Unmarriageable Girl
15th Day of the Great Tree Moon
Year of the Goddess 1181
White Clouds
War. Descending on Fódlan like a swooping eagle, the Adrestian Empire continued their relentless march for conquest. Led by Edelgard, the Imperial Army successfully overwhelmed the defense front at Garreg Mach, capturing Lady Rhea and leaving the monastery to rot as an allegorical portrait of the Church's ineptitude. During the battle, classmates of the Officer's Academy were divided and forced to flee to avoid capture by their former peer's mulish soldiers. Now separated, the once faithful comrades would trudge on, unaware if their friends had survived the skirmish. Above all, one soul engrossed the minds of all who wandered in the days following the Battle of Garreg Mach; their dear professor.
All except Bernadetta von Varley, who's solicited fears were beholden tear-soaked eyes. Her Professor had fallen, and she bore witness. Anxiety swelled in her throat as she sheepishly commanded Seiros Archers to flicker the sun's light with arrows. Choosing her targets sporadically, Bernadetta was fixated on the Professor's abstract form far below her defensible palisade. To her dismay, his promise could not be kept. The Professor did not return to Bernadetta, and so too, crumbling to the ground in agony, her faith withered.
Sun-scorched brush fitted with it's brown, crinkled layers formed a sea of decay around Bernadetta. Forced by war to venture ever vigilantly through her own inheritance, Varley County. As Varley was the least populated Imperial territory, it had committed the fewest soldiers, but the most abundant equipment. Thus, dodging battalions of well-armed Adrestians was of no concern to Bernadetta. She was, however, mindful to avoid the frequent weapon shipments, sometimes backtracking their path to guide her home. Grief-stricken and defeated, Bernie was motivated by one hope alone: sweet, blissful isolation.
If asked a year prior what the most devastating event of her life had been, Bernie would've chimed back about being forced into the Officer's Academy. Despite slowly growing to appreciate her classmates, Bernadetta's penchant for solitude suffered a calamitous loss. As time progressed, she dreaded her school days less and less, all thanks to her beloved professor. Now, when asked, Bernadetta would not hesitate. The loss of isolation was in no way comparable to the loss of her Professor.
After weeks of slackening pace, Bernadetta arrived home. Gatekeepers at Stewart's Moat were relieved to once again meet with their reclusive heir, though they did little to express this. Bernadetta was a rare sight for the Varley townsfolk, who had mostly only been in the girl's presence for forced occasions. Cowering and sulking, Bernie was known throughout the settlement for her reclusive lifestyle. Today, the people of Stewart's Moat laid eyes on a changed von Varley. Bernadetta did not cower or tremble. She did not glue her eyes to her feet. Bernadetta expressed nothingness, devoid of fear and courage alike; she was destitute and ignorant to their wandering gazes. Bernadetta was not whole.
Hesitating to grasp the manor's cast iron knocker, Bernie decided a confrontation with her father was an inevitable truth of this war. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. The hollow, almost vampiric sound echoed through the inner chambers of Varley Manor. Second thoughts came naturally to Bernie, who's instincts told her to run and hide during the moment's delay after knocking. Before long, a wooden latch slithered open, revealing an unknown pair of eyes that delivered fear once more into the young girl's heart.
"The Count is not expecting any arrivals. Leave the grounds," hissed a strange voice matter-of-factly. Bernie was not one to question the commands, too brazenly fearful of the strange man to doubt herself. Quivering and wordless, Bernadetta inched backwards from the great manor doors.
"Ahh! S-Sorry for disturbing you! Um, I'm… I-I'm gonna go!" Relieved in some strange way, Bernie would not mourn a scolding from her father. Fate would not let go so easily.
"Halt!" cried the unseen doorman. Splitting the serpent's great maw, the door's cracked open wide enough to reveal the figure. Strikingly, his most noticeable feature was his sandy blonde hair, uncommon for this region of Adrestia. Next was the array of holsters littering the man's waist. Four, no, six knives adorned his regal clothing, offering only to tell one story of this roguish figure: he was no servant. "I've not met eyes with you in this land, stranger." His hand rested on a knife, sparking a further lump in Bernie's throat. "Identify yourself."
"Wahhh! D-Don't kill me, I-I'll never show my face here again!" Bernadetta hid behind her dirt-stained arms, who's sleeves had torn and weathered in the days since the battle. With no sight of the man, Bernie expected the chilled piercing swiftness of a dagger to meet with her heart any moment, but none came.
"Bernadetta," hissed a chillier, swifter dagger. The stern voice of the even sterner Count Varley.
Instinctively, Bernie's back stiffened and her posture eloquently rose, stretching the knot in her stomach to a twinge of pain. "F-Father," she whimpered.
Ignoring her address, Count Varley took careful steps towards his estranged daughter, arriving at the side of the bewildered doorman. "Dilan, this cowering maiden is regrettably my daughter, Bernadetta." Placing an uncharacteristic fatherly hand on the boy's shoulder, Count Varley lit a verbal match. "I pray that her marketability is not squandered by her pusillanimous impotence."
Matching Bernadetta's own stiffened back, the boy brushed aside his beguiling hair, his once besieging eyes becoming that of feigned admiration. Most notably, however, was the boy's hand, never once lifted from the handle of his sheathed blade. Dilan hastily bowed, reaching for and taking hold of Bernadetta's clammy hands. When had he gotten close enough to do so? He was remarkably fast. These were things that Bernie would remain oblivious to before her time serving in battle. Nevertheless, she froze.
"Forgive my hostilities, my lady, for I was simply entranced and daunted by your modest beauty." Schmoozingly, Dilan planted the wettest, most venomous kiss atop Bernie's fingers. Startled by the stranger's unwanted advance, Bernadetta rightfully pulled her hand back in unease. She liked him better when he was going to stab her to death. Grievously, this rejection seemed only to fuel Dilan's amusement. "Ah, apologies, you are most certainly a bashful young flower." Bernadetta wanted to puke. "Fret not, young flower, for I shall be a most imperturbable suitor before we are wed."
"W-Wed..?" Bernie cried. Too much had happened in such little time.
"Bernadetta, you shall not oppose this marriage. Young Lord Dilan has dutifully sought marriage with you. As my daughter, you will agree to these terms and unite our wealth." Count Varley turned, allowing no opportunity for rebuttal from the dismayed Bernadetta. "Dilan, I must apologize for the lack of mental fortitude my daughter has displayed. With enough training, she shall make a docile and complacent wife." Gaze slicing through Bernadetta once again, his face soured. "Bernadetta. My decision is final."
As her father and suitor prattled on, Bernadetta's eyes pooled with sorrowful tears. This was her return to reality; living the promised life she had always feared. Her Professor had changed her perception on love in such a short time. He had undone years of ingrained biases regarding marriage. Her Professor, unlike the feeble attempts of her father, presented love as kindness and companionship, never a political or dutiful stipulation. She was so close. None of this would've ever happened if she had just stayed in her room.
23rd Day of the Horsebow Moon
Year of the Goddess 1186
Silver Snow
Texture like silk and light as the affable end of a feather, Bernadetta's amethyst washed hair fell between Byleth's hands like grains of warm, velvety sand. Her elaborate bow flattened against her husband's welcoming lap. Groaning open, her eyes batted in short, half-lidded bouts. Beholden foremost, the Professor's lush hair hung over her face like a forest canopy. Second, his arms, unyielding but cordial as they cradled her listless form. Every morning Bernie hoped to awake to this, a loving embrace that warms her to the cruel world ahead.
Obscure as her thoughts may be, her initial jolt from slumber had been a voice detached from her surroundings. Bernadetta always had the foggiest memory when stirring awake from a deep slumber, and she had no immediate way of telling dream from reality. Of utmost importance was that the Professor kept his hand right near the crest of her head, stroking a lullaby into her head that would carry her tenderly back to sleep.
"Bernadetta?" Byleth cautiously whispered. He was wise enough to know not to startle her awake at risk of her sudden flailing.
"Mm..?" Bernie drowsily murmured, awake by only a loose definition.
"It'll be dawn soon, sleepyhead," Byleth said through a grin. Bernie groaned, flopping onto her side and burying her face in the Professor's lap.
"Mmm but I'm so sleepy…" She muttered through his legs. To the Professor it sounded like muffled gibberish. Further cementing herself, Bernadetta took hold of Byleth's hand and yearnfully clung to it.
"We can't do this today, dear," Byleth regretfully uttered. "Trust me, I'd love to stay like this forever if we could."
"Mmmph. We…" she yawned, unfortunately jostling herself awake ever so slightly. "We can… We just gotta… Hide from everyone…"
"Hmph. Just like you to suggest that, my love." Byleth straightened his back, and for the first time, Bernadetta realized he had been sitting upright. Furthermore, while she was stripped to pajamas, the king was still fitted with his usual black-fitted undersuit. In fact, he only lacked his outer buckled robe, circlet, and one gauntlet, presumably removed for Bernie's own comfort.
Curiosity took hold of her and she stretched out her legs as far as she could, clenching her teeth. Finally, her eyes gingerly pried open. Bernie rubbed an eye with the back of her palm, careening her head upwards, only able to bear witness to her husband's unexposed chest. Next, she stretched her arms, unfolding them to each side of Byleth's upright torso. "Mmf… Hug…"
Emboldened by marriage and sleep alike, Bernadetta never failed to demand her morning hugs. But to her credit, not once did Byleth ever complain about her bossy little request. As always, he complied with just a tinge of suspicion that Bernie was using the embrace as an excuse to fall back into slumber. Cutting it short, Byleth kissed his wife on the forehead and slowly lifted her from between his legs.
"Hey, no fair… I wasn't," another yawn. "I wasn't done yet!"
"When we get back to Garreg Mach," Byleth promised. "You can have all the hugs you want."
Bernadetta seemingly pondered the offer for a moment as though it were a true negotiation. "Hmm… Throw in some kisses… And you got a deal." She stretched again, supporting her weight so that Byleth could adjust. That was when she first noticed their surroundings. Well worn and hardly luxurious, Bernadetta dismally recognized the interior of the abandoned stable just outside the walls of Stewart's Moat. This was where she shut herself away for years after the initial Battle of Garreg Mach, where she mourned the loss of her professor, where she wished to never return.
"As I said, it's nearly dawn," Byleth repeated, stretching his own legs as he rose to his feet. "You remember where we are, right?"
Mouth agape, Bernie rolled up and onto her butt. "Of course I do… but…" she wavered, remembering the previous evening, her exchange with her father playing before her like an opera. "Oh… O-Oh no…"
"It's alright, Bernadetta. I promise you that you're safe."
"H-How can you promise that at a time like this!? I-I've never stood up to him like that! H-He's gotta be furious! He's probably sitting there cursing me or something! Can he do that, can he curse me!?" Frantically, Bernie spun on her knees and took hold of Byleth's pant legs, tugging. "I-I don't want to be cursed!"
"You're right," Byleth said, patting the peak of her head.
"About being cursed..?"
"Not quite," he began. Lifting her chin as he so favorably did, Bernadetta's eyes met with her husband's. "You've never stood up to him like that. For that, I've never been more proud of you."
"Proud… of me?" Bernadetta loved the Professor's praise, all the way back to before their courting. There was just always such an affirming and earnest quality to him.
"Yes. His final memory of his daughter will be in defiance. Wherever he goes, I know that will haunt him." Byleth extended his hand, helping Bernadetta to her feet. Once standing, she folded her hands over one another and tilted her head towards the ground.
"His exile… Starts now, right..?" Bernie innocently questioned.
"Yes. I gave him until morning." Byleth threw his robe around his torso, kicking up dust in the musty stable as he pulled the buckle around his waist. "He never surrendered himself. So unfortunately, it's come to force."
"H-He'll never give in!" Bernadetta cried. "Not now… He's too stubborn."
Byleth grinned, installing his circlet just crooked enough so that his wife would fix it. "Then we'll persuade him to reconsider." From behind the decaying support where his robe had hung, Byleth flung the Sword of the Creator to life over his shoulder. Immediately, the haziness of the room kindled an orange gleam with the relic's iridescent bask. "The knights have gathered outside. Shamir has been surveying the grounds all night. No notable changes have happened outside of town. No doubt he's building up a defense, but a frontal assault may be a risk we have to take."
"We don't have enough knights to divide them, do we? Hit the manor with a pincer maneuver?" Bernie had begun sounding more and more like the Professor when discussing tactics. Yet another quality that brought pride to her husband.
"Precisely. It wouldn't be smart to allocate so few troops." Byleth rubbed his chin in consideration. "However, from the look of it, your father doesn't have too many guards within the walls."
"When I was growing up," Bernie began, fitting into her own armaments. "We only had about the same number of knights with us now. I don't see how he could've gotten more. There's not much 'more' left out there in Varley." Nagging in the back of her mind, a constant disquietude filled her thoughts. Was all of this warfare for her sake alone? Did she selfishly drag twenty-some knights into danger for her own comfort? Guilt set in, taking hold of Bernadetta and slowing her movements. As the sun's rays blessed Varley with their first light, Byleth kissed his wife on the head and departed to meet with Shamir.
"Oh Bernie…" she began. "This better be worth it…"
It is apparent that the man is evil! Why not rid of him sooner, I wonder?
Bernadetta took a pause, her inner monologue was strange, almost foreign in it's confidence and vernacular. Perhaps standing up for herself truly emboldened her against her father's ingrained abuse. Mulling over these thoughts, she finished her preparations.
Bernie's high-low skirt, the back of which tipped the ground while the front was worn like a belt wrap, fit to her body perfectly snug beneath her light-plated torso. Plating of black, tarnished steel wrapped her body like a gift. Engraved with flowing, river-like patterns, it was as practical as it was artistic. Her purple skirt and under-trim brought a liveliness to the queen's armor that was sorely missed in her old, repurposed war gear. All that was left was her circlet, a silver branching composition embroidered with rubies who's sparkle were only rivaled by her eyes.
Don't ever let him forget you're in charge!
The sudden confidence was nice, too.
Having lifted a pre-strung nondescript silver bow from the knight's caravan, Bernadetta checked the bowstring and adapted to the draw weight. She stashed a bundle of arrows in her quiver, only after examining them under the campfire's dancing light. With her equipment situated, Bernadetta quickly found herself at her husband's side. The couple was surrounded by a small battalion of knights who prepared to march on Varley Manor.
Sentries surrounded the perimeter of the knight's encampment, watching through scoped lenses as something stirred within the manor. Sudden to communicate, each sentry would loudly announce whatever activity they witnessed, keeping the camp and their comrades informed. They had grown silent for a while, and Bernie always jumped each time one would mouth off their next observation.
Byleth was inaudibly speaking to Shamir, who's laid back attitude would give the impression of a leisurely gathering rather than a battle preparation. Bernadetta noted the siege ladders had been extended as well. Though Stewart's Moat was surrounded by a fortified wall, it only reached roughly 14 feet in some areas, making it surmountable with fair ease. Just as she was adjusting to her surroundings, gaining a bearing for the low-light and checking for wind direction, the sentries gave her a spook.
"Movement! Manor! Leftmost second story window!" A few knights craned their necks, but no immediate danger lurked.
"Movement! Manor! Westmost third story window!" another chimed. Still, few knights seemed alarmed. Byleth seemed to become distracted in his conversation, peering haplessly towards the window as well.
"Movement! Manor! Center second story window!" Then another.
Movement! Manor! Eastmost second story window! One by one, the callout shouts began overlapping.
"Movement! Manor! Rooftop!"
"Movement! Manor! Center third story window!"
Bernadetta's heart raced, she had seen the familiar escalation in all ambush encounters. Lying in wait, the knights began grabbing their supplies. Axes, lances, and shields flung up as the sentries repeated their rapid callouts.
"Movement! Manor! Rooftop!"
"Archer! Manor! Eastmost-" A whipping sound all too familiar to Bernadetta, the air clapped as it was cut away by an arrow. Less recognizable was the sound of shattering glass that accompanied the swift impact. Following the source led Bernie's eyes to a plummeting sentry, crashing to the ground, telescope attached to his face by a well-placed arrow. He was dead on impact.
"Your Majesty, get down!" More arrows stuck upright into the campground as knights clung to their barricades. Bernadetta flung herself behind an open carriage, eyes carefully following Byleth's movements to a similar form of cover. When she confirmed his safety, her mind adjusted to battle. One battalion, not enough to divide their own forces. Archers pinned down in the well-fortified manor could take shots at the encampment all day. Varley was a weapons manufacturer and the war was over; the arrows flowed like honey.
"Push forward! Knights, raise shields!" Byleth commanded, now back to back with a large, well protected knight. Byleth walked backwards along with the knight's forwards strides, arrows plinking from his shield. Startling Bernadetta, Shamir flung herself analogously behind their shared carriage.
The pair quickly exchanged meaningless glances, before Shamir chided, "Well Your Majesty, there goes our line of protection." Shamir nodded towards the departed knights as they formed a perfectly executed march towards the fortified walls of Varley. "We'll be cut down by those snipers if we inch past this cart. Chances are your old man is targeting you specifically. Get comfortable, we might be here awhile."
Old man. Her father. Arrows had whizzed past Bernadetta's face countless times, even striking her on more than one occasion, but the men and women at bow's end were strangers. Aggression was natural amongst warriors, but those who fired now, the archers targeting Bernadetta, were the very same who taught her to shoot as a child. Anxiety flared to life, but it bred innovation for the young queen as her eyes lit up.
"I got it!" Bernie announced, walking huddled against the wooden cart towards it's face. "Shamir, help me release the horses! Then we push the cart for cover while we move towards the wall!" Shamir was one to dismiss unplanned tactics such as these in battle, but as Byleth's closest companion, Bernadetta's idea was efficient and realistic.
"You got it." Shamir ducked behind Bernie, laying flat on her stomach while she unbolted the carriage from below. Like an uprooted tree, an arrow landed diagonally a mere yard from her face. They were undoubtedly targeting the queen. On a whim, Bernadetta nocked an arrow, feeling the weighted draw close in on her chest before standing and releasing in an instant. Snapping the air, the bow launched her shot into the unknown, as she wasn't going to stay revealed for long.
"Shamir, hurry!" Bernadetta pleaded, nocking another arrow and letting it fly.
"I'm trying! Damn bolt is stuck!" Through the wagon's wheel, Bernadetta spotted the alleviating glow of Byleth's relic. He was still alive. During Bernie's inattentive moment, Shamir was almost struck by another arrow, ducking back towards cover and stretching her arms as far as she could, digging at the wood with her dagger to pry out the stripped bolt. "Your MAJESTY, with all due respect, quit gawking at your husband and keep those damn snipers off of me!"
Rightfully embarrassed, Bernadetta tried not to let it get to her head, instead responding with a simple nod before nocking another arrow. Judging by the trajectory of the last two shots, the archer who targeted the pair was likely one of the combatants on the roof. Being more exposed, the roof offered a risk/reward position. Rooftop snipers lacked the ample cover possessed by interior sharpshooters, but in turn, had a wider view of the battlefield. Bernadetta traced a plan through her head, surmising that the rooftop sniper must be constantly exposed with an arrow pre-nocked in order to fire so accurately with haste. The issue remained exposing herself to their sight long enough to get a read without being skewered.
"Shamir!" Bernadetta commanded, mimicking the Professor's tone in battle. "Stick your bow out from under the cart. Bait his shot!"
"I'll comply when ready, just say the word." Shamir fumbled with her bow, dropping her dagger and momentarily giving up on her deconstruction project.
"On my mark," Bernie declared. "Three." She reached for an arrow, sliding it from it's quiver. "Two." She nocked her shot, aligning it with the notched silver. "One." She drew the bowstring, tightening the pressure around her fingers. "Mark!" As if two limbs on one body, Bernadetta and Shamir moved near simultaneously, Shamir with her distraction and Bernie with her shot. As predicted, the rooftop sniper shot on Shamir's ruse, giving Bernie a short window to return fire. Bernadetta flung her weight around before the sniper's arrow could even land, a gambit made on faith alone. Spotting their attacker, she closed an eye, took aim, and let her arrow fly.
Time slowed, shouts of the knights drowning in a swampy auditory haze. Watching her arrow's predestined path Bernadetta witnessed her target duck for cover, knowing they had been deceived. Automotive, Bernadetta's hands reached once more to her quiver. From quiver to bow. From bow to chest. Fire. Saint Indech's Crest guided her hands with a fervid lust for battle. As her brain caught up with her blood, Bernadetta watched as two arrows soared towards her target. Her first shot missed, emboldening the sharpshooter to return impulsively to catch Bernie off guard. With this mistake, Bernadetta watched as her second arrow pierced through her enemy's neck. As their body dropped, Bernie's heart beat back to life.
Shamir backpedalled out from underneath the cart, kicking the latch loose at last. The horses (which had remained remarkably quiet during their exchange) sensed freedom and seized the opportunity, galloping unchained into the morning sun. "Push, Your Majesty! Let's catch up to the knights!" Shamir rolled up her sleeves and heaved her remarkably fit body into the carriage's wooden panelling. Nudgin along, Bernadetta joined the effort and began pushing the cart with her back against the panelling, not unlike how Byleth had approached from behind the fortress knight.
Making fairly good timing, Bernadetta noted that the knights had just begun scaling Varley's bordering wall nearest the manor. Again, she spotted Byleth, confirmed his safety, and returned to the task at hand. Occasionally, she'd nock an arrow, draw back her bowstring, pivot, aim, and fire into the manor's windows. Shamir was just as good a shot as Bernadetta, but she was certainly more muscular, and thus pushing the cart fell to her while the queen fired off shots. With her quiver reaching half capacity and their cart approaching what remained of the ground-level knights, Bernadetta considered abandoning their cover. Dreams of a carriageless defense were shattered when their cover was struck by several arrows from different angles.
This isn't right. How does father have so many archers..? There were never this many, not even a year ago. And the soldiers on top of the wall. The knights are almost overwhelmed in numbers. Where did these soldiers come from? Who are they?
Bernadetta watched as a Knight of Seiros was thrown over the concave trim of the fortress walls. When he did not sputter before impact, Bernie made the realization that he was dead. Another soldier caught selfishly wrapped up in her own family matter. More blood on her hands to dissect later.
As Bernadetta analyzed her fallen comrade, she mourned a separate bone-chilling sight. Beyond the fortress wall's far western curve, towards where the sun's morning rays had scarcely caressed, a small company of Varley troops had emerged from the gate, rushing towards her. Led by a commander on horseback, the ambushers consisted primarily of grapplers. More specific targeting, Bernadetta thought. Had her father truly wanted her dead so badly? Had he hated her so ferociously?
"Hurry! We have to hurry!" Panic filled her lungs, causing her to cough up her words direly. Finally, their cart chipped the stone walls of Stewart's Moat. There were still knights occupying the siege ladders, leaving Bernie and Shamir stranded downstream of the coming piranhas.
Mystified, Bernadetta watched as the cavalryman's rapid approach was halted by one swiftly placed arrow. Galloping to the same rhythm, the war-horse dragged the carcass off it's side and expeditiously surpassed Bernadetta's position. Spinning to her rear, Bernie watched as Shamir nocked and fired another round from atop their cart. When the arrow haplessly rebounded from the approaching soldiers, Shamir slung her bow back over her shoulder and extended a nimble hand to the queen.
"Come on, Your Majesty, hustle!" Shamir crowed, mutually latching onto Bernadetta's wrist and yanking her up on the cart. The four remaining grapplers had almost descended on them, now placing the siege ladders at a halfway point between them and Bernie's position. Out of options for escape, Bernie's hopeless anxiety crowded her mind and lungs, fueling her head to swivel, scanning for options. Shamir took this time to crouch against the wall, propping her back flat against it's stone face. She locked her fingers and held them flat. "I'll boost you up!"
Salvation, the wall was at just a height that with the added force, Bernadetta could likely reach the trim and pull herself up, but that left Shamir to face the immediate stampede. No other options presented themselves. The Knights of Seiros had all engaged Varley's forces atop the wall, thinning their enemies ranks one by one. Bernadetta could no longer discern the humming clash of Byleth's relic, and thus was fueled by a mixture of survival and dedication to deliver her husband to safety.
Leaping towards Shamir, Bernie bent her knee and sprung up, launched further in the air than anticipated. Losing her balance, she almost missed the castle trim, but managed to grab hold and yank herself up. For a final effort, Bernie spun on her stomach and reached below to help Shamir scale the wall. It was too late. Grapplers arrived at the cart, flinging it in a group effort to throw Shamir off balance. The Knight plummeted to the ground as Bernadetta looked on in horror.
"Shamir!"
"Go, Bern!" Shamir scrambled to her feet, ducking and bobbing through her enemies' loosely guided punches.
"Shamir, please! You can't!" Bernie cried, completely ignorant to the struggle atop the wall.
"Yes. I. CAN!" Shamir's words were paced as she ducked, striking a Grappler with a right-hook to his exposed jaw and leaning into a double-legged jump kick, toppling him into his allies. Using his torso like a spring-board, Shamir landed a flip and stumbled to regain her balance. That was the last Bernie saw of Shamir, who ardently defended herself against several lesser combatants.
"Bernadetta!" cried the Professor from behind, pulling her by her shoulder away from the fortified edge. "She'll be okay, but we have to get you off this wall!" Bernie became aware of the onslaught around her, dozens of unmarked troops traded blows with the superior Seiros Knights. Bodies piled high to the sound of clanking steel and war horns blown from within the now breached village. Bernadetta hardly recognized her home in this state.
Nodding, Bernie skipped away from the wall, noting the crack of Byleth's whip-like blade from behind. "This isn't right…" she uttered between arrows. "T-There's too many people. These soldiers can't be from here!"
Byleth stood back to back with her, blocking the dwindling hail of arrows from within the manor windows. He agreed. "Your Father must have called for reinforcements." Acknowledging his words, Bernie grunted with the release of her bowstring. Her arrow pierced the rusted plates of a hostile paladin who was engaging with two of her knights. None of it made sense. The varying quality of their equipment, their sheer numbers, their unorthodox fighting style; too sloppy and removed to be Adrestian loyalists. Edelgard had placed Count Varley under house arrest during her reign, so it's doubtful her zealous followers would come to his aid. These soldiers were something else entirely.
Byleth caught onto his wife's focus and shared her consideration. "Militia?" he inquired, an arrow ricocheting from his blade.
"From where!?" Bernie shouted, seemingly frustrated that she couldn't piece together the conundrum. Byleth had no time to ponder her question, instead hollering to her over his shoulder.
"The sniper is exposed!"
"Which window?!" she roared in response.
"Third story, rightmost." Another arrow was singed by the glow of the Sword of the Creator.
"Okay, I'm gonna do it!" Bernadetta nocked an arrow, slowing her breath and steadying her hands. Her wrists grew tired, as they often did towards the end of her quiver. She waited, drowning out the knight's chanting as they overpowered Varley's men.
Plink. Another arrow deflected.
"Duck!" Bernie swung herself around in one fluid motion as the Professor dropped to a knee, adamantly guarding his face with the length of his relic. With such a short gap of opportunity, Bernadetta aimed slovenly. Luckily for her, her arrow found it's mark. Varley's sniper fell out of sight, replaced by a concentrated splatter of scarlet blood on the wall behind his position.
Bernie grabbed hold of the Professor as he rose to his feet. She yanked him behind a pylon and the pair spun to face one another. "That window," Byleth observed. "It's down the hall from your father's office, right?"
Bernadetta thought over the relative layout and nodded. "Y-Yes!"
"Good. Then we can cut this battle short." His eyes trailed off from Bernadetta, who's bangs hung in front of her eyes, damp with sweat. Following his gaze, Bernie devised the same stratagem.
Without requiring clarification, Bernadetta hopped to it, skipping after the discarded siege ladders. "Help me pull it up!" Byleth trailed her, grabbing hold of the ladder's apex and hoisting it up. Bernie gave a quick glance towards the cart. No sign of Shamir. Three bodies scattered the area, one short of the attacking company. Giving what little attention she could afford, Bernadetta shook Shamir from her mind as Byleth had suggested. Together, she and her husband extended the siege ladder to it's maximum length and rushed towards the closest intersection of the manor and fortress wall.
Arrows stopped hailing the couple, largely in part due to the reallocation of archers to the manor's front windows. Seiros knights began trickling down from the wall, each with a distinguishable CLANG as they hit the ground. Rushing the porch with whatever shields remained undamaged, they caused the recognizable stir of a full-frontal assault. Bottlenecked by the manor's entrance, Varley's troops expended little effort holding the invader's line at a comfortable distance.
"Ready?" Byleth inquired.
"Ready!" Bernie affirmed. The pair gripped tight around the siege ladder, both silently praying that the distance could be bridged. With meticulous placement, the ladder arched up and into the manor's window. Two rungs fit perfectly between the castle trim at the Professor's end and held the ladder steady enough to traverse.
Wasting no time, Byleth leapt to the fringe and took a judicious step forward, testing his balance as well as the elasticity of the ladder. When it held, he strode forward, almost gallivanting from rung to rung. Reaching it's cusp, Byleth tucked and dove through the open window, successfully infiltrating Varley Manor.
Bernadetta wasn't particularly afraid of heights, but like every healthy human mind, she was impartial to plummeting to her doom. Balance was a key aspect to archery. Learning to center one's self and firmly take a stance was among the first lesson's an amateur archer learned. Though she had mastered these basics young, Bernie still rarely trusted her balance. Inching along the ladder less confidently than her husband, she focused on the window ahead rather than the three story drop beneath her.
Okay Bernie. You got this! Just, don't think about it! You're just walking! You do that all the time, right? Just walking across a normal, functioning bridge! No need to panic!
Distracted by her positive mental affirmations, a need to panic revealed itself. From atop a nearby spire roughly a story above the third, a particular crackling sound drew the focus of Bernadetta's ears. Byleth must've heard it too, as he rushed back to the ladder with a look of impending horror. Bernie felt it, the peculiar sensation in her feet, the rising adrenaline like a spike of electricity ascending through her body. She was being targeted by a thunder mage.
"Bernie! Jump! Grab my hand!" Byleth anxiously stretched his arm from the window, praying to the Goddess within him that it would be enough. Bernadetta was halfway across the makeshift bridge when the spell broke loose. Leaping just before impact, Bernie dodged the pinpoint blast of Thoron. Byleth's outstretched hand would not be enough.
Splinters of wood shot every which way as the ladder was cleaved evenly by the spell, which ignited a small blaze in the dry grass below. Bernie's upswing could not make contact with the Professor's hand in time, instead latching onto a ladder's rung roughly a yard from her husband. Acting quickly, Byleth took hold of the final rung in hopes he could pull his queen through the open window.
Bellowing, Bernadetta swung like a well oiled door hinge. From the end of the ladder, she narrowly avoided smacking into the manor walls. Instead, Bernie was flung through the second story window that once housed Varley's snipers. Lucky again, the Goddess was on her side today.
Byleth witnessed what had happened, assuring that his wife had made it safely into the manor. Though separated, Byleth would confront as many foes as possible on the third story to draw attention from Bernadetta on the second. Foolishly, she had entered the house with just a bow, and what remained of her depleted quiver had been lost during her fall. Patting the dirt from her lightweight armor, Bernadetta spotted one lone arrow stuck to the inner wall of the house. One of her own, she surmised, as she had nearly blind-fired towards the manor during her approach with Shamir. Prying it from the wall, Bernie was less than equipped for this insertion. Should a situation get hairy, there was always the dagger strapped to her thigh, but it was less than ideal.
Okay Bernie… Okay… One arrow against the world. You can do this. Byleth is counting on you. You have to do this!
Nocking her sole arrow, Bernadetta could hear the clashing of swords and air-cutting whip of the Sword of the Creator upstairs. After entering from the window, a hallway ran perpendicular to the outer wall of the manor. At both ends, a door; One open, one closed. The open door led to a parlor connecting the manor's central atrium. Though it was the quickest route to Byleth, it was also the most dangerous due to the heavy offensive at the front of the manor. "Okay, back stairs it is." Though the knowledge of layout came in handy, Bernadetta couldn't shake the guilt of tearing apart her childhood home.
Footsteps tapping along the wood-grained floors, Bernadetta placed her ear up to the closed door, hearing nothing of interest, she slowly tipped the handle.
"D-Don't move!"
Spotted, and so quickly at that. Bernadetta hung her head low and mourned her approaching demise. Surely this was the end, but she would not die peacefully. Flicking about face, Bernadetta drew her bow and raised her aim towards the attacker. For the first time, Bernadetta's wrists loosened on her bowstring, and grew limp with disgust. A familiar face stood at the end of the hallway, caked with blood and the horrors of warfare.
"You…" Bernadetta timidly began. "I saw you… in the village." Before her stood the freckle-faced young bandit who glared at her through broken glass the previous day. Clutching the same lance, the boy now aimed it at Bernadetta. At this closer proximity, Bernie could discern the tears in the boy's eyes, and the youth in his face. She had miscalculated. He was no older than 13. "Y-You're too young for war."
"D-Don't move!" the boy repeated, his voice trembling and cracking. He gripped his rusted spear sloppily and without technique. Bernadetta fully undrew her bowstring.
"W-Why would you be here? Why are you fighting for Count Varley!?" Then, it hit her. A proverbial blow to the gut, Bernadetta felt ready to keel over in sickened abeyance. How could she not see it? How could she be so blind? The sloppy techniques, the disrepaired weapons, the overwhelming numbers; they weren't soldiers at all. Count Varley had militarized the defunct townsfolk he himself had displaced.
"L-Lord Varley," the Boy quivered, taking a step forwards and jousting the air with his lance. "Lord Varley s-said if we killed you, w-we'd be fed for a month…" Ashamed of his own words, the boy emphasized. "I-I haven't eaten in days. I'm starvin'. We all are." Bernadetta felt as though she too had not eaten, with the repugnant truth hitting her gut like soured milk.
"What's your name?" Bernie asked, less alerted by the boy's advances. The freckle-faced boy did not respond, though his lip quivered and he raised his lance again, allowing it to stupor without focus. "Please. What's your name?" Bernadetta, in a show of trust, threw her only defense to the ground. Her silver bow gleamed in the sunrise and clattered to the floor.
"S-Sven," he whimpered, his lance lowering again.
"Okay, Sven. I'm Bernadetta," she placed a hand over her chest and gestured it outward towards him, as if to guide his heart. "I'm the Queen of Fódlan. I don't know what you've heard out here, but I can help you. Honest."
Sniffling, a tear washed a path through Sven's blood soaked cheeks. "Y-you're… gonna help us..?"
"Yes. After today, you and your family can come back to Garreg Mach with me. We can feed you and clothe you and take care of you." Bernadetta's promises were not empty, though short on supplies from the war, she would personally tend to this boy if she must. He too, was broken by Stewart von Varley. "Please, Sven. Put down the lance."
"M-My… F-Family?" Sven sniffled again, louder. More tears. "I… I don't have a family anymore…" The young boy wiped the dried blood from his cheeks. The knot in Bernadetta's stomach grew.
"I-I'm sorry. I'm so hungry!" Sven raised his lance again, springing towards the dismayed queen. Listlessly turning to her side, the novice attack unsurprisingly missed it's mark. Bernadetta took hold of the lance and whipped it from the child, striking him with her palm as gently as possible, shoving him free of the weapon. The breath was forced from Sven's lungs as he toppled backwards, stunned by the effectual speed of the queen's disarming. Recoiling, Sven hid his face expecting to be dispatched by a vengeful foe. When that blow never came, Sven parted his arms and marvelled at Bernadetta's merciful countenance.
"There's a bedroom on this floor across from the foyer," Bernadetta flatly explained, gathering her bow and arrow from the floor. "It used to be mine. There's an alcove behind a red bookcase. Hide there. Don't come out until the fighting stops." Swinging her bow over her shoulder in favor of the lance, Bernie parted the wooden door like initially planned. "Go to the Knights of Seiros. Tell 'em Bernie sent you." Mystified, the young boy's freckle's were washed with tears as Bernadetta left through the door.
There would be no hesitation. The suffering ended today.
Bernie thankfully encountered no resistance on her journey upstairs. The whirring of Byleth's relic grew nearer as she found her way to the window he had entered. Pools of blood reflected Bernadetta's face in Byleth's wake. Bodies were kicked aside and did not afford the respect they deserved, having been enslaved by Count Varley. Byleth didn't know that, and Bernie quickly accepted that his brutality was fueled only by his chiefly quest to keep her safe. Following the carnage led Bernie face to face with her husband as he dispatched the final Varley guard.
Relieved yet full of fury, he casted a glance towards his wife that was typically reserved for more intimate matters. "His office," Byleth started, wiping the sweat from his brow. "It's well guarded. He's either in there or pulling an elaborate ruse." His sword hummed and spun like a windmill as Byleth commandingly meandered through his victim's corpses.
"He's in there," Bernadetta confirmed, joining ranks with her king. He trusted in her every word, his most loyal advisor. Bernie was rarely so certain, but she recognized the true cowardice of her father. Side by side, the couple encroached upon the serpent's lair. Mockingly, the wood carved snakes coiled around one another in union. Artwork aside, the door was just a door. It could be breached.
"Ready?" Byleth asked.
"Ready," Bernadetta assured.
"On your mark."
Bernie took a deep breath, holding it for longer than anticipated. Lifelong traumas clung to her surrounding this room. Sunken claws ravaged her resolve, her self-respect, her happiness. Punishment alone was not enough. Death alone was not enough. Bernadetta would not so easily shake free of the chains her father had bound to her. Still, she had to start somewhere.
29th Day of the Great Tree Moon
Year of the Goddess 1181
White Clouds
Humming graciously caressed the air like the buzzing of a bee's wings or the serene flapping of a butterfly. Bernadetta's voice may have given life to the arid landscape itself, had the age of miracles never ceased. Truthfully, her tumultuous life had never turned her heart away from a reclusive song. Whistling, humming, singing if she were so bold, Bernadetta escaped her troubles through embarking on a harmonious ballad.
After her confrontation with her father upon returning home, he forbade Bernadetta from entering Varley Manor until she had given her hand to Lord Dilan in marriage. Impoverished by life and browbeaten by her father's chastising, Bernadetta fled the walls of Stewart's Moat, taking refuge in a humble stable forgotten by the noble house. Decaying and weathered, the stable had been erected before the walls of Varley took shape. Left behind by the construction, the structure sat untouched until claimed by the recluse.
Bernadetta finally lived in the isolation she desired. Less desirable, the alone-time promised for a surplus of time to reflect on the past year's events. Her friends, the war, and most mournfully, the Professor. The Goddess had answered Bernie's wish to live in isolation, but at the cost of the life she was slowly building, her wish could never compare.
Preparing to make her bi-monthly trek to Sethston for art supplies, Bernadetta draped on unsuspecting clothes befitting a commoner. Sethston was the nearest destination for sewing and art supplies. Count Varley had forbidden the sale of such paraphernalia within the walls of Stewart's Moat when young Bernadetta favored those hobbies over leaving the house. Creaking open the slacked and warped door, Bernie set off to the tune of her own song.
Quickly, another song overtook her's, that of an animal wailing in distress. Bernadetta's head was on a swivel, immediately focusing on locating the woeful source. Eventually, she uncovered just that. A young bird of prey, likely a vulture, was gashed through the side and stained with blood.
"O-Oh no! I-I um… Here!" Bernadetta unwrapped her bonnet, letting her sunscorched purple hair fall free. Diligently, she wrapped the bird's wounds and lifted it, displacing the creature from it's would-be grave. "Don't worry, little guy. Bernie's got you!" Sethston would have to wait.
Returning to her shack, she wiped her sewing barrel clear of supplies and formed a cloth nest for the bird to rest. Removing pressure from it's wounds, the creature let out a sharp cry. "Ohh, be quiet I'm trying to think!" She couldn't very well dump a vulnerary on the injured bird. Bernadetta's mind raced for the first time in weeks, metaphorical gears shaking cobwebs from her mind. Lastly, she arrived at her only true method. "Okay… I hope this works. Hang on, little guy." Hovering her hands meticulously over the vulture, Bernie strained her mind and muscles. Remembering the professor's tutoring, she let her muscles relax and focused instead on mental fortitude.
Sparks dismally ignited from her palms, but dissipated quickly without purpose. "Come on, Bernie! Almost got it!" Biting her tongue, she closed off her senses, focusing on her beliefs to derive fuel for her healing magic. Beliefs. The Professor's voice haunted her, replenishing the heavy iron weight in her heart.
I never want to leave your side.
"N-No… not now…"
I promise you, Bernadetta-
"S-Stop!"
-I will never abandon you.
Bernadetta let out a wail of her own, a shriek so grief-stricken that it threw tears from her eyes like sorrowful waterfalls. Collapsing from her sitting barrel, Bernie had lost. Lost herself. Lost her Professor. Lost her faith.
WHISK. THUNK. Silence. The vulture's cries were no more, out with a whimper unforeseen by the distraught young woman. Between her sobs, she cranked her head from the dried hay littering the floor. A figure darkened the room, her doorway blackened by their silhouette. Bernie turned over, cowering from the unseen man who's imposing figure blotted out the sun. As her eyes adjusted, the smug face became clearer.
"D-Dilan..?" Bernie whimpered through sniffles. She had not spoken with Dilan aside from their one meeting. She rose to her feet, patting the dirt from her apron and nervously shivering despite the intensity of the sun's rays. "I-I'm, um. I'm sorry. I was just…"
"Tending to your kind?" Dilan cooly observed. The noble was flipping a knife in his hand, spinning it in the air and catching it by the handle. He gestured his head and looked past Bernie. She hadn't yet noticed the silence that filled the stable. Shifting her focus behind her, Bernadetta threw her hands in front of her gaping mouth. Aghast with terror, her vision was blurred again, swelling with tears. Impaled against a support beam, the baby vulture hung by a knife that glittered with blood.
"Your kind. The meek, the spineless, the broken." Dilan swayed as he invaded her abode, circling her table barrel. Bernadetta mimicked his encircling, rotating opposite to him, hands still firm against her mouth. Dilan prattled on. "Your father described you as a pitiful wench, but here I had some faith you could be restored. Now I see you for what you are. Disgraceful, unappealing, livestock!" Unhinged, he ripped the flung knife from the wood, dropping the skewered bird to the ground. "Your marriage to me is not by choice, but a necessity for you to continue your pitiful existence. I will inherit House Varley as Stewart intends, and you, my sweet Bernadetta, will be buried in it's dunes."
Backed into a corner, Bernie clenched a repair hammer behind her back should he approach any closer. To her relief, Dilan kicked the stable door open against the wind. He turned, with one final word to offer. "Behave." At that moment, Bernadetta declared to herself that she would not. No. She found faith in herself; faith in her promise to never bend to her father's will again.
23rd Day of the Horsebow Moon
Year of the Goddess 1186
Silver Snow
SLAM. The snake's maw was pried open by the combined weight of the pair's duel impact. As the double-doors flung wide, Byleth extended the Sword of the Creator towards the decrepit, sinister man: Stewart von Varley. Bernadetta held her dutiful lance to his throat, finding the strength to stare death into his eyes. As always with her father, death stared back.
"It's over! Call off your soldiers, Count," Byleth commanded. He too raised his sword to the Count's neck, following the stance his wife had taken. Positioning in hopeless defiance, Count Varley did not utter a word. Enraged, Byleth swung his sword back, lunging a robust fist into the Count's jaw. Varley sputtered, collapsing face-down over his desk from the sheer force of the king's strike. Byleth took hold of Varley's scalp and brutally slammed his face into the lavish desk. "Call them off!"
Bernadetta stood her ground with her back to the door, daring not inch closer should her father retaliate. He would not. Bernie watched with a morbid satisfaction as her father's face was beaten into his desk. Finally, the serpent attempted to crane his neck, lying his cheek flat to leer towards his daughter. Byleth forcefully repositioned his face to rest on the other cheek. "You've lost the privilege to address her, you answer to me!" The Count did no such thing. Byleth imposingly hung the Sword of the Creator above his neck like the blade of a guillotine.
Finally, amongst a coughing fit that stained the table with his blood, Varley's hoarse laugh slithered through the pair's ears. Byleth glanced towards Bernadetta, who nodded in return, granting him permission to silence the wicked man. Byleth did not hesitate, lurching his sword towards the sky in a tremendous backswing, the power of Sothis preparing to strike the head from Varley's shoulders.
WHISK. THUNK. Silence. At the Sword's pinnacle, it halted, never plunging into it's heinous target. That sound, that familiar, obsessive, nagging sound. Bernadetta anticipated, in all her naivete, that they had won. Byleth's head slowly pivoted as it had done moments before, but with this stare, his fearless countenance was wiped away, his eyes glossed over. Bernie could barely comprehend what happened. His relic, still held in the air, began to waver from it's iridescent life. Depleting it's glow, the Sword of the Creator clattered to the ground at Bernadetta's feet, and with it, Byleth.
Everything had slowed, time itself stood still, and Bernadetta bore witness to Byleth's second broken promise. A sickly green glow emanated from the knife lodged between his shoulder blades. While time refitted it's normalcy, her heart froze instead. Bernadetta's instinct was to crumble, but instead, she spun, determined to kill. Perched above the doorway like a morose gargoyle, Dilan lunged towards Bernadetta. Too rapid to raise her lance, Dilan's weight crushed the queen, restricting her to the floor and pinning her arms at her side.
Unsheathing a knife from his belt, Dilan clutched the blade to Bernadetta's throat. Frustrated, Dilan let loose the snarl of a rabid beast. "You!" He spat when he addressed her, coating Bernie's face in a putrid film. "You should have listened! You should have just behaved yourself!" She had heard enough. Bernie's arms were pinned, but her legs had just enough freedom to squirm under Dilan's crushing weight. On top of that, her forearms had just the slightest potential. She could pull it off, she could still kill him.
Bernadetta's cheek pressed to the floor, her gaze fixated on Byleth. Fueled by anger, the sight of her injured husband let loose a fury in Bernadetta's heart. Returning the same ferocious vitriol, Bernie-Bear let loose a determined roar as she slammed her exposed thigh into her hand. Strapped to her thigh, her Less Than Ideal, Last Ditch dagger flew from it's spathe. Tilting her hand, she meticulously carved at Dilan's wrist, causing him to wince in pain and falter. He crumbled just enough for Bernadetta to throw herself from the grotesque man's weight, jumping to her feet as Dilan stumbled aimlessly, clasping his blood-soaked hand and moaning.
Resourcefully, Bernadetta's hands found themselves fervently tightened around something foreign: the hilt of the Sword of the Creator. Though the relic did not flare to life, Bernadetta felt a peculiar twinge in her circulatory system, as though her blood communicated it's worth to the relic. Without a moment's hesitation, Bernie tilted the sword and bounded towards her assailant, shouting with adrenaline. Dilan couldn't reach his scabbards fast enough.
The Sword of the Creator plunged through his abdomen with ease. Bernadetta did not relent, driving the relic into the wall, pinning Dilan's carcass. Life in his eyes was fleeting, but the noble clung to life long enough to die on that wall. Bernadetta's unwavering strength played out before him. Never meek or spineless, the woman who took his life was far from broken.
With Dilan skewered, Bernadetta set her sights immediately towards her father. With fluidity, the queen swung her hips and drew her bow, nocking her single arrow against the world. Her one shot. Count Varley, to her satisfaction, was still writhing against his desk. Elderly and withdrawn, the Count's taste for combat was exceptionally tart.
Byleth was ever-present in Bernie's mind, and as soon as she slowed her pace, she waited for one of the men to move first, praying that it would be her king. Dismally, Count Varley shook to life, spattering blood on his hands as he coughed. Gruesome and battered, Bernadetta's father stiffened, his back to his daughter. Again she glanced at Byleth; no movement.
Dragging his frayed sleeve across his face, Count Varley winced at the sudden touch. His nose was broken and gushing blood onto his upper lip. He turned, using his desk for support. Bernadetta hardly recognized the man down from his pedestal. Badly beaten, his face was dyed a humbling red. Varley's eyelids hung fattened over his eyes and his mouth was agape, gasping and sputtering for air. There was a word to describe him that Bernadetta knew well: broken.
Still, his brow furled witnessing his daughter's defiance. Bernadetta never let up on her bowstring, her feet firmly planted. The queen was expressionless, she did not celebrate Dilan's death. She did not celebrate her victory over her father. She did not mourn Byleth. Bernadetta was a solid rock, a foundation for which her choices built upon. Her father was wrong, Bernie's choices were her own, always, and she had made her final decision. Cementing his failed legacy, Count Varley would make one final blunder. He would doubt his daughter one last time.
"You would never-"
WHISK. THUNK. Silence. Silence forevermore.
Slumped backwards over his desk, the former Count Varley was reduced to a deathly caricature: battered, bankrupt, broken. Unhinged like that of a cobra, Stewart von Varley's jaw hung cavernously towards the sky. Vitriolic, disparaging words no longer filled his mouth. In their stead was one meticulously placed arrow. Piercing through his mouth and out of his throat, the serpent of Varley's final hiss was silenced by the bear's arrow. Her one arrow, versus the world.
"Father," Bernadetta flatly offered, tossing her bow at her feet. "My decision is final."
As though her words gave breath to the dead, Byleth groaned, balling his hand into a fist. Urgency returned to the young queen and she dropped to her knees at his side. "B-Bylie! C-Can you move?! We gotta get you to a healer!"
"N-No… Time…" Even after falling, the Professor was still fighting. Fighting to get every word through his stiffened tongue, fighting to speak to his beloved wife. "P-Poison…" Slumped on his side, a lonely tear trickled from his eye.
"N-No! Y-You can't d-. You c-can't d-" Bernadetta couldn't bring herself to even utter the revolting word. The Professor could never die. The Professor always came back. Sealed in eternal darkness, Byleth once sliced through the sky and emerged unscathed. Toppled from a cliff face and pelted with debris, Byleth laid dormant for years before kicking back to life. Byleth could never die. Could he? Bernadetta's answer was self assured and definitive. No. Byleth could NOT die. He wasn't allowed to; his wife said so.
Warming her hands, Bernadetta hastily removed her gloves. She tenderly nudged Byleth onto his stomach, resting his face between her sweat-soaked thighs. Monolithic, the knife that cleaved into Byleth's upper back was unlike those found in Dilan's belt. Bernie felt like she had bore witness to a weapon of similar structure in the past, but dismissed the thought. Whatever it was, it certainly wasn't manufactured by the cookie-cutter foundries of Varley.
"I'm so, so sorry for this, Byleth," Bernie groaned. Taking hold of the upright blade, Bernadetta blanched and gagged as she tugged it loose. Byleth screamed, reverberating the skin of her thighs and jolting her to work faster. "Okay! Okay I'm sorry!" Everything hinged on this moment, the pressure built in Bernie's gut and lingered as the turmoil set in. Her husband's life hung in her hands now.
Bernadetta tore open the king's blood stained cloak, carving through the stitching with similar ease to the blade. Urgenty, she ripped through Byleth's gold-lined tunic to reveal his wound. Viridescent, the same sickly green pearlescent was present in the blood surrounding his gash of considerable size. Surely the toxins had paralized him.
"I-I'm gonna fix this! H-hold still!" as if he had a choice.
Bernie took a deep breath, perhaps inflating her lungs further than ever before. Exhaling in slow, rhythmic bursts, she allowed the air to permeate from her nose while hovering her hands flat over one another. Desperately trying to slow her urgent heart, Bernie took another breath to a similar cadence and clenched her eyelids shut. Years had come and gone since her lessons with Byleth, but Bernadetta clung to every detail about life with her Professor. As though channeling his knowledge, she reached into that moment and adhered to his every word.
Faith is simply the strong dedication in something unseen.
Bernadetta held her promise to herself. Sparked from one moment in that dilapidated stable all those years ago, her faith began to repair itself.
-something you truly believe in.
Byleth, her darling Byleth. Bernie's faithful companion. Her professor, her general, her husband. She believed in Byleth's tenacity above all else. He had defied death in more perilous situations and he too, had upheld his promise.
I promise you, Bernadetta, I will never abandon you.
Tears crescendoed in the corners of her eyes, forming droplets that wetted her king's scarred back. Sparks, she felt sparks. Parting her lids, Bernadetta watched her faith manifest before her. Emanating from her palms, two sigils encircled Byleth's wound in a counteractive spin.
"I-Im doing it..?" Bernie's hands trembled and the amber sigil's similarly wavered. "I'm doing it!" She reaffirmed, steadying the sorcerous glow above Byleth's wound. As her celebration carried on through hindered tears, Byleth's parted skin basked in the otherworldly brilliance. As though unifying two canyon walls, the king's wound began to congest. Grotesquely dribbled from his lesion, a mawkish verdant liquid humbly erupted, evaporating into nothingness. With it, Byleth groaned.
Bernie was hesitant to draw her hands from his exposed back, though his gash had closed with little indication he was ever injured. Amongst the field of scars that littered the Professor's back, the recently healed was fairly innocuous. Groaning from the procedure, Byleth haphazardly bent his elbow, a sight Bernie never expected to be so relieving. Before words left his mouth, he used his returned mobility to wrap an arm weakly around Bernadetta's waist.
The king's head rested in Bernadetta's lap, inverse to her awakening that morning. Slowly and with pause, Byleth craned his neck and beheld his savior. Cupping his face in her precarious hands, the sigils faded and a smile crept towards the corners of Bernadetta's mouth. Her final victory had not been the slaying of her father, but the revival of her husband. Another promise she upheld from years ago; Bernie kept him safe. Always.
"Wow," Byleth faltered, his eyes fixed on the brutality his wife left behind. Dilan's deathly head hung from an invisible noose. His eyes plastered downwards, as if in admiration of the relic impaling him to the wall. "You must've really hated that guy."