At the very least, one good thing about being selected as a representative for the White Heron Cup is that contestants are excused from their coursework up until the competition. They still have to attend classes to keep up with the curriculum, of course, but Marianne's attendance is already abysmal as is, so all in all, there's not much of a noticeable change.
Really, the only downside to being selected as representative for the White Heron Cup is... well...
Actually being selected as a representative for the White Heron Cup, where everyone and the four Saints will be there to judge her for her nonexistent grace, numerous shortcomings, various failings and oh Goddess, please take me now, I beg of thee.
Ever since the Professor's surprise announcement, Marianne's holed herself up in her bedroom, content to never again see the light of day. That had been roughly two days ago, and apart from the occasional trip to the bathroom and one terrifying late evening excursion to the kitchens to grab a bite to eat, she hasn't set foot out of her room since.
During that time, a storm of people have come knocking at her door, expressing varying levels of concern: Claude, asking if she was okay. Lorenz, subtly hinting that the fate of the Alliance rested on her shoulders, while simultaneously offering up his collection of aromatic teas to help soothe her nerves. Lysithea together with Leonie to drop off the coursework she missed. And perhaps most surprising, Bernadetta, who had muttered something along the lines of "solidarity" before shoving a small novel between the crack of the door and scurrying off.
It's all very touching. Even a bit moving, seeing just how concerned her classmates are for her. If she was in a more receptive state of mind, she would've possibly even reached out to some of them. Stammer out a weak thank you. Offer to do their chores. Or something. Anything. At the very least, try to repay them for worrying about a burden like her.
But she doesn't.
She doesn't do any of that. Because she's not a decent human being. Because she's upset and scared and, most of all, she's a failure. And all she wants to do as an abject failure is wrap herself up in a blanket cocoon, root herself to the bed, and let the dread wash over her in waves.
And somehow, all the dread, anxiety, and fear is nothing, nothing compared to the overwhelming feeling of sheer, utter disappointment.
It's not a new feeling. She's been disappointing her adoptive father since the day she showed up on his doorstep, unannounced and largely unwanted, after all. But disappointing her classmates? The Professor? The very people who she's only just begun to trust?
That hurts like nothing she's ever felt before.
Why me? Marianne pulls the covers tighter around her form, tight enough that it's practically suffocating. Out of all the people in the world, why did the Professor have to choose me? I can't dance. I can barely walk in a straight line without hurting myself. I'm pathetic. I'm a failure. I'm-
Knock, knock!
Marianne nearly falls off the bed as the completely unexpected knock at the door jolts her out of her spiral.
What the-? Who...?
A second later, a familiar voice drifts into the room.
"Heeeeeey, Marianne, guess whoooooo?"
Hilda's tone is just a smidge playful, as if she always pays late evening visits to her friends in the dead of a cold winter night. "I'll give you a hint. It's your bestest friend in the whole wide world aaaaaaaaand...!" An enthusiastic shaking noise. "She's got pastries!"
Some of the tension in Marianne's fingers loosen, and the covers smothering her relax a fraction, allowing her to cautiously peek one head out of her blanket cocoon. Goddess, pastries sound heavenly right now, but... but that would mean getting up and acknowledging that the outside world exists.
"T-thank you, Hilda, but I'm not, uhm, hungry right now," she calls back, hoping that'll be that.
...Right as her stomach lets out a low, mournful growl.
"Liiiiiiarrr." Hilda sing-songs. "I heard that. When's the last time you ate something that counts as food, Mari? And don't lie to me, I'll know."
"Uhm..." Marianne thinks back and winces when she comes back with the answer. "I had some...cereal, last night..."
Technically it's not a lie because Dorte's horse feed is really just oats and grains, which is what most cereal is comprised of... right? And it was also the only food Marianne had in her room at the time, but she gets the distinct impression that Hilda won't appreciate that kind of answer.
"A-and a pear from the kitchens," she feels compelled to add when Hilda's silence lingers on for a spell too long.
She can practically see Hilda's exasperated eye roll from behind the door. "I meant real food. C'mon, Marianne," her voice takes on an exaggeratedly sad warble. There's definitely a pout in there, the same one she uses to wheedle out of chores. Or to get someone to unlock a door for her and let her in. There's not a whole lot of difference, to be frank. "It's cold out here, and the pastries are getting cold, and you know cold pastries are just the grossest."
Marianne bites her lip. It is rather cold out tonight... and stale pastries do sound a bit... gross.
"Pleeeeeease, Mari," Hilda whines, layering the sugar and honey into her voice, before going in for the kill.
"For me?"
With a sigh, Marianne gets up from the bed, still draped in her covers. She waddles over to the door and turns the lock.
Hilda comes barreling in without so much as a warning, cheeks pale pink and tracking in the snow and frigid winter air from the outside. "Oooh, that's so much better," she lets out a content sigh, unwrapping her (also pink, unsurprisingly) scarf and shoots a beaming smile at Marianne. "Thanks, Marianne. You're a sweetheart."
The interior of her room is only a little warmer than outside, but Marianne still feels the back of her neck warm-up. Even now, she doesn't think she'll ever get used to the straightforward way Hilda makes even the smallest actions she does into something worth praising.
"Please... don't mention it."
"Sure, sure. Anyway, as promised," a box is shoved into Marianne's arms, the outside still surprisingly warm despite the cold, "one box of delicious, nutritious pastries, freshly baked by yours truly!"
The heat creeps its way from Marianne's neck, up to her face.
"You... didn't say that you made them yourself," she stammers out, trying to ignore the strange burst of warmth.
"I didn't? Huh." Hilda shrugs, devil may care. "Must've slipped my mind. Anyhoo, help yourself!" she gestures cheerfully, making her merry way over to the cupboards where the tea set is stashed. The set is a recent purchase, what with Hilda coming around as often as she to ramble over a cup of tea, it just made sense to always have one on hand. "I'll put the kettle on, and we can have ourselves a nice warm cuppa to wash it all down."
"O-oh, you don't have to go through the trouble..." Marianne starts to say, but Hilda is already waving her off.
"Who says it's any trouble? Maybe I just wanted a nice cup of tea all for myself."
"I'm... I'm out of tea leaves, though."
"A nice cup of hot water all for myself," Hilda says without missing a beat, tacking on a silly wink that uses all of her face, even a bit of her mouth and...
And surprisingly, Marianne finds herself laughing quietly into her palm, just a bit, at how ridiculous she looks. A small chuckle that uncoils some of the tension in her stomach and lets her breathe.
"If... that's what you want."
"It's totally what I want. Now, go on!" Hilda gestures eagerly at the box. "Sit. Eat! I want to see you done with at least a pastry and a half once the water starts boiling, alright?"
With a nod, Marianne sits down on the bed, pushing the clutter to the side to make room for the pastries. The scent wafting from the box is divine, and when she opens the lid, a pleasant wave of warmth and vanilla hits her face. Suddenly, she realizes just how hungry she is, and it takes a monumental effort to not reach in and indulge. Instead, she picks one up delicately between her hands and takes a modest nibble. A content moan escapes her mouth before she can stop herself.
Better than divine, Goddess forgive her blasphemy.
Another chuckle from Hilda. "I was gonna ask you how you liked it," she says, a satisfied smirk plastered on her face as she hands over a steaming teacup (it really is just hot water in a cup, how novel), "but I guess that answers my question."
Marianne swallows, feeling the embarrassment color her cheeks, yet somehow, she manages to lift her head and look sheepishly at a point to the right of Hilda's face, "They're... they're exquisite," she murmurs, accepting the cup with a grateful nod. "My compliments to the chef."
"Oh hey, that's me!"
Another soft giggle at the mock-surprised expression Hilda makes and- oh. That's twice now. And to think, only minutes earlier, she'd been a blanket cocoon of dread, never wanting to step out of her room ever again.
How does Hilda do it? Just one word, a reassuring smile and nothing's changed, but somehow, it feels infinitely easier to breathe.
As Marianne helps herself to another pastry, she watches out of the corner of her eye as Hilda goes about tidying the shelves, putting away everything into their usual places. Even now, it still slightly mortifies her that Hilda goes out of her way to tidy the room each time she visits, but the shorter girl always insists that she doesn't mind- "It's not a chore if I want to do it, okay?"- and over time, Marianne's learned to just accept the help with minimal fuss and an abundance of gratitude.
...And maybe a scone or two in return.
Something seems a bit... off, though. Hilda is a noisy cleaner, usually preferring to fill the silence with casual chatter or soft singing, but right now, she's uncharacteristically reserved. Instead, she's regarding the empty tea canister in her hand with a furrowed brow, as if it had done some personal wrong to her.
Frowning slightly, Marianne puts the pastry down and clears her throat. "I can, um, get a blend you prefer? For... next time."
"Hm?" Hilda turns to her with a bemused look. "What? Oh no, that's not- it's fine." She sets the canister down, flashing her a smile that comes off more distracted than reassuring. "But thanks for offering."
Maybe she's reading too much into the small things. "If you say so. I just thought... umm..." Marianne gestures vaguely, hoping to get her point across with just that.
Hilda tilts her head, twintails shifting off her shoulder. "Just thought what?"
So much for getting the point across. "It's nothing. You just... you looked like you had something on your mind... is all."
The reassuring smile slips off Hilda's face, and with it, the last dregs of Marianne's courage. "I-I'm sorry. I didn't mean- ignore me." She retreats back further on the bed. "Don't pay me any mind."
The only answer is a long, drawn-out silence. Just as she's about to stammer out another apology, Hilda suddenly lets out a short, explosive sigh.
"Not just a pretty face, huh, Mari?" she says, but there's no bite in her words, only a gentle teasing that's familiar and draws the strange warmth back again to Marianne's face.
The bed dips as Hilda settles down next to Marianne, their legs brushing against each other. She drops her head on Marianne's shoulder and the tips of her hair ghost Marianne's cheek.
"Has anyone told you that you're waaaaay too observant for your own good?" Hilda says easily, reaching over to link their pinkies together in a familiar gesture. Casual contact is still something Marianne is getting used to, but Hilda's been nothing but respectful of her boundaries and over time, she's learned to slowly accept the quick pats to her shoulder, the light brushes against her arm, even the occasional hug that always leaves a bright smile on Hilda's face whenever she hesitantly returns it.
Small touches here and there. Brief flashes of warmth that always leave her feeling a little breathless and a little lost, afterward. And it's... it's not... bad.
Just... different.
Marianne let's out a slow breath, feeling the comforting weight of Hilda's head bob along with the motion.
Hilda's still waiting for an answer, and with some effort, Marianne brings herself back to the present.
"N-no. But, um, Dorte says I'm a very good listener. That probably has to do something with it."
She feels her shoulder shake as Hilda lets out a small snicker. "Dorte's probably onto something," she says, fingers playing along idly against Marianne's knee, tapping to a beat only she can hear. Marianne does her best not to shiver at the strange tingle that spreads from each spot she touches.
Different... but not bad.
Hilda lets out another sigh. Her hand clenches.
"I tried asking the Professor if I could take your place in the competition, but she said no."
At the mention of the competition, all the warmth vanishes, and the previous dread from before comes rushing back with a vengeance. Marianne stiffens, feeling the pit of her stomach into a solid cold block.
Hilda continues on obliviously. "Can you believe it? She shot me down! Me, of all people! I even offered to pick up some extra chores so that she'd say yes but nooooooooo." she lets out a frustrated puff of air, bangs rising indignantly. "The one time I show some initiative..."
"I-It does seem a little unfair," Marianne mumbles lamely as Hilda lets out another frustrated noise. What an understatement. Of course, it's unfair. It's no secret that out of all the chores required, the only one Hilda practically volunteers for is choir practice. Any opportunity to sing and dance, of course. It's one of the few things that she visibly puts effort in and loves. Denying her the chance to be part of the White Heron Cup is more than unfair. It's robbery.
"I'm... I'm sorry." Marianne's fingers bunch tighter beneath the covers, nails digging into the soft folds of her palm. "I'm sorry for stealing away that opportunity from you."
She feels Hilda's head lift from her shoulders. "Stealing? What do you mean steal- oh." Realization colors her tone. "Oh. Oh no no no no, Marianne, just... no."
Hilda lifts her head to look her straight in the eye, and try as she might to look away, Marianne finds her gaze inexplicably drawn back.
"You've got it all wrong," Hilda says fiercely, her expression uncharacteristically earnest. "None of this is your fault, and you sure as heck didn't steal anything away from me. I don't want you to ever, ever think that, okay?
"B-but... you love to dance."
"Well, yeah, sure," she amends with a casual shrug, "But this was more a chance to just show off. Teach those stuffy nobles how to really tear up the dance floor, ya know? But I'll live, seriously. It's not the end of the world."
Hilda sounds honest enough. And to be frank, for the time that Marianne's known her, she can't recall one instance of where the shorter girl has blatantly lied to her face. But...
"Then... why...?"
The look in Hilda's eyes is a mix of sympathy and understanding. "Isn't it obvious? The reason I asked to be the rep was so that you didn't have to be."
Oh.
Ohhh.
"You... you did that... for me?" she squeaks out.
"Of course!" Hilda's affirmation is almost fierce in its conviction. "Anything for a- a friend!" she says, stumbling oddly on the word. She looks away for a second before turning back. When she opens her mouth again, her voice is softer but no less fierce. "Anything for you, Marianne."
A small sense of relief courses its way through Marianne's body, and she feels her shoulders relaxing a fraction. It doesn't change the situation, but knowing that Hilda tried so hard, and for her sake...
"T-thank you, Hilda. " Words of gratitude hardly feel like enough, but they're all Marianne has. "For... thinking of me."
For some reason, Hilda's face turns into a pained grimace. "Yeah, well, don't go thanking me just yet. There's... also another reason I'm here, and it's not to drop off pastries."
Oh. That... doesn't sound good. At all. Marianne swallows. "W-what is it?"
"Weelllllllll..." Hilda tugs roughly at a strand of her hair, the motion coming off more nervous than aggressive. "The Professor may have also mentioned, because of how many times you've skipped class, that if you skip out on the competition, there's like, a small, small, really teensy-weensy itty-bitty tiny chance," she takes a deep breath.
"Thattheykindamayhavetoexpelyou."
"They may have to... what?!" Marianne surges to her feet, all the relief from earlier vanishing in a flash. That's... no, no, that's the worst possible outcome. All at once, she feels the blood freeze in her veins. Unbidden, she clutches at her arms, feeling the nails sink into the soft flesh. She can't go back to her adoptive father's territory. Not when she's finally found a place where she feels like she can belong. No, no, no.
"I-I... I can't..." Her voice comes out in a pathetic whimper. "They can't... I-I..."
"Whoa, whoa, slow down!" A pair of hands grab onto her own, wrenching them from her arms. Hilda's pink irises stare straight at her, grounding her thoughts. "Breathe, Mari. I said a small chance. Small!"
Even in the depths of her self-loathing, Marianne has to admire the other girl's optimism, misplaced as it is. But this is their Professor they're talking about. She may be new, but she has the faculty's respect and, more importantly, the Archbishop's unending approval. If the Professor says she needs to go, then it might as well be a written commandment from the Goddess herself.
"But a small chance is still a chance," she says and watches as Hilda's face cracks a fraction.
"W-well... yeah, when you put it like that," she admits, before rallying. "But it's a moot chance because I won't let it happen!"
Again, that eternal optimism.
"I've got it all planned out! You're going to show up to the competition and- hear me out!" she says when Marianne lets out another quiet moan and wraps the covers around her head. "You're going to show up, and you know what you're going to do?"
"Publicly humiliate myself?"
"You're going to throw the competition!" Hilda grabs her shoulders, forcing their eyes to meet. "Do it half-baked. Say you're sick, walk with a limp, anything! Do what I do and just flub it! You just need to show up and make it look like you tried, right? The Professor never said anything about you needing to win."
Marianne pauses in her attempt to stuff herself into her blanket cocoon. Oh. That's... that's true. The Professor never specified that she needed to win, only that she needed to participate. And while lying isn't her strong suit, she's relatively sure that she can pull off a fake limp or some other sort of minor injury. She'd be on stage for at most a minute before the judges would usher her off. Nervewracking, but not unbearable.
Her classmates would be disappointed, no doubt. But that's nothing new. She's used to being a disappointment after all. And if she's being honest, no one is expecting her to win either, least of all, herself.
She thinks it for a second more before popping the top of her head out of the blanket cocoon.
"Isn't that just a bit... dishonest?" she asks. Lying to her classmates, the very people who have come to accept her into their fold, leaves an unpleasant taste in her mouth.
In response, Hilda gently tugs the covers down, inch by inch. Slowly, the rest of Marianne's face comes into view, and Hilda smiles at her, the look in her eyes understanding.
"Marianne, sweetie, you didn't want this." She reaches out and fondly brushes Marianne's bangs to the side. "Nobody's going to hold it against you, and if they do well, they'll have to take it up first with me and my friend, Mr. Tomahawk!"
Only Hilda can make the beaming smile punctuating that statement, both equal parts reassuring and intimidating.
"I-I'm not worth the trouble," she feels compelled to say. Hilda's palm ghosting her forehead is cool to the touch. Pleasant. Distracting.
"Bzzzt! Wrong." The gentle brushing turns into a soft flick on her nose, and she leans back, startled. Hilda looks at her admonishingly. "You are worth it. Take it from me, if you can't take it from yourself." She leans back, arms behind her head. "And besides, it's not like the Golden Deer are the favorites to win anyways. We haven't won the White Heron Cup in years. Not since..."
Hilda pauses to think and then recoils in surprise. "Nooooot since my brother graduated. Huh. Wow. That was, what, five? Six years ago? That's... Huh"
She sits back. Takes a sip of her hot water in a teacup.
"Well, there's always next year."
And with that last sobering statement, the conversation comes to a screeching stop.
Marianne lowers her head, staring at her hands. Nails bit to the quick, scratch marks that are only just starting to fade into white. Idly, she traces a white scar with a finger as she glumly considers her options.
There are two choices she can see, each with their own unappealing outcomes. She can refuse to participate and have the academy expel her, or she can pretend to participate and have all of Garreg Mach watch as she makes a complete and utter fool of herself.
The latter choice leads to a very public humiliation while the former... well, it's an outcome that she doesn't want to entertain for even a second. Going back to her adoptive father's territory is just. It's not. An option.
No matter what.
Which means the losing streak for the Golden Deer House goes unbroken yet another year, no thanks to her. Disappointing, but what else is new? Maybe in another, perfect world, one so far removed from this one, she'd have the confidence to stand up for herself.
In that perfect world, she'd be able to participate in the dance with the pride of a Deer, sweeping away the rest of the competition. The judges would be awed, starstruck, awarding her the first-ever perfect score in decades. But that perfect score would pale in comparison to the reaction from the Golden Deer, who would rush around her, ecstatic and surprised and overjoyed that Marianne, their shy little Marianne, would be the one to win. The Professor would be standing off to the side, still as stoic as ever, but there'd be an unmistakable sparkle of pride in her eyes that brings tears to her eyes.
And then Hilda would appear out of nowhere, shoving her way through the crowd to be right there at her side. She'd grab her hand, smile so fierce and bright that it'd be like staring at the sun, and she'd say, "I knew you could do it, I just knew it! All you had to do was be a little brave, see? I knew you could do it!"
And then...
And then...
And then the words are out of her mouth before she can even try and stop them.
"Would it... would it be strange if I said I wanted to try?"
This time the silence stretches on longer than the last one.
Hilda slowly sets down her teacup, expression carefully neutral. ""Not... strange, no. A little... unexpected, yeah. A tiny bit crazy? Definitely. But not strange."
She shuffles closer, an excited, eager shine beginning to take hold in her eyes, and the sight buoys the small amount of courage nursing in Marianne's chest. "Are- are you saying what I think you're saying because if you are..."
"It's... it's like you said," Marianne mumbles, ignoring the swooping sensation in her stomach as Hilda's proud smile grows wider and wider. "A lot of people aren't expecting much from me, so if I could prove them otherwise then... then it'll be a pleasant surprise for everyone, I-I think. Not to mention, the Professor chose me to represent our class... and the Alliance too and... and..."
"But is that what you want to do?" asks Hilda, cutting straight to the heart of the matter. "Pretend for a second that the Professor and the Deer and the rest of the Alliance don't exist." The stare she fixes her could pierce through iron. "What do you want, Marianne?"
To hide away in my room forever and forget any of this ever happened, says the loud, terrified part of her mind, the part that knows how much of a failure she is, the part that knows in the end, it'll all go wrong.
But what if, says the small, spark of hope in her heart, and the voices in her mind quiet, letting it speak for itself. But what if there's a chance... that something goes right?
What then?
Marianne takes a deep breath. What then? Frankly, she has no clue. But...
A small hope is reason enough to be brave.
"I'd... like to try," Marianne admits quietly, and somehow, admitting it out loud makes it all the more terrifying and real. "I know it seems far-fetched, and that it's a small, impossible chance that I'll even win but..."
"But a small chance is still a chance, isn't it?" Hilda finishes for her with a knowing wink, and the immense surge of gratitude that Marianne feels makes the fear almost laughable in comparison.
Maybe it's the giddy thrill of making a resolution, or maybe it's her heart being brave for once, but before Marianne can stop herself, she clumsily sticks her hand out and blurts out the first words on her mind.
"Could you teach me?"
The brief look of shock that crosses Hilda's face almost makes Marianne laugh. Almost. But then her expression changes and her lips break out into a warm, ecstatic smile, barely contained, and Marianne feels her stomach give a strange little lurch as she realizes- oh.
I guess a smile is a reason to be brave too.
"Of course, Marianne," Hilda's clasps their hands together, the playful sparkle of a promise in her eyes as her warm smile grows even wider. "I would love to."