I wake, sitting up with a start. The light of the dawn twinkles in through the window, and I can hear a few birds chirp faintly from outside. It can't be later than six or seven in the morning. I take a good look around the small room with its stone walls, and a lone wooden crate in the corner. I blink.
I'm still in that room. 180, I think it was. The dormitory room, at Garreg Mach Monastery. I look down at my chest, my legs. I'm still wearing that tunic and trousers that Seteth—Seteth, a fictional character!—had given to me. I fell asleep in them, and now I've woken up on this janky cot, confirming that I'm still in this fictional nightmare. I was hoping that wouldn't be the case. I could wake up in my bed at home, and just remember it all as an awful dream. Or I could wake up in a hospital bed, and write it all off as just a comatose hallucination.
But I have no such luck.
I sigh, trying my best to hold back tears. No, this won't do. I have a job to do, don't I? Seteth said someone would be coming to get me in the morning. When would this individual come to get me? And who would it be? Probably someone I don't know. If there's one thing I've learned so far, it's that these things seem to be a lot bigger than they appeared in the game. It's like basic reaction kinetics, really. Given the same number of major actors, the main characters, the chances of me colliding with one in a larger volume are smaller.
Maybe that means there are more places to hide.
Is there anything I can do but wait? Do my job well, look into what I can to try to get home? Is going home even possible, and does anyone care about helping me? I lay back on the cot, frustrated as I fruitlessly wrestle with these and other impossible questions.
Suddenly, a knock at the door. "One minute," I call out in reply. I leap out of the cot and throw my uniform on.
Several more impatient knocks ring out, just as I finish tying the belt around the tunic. I open the door.
In front of me stands a boy, a kid, a few inches shy of a foot shorter than me. An impatient expression crosses his face, olive-skinned and framed by dark hair, with orange eyes that seem to have no time for me.
Seteth is having me work with Cyril, of all people? I guess you really can't use kinetics for this.
"Took ya long enough," he says, folding his arms. He's wearing a tunic rather similar to mine, except lighter in color, with shorts and arm bracers.
"Hey," I reply. I smile and try to sound as friendly as possible. "You're the one Seteth sent to—"
Cyril cuts me off. "Yep. The name's Cyril. We've got a lot to get done, so let's get to it, yeah?" He turns and starts walking down the hall.
"Right down to business, huh? I can respect that," I call after him, as I leave the room and shut the door.
I realize I haven't even officially introduced myself to him. When I catch up with Cyril, who by this point is almost at the building's exit, I make it a point to do so.
"By the way, my name's Harrison," I say, extending a hand. "Nice to meet you, Cyril."
He grumbles, then shakes my hand quickly. "Likewise, I guess."
After we leave the dormitory, we start on down a path that takes us past the audience hall and dining hall, to a part of the monastery I haven't seen yet. We set down the idyllic stone path, between delicate hedgerows and well-pruned trees, while I take in the surroundings. On our left is a building with rows of rooms that open directly on to the courtyard. The second floor of rooms opens up to a wooden deck, with rows of thick posts securing it together. If that's the student dormitories, then the Officers Academy buildings must be on the right. The building also has several stories—tall, but not ridiculous as some of the towers I can see out in the distance. From this side, I can't see any obvious entrances, nor the telltale banners of each house, but it vaguely fits my recollection of the game.
I haven't actually met any of the students yet, I remember. And I doubt they'd be out and about this early. Cyril and I have only run into a handful of guards and fellow laborers like ourselves. Still, it's scary to think that I could meet more of the main characters from the game. Exciting, maybe a little. But very much scary. I shake my head. After all, I'm not their "dear professor" Byleth. I'm just another rando here. Maybe I would merely be beneath their notice.
The silence with Cyril is just a touch awkward, so I decide to say something. "So, what's the first item on our to-do list?"
"We're gonna head to the training grounds and organize some supplies before the students and knights start training for the day," Cyril says.
"Alright," I reply. "What kind of supplies are they? Just curious."
"Oh, ya know. Practice weapons, arrows, extra training dummies, that sort of stuff. We get deliveries from merchants every so often and I usually go through it and sort it all out."
"Do people break practice weapons that often?" I wonder aloud. Training weapons had good durability in the game, didn't they?
"It happens more often than ya think," he replies. "The equipment goes through a lot of wear and tear here, so it's my job to keep it all in tip-top shape and have plenty of back-ups on reserve. "
"Got it," I reply, nodding as I take it all in. "But I think you mean our job now."
Cyril suddenly takes a few long strides in front of me, then turns around and stops.
"Look," he begins. He furrows his brow again and folds his arms. "I get that you're trying to be friendly and all, but I'm the kinda guy who works alone. Because I know how to do things right. The monks tell me not to worry about cleaning stuff sometimes, but I don't stop, because nobody does as good a job as I do. I don't want someone following me around all day. It's just what Seteth asked me to do. So just let me do my job."
I take a deep breath. I know that my presence has been agitating this kid, and I'd rather not continue to do so. But I also know I have to. It's my job now, too.
"I get that. I don't mean to get in your way or slow you down. But Seteth told me to do this, too, so it's what I've got to do."
"Maybe ya should just stand back and watch while I take care of it."
Yeah, Seteth wouldn't have that. Did he assign me to Cyril because he knew the kid was overworked? Or was there another reason he picked Cyril in particular? Come to think of it, how much did Seteth tell Cyril about my circumstances, given how close he is to Rhea?
"What about this," I suggest. "Why don't you teach me how to do things right? If you're the only one who knows how, you can show me. I'll be the apprentice, and you're the master professional. I'll follow your lead, listen to your instructions, try my best not to screw it up, and defer to you for everything, under your supervision every step of the way. Does that sound good?"
Cyril furrows his brow, as his amber eyes bore into me. "Fine," he replies. "Ya really better not 'screw it up', though."
"Oh, I'm just trying to keep expectations low. It is my first day on the job, after all."
He shakes his head and keeps walking.
After a little more walking past the dormitories, we come up on the training grounds, but all I can see of it so far is a stone wall. Cyril pushes open the gate and ushers me inside.
It's a wide, open-air space, with rows of training dummies and targets. The perimeter is covered with some sort of stone porch, with grand arches and columns. Far be it from me to question the architectural decisions of the monastery, but is that necessary for the training grounds of all places? Maybe it's so you can catch some shade while you're training. Or maybe it's just an excuse to hang the imposing white-on-white banner of the Knights, emblazoned with the image of a dragon and the Crest of Seiros—that looms at the far end of the training grounds.
"We usually keep the supplies in the back," Cyril says, pointing to one of the far corners. I follow him over. As we get closer, I see a handful of crates laid out in the corner, but the pickings are pretty slim—a wooden sword, a lance, a bow, a few bundles of arrows. Cyril stops in front of them and picks up the bow, examining it.
"So what's the plan, boss?" I ask. "These aren't the new supplies, right? They look a little underwhelming."
"No, the new supplies get dropped off by the knights' hall," he says. "I'm sizing up what needs to be replaced here, and clearing out any stuff that's not good anymore."
I pick up the sword and turn it over, taking a good look at it. I run my hand along the edge. "How do we know what needs—oh, goddamnit!" A piercing pain shoots through my hand, and I can't help but yell in pain as the sword clatters to the ground with a dull thunk. Did I get a splinter?
"What's that?" Cyril asks, cocking his head. Shit, I said "God", not "the goddess." I've got to be more careful about what I say, especially around someone who takes Rhea and the Church as seriously as Cyril.
"Oh, nothing," I reply. "Don't worry about it. Think I just got a splinter from that thing." Sure enough, a bit of wood is stuck in my skin. Painful and annoying as all hell, but easy enough to remove. A second and a bit of cursing—this time under my breath—later, I'm fine.
"If it's splintering apart on ya, then that means it's time to retire it."
"Sounds reasonable to me. What do we do with it?"
"Let's just put 'em to the side for now."
I shrug, and follow Cyril's lead as he places the lance and bow a little bit away from the supply crates. He turns around and starts towards the entrance to the training grounds.
"Let's go," he calls. "Time to get the new supplies."
Cyril and I head back around to the knights' hall, along the path Seteth, Flayn and I walked yesterday on the way to the staff dormitory. By now, it's brighter out, and a few more soldiers and monks are going about their daily tasks, though it isn't quite as busy as yesterday afternoon.
By the side of the knight's hall, there's a porch where many crates have been dropped off. Cyril walks over to them and opens one up, checking its contents. I'm behind him, but the height difference allows me to get a look at what's inside—a good balance of wooden swords, axes, and lances. When he's done, he pushes it to the side and turns his attention to the next.
"The weapons are all sorted by quality," he says. "So you'll only find wooden training weapons all together in one box."
"That's convenient," I reply. "Are we going to be taking that one back to the training grounds?"
"Let me just find one with… no, not these…" Cyril replaces the lid on a crate he's looking at and moves on to its neighbor. "Here we go. You'll carry these, and I'll take the weapons." He removes the crate from the stack and carefully places them in front of me.
"What's inside?" I ask.
"Vulneraries, bandages, medical supplies like that," he explains. "If someone gets hurt while they're training they can get patched up real quick."
Makes sense. I pick up the crate as Cyril instructed. It's not unbearably heavy, but it's considerable. Cyril picks up his crate, which looks a lot heavier than mine, with ease.
"What are ya standing around for?" Cyril asks as he starts towards the training grounds.
What am I standing around for, indeed. I follow him. Curiously, he leads me back not the way we came, but the other way around entirely. As we swing back around the academy classrooms, I realize why. This way, we don't have to go through any monastery buildings, which might be a bit disruptive if we're hauling crates around.
Finally, we go up to the training grounds. The walk from the doorway to the other side of the training area is the hardest leg of the trip. I set the crate down and do a few quick stretches. Cyril rolls his eyes.
"What?" I ask.
"Don't tell me that's all ya had in ya," he says. "That was only the first trip! We've got a lot more work to do today."
I can't help but sigh. I'm not cut out for manual labor like this.
But sure enough, we've got to make another trip. Cyril grabs a crate with bows and arrows, and I take another with training dummies and targets.
As we round the corner by the Officers Academy and student dormitories again, I notice someone walking the other way, towards us. A girl, judging by the skirt, in the black-and-gold academy uniform. Her hair is the color of a tangerine, and she almost seems to skip down the path, and I can hear her hum softly.
Annette.
She stops her humming and skipping when she notices us approaching, waving at us. "Hi there!" she calls out. "You're... Cyril, right? You work for Lady Rhea. How's it going?"
"Yeah, that's right," Cyril says. "I'm surprised ya remembered. But we're kinda busy at the moment—we don't have time to—"
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Annette clasps her hands over her mouth. "Don't let me distract you from your work! I know how awful that can be."
"Actually, we could take a moment to take a break and have a chat, yeah, Cyril?" I suggest, setting down my crate. "My arms need it, after all."
"Hmph." Cyril grumbles and follows my lead, and I can't help but crack a smile.
"Oh!" Annette says, turning to me. "I don't think I've seen you around before. You are…"
"Harrison," I reply. "I'm new here, so Cyril's showing me the ropes."
"That's great! It's nice to meet you, Harrison." She smiles cheerfully. "I'm Annette. I'm a student in the upcoming class at the Officers Academy, in the Blue Lions house."
"Nice to meet you too, Annette. But what do you mean, 'upcoming class?'"
"The class of 1179 is graduating in a few weeks. They're still students until they pass the final exam, you know. Then, after the new year, classes will start for us! But until then, students in the class of 1180, like me, are already traveling here and settling in," she explains. "I made sure to get here early so I'd have plenty of time to get ahead on studying! I want to learn everything I can about magic, and martial arts, and battle tactics!"
Cyril's glaring daggers at me, so I'd best wrap this up.
"You sound excited!" I reply, smiling. "That's really good. Now, I think Cyril here wants to get back to our work, but it was nice to meet you. Good luck with your studies, Annette. We'll see you around!" I grab my crate and Cyril does the same.
"Nice to meet you too!" Annette calls back with a wave.
Once Annette is out of earshot, Cyril glares at me once again. "What was that all about?"
I sigh. "I thought I could get away with taking a little break," I admit. "And she seemed friendly enough to talk to. I don't really know anyone here, so I figured there's no harm in meeting people and being friendly, you know?"
"I guess not," Cyril replies. "Don't let it get in the way of our work, though. We've got important jobs to do."
"Ah, now you're saying our and we," I point out. "So you do accept me as an equal after all."
"Not if ya keep this up."
I laugh. "Anyway, she seemed pretty excited to talk to you. You two are about the same age, right? So, maybe…"
I don't even remember if Cyril and Annette had a support line. I'm just having a bit of fun teasing the kid. He's earned it after the hard work he's put me through, I'd say.
"What are ya—don't be ridiculous!"
I shrug. "Who knows, man? Who knows. Just looking out for you."
Cyril just shakes his head and sighs.
We finally get our crates to the right spot inside the training grounds and get to work unpacking it all and sorting it out, organizing the consumable supplies and placing the training weapons on dedicated racks for easy access. When we're done with that, we set up new training dummies and targets, replacing the ones that are too worn for any further use. It's hard work, but Cyril takes the lead, and directs me to what needs to be taken care of.
Once everything's set up to his instructions, Cyril looks over it all and gives a satisfied nod. His eyes wander to the pile of old equipment that we've accumulated.
"Hey, ya said ya wanted to take a break, right?"
This is a trick question, isn't it? "I mean, that was before. I'm good to keep working if you are."
"Well, take a few minutes of a breather if ya want." Cyril picks up the old bow and experimentally pulls back on the bowstring. "I'm gonna give this thing a go for a bit."
That's right, I remember him training in archery from the game. Well, if he's so insistent on taking a little to train that he's willing to begrudge me another break, fine by me. I take a seat on one of the empty crates, under the shadow of the stone overhead (maybe it isn't such a crazy thought after all) and watch.
Cyril takes a bowstring out of his pocket and strings the bow. He nocks an arrow and takes aim at a target on the wall, then releases. The string vibrates with a muted, yet audible thrum as the arrow hurtles towards its destination—the ring just outside the bullseye.
"Close, but not good enough," he says.
He tries again. This time, he's somewhat less successful, his shot landing near the outer rim of the target. He grumbles.
"Hey, it's better than anything I could do."
"Are ya saying ya want to give it a try?" Cyril asks.
"I'd rather not embarrass myself on the first day on the job. Besides, I need to save my arm strength for whatever you have next on the agenda."
Cyril ignores my comments and nocks another arrow. He aims and looses his arrow once more. It sails straight into the center of the target—perfection.
"I think I'm getting it!" he cheers, beaming.
As if on cue, the door opens. Two women walk in. The taller of the two has blonde hair and tanned skin, while she wears heavy armor with a long, white skirt. The other woman's hair is dark and short, and she wears a teal and black outfit with a metal shoulder plate.
Fuck.
"Oh, hey, Shamir, Catherine!" Cyril says as he calls out to them.
They're a much more immediately threatening duo than Annette, naturally. But you can just play it cool. You're supposed to be here, Harrison. Seteth gave you the job! And sent you to work with Cyril. This is just an ordinary day.
"Hey there, Cyril!" Catherine calls back with a bright smile.
"I was just gettin' in some bow practice. Look, I got a bullseye!"
Shamir looks over towards his handiwork. "Not awful," she says. "Your consistency needs work, though."
"I mean, at least I can always hit the target now," Cyril replies. "Or usually, anyway."
"A marginal improvement," Shamir says. "But sadly, enemies don't stay still on the battlefield. Not for long, at least."
Catherine interjects, putting her hand on her hip. "Aw, come on, Shamir. Don't beat up on the kid too hard! He's just trying to do his best to serve Lady Rhea, same as us."
"Thanks, Catherine," Cyril says, as he unstrings the training bow.
I can't tell if they've noticed me, so I might as well make my presence known. "Friends of yours?" I ask.
"Sorta," Cyril replies.
"Who's this with you, Cyril?" Catherine asks, gesturing to me.
"Hi," I say, getting up from the crate, out from under the shade into the sunlight. "I'm Harrison. I'm new here, and I'm working with Cyril."
That's gonna be my tagline of the day, if not the week, I bet. My name's Harrison. I'm new here. I'm working with Cyril. What's your name?
Catherine laughs. "That doesn't sound like the almighty Cyril I know. The one who doesn't accept help from anyone, who glares at the poor new acolytes trying to give him a hand! Ha! How'd this happen?"
"Seteth asked me to let him be my assistant," Cyril says. "Or apprentice. I'm your apprentice at the bow, Shamir, but Harrison's my apprentice at all the jobs I take care of around the monastery."
"Harrison, huh?" Shamir says, sending her dour glare my way. "You're in for quite a time. I don't know many monastery staff outside of the knights who work themselves as hard as Cyril does."
"I'm becoming well aware."
My reply earns the slightest of smirks from Shamir, but it soon fades.
"Don't you think it's a little strange, though?" Catherine asks. "I mean, Seteth having you work directly with Cyril. Does Lady Rhea know about this?"
Rhea again. How often are people going to talk about her until I actually have to meet her? Hopefully never.
"I don't know," I reply. "I'm really new. Like, today is my first day. I haven't even seen Lady Rhea, just heard people talk about her."
"Oh, really?" Catherine asks. "Well, I'm sure you'll get to meet her soon enough. She's an endlessly kind person, you know."
"She is," Cyril says. "Lady Rhea—"
"Spare us the flowery details, you two," Shamir cuts in. "We know you both adore Rhea."
Cyril shakes his head. "Anyway, I haven't heard anything about Harrison from Lady Rhea—just from Seteth himself."
I blink and bite my lip. I mean, that's not a surprise to me. But that means it's only a matter of time before Rhea finds out. And if she hasn't been duly informed, who knows what could happen?
"She is a busy woman, and she gives Seteth a lot of space to do his work," Catherine says. "So I don't think it's anything to worry about. I'm sure Seteth knows what he's doing. Maybe he just didn't want you to keep overworking yourself!"
Catherine, slayer of heretics, gives me the benefit of the doubt by proxy of Seteth. Unexpected.
Cyril grumbles. "Speaking of working, we'd really better be getting a move on," he says. "See ya guys later."
"Oh wait!" Catherine says, just as Cyril and I get up to leave. She turns to me. "You're new, right? Shamir and I forgot to introduce ourselves!"
"This is pointless," Shamir mutters. "He's already figured out our names by now, if he's not an idiot."
"I know it's not your style, but it wouldn't kill you to be polite now and then," Catherine says.
"I agree. It's quite a bit harder to kill me than that," Shamir replies.
Catherine smiles and shakes her head. "Anyway, the name's Catherine. I'm the Commander of Lady Rhea's Holy Guard. And Lieutenant Shamir here is technically my subordinate…"
Shamir scoffs. "Just Shamir is fine."
"Well, I was going to say, I think of us more like partners!" Catherine says, giving Shamir a slap on the back. "We've bailed each other out of enough jams to call each other that by now, right?"
"I stopped keeping count of the times I saved you once it meant I had to take off my boots," Shamir replies dryly.
Catherine laughs, and I do as well.
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Catherine, Shamir," I say. "Now I think I've got to get back to being Cyril's alleged apprentice."
"Hey!" he interrupts. "Ya said that yourself! Your words, not mine! And as the one in charge here, I'm ordering ya to stop joking around with Catherine and Shamir, because we've got work to do!"
"I can't well turn down an order, huh?" I joke.
"That you can't," Catherine says. "Get to it, then!"
Cyril and I bid the two lady knights another farewell. We finish clearing away the broken and worn-out equipment, then head over to the location of our next job. We're going to be cleaning the floors of the cathedral next, Cyril tells me, since around midday on weekdays is a time for work for most, not prayer. At least it isn't more heavy lifting.
As we walk over there, I take a minute to think back over the individuals I've met so far. The simple kinetics model definitely doesn't apply: we're running into characters—no, people—from the game left, right, and center.
It doesn't sit right with me. I'm just a laborer here. Nobody and nothing. I'd never expect to have actual conversations, introduce myself and receive introductions from, the scions of nobility, or stalwart knights. You'd be insane to.
Maybe it's just because I'm hanging out with Cyril.
Anyway, Annette seemed pretty friendly. But I'm not sure if she'll remember my name, even if she knew Cyril's. I'm just background chatter for someone like her. Still, what she said helps pin down our time frame a little bit more. The previous class hasn't even graduated or taken their final exams yet, and that's certainly something that was never mentioned in the game. Byleth isn't on the scene yet—he or she is still living the mercenary life with Jeralt. But shortly after the year flips over from 1179 to 1180, that's when we get off to a running start. A start that may well run off a cliff.
As for Catherine and Shamir, they also came across as pleasant enough, the former certainly more than the latter. Catherine may be a Rhea fanatic, but she was willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, which is all I can really ask for right now. Maybe, if things get serious, those two could teach me to fight. Not that I'd be any good, I know. And not likely that they would have time for me beyond silly little conversations like those, just trading basic pleasantries and quips about Cyril's workaholism. And best of all, none of them were particularly concerned with my origins! Just being "the new guy" seems to let me fly under the radar just fine.
Though it's troubling that they bring up Rhea. Sooner or later, I will have to see her. Whether I'll need to speak with her in person remains to be seen. Would she probe further than the others have so far? Maybe it's something I ought to bring up with Seteth, if I don't just run into her in the cathedral now. He'd be the best person to ask, and given the way he and Flayn spoke of her not allowing them in the Holy Tomb (not on their own, at least), he has a vested interest in getting a story straight. Maybe not the story. But a story.
Or maybe that'd just piss him off more, I think, as I look out over at the Goddess Tower above where he found me not even twenty-four hours ago. I sigh and shake my head. We're coming up on the cathedral now, so I guess I'd better be ready to get down to business.
Inside the building, but not in the main sanctuary, Cyril ducks into a supply closet, and I follow him. "Now, listen up," he says. "I take cleaning the cathedral seriously. It's something I take a lot of time to get right, and no one else here can."
"So what do we need to do?"
He hands me a broom, made of a wooden pole and straw bristles bound with thick twine, then takes one for himself. "First thing ya gotta do is sweep the place over. Too many of the monks just break out the mop without even bothering to sweep away the dust and grime. No wonder the place looks terrible when they do it!"
"I see," I reply.
So Cyril and I set to work sweeping the floor of the cathedral. And, my God, is there a lot of fucking floor to sweep. We work side by side. At first, I move faster than Cyril, but he quickly comes out with criticisms of my work.
"Look at all this," he says, bending down to the floor. He points out bits of dirt I've missed. "Go back over it again."
I do as he instructs, retracing my cleaning steps and redoubling my efforts, going over every square inch of hand-carved stone tile with a fine-tooth comb. Once I've swept it to what I believe, or maybe more accurately, hope, is satisfactory, I call Cyril over, and he inspects my work. He feels the need to sweep a few more barely perceptible motes of dust, but when that's done, he gives me the slightest of nods—approval.
We work our way around the rest of the cathedral floor like this. I go over a small area, then Cyril evaluates it. He's never perfectly satisfied, and sometimes I wonder if he just feels obligated to give it an actual once-over, the same way a father feels compelled to straighten up his son's tie knot even if it's perfectly serviceable. Neither of us say much at all as we work our way between the pews (and there are a lot of pews), through the main area in the center, and all around the sides, too. There are ornate brass candelabras placed around the room, most of which aren't lit, but it's easy enough to move them out of the way for a moment to sweep under them.
At the other end of the room is the altar: a polished wooden table with a golden-embroidered cloth. The steps up to it are barred by a heavy, pointed cast-iron gate. About six feet above the altar, and farther behind it, is a small platform with a stone lectern, surrounded on both sides by a narrow set of stairs. Behind this pulpit is a massive window that provides illumination not only to the altar area but to the whole room.
Eventually, when we're all done with the sweeping, I take a moment to look around the cathedral, something I hadn't done given the fact that I'd been staring at the floor for what feels like forever. I note the architecture of the room. Heavy, ornate, towering stone columns support the high ceiling, dwarfing statues of the Goddess, themselves larger-than-life, set within their alcoves. Over the entrance through which we came is a balcony, decorated in a similar style to the pulpit, with rows of seats. From here, I can see that against the wall is the console of a massive organ, with countless pipes rising out from the instrument and leading to chambers unknown.
I look around even higher, up at the same dazzling display of colors that I caught only a fleeting glimpse of yesterday, as sunlight illuminates the stained-glass windows. I can see the scenes clearly now: one seems to be of Seiros slaying Nemesis, another of her crowning the first Adrestian Emperor. Still another displays a figure clad in blue and white, standing on great red cliffs, though I can't tell if it's supposed to be Seiros, Rhea, or some other archbishop. Is that supposed to be at Zanado? Oh, it looks like there's one for each of the Four Saints, too.
"Hey," Cyril says, jarring me from my thoughts. He hands me a mop and bucket, taking the broom from my hands. He returns shortly with a mop and bucket of his own. "Now that we've swept and cleared all the dirt and dust, it's time to mop the place. Watch me."
I do indeed watch him, as he mops the floor even more slowly and painstakingly than how he swept it. Cyril's right that no one else does it like him—no one else has the time to bother!
"Ya gotta go all slow and careful," he says. "Otherwise it'll never shine. And I always want the floor to shine. All the floors, but especially the cathedral."
"Understood." It's just then that I notice how my voice echoes in the empty cathedral.
I get to work mopping, following Cyril's example. Again, I don't do quite as good a job as him—according to him, anyway. He'll give areas I've cleaned another pass over, and even get down on his hands and knees and clean them with rags. But his explicit complaints are few and far between, and I take that as a sign that I'm doing a good job.
After a while, I fall into a meditative rhythm of the thing, and my mind begins to wander once again to my young Almyran co-worker. Superior, I guess. I don't know if cleaning the cathedral is so important to him because it's a matter of personal pride, something to do with Rhea, or if Cyril actually values the religion. But it's clear that he meant what he said before: it's something he cares about quite a lot, and he's prepared to take equally as much time to get it done right. At my expense, it seems.
It's hard to tell how much time is passing, but sooner or later, we do actually finish the job to Cyril's satisfaction.
"You weren't joking," I say, giving my arms a satisfying stretch. "You really do take that stuff seriously."
"Yeah, well, it's my job," Cyril replies. "Lady Rhea's counting on me. And Seteth's counting on you, too. So we've gotta do the best job we can, yeah?"
That gets me wondering. Was Seteth's idea of assigning me to someone as perfectionist as Cyril his idea of a joke, or a punishment? Or is he trying to train me to be a good worker by putting me through the wringer? All of the above?
Cyril looks at me and cocks his head. "You alright there? Ya look a little out of it."
"Oh, I'm all good," I reply. "Just a little tired, I think."
Cyril snickers. "I hate to break it to ya, but there's plenty more hard work in store for us today. But it'll be lunchtime soon, so then we can take a break and grab something to eat. Maybe you'll recover some of your strength."
Lunch sounds fucking divine right now. Maybe Sothis is rewarding me for cleaning her cathedral. "I thought you'd never ask."
"Not so fast," Cyril says. "We've gotta clean the balcony first."
Can Sothis forgive me for being so presumptuous?
Thankfully, cleaning the balcony doesn't take long at all. Through a side stairway we get up there, sweep, then mop the wooden floors—carefully cleaning around the console of the organ and the arrays of stops flanking it. When Cyril's satisfied, he confirms that indeed, we may finally eat.
The dining hall is far busier than it was last evening. It's the lunchtime rush, for sure. I can see a large contingent of students occupying the front tables. I can make out a few familiar anime-Technicolor haircuts, but don't focus on anyone specific. After all, I don't want to come off like a creep, so I just keep moving. Meanwhile, Cyril walks right on up to line without even bothering to look at the menu.
"Hey, don't you want to see what they're serving today?" I ask.
Cyril shakes his head. "I just go up and ask them at the counter."
Oh, I completely forgot. Cyril is illiterate. My realization must show on my face, because Cyril continues.
"Guess ya figured it out, huh? I don't know how to read. Don't get the wrong idea, though—I don't let it slow me down any."
I nod. "That's impressive. I really can't imagine how difficult that must be… I'd be happy to read out the menu for you, if you want."
"Thanks, but no thanks. I don't like to rely on others that much, ya know?"
"I get it, but does it make a difference if you rely on me or them to tell you it?" I ask. "Besides, I'm your apprentice, right? I work for you."
"Fine, you've convinced me," he says. "What's there to eat?"
"Country-style red turnip plate, beast meat teppanyaki, and onion gratin soup."
"Oh, beast meat teppanyaki? That's great! That's what I'm getting. What about yourself?"
"Mm, I think I'll go for the soup," I reply.
Cyril makes a retching noise. "Really? I hate that stuff."
"Well, I know I don't like turnips, so a whole plate of them doesn't sound appealing. And 'beast meat' sounds pretty ominous. Like mystery meat."
"Suit yourself," Cyril says. "But don't be surprised if that soup is awful."
Even though the place is crowded, it doesn't take all that long to get our food and find a place to sit down. My soup is actually quite good: a thick topping of melted cheese and rich, salty, piping-hot onion broth. The familiar taste, reminiscent of French onion soup, is rounded out by an unexpected addition: fish, which is actually better than you might expect. It's very mild, and makes everything feel heartier.
Cyril's meal is something altogether different: thick slabs of grilled meat with a fruit-preserve sauce on the side. When I tell Cyril that I'm actually enjoying my soup a lot, he insists that I try some of the "beast meat." The sauce helps to mask some of the gaminess, but it's not really my thing at all.
Thinking back on the meals today and yesterday, it looks like fish and wild game are pretty popular—nothing like pork or beef in sight, huh? If the fish is always this good, though, I suppose I can get used to that. If I have to. If I really can't go home.
Or if the mercury poisoning doesn't kill me first.
After lunch, we get back to work. The bulk of the rest of our day is spent doing odd jobs here and there. We clean some more floors and refill lanterns in the hallways. Then, we move to the greenhouse, where Cyril shows me his method of weeding. He claims that the other workers miss too many.
Just like cleaning the floor of the cathedral, the work is simple and meditative. We wear thick canvas gloves to avoid getting scratched by any stray thorns. Many of the flowers haven't bloomed yet, but a few of them are already showing their colors. I can't spend too much time admiring them, though, since every so often Cyril calls my attention to a weed or two I've missed.
After Cyril's satisfied with our endeavors, we go over to the stables. The prospect of actually seeing a pegasus or a wyvern excites and terrifies me, but Cyril tells me up-front that those without any specialized training, like us, are to stay away from the stalls with the animals. Maybe a bit disappointing, but who am I to criticize that as the wrong call? It's not like a wyvern claw to the face, or even a regular old horse hoof, for that matter, is something I want to deal with.
Instead, we do more heavy lifting—moving around bags of feed and bales of hay. I'm sick of it already, but it's easy enough to follow Cyril's instructions. By the time we're done with that, Cyril informs me that class has let out for the day, so it's time for our last major task for today: cleaning the classrooms.
The sun is just beginning to set as we head to the other side of the monastery, broom and mop in hand. Hopefully by now, no stragglers will be hanging around. I've already had enough close encounters of the third kind for one day. I'm exhausted. Let's just finish this up so I can report back to Seteth, have dinner, and sleep.
Cyril decides to go for the classroom closest to us—Black Eagles, based on their banner of scarlet and gold, hanging proudly behind the columns supporting the academy building's facade. The room is empty, thankfully.
Following Cyril's instructions, I get to work clearing off the tables. There are more than I seem to remember from the game. A rough count of the number of chairs suggests that there are maybe between twenty and thirty students, given that there's no guarantee that all those chairs are filled—or, I suppose, even then, that all the students actually attend class. It's more than the number of named individuals we know of from the game, at any rate.
It's crazy to think that those nameless, faceless NPCs are just the opposite—real people, with real names and faces, with real lives, who are really going to school here. Yet they're totally unaware of everything that's going on under the surface—and to them, people like me are the nameless, faceless NPCs.
Nevermind those existentialist thoughts. I've got work to do. The students have left behind a few things like books, pens, and ink quills. The books are easy enough to reshelve in a bookcase in the back of the room, and we organize the other miscellaneous supplies on a table in the back. After that, we wipe down the tables and clean off the blackboard, before turning our attention to Cyril's favorite subject, the floor.
Just as in the cathedral, Cyril and I sweep the floor to his exacting specifications, then mop, working from the far edges of the room to the door. Again, tedious and boring work, and the thought of doing it two more times does not sit fantastically with me. But it is what it is.
When we're done with the Black Eagles classroom, we head out and move next door to the Blue Lions. The condition of their classroom is a bit more orderly than the Black Eagles. Whoever is teaching this house runs a tighter ship. Is it Hanneman? Does he teach the Blue Lions if Byleth doesn't? I can't quite remember, and that sort of detail might not have any bearing on something pre-Byleth anyway. Does it really matter? I have a job to do.
Once we've finished up the Blue Lions room, we move on to the Golden Deer. Wait, hang on: there's someone here. A pink-haired man sitting at the teacher's desk. He's writing with a quill pen in a notebook, but looks up from it as we approach the doorway. He looks at Cyril, then makes eye contact with me, glaring daggers at us more intensely than even Seteth did back in the Holy Tomb.
"It is most rude to interrupt an academic at work," the man says, his aristocratic tone dripping with condescension.
Academic? Who is this guy? Wait, is he the third professor who runs away before the start of the game? He has to be.
Cyril steps back, almost shrinking away from the doorway, but doesn't say anything. I can hear him mutter something to me, but can't quite make out what it is.
"Our apologies, sir," I reply, covering for him. Still, he's caught me off guard, so the words don't come together quite as cleanly as I'd like. "My coworker and I are here to clean the classroom. We don't mean to interrupt you. We'll get out of your way and come back—"
"No, no, no," he interjects loudly, setting down his quill and closing his book with a dramatic flair. "You've already gone and done it. I suppose you leave me no choice but to continue my labors from my office."
"What would you have us do next time?" I ask. If this guy's always going to be this prickly, I may as well figure out what he does actually want out of us.
"I only ask that you do the sensible thing and check if the room is occupied from a distance before barging in like a brigand!"
I don't reply, as he stands up, book in hand. I can get a better look at his outfit now—a black jacket with gaudy gold piping and shoulder straps, worn with an oversized gray ascot and trousers to match. A little more overstated than the smart academy uniforms worn by the students, but I suppose it doesn't stand out that much here.
"You're new here, are you not?" he asks.
He walks over to me and looks me up and down, evidently sizing me up just as I have done to him. Even without saying anything, he has a point—look at me, evaluating fashion choices in my laborer fatigues. Who do I think I am, Hilda?
"That's right."
"And what is your name?"
"Harrison."
"Just Harrison, hm?" He shakes his head. "No family name. You truly are a commoner of the most backward sort. Still, ordinarily, I would thank you. I'm glad to see that this little sand-rat—" he gestures to Cyril "—has something approaching proper supervision. But it appears you have much to learn about interacting with your superiors."
Hang on, was that just a slur against Almyrans? What the fuck? Holy shit, way to punch down to an illiterate teenager. I can't just let that go.
"Actually, Cyril is my superior. He's showing me how to work around the monastery."
The man laughs darkly. "Oh, that's rich!"
I ignore him. "With all due respect, who are you, exactly?"
"Me? My name is Caius Alberic Goneril. But to you, Professor Goneril will do. My duty is to educate the students at the monastery. Yours is to serve. Do so as faithfully as you can, without interfering with my duty. Is that understood?"
I furrow my brow at him. I hate this asshole. He can't just be a racist bastard or a stuck-up noble. He's gotta be both. Part of me wants to just acquiesce, to get him out of my sight. But an indignant sort of pride boils within me. I can't let him go. I know from the game that he's a coward, right? And how long is he even going to stick around for? Maybe if I push back with a little pressure, he'll let up. Maybe it won't even matter in a matter of a few weeks.
Before I can assemble a smarmy comeback of any type, Cyril replies for me. "I understand, Professor. Harrison needs some time to adjust, is all."
"He ought to speed up the process," Professor Goneril—no, I'm gonna call the fucker the same name his mom called him: Caius—says. He looks at me down the bridge of his nose. "While I have graciously borne your disrespect today, I shall not suffer such irreverence in the future. So, have I made myself clear?"
I look back at Cyril. He doesn't want me to fight back. He wants me to capitulate, to just give in and get it over with. I just keep making things worse for the kid, don't I? I have the chance to start making things better here.
I turn back to Caius and nod. "Crystal clear, sir."
"Excellent," he says. "I hope this is the last time I am forced to speak to you lot."
He strides past us, and as he does so, kicks over the bucket Cyril and I were using to wet our mops and rags. The sound of the water spilling onto the tiled floor linger in my ears for one discrete moment, before being shattered by Caius's smug voice.
"My apologies!" he calls, as he walks off out of the classroom and into the orange light of the sunset.
Jesus fucking Christ.
Cyril glares at me. He waves a hand around at the toppled bucket and the small pond we're now standing in. "You did this!" he yells. "This is all your fault!"
"What was I supposed to do?" I ask. "We already set him off from when we interrupted him. Then there was…"—I hesitate to repeat 'sand-rat'—"...what he said about you. Was I supposed to just let him say that shit to you?"
"Yes!" Cyril replies. "Yes you were!"
"But—"
"Listen, okay? You've been talking all day, haven't ya? To me, to Catherine and Shamir, to that girl, whatever her name was—"
"Annette."
"Yeah, Annette. And then when ya talk to this guy, it gets ya into trouble for the first time. So maybe try listening for a second and see where it gets you."
I take a deep breath to steady myself, and nod.
Cyril continues. "I get that you're trying to be friendly, okay? I get it. You want to make friends, and ya think that by mouthing off to some noble fop who hates me 'cause I'm Almyran, that I'll respect you. And I know there are people who hate Almyrans. People say I won't ever move up in the Church because of it. But you know what? I don't care. I only care about doing my job as best I can for Lady Rhea. And by being a stick in the mud, you made that harder!"
He's right, of course. I talk, and talk, and talk. I don't even talk like this on Earth. It's a defense mechanism. I'm nervous. I'm out of my element. I want to claw back control.
I sigh. I slump down on one of the chairs, defeated. "You're right, Cyril," I say. "I'm sorry. I was being selfish. I wasn't thinking about you, or our job. I was thinking about me, and how much I wanted to tell that fucker off."
What I don't say is that it was my pride, my foolish pride. My desire to be something more than just a fucking janitor who rolls over at the first sign of a true Fódlan blueblood. A desire I need to swallow—to choke down, if necessary.
"I get it," he says. "I understand ya. He is a right piece of work. But Lady Rhea seems to not mind him, so it's not my place—it's not our place—to get in the way of that. That's what ya need to learn, yeah?"
"I guess so," I reply, and sigh. "Does she even know?"
"Dunno," Cyril says.
"Why don't you tell her? Don't you think she wouldn't be okay with that?"
"I don't want her to have to go through the work to try to find someone else," Cyril says. "Not like any of the students are Almyran. Just me, and I can take it."
Cyril just worships the ground Rhea walks on, doesn't he? She could punch him and he'd thank her. She could hire a racist-ass professor and he'd thank her. And the irony of it all is, as far as he knows, he's the only Almyran. Oh, Cyril, if only you knew how wrong you were! Holding my tongue is hard, but it's a skill I'll need to practice. No time like the present to start.
"Well, I'm sorry. Really. I'll be more careful in general in the future, and, well, especially around him."
"Glad to hear it. Now let's get back to work, yeah?"
"Yeah," I reply.
Thanks to the results of Caius's outburst, we've got some more work on our hands. Cyril and I hop to it, cleaning up the spilled water and fetching some fresh before we get down to actually cleaning the room as we've done for the two others. Thankfully, nothing was damaged on the floor.
It's not right to blame the spill on Caius. I mean, yeah, he kicked over the bucket, and he's an asshole. But it's my fault, too. He's not Caius, I remind myself. He's Professor Goneril. I've got to get used to that.
How is he related to Hilda? Some minor cousin, I'm sure. Actually, on second thought, House Goneril defends the border with Almyra. So I can see where the racism comes from, but it's still disgusting. There's not much to be done about that.
Every so often I glance over at Cyril. The kid doesn't exactly have a poker face, but all the same, it's hard to tell what he's really thinking through his one-track focus on doing his job. Is he actually mad at me? I hope not.
Yet the promise of this being the final trial for today fills me with renewed vigor, and it doesn't take too much longer for us to finish the Golden Deer classroom. When we step outside, the sun is close to going down, as orange gives way to the violet of night.
"If we're all done for today, I've got to report back to Seteth," I explain after we put away our brooms and mops. "Then I'll probably have dinner and collapse in my bed."
"I'll see ya tomorrow, then," Cyril says.
"See you."
It's awkward, of course. We barely know each other. And yet I went from teasing him about Annette, to joking with Catherine and Shamir, to trying and failing to stand up for him against Caius. What am I trying so hard to prove, and to whom?
Luckily, I remember the way back to Seteth's office—up that stairway to the second floor and down the hall. As per the sign outside the door, I dutifully knock and wait for a response from within.
"You may enter," Seteth calls.
I do as he instructs, shutting the door behind me.
Seteth looks up from his desk and acknowledges me with a nod. "Good evening, Harrison," he says. "I trust everything went well with Cyril today?"
"Yes, sir," I reply. Unlike with Caius Goneril, calling Seteth 'sir' doesn't have the same bitterness on my tongue. Maybe because he's my actual boss. Stockholm syndrome must be kicking in fast. He pulled a knife on me and Caius just said some rude shit. But given the circumstances, only one of those actions was actually justified, and only one of those people has come around to trying to help me out.
Something in my expression must betray my thoughts because Seteth tilts his head quizzically. "Are you certain? You would do well not to conceal anything from me."
I sigh. I might as well be up-front with him about the incident with Caius, just in case he runs to complain about me.
I fumble for words as I wrack my brain for neutral terms to describe the encounter with. "We ran into Professor Goneril," I venture. "He had some strong criticisms for us. He was pretty upset. But it was our fault—my fault—and I promise, I won't make the same mistakes again."
Saying it hurts. It hurts my pride yet again, and it hurts because I can't call it like it is. But it seems like calling it like it is is not the way to win friends in Fódlan. I have to play the game.
"I see," Seteth replies. He writes something down, but I couldn't hope to make out what from this angle. "I believe I ought not to comment further. But your positive attitude in the matter is appreciated. If that is all, then you are dismissed for the night. If this arrangement is progressing well, you will continue working with Cyril. I expect that is agreeable?"
I nod graciously. "Yes, sir."
"Excellent. Then I bid you goodnight, Harrison."
I wish Seteth goodnight, and with a small wave, I head out of his office, shutting the door behind me.
As Harrison closes the door behind him, Seteth ponders the curious young man. Could his story be true? Seteth can't decide which possibility is more disconcerting. If it is false, then there are forces far beyond his understanding that seek to infiltrate and sabotage the monastery. Yet if it is true, then there are forces far beyond his understanding capable of sending individuals to far-flung corners of the universe that somehow speak the same language. Seteth simply can't make sense of it.
Harrison's appearance in the Holy Tomb was most disconcerting, leading Seteth's protective instinct to overtake him. Even in remaining skeptical in defense of his daughter, he made easily avoidable errors. He reacted too strongly to the idle remark on his hair color. Foolish, especially considering ordinary humans on this continent possess green hair as well. He let Flayn engage him in prattling about how Rhea prohibited them from entering the Tomb unaccompanied. Doubly foolish. In Seteth's strong, defensive reaction, he let these details slip through his grasp. It is as his wife said so, so long ago, on the subject of fishing: setting the line too roughly is no better than doing so too lightly.
Still, those errors may not be fatal. Whatever happened yesterday in the Tomb is between the three of them, and Seteth must now employ dispassionate rationality. And that means a rigorous examination of whatever evidence there is to examine.
Seteth looks over to a cabinet built into his desk, the drawer secured with a heavy steel padlock. He inserts a key and turns it. Inside are those two confounding volumes, Inorganic Chemistry and Abnormal Psychology. Seteth told Harrison he would destroy them. This was not an error—a simple, effective lie, serving as both a show of force and a decisive end to the subject. Regardless of anything else, it was in line with official Church policy. Harrison's introduction to Fodlan, if this what it truly is, ought not be one that shows any weakness from the Church of Seiros.
He places them on his desk and idly flips through them. Their make is unlike anything Seteth has seen before. The pages are glossy and slick, with illustrations in vivid color. Seteth studies them closely. They are not hand-illuminated manuscripts, neither holy texts reserved for liturgical use, nor family histories commissioned by self-aggrandizing noble houses. All the same, standard wood-block printing could never create this. Even the moveable-type printing presses of Almyra, banned in Fódlan by the Archbishop out of fear of heresy, could not achieve the sharpness and precision of these images, or even simply cut the pages to such perfectly consistent sizes.
And yet they are printed in the common Adrestian script.
His questions about the books' origins aside, Seteth turns to the first chapter of Abnormal Psychology and begins reading:
The symptoms and signs of mental disorders, including such phenomena as depressed mood, panic attacks, and bizarre beliefs, are known as psychopathology. Literally translated, this term means pathology of the mind. Abnormal psychology is the application of psychological science to the study of mental disorders.
It is perhaps unsurprising that Harrison's description yesterday was indeed accurate. Yet Seteth's intuition to confiscate the content was correct. Such "phenomena" are well-known in Fódlan, considered by Church doctrine to be diseases of the soul. Just as white magic, powered by faith in the Goddess, mends wounded bodies, dutiful prayer and rigid adherence to the teachings of Seiros are considered to heal injuries of the spirit. And as the Archbishop banned autopsies and dissections to stem the growth of medical science, Seteth has little doubt that the knowledge of this book would be considered equally heretical. At the very least, their curious origin would only make the situation more precarious.
Fascinating, yet also disappointing. As per usual, he will have to sooner or later secret them away in Abyss. In the meantime, however, perhaps he could learn something.
Seteth glances at the paperwork scattered on his desk. The work always piles up like this as the year draws to an end. There are budgets to draw up, inspections to be made, final exams to write, new students to be registered and acclimated. And that's before he considers the graduation celebrations, the New Year's festival, all sorts of other affairs to formally begin 1180, and so on...
These may need to stay here a little longer for Seteth to actually learn something.
I head to the dining hall for a quick dinner. By now, most of the students have cleared out, only leaving a few late-working acolytes and soldiers. I grab a plate of vegetable stir-fry, sit down, and dig in.
Eating alone is a weird experience. I used to be terrified of it when I was a freshman. I would look around at the long tables in the dining hall, filled with friends laughing and joking, and would get jealous that I didn't have that twenty-four-seven. Even though I knew well that I had friends, eating alone would make me feel, well, alone. Until I actually did it a few times and realized that it's a relief to be able to tune out the rest of the world for a few minutes and just relax and enjoy your food. Or, try not to hate it, in the case of some of the dining halls back on campus.
Thankfully, the food here is excellent. I might've preferred the soup at lunch, but the stir-fry is no slouch. But my mind wanders again to the concept of being alone. How alone am I? Does Cyril hate me after what happened? Even if I held back my true thoughts about Caius Goneril to Seteth, I meant what I said when I took the blame for it.
But as for if it will happen again? That, I can't say. I know I can't fit in here. Even if a few people are nice enough to me, that's all that there is. Nice enough. And as for the people who aren't nice enough, Caius Goneril is small fry compared to the real big players. The shadow of the Archbishop looms large over me, not to mention the three basket-case lords.
How long can I hide?
A/N: Thank you guys so much for all the support! Almost 30 reviews, 100 favorites, and over 100 follows from the first chapter! I know a lot of you came from Earthborne, but still, this is more than I could ask for. I hope the story continues to impress and live up to your expectations! As always, I have to thank my awesome beta readers, ThreeDollarBratwurst and Syntaxis. Your TDB out-of-context quote for this update is "I didn't think I'd have to clarify this one, but "already married" is also a categorical left swipe" and your Syn out-of-context quote is "Just the perks of living in truck testicles land."
Some review responses:
TechManuel - Thank you! I'm as excited for it as you are!
StormtideLeviathan - I'm glad to hear you're enjoying the story! Seteth and Flayn were a ton of fun to write and I am looking forward to writing more and more of them.
OtaconGamer777 - Hope this addressed your concern about the books, haha.
hypermaxcookiez - Thank you! I'm glad I got the panic of that initial scene across.
Sakura108645 - Awesome! I can't wait to get farther into the actual story.
Morrowing - Again, I hope this chapter adequately addresses what exactly Seteth's thoughts on the books are and his plans with them. As for others judging Harrison harshly, you have a point but I think it's not exactly realistic to suggest that everyone will immediately take well to a random stranger, either. My intent with this chapter (and the next few) is to strike a balance between the two extremes.
Bridd - I don't believe it's too much of a spoiler to suggest that Harrison will not be a janitor for the entire fic. Eventually he will move on to bigger things. What exactly that looks like and how, I'm not telling yet.
DestructionDragon360 - At the moment, this Harrison would be a zero-star unit. Utterly combat-incapable.
Caellach Tiger Eye - As always thank you so much for your detailed review. I've received some mixed feedback about my characterization of Seteth but I'm glad you were picking up generally what I was going for (and you were reading levels into it that I wasn't even consciously thinking about - not to say they're invalid at all, it's actually super cool!) Both Seteth and Flayn were a ton of fun to write and some of my favorite characters from the game. All the considerations you point out about the various movers and shakers of the story are totally valid and factors that Harrison will have to wrestle with - but we'll have to see how it all shakes out in the long run.
Sigmatic - Well, if you can't poke fun at yourself, who can you poke fun at? I can't say anything about who will live or die, of course.
SolarxBlack - I wonder what you think of the revelation from this chapter.
Call Brig On Over - The world of Three Houses is definitely a rough one.
V01dSw0rd - A chamberlain is an official that manages the household ("chamber") affairs of the royal family, and most importantly has power over the household's money. The real-life Catholic Church had papal chamberlains which tended to be an honorary title, so in real history it is not unprecedented for a religious organization to use the term by analogy with nobility. I considered "Holy Chamberlain" an appropriate title for Seteth's role given this information. He is Rhea's second-in-command, but sticks to managing mundane matters such as the Officers Academy, monastery security, hiring and firing personnel (like Harrison), the budget, that sort of thing. Rhea outranks him by virtue of being the Archbishop, but he answers only to her. Nothing to do with chamberpots whatsoever.
guest - Your pessimism saddens me. Even if I'm focusing on this fic for the moment to get it off the ground, I don't plan on giving up on Earthborne.
Not The fish - Apparently you weren't the only person who had that happen to you. Still, I hope you enjoy!
Ilat-2 - Perfectly understandable. I hope by the time you get around to reading the fic (and this A/N) you're enjoying it!
To everyone else who reviewed, thank you all for your comments and I'm glad to hear you're enjoying the story!
Also, come hang out on our Discord server with TDB and Syn and me: discord . gg / A27Ngyj (remove spaces). I can also be found occasionally at the Fanfiction Treehouse server, discord . gg / 9XG3U7a . Hope to see you guys around!