT to discuss before that… so it will have to wait, I suppose, and that particular thing doesn't make me cross at all because Dr. Manuela is coming back and there might be a way to…

Well, there's not enough space here to finish that thought "inside"... ~Your El :3


Anyway, as I think the thoughts above, Petra decides to respond to the accusation of her blushing by grabbing my cheeks and pinching them – hard. I suppose this makes them momentarily red, because she notes that:

"Your cheeks are doing the dancing as well, Professor!"

Bringing my palm to my right cheek – I find myself feeling that it's rather sensitive to the touch now – and maybe that is a blush, after all? Should I ask Petra to just manually operate my face whenever I talk with anyone else so I can emote normally? As I feel around my face, Petra somehow flashes even more red, with it melding among her tanned features and resembling her auburn hair with each passing moment.

She must be quite hot.

Maybe this is what the ice bucket was for?

It can't hurt to ask, right?

"Should I get the ice bucket?"

This causes her to recoil further.

"We are doing the spirit of this dirk-giving er… not correctly! I am wishing to make feelings of gratitude between us, not worrying…"

I step forward and close the distance, and say to her with the blankest expression I can:

"I'll kill whoever makes you worried, Petra."

This… like it did with Dorothea and Bernie, blindsides the Hebridean Heiress. I fucked this up again, it seems.

"...But now I am worrying about you, Professor…?!"

What a mess. Now Petra's blushing when I start blurting out bullshit now – and fuck if I recall blurting out saccharine bullshit to anyone but Edelgard before.

Yet, nothing hurts when I blurt out violent yet saccharine promise-threats to Petra… and fuck if that isn't confusing. I should absolutely be feeling my chest being flayed alive – because I'm intoxicated with worry about her, but I fucking don't – and I just want to climb up the canverserai walls and jump off them to see if it'll fucking hurt then – because I appear to be dead in every other fucking regard.

I'm saying fucking a lot like I know what fucking even is. What a fool I am.

What's the Brigid Way got to say about that?

Does the Flame Spirit have any advice to proffer here?

I've heard Petra say that stuff before – although never with the requisite pause, as if that comment itself is suddenly revealing some sort of disconnect or trouble hidden behind it. There's an inherent problem with me ever trying to explore that problem, though – namely that such a problem would be implied in a Fodlanese – and with each passing day, I find myself unable to cope with the constant, evolving nature and meaning of words that I'm much less hesitant to use in day-to-day life.

So… I try Brigidian:

"Cearcall Nan Spiorad…?"

This is merely confirming that I can remember their term for the "Brigid Way" – of course, but my utterance of those three words clearly struck the Blacksmith like a stone to the forehead.

"...Fodlan Boy can be speaking the Brigid tongue?"

"Ah, yes, Maighstir Gobha! The Professor was fighting with our people while soldering for fortune."

Soldiering for fortune, huh? I'm still unclear on what precisely is in that bank in Derdriu, but I suspect that it's probably not a fortune. As of right now – I'm flat broke, as well.

"Bruidhinn nad chànan?" I ask out of consideration.

Not that I really know much of social graces in Fodlan – let alone Brigid – but it seems only polite to offer a conversation to two Brigidians in their own language, right? Or maybe that's presumptuous based on what little, warlike vocabulary I have memories of.

"I am not needing to. Know that I did be arriving in Arundel to be practicing the tongue of Fodlan. I will be needing that tongue when the days of punishment be coming."

He kind of lost me there with the verb congujations, but I more or less gathered that Brigid was in some kind of trouble, and they'll be eternal flames to pay for it. And because Petra is my student, I want to know more, so I ask:

"Days of punishment?"

"Brigid is… unwell. It has… been growing in illness since the death of the Tiarna's parents."

"My father was reigning as the King of Brigid until the war with the Empire." Petra confirms.

"He died on the hills of Culiange wearing armor I had been making. A good death, against the Diùc Bergliez."

Now... that's a familiar last name.

"Caspar's?"

The daughter of the slain father seems quick to get ahead of any feelings that I can't actually express, and informs me:

"Professor, the Father of Caspar… honored the Brigid Way."

A death in battle is a death in battle. I'd consider that to be an honorable end for me – insofar as I understand honor, which is honestly why I'm a bit ambivalent and perhaps fretting a bit about being burned at the stake when I could potentially just murder all of the people in the monastery, some of those individuals, rather slowly actually… particularly Seteth and the Archbishop…

But that might endanger Edelgard's educational outcomes and goals, which I can only guess at because she refuses to share those with me. I'll have to play by the rules inside Garegg Mach until she lets me in a little bit on those motivations of hers.

For the record, I've thought about this before… and I could probably kill – from the inside, if granted access – all of the monastery personnel starting at 11pm sharp in approximately 6 hours's time, pending that there are no additional wyverns or dragonic-type beasts roaming the grounds. Since most of those mounts are tame, I'd murder them first and bathe myself in a coat of their blood so the rest of them wouldn't react when I started reaping them. That tactic worked wonderfully on the throat – and since wyverns bleed black blood that coagulates within seconds of flowing… well, that's where the Ash in Ashen Demon came from.

In any event, I added an hour to that time frame because I would want to ensure that I could render the Gatekeeper unconscious and safely transport him to a place outside the monastery – after which I assassinate all of the other Monastery staff, particularly Cyril, who my hands want to kill, and Seteh, who my mind wants to kill – and this figure may also be including my father – if necessary. On Edelgard's behalf, of course.

The reply to her letter that he destroyed makes me kind of angry – like he's talking to her in a way that makes me think that he doesn't like her very much, and that's unacceptable.

I should clarify that I'm not even sure if I really like Edelgard… but the idea of someone else disliking her is frustrating.

As is the idea of someone liking her as well.

Why is that?

And… while that was a strange thought, the image of me killing my father came quite easily to me when I was considering it – mostly because I've observed him for years and years and years – as long as I've been alive, actually… and all of his weaknesses are laid bare to me in the acknowledgement of that fact.

For example, he favors his right leg slightly due to a slash wound that severed his lat muscle on the Locket four years ago. I don't think he recovered from that as well as he claims. If I had to fight him – I would relentlessly go for that leg of his until he buckled under it, and then I'd wrap my fingers around his neck and— I should probably stop there… But maybe If I was strangling him, I would ask why he wanted me to marry Hilda Goneril instead of Edelgard, even though I'm unfit for marrying either of them. Was my Father trying to bully her like Claude was, I wonder?

If the answer he gave to those questions failed to meet very unclear requirements of sufficiency, I would probably crush his windpipe a little more slowly than I would normally.

What I'm trying to say is that while I'm quite confident that I could kill everyone in the monastery apart from the Black Eagles, I won't – mostly because Edelgard's future is important to me. If that requires me to burn, so be it. And maybe I could take some honor in dying that way, if it helps her achieve the goals… even though she'll probably withhold those from me until the bitter end.

"Understood." I say, and I find myself feeling a great deal of kinship with Petra's father – the kinship that men near death often feel with one another as they walk – under their own power – towards a foretold end with each passing moment. I've observed that sort of thing enough on the the battlefield to understand.

"This is a very understanding boy of Fodlan, Tiarna." notes the blacksmith, and I have to admit that I nearly forgot what I was being so understanding about in my conversation with Petra. I was rather lost in the increasingly acceptable idea of of patricide on My Student's behalf.

Would I kill my father on Petra's behalf?

Perhaps I'll know if my father ever bullies her.

The Girl of Brigid, for her part, seems to be deep in thought as well, with her eyes glued to the single-sided blade that the craftsman is beginning to affix to the dirk.

"I meant to be asking why you are here, Blacksmith Iram!"

"The folk of Caer Duin be dishonoring the memory of your Father, Tiarna. I am wishing to ply trade in the Empire until the punishment comes for that. I will not be making the same mistake again."

There's that word again – punishment. Petra seems to pick up on my eyebrow that raises at that word, and she endeavors to explain after Iram is done:

"Adrestia was killing many Brigidians close to my Father, Professor…"

It's an unfortunate thing to hear – but that's war. I couldn't expect to deliver a sob story to the Almyrans after a defeat and expect to live. The losers die in war. And sob stories are for people who can sob… and I literally cannot cry, even if I wanted to. So I nod at the Heir to Brigid, because I can't really commiserate – or do much else really.

I suppose that's rather inconsiderate, too – but I suspect that I could moved with a story that didn't involve a match of arms between two fairly matched foes. It's not like Petra is being held responsible for anything like that at least – she's attending the officers academy at the recommendation of the Adrestian Empire, and appears to be here of her own free will. Bringing a hand to my chin, I rue on these facts – and my thoughtfulness is directed altogether accidentally at Iram the Blacksmith, who must think that my quizzical motion is being brought to bear on himself specifically.

"I had not been living in the capital on the day of the falling blade." He explains, answering a question I had not bothered to ask but was thankful to receive anyway, I suppose.

"Blacksmith Iram was staying with my grandmother in Ard Rui." clarifies my ward.

"The Tiarna's Mother and Father were a blessing for our people. They are the object of much loving, like Petra. Clan MacNeary – her clan, my clan – are owing you a debt." Iram continues, painting the picture much more clearly.

Iram is her clansman, which helps piece things together. While I don't know the finer details, I can gather that they're like a family without blood ties. Perhaps I – although this might be a bit presumptuous of me – achieve something like that for the Eagles. At this point, though… I wonder if it won't be a race against time – which already seems to have a strained relationship with me. Sothis sure can't be bothered, anyway.

"Dirks are completing." The Blacksmith then informs me in-between hits of a smaller hammer around the base of the blade to affix it to the hilt with tight precision.

Petra, taking some unknown cultural cue that's totally lost on me, selects two goatskin sheathes from the back-end of Iram's stall and then hands one to me.

"Professor, let us be exchanging them now! Be placing the hilt on your belt!"

The moment of truth. Unclasping the other dagger and placing it in my satchel, I clamp on the sheath to my belt with a few precise movements that do not betray how uneasy this whole procedure is beginning to make me. Doubt is creeping around the corner.

Petra, her named dirk in hand, takes four measured steps towards me and stops just short of my empty chest.

As I stare down at the hilt now tucked tightly into the goatskin glove, written as: ᚚᚓᚈᚏᚐ, I find myself beset with hesitation. Am I truly worthy of such a gift as this? Could I keep whatever resolution we would make upon such a thing?

A dirk strikes me as an impossibly fragile thing to build a bond upon… because weapons break, even well crafted steel by this master workman who stands before Petra and I… And knowing that inherent weakness, I find myself not wanting my own promises to be as brittle as this dagger with the name of one of my Eagles so masterfully etched into it.

But it's too late now, isn't it?

I can't say no.

And so I'll add this dagger to the list of things that I'll have to protect.

That I want to protect.

And Petra is on that list, and much higher than that dagger.

…But lower, I think – than Edelgard… and I'm not sure how to think of that either.

"OK." I say – and I'm lying here, because I'm not OK at all, am I? But I can't really express that I'm not OK without offending Petra, and this blacksmith, and possibly the entire country of Brigid. If she wants to make an oath, I'd want it on anything else… Petra could shout the damn promise into my empty chest after cutting a hole into it. At least the scar left behind – like the other one on my chest – I could carry all my life.

But that gentle soul behind those auburn eyes – I don't want to say no to them, even though this great event feels so very trivial and fragile and ethereal to me… and what a dangerous thing that is. It's dangerous because I realize now that those eyes – belonging to Petra MacNeary, Crown Princess of Brigid – have ambition, have drive, have desire, have a rich inner world that is just as vast and indeterminate as the other pair of amethyst I spend so much time fixating on… but they do not drive me forward in the way that Edelgard's do.

I'm not reorienting my life around the decision I made to cleave my hand into a pulp in order to save her life… but I did so anyway, and willingly. But the rationale is different, and the wall that exists between that rationale and my ability to understand it is more unscalable than any citadel in Almyra.

Petra's eyes don't make me feel as strongly as Edelgard's do.

They don't make me feel pain.

And in spite of what I just said… about guilt and terror and protection… my chest does not ache.

It is just warm – sort of.

And I feel like the lowest of the low.

When I slip my dagger into Petra's sheath, I'm consumed in warmth. But it's the most empty warmth I've ever felt – as if I did not deserve this intimacy being granted to me. As if I was not sufficiently human to appreciate this gesture with the full breadth of my abilities.

As I stew in this doubt, Petra says – in that coarse yet oh-so lyrical language of hers:

"Treòraicheadh na lasraichean an lann seo le ainn

air chor 's nach tionndaidh i gu bràth ad ionnsaigh-sa

agus a-mhàin a dh'ionnsaigh ar nàimhdean

ge bith cia mheud a dh'èirea"

It's impressive.

But the impression it leaves upon me is terrible, and one that I must carry so delicately with me in order to understand why it makes me feel that way.

"Are you understanding?" She asks.

"I think so." I reply.

And that's another lie.

I don't. While I understand the meaning of the words…

I don't understand what they MEAN, mean.

And that's terrifying. Petra is terrifying.

"Then might you be translating to the tongue of Fodlan?" this young woman asks of me, clearly intent on making a grand statement about multiculturalism and the ability to forge bonds across the span of nationality and language that is far, far beyond my ability to appreciate.

…Still, I want to do that too!

But I haven't the slightest how to get past my own doubts about whether or not I can reciprocate that emotion, because it does not draw a series of repeated flagellations against my heartless torso that can only understand that type of demonstration.

What the fuck is it about Edelgard?

What the fuck is it about Petra?

They're both people I want to protect, but…

With Edelgard this feeling is a guiding light, as bright as the sun, that I need not ever question.

With Petra, this feeling is now manifesting itself as this dirk, which is a tool for killing that will eventually break if you kill enough with it.

And I don't want it to be that.

I want to carry on protecting Petra and give her the opportunity to flourish and challenge the future for her dreams too, but… a dagger? You kill with this. I kill with this. I'm a monster who's taken hundreds of lives with short blades like this. What kind of promise could shine through that much blood?

"Not Brigidan?" I ask distractedly. I just want to mimic and repeat. Save me from the translation, as then the words will impress themselves in my mind like a band of galley slaves driving this logic forward row after row in the sea of words.

"You are being from Fodlan!" she notes with her very Petranian frown, a frown that I've only just observed now, and struggle to categorize apart from that knowing that I can't ever know it as intimately as I'd like to. As I might want to, if perhaps she had been standing in front of that axe in Remire and — no, I can't think like that, can I?

This Brigidian speaks so genuinely to me, I'm from a dead mother and a father who I was just imagining killing not long before, Petra. I don't have a home.

"The first line won't be in proper meter."

"It is not needing to, Professor!"

"May the Flame Spirit guide this hilt with your name,

So that our souls may always be watching out for each other.

Our enemies are now shared, so let us resolve together

That we never bring these blades down on one another."

With that, the ritual is complete – or at least it must be – because it earns applause from the blacksmith.

"This is making for the warming of the heart – tonight I shall be drinking the malt!"

At the word malt, Petra's eyes go wide.

"You are having Malt, Iram?"

I've never tried malt liquor, but my father said it tasted like piss. I wonder why Petra wants to drink something that tastes like piss, though?

Maybe because it reminds of her home?

Why do the Brigidians drink piss, then?

I realize now that it can't taste like piss, because Petra is my ward and I must protect her honor along with her life. If my father insults Petra again, I must firmly consider murdering him, and will add his bullying of Petra's honor to the ever-growing list of infractions, along with his bullying of Edelgard for being like my mother, apparently.

"Ard Rui is producing the finest malt in all of the archipelago, Boy of Fodlan."

"Professor, would you be accepting of my sharing dinner with Blacksmith Iram this evening?"

"Will you be safe?"

"Iram is my clan just like you are now my clan, Professor – he will not be doing harm. Are you accepting?"

Does this mean I have to change my name to Byleth Macneary? It kind of has a nicer ring to it than Byleth Hresvelg, which sort of sounds like the involuntary, ejaculatory noise Edelgard's throat made when she vomited on my feet on St. Macuil's night. But luckily, My Student has no desire to engage in any sort of romance with me. Since Holst also wants me to be Hilda's wife, I should also add that Byleth Goneril sounds like some sort of communicable miasma.

So… I guess that means I'm accepting?

"I am." I say – which means that I guess I am, aren't I?

"Then I am grateful!" replies Petra, and I sense at this moment that she would really value the opportunity to catch up with Iram, who must be like an uncle, and an uncle that Petra likes, as opposed to other uncles, namely Edelgard's, or my own who has been dead for awhile I guess, according to Fallstaff and my Father, who are both pathological liars.

"The Fodlan-Boy is very trusting." quips Iram – and cements my opinion of him as a worthy fellow. Perhaps even fatherly to my Brigidan bladeswoman.

"The Professor is being very strange for Fodlan! I am thinking his happiness would be in Brigid." quoth Petra, which gives me pause.

My happiness?

Do I even deserve happiness?

Probably not. I've just accumulated another lie, and doing so has made me miserable.

So maybe what I actually deserve is misery.

An inexpressible misery that lies to anyone looking at me and believes otherwise, which in itself accumulates more lies, and thus more misery.

Petra deserves whatever the opposite of all that is.

I'm sure of that, although she's never really specified what makes her happy.

I guess I need to find out – and need to find out in enough time to bring it to her before she takes leave of me, too.

And the rest of the Eagles, too.

Damn if that won't be difficult, though.

…What could possibly make Edelgard happy, I wonder?


As I slip my armor back on while staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, a thought occurs to me. That maybe, since Petra would not be present tonight – I should dispense with wearing her dirk, in spite of what a nice gesture it was to trade that with me.

Adding to that resolution, I find myself wanting to dispense with wearing any armor at all. From what I gathered, my students would be dressing down – or in the Eaglettes' case, dressing up – or whatever type of dressing women do. I don't really get it, but in the spirit of all this dressing whether it would be up or down or undressing or whatever the opposite of undressing is, I should probably make a slight variance myself in honor of our victory, and in honor of Edelgard, who so desired to share the burden of victory with me.

So I unstrap my weapons belt and drop the iron sword to my feet.

Then, I unclasp the greaves around my elbows and knees.

The riding spurs are unclipped from my boots and tossed away.

And the breastplate falls onto the azulejo tile floor with a thud.

Feeling rather naked after doing this – in spite of being fully clothed – as I was still wearing a black mock-neck and black pants – I grab the cloak from a nearby hanger and put it over my shoulders… normally, like the coat it actually was designed to function as.

And I feel very stupid.

But maybe I can be content with being an idiot for tonight, because I've been impossibly dimwitted since dismounting from the horse this afternoon, anyway. So I step outside the bathroom, through the bedroom, and open the door.

On the opposite end of that door is the heir to the Adrestian Empire, who is pacing in the hallway, and rehearsing something with clenched white gloves. I suppose this shouldn't be strange, right? She is rooming across the hall from me. But why is she pacing outside my room instead of inside hers?

She hasn't noticed me yet, which is nice – because now I get to stare at her without being too self-conscious in doing so – and I find myself wanting to stare… because she's brilliant and stunning in the earrings that I bought her, which match her eyes so neatly. Pairing that with her hair, which is… adorable, I then find myself wondering where I got that word from – adorable… could Dorothea have said it to me over tea and then left it in my mind as a sort of seed to sprout? Anyway – Edelgard is adorable right now, and I'm sure of that.

Her hair is arranged in a very unique sort of side-ponytail, with it being held together by a braid wrapping tightly around it. Because that ponytail is facing me as she stares back at her own door while pacing, I get to watch the ends of it dance up and down with each step she takes in those high-heeled boots of hers… and I feel so content at this moment, in spite of the fact that I feel like I'm being flayed alive from the neck-down – with nothing but pure agony emanating from my peritoneum.

I want to see her hair like that forever and ever, I realize – and what in the eternal flames am I supposed to do with that desire.

I can't tell Edelgard that, can I?

Not that she'd give me the chance right now.

She seems like she wants to tell me something anyway, given the way she's pacing.

What is she rehearsing for, I wonder?

Maybe she can rehearse her speeches to me someday.

I'd be very curious to see what her creative process is like, and would naturally help any way I could.

As I think about this my frame leans back slightly, and my lean causes a creak against the wooden door I find myself taking support from… and I feel like a drunkard at this moment.

Does My Student intoxicate me?

She must, because I'm addicted to her way worse than I was to those cigarillos, I think.

Anyway, she notices me and goes absolutely ramrod straight at this moment… but the way her hair sort of glides at the end of her ponytail makes it seem so much more graceful than before.

"M-my Teacher – I've finally… found you…!"

Her… amethyst… irises are just so big at this moment, I want to… no, what I was thinking there was meant to be very sentimental and saccharine, but it's very violent too, because what I was thinking there involved me ripping those eyes of out of her head, so no… I need to protect those eyes and make sure they're that big always and forever, or at least until she takes leave of me in ten months… yeah – that's it, Byleth.

Focus on what she's saying, Byleth – that's what I'm thinking after I think all that.

Unfortunately, what she's saying is just as confusing.

Found me? We booked a room at exactly the same time. She even commented on this very curiously as we got the keys earlier, like the two of us rooming across from each other was dangerous or subversive or something like that.

"...A-are you OK, Edelgard?" I inquire.

And I realize I've just stuttered for the second time in my whole life, and I haven't done that since St. Macuil's Night, which was literally the first time in my life I ever stumbled on a word before. Am I being cringey? Edelgard looks like she's being cringey, so maybe we can just be cringe together for the rest of our lives so we can avoid any first-hand embarrassment and just be embarrassed for each other.

She also looks first-hand embarrassed though, because her cheeks are starting to get red again… but this isn't Redelgard, because Redelgard is just cute and… well, this Edelgard is stunning and froze me right in place, and thank whatever Goddess or Deity or Flame Spirit is watching over me, because if I wasn't such a blank-faced golem to begin with… I'd be accused of gawking. And… I've never really gawked before, have I?

But… Edelgard also looks like she's, uh, gawking – so what the fuck does that mean? Are we gawking at each other? Her eyes are way too big and I don't know how to describe them anymore apart from saying that they're really large and just–

"...You're not wearing any armor." She notes. Her mouth doesn't close at the end all the way.

"Yeah." My mouth doesn't close at the end all the way.

Because Edelgard is a normal human being – in spite of being exceptional and brilliant and special and… adorable… she recovers first from this silence spell that we've inadvertently cast on one another:

"...D-Dorothea had suggested I try certain lipsticks on, but I found myself still rather disliking them more generally… as you know…I don't fuss with makeup all that much, but I do take excellent care of my hair, obviously, so I thought–"

She didn't finish the thought.

Why didn't she finish the thought?

Why is her mouth still kind of open?

…What the fuck is she even saying?

…What the fuck should I even be saying?

In spite of my confusion… holy fuck is it exhilarating to think about the chorus of bizarre, new, strange, and wonderful thoughts that are going off in a cacophony in my mind, like a fireworks show that was so loud it must have blown Sothis's eardrums out – because I'm also desperately, pleadingly, asking Sothis what the fuck this very unique feeling is in my chest and it's very, very different because it's not pain, and it's not warmth – but it's acting like those things in spite of its difference, and it's creeping up into my throat and in my head and in my… other places, and I haven't the slightest damn idea.

This is a battle, Byleth.

You're fighting yourself, obviously.

And Edelgard, who is very very beautiful, but maybe she doesn't know that we've started the engagement yet – no engagement sounds wrong… battle, that's it… and you can… seize initiative, but not by seizing her… even though technically she is one of the objectives… insofar as you need to figure out whatever this is to protect her properly and…

Focus on the earrings you bought her – that's what I'm thinking as I relax my hands which I just realized I was clenching. But that doesn't work either, because her earrings drag my attention to her ears, and I just realized that she has the cutest ears that I've ever seen in my life, and the earrings make them the most enrapturing ears I've ever seen in my life and I start wondering if the ears are one of these mysterious, holed organs that are supposedly lewd, and–

"Your hair." I blurt out, because my chest hasn't hurt this much in… forever, and it's really impressive how much it hurts and now I wonder: can I protect Edelgard's hair as well, or is that something that I should just factor into my general protection of Edelgard?

This must have been the wrong thing to blurt out, because she starts playing with her ponytail like I drew attention to it unduly – and since I drew attention to it, I must be indicating to her that it's awful and terrible because I'm a mercenary, a sociopath, a killer who's bathed in the blood of wyverns and Almyrans and even some peasants, who Edelgard thinks are really important and–

"...What do you think about this? It's a hairstyle I've been considering using when I ascend the throne, actually… among others."

"I'm impressed." I say, without hesitating – even though my whole being is filled and composed and made up entirely hesitation, and I'd probably piss and shit hesitation, because I'm swimming in those things right now, and they've poisoned my blood and filled my gut and made me into some sort of being worthy of only disgust, and rejection, and derision and hatred.

…But nothing I said was a lie. I only said two words, of course – but they're truly true, to use an Edelgardian word, and then Bylethian word.

Holy shit am I ever impressed. Nothing ever left an impression like this and I'm worried that my impression of Edelgard is going to be colored forever by how she looks tonight, and would she ever want that in a million years?

If I told her that she was the most stunning and brilliant and exceptional person that I had ever witnessed in the entirety of my life, what sort of horror would follow?

She must realize this because she's mouthing some rehearsed line, and I can't recognize it because my mind has stopped working – and this must be the big set-piece scene in which she reiterates what she said to my father, insofar as we're growing to hate each other… because we used to talk so normally before, and now we're just staring at each other like two idiots – and it's already 8:40pm and we're ten minutes late for the assembly downstairs and–

"...Do you prefer my old hair?"

It's not a preference thing, is it? It's more like a "shit, I finally noticed" thing – and damn if I can ever drag this image out of my head and… un-notice it. Is this going to ruin the pristine image I have of my student, forever? Will this destroy the comfortable distance we've kept with each other thus far, because I'm an inhuman demon who can't emote, and she's a Princess who seems so obsessed with humanity that she couldn't possibly want to continue talking with me right now and–

"...What…?" I ask, my mouth operating by its own will, as if the little green gremlin is in play, and I suddenly think: these thoughts can't be my own, can they?

But Sothis had a beloved, who was a man apparently.

So are these thoughts actually mine?

Oh, no…

"What I mean to say is… how I wore it previously." My Student says, and she looks very guilty with those lavender – rather, Amethyst, eyes and I'm not sure why she's looking guilty, because I should be looking guilty because I can't look guilty.

I should try moving my face when I say that she's the most fantastic, indescribable, majestic being I've ever encountered in the world.

"You always look nice."

That wasn't what I meant to say!

"T-that's not descriptive…"

I know it's not, but I'm not really descriptive, am I? What does she think I am, some kind of novelist? Her eyes look at me so expectantly, and I haven't the slightest idea how she's somehow reached an S+ in reason rank with those eyes of hers in the span of two hours, because I've dragged my body through silence spells before… and then I've strangled the–

No…

I can't think about that.

My fists aren't clenching, though – that's good.

Edelgard's fists are clenched, though…?

Why are they clenched…?

"It's… Edelgardian." I manage.

This makes her angry, and I'm almost relieved that she's angry because I know how to deal with Angrygard, but this isn't Angrygard, either… because I can't focus, and when Angrygard appears there is usually some pithy remark or one-word reply that will surprise her, or make her smirk, or drag her back from the brink of whatever emotional precipice that she's occupying and I could never dream of joining her on, but–

"I-I must insist you actually use real adjectives for once…!"

Flipping through the thesaurus in my mind, I find the pages blank.

One word keeps hammering away in the forefront of my mind like that Brigidan blacksmith, however.

Adorable.

But I can't tell Edelgard that she's adorable, can I?

"Your hair is Adorable."

OK – that wasn't what I planned to do, but I'm good at improvising – S+ Rank in improvisation, actually – and I avoided saying "You're adorable" and just said "Your hair is adorable", but why does the look on her face make me think she interpreted that as–

"Y-You think I'm–"

Her face is indescribable, but very describable – and fuck if that makes any sense like the rest of this interaction, because in this moment… everything is perfect and I realize now that I want that face all for myself and no one else and I've never thought about a person like a possession before, and that's a terrible, terrible terrible thing, because my only possessions until the 20th of Great Tree Moon, 1180 were weapons, and weapons break after you've killed too many people with them, and…

…If there is a Goddess, please intervene right n–

"Lady Edelgard."

Like a too-skinny great-knight in… an officer's academy uniform that has a stain on the collar, Hubert von Vestra arrives to rescue me from this confrontation with an enemy as time-stopping as Death itself.

"Hubert…!" I wish I could shout Hubert's name like that, but it's actually Edelgard who is shouting his name like that – but she clearly looks uncomfortable.

If I could look overjoyed, I'd look overjoyed.

Thank you, Goddess.

Thank you, Hubert – my friend, even though you'll probably keep trying to kill me forever and ever.

"Professor."

Hubert is clearly mad at me, but I'm so happy he's here, so I say:

"Hubert." but it just sounds like I'm doing a bad Edelgard impression.

I'd exclaim that, if I could exclaim!

"Well…?" asks Edelgard, and she's recovered and I'm so proud of her, because I haven't yet.

"...Claude von Riegan and the Deer are ready to depart. I shall accompany you."

To the Marquis of Pickled Sausage's credit, he does.

One of the intrigue-oriented benefits of being scrawny in the way the Heir to House Vestra is must be this ability of his to slither in between people. If Hubert was shorter, he'd be the perfect build for a thief – but since we are roughly the same height and very visible, this must be a weakness of his as well. He certainly can never sneak up on me, anyway.

For the remainder of the relatively long walk between the lobby and the caravanserai, I was unable to really meet eyes with Edelgard, particularly because Hubert's lone eye was boring into mine like sunlight through… Morfian magnifying glasses, which is the most on-the-nose analogy I can make without being unduly rude to Hubert, who I suspect may be reading this diary – and I would like to reiterate, is someone who I would want to count among my friends someday.

What I mean to say here is that I was saved on the 1st of Garland Moon by Hubert von Vestra, even though this entry is technically the 2nd of Garland Moon because of the way I've ordered my entries insofar as not covering any events after 9pm on the previous day…

…And everything up until this point only makes sense by prefacing it in this entry, I think.

And I have Hubert to thank for that, I think.

So… thank you, Hubert.

Especially if you're reading this.


Fate – that fickle, white-haired woman – turned as quickly as she intervened. Upon arriving at the restaurant, she decided to seat me in between the two irritable albinic females with a sweet-tooth. The Morfian restaurant – a much more reserved, traditional establishment in comparison to the street fare in Derdriu's port district, presented our rather large party with exclusive use of the upper floor, where a low, ebony table was surrounded with scarlet-colored cushions resting on straw mats. Each place setting had adorned on it a small ceramic tea-kettle meant for individual application of tea leaves, which rested in a wheel of canisters at the center of the tabletop display.

Claude, if he arranged for this – really pulled out all the stops.

Under most circumstances, I would be very impressed – and would even say so.

The issue is that Claude, that maniacal, plotting, scheming scalliwag – took a leadership role in the arranging of seats, as the girls were in deep conversation about each other's alternative hairstyles. They all went all-out for this event – but because their hair is not Edelgard's hair, I scarcely remember a thing.

The only girls who didn't bother with their hair were actually Leonie, who is scarcely a woman at all, and actually a reprehensible person who shouldn't be graced with a wonderful, amorphous and noble thing like gender – and Lysithea, who probably couldn't be bothered to do anything with her hair because she runs through life at the speed of a… white hare, although she'd consider that pun rather immature.

A secondary problem that I am confronting with the seating arrangement between the two sweet-teeth is that fish – for the most part – isn't saccharine in the exact way I know these two like their meals, and that the Morfians take an extra step away from that flavor palette by wrapping said fish in tasteless white rice and salty seaweed. I don't see what the big fuss about Morfian food is apart from the noodles, which tends to be nice for late-night street food when competently prepared.

For these kids, I'm guessing it must be the novelty of it all, as few of them seemed to be living particularly engaging lives before their arrival at Garegg Mach.

Additionally, circumstances conspired to drag them out of the monastery for awhile, so there must be added appeal in that as well. Still – I'm not a huge fan of fish… I'm kind of ambivalent about Morfis, and the more I think about Morfis… the more I want to smoke a cigarillo.

But the Adrestian Anti-Tobacconist is sitting right next to me.

"What do you consider the sweetest fish on the menu to be, My Teacher?" she asks.

Thankfully, I can process her questions and statements now. This is because much like a cigarillo, my blood has taken in all of the chemicals that emanated from our previous confrontation in the hallway, and those cloudy, fugue-like properties have relaxed me quite considerably.

"Halibut, probably." I advise cooly, rather enjoying the high for what it is. Maybe it's not so bad after all, which is what people probably think before things go very badly for them.

"...Are you going to order the Halibut roll yourself?" she asks, leadingly – as if me ordering it would make her more likely to do so.

Lysithea, who is sitting to my left, seems to acknowledge this to be the case, and leans over to squint at My Student in an… no, it's not Edelgardian, because Edelgard questions others and wants to know their true intentions. Lysithea squints because she knows everything, and it's a much more confident squint than My Student's, I think.

"You two don't need to share everything. It's silly." she says, confirming that impression.

I… find myself liking sharing everything with Edelgard though, in spite of terrifying it can sometimes seem when I first do. So if that's silly, perhaps I can add silly to the list of negative qualities that I've accumulated since arriving at the monastery, chief among them apparently being invariable foolishness.

"What interests you?" I ask the Heir to House Ordelia, intrigued by what she might want as an alternative. There's really not much on offer that would appeal to her palette here… unless she skips straight to the desset menu.

"They have dessert rolls so I'm ordering those. Besides, fish can make you sleepy, and I've no time to spend all day lazing around like some people."

I'm one-for-two with this statement in terms of correct predictions. In point of fact, as Lysithea uttered this, I was expecting the last part of that vitriolic statement of hers to be directed towards Edelgard, but to my surprise, those maniacal magenta eyes are directed towards her erstwhile classmate, Hilda Goneril. My own irises follow hers, and rest upon the sister of my former employer, who is fluttering her eyes at me in a way that makes me feel somewhat endangered.

"Self-care is hard work, Professor! Haven't you ever wondered why I'm, like, so agreeable and relaxed and super perfect?" yells the Younger Goneril from across the long table, provoking a frown from both of the white-haired women next to me.

As she says this, she withdraws her arm from around Claude, who seems to pick up on this – frowns at her, and then raises an eyebrow at me.

I wish to note here that I have no designs on Hilda Goneril. My Student would never forgive me for that, and would most likely frustrate my father and Holst's efforts to marry us, given her very low opinion of me.

All that said, Hilda brings up a number of fair points that I would be willing to grant if she wasn't a complete stranger to me. Perhaps if I'd chosen to be the Professor of the… well, if I could laugh about that incomplete thought, perhaps I'd laugh.

"Nope." I reply, confident in that answer beyond all measure.

This, surprisingly, fires up a surprising amount of passion behind those coral-colored irises of hers. I suddenly feel like Hilda has found some sort of kinship in that statement, and a yellow line shoots up multiple times in the recesses of my mind, for reasons unclear to me.

"Ya, get it? That means it's totally working! Maybe you should tell those two to practice it!"

Those two being the white-haired women who have stopped glaring at Hilda and are now glaring at me, but also each other – and I suspect… indirectly at Hilda as well.

"Hmph. Well, I'm only ordering it because we have naturally complimentary tastes…" quoth my White-Haired Student. And she's not saying that to Lysithea or Hilda as much as she is to me, and… I'm wondering why she needs validation of that fact, because the two of us clearly acknowledge that to be the very case on a regular basis…

"My tastes are much closer to the Professor's, and I don't insist on fawning over him at every moment. It's silly – do you not have anything better to spend your time on…?" asserts my soon-to-be White-Haired Student.

And that's also true, and discussed to death, and Lysithea is also saying that to me like I don't know this, and is also seeking validation of this fact – but in a very different way than Edelgard is, as if she's jockeying for some confirmation that her understanding of our tastes has been achieved by painstaking analysis and repeated study of this fact.

If I wasn't riding high on that hallway encounter, I'd probably be very intimidated right now – but it all washes over me rather easily, and my eyes drift around the dining table rather lazily. Sitting next to Lysithea is Ferdinand, who initially made a big stink about not getting to sit at my left while Edelgard was at my right… but I was able to salvage the situation with Ferdinand by declaring Lysithea the MVP at Remire, and him the MVP of the Retreat. He was quite thankful for this, and quite understanding when I claimed that "mercenary custom" – a custom I made up on the spot – dictated that recency was a tiebreaker between MVP seating to the left of the captain.

Dorothea, sitting next to Hubert who was sitting next to Edelgard, nearly blew my cover by laughing at this fabrication. Leonie, sitting next to Dorothea, added fuel to the fire by claiming Jeralt had never told her such a thing. I shut down Leonie by reminding her who Jeralt's son was, which shut her up rather quickly.

Claude, with Hilda to his left and Bernadetta to his right, feigns some camaraderie with me and tsk tsks my two dining partners from across the table.

"I hear Teach isn't big on assigning homework." gossips His Decietfulness.

I didn't realize that I was supposed to even assign homework. What is homework, precisely?

"What do you have the Eagles do, Professor?" asks a suddenly intrigued Lysithea. Did she actually think I assigned them homework? I'm the professor who eats chocolate-layer cake with his fingers. Although, she's also the student who eats chocolate layer cake with her fingers as well.

"We go out drinking, mostly." I note, shrugging.

There's an Uh, Uh! Sound that emanates from Hubert's general direction, and when I turn to look that way – Hubert is just seething and it's actually Dorothea making that sound. She was also waiting for me and Lysithea to look in her direction… and once the Scion of House Ordelia mimics my neck crane, the Songstress spins a tale:

"He only takes Edie out drinking! The rest of us get left out in the cold! Sorry to disappoint, Lyssie!"

I did resolve to ensure that Dorothea becomes fat in my care, so perhaps I should take her out to eat more. Before I can really analyze the consequences of that thought beyond where it currently stands, however – Bernadetta leaps a bit when my eyes accidentally meet with hers.

"Um… A-actually, I-I prefer to stay inside…!" clarifies Bernadetta, as if she's not currently indoors right now.

Unsure about how to even respond to that – I choose not to. Thankfully, the conversation dies a natural death there, frankly, and the students' eyes drift back from me to their menus.

Claude von Riegan, though – who seems intent on never allowing me a moment's relaxation in his presence, jumps me with a fresh just as my eyes fall on the menu to figure out what I intend to order for myself.

It's probably going to be the Halibut, but…

"What should I order, Teach – you're the expert, right?"

The expert on Morfis food who's never been to Morfis doesn't exactly sound right.

"Maya's probably the expert." I note…

…And am rather amused, although I cannot show it, when I see that the Younger Goneril suddenly grows very agitated at the mention of the Younger Kirsten. What happened there, I wonder? Might it have something to do with Maya dragging Claude away on the night of St. Macuil's?

Claude squirms and replies:

"Uhh… yeah, well – but uh… you're the expert here, anyway – at least, am I rite?"

Shrugging, I offer nothing:

"I'd just get noodles in Derdriu."

But to my surprise, Hilda jumps at the mention of the Alliance's capital, and then brings those cherry-blossom colored eyes parallel with mine and… flutters them. Like Dorothea's and Petra's flutters, they do provoke emotion in me now… but the emotion is trepidation, and damn if that's not the first time I've written trepidation before in reference to how I was feeling. In any event, she says:

"Aww, Professor! Why didn't you choose the Deer, then – we could've gone on so many cute dates during the long weekends! I told my brother Holst and he was so, so, so angry. He's going to come and visit and try to hire you back."

…If Hilda wants to date me, why is she letting Claude stick objects inside of her? After Hilda utters word the date, however – I sense a gust of wind brought on by a pivoting ponytail – and Edelgard jumps back into the conversation well prior to me presenting that postulation of mine:

"Well, he cannot leave or go on dates – especially with you. My Teacher has obligations here."

It should be noted that "here" – or at least where the two of us currently are sitting – happens to be in Arundel, which would imply that she must still be considering me for some nondescript role in an administration that she won't apparently control. How's that gonna work?

Bringing my eyes to Edelgard, I find myself drinking in the sight of that impossibly cute but also terrifying side-braided-ponytail that capitvates for reasons I don't really understand – and am doubly captivated when a swing of her neck causes said ponytail to brush across my face a… well, a pony's tail.

But unlike a pony's tail, it doesn't smell like shit – it smells like… shampoo and hair cream? That very expensive kind that carries an aroma rather like almond and honey. I'm forgetting what it's called, because I'm blinking my eyes very fast at My Student, who has also noticed that she did that, and is also blinking her eyes very fast at me in return…

Are we fluttering our eyes at each other… again? Or is this the first time, or–

"Professor, eyes front! The Girl Next Door is, like, over here…!" Hilda shouts, dragging twelve other pairs of eyes squarely towards the two of us.

Clearing my throat because My Student appears speechless, I offer:

"I defer to her."

Hilda tsks tsks me in a Claudian fashion.

"My Big Bro has big plans – you'll see! I'm hoping it keeps me far away from any actual fighting and stuff…!"

At Hilda's quip, the Heir to Adrestia's eyes have rolled in a full circle back down toward the alcohol menu. Shrugging at Hilda, and then returning my attention to a person who I feel much more comfortable speaking to, I ask:

"See anything?"

Edelgard looks up at me with a confused and vulnerable expression, and while doing so kind of cranes her neck back so she wouldn't brush my face with her ponytail again, which is terribly unfortunate, I think… because I liked that. Her amethyst irises dart back down to the menu for another glance, and then back towards me, and look increasingly unsure in their own footing.

I'm left to wonder if I asked that question too hastily before she finally replies:

"...My father happens to enjoy this seaweed-wrapped fish with wine, actually. I do not see our family's vintage on the menu, however."

Bringing a hand to my chin, I ask:

"Your father drinks other wines, right?"

A squint begins to manifest.

"Well… he may, although I fail to see how any of that is relevant."

Attempting to get ahead of the pass, I reach for my imaginary lecturing cap and place it on my head by bringing a hand to my hair.

"Seaweed is salty." I offer, as if this is some grand discovery whose knowledge is exclusive to me and me alone.

Her neck tilts a bit, and it positions her ponytail in such a visually arresting position that I can't my eyes off it, and she must realize that, because a white glove shoots to the braid that is holding it together and she digs her her fingers into the braid and–

"...Perhaps it is, yes..." –she says, but I can't even bring my eyes to hers when she says it. Has she never tried seaweed – that's the question, right? I should be thinking about that, shouldn't I?

So I close and rub my own with the hand that was just in my hair. Upon reopening them, my gaze returns my student – who has stopped looking at me… and seems to be rather lost in my collarbone, which is clearly visible against my tight mockneck, and a prescient question occurs to me:

Why are we looking at each other like this…?

"So try a white wine." I reply very distractedly.

A squint forms while focusing on my collarbone that drags its way up towards my very very blank face.

"...And I should be drinking a white wine because…?" I'm asked.

Shrugging, I reply:

"It pairs with seafood."

"...How might you know that?"

My eyes glance toward the Goneril present among us.

"Holst is pescatarian."

And much to my surprise – because Hilda seems to know precious little about the habits of her brother – she confirms this with a vigorous nod of her head, yipping:

"Hey – that's right, Professor – my big bro only eats fish, not meat!"

Apparently bringing Hilda into our conversation was a mistake, though – because I get no response from my Student, who now stares at me rather sullenly.

"Professor!" comes a very familiar shout from my noblest of nobles.

"Ferd?"

I receive a nod that implies that the Heir to House Aegir has been preparing his next crusade:

"Now that I am aware of the nature of this most noble pairing of white wine and seafood, might I present for consideration the house wine of the Duchy of Aegir, the Alvarinho?"

I'm actually quite familiar with Alvarinho, although I can't say I had any idea the Aegirs had any hand in it. This tends to be my experience with most wines, though. I never put much stock into where it was coming from until I realized that all of these students somehow had a hand in all of Fodlan's alcohol.

"Holst would import it whenever he treated his officers." I explain to my Red Lancer, who seems eager for any knowledge I'm willing to impart in his direction.

"But of course! The noblest of foods must be paired with the noblest of all wines!"

Would Ferdinand consider Holst noble? Holst is a noble, of course – and I suppose must have a Crest because you need one of those to use the glowing-axe-thing that he uses, right? Apart from that – Ferdinand's idea of nobility seems to clash with Holst the man. I don't really consider the matter much further than that, because at the mention of nobility, Edelgard started getting very worked up.

"My Teacher and I both prefer Claret, actually." she reminds everyone.

What else can I do but nod?

"What are you ordering for the meal, Ferdinand?" comes my next question.

"The Lobster Roll, naturally – not least because it is the most virtuous of all sea-dwellers!"

The lobster is a bottom feeder, isn't it? But when it's boiled, it's carcass is Red, like my Lancer. Maybe its redness is the most noble thing about it – and red things are inherently noble. I can't really follow this line of logic far, though – because I start thinking about blood shortly thereafter.

"That's apropos." I say – very unsteady in this assessment, but thankfully my face and vocal chords betray none of that. Ferd looks thrilled at the confirmation, as he typically does whenever I speak to him, and I find myself so thankful that Ferdinand von Aegir is Ferdinand von Aegir, and how I would take a mortal blow for this fellow without a moment's hesitation.

"Professor, have I mentioned that it is so refreshing to have another man of culture to count among this noble band of brothers!"

…What about the Eaglettes, though? Shaking my head at this, my neck eventually stops on Linhardt von Hevring – who while not an Eaglette – has just warped a tall glass of water onto his desk. I keep forgetting that he knows warp magic…

"Lin?" I ask, while staring at the crystal cup covered in condensation. My sleepy sage nods and says:

"I found my rest with alcohol to be a bit fitful, Professor – so perhaps I'll forgo any substances tonight. The fish is most interesting, though. Were you aware that the oily residue of cooked herring can induce lucid dreaming?"

Double-checking the menu, I endeavor to him inform him:

"That's raw herring, Lin."

Which actually cracks a savvy smile on his face that pairs rather like a fine wine with those calm, cerulean irises of his.

"Music to my ears. Its essences will most likely be even more tailored for napping, then." he notes, and I'm damn fine with that reply, because Lin said it – therefore it must be insightful.

"Make sure to hydrate." I advise, and leave the man to his adventure.

Just after that, I notice Claude von Riegan waving me down from across the giant table. Turning to him, he yells:

"Teach, Bernie's got a question!"

My eyes fall upon my shut-in sniper.

"Um… Professor, have you ever tried Plum Wine?" she asks, and I'm impressed. Bern's going straight for the hard liquor.

"It's strong." I warn.

"Maybe I'll get some too, Bernie!" Claude adds, and I'm very unhappy about this – even though I can't really express unhappiness with my face.

He's not allowed to call her Bernie is he? He was bullying her last month. But Bernadetta seems… ok with this, so I guess I can allow it. If he does anything though – I swear to… hm, let's try the Flame Spirit, I guess – that I'm going disembowel him and feed him his appendix before strangling him, yeah.

"...What's that look for, Teach?"

I'm thinking of killing you, Claude. If I could up and smile, I'd grin the biggest grin in the whole world right now. Still, I need to support Bernadetta's effort to be more social, and I decide to recruit her neighbor in this effort, who has been watching the proceedings very quiet and very somberly.

"Marianne?"

The Heir to House Edmund looks utterly shocked that I remembered her presence, but she's rather difficult to forget with that cyan-colored hair of hers.

"Ah… yes… um, whatever do you need Professor Byleth?" she asks.

"Please watch over Bernie." I beg.

Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, who has been very silent throughout the course of this gathering, finally feels compelled to stand up and make an announcement to his peers:

"Professor, rest assured that I will ensure no premarital relations occur on my watch. The noble women of Fodlan must remain pure until I am to settle on one."

There's a lot to unpack there, particularly as to what premarital relations are. Neither I or Edelgard have married yet, but the two of us have a mutually supportive relationship, I hope – or even if we don't… I find myself hoping that we can someday.

Does that mean that I am having premarital relations with her?

Will Lorenz attempt to interfere if he realizes this?

Will I need to kill Lorenz in order to keep having premarital relations wth Edelgard?

"That is none of his concern, My Teacher..." My House Leader informs me… and while it's certainly not his concern – I agree – suddenly his concern is making me very concerned.

Dorothea, who is unfortunate enough to be flanking Lorenz, then adds:

"Oooh, Edie – do you have something you wanna share with the class?"

And while I sense a recoil at that, our Hubert of the Heart brings her emerald irises to me, and I'm left rather uncomfortable in their wake as well.

"Hey, Professor… what do you think about sharing some bubbly?"

Shaking my head as vigorously as I can – which is not vigorously at all – I reply:

"I'll pass."

With that, the Heir to House Vestra raises an eyebrow, and senses an opportunity. Leaning towards his Lady, he inquires:

"Lady Edelgard, if you find the idea of Alvarinho so appalling, might I suggest the two of us share a bottle of Morgaine Champagne? I found the 1167 vintage to be quite saccharine." Hubert glances up at me as he says the word "saccharine" and while he's used that in a letter before, he pronounces it in a very unusual way, which makes me wonder if he wasn't trying to demonstrate something to me while pronouncing it, or make some sort of hidden pronouncement amid his… pronunciation.

Can't we just be friends, Hubert?

"I haven't any interest in champagne, as it happens..." Lady Edelgard replies dismissively, and I should note that she's lying here, particularly insofar as she was very interested in champagne a few nights ago – although her interest was in why I wasn't interested… so maybe she wasn't actually interested?

Like my Father said, My Student is just an honest girl who gets misunderstood a lot.

Bringing my view back down to the drink menu, I scan the available options. Since we're at a seafood restaurant, very little is tailored towards a sweeter palette, but towards the bottom of the menu, labeled under "dessert wines" – I realize that fate has finally determined that I've suffered enough, and offered me a slight boon:

"There's Ylissean Edelfraue." I think aloud, and the word "Edelfraue" attracts the attention of "Edelgard" rather quickly.

"...What is that, My Teacher?" two eyes that are… whatever the opposite of icy is… burn holes into my face, demanding what this mysterious wine from across the Oceans could be.

"Ice wine."

A white eyebrow raises.

"...Might it be a frozen beverage, then?"

"It's harvested at first frost."

"...And what is the flavor profile?"

Well, if I could smirk – I'd smirk.

"Sweet." I reply, and place the drink menu back on the table.

This receives a firm nod that sends her ponytail up and down, and I find myself wishing that she would hurry up and become the Emperor already, so that I could see that every day of the rest of my life… until I realize that I should probably follow Hubert's direction and stay far away from her, and actually live with Petra in Brigid as a freeloader on her life-debt. Yeah. That's the plan, I think.

Anyway, the reply is obvious – and it's wonderful – and Edelgard is wonderful:

"Then we shall be sharing it."

The sweet-tooth to my left, however, appears to have overdosed on the saccharine warmth that my student emanates so naturally, however and yanks on my cloak very angrily. Craning my neck to Lysithea von Ordelia, whose magenta eyes have effectively court-martialed me with crimes of frustration, I'm told:

"...Honestly, you two are insufferable!"

Lysithea, if only you knew the suffering that I felt in this empty chest of mine.


The food and drinks eventually arrive, as do the chopsticks and forks. Most of the Deer and Eagles – sans myself, Claude, and Edelgard, opt to accept traditional fodlanese silverware from the waitresses. Claude is the first to decline, quite confident in his dexterity, I am the next to decline – because I already know how to eat with chopsticks, and Edelgard is the last to decline for very unclear reasons. I raise an eyebrow when she does this, but she gives me a look full of resolve and says:

"Naturally, if I ever am to negotiate with Morfian diplomats, I wish to be able to impress them with my abilities."

"Looking to declare war on Morfis, Edel?" Claude asks with a smirk.

My Student endures a curious glance from me and a withering stare from Hubert, which is surprising because I thought those withering glares were only reserved for me.

"...What a foolish question." she says, landing with a fine – if not particularly bantering – reply. I'm very proud of her, although she could've also told him to "fuck off" which would've been my advised reply if she asked me.

After that mildly awkward exchange, thirteen individuals – including myself, settle in for a meal and try their first rolls. For the most part, there's a great deal of clanging as silver utensils stab through the fish rolls and collide with the ceramic plates that they are served on. Aligning the chopsticks in hand in traditional Morfian style, I'm able to wolf down the four rolls that I'm served in short order. Once I conclude with the main course – I go in for the noodle bowl, which is my favorite part of the meal anyway. I'm just about to take a giant, totally barbaric slurp when a very agitated voice interrupts me with a query:

"...How precisely are these… implements… supposed to stay steady?"

Hubert looks on in terror as the Halibut roll keeps slipping out of Edelgard's awkwardly held chopsticks. She's resorted to handling one chopstick with each hand after failing to follow basic instructions that Claude shouted at her when the utensils were being distributed.

"Lady Edelgard, please allow me to fetch you a fork…"

Her ponytail cuts to the side as she snaps at her retainer:

"I am more than capable of properly learning to use this utensil, Hubert."

Sensing the souring of the mood, our Hubert of the Heart taps the actual Hubert on the shoulder. He turns rather frustratedly to meet the woman he's seated next to but has chosen to ignore for the entire evening.

"Hubie, could you be a gentleman and pass the champagne for a gal…?"

"...I suppose I could." he replies dejectedly, and much to my surprise – actually starts to refill her flute glass. Perhaps the Marquis of Pickled Sausages is a gentleman after all.

This show of chivalry inspires me to attempt to refine my own. Tapping Edelgard on the shoulder, she whips around like Hubert and slaps me across the face with her side-ponytail again and everything feels right with the world at this very moment – as if there's not a peasant revolt occurring two or three days' march to the Northeast.

"Allow me to demonstrate." I say, my face thankfully nonplussed by the smell of honey-and-almond from… Pre de Nuvelle – that's the brand, I think. Nuvelle is known for its honey, on account of the lack of cloud-cover in that region. The wildflowers bloom quite vigorously there as a result – and the bees produce exceptional honey, along with beeswax which is a popular component of soaps.

As I think of those things, I rather mindlessly toss the chopsticks into my other hand, and slowly demonstrate their positioning, particularly in resting the "bottom" chopstick in the purlicue between the thumb and index finger.

"This is… rather hard to do with gloves on…" – and I realize that it is, because her gloves actually are padded in that area, preventing her ability to rest it there with any finesse or grace. Still, she perseveres, and is able to press it down.

"You've nearly got it." I say, doing my best to be encouraging – but probably failing.

Two shaky sticks make their way over to an ungarnished Halibut roll, and eventually make contact with the object. Edelgard's first instinct is to stab it with the chopstick, perhaps owing to the fact that she noted that her father first trained her with swords, because he – like me – was a swordsman with a very sad face.

Anyway, after stabbing the first roll, she sends its contents into a collapse, and renders the thing totally unrecognizable.

"It's a little higher, and make sure to push in gently." – I mean to say under here instead of in– and I suppose I must have said something truly horrific, because Edelgard gives me a variation of the face that she gives Claude when he says something lewd – a mix of absolute horror and… excitement, which is different from the usual look of disgust that Claude gives her.

Her eyes shoot up towards her classmates, but these kids are clearly starving – and many are face deep in their noodle bowls already without a care in the world – Leonie in particular is slurping quite loudly.

When My House Leader's eyes return to me, I sense a great deal of trepidation before she asks:

"...Could you… pick this roll up for me? I wish to see how you're supposed to properly seize of it with this loathsome tool."

Edelgard, it's just a chopstick.

"...Loathsome tool?"

"My Teacher, please hurry… I'm rather famished."

That's right – if I want to protect Edelgard properly, who enjoys eating – I must make her at least as fat as Dorothea would be in my care, if not moreso.

I nod rather resolutely, pick up her fallen chopsticks, and bring up a Halibut role for her detailed examination of my technique.

"...Might you bring it closer?"

Perhaps Edelgard is a bit near-sighted, and that might be the reason that she's always squinting. I resolve at this moment to take her to a proper optician in Derdriu, if there are none available in closer proximity to the Monastery.

Much to my surprise, however, she actually leans in and eats the sushi straight out the chopsticks that I'm holding.

"...This is rather complex – it's both sweet and salty…" she informs me after chewing and swallowing.

Something deep in the recesses of my mind tells me that Edelgard and I might be doing that could be seen as lewd, although I have no real frame of reference for lewdness. This knowledge, however – if it is even knowledge, does not stop me from asking:

"...Did you want another?"

She gulps and nods, and we repeat the process.

This time, however – we are caught.

"Ohhhh~ Myyyyy~ GODDESSSS~~~!" Sings the songstress at the top of her lungs after clearing through another half-glass of champagne.

"What is it, woman…?" Hubert asks with an agitated tone, his head still not facing us.

"Hubie, look! The Professor is FEEDING Edie!"

A certain side-facing ponytail whacks me in the face as it whips towards the Heir to House Vestra.

"H-He was just demonstrating!" Yips Redelgard.

To my immediate left, a tiny fist clangs angrily on a ceramic plate.

"...You two are disgusting! Princess Edelgard didn't even try to learn it properly, and she's your House Leader…!"

Is Lysithea implying that I failed to properly instruct Edelgard?

Back to my right, My student's bootheel pushes against my crossed knee as she stands up ramrod straight from the scarlet seat-cushion. Thirteen pairs of eyes have returned to us now.

"W-Well – I need to use the restroom…!" shouts the future Emperor of Adrestia.

Hubert stands up to join her.

"Lady Edelgard, shall I–"

"Sit down, Hubert! Bernadetta will accompany me to the ladies room…!"

My shut-in sniper looks completely petrified at being picked as Edelgard's Lady-in-Waiting, but the Plum-Wine Drinker manages to stand up rather shakily and stagger off with my student. I suspect that Bernadetta's cheeks are only slightly redder than my student's.

In fairness, both Edelgard and Bernie have had a fair bit to drink.

I'm glad both of them enjoyed their choices. Bringing a hand to my hair and closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and relax, in spite of the withering glare that the Heir to House Vestra is trying to subject me to at the moment. Unfortunately, we're both the same size because he followed his Lady's directive to sit down – therefore he cannot height-mog me.

Before I open my eyes, I hear a clearing throat.

"Professor, a moment of your time."

I expected those words to be uttered by the Heir to House Vestra – but instead, they were uttered by the Heir to House Gloucester. Lorenz looks visibly distressed. I nod at him, giving him the chance to speak his mind:

"It would seem to me that feeding a woman – even of Princess Edelgard's high birth – is rather obscene behavior for a proper male, especially one who has been installed in a role of responsibility over youth. Professor – I consider you a like-minded fellow of unshakeable moral fiber – but, I simply cannot understand why you would lower yourself to the position of a simp for–"

Before I can be told what simping is, or who I'm simping for – Dorothea interrupts this monologue by hurling her fork at Lorenz's forehead. It's a direct, critical hit and sends the lad's bowl-cut head backwards in a flash, thudding against the straw-matted floor.

As she hurled that fork, she did warn him – though, yelling:

"-This is going to hurt, OK?"

So I consider that to be fair play.

Still, I feel like I may have committed some sort of offense, and look to My Red Lancer for his advice in all matters noble:

"Ferd?"

The Heir to House Aegir glances back at Dorothea, who has just accepted a gift from Hilda Goneril: her fork. She appears to be ready to cast it towards Ferdinand as well.

"...Naturally, I am above the fray, Professor." he informs me.

I nod and thank him.

Sitting to the right of Ferdinand is Marianne, who is the next to summon my attention with a cough.

"...Professor, I know I must be rather boring company… but I support you two…"

She supports us eating?

What a wonderful person Marianne is.

I am now just noticing that she ordered a vegetable roll, as well – out of consideration for all the fish in the sea, and I find myself wanting to give her the biggest, most Ferdinandian hug in the whole entire world.

This is to say that in spite of the fact that she is a Deer, and that I teach the Eagles, and she hasn't gone camping with the Eagles like Lysithea… I feel a very strong urge to protect her – even though Sylvain is very far away right now.

A lot more is said after Marianne's vote of support – mostly by Claude, occasionally by Hilda… and at times by Redelgard when she returns… all three are arguing with each other as well, I should note – but I chose to forget most of it.

What stuck in my mind was the question that My Student asked near the conclusion of our meal – namely, if she could impose on me for a chat on the caravanserai ramparts.

I told her that she wasn't imposing.

She's five-foot-two, after all.


"My Teacher, I… really quite enjoyed that dinner."

This was a genuine surprise to hear, as I had thought she hated it – especially given how she spent the last twenty minutes aggressively denying that the two of us were dating, which Hilda Goneril kept asserting with an increasingly maniacal pitch shift her in voice.

She pulls my cloak around her tighter – which I offered her as we ascended the stairs and a gust of wind off the Oghmas hit us square in the face. That's to be expected, though – as the clock has just passed midnight, and that is when the winds begin to whip with particular ferocity on this side of the mountain passes.

"We celebrated our victory. I'm glad."

Naturally, I can't look glad – and I've noticed that whenever I use that word, I earn extra scrutiny from the two amethyst irises that are peeking out from under my cloak's tightly buttoned collar as we converse here. I never really understood what the appeals of high collars were, but now I think I get it, seeing that Edelgard is now able to bury her face in it.

The ponytail that is sticking out from her side now gives me the impression that she looks an awful lot like the Sickle-headed Fire-Frill-Feather-Figure, but apart from her height and general demeanor – that comparison really doesn't go all that far, does it?

F.F.F.F. is not brilliant and adorable.

My House Leader is, though.

"Of course we did – and I was rather glad that we could celebrate together as well… because in some ways, our excursion to Remire has reinforced some… ideas of mine, particularly that our… views of the world might be quite complimentary – don't you agree?"

Oh no, she's going to ruin the night with a political discussion, isn't she?

Or I guess it's actually the morning, now – as it's just after midnight on the 2nd of the Garland Moon, at long last. That dinner felt like an eternity… but even that eternity also felt too short.

…Is that how time works?

"I'll always listen to your ideas." I note – and while I will…

…Perhaps what I really want is to just go to bed tonight, because I'm feeling a bit tired from all this… feeling that I've done over the past day, and the past month, and since the 20th of Great Tree Moon, honestly. There's a long march back to Remire where we can chat about the ills of Fodlan, can't we? It'll be more entertaining then, and something to divert from the rotting corpses we'll encounter as we re-tread the ground where we gassed Lonato's peasants.

"...Well, I always appreciate that too, truly… But really, what I have been meaning to say is that you do not flinch from conflict, and I admire that, of course. And I may have given your advice some consideration lately, as well…"

When she does this I have no idea what she's getting at, and… I realize that she's either more brilliant than I could've ever imagined, or that I'm far more stupid than I feared I was. Or both? But that would be unlikely, as I'm not usually that bad at reading people.

In any event, she takes my confused silence as the go-ahead to continue:

"I… criticized what you did in Remire, but in truth… I find myself quite comforted in the resolve you took, even if…"

"I don't regret doing it." I confirm. And I don't. I'd do anything to protect her.

I'd do anything to protect the rest of my Eagles, as well.

And… maybe I can add Marianne to that list of people as well, because she wouldn't even eat fish at a fish restaurant, and that must mean that she has the kindest heart in the whole world… and that is worthy of protection, particularly because I don't have a heart and wish to understand what having one is like someday.

"I would never expect you to… I suppose what I am reaching at, My Teacher – is that I have observed your methods, and can appreciate them, but… not your motivation for doing so."

That stings a bit – because I feel like I've repeated that ad naseum, and she's choosing to ignore me.

"It's to protect you and the Eagles." I reiterate for the millionth time. If I could frown, I'd frown.

To Edelgard's credit, she seems to be able to pick up my mood swing from what must be divine providence, because she sinks into my cloak a little deeper and clarifies:

"And… that was my goal as well, yet you seemed hesitant to deploy the Deer in any offensive action against either the mixed force at Zanado, or the peasants at Remire. I had suggested both as a possibility, but you chose otherwise… do you not trust my judgment like you say you do? Because I am fine with you choosing to lead – and would prefer that over you lying to spare my feelings…"

Again – she's agitated that I didn't follow her plan to the letter, and I suppose I've made this mess on account of all this deference talk. I shouldn't send mixed messages – because that's what Hubert does, and she doesn't want me to become like him.

"It wasn't really a choice, Edelgard. The Deer couldn't see it through at Zanado. I adapted your plan as best as I could to the circumstances, because I value your input."

A pair of eyes assess me agitatedly from just above the collar.

"Well… you're being rather imprecise. See what through, exactly?

Bringing a hand to my chin, I have to find the correct word – and quickly, before Edelgard assumes that I'm lying to her, which she does rather quickly. Thankfully – I find the correct noun after a single tap of my dimple.

"Your vision, I think."

"...My vision?" she repeats.

There's no way to get around it, huh?

I'm going to have to lecture her. The hand that was at my chin begins to scratch my hair, and I fumble through one of my impromptu tutoring sessions.

"You were asking them to achieve objectives that surpass their abilities… It's sort of like the state of our enemy – your plan had the same systemic fragility insofar as scale."

"...W-Why are you intending to compare me to our foes, My Teacher…? Is there something that you saw…?"

"Saw isn't the right word… uh, compared – maybe?"

"...They were requiring peasants levies and poorly led mercenaries to achieve precise objectives in terms of proper ambuscade. You don't send two battalions to intercept a platoon – because larger unit sizes tend to make execution of precise objectives sloppy. On a smaller scale, you could apply the same mistakes of our enemy to your overestimation of the Deer's combat capabilities."

As I delivered that paragraph – haltingly – I noticed Edelgard's chin lift itself from my collar. Her lips parted as well, as if she has some counterpoint brewing.

Frankly, I wasn't expecting this to be a discussion – but I'm happy for her to have feedback.

"How can you be sure that's the case? Lysithea is quite a capable mage, and… Von Riegan can… well, his aim is quite… accurate."

Shaking my head, I supply:

"...With more than a bow."

And my House Leader frowns at this… but the frown also betrays a smirk, which means she found it funny – which means I can joke, can't I?

"Joking… at a time like this…"

I shrug, and she shakes her head at me, bobbing that ponytail from side to side that never fails to capture my attention…

"...Well, supposing I were to grant your explanation, which – in hindsight – I am grateful for… that leaves another question: namely, why then did you choose to bear the burden yourself? Surely, even if the Deer are incapable, the Eagles have been trained by you, and thus are–"

I hold up a hand at this, immediately knowing what she's getting at.

"I didn't want to rush it."

Still, this does not satisfy the brilliant mind before me, and she attacks relentlessly:

"...That explanation is insufficient, My Teacher. If you prefer exercising such caution… Why then do you approve of the initiative I took in planning the approach towards the canyon site?

"Your sights were set higher than a simple advance towards the canyon." I reply, after clearing my throat. I've done altogether too much talking today… and it feels like eighty-percent of that conversational expenditure has just been directed at Edelgard.

Not that I'm complaining, but… the student who looks so dissatisfied at the words springing forth from my lips seems evermore insistent to force more of them out… and that never ceases to confuse me, but also drive me forward. So I listen with all the attention I can muster:

"...Whatever do you mean by saying that…? I had… no other knowledge than the intelligence that Hubert had acquired from his network among the merchants."

Shrugging with a massive, exhausted heave – I try to demonstrate that she answered her own question. Because she's brilliant, obviously.

"That's initiative. You took in new data, and improvised the strategy we collaborated on."

To her obvious credit, this finally gives that overworking mind of hers some pause.

"...And you wish me to believe that such logic was why you approved of it?"

"Right." I confirm.

"Then why did you not choose to take my suggestion about sending the Deer and Deer alone to Remire?"

This must be her last question, as I feel a bit of her anger fading. As she asks this… that ever-frowning brow of her seems to relax.

"You were still following Seteth's plan." I clarify.

An eyebrow raises, but does so with a childlike curiosity rather than an accusative one.

"...And you take issue with Seteth?"

Grabbing the collar, I push it up above her mouth in a last, desperate bid to end all this pointless arguing.

"…I just prefer it when Edelgard is following Edelgard's plan." I say, and her cheeks flash red at this, and I can feel content in my victory – here – tonight – this morning – on the second of Garland Moon, 1180. Edelgard von Hresvelg, my most implacable enemy – has thrown up the red-flag.

After a few short breaths, she seems to have finished a fresh rehearsal under my collar, and she shoves it down with a white-gloved hand to reveal a pair of lips that are starting to get rather chapped. Perhaps I should look after her health more, too… is she hydrating sufficiently?

Looking up at me with the most passionate expression I've ever seen from her, she replies:

"Perhaps I don't like any of this leading or following at all – and rather wish to walk alongside–"

But she cannot finish this though, as a yell from His Deceitfulness – Claude von Riegan – cuts in from just below us.

"...Teach…!"

When he appears before us, his eyes are red – and I realize that he must have been crying… or at least at the point of tears not long ago at all. In his hands – which Edelgard's eyes have shot to first, is a letter addressed to me, apparently.

"M-Might you be reading My Teacher's mail…?!" asks the guiltiest woman in the world.

"Teach… Raph's…"

Edelgard snatches the letter from him, and begins to read it herself. I'm not in a rush to peer over her shoulder and read it myself – but the title is clear enough:

AFTER-ACTION REPORT

CLASSIFIED

And when Holst used the word "classified" in a report… I knew something terrible had happened.

The rest of the day was spent in frank acknowledgement of that fact, begging silently for Sothis to wake up.

She didn't.


VERY LONG AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Winter, I mused on your use of adorable a few reviews ago and ended up editing it in here – after noticing that I used it myself and had it exiting the lips of Dorothea in reference to Byleth, so… I'm flipping it here. I've got a better word for the Flame Emperor when that bridge is crossed, and it starts with "L".

To DragonMaster – Thanks for such an in-depth review homie, always appreciate your thoughts. To answer your first two questions: I have everything up until the campaign against the Kingdom pre-written. I don't have a beta-reader who can really copy edit, so that's what I'm doing day-to-day now. As I mentioned in another author's note, I started this 2 years ago.

On your points RE: Bylad – which are valid reads, of course – I would just moderate your "Byleth is Hubert-ing too much" take with an observation from the writer's room: First – last chapter we reached a narrative point where Edelgard tells Byleth that she has issues with how Hubert behaves, and how she doesn't want Byleth to act like that. Byleth now needs to figure out what that entails, which is going to be the subtextual narrative for Garland Moon.

Harpstring Moon was powered along by subtext where Byleth proves that he be Hubert in terms of deference, but also that deference is geared towards making her more open and happy. Let's just swing back to the events in Garegg Mach proper:

Edelgard wants to enjoy herself.

Hubert thinks that will disrupt "the plan" and doesn't indulge her at all.

Byleth goes with her on picnics and to the local bar, and even accidentally implies that one of those bar-trips was *gasp* – a date.

Hubert's Lady has nightmares?

Byleth can fix that because he's rocking a Crest of Flames just like M'Lady and that's soothing. He also re-discovered the Hresvelg Blend.

Hubert himself is going to be present in some of those nightmares about the dungeon, which she'll discuss later.

Hubert's Lady wants to put a man in a maid-dress?

Byleth nods and wears the maid-dress, freely choosing to do so without giving a shit about consequences.

Hubert is too busy fretting about his potential revocation of access to Daddy's finances for that, because "the plan" costs money and that is where his head's at – eleven months in the future, at the head of the assault column marching across the viaduct.

Additionally, Billy has actually mostly challenged and re-framed every suggestion that Edelgard has made strategically and tactically thus far, and frustrated Hubert's attempts to keep her from losing her spaghetti everywhere – for example:

Mock-Battle

Edelgard: We need to contest the high-ground, My Teacher.

Byleth: We're going to fight everywhere but the high-ground, My Student.

Result: Flawless victory, with minor demonstration to El about what would happen if they contested the high ground – Ferdinand gets caught in an obstacle that Claude set up when he gets too enthusiastic about being the decoy.

Subtext: Hubert approaches Byleth before the mock-battle because he NOTICES Byleth using a tactical kitten on Marianne, and then interrogates Byleth after about using a Molotov cocktail against Claude and Hilda, who his lady hates. Our master manipulator knows that Edelcat is going to glom onto Byleth like a cat to catnip and lose her ability to keep a lid on things if this keeps up – and he's right, because Hubert is smart.

Zanado

Edelgard: Send the Deer in as a distraction (lol dead Claude) while we retreat with the Eagles

Byleth: We're going to do an incendiary bombardment and ruthlessly kill everyone in the canyon because I really want to protect you and these people who I want you to befriend.

Result: Byleth inadvertently destroys El's "mercenary company" that was under Metodey's command to kill Claude.

Subtext: Hubert gets so mad at this that he tries to kill Byleth right there by warping in a surviving assassin into the barber's tent, but nearly gets Petra killed instead. El is not happy at this, spends the afternoon snapping at him, and starts slyly encouraging Byleth to challenge Hubert more, because she likes that. Again, she is always testing everyone – including Hubert – and she's increasingly not appreciating his responses.

Remire:

Edelgard: Let's leave the lions to die by the hands of the peasants that Uncle Thales gaslit Lonato into hurling at Prince Dimitri.

Byleth: I'm going to commit a war crime because I want to protect you, also we literally had a discussion about "ends justifying the means" on 29th of Great Tree Moon, and I agree because I want all of these idiots to be safe – and most importantly – for you to lead them when you eventually take leave of me.

Edelgard: W-Wait…! Let me avoid responsibility and take orders from you in Remire instead. She punts the command opportunity, and Byleth isn't going to forget that.

Result: Metodey gets turned into a zombie, Lonato's peasants are stymied in killing Dimitri, Edelgard realizes that her teacher really doesn't give a fuck about anything that isn't right in front of him (she likes that) and isn't much of a future-oriented person. Literally the opposite of Hubert, again.

Subtext: Hubert desperately tries to interfere with this by murdering a messenger trying to get orders from Jeralt to Byleth, and then an accident of fate allows Byleth and El to read about Hubert's plot to get Billy fired. Again – El is not pleased with Hubert.

If we want El to turn on TWSITD before the siege of Garegg Mach, Byleth needs to be a willing collaborator, and also give her stomach butterflies with bad-boy energy. The difference between someone who collaborates – as in shares equal responsibility – and a servant – a la Hubert, is something I want to explore. The game tries to do this, I think – but fails, because you can't understand it outside of 4 conversations with him.

Hubert gets to brush off the suffering he's going to inflict on others because he's doing it "as a servant" to Edelgard. It's a kind of twisted Nuremberg Defense, and it's the coward's way out for a villain. He does this, obviously, because he's crippled by guilt about failing to look after Edelgard as a child – but that doesn't mean he's right to try and freeze her in place either.

She understands this inherently and never asks Hubert to really grow or evolve past that until the post-timeskip A support, which indicates to me that while she gets it, she hates it, too. It's not until Byleth is actually back in their lives that they can even cross that bridge and air it out.

One of El's wishes, and her most selfish one, I think – is that she desperately wants someone to walk with. What she's asking for is nearly impossible for any normal person to provide: an accomplice and someone to be there of their own free choice – someone to tell her that all the suffering she's going to inflict on the world is worth it because she's worth it – and not have any other reasons, particularly.

Hubert insists on following her out of guilt and pity and trying to clear the path in front of her instead. A relationship like that is toxic and only destroys her in other routes. It's worth noting that it destroys Hubert, too.

Part of the reason why I like Male Byleth here is that it gives El a really unique choice in how to interface with masculinity. This isn't meant to devalue the lesbian side of her, which is also worthwhile and intriguing and fun, but it colors El's trust issues. She's had to deal with a mountain of toxic males from Papa Ionius, to Duke Aegir, Thales, and Hubert – and the road to opening up her heart to Byleth just feels like it would be more fraught and dangerous for her.

To put a finer point on it – Byleth wants El to "bloom" and open up to him and others about her dreams and desires because he's in love with her, he just doesn't realize that yet. And he's in love with her because she values him as a teacher and person, not just a killing machine – and in that respect, no one else has pushed him as hard as Edelgard has – not Holst, not Jeralt, not anyone, and Byleth is realizing that now.

Jeralt basically fesses up to being kind of distant with his own son and literally punts that responsibility to Edelgard. He even intercepts the spaghetti letter and trolls her softly – like son, like father. He knows what's happening, even from a distance.

For this fic to work, I needed to find Byleth's lane, basically. He starts off as a mysterious stranger and for Edelgard, an intense object of infatuation – then grows into her guide and then, when the moment comes – what she actually needs, a life partner. All of that can happen in White Clouds, I think – too, this way. In illustrating that arc, both need to grow and to make mistakes.

To be frank with you DragonMaster – if that's got you impatient, I'd quit while you were ahead. Byleth doesn't reach an A-Rank in Professor Skills until the Battle of the Eagle and Lion in my fic, and we're a long, long way away from that. I don't want to sell this fic as something that it can't be, primarily because I've already written most of it.

Also– I just want to throw something out here to everyone else reading:

What is Crimson Flower's through-line other than deference to Edelgard, really?

That's why someone like PRT Reply King absolutely hates it so much – recall that he spent all of Harpstring Moon flipping out about plot points that are a million words away.

When you first wake up, El's got her hands all over you like you're her armored bear. You defer to Edelgard through the entirety of the war. You follow her until the end, and your leadership is always tactical rather than strategic. You can't tell her to attack the Kingdom first, for example – because she's been effectively sitting there with her army waiting for you to come back, and was always going to hit Leicester first.

In the same way that El was meant to be Thales's "weapon" – you're kind of hers, too.

At least in Azure Moon, Byleth can make suggestions to Punished Dimitri and he's… well he's not OK with it, but he doesn't say no – even if Gilbert ultimately railroads the player. Crimson Flower never even bothers asking you the player why you're there, or whether or not the plan is good. It's all decided at the moment you side with her at the tomb. It's rushed and sloppy.

I want to flip that Crimson Flower dynamic on its head.

It's why I frontloaded her calling him "My Teacher", too – because those two words are constantly battering Byleth over the head and telling him to be better, to be more open himself, to figure shit out. Professor implies profession. Professors are distant. Distance is what Silver Snow is about – and this is Crimson Flower. It's skin-smacking and fucking up and fucking down, and blooming, which is clearly a reference to – you know.

To Xaeroxii – thanks so much for your kind words, and I'm glad my Byleth resonated with you. The biggest struggle in planning a fic as long as this was "where exactly does Billy's character arc start?" and everyone who doesn't die in White Clouds needs a place to grow from. I chose Byleth's start to be at rock bottom on the "I'm a human" scale.

He's a renowned mercenary at 21, but it's clearly cost him, too. The diary is a way for El to figure that out, because he's going to need her, too. Her thoughts are going to be central to Part 2. Sharing the weight of this dream with his beloved is going to exact a toll, especially once they cross the Bridge of Myrddin. (heh)

As an aside, that was my biggest problem with Raphael, actually – he's already a really good person. He's over his Trauma and just wants to be a good knight and protect Maya. And for the Deer – especially in Verdant Wind, they NEED Raphael. Everyone else is a cloud-cuckoolander with wacky ambitions. But we're in Crimson Flower. Crimson Flower needs enemies who are just as damaged and fallen and sympathetic for that, and Raph isn't very compelling as one.

His sister Maya will be.

To DrRedneck – thanks for the thorough review, and you bring up a point that I was kind of mulling on in the planning of this fic too, insofar as how to translate "politics" writ large across Foldan into something that also seems "normal" exiting the mouth of a bunch of 15-21 year olds. Having characters express it anachronistically seemed like the best way to go, and while sure "libertarianism" is a gross oversimplification of, say, pre-modern anarcho-primitivism or whatever… "Taxes are Theft" could definitely come out of Jeralt Eisner's mouth instead of, well, academia-babble. Jeralt is a small-business owner, after all. Small businesses existed in pre-capitalist, pre-industrial societies. I'm sure those guys grifted a bit, too.

I also think it's also a fun way to show how detached from reality these kids really are sometimes. I love El, and her dream, but I'm always amused by her post-timeskip tea party quip of:

"Oh yeah babe, I'm going to hand over Adrestia to a brilliant outsider while we go make another ten Hresvelgs."

And I imagine Byleth just sitting there like – "Well, surely you don't mean Claude, right, my beautiful wife – because we killed him in Derdriu…?"

…This is to say that maybe she hasn't had enough time to plan everything out yet. In Edge of Dawn, if you read that as Edelgard – she literally is rueing about how much fun she had at Garegg Mach in spite of knowing that she's going to start a war… but we kind of never see the first part of that, and overload on the second. I'm leaning in on the former, because it's going to hurt a hell of a lot more when she starts going to war with these people. That's why I have them having anachronistic, silly, fun political banter for now.

This is a Byleth who can she have fun and be 17-year old activist cringe with, which is sorely missing from everything but the damn tea-parties.

More seriously and also tangentially, I'd argue that Three Houses also consciously takes the route of never building the "lore" behind its political system beyond Crests, and then does a sloppy job of that too, honestly. For example, within Adrestia, how are the Bergliez and Vestras power players when their heritage crests have disappeared – but somehow House Bartels and Essar are playing by a different ruleset, and need to maintain Crests to inherit territory?

The setting is already nonsense, in effect. It doesn't hold to its own lore.

If El's critique of Fodlan is really supposed to resonate, then Fodlan has to be in more distress BEYOND the Crests, and El's argument – a valid one, I believe – is that said "Crest System" is the root cause of them. And who maintains the Crest System? Rhea. So that's our final boss, and if it requires someone to call Rhea a theocratic fascist or whatever, well – that's the hormones talking.

It's not a genuine judgment that I'm making on any political system, not least because I live in a country where foreigners (me) are explicitly banned from being political… and uh, I'm fine with that – because I'm with you, politics are just there to make people angry at each other. If only everyone just fucked instead.