Both Bernie and Edelgard beat me to the monastery gate after the briefing – which I have to grant as impressive. Much to my chagrin, the rest of the Eagles failed to realize that they needed to pack for this particular multi-day excursion until I explicitly mentioned as much at the conclusion of the briefing. Even Hubert slipped up in this regard – but he looked particularly exhausted, so I opted not to press him on the matter. My guess is that he must have had his hands full after escorting Jeritza back to his dormitory to do whatever two males do in a dormitory at night.
Still, the Heir to House Varley's especially groggy expression leads me to believe that she's not an early riser by nature, so… I suspect that the other member of the Pillow Delivery Squad may have roused her out of bed this morning… And perhaps, keyed in on the necessity to pack an overnight bag.
The Heir to Adrestia, meanwhile, fresh off her presentation in the classroom, has full command of her faculties and then some. Speaking up as soon as I arrive within earshot, she asks:
"Might you have an opinion on your new bedsheets, My Teacher?
She makes that inquiry of hers with a surprising degree of innocence, beginning her daily inquisition on what I can only hope is a positive note. Handing the reins of each horse to each of the heiresses, I supply a one-word response to My House Leader that seems appropriate:
"Fluffy."
The Heir to an Empire's reaction to this reply is equal parts aggravated and curious, and a very clear acknowledgement of circumstance comes into the forefront of my mind as I watch her expression work through my word choice: Edelgard is cute. ᵔ ᴥ ᵔ My Byleth is also cute!
A follow-up begins to form as well, namely: why do I think that(?) – but I cannot explore this line of inquiry any further, as Testelgard seems quite intent on continuing my interrogation.
"They are, but – what I mean to ask is… do you like them…?"
…Isn't fluffy a positive adverb?
"I do." I clarify matter-of-factly.
The nonchalance of that reply seems to unmoor Her Inquisitiveness, but she's quick to regain her bearings… perhaps because I'm always nonchalant, and that reply probably shouldn't surprise her at this point. Still, with her confidence restored, she quips quite haughtily:
"Well, of course – that's to be expected, given how similar our tastes are…!"
I'm starting to realize that while Edelgard and I still argue about many things, we do more or less agree on things like alcohol, bedding, food, and other… domestic(?) interests. While it's not enough to really act upon – I'm starting to take some comfort in that.
That said – I'm left to wonder if all of this is because of a sort-of forced perspective. Surely, we can't be as compatible as that series of acknowledgements indicates, can we?
Thankfully, this new and troublesome consideration of mine is brushed away by a yip from my shut-in Sniper:
"P-Princess Edelgard bought you new bedsheets, Professor? Wow!"
Nodding at the purple-maned namby-pamby, I cup my hands on the side of her horse, helping her mount it. Bernie nods and clambers her way on with a surprising amount of proficiency. Maybe I should start training her in riding sooner rather than later.
"W-what kind of sheets are they, Professor…?" I'm asked as she settles in her saddle. She must be wondering what the material is, I guess.
"Cashmere… from Ochs…?" Admittedly, at that moment the region had slipped my mind. Turns out I was right though, as Edelgard confirms:
"Yes – the Hresvelgs introduced Cashmere to Adrestia over a millennia ago, as it happens."
Did her ancestor invent wool, too? I'm taking for granted here that the Hresvelgs invented Adrestia, of course. I suppose if their line goes back far enough, one could account for that…
"O-oh, those are soft for wool… but they're really itchy, I think… especially when they pill…" Bernadetta notes, putting a particular emphasis on pill... unfortunately, I have no idea what pilling is.
A certain someone gets very activated at that last word, though.
"Twelve-Gauge cashmere is quite slow to pill, My Teacher… your sheets should last the year, at least…"
My eyes drift back and forth from Bernadetta, who has started to shake under the weight of Edelgard's verbal riposte, to Edelgard, who only shakes ever so slightly when my eyes meet hers. Is a year a long or a short time for bed sheets to last? I haven't the slightest fucking idea.
"Does it matter?" I ask with a tilt of my head.
The Ever-Agitated Adrestian doesn't like this reply, and as I acknowledge this, I feel a sense of dread – for I'm sensing a nothing argument rapidly approaching. Thankfully, Bernadetta preempts this by exclaiming:
"I could get you some silk sheets in Varley Town, Professor! You could keep them as a spare."
Before I can reply to that gracious offer, however – you know who cuts me off.
"Actually, My Teacher hates silk bed-sheets. Our tastes are quite similar in that respect."
A thought occurs to me – wasn't she wearing a silk nightgown when she curled up alongside me in the tent last moon…? I'm willing to grant that a nightgown isn't a bedsheet – but the distinction here is kind of minute insofar as you sleep in a nightgown, and you sleep tucked into bedsheets as well.
What's her sleep strategy, I wonder? Does it have to do with heat retention?
◔̯◔ My Byleth happens to be very warm… Perhaps he should come back now…?
In spite of all these questions, I grant her correlation with an exasperated nod, as I really don't want to try to argue that point – considering how I can scarcely even wrap my head around it. Still, as this is my diary, I should issue the following self-correction:
I don't hate silk bed-sheets, I think – not least because I've never occasioned to try them. I doubt I ever will, though, as the good nights' sleep that I got on the cashmere ones was sufficient for me to satisfy any curiosity about this sort of thing for the rest of my life, probably.
Meanwhile, Bernadetta von Varley must take pity on this confused expression of mine, because she immediately clarifies things with:
"Wow… so you and Princess and Edelgard like all the same things…!"
The Heir to an Empire nods affirmatively.
The Heir to a Mercenary Company shrugs.
…Do people actually care about this stuff?
After emerging from the Oghma passes due East from Remire village, the foothills of Varley gently greet riders along the Arundel-to-Hrym Highway. The same cannot be said for the path that the travelers have to ride or walk upon, however. As Bernadetta's horse stumbles in a pothole yet again, the situation has been laid quite bare to the two Adrestian students next to me on horseback – namely, that their roads suck... or at least the roads outside Arundel territory.
What must be a rather ancient, stone-paved engineering marvel has seen better days, particularly along the stretch that passes through the lands of House Varley. On our way to winter in Remire, the foot-marching mercenaries in my father's company would often complain bitterly about the state of the path here. The ones on horses fared little better – but officers and cavalrymen knew better to complain in earshot of footmen.
"I must admit to being unaware that Adrestia's infrastructure was in such a neglected state." Edelgard explains to me in a quasi-apologetic fashion.
"It's not all bad." I offer absent-mindedly, admittedly more focused on attempting to navigate my mount over a stretch of rubble that must have been the highway once.
"The road from Arundel to the Monastery is well-maintained by My Uncle, at least."
We're of like mind on that, at least. Still, I have no idea why My House Leader so bent-out-of-shape over territory she's not the direct ruler of – if anything, my shut-in sniper would be proximally most responsible for the state of the roads in the land she's due to inherit. This stretch of the highway is supposed to be maintained by her father, isn't it? Cutting through the rather confusing logic here, I simply advise that she should:
"Ride closer to the side of the road."
Edelgard nods affirmatively, and adjusts her tack - a few moments pass and her mount fallen in just behind mine, with Bernadetta dutifully and embarrassedly trailing the Heir to an Empire. Something tells me that my reply didn't satisfy My Student's curiosity, however. Glancing back, I notice her rehearsing with those bow-shaped, vermillion lips of hers… clearly intent on pushing the line of questioning. While it doesn't bother me – I'm Her Teacher, after all – I'm left to wonder why she's asking me about all of this instead of someone within her own government… particularly her Uncle, who appears to have his own hands in various projects. I'm just a mercenary, aren't I?
"...Does it not seem rather odd that the center of the road seems to be the most derelict?" Testelgard inquires.
Craning my neck towards the center of the roadway, I notice a common feature of Fodlan's ancient roads. Pointing towards it, I explain:
"Because it's cambered." I offer, pointing at the cobbling in the middle of the path.
My Student's curiosity gets the better of her, it seems – and she brings her horse back alongside mine. Boring into me with deeply curious, evaluating eyes, she asks:
"Cambered…?"
Nodding, I reply with:
"The road slopes down from the center to drain off water."
Following an illustration of a parabola with the palm of my hand shortly thereafter, Edelgard catches my meaning without further need for explanation.
"That's an excellent idea…!" – she exclaims, as if I was the one who came up with the concept a thousand years ago – or whenever the rocks hewn into this thoroughfare were actually laid.
Shrugging, my index finger holds on a part of the camber that features some of the stonework coming loose from the gravel and in the end stages of water erosion.
"It dislodges rapidly when not maintained."
At the sight of my point, Edelgard squirms – and while it's a cute squirm, it's a bit of a strange one, so it prompts me to withdraw my finger in respect of that. Staring at her blankly, I allow her to seize back the initiative in our conversation. She takes that opportunity and adds:
"The Adrestian Crown does have certain measures for this issue…"
And that's a pretty natural response, right? Edelgard wants to be responsible for the entirety of the world, I'm gathering, so naturally the roads, which are features of the world, would fall under her purview. Waiting patiently for her to continue, she eventually does after gathering her thoughts:
"...Namely, the Emperor can issue a levée of peasants to fix the roads from a local lord…"
I was half-expecting a more detailed follow-up than that, given our last political conversation on horseback, but My House Leader seems to trail off there, as if she's searching for my validation about the idea. I know what a levée is, of course – they're citizens drafted for war or public works projects. When I was a child, I witnessed conscription agents draft the citizens of Remire in… 1171, I think? Since Remire was in Arundel territory up until recently, I suppose they must have been drafted to maintain the roads.
During our trip through the Oghmas last week, there wasn't a single stone out of place – leading me to believe that he must keep his sector regularly maintained without the current Emperor needing to get involved. The future Emperor, meanwhile, seems momentarily absorbed in her thoughts, giving me a few more precious moments to follow this thread of thought.
Coincidentally – after that mass conscription, my father began bringing me along on his campaigns, citing the lack of safety in the area around Remire, which I now know is within the nation of Adrestia – which Edelgard is going to inherit. And since all of this stuff is very political, I should probably be giving the idea of fleeing to Brigid after Edelgard graduates more consideration, shouldn't I?
Hubert threatened to harm me if I accompanied Edelgard to Adrestia.
I don't want to be put into a self-defense situation where I would be forced to murder my former student, though.
That doesn't seem right…
As these thoughts consume me, the Heir to this Empire rouses from her own fit of thoughtfulness. Looking at me with renewed intensity, she notes:
"...My Father is… occupied with other matters, but you must understand that improving the state of Adrestia's infrastructure will be a top priority of mine when I ascend the Throne."
That's very Edelgardian, and I'm proud of that – even if I'll never be there where Edelgard does all of those things in the future. Ó╭╮Ò
"I'm glad." I say – and I am.
Like with everything, however – this does not appease the Adrestian.
"Truly?" comes the query.
"Sure." I fire back.
In the wake of this confirmation comes a squint, and I find myself oddly nostalgic for Sothis at this moment. Sadly, I strangled Sothis to death – I guess – because she couldn't help me save Raphael without… leaving Edelgard to die, was it?
…Why am I remembering that just now…?
Frustratingly, I'm dragged out of this contemplation by the voice of the person who was most indirectly involved in this revelation:
"...Even so, you hardly seem to be glad whenever you say that to me…"
At wits end, I supply an:
"OK." – in a desperate attempt to starve out the siege that this woman constantly puts my thoughts under. Unfortunately, her troops seem to feed off my silence, and re-supply their armaments from my bouts of frustration. Naturally, a very intense squint develops in response to this one-word reply of mine – but it's preempted by an:
"Aaaah–!" from Bernadetta, who has just taken a spill off her horse.
The steed hit a pothole, we learned later.
Arriving in Varley as twilight cast the castle town in a warm glow, I'd be inclined to call it scenic – had I not spent so many magic hours in the Monastery already. Bernadetta's hometown does still me of a Garreg Mach in Miniature – rising up on a slight hill, its walls surrounded by suburban three-story weaver's cottages that mask the tiny size of the town. Inside the walls, I'd doubt more than five-thousand souls called it home. The industrious folk living outside the walls – all manner of textile entrepreneurs, cotters, blacksmiths, tanners, and so on, likely double that number. Many of these folk have guild signs adorning their hastily-assembled storefronts that mark them as former residents of Hrym, meaning they must have fled that city when it last rebelled. It makes sense that no privileges would be afforded to them in Varley.
Due to the state of the roads, my Father never occasioned for the company to stop in my Archer's Heirloom Duchy – it was actually much easier to cut a path East through the empty, rolling lowlands from Gronder than to follow the winding Northerly route of the Imperial Highway that passed through Varley territory. A contact of my Father's happened to be a castellan at Fort Merceus, and we often took on supplies there at the outside caravanserai.
The footpaths ground into the grasslands that surrounded the Duchy of Varley, in short, were often a more reliable friend for a mount than the rocky road that preceded us here.
And – since the winter was usually upon us in those times – it smelled much better.
As we near the gatehouse, the stink of feces running through the drainage cuts wafts in odious, steamy clouds on either side of the worn roadway. Eventually, that stench prompts us to bring our mounts to the middle of the road for the occasional relief. At this moment I'm reminded of what a spoiled life I've been living thus far – the past two moons have largely been spent in the comfort of indoor plumbing. The only time I'd catch a whiff of shit was when passing the stables.
What I mean to say is… it's been some time since the smell of urbanity confronted me in such a way. The Monastery Town had the foresight to dump their waste into the canyon below, and the ravine was far too deep to leave a smell wafting up the viaduct.
I'm not the only one to be thinking about this either, it seems.
"The way these peasants live is intolerable." A familiar voice intrudes into my thoughts at this moment.
Part of me is tempted to correct her by noting that they're not peasants, and in fact tradesmen… but I let it slide, this time. My father was always quick to correct me on the difference, and now I realize I found that sort of thing frustrating – at least in the primitive manner that I could find such things frustrating in the days before I had feelings.
"I-I'm sorry, Princess Edelgard…! T-There were just too many refugees back then…" Bernadetta shouts apologetically. My head turns to her, and I notice the sheer terror on her face.
Is Bernadetta also political…? Or is she just afraid of her future liege? Either way, Edelgard's reaction probably isn't doing much to assuage her.
My House Leader frowns at her classmate, and I'm about to intervene myself before I hear:
"This is hardly your fault, Bernadetta. A child has no agency in such a matter. The blame rests squarely upon your father."
"Howdy! Did you three come from the Monastery?!" a voice from the distance shouts.
As my eyes focus on the source – I notice a dopple-ganger of the Gatekeeper.
"Y-Yes, Mr. Gatekeeper!"
Craning my neck to Bernie, I realize that my shut-in sniper has drawn out a response to this man far faster than I could've ever expected. Is she more confident because she's at home, I wonder?
…I dismiss this idea shortly thereafter, realizing that the Heir to House Varley was shaking even more vigorously than she usually does. She must not like home much at all.
"Whoa, is that Lady Varley and the Princess?!"
Wheeling my horse to the side and blocking any further view of the situation – I opt to take command of the situation by saying:
"I am their Professor. You will report to me."
This not-but-also-Gatekeeper snaps into a Gatekeeper-esque salute, and I brusquely return it.
"Nothing to report, Professor!"
I take a certain comfort in that comment, although for whatever reason, this particular Gatekeeper strikes me as far more sincere than his older brother.
"Where is the Duke?" I ask bluntly.
Half-expecting him to look after the safety of his lord by not disclosing that sensitive information - I would appear to actually have sufficiently mogged him into an answer.
"Still at the Country Manor, Your Highness. I figure he'll be riding into town in a few hours to pay a visit to his Fight Club."
Edelgard brings her horse alongside mine and whispers:
"...That must be the Gentleman's Club Hubert was referring to."
Acknowledging that comment with a brief nod, I then turn to the gatekeeper and command him to:
"Inform him of our arrival."
"I'll add that to my report to him, Professor!" comes the reply.
"We appreciate your compliance." Edelgard adds - and she's right, of course.
"Just doin' my job! My older brother got the comfy gig in Garreg Mach, but I'm the harder worker – that's why I'm the Head Gatekeeper here!"
One would think that he was the gatekeeper of a castle in the middle of the Almyran desert or some other active combat zone with such a comment – or if Adrestia has some vastly different standard of war-readiness than I do. With that in mind – I was apparently born in Adrestia, though… So maybe I'm the one who's wrong, after all.
Edelgard seems to grant this suspicion by bringing her horse around mine and proceeding through the castle gate without much concern. I raise an eyebrow at this, and she says:
"My Teacher – since we have a few hours to ourselves – I wish to visit the Imperial Clothier. Would that be an acceptable use of our time…?"
Bernadetta appears at Edelgard's side, and actually gets rather excited in kind – leading me to believe that they both wish to visit this shoppe.
"C-Can we…?!" asks the woman who will someday own the land our horses trod upon.
For the first time in my life, I realize that I'm being requested as a chaperone. Feeling proud of myself for a change, I accept the request of the two Adrestian heiresses.
This newfound status, however – did not last for very long at all.
For whatever reason, Edelgard suddenly got very cagey when we arrived at the Clothier and proceeded to insist that I wait on a bench outside the shoppe's large viewing window. To be honest, I find myself thinking that her repeated insistence was strange – especially because I made no attempt to protest it one way or the other. I just accepted her suggestion at face value and sat on the bench long before she finished detailing some (totally legitimate, I'm sure) justification that I've long since forgotten.
Immediately thereafter, Bernadetta – either out of pity or terror – volunteered to join me on the bench. This just seemed to provoke My House Leader further until I realized that Edelgard must be pursuing some task that's essential to her future as Emperor of Adrestia inside that tailor's shoppe. Then everything made sense – particularly her rationale in hiding it from me. Perhaps she understood all too acutely now that I'd never be around after this year ended. Ó╭╮Ò
I'm quite positive she wanted to storm into that shoppe to confront or contest something with the owner – as that is her natural mode of existence. With that in mind, I could remind myself of my duty and do my very best to support her efforts. In acknowledgement of that fact, I waited very patiently for her to complete her explanation, nodded and then told her that she was:
"...Strong and brilliant."
After I said this, though – Edelgard lost her balance, leading me to believe that I was actually supposed to say that she was graceful, instead. I suppose that's what Sothis would suggest at least – along with informing me about how uncaring I am. I wouldn't have to guess if I hadn't strangled her to death, but I suppose there's no point in dwelling on the past… Edelgard dislikes that anyway, and I need to be conscious of her needs now.
Anyway, after fetching what looked to be a sketchpad from her horse's saddle, the Heir to Adrestia then stormed into the storefront with a power gait while clutching that leatherbound book very tightly to her chest.
On the surface, that book rather reminded me of my own journal – except that the nature of the binding caused one to flip the pages up and over instead of side to side. I found that very curious, and mentioned it to Bernadetta, who looked at me as if I was insane. This convinced me that I should stay quiet for awhile, even though for the first time in my life… I felt a bit chatty.
And damn if I can recall a time I ever felt that way before.
As I toyed those thoughts around in a bit of a self-absorbed fugue, Bernadetta leans into my shoulder – accidentally, I'm guessing – as she immediately jolts in total shock as soon as she realizes what she just did.
Frankly, I don't get what the big deal is – but I'm not a woman, so most of this stuff appears to be locked behind a wall of emotion that seems rather gender-specific. Ferdinand, for example, has no issue in engaging with prolonged physical contact with me. Bernadetta seems to recoil at any physical contact, while Edelgard…
She seems to be fine initiating at times, but has a conniption when I initiate contact myself.
I wonder why that is?
The Heir to House Varley is a woman, though – so maybe an indirect inquiry of Bernadetta will help illuminate things. With that in mind, I ask:
"You seemed relaxed, Bernie. Are you OK?"
Shortly after I ask this, she looks over her shoulder as if there's another Bernadetta von Varley somewhere over her shoulder, which prompts me to wonder if my shut-in-sniper might have a sibling or two somewhere. I scrap this thought when I realize that I am also somewhat anti-social, and am an only child – I think. So it would make sense that Bernie would be one too.
Eventually, she turns back to me and replies with:
"Um… w-well, I-I actually kind of like being in the Castle Town, I guess…"
"Why is that?" I ask – genuinely surprised she'd feel at ease in any urban environment – let alone this one.
"N-none of the townsfolk will notice me."
If I could express sadness, I would – because Bernadetta is a person worthy of notice. Not least because she is my student. If I needed to kill people in order for her to be taken notice of… I would, I think – and my eyes drift over to a Knight of Varley who is haggling with a tanner-good merchant over a leather belt.
"Is that so?" I ask, genuinely concerned even though I couldn't hope to express such an emotion.
In response, Bernadetta shakes her head aggressively.
"Um… telling you is probably a bad idea, Professor…"
Returning her headshake myself in protest, I know that I need to convince her otherwise. Issue being – I'm not particularly convincing, and usually end up being convinced by other people instead. Still, I give it a war college try by explaining to Bern that:
"You can tell me anything."
The expression on my archer's face looks like it could pierce anyone's heart with the depth of its pain. Unfortunately, she picked the only person on the continent without a heart to waste it on.
"...Are you sure you want to know…?" she asks haltingly.
Is my shut-in sniper taking lessons from Edelgard?
"I'm your teacher, Bernadetta."
Reeling slightly, she grants this with:
"I guess you're right… Um… still, how should I say it… maybe…."
"Take your time." Comes my reply. I need to be patient with Bernie in the same way that I'm patient with Edelgard - that's what being a teacher is all about, right?
Eventually, she works up the courage to blurt out:
"M-My father said he'd hang any of the townsfolk who leer at me so they all avoid looking at me!"
And in spite of the rather high-pitched yelp carrying through the narrow street with some force behind it... no one dares turn to acknowledge the Heir to House Varley.
While I could grant that such a thing would be a blessing for a true hermit... I can't help but wonder if Bernadetta's passion for being left alone isn't a coping mechanism for the fear and ignorance that others have treated her with. In light of that, I simply ask:
"Is that what you want?"
"...What?!"
"To be ignored." I clarify.
The Heir to House Varley stumbles around on the seat in an attempt to gather herself in order to answer this query, leading me to believe that this isn't entirely what she wants. That somewhere there's a Bernadetta in there that wants to be valued and appreciated by others, and not ignored.
"Y-yes– b—but a-also n-no…!"
She confirms in a perfectly Edelgardian way. In light of that, what else can I reply with but:
"I can't ignore you, Bernie."
And that's gives her gray eyes more color than I've ever seen in a month of knowing her.
"W—-when y—-ou s-s-s-say things like that I—-!"
Luckily, just before Bernie enters the realm of total unintelligibility, My House Leader arrives to save the day – handing me several bags with an explicit directive to not look inside any of them. Eager to calm things down – I eagerly comply, and we begin our stroll towards the Fight Club shortly thereafter.
"Uill, beannachdan an sin!"
A rail-thin, sunken-eyed Brigidian girl around Petra's age greets us at the door with these words at exactly seven in the evening. That greeting comes just a moment after we ring the little bell attached to the wooden door of "Varleyland" - a curious name for a three-story, brick-encrusted downtown pleasure-palace, but one that I can't summon up enough literary energy to really argue with.
The words delivered by this Brigidian are a traditional greeting to a foreigner that enters the tent of one of these nationals. It's just a way to ward off evil spirits, I think. Time serving along these folks has taught me the proper reply in their native tongue, however - and it always impresses them when I manage with proper stresses and enunciation. I'm even impressed at myself at times, because the Brigidian language equal parts poetic and lyrical, and those types of art forms seem so remote to a boor like me. Speaking the language of the archipelago gives the me opportunity to experience such things vicariously, I suppose.
"An é seo club troda an Diúc?" I ask - inquiring if this is the hearth of the Duke. Not exactly the same circumstances as a sleeping tent, but close enough.
And to my own credit, this registers as a proper reply to this little Brigidian, who several inches shorter than Edelgard and looks rather malnourished.
"Oh…! You are speaking the tongue of Brigid, Good Sir?!" she asks with widened eyes.
Nodding affirmatively, I reply:
"I can."
Much to my own surprise, however, she leans towards me and whispers:
"...Please do not be speaking that to the Duic inside…! He only is knowing those four words as welcoming words for this place! Any more and he does the beating of us. He thinks there are many spies who are communicating with our brothers abroad..."
In spite of the fact that there are clearly people doing just that, I simply nod. It is not this girl's responsibility for arming and sending off a group of raiders, clearly.
"Enslaving and torturing prisoners of war from our vassal... this state of affairs is absolutely intolerable…" comes a quip from Edelgard, and while her opinion does not surprise me or seem altogether out-of-place with what I know about her personality and morals... I'm proud of her anyway.
Looking to my lower right, however - I see that the Heir to House Varley... and presumably this fight club, has gone as white as a ghost. When she notices me noticing her, she yelps:
"T-This w-was a t-terrible idea, Professor— I-I'm sorry!"
The sound of her voice immediately seems to send the Brigidian hostess into a sharp miltiary-esque attention stance.
"...Mistress Bernadetta…! I am being very apology! I did not be recognizing you with short hair!"
"Waaah -I'm sorry, Miss Esther!"
Esther is the name of this poor girl, no doubt.
"Please do not be saying the apology, your father will be very exciting to see you!" comes the servant's reply.
"...I-I'm just here to give a gift to M-mom!"
At this, My House Leader clears her throat.
"That is not the sole reason why we are here. We have also come to negotiate better terms for Duchess Varley's detention. The Duke's behavior is a stain on the honor of the Adrestian government."
Hostess Esther looks at Edelgard with the emptiest expression I've ever seen, and then turns back to me, exclaiming:
"...I am not understanding the words of the little old Woman!"
"..Old…?"
I sense a nothing argument approaching, and the Hostess just ends up summoning it ever closer by replying with:
"You are having the white hair of wisdom – it being very good that you only are having wrinkles on your brow after so many years, Mistress!"
Before My House Leader can snap back a reply, I quickly insert my own, uttering:
"Seo iníon an Impire. Tá sí tagtha chun dúshlán a thabhairt d'fhir an diúic."
"I require a translation, My Teacher…"
Looking at Edelgard with the most earnest blank face I can muster, I say:
"I told her you're a Princess."
On second thought, I guess I could've clarified that she was the Princess of Adrestia – but the Brigidian must realize that Edelgard isn't Petra, at least – right? Those are the only two landed princesses that I'm aware of, anyway. Much to my relief, the maid enthusiastically confirms this with a nod.
"Yes, I am understanding, now!" she says in a very Petranian fashion.
Unfortunately, this still fails to appease My House Leader.
"Even so… I fail to see why you wouldn't just tell her that I certainly do not appear elderly, do I…?"
"...Do you want me to?" Wrong answer, my Byleth...
Although Edelgard seems initially very agitated at this query of mine, she eventually comes upon an idea.
"Hm… Instead, you should tell her that I'm mature beyond my years and… as you often tell me, quite brilliant."
Mature beyond my years is an idiomatic expression of sorts, and I haven't the slightest idea how to express things in Fodlanese, let alone a foreign tongue. In light of my idiomatic idiocy, I just opt to inform the maid that My Student is brilliant by telling her:
"Edelgard duin Inghlactha don phósadh."
But this does not appease the person it was meant to appease, because that person is the most difficult-to-make-happy people I've ever encountered in my life.
That said, Edelgard is also the first person who I've ever wanted to make happy before, so... ᵔ ᴥ ᵔ
"...Well… that didn't sound romantic at all…" is her analysis of the translation.
A bit exasperated, I simply ask:
"Was it supposed to?"
"...I-I suppose that I had thought it might…" My Student says after a moment's contemplation of the circumstances.
Adding fuel to the fire, Esther leans in even closer to me and whsipers:
"An bhféadfá a bheith i d'fhear céile an bhanphrionsa, a dhuine uasail?"
Which immediately sets you-know-who off, prompting her to snap back with:
"...Is it truly necessary for you two to continue on in Brigidian?"
The issue here is that I'd certainly prefer the comment to remain untranslated. It's a very awkward query, and my answer would be equally awkward as well.
Still, I resolved to be honest with My House Leader now and forever, so I gulp down some saliva and state with a very dry mouth:
"She wants to know if I'm Petra's fiancée."
And this cues up the usual cycle of reactions:
The furrowed brow...
The squinting eyes that narrow and leave little whites in between the iris and her eyelids...
The shifting of her weight from her right leg to her left leg...
And of course - the reaching for the non-existent throwing axe at her belt...
You know, those sorts of reactions from Angrygard.
"And whyever does she believe that to be your current circumstance...?" I'm asked very agitatedly.
Pointing to the fireball about to be extinguished by water droplets painted under the corner of my left eye, I reply:
"The teardrop tattoo."
This sets her mind working - and mine as well, because now I'm going to have to explain how the folk of Brigid, without a written alphabet, use pictographic language in their tattoos to express statuses between individuals and their clan. While the water-putting-out-the-fire can indicate a marriage engagement, it can also indicate the status of an individual as a clan's champion... which apparently I am, because I saved Petra's life by clutching a razor-blade directed at her neck in the Red Canyon.
Naturally, there's absolutely no romantic feelings between either myself or Petra, so I did not protest this tattoo when she made it, given the fundamental awareness that a monstrous person like myself is totally unfit for romance. It is also worth noting that Petra is fifteen years old, therefore it would be impossible for me to harbor romantic feelings for her at that age anyway.
These are all very long explanations of the facts on the ground, however, and need to be carefully worded so not to confuse or issue undue offense.
Sadly, I am not very good at talking.
"...What of it?" comes the question that I'm dreading.
Surprisingly, however - Esther jumps to my "rescue".
"In Brigid, is telling that he is the chosen mate of the Macnearies!"
"Those tattoos are purely representational…! I would caution reading too much into them!" comes a snappy reply from the person who seems perpetually obsessed with my single-ness.
Just after that clarification issued - like clockwork -two lavender irises squarely fall upon my teal ones.
"...You've obviously mentioned that you are not interested in any student's affection at this time – at least until after your House Leader graduates, have you not…?"
"To Petra, or Esther?"
"...Either or..."
What else can I do but shake my head?
"I suppose the responsibility falls upon me to inform Petra when we all reunite at the landing zone, then. I will be most direct with her, My Teacher."
"Thanks." I say, but I'm not sure I should be thanking her for this.
Thankfully (truly) Bernadetta finally defuses this awkward situation by tapping my elbow-plate.
"Um… Professor?"
I've never been so happy to answer a question from my shut-in-sniper... but I cannot emote this, unfortunately... and just stare at her blankly.
"...W-we should probably hurry, shouldn't we? I'm worried people might notice me here and try to talk to me…"
I know this to be a patently untrue concern of hers, but Edelgard doesn't. In a moment of what I know must be concern for her classmates, she turns quite resolute and says:
"Indeed – we must maintain the initiative tonight, Bernadetta."
The Duke of Varley – reclined lazily on a triclinium – cuts an almost comical figure. And for a person like me to find something comical… I suppose it must be quite funny, right? Not enough for me to smile or laugh at the sight – but comical enough.
Perhaps if I could've laughed – I would have?
Anyway, Bernie's dad sports slicked back purple hair, and was suckling a cirgarillo while absent-mindedly tapping an oversized beer belly that spread across his tiny frame before he took note of our entry. That is to say that there is nothing physically intimidating or imposing about the man – who I doubt clears five-foot-five. He's still taller than Edelgard, though – so the idea to hoist her on my shoulders during their confrontation occurs to me. I dismiss the idea when I crane my neck up to check the rather low ceiling, however… I don't want her to hit her head.
As my eyes drift around the room absent-mindedly, I realize that the Elder Varley's lack of imposition is multiplied when I recall that he specialized as an archer at the academy – and that there are no bows in sight. On the walls of the bar-room there are various trophies – taxidermized deer heads, the skull of what appears to be a demonic beast, and several redwolf pelts… but nothing that could be used as a ranged weapon of any sort.
These are simply baubles from the past, in effect.
And I don't fear the past – how can I when things back then were so simple compared to the present?
The Duke eventually turns his neck to Edelgard, Bernie, and myself in what I could charitably describe as a sort of greeting a few minutes after we enter the barroom of his gentleman's club. What distracts him are two Brigidians engaged in Brigidingo in the center of the room, splattering blood on the walls and on the furniture with each strike they trade into each other's jaws.
Both look quite similar physically – share the same tattoos, and grow closer to the limit of their exertion with each passing hit. I've seen this on the battlefield before, of course – Brigidians fight with their all until exhaustion claims the last of their strength – and the Almyrans – masters at withholding their own stamina – will move with decisiveness to finish them off without mercy at the first sign of a buckling knee.
Both of these Brigidians have buckling knees.
One – or both – will be dead very soon.
My contemplation about their combat is interrupted by a cutting – almost shrill – male voice:
"A question to the white-haired woman in the back there…"
No doubt implicating My House Leader, my eyes fall to Edelgard – who looks impressively resolute after being identified in such a way.
"...Whyever do you want to get into this Brigidingo business…?"
After clearing her throat, she replies back with:
"Is that how you address the future Emperor of Adrestia, Duke Varley?"
This prompts the little round man to stand up from his reclining couch and offer a very mocking sort of bow – one with enough venom behind it that even a fool like me can detect it. After completing his circuit, he then tosses back a new provocation:
"Ha! I'll find a proper place for etiquette among all this blood – after you answer my question."
"Truly – I happen to be quite bored at the Academy. I've heard this sort of sport can be entertaining." comes a much more composed – rehearsed, I should add – reply from My Student.
At the very least it appears to have passed muster with Bernadetta's father as well. Placing his hands on his beergut, he shouts:
"I like your answer, Princess! Problem is – there ain't a couch for you – but you're welcome to come stand here and watch– there's a fight going on right now that's entertaining indeed!"
As if on cue – a great mass of grunting and blood-letting occurs just as Duke Varley brings our attention back to the fight. Both of the Brigidians are using what remains of their strength – both of their knees having buckled – to pin one another to the floor. They've also resorted to biting each other in the interim.
Still – an etiquette-related question comes to mind: why would he not offer Edelgard his couch? Isn't that what men are supposed to do? Is Duke Varley a man, or does he just present as one?
This line of inquiry is interrupted by a rather sultry voice emanating from behind the Duke.
"You are welcome to join me on this couch here, Princess Edelgard."
Bringing my full attention to that voice, I see that it comes from a woman – perhaps a decade or so older than me – sporting long, jet-black hair and narrow, scarlet irises. Curious about this interloper, I find myself desiring to utter my first comment of the evening here before Edelgard beats me to it with:
"...Might you be–"
"-I'm guessing all that time in the dungeon didn't allow you to meet Lady Rusalka. She was doing her studies in Morfis before her daddy accidentally drank a little bit of hemlock. Then she took a long ship on a cold night to Albinea...!" Comes Duke Varley's cut-off.
This tidbit of information is naturally quite curious – I had no idea that Edelgard was imprisoned. Depending on the time of that imprisonment, I suppose I could figure out why she's a bit more sheltered than your average noble… but without any more detail than the scant acknowledgement that Duke Varley offered, I'll never really be able to commit to much more than that simple acknowledgement.
My House Leader, to her credit, doesn't miss a beat and fires back vitriolically:
"...Consider yourself fortunate that I will ignore such a rude comment – not least because the accusation you've made is so patently untrue that it beggars belief."
Unfortunately, this riposte of hers immediately causes me to cast doubt on that entire preceding train of thought. Perhaps Duke Varley was just spinning a tale. Curiously, though – Edelgard doesn't look at Duke Varley when she delivers this denial… rather, My House Leader is actually looking at me.
And she looks a bit unsure in her own statement – if I could be bold enough to extrapolate on the expression she wears.
I'm about to offer some words of encouragement to her – maybe a variation on "you've got this" or something like that – but the sound of blood gurgling in a throat – an oh-so-familiar sound – happens to overtake any concern I have for My Student at this moment. This is to say… I felt a bit of bloodlust coming on. It's a feeling that's been bubbling up a bit more frequently as well – and I recall myself having better control of it in the previous moon than I think I do right now.
I want to fight.
That's what I'm getting at, I think...
Craning my neck toward and raising my eyebrow at the gurgle's source – I see that one of the Brigidingo fighters – the one who has since successfully pinned his match – now has a fist resting on his opponent's windpipe. He must have collapsed the fellow's larynx with the force of one of his blows, no doubt. At the end of his rope as well, he just sits in an uncomfortable heap, straddling his kill.
Duke Varley takes note of this as well, and waddles over to Lady Rusalka, crowing:
"I'll let you chat with the future figurehead of Adrestia, Lady of Sorrows. And say goodbye to that twin – I think his brother up and killed him pretty damn well, wouldn't you say? I'm thinking that you owe 50,000Gs now!"
Rusalka, ignoring Duke Varley – stood up from her couch and revealed her tall, slender frame. Wearing a satin dinner dress and bedecked in gold jewelry – she certainly seemed flashy enough to be considered ambassadorial. After nodding at Edelgard, Bernadetta, and myself, in that order, she took a bow herself. And while I'm not an expert in etiquette, or bowing, or anything like that – the expression seemed genuine. That impression was solidified in my mind when Rusalka offered:
"A pleasure, Princess Edelgard. For the past ten years, I have acted as Adrestia's ambassador to Albinea. That has delayed our introduction, it would seem."
"There is no need to bow, Lady Rusalka. The pleasure is mine."
I find myself very proud of Edelgard when she does Princessly-thing likes that, even though I realize I've had very little influence over her actually doing them. I wonder why that is?
"I live to serve the Empire." Rusalka confirms.
Edelgard is about to respond to this before Duke Varley rounds his couch and waddles in between everyone's eyelines again, apparently deeming the introductions well and truly done. Huffing and puffing with slightly reddened cheeks, he yelps:
"Empire, huh? Does she mean Adrestia or Albinea, Princess...? That's what I've been wondering since she arrived…!"
From behind and over the Duke's head in the distance, the Head of House Rusalka shakes her head in a firm denial. Maintaining her conversation with My Student, she continues:
"Hostile negotiation is the default approach of the Duke. He has accused me of double-dealing with Albinea since the day I received this appointment from your Father, Princess Edelgard. Thankfully Lord-Regent Arundel has seen my advocacy for Adrestia as valuable."
Varley shakes his head at this derisively.
"If that fool didn't earn his keep in our Academy days, I'd say he's nothing but a rank coward. Stripping me of my knights over some revolt in Gaspard… Who does he think he is, the Goddess herself?"
Turning back to Edelgard, he asks:
"I wonder if Lady Rusalka will be that diplomatic when Nemesis comes to guide her soul to the eternal flames? That's the punishment for treason after death, after all."
"Duke Varley considers treason to be negotiation – specifically, negotiating the new requirements of a valued trade partner like Albinea." comes Rusalka's level-headed riposte.
"Requirements…?"
Before the Lady can answer Edelgard's query, Duke Varley lets out a grave, angry utterance from the bottom of his throat. After expelling the contents of that grunt into a handkerchief fetched from his pocket, he shouts:
"Well, I'll be damned...! She's blaming it on me…!"
Then, Duke Varley turns to me. Shaking his head, he caterwauls:
"Never trust a woman when she talks about patriotism – am I not right? Even a caged bird still knows what flight is like after its wings get clipped... wouldn't you agree, slave? I heard you suckled your first teat in Adrestia. Does it not terrify you to see what this country's going to become? Spinsters like Rusalka will needle it to death."
Does the fact that I've spent my entire life as a wandering, stateless mercenary make more or less patriotic than a woman in the Varley-verse? Unsure about how to respond to this, I'm rescued by Edelgard – who really appears quite worked up now.
"Direct your questions to me, Duke Varley. My Teacher has little concern for the affairs of court."
Thankfully her tone and word choice doesn't demonstrate it, yet. Still – the Duke nocks another verbal arrow and tries for another bullseye with:
"Does he now…? Or are you trying to seem all independent and capable for this educator of yours that I've heard so much about?"
I resolve at this moment to never let Duke Varley meet Claude von Riegan. Taking advantage of his opening, he goes on:
"Don't give me that look, Princess – the Marquis's boy isn't the only man in Adrestia with a spy network. I happen to have flipped a few of his, to tell the truth."
His eyes then drift over to me and take me in more fully.
"The Ashen Demon, in the flesh. Had I known that the son of Blade Breaker spent his youth in a Brigidian slave pen, I'd have plucked you out of there myself and put you to work. We'd have made the ring sing, boy."
...Was that some sort of cover story? Did Hubert do this...?
At this point, Bernie makes her presence known. Curious, she grips my cloak while doing so…
"Um, Papa…!" she yips.
Bernadetta's father then grips her chin with his stubby fingers with such force that he pinches and reddens the skin on her face.
Is that a normal way for a father to interact with his daughter? I don't have any experience and certainly never bothered to observe such things until this very moment… but something seems rather off about it. With a rather malevolent grin on his face, he utters:
"I see you, my daughter. We have much to discuss after your guests have received our trademark Varley hospitality, namely–"
But before he can finish that though, Edelgard seizes the initiative and cuts the Duke off in turn. I suspect they'll be talking over each other soon if no one intervenes.
"Ahem… ! We have come here–" she begins, no doubt wishing to combat this man with another one of her rehearsed speeches.
But just as she does, Duke Varley withdraws his hand from Bernadetta's chin and then proceeds to flash it through the air just in front of Edelgard's nose. My Student's heel surreptitiously slides back as if she's going into fight-mode, and I realize now that things are getting out of hand.
I may need to intervene in a moment, and prepare. As I consider my best approach vector, the Duke rants:
"...To challenge my prizefighter, deliver a pillow and free my wife. I told you, Princess – the Younger Vestra needs cards that play a little closer to his own vest."
This renders everyone quite quiet. This was of particular surprise to me, as I was under the impression – an impression expressly molded by Hubert himself in his endless letters – that his network was well-vetted. During our Red Canyon mission, his data was more reliable than the Church's, even.
Unless he wanted that information to be passed along... but then...?
"Frankly, I would dismiss such a foolish request had I not known my daughter's beloved teacher had experience as a gladiator – but thankfully – loose lips sink ships."
At this moment, I realized that I was out of my depth.
"And you… Demon… I ought've known that you'd take the chance to deflower my precious Bernadetta the first moment you got. A little owl by the name of Danton delivered those poems my daughter wrote to you last month. I hope you good and enjoyed it, boy – because it's the last time you'll ever lie with a man, woman, or beast if I've got anything to do with it…!"
And this is where I more or less stopped understanding or following what was happening. Of all the people to react so strongly - the first person to get very activated at this comment from the Duke was his daughter, and not Edelgard.
"W-What…?! H-Hubert s-said…!"
"That accusation is preposterous, is it not?!" I'm asked by My House Leader.
What else can I do but shrug?
Perhaps utter something more reassuring, My Byleth…! Hubert neglected to inform me that editing Bernadetta's… "harlequin literature" and submitting it to her father through one of his assets was actually part of his plan. Frankly, I didn't believe we really needed to incense the Duke that much into accepting our challenge…
Naturally, given how messy Bernadetta's room was when I fetched her that morning, I had suspicions she was seeing someone at the time and had made a mess of her room "in flagrante"…
Actually, it was not until our Morgaine trip with the rest of the Eagles that I realized she just lives in a state of perpetual discombobulation… she left a luggage-case with all of her bloomers behind when everyone left for Fort Merceus… Ladislava told me. That's our little secret, now! ~Your El
Unfortunately, Edelgard is the exact opposite of reassured by this, and then whips her neck back towards Bernie, who has taken the opportunity to hide in the shadow of my cape.
"Bernadetta, you must tell me and your father the truth – that such a thing did not occur…!"
Would it still be the truth if such a thing did occur? Not that I know what Bernadetta and I would even do in the situation that we're being accused of... by Hubert's agent, no less. Deflowering sounds like a garden activity.
My Shut-in-Sniper looks rather dizzy at the sudden attention and appears to be melting into her own boots.
This stunned silence prompts more frowning from the Heir to an Empire, who is giving the Heir to House Varley a scrutinizing look – a rarity, given how those only seem to be directed at me.
"...Whyever are you clutching his cloak…?"
Because she's utterly terrified, My Student?
Ratcheting up that terror even more no doubt, then Bernadetta's father starts yelling:
"Enough of this…! I did not join hands with the Ruling Council all those years ago just to watch my daughter be harried by a Hresvelg in my own domain…!"
Varley's sputtering doesn't intimidate it's actual target, however – and I'm glad Edelgard doesn't rattle in the face of this… Claude-like entity before us. While he doesn't bear all that many resemblances to the Deer's House Leader, he was an archer… and I can imagine killing this man much like Von Riegan - totally remorselessly too, so… yeah.
Anyway – Edelgard takes a composed step towards her adversary and begins with:
"I am–"
…Until she's cut off again by the blustering little man.
"Oh, pipe down already…! Do you intend to still act like you hold any leverage here…? Because I – Unther von Varley, 78th Hereditary Duke of Varley, refuse to be interrupted by a little kitten whose tomcat father licked my bare feet in shame once!"
…Did something happen between the Emperor and Duke Varley at the Academy…?
Still, the escalation on the part of this fellow has definitely demonstrated to me that this is definitely where I need to step in – so I do. Placing myself in between the ranting Duke and the Seething Princess, I trade a glance with Edelgard – who looks rather stunned at my intervention – and Duke Varley, whose anger has evaporated into pure shock.
Taking advantage of that momentary silence I simply ask the Duke:
"Do you want to fight?"
And, on cue – two Knights of Varley storm in brandishing crossbows and leveling them towards the back of my skull. I can't see that, of course – but I have a sort of sixth sense for that sort of thing. Almost like I had someone like Sothis sitting on the back of my shoulder keeping watch.
An absurd thought, of course – given how I murdered Sothis not long ago.
"M-my Teacher…!" comes the familiar shout.
Duke Varley, however is actually the one to de-escalate, and waves down his men with a sickening grin on his face. A shame – as I get the impression that I wouldn't need to kill altogether too many of them if a fight broke out right here… he did mention that the majority of the garrison was en route to Lord Arundel's mustering grounds.
Sweating slightly, the round man attempts to square up, still smiling goofily, and says:
"Ha! Bold, Slave. I like that. But save your energy for my gladiator. He'll give both of us what we really want!"
A fight, he means.
Is that what I really want, though?
I'd be fine strangling Duke Varley right now. That's more or less what I want.
Immediately following our defused confrontation, the Duke of Varley exited the barroom with two of his escorts – telling us that he would be fetching his champion from the slave pens personally. As soon as her father departed, Bernadetta then excused herself to the restroom down the hall.
Edelgard, who seemed to be coming down from a contact high after going toe-to-toe with Bernie's father verbally, then turned to me with slightly reddened cheeks.
But those cheeks, I suspect, were colored with anger. Those two had a history, no doubt. One that I could never know.
"My Teacher… are you certain that you're ready for this?" she asks, nearly shaking with pent-up intensity.
Even if I found myself having doubts, (I don't) I certainly wouldn't spoil the moment.
"Petra prepared me well." ...and the Princess of Brigid did. She gave me a window into what I could expect from someone who was trained in the art form from birth.
"Well, regardless... I intend to intervene if you are harmed…" reminds the other Princess, and I appreciate that sentiment more than I could put into words... so I don't even bother.
Instead, another, somewhat primal question crosses my mind... and I lack the self-control to suppress the urge.
"Could I ask a favor?"
"Of course... You need not ask permission for a simple request."
That's reassuring, especially given the request I'm about to make. Looking into her eyes, I can see she's relaxed herself again. A few less furrows inhabit her brow as well... so this is probably as good of an opportunity that I could ever get.
"Can you not watch too closely?" I ask as earnestly as I can.
I'm immediately hit with the most scrutinizing pose I've seen in weeks - and I should remind myself and Linhardt, if he is reading - that Edelgard has scrutinized me hundreds of times already. The significance of this scrutinization being the most... scrutinizing...(?) can't be understated.
As white gloves make their way to a pair of feminine hips, I'm asked:
"Whyever would you not want me to watch closely...?"
Throwing caution to the wind, I start with:
"Your eyes…"
And then immediately realize that I've wandered into dangerous territory. The eyes that I'm talking about right now have become very large indeed... and if I'm not careful, I'm going to lose my train of thought inside those fiery orbs.
"...I think about them a lot." I manage... but that's such an incomplete way to express my concern, isn't it? I'm concerned that I'll be distracted by her... but also, that those eyes won't like what they'll see soon. Brigidingo is a fight to death, and I want to shield the Eagles from death however I can. Even witnessing it, I think.
But I can't express that, because I'm a fool - and Edelgard expression of the moment happens to be turning bright red and shifting her weight onto her left leg... so we're not going anywhere from here, are we?
Thankfully, fate intervenes in the form of Unther von Varley.
"Allow me to introduce… Barrabbas!" he yaps upon re-entering the barroom with his top-flight gladiator.
Getting a first look at my opponent, I see a true physical specimen, much like myself. Roughly the same age as Lady Rusalka appears to be, this fellow is entirely composed of lean muscle, and having about 3 or 4 inches on me in terms of height. He wears his weaknesses quite openly as well, however... I notice that he has a scar around his right elbow that looks rather fresh, and note that he may be less mobile in that area than he would be normally. The ulnar ligaments were a failure-prone point among any brawler, and eventually break down after enough wear and tear.
If I need to wear this fellow down, that is where I will focus.
Otherwise, the champion of House Varley has already entered in naked from the waist up, sporting perfectly bronzed skin and a set of Brigidian tattoos that eerily remind me of ones on Petra's left arm. Perhaps he might have some experience among the Highland clans of that Archipelago.
"You are the Ashen Demon." he says, unprompted by Duke Varley, who seems rather surprised at the comment.
I nod in affirmation.
"I wish to know your clan."
Realizing that the best explanation is to simply show him Petra's handiwork, I slip off my boots, loosen my breastplate, and dispense with my own shirt. Scarcely a moment passes after that before he utters:
"Macneary. You do me honor."
And much to my surprise, he takes a knee. This incenses Bernadetta's old man, however - and Duke Varley begins to piss and moan shouting:
"Do not kneel for this man – he is not your master!"
Barrabbas rises and turns to him.
"The wife of his old master was my old master."
Which confirms my suspicion of proximity to Petra, although in the opposite direction. In that sense, I feel much more comfortable about not bringing her along. How would Petra even react to this sanctioned murder of her countryman?
Because... I do intend to kill this fellow, at the end of the day. A pillow needs to be delivered, and I said I'd march through the eternal flames in order to deliver it for Bernie.
I keep my promises, so I stare at this man whose about to die... and I'd salute him if I wasn't intent on conserving my energy. As we wander into the recently cleared ring at the end of the barroom, Varley begins to cluck at Rusalka:
"These Goddess-Damn Brigidians and their Goddess-Damn clans! What is there to do except watch them kill each other, right?"
I suppose the last laugh belongs to me, Bernie, and Edelgard... as I'm not actually a Brigidian.
Rusalka, to her credit, ignores him and looks at me with malelvolent interest. I don't find her eyes distracting at all, though... and I wonder why that is.
Barrabbas and I fought for a time.
But now, I'm strangling the Brigidian to death.
His eyes are rolling back…
In just a moment, I'm going to lift the pressure from his throat.
And then he's going to sing to me.
But not before he starts turning purple from asphyxiation, of course. He needs to see death before him, at least prior to the moment in which he bears his soul to me. Now all I have to do is wait…
It took a while to get to this point – and the skin around my right eye is swelling up from a particularly brutal strike I took just after the fight began… but I've beaten this Brigidian Brawler, Barrabbas, in Brigidingo. And Edelgard, to her credit – did not distract me at all with those massive lavender irises of hers, tactically sitting on Lady Rusalka's triclinium with her legs crossed and face aimed at her future vassal. I was still being observed, of course – I knew that Edelgard wouldn't not observe me… but I did take some comfort that she would only be doing so in her periphery.
For the first time, I felt a rather strong sensation... namely, that I didn't want her to have to see something like this. Perhaps that was a strange thing to feel, however, because she volunteered and I volunteered... and the two of us consented to Hubert's plan and traveled here of our own free will... but I felt it all the same.
With my focus returning to this soon-to-be-dead man's credit, it was one of more drawn-out, difficult unarmed combats I've ever engaged in. In fact – I might be bleeding internally – which would explain my general light-headedness in spite of the lack of visible blood loss. It would also explain why there are actually two Barrabbasses instead of the one that I started fighting with – and may be the reason why I have four hands around their necks instead of two.
In my own periphery, I can see Duke Varley having a conniption as I slowly end the life of his most prized prizefighter. Hearing the faint heaves of a larynx in its last few efforts at drawing breath, I then loosen my grip on the dying combatant. And, as I've seen play out a thousand times on a hundred different battlefield, words flow forth from the cracked, bloody lips of the fighter below me:
A tech mór
folongat na tuireda,
día mbeith nech nodálad dáil,
timnæ dáib co fuineda.
Nech donísed ba mithig,
a thopuir file fiad tig,
ferait a lúadain imbi
uissi áilli imrinni.
Which roughly translates to:
This Temple
Which Twelve Pillars Support –
–Remains for those who promise
Their lives to the Spirit of the Flame.
It was timely one should meet here,
For I am about to leave,
Around us is the darkness
So one of us must take flight.
And those words, in spite of their foreign tongue, feel very familiar.
While this fellow is the first Brigidian I've ever killed, I have heard this Brigidian poem before. It's something most will say before a battle, before their deaths, or before an event that could conceivably lead to either two of the aforementioned scenarios. A kind of final rite, similar to the ones I've seen Priests of the Eastern Church offer to wounded soldiers on their deathbeds. They're words I've never paid much heed to before... but now I'm compelled to want to record them here and think about them more deeply.
Unfortunately, I'm not much of a philosopher - and I couldn't think of anything then or now... particularly then, because I was quite light-headed.
As these thoughts preoccupy me, the cup of Duke Varley's tolerance overflows, and he reaches under his couch, procuring an iron mallet. Sliding it across the blood-stained hardwood floor towards myself and his dying gladiator, he demands:
"Just... finish it. Finish him." and he demands that with a rather twisted expression, as if I've ruined his whole day by participating in the sport he's built a downtown playpen for.
At that moment, something occurs to me in a fleeting moment of clarity: Duke Varley doesn't like gladiatorial combat as much as he likes victory, or rather... being the patron of the winning side.
Could that be useful someday?
Unfortunately, though, that thought distracts me from the task at hand: ending the life of my opponent. And my opponent, despite the fact that his bones are mostly crushed and his windpipe is nearly broken, does something unexpected. And I only know he does something unexpected because a familiar voice shouts:
"The Mallet, My Teacher...!"
My eyes then fall upon that mallet, which my opponent's fingers are beginning to wrap around, making one last movement to preserve his life, and end mine.
"Ha! It's not over yet!" Shouts Duke Varley with a sort of mucous-y snort behind that exclamation, picking up on the maneuver shortly after Edelgard and I do.
But even if it is not over yet, I do make a point of sharply correcting Bernie's father by shifting my weight to my left knee, extending my right leg which was engaged in straddling my opponent, and then driving my heel into the crook of Barrabbas's outstretched arm. I do this with such force that I pop his radius out in a compound fracture, splattering blood everywhere and prompting a surprised gasp from Lady Rusalka. I then grab that exposed bone and pull it out from that arm, dragging ligaments and muscles along with me loose from the man's skin. That bone is then pounded - repeatedly - into Barrabbas's face, which I guide with my free hand directly into the path of the bone - and set about utterly crushing his nose, dislocating his jaw, and pushing his eyes so far back that the tissue behind them shuts around them like an ersatz, pinkish eyelid.
I repeat this motion about six or seven times - the exact number escapes me.
Bernie vomits when she sees me do this.
Bernie's father vomits when he sees me do this.
Lady Rusalka looks away.
But Edelgard observes with an entirely unmoved expression... the same way she observed me gas all those soldiers in Remire. There isn't a hint of the exclamatory tone she used to catch my attention regarding the mallet. I myself find my own actions rather extreme, although I can't really say I regret doing it. I would certainly not think any of less of her if she reacted in disgust.
That said, I cannot bring myself to dwell on it.
I can't because another sort of nearly indescribable feeling overtakes me at this moment, a kind of resentment - and it pulls me to my feet in spite of tiredness and dizziness beginning to consume what was left of my strength and cognition. Dragging my feet towards the fat man's couch, I notice as he quakes in terror (in much the same way his daughter does) and summons his guardsmen - who are waiting outside the door. Unfortunately for them, they will be far too late when I finish what I want to do with their liege.
In effect - for the first time in my life - I want to cause offense to someone else quite intentionally.
Although I've done that accidentally throughout my life, I can quite firmly say that I never intended the recipients of my offense to feel that way before... primarily because I couldn't be bothered about their own reaction or appreciation of my rationale up until this very point in time. In effect, I desire to demonstrate my contempt for this man, Bernadetta's father, the Duke of Varley... and a sore loser. And so, catching some of the blood pooling up in the back of my throat and summoning up some saliva to mix with it, I work up a loogie.
And as the Knights of Varley burst through the door...
I spit in Duke Varley's face.
And then, without a moment more to bask in the man's reaction to this, my legs give out and the world goes black.
Author's Note:
Pro-Tip - Do not leave your laptop with your fanfic manuscript in your work office the night before your country of domicile goes into full draconian lockdown.
Also - to all the haters, to my friend PRT, and others who have been PMing since December about this being a "Villainous" Byleth and how that's not canon, and "Ashen Demon" is just a nickname that means nothing and that a self-insert could never be the bad guy or do morally questionable things like war crimes(!) - you see those new Three Hopes leaks?
That beautiful, long-legged, doe-eyed lass vibing with the slitherers? Could that be...?
Can you hear that? Those maniacal "Ha-Has"?
That's Nelson laughing. This Billy is saintly compared to that.
To DieGoad: You are going to get 98 lemon chapters in this story, plus the fake one from Bernadetta. They will appear chronologically. I have already written them after putting my wife in an Edelgard cosplay outfit and testing everything out during the 2020 lockdowns. You will have to be patient.
And thanks again for everyone who reached out in the interim. The in-laws are functionaries in the dreaded CeeCeePee, so we got advance warning about the country turning into a dystopian nightmare and prep'd accordingly, for the most part. I intend to finish this, and actually completed the Kingdom arc in the interim. The editing has been the bane, because I write way too much, if you haven't noticed. We're nearing 500k words and haven't gotten through Garland Moon yet!
