Unmarriageable Girl
23rd Day of the Lone Moon
Year of the Goddess 1180
White Clouds
"Healing magic?" the Professor repeated with a hint of incredulity. "You've never shown much interest in the metaphysical arts before. Why the sudden change?"
"O-oh!" Bernadetta sputtered, trying not to focus her attention towards the river-pool depths of the Professor's lightened eyes. "N-no real reason! Just thought it might come in handy to... branch out!" With no clear intention expressed, the Professor was skeptical of his pupil's sudden infatuation with white magic.
Before she had approached, the Professor noted Bernadetta earnestly lingering towards the shadowy depths of the Black Eagle's classroom. Whenever she left a lecture, she was either the first out of her seat, eager to avoid the crowd; or she was last. On a rare moment, such as this, her lingering was due less in-part to avoidance, and rather based in a desire to speak with the Professor. Moons had passed through the pair since they shared their first fateful kiss. Though it hadn't been their last, Bernadetta found herself on loop around the Professor, doomed to play the same tune in her head. His gentle hands caressing her own, the perfunctory way with which his lips met with hers, the moments they shared gazing into one another's souls in disbelief, the hunger in his eyes when her confidence guided her. All of these memories flustered Bernadetta so profusely that she hardly spoke in lectures. Even less than usual.
Because of her habitual hesitation, the Professor was delighted to see Bernadetta take interest in a study, though curiously not one she excelled in. With a woeful creak of elderly doors, the final student departed from the classroom. "Please shut the door when you leave, Linhardt," the Professor requested. Linhardt, effectively sleepwalking, did no such thing. "Or just leave it open and let in the cold," he jested, rising from his seat and whipping his glasses from his nose. Bernie giggled playfully, she adored the Professor's arid sense of humor.
Though spring approached, a chilly nip cut through the air like a flap of a Pegasus' wings. The Professor slowly trekked to the doors and fought the wind to shut them. Bernadetta, adjusting to the comfort of being secluded with the Professor, hoisted herself up to sit on his desk. She swung her feet and hummed to the rhythm of an indelible lullaby. Her mind wandered, and she tried hopelessly to imagine the Professor's singing voice. By the time Bernie awoke from her homely fantasy, the Professor had returned, standing about eye-level with the elevated girl. He smiled.
"So, you never said, why healing magic?" Placing a conniving hand under his chin, the Professor searched for the answer in Bernadetta's pale eyes.
"I just…" more capable of being forthright in private, Bernadetta dug into the courage to give a more thorough answer. "I feel like I want to help keep people safe, and not with a bow. What if-" she fumbled. "What if someone gets hurt and I can't help them?"
The Professor genuinely pondered her words, picking them apart and constrewing their meanings. "That's very selfless of you, Bernie," he addressed foremost. "But I must ask, does this have anything to do with Edelgard?"
Oof, the Professor could blindly drop a ton of bricks and squash Bernie's vagueness every time. "A little," she admitted, fidgeting with a paperweight adorning the Professor's desk. "I just… I know how strong and scary she is. I learned to admire her for that, but now," Bernie gulped. "Now I'm terrified of her all over again. A-and not to mention she's bringing the whole imperial army to Garreg Mach! What good will a bow be against that many bad guys?! I might as well just hide in my room..."
Sensing the disquietude in her voice, the Professor took Bernadetta's hands and thoughtlessly stroked her palms. "You're invaluable as a sniper-" the Professor began. "But if you're devoted, I can try my best to help you learn the basics of faith magic before the imperial army arrives." Taking a second to mentally prod his schedule,the Professor pinched his chin and added, "With what little free time I have between preparing for the invasion, we might not be able to cover much. I have some books if you'd like to study up between sessions." The Professor's smile trickled discreetly across his face, and through an imperceptible grin, reaffirmed, "But don't neglect your target practice. We need you out there, Bernie." His muted smile widened, Imperceptible to anyone but Bernadetta.
"I-if you really do need me-" Bernie mustered through a grin of her own. "Then you can count on me!" As though taking a mental tumble, she shook her head, her untamed hair ebbing and flowing like a disorganized sea. "W-wait! I-I don't wanna use up all your free time! I can ask Professor Manuela to help! O-or Lorenz! Ohh Bernie, why'd you have to go and be so selfish! This whole war is probably your fault!"
Still catching up with Bernadetta's rapid self-loathing, the Professor inquired, "What does Lorenz know about faith magic?"
"I-I don't know! But he's not busy!"
"Have you ever spoken with Lorenz?"
"Um. N-No."
"Well if you had," the Professor theorized, "you'd know he's not that big on faith." His hands returned home, delicately wrapped around Bernadetta's, like the petals of a rose adorns it's bud. Giving them a squeeze, he'd let them loosely drop to Bernie's sides, just as those very petals will one day flow away in the Lone Moon wind.
"I just don't want to trouble you is all…" Bernadetta confided, building the courage to look the Professor in the eyes once more.
"Bernadetta," he replied. "There is no one I'd rather spend my time with." The Professor's tone lacked the familiar hustle of his strategizing. It was not the tone his pupils had grown accustomed to, be it barking orders from the battlefield or stringing together lectures in their classroom. Tonally, that voice was an act, a display of maturity that befitted a scholar, a tactician, a man beyond his years. Softspoken and wide-eyed, the Professor addressed Bernadetta in a way no one else bore witness to. Bernie had come to discern between his voices; one befitting to the Professor, and the other belonging to her.
Understandingly, she nodded in an exaggerated fashion, untangling a strand of lilac hair that hung in front of her eyes. Coincidentally, the pair both reached to fix the loose strand, but halted when they noticed the other's movement. Before Bernadetta could even smile, the Professor brushed aside the discarded hair from her eyes, only gently bristling her forehead with his knuckles.
Such a basic gesture and miniscule touch of their skin was enough to fluster Bernadetta, who noticeably broke eye contact and kicked her feet a tad further. Such moments were valued above all else, though fleeting in their frequency. Whenever she felt the intoxicating brush of the Professor's skin on her's, Bernadetta could hardly contain her thoughts from wandering towards their first romantic encounter. Leaning against his desk with outstretched arms contactlessly surrounding Bernadetta, the Professor was dangerously within kissing distance.
Ohhh, not here, Bernie! You can't! What if someone saw!? Ohh everyone would find out! Seteth would probably kick you out of the academy! Oh… wait. That's not such a bad punishment-
Jolted back to reality by her own forbidden fantasy, blurring the line between the two, the Professor's subtle lips found their way to Bernadetta's. Startled, she let out a muffled "Eep!", but instinctively wrapped her arms around the Professor's neck and adjusted to the passion of the moment. Bernie wanted to chastise him, to scold the Professor for being so careless with hiding his affections, but doing so would mean pulling away. Just this once, she'd let it slide.
Bernadetta felt the drumbeat of her heart pound to the tempo of her lover's wandering lips. Lover. Was that truly what the Professor was to her? She didn't view him as a teacher, that much was certain. He began as a friend, someone who comforted and confided in Bernadetta in a way that others fell short. But had the professor outgrown that stage as well? Had he viewed her as a partner unlike her peers?
Thump Thump Thump. Mistaken for her own racing heartbeat, Bernadetta was stricken by a cold sweat when the Professor threw his head away from hers. Thump Thump. The noise vividly reverberated from the hefty wooden doors to the rear of the Professor. This time, adorning the knocks was Bernadetta's still heart. She shrieked, tumbling backwards in abject horror, crushing the Professor's diligent notes. Plummeting comically off the back of his desk, Bernadetta's heart remained frozen in terror.
"Bernie, are you alright?" the Professor, wasting no time, darting around the back of the classroom to help Bernadetta to her feet.
"W-who's there!? What if they saw us!? Oh no this is bad, ohh Bernie you always do this!" Bernadetta mourned something that had yet to be lost, before the hidden knocker revealed themself.
"Teach? You in there?" Claude, the house leader of the Golden Deer and heir to House Riegen, leaned against the thick oak, opposite the side of the Professor and Bernie. "Manuela's getting antsy, you don't wanna break her fragile little heart, do you?" he snickered.
After hoisting Bernadetta to her feet, she hastily scrambled to her belongings, tossing them every which way but in her bookbag. "Come in, Claude" the Professor huffed, scurrying behind his desk and clearing the remains of Bernie's tumble.
"Professorrr!" Bernadetta chided in the lowest voice she could muster. How humiliated she'll be when charming, jokester Claude spots her locked away with the Professor. Her worst nightmares came to fruition when the suave house leader cracked the door and peeked inside. As luck would have it, his eyes met directly with Bernadetta's. Claude, of course, thought little of her presence. She was, after all, just a student. Right?
"Well well, the self-proclaimed recluse ventures out of her den." Claude exhorted, stepping into the chamber. "Hope I'm not interrupting something, Teach, but Manuela's been on my tail about you being late to our seminar." He pinched his forehead between his fingers and shook his head, trailing off. "You know how she dislikes men who stand her up."
Bernadetta hadn't yet greeted Claude, struggling to stuff her discarded doodle papers into her bag, (the very same that had missed their mark on first attempt). Instead, the Professor hurriedly finished jotting down something on a torn scrap of paper, and addressed Claude obliviously. "Yes, I'm sorry. The seminar slipped my mind. Tell Manuela I'm not as shallow as she thinks."
This got a laugh from the house leader, who nodded in brisk agreement. Bernadetta wished to disappear entirely, fade from existence, become an embarrassed dust blown away in the wind. Unfortunately for her in this situation, she had asked an appropriate question of the Professor before Claude's arrival. Fastening his glasses to the bridge of his nose, the Professor trotted towards Bernie, who could hardly withstand Claude's mischievous gaze. With an outstretched hand, the Professor handed the paper scrap to Bernadetta, who was so deeply fixated in her own social misery that she hadn't noticed him until he was mere feet from her.
"D-don't kill me, I'm sorry!"
"Bernadetta, I wouldn't dare harm you." The Professor reassured, his voice slipping ever so distantly away from HER Professor's. "I wrote down some book recommendations for beginners faith magic. They should all be in the library. It would do you some good to get on with those studies quickly." Bernadetta understood the multifaceted way with which the Professor communed with her. He hadn't wished to make his affections public either, for fear of similar persecution. She simply returned his note with a nod, stuffing it recklessly into her bag as well before slinging it over her shoulder and making for the door. Bernadetta, for all her fears, longed for a day she could depart from the Professor with a warmer display. A goodbye kiss, a gentle "I love you" before briefly parting ways. But for now, Bernadetta resigned to her fears, and her reality.
In her attempt to push past Claude, Bernie took a step to the right, and Claude foolishly followed suit. To correct his error, Claude stepped back left, as Bernadetta made the same mistake, locking them in an awkward dance that grew a hearty chuckle in the house leader's throat. "Whoops, didn't think you could get past me, did you?" he jested with a wink.
"W-what's that supposed to mean?!" proving that Claude's unique sense of charm was lost on her. "D-Don't kill meee!" In favor of protecting her life (which she thoroughly believed was in danger), Bernadetta blasted right through Claude. Sending him crashing back into the door that had remained closed, Bernie dashed out of view, never giving Claude the opportunity to fix his friendly mistake. Still, he took it quite well, brushing the dust from his uniform and shrugging towards the Professor.
"That Bernadetta. Such an odd one, eh Teach?"
Despite understanding Claude's view and recognizing that her behavior was abnormal to most, the Professor still wished to disagree. In a sense, he wished the world could see Bernadetta as he did. Instinctually, he felt obligated to check up on her after that ordeal, but knew his schedule was booked until later that night.
"Still", Claude remarked, gesturing the Professor towards the door. "You can't deny that there's something uniquely special about her."
A smile, one that was eye-catching to the young noble and prompted an endearing look of his own. "Yes," the Professor answered. "I get what you mean."
22nd Day of the Horsebow Moon
Year of the Goddess 1186
Silver Snow
The days that followed Byleth and Bernadetta's initial reveal were largely ceremonious. Bernadetta was overwhelmed, seemingly whisked away at every opportunity for seclusion. Publicly, the contemporary rulers were crowned separately in an order befitting their timeline. Byleth Eisner was declared King of the United Kingdom of Fódlan, a title he was less than eager to accept. Kings, he felt, had an untimely habit to cause strife. Shortly after his inauguration, his highness publicly announced his marriage to the so-called Bear of Varley, the now Queen Bernadetta Eisner von Varley. From there on out, it was all over for the recluse.
First was their (private) marriage ceremony, joining their souls in the eyes of the Goddess. Seteth performed the rite, and the only people in attendance were the pair's closest allies and friends. An invitation was not extended to Count Varley, who passed his staunch judgement on his estranged daughter's marriage through means of a public address delivered to Garreg Mach. The true contents of his written conniption were unknown to Bernadetta, who had parted ways with her father's approval long ago.
Secondly, Bernadetta was officially crowned Queen of Fódlan in a spotlight that truly magnified the scope of her public image. What's a recluse's bête noire if not a gathering of thousands dedicated to praising your public image? With the title officially bestowed, Bernie wondered if she'd ever face the life she had always imagined for herself: shut inside and locked away, blissful, at ease. Anxieties bubbled to the surface as her life slowly left her control and leapt into the lap of a personified union of Fódlan's expanding future.
Soon, Bernadetta's meals were dictated, practically spoon-fed to her on a silver platter. Amenities located throughout the monastery had to be manned by the Queen's Guard whenever she was present. Bernadetta was bewildered that her washroom breaks weren't scheduled for her in advance.
Alone time was exceedingly rare, and Bernie had felt the effects of a few week's whirlwind lifestyle whenever she had a rare moment of repose. For nearly the first time in her life, Bernadetta was becoming less content with her ability to relax. Byleth promised her that the rapid-fire life of royalty would soon fade into a slow dredge of bureaucracy, but when did life ever slow for the two of them? It certainly hadn't relentred during the war, or even for their days at the officer's academy. Bernadetta had once longed for a day when she could casually mention her love for the Professor, but now that all of Fódlan knew the couple, she was a tad less enthusiastic to share.
Barren, idiosyncratic hills of an unusual arid greenery rolled one into the next. Fastened just south of the Oghma Mountains, Varley County was a perplexing sliver of land. Dry, red clumps of dust would wedge between your boots, working it's way into your skin. The sun hung high, but with a blistering fury that was only partially subdued by a pathwork of grey clouds. Long, unsettled expanses far outnumbered any place of residency in Varley, and thus it was always suspected to be the least populated territory in the former empire.
Miners flocked to the veins of rich mineral-lined crust unearthed in Varley. They set up temporary settlements, only to abandon them when their use had withered with depleted ores. Hallowed reminders of life that was no longer lived. Such was the nature of Bernadetta's homeland, a panoramic wasteland with an acquired beauty. Beneath it's rocky exterior lie a bounty of treasures, a land that attracted few for it's serenity, but many for it's promise. Such an enigmatic landscape was befitting of the newlywed queen and her quirks. Royalty had never been unearthed in Varley until Bernadetta took to the throne.
Byleth felt that if not for his wife's heritage, he'd avoid making a habit of travelling to Varley. On the way down from Garreg Mach, it's necessary to pass through the ruins of Zanado, more recently known as the Red Canyon. Despite Byleth never having felt the significance of Zanado, a chapter of his soul ached whenever present there. Byleth found the remainder of the county to be insignificant in splendor, but Bernadetta was nostalgic for the particular brand of isolation.
"Oh! Up ahead is Sethston's Gate!" Bernie cried, grabbing at her husband's wrist in anticipated glee. She had little connection to her homeland, but the pleasant memories she had of her mother remained a viable memento to share with Byleth. "This settlement was booming when I was little, but I suppose it's dead too nowadays." Humoring her, Byleth would periodically gaze up from his stacks of paperwork to take his wife's hand and bask in her youthful tales.
"Are all towns abandoned like this?" Byleth would ask. The main road through Varley departed from the Oghma Foothills directly to the porch of Varley Manor. The manor served as Bernadetta's childhood home and the headquarters for all mining operations within the county's border. It was also their final destination for this outing.
"Well, not all of them." Bernie admitted. "But most of the ones I remember from my childhood are. That's how life is in Varley. Nothing's ever permanent."
Stones upturned under their carriage's wheels, kicking up dirt for the rear convoy to inhale. Horses huffed and shook their heads, sneezing and whalloping their hooves throughout their party. Bernadetta and Byleth sought refuge from the elements in an unassuming covered carriage, shading them from the elements as well as onlookers. This practice of stealth was rendered nearly useless by the battalion of Seiros Knights that accompanied them. Led by Shamir, who scouted further ahead, their convoy kicked onwards.
"We're really getting close now…" Bernadetta recoiled, slumping back into her seat and avoiding the passing scenery. "I know I pushed you into letting me come, but…"
"But?" Byleth taunted, eyes fixated on every written word laid out before him.
"B-but I'm so scared to see him again…"
Setting aside his documents, Byleth squeezed Bernadetta's hand and nodded. "I understand that this is all very taxing for you. It's never too late to change your mind if you don't want to be there for this."
Bernie put on her bravest face, a literal habit encouraged by the Professor long ago. "N-no! I need to see this through! I need to make sure he's really gone…" She gulped. "I'm… worried about my mother, though. What if… What if she goes with him..? I don't want to lose her, even if she's never been perfect." Bernadetta's fears took the reins within her, but Byleth understood her angst. The pair departed Garreg Mach in the morning's earliest sun to arrive at Varley Manor by sunset. There, Byleth would personally deliver the decree to exile Count Varley from Fódlan. Phantoms of Bernadetta's haunting abuse would forevermore be without control, ensured to a life of squalor in some far off place. Though nothing could halt his ingrained effects, Stewart von Varley would be rightfully punished.
Just as Byleth began consoling his queen, the hurried gallop and clank of an armored horse grew ever nearer. Nearby horses whinnied in acknowledgement, startling Byleth's sense of danger. He peered out of the cabin the moment Shamir addressed him.
"Your highness, there's a band of thieves taking up camp in the ghost town ahead."
"Do they pose a threat?"
Shamir, cocky and proud, smirked. "Not a chance." She noted Bernadetta's presence in the carriage and sighed. Before departing from the Monastery, Seteth implored the young queen not to leave on their expedition. This was, of course, after failed negotiations with Byleth, who had similarly declined to avoid delivering this notice in the flesh. Seteth, being gravely uneasy with the pair's first voyage, insisted that the couple travel in separate carriages, a tactic similarly employed by Kingdom nobility after the Tragedy of Duscur. Bernadetta reluctantly resigned to this request, relishing in the promise of some much-needed alone time. To her dismay, she entered the carriage to a welcoming knight who should serve to protect her up-close. At least, until Bernie swapped carriages immediately after departing Garreg Mach.
"Ride ahead with the knights and scare off the bandits. Don't engage unless provoked," Byleth monotonously instructed.
"Consider it done," Shamir retorted, seemingly piqued by something to do. As 4 guards broke formation and charged after her, they shrunk against the growing carcasses of Sethston's decayed buildings.
Byleth wrested his chin on his fingers in a manner that Bernadetta knew meant a question was on the horizon. "Are there a lot of bandits in Varley?" She knew him too well.
"Well," Bernie began, mimicking the professor's own contemplative pose. "There wasn't always, but after my father took over, he began focusing less on his citizens and more on profits." Byleth nodded before she could add, "I guess a lot of people will benefit when he's gone, huh."
"It would seem that way," Byleth added, tilting his head through the slits in the carriage, surveying the ghost town as they entered. Lush desert agave tore through foundations, creating an ecosystem under the squandered hideaway. He tried to imagine what this road would've looked like full of bustling miners, but failed to capture the moment in his head. Pulling his head back inside, Byleth's golden circlet jangled with a sudden impact on the window's roof. When the Professor turned back to his wife, she squealed with amusement at the dislodged crown.
"Hold still, Bylie!" Bernadetta had to fight off the Professor's own hands which only served to crooked the headpiece further. Placing her fingers on Byleth's temples, she steadied his head and began centering his circlet. Tender moments were shared less often between the royal couple in the days following their respective crownings. In a way, Bernadetta wished to rip the sapphire circlet from her own head whenever Byleth was around. She felt it confined her to responsibilities as queen, as opposed to the reclusive wife she had dreamed of during her academy days.
While fixated on her husband's disheveled appearance, Bernadetta failed to notice Byleth's blank stare passing beyond her. When she eventually locked eyes, she too followed the path of his intrepid gaze. Passing through, she locked eyes with a fair amount of bandits, corralled inside the oaken corpses of the ghost town. Though the details were too muffled, Bernie felt a familiar dread from the faces that seemingly drooped with age and tire.
"If these bandits are from Varley," Byleth began, gripping his wife's shoulder. "Would they recognize you?"
The former heiress shook her head doubtfully. "Not likely. I gained quite the reputation for myself while I lived here." Bernadetta seemed unaffected by her words. "They called me the Bear of Varley, since it was like I was always hibernating."
Byleth, satisfied with the answer, nodded to Bernie, who was fixated on the faces that passed. Boney, pronounced and ragged, they didn't look like the pillagers she had encountered countless times with her classmates. Undeniably, they had taken up arms, but their weapons seemed in similar condition, disrepaired and rusted. Byleth's eyes locked on the back of Bernadetta's head, where a gold-trimmed ribbon folded into an adorning bow.
"Byleth," she finally uttered. "I don't think these people are bandits. I… I think they're citizens." Bernadetta's gaze met with that of a young freckled boy, no older than 15, who clutched a mangled lance to his chest in bitter defiance.
Byleth noted the deplorable conditions of the town, but considered that, when faced with no other options, they could become livable with enough desperation. He feared what his wife suggested to be the truth. "Count Varley did this to them?"
"Yes," Bernadetta staunchly replied, a quiver of personal guilt in her voice. "He's starving these people so he can increase his profits somewhere else."
Throughout his entanglement in the church's affairs, Byleth believed he had never recognized a higher evil than the heinous Count, who's villainy lined his pockets with bloodsoaked coin. Edelgard acted on principle. Though her methods were severe, she believed that her deceitful actions were necessary to the betterment of Fódlan. Those Who Slither in the Dark searched for an ancient brilliance to return to Fódlan, despite their bitter disregard for it's current inhabitants. All villains in Byleth's war sought a higher goal, but Count Varley's despicable behaviour was fueled only by an insatiable thirst for wealth. Greed consumed the man, and his stolen riches would soon be bestowed back upon the land.
"H-He needs to pay," Bernadetta choked through her words. "Not just for how he treated me. We do this for all of us." The freckle-faced boy seemed only to clutch his weapon tighter, as though her whimpered words carried to him and ignited a fear within him.
23rd Day of the Lone Moon
Year of the Goddess 1180
White Clouds
Bernadetta focused intently on the most miniscule concepts, ignoring her inability to grasp the concept of sigil conjuring. The ink on this page was slightly smudged in it's upper right corner, leading Bernie to concoct her own elaborate theories on what had happened with the printing process. Maybe, a frog had scurried across the page as the ink seeped into place. Or perhaps this was a first edition, and the author had fallen asleep, awaking to their words inked in reverse on their face. Anything to distract her from the task at hand, learning faith magic.
Extending her hand suddenly and without any rhythm, Bernie clenched her muscles for what felt like the hundredth time of the night. Writhing, locking her knees in place under her desk, she closed her eyes, bit her tongue and failed to conjure any form of magic. Resigning to her failure, she let her muscles relax and her hand drooped onto the page in limpid discomfiture.
"Come on, Bernie! You've seen Dorothea and Linhardt do this a million times! What's wrong with you!?" she chastised. "Ohh, just face it! You're a failure at magic and you'll never be able to protect anyone!" She slid the tome face-down onto the floor of her flickering candlelit room. "Bernie's just not made for magic," she gloomfully bewailed.
Electing to return the tomes to the monastery library, Bernadetta scooped up the textbooks and her knees buckled under their added weight; though sitting for hours at her desk contributed as well. As she creaked open her door and peered outside, she didn't recognize any faces of the nameless monks bustling to prepare the monastery for war. Nearly midnight at Garreg Mach was usually a still time where all was basked in a blue haze of night, giving the moonbeams an appearance of ghosts. Or, as Bernie shamefully feared, there were just ghosts. Her fear of people was unmatched by her fear of ghosts, and therefore Bernadetta did most of her outside activity during this dead of night.
There was a sweet, citrusy aroma in the air, something that was foreign and unplaced in the mind of the overencumbered young lady. As if slicing through her senses, a deep voice addressed her from behind. "Bernadetta."
"W-Wahh! G-ghost! Don't eat me! I-I probably taste terrible! Aaaugh!" Forgetting about the weighty books piled in her arms, Bernie let them scatter to the floor.
"Bernadetta, please," the man replied, simply. "I am looking for his highness."
Gaining the courage to crane her neck, she was not comforted by what she saw. Dedue, ever imposing, towered over her with his emotionless countenance, always unreadable before he struck, she imagined. "W-Why me?"
Dedue shook his head stoically. "Pardon my intrusion. I did not wish to scare you." He repeated, "I am looking for his Highness. He is not well and refuses to sleep."
Regaining what little senses she had, Bernadetta shook herself from her fears, cowering slightly less with each passing moment. Bernadetta inherently feared all men, but men of Dedue's impeccable strength, who could carry her away in a moment's notice, were especially frightening. "D-Dimitri?" she sheepishly asked. "I-I've never seen Dimitri out this late." In truth, she may have, but her memory was still fogged by her sudden terror. "I-I'm sorry! Please don't hurt me!" Bernadetta's only interaction with Dedue had been early in her career as a student at Garreg Mach. Dedue had warned Bernie about the dangers of speaking with him, should people judge her for colluding with a man of Duscur. Bernie was oblivious to the racial connotations, and only obeyed his request because it meant she'd have one less person to speak to.
"I do not seek to harm you. I thank you for your assistance." To her dismay, Dedue knelt and began to gather her dropped books, which were only now remembered. "Allow me to assist you as well."
"T-Thats okay, please! You d-don't have to-" she quaked.
"My careless actions are the cause of this mess and I will see to it that I do not burden you further."
Before Bernadetta could insist further, another unseen voice chimed in. "That's quite alright, Dedue, but I'll take it from here." This voice, unlike the rare tone of Dedue's, filled Bernadetta with an instant relief. Spinning around, she cast a thankful gaze towards the Professor, who had already begun gathering her books in Dedue's stead.
"Yes, Professor. My apologies but I must be going," Dedue said, rising and handing his collected tomes to the Professor."
The Professor's eyes met with Dedue's, a kindness that he rarely felt from the people of Fódlan. "I saw Dimitri heading towards the reception hall. He may have gone to the library."
Dedue expressed his gratitude and made off towards the reception hall in a hurried stride. The Professor smiled at Bernadetta, who's knees were pointed towards themselves, buckled under the terror that was slowly alleviating from her.
"Ohhh, Professor! Nobody is this kind to me!" Bernadetta hailed.
Examining the books, the Professor immediately recognized them from the list he had passed onto her earlier. "Before you give up on this study," he surmised. "Can I give you the foremost lesson on faith?"
Exasperated, Bernadetta nodded. "Y-You can try, but I've been shut away all day trying to get the hang of it and well… Bernie's just no good."
Motioning his head towards his nearby personal quarters, the Professor led Bernadetta and her textbooks inside. Closing the door inconspicuously behind the pair, he quickly ensured no one had seen her enter. Bernadetta had hopped up on the edge of his bed while the Professor laid out the hefty pile of tomes beside her. He couldn't help but feel an adoration for her expeditiousness in sitting on his bed. Bernadetta's comfort around him was reaching an apparent high. Sitting beside her, he selected a book and flipped it open.
"Here, this passage covers the most essential aspect of faith magic. Can you guess what that is?"
Bernadetta had a similar lack of focus as before, but this time staring blankly into the Professor's eyes. "U-Um. A steady hand?"
"No," the Professor flatly replied. "It's in the name; faith."
Bernie understood, nodding equally as flat. "That might explain it. I've never been a big follower of the church."
"See," the Professor assured. "That's what detours a lot of people from white magic. They believe the power is derived from one's faith in the Goddess, and while that is certainly one option, faith is not a unilateral topic." Bernadetta tried to follow along to the best of her abilities, and she nodded in earnest, grasping the concept vaguely. He continued, "Faith is simply the strong dedication in something unseen. This can be a cause, a religion, or something you truly believe in."
"Something I… truly believe in." Bernie repeated, staring whimsically at her feet.
"Can I ask you again, what prompted you to devote yourself to healing magic?" the Professor inquired, half for his own curiosity and half for studious purposes. "If you have a devotion to that belief, focus your faith into that cause and you can channel that strength into your magic."
"I…" Bernadetta began, unable to maintain eye contact with her dearest partner. "I saw you get hurt in the Holy Tomb last month… Linhardt was too busy and Flayn wasn't able to reach you fast enough. I-I saw you in pain." The memory was clearly difficult to recount. The Professor's eyes widened in further adoration. "I-I never want to see you in pain like that again! I know that if I learned healing magic, that, um… Maybe I could keep you safe…"
There was a brief silence, a moment of stunned, silent applause across the Professor's rosy cheeks. Eventually, he could only repeat her name, the name he held above all else, "Bernadetta…"
"I-I know its cheesy and stupid and I shouldn't have said anything, I-I just-"
Her words were cut short by the warmth of the Professor's caress just above her exposed knee.
"You have remarkable faith in me," confessed the Professor.
"W-well, yes…"
"Truthfully," he began. "I never want to leave your side. I promise you, Bernadetta, I will never abandon you."
Such affirmation caused a swell of butterflies in Bernie's tummy, working their way into her throat as her eyes watered. The Professor reenacted his gentle motion from earlier, lifting Bernie's chin so that he may lovingly stare into her eyes.
"P-Professor…" Bernadetta was aghast though her mind was in ecstasy. Feeling the warmth of the Professor grow nearer to her, her heartbeat leapt to his unconventional lack thereof, as if her heart beated for them both.
"Do you believe me, Bernie?" the Professor asked, smiling more genuinely than ever.
"Y-yes, of course I do! A-and I feel the same!" she was excited to confess her own affirmations, her words almost jumbled and rushed.
"Then," Byleth began. "Here is something to believe in."
22nd Day of the Horsebow Moon
Year of the Goddess 1186
Silver Snow
Belief led Bernadetta right back into the Professor's arms, and now, back to the doorstep of Varley Manor. In truth, Varley Manor was surrounded by a blockade of village quarters and amenities, so the metaphorical doorstep was more of a village gatehouse.
"This used to be called Varley Village," Bernadetta remorsefully explained. "Now it's known as Stewart's Moat. Nothing my father dislikes makes it beyond these walls." She motioned to the towering stone structure that paraded the perimeter. Stewart's Moat. "I'm not kidding either, Bylie. Anything he dislikes! They don't even stock foods he dislikes at the markets here!"
"Absurd. He's created a false deity of himself." Byleth responded, a bit impressed with the length's Count Varley had gone to immortalize himself.
"Exactly! All the more reason to take him down." Bernie said, as if to psyche herself up to the task. Their caravan was unsurprisingly stopped by the guards of Stewart's Moat, who demanded they turn around at threat of violence.
"Ha!" Shamir scoffed. "We're the Knights of Seiros. We've come with the queen, the rightful heir to this land."
The well-armored man was unphased by Shamir's threats, and he responded with a scoff of his own. "All the more reason to turn around. Lord Varley does not recognize the legitimacy of that child, and forbade her from ever returning." Bernadetta sank ashamed, fiddling with the tassels on her shoulders. Upon hearing the guard dog's barks, Byleth had decided he had to step in.
Bursting through the roof of his carriage, the King of Fódlan's iridescent robes flared in the evening's orange sun. In one hand, he wielded the Sword of The Creator, which similarly flared to life, emanating the sun's own basking glow. "I am the King of the United Kingdom of Fódlan, and as your rightful ruler I demand entry. If you refuse, we WILL take this land by force." Byleth had dealt with this kind of blind obedience before in stubborn warriors. Brainwashed by their masters, they rarely see anything but violence as a relative opportunity.
"Count Varley does not recognize your illegitimate reign, boy. Turn back or die young," barked the guard in verbal warfare. The Knights of Seiros readied their blades and Varley's goons responded in similar hostility. Shamir motioned for her subordinates to lower arms. The Varley guards did not.
Shamir shrugged. "You really think your insignificant land could afford a war with all of Fódlan? All over your stubborn ineptitude to raise this gate?"
"Varley is the largest weapons supplier in all of Fódlan. We have the arms to deal with the children you call soldiers." Before hurling further insults, a runner sprinted through the wooden latch beside the gate and approached the guard, hurriedly whispering in his ear. Byleth watched on with a similar stubborn vagueness as he prepared to dodge a line of arrows. The foul-mouthed guard growled. "Open the gate!"
A change in heart was unlikely, Byleth knew the convoy had entered a trap. Ducking back into his carriage, he overheard Bernadetta's gentle weeping. Byleth took hold of her hand with haste, dropping his war-time flare for his preferred form of husbandry.
"Dear, it's alright. I'll protect you here. He can't hurt you."
"H-He can! He can hurt all of us! W-What if he hurts you!?" Bernadetta lamented.
"He's going to pay," Byleth affirmed. "He won't hurt another soul again after today. You have my word."
Wood-slacked halls of Varley Manor endlessly formed a maze of corridors stacked upon one another in a hasty declaration of wealth. Truly, the puzzling structure was unlike any Byleth had ever entered. The young king felt further lost with each step as he questioned how anyone could feel this labyrinth was a home. Bernadetta in tow, the pair were escorted by armed guards to the central foyer, an overlapping map of staircases and grotesquely misshapen artwork.
"I used to play hide-and-seek here with my mother," Bernie whispered to her husband. "We'd start in the foyer and search from there. Mother always found me quickly, but sometimes she'd pretend to be stumped and let me win." A fondness grew in her heart, recalling days far simpler than this. Never did she imagine marching on her childhood home as warriors.
Byleth genuinely cherished Bernadetta's recollection of happier childhood memories. He too longed for the chance to return to her home in a celebratory venture, not one so grim. Yet another opportunity robbed by the wickedness of her father, who grew closer with each step.
Upon their entrance to the atrium, the pair and their guards were met by a lean, weasley man. Hair as blonde as the sands of Svreng and a grin that could rival Ferdinand's in noble buffoonery, this man was nothing like the warriors escorting the pair thus far. He stood above the centerpiece of the foyer balcony, staircases to either side. Byleth could feel his eyes prying him apart, studying his every movement, and it uneased him more than any other encounter in Varley. Notably, when this man's pale blue eyes laid upon Bernadetta, his face soured considerably.
Fighting the urge to grab hold of her husband's arm, Bernadetta gulped. "I knew he'd be here."
"Who is he?" he inquired.
As if Byleth's words were ushered into the mysterious figure, he sprung to life, addressing the royal couple from atop the staircase. "Forgive the brutish nature of our guard, one can never be too careful with all manner of delinquents about." His forced grin returned as he humbly bowed, still maintaining his height above the unimpressed pair. "Pardon my lacking introduction. I am Dilan von Reincor, the son of the minor lord Garcia von Reincor towards the southern tip of the empire."
"Former empire," chided an unamused Byleth, eager to lay Dilan's power fantasies to rest.
Ignoring the remark, Dilan gestured for the guards to usher the two upstairs. "Come, Lord Varley grows impatient"
Climbing the stairs, Bernadetta leaned towards Byleth and offered the best advice she had for Dilan. "Don't trust a word this guy says."
Byleth understood, already heavily aware of the unpredictability of devoted noble stewards. Wordlessly, the pair was led towards a grandiose hallway, wider and adorned with armament's sourced from Varley ore. Through one of the opened doors, Byleth spotted a pair of servants unceremoniously scrubbing the floor. Curiously, he noted that the manor servants all wore a thin white mask not unlike the memory of Jeritza's. Tactically, Byleth could not understand the purpose the masks served. Bernadetta looked on, as if the servants were mere spectres, invisible to her. Before her, her biggest fears were realized. Her father's ornate double doors, lavishly polished. Uninvitingly, the doors were inscribed with carvings of serpents coiled around swords, befitting of the inscrutable artwork adorning Varley Manor.
Dilan crept the door along it's hinges, allowing the sunset to beam through the stained glass windows and light the inscription in a myriad of colors, but most notably basked the snake in a heinous red glow.
After a moment's muffled conversation, Dilan shut the door, turned, and addressed the pair. "My Lord will speak only to Byleth. My Lord refuses to address him if Lady Bernadetta is present." A snide chill emanated from the weasel as his eyes darted between the two royals.
Soon, all eyes were fixated on Bernadetta, who clenched her fist around the fitted lace of her mauve skirt and debated running. Bernadetta fought every instinct in her body to run, to hide, to cower in fear once more as her father told her what to do. Eventually, she had made up her mind. She WAS going to run; straight for her father.
"I-I outrank him," she hastily implored, nearly gibberish to those present. "As Queen of Fódlan, my orders are above his! A-And above yours, Dilan!"
Byleth couldn't have been prouder of his wife, who courageously defied her oppressors with such vigor that it lit that same flame beneath him. "We will speak to the Count. Together."
Dilan, flabergasted by Bernadetta's staunch refusal, wished to refute Byleth's insistency. He would lay down his life in protection of his Lord's sanctum, but that chance did not come to pass. Before anyone could draw their weapons, Bernadetta, unchained from her fears, shoved Dilan against the stained glass window and barged through the colossal doors to face her father. Byleth merely followed with a similar devotion to lay down his life in protection of his queen.
Dilan's demeanor flooded back through him and his hand darted towards a thin sheathed dagger at his hip.
"Leave them be, Dilan," boomed a voice from inside the quarters. Spun from a sickening yarn, Count Varley's voice was a clash of cymbals and a parade of horrors that could cause disquietude in the hearts of all.
"Yes, my Lord." Motioning to the guards to withdraw, Dilan closed the chamber doors and stood benevolently behind them.
Bernadetta knew this room well with it's tacky banners embellished with the Crest of Saint Indech that littered the walls. The hunting trophies, all purchased and never won. Ornate with falsities, the room was as lavish and heartless as the Count himself. Count Varley stood silhouetted against a wall's worth of glass that bore the entirety of the barren western hills, kissed by the sun's dwindling light. Most notably was his hair, a faded sickly grey with streaks of red that held onto his sideburns and low temples. He stood with assistance from a scepter, the same serpent inscribed on it's length. Byleth had come to realize that the Count himself was the serpent, ever present throughout the manor.
Bernadetta took a breath, realizing the severity of her actions and how upset her father was at her. Faltering slightly, she took a step backwards, closer to Byleth. Count Varley said nothing, only watching the sunset as though it were his first exposure to beauty.
"Count Stewart von Varley," Byleth began, pulling his scrolled documents from the sleeve of his ornate cloak. "On behalf of the United Kingdom of Fódlan, I declare that you have been exiled for numerous crimes against the citizens of Varley as well as the rightful queen of Fódlan, Bernadetta Eisner von Varley. So says the doctrine of Sovereign King Byleth Eisner von Varley, you shall be given 24 hours to vacate your property and surrender to the Knights of Seiros to be escorted from the kingdom's borders. Furthermore, all contact within the kingdom-"
"Why have you come here, daughter?" Before Byleth could finish his decree, Count Varley's monstrous scowl took to the pair's ears. Byleth turned to Bernadetta, who nodded, her brave face wavering.
"T-To see you exiled!" Bernie shouted.
"So shall my fictitious punishment be served to me by a false ruler and my estranged child?" Count Varley challenged, biting back at her. "You and your deplorable lover hold no power over the wealth I have amassed. Bernadetta, you should've stayed in your room and wept at my feet to forgive your constant insolence."
Bernadetta, silent tears streaming down her face, could not deny the struggle to fight back. Byleth wished to strike the man down then and there, fulfilling his promise to protect his wife from her father's forked tongue. Byleth stepped away, as though shielding Bernadetta from her father's onslaught.
"You have 24 hours until we storm this fortress by force and remove you." Byleth commanded.
"You," Count Varley wickedly addressed. "You have defiled my daughter. Infected her mind with your recalcitrant morals. You are no king, you are a poor imitation of regal fanfare. How long, my son, until your hollow facade is revealed and you are thrown from the walls of Garreg Mach by the true powers to be? The accomplished and wealthy of Fódlan will overpower your petty beliefs in an instant." Assuredly, he banged his staff on the marble-panelled floor, commanding Bernadetta's attention instinctively to him. "You, dear daughter. When this so-called king's head rolls from his shoulders, so shall your traitorous skulls be crushed together."
"24 hours," Byleth flatly repeated, motioning Bernadetta to take leave should she desire to end their confrontation.
"Bernadetta, you insufferable wench," rolled her father's forked tongue. "In all of my life I have made but one error in judgment; not burying your contumacious body at birth!"
"Enough!" Byleth finally hollered, throwing an open-palmed hand towards the distant Count. Basic magic, a weapon no one could confiscate, rippled through the air, lunging the Count forward and shattering the glass, and with it, the sunset. Count Varley remained vigilant to hide his face, rising to his knees on the balcony, he let out a metallic, scraping chuckle. Dilan barged through the door, ready to slice the throats of both visitors, but Count Varley, again, waved him off.
"If I am not king then why do you kneel!?" Byleth taunted as his wife dismayed at the horrors unfolding. "You will kneel for your rightful queen, and you will face the wrath of the Goddess."
Again, the Count sickeningly chortled. In his own twisted mind, he had won. "Good, Bernadetta. Just as I taught you." Finally, he rose, his knees imbedded with shards of glass and his hands trickling slow streams of blood. Deranged aura crept from his grin and spread to Dilan as well. Count Varley turned, revealing his wrinkle-ridden face to his daughter, who had never felt a stronger need to isolate herself from his horrors. "Look at you, allowing your husband to speak for you. Just like the submissive wife I taught you to become.
Byleth wished to refute him, but he felt as though he'd only grow his maniacal complex. Bernadetta, hardened by war, empowered by her friends, and changed by her own decisions, swallowed her last urge to run. She hollered.
"I submit to no one, father!" Tears fell to her mouth. "I am not bait for wealth! I am not a bargaining chip or an auction to be won! I am your rightful queen and I do not submit to you!"
Byleth had never once heard Bernadetta swear, let alone scream with such volatility. 23 years of abuse boiled into one confrontation, Bernadetta felt a weight lift from her shoulders, she felt as though she stood taller and with more resolve than ever. Storming off, Bernie was not running from her fears, but asserting her dominance over them. She was no longer submitting to the power her father held over her, she was free to do as she pleased and she chose to leave.
"I can't wait to extinguish such a burning heart, just as I did with your mother!" No words spat from the man could touch Bernadetta's resolve, and her pace did not slow as she shoved Dilan from the door yet again.
"You now have until sunrise," Byleth demanded. "Otherwise, it will be your head."