The next day, Cyril and I have much the same rotation of tasks. We clean more floors, we organize more supplies, we do other odd jobs. The one distinctly new and interesting task is working in the library.
Maybe it's just because I'm a nerd who's into this sort of stuff, but I find it by far the most impressive location in the monastery besides the cathedral. The place has two stories, with shelves lined wall to wall, floor to ceiling with books. Even more tomes sit in stacks on wheeled carts. Several students sit at desks, poring over texts and writing in notebooks with quill pens by the light of brass candlesticks. That's right—Annette mentioned something about a final exam yesterday. I guess even the future military and political upper-crust of the continent have to hit the books sometimes, just like anyone else.
My eyes are drawn to a tall sculpture in the center of the room—a giant globe cast in bronze. I can't study it too much, though, because Cyril drags me along to the stacks. We work diligently to dust the shelves, careful not to disturb the busy students. I'm afraid of being noticed by Tomas, the kindly-but-actually-evil librarian. I've managed to miss Rhea and the lords for a few days now, but now I have to be in a situation where my meeting of one of the only objectively evil fuckers is all but assured. Just my luck, though I suppose it was eventually bound to happen. Law of large numbers or something.
I distract myself from the thought by reading the book titles as we move from shelf to shelf. There's a whole corner dedicated exclusively to copies of the Book of Seiros, and a smaller adjacent section for the Book of the Saints. Did Cichol, Cethleann, Macuil and Indech actually write stuff back in the day? Or is it just about them? I'm tempted to check it out, but I don't know the procedure for reading books or borrowing them or anything like that, so I content myself with just looking at the selection for the time being.
Once I move out of the Corner of State Religion, the titles diversify a lot. Often entire rows of books are devoted to the same subject, a series of volumes laid out in encyclopedic style. There's everything from historical and political works—things like Registers of the Nobility for all three countries, Law and Justice in the Adrestian Empire, or The History of Fódlan, which is actually part of a series—to all the battlefield knowledge you could need: Arms and Armor, Elementary Tactics, Maneuvers and Gambits. There are books on math and magic, Crests and Relics, the logistics of armies, navies and air units.
That's a lot of heavy shit. Cool shit, of course, at least for some of it, but it's all heavy academic reading. Still, I bet the lower-level tactics books wouldn't totally go over my head. And I can't help but admit the prospect of learning a thing or two about how magic is actually done is exciting. But that's not my job. My job is to try to fit in, stay alive, and clean. I ought to give that one volume of The History of Fódlan that I borrowed from Seteth a read—it'll be useful on that front, and it's something to start with.
Once Cyril and I are done with the lower level, we clean the perimeter of the room, reserving a full clean for a time when the place is less occupied. We move onto the upper floor. Here, there are far fewer desks, but far fewer students as well. A hunchbacked man in long, loose white robes pushes along a cart of books, pausing occasionally to reshelve one or two. The man is clearly elderly, his face wrinkled and his hair graying and thinning. Fuck, that's him! Tomas, or perhaps more accurately, Solon, mage in the employ of Those Who Slither in the Dark.
Come on, Harrison, don't stare. Don't give yourself away. Focus on dusting and sweeping with Cyril. I distract my wandering mind again by reading book titles. The volumes here are much more lighthearted in nature than the serious academic study of the first floor. Fiction, legends and mythology: Loog and the Maiden of Wind, Legends of Chivalry, The Merchant of Derdriu. Books about gardening, almanacs of fishing and cookbooks. Self-help, too, weirdly enough: How To Be Tidy and Make Him Fall For You in a Fortnight. Look at that: it's been years since I've played Awakening, but that's one of the books Cordelia reads trying to win over Chrom, right? I guess no matter what fictional continent you're on, there's a market for unrequited love.
I can't continue that line of thought any further, though, as Cyril and I come face to face with the man himself.
Tomas speaks before I can say anything. "Hello there," he says, a slight smile spread across his thin lips.
My gut flips. Even though I was prepared for this, seeing it in real life is something else entirely. I know this guy's an impostor. He's not Tomas, that smile and that face and that voice aren't his. For a fleeting moment, I involuntarily imagine his wrinkled skin peeling away like a mask. I want out so, so bad. Play-acting around normal human beings is one thing, but this? I didn't sign up for this. But I don't exactly have a choice. I do my best to hold it together and muster up a smile of my own.
"Hi, Tomas," Cyril says. He turns to me. "Harrison, this is Tomas, the librarian. Tomas, this is Harrison. Seteth's having him help me out with my tasks around the monastery."
"Is that so?" Tomas asks. "Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Harrison."
"A pleasure to meet you as well," I reply, doing my best to maintain a neutral tone, maybe even erring on the side of friendly.
"I would stay and chat, but I have duties to attend to," he says, gesturing to the books on his cart. "Given the upcoming final examinations, the students are using the books at a remarkable rate. Though it creates more labor for myself, I am happy to see them avail themselves of the resources here."
No you're not, you lying fuck. You don't give a shit. You're just counting down the months till you can pop your little secret and terrorize a village of innocents. I am staring at an agent of evil, I remind myself. I dig my fingernails into my palms.
"Yeah, we've got quite a bit of work ahead of us ourselves," Cyril replies. Yes, keep talking, so I don't have to.
"Of course. Let me know if there is anything you need."
Tomas gives us one last nod and a passing glance before turning back to reshelving the books. I exhale through my nose. Did I expose myself there? I don't think I did. I'm just being paranoid, right?
Cyril and I get back to wrapping up our work. I clean with a robotic rigidity. I'm not even trying to distract myself by doing anything silly like reading book titles. Just being around Tomas rubs me the wrong way, and now he knows who I am. All I can do is just pray I'm beneath the notice of the Agarthans.
When we're finished, I'm all too happy to head down those stairs and leave the library behind. I thought I might like to spend some time there before, but now, all I feel is a lingering sense of dread gnawing at my insides.
Aside from that, the rest of the week passes in a blur. Cyril and I keep busy from sunup till sundown, doing much the same sort of work we've been doing before. If there's a floor in the monastery, I guarantee you we've cleaned it—everything from the cathedral, to the audience and reception halls, to the student dormitories and the dining hall. And if any sort of supplies need moving around or organizing, I guarantee you we've done that, too.
The work is tedious, naturally, but I find myself adapting to it more quickly than I'd expect. Living up to Cyril's exacting specifications isn't easy, but the sense of utter exhaustion that I felt after the first day or two is slowly fading. My dad used to tell me that ninety percent of everything is just showing up. Granted, I think he mangled that quote from somewhere else, but it's stuck with me, and it's how I feel about this work now. Most of this is just showing up and doing what Cyril tells me. And that's not bad. It's hard labor, but it's what I do.
Or maybe that's just the cognitive dissonance talking. If you can get people to convince themselves that, no really, they actually enjoyed turning knobs for an hour by paying them just one dollar as opposed to 20, I guess it would be pretty easy to convince me that I am enjoying this by paying me in nothing but survival in a terrifying foreign world.
Of course, that terrifying foreign world is made significantly less terrifying by the fortunate fact that I haven't had to return to the library, or had the displeasure of encountering Professor Goneril more than merely in passing. We've been more careful about checking for him before cleaning the Golden Deer classroom, but it's also possible that we set him off so much the other day that he's taken it upon himself to change his habits. Maybe that's giving a little too much credit to an entitled noble asshole. But whatever it is, it certainly makes that ninety-percent of things a hell of a lot easier.
After I finish reporting back on… what must be the fifth day I've been here, I think, Seteth motions for me to come closer. I do so.
"These are your wages for the week," he says. "Deducting the expenses for your room and board, as well as the requisite tithe to the Church, naturally."
"Naturally," I repeat, as he hands me a few coins. I'm surprised I even got paid, honestly. Who said anything about cognitive dissonance? I put them in my pocket without much further thought.
"As you may know, tomorrow is Praesday, a holy day for the faithful adherents to the Church of Seiros," Seteth continues. I don't know what Praesday is—it certainly wasn't mentioned in the game—but I don't interrupt him. "It is considered to be a day for rest and prayer. You are not obligated to work on Praesday, but you are strongly encouraged to attend the morning service in the cathedral."
Ninety percent of everything is just showing up.
"I understand," I reply. I'm tempted to ask exactly when in the morning it is, but since I've been getting into the route of waking up early anyway, it shouldn't be a problem. But that's only the beginning of my concerns. "Uh, what is Praesday, exactly? Is it a holiday, or—"
Seteth sighs, and I shut my mouth. "I suppose the days of the week must be different in your home," he says. "Though I am surprised it took this long for it to become an issue."
"It's not strictly relevant to my work," I counter. "I mean that with all due respect."
"Fair enough." Seteth nods. "Praesday is the seventh day of the week. Prae, from the Divine Tongue, meaning 'blue'; priests ultimately derive from the term for 'those who wear blue.'"
I don't think that's the actual English etymology of the word, but I don't really know. And what's the Divine Tongue? "Those who wear blue?" I have a billion questions, but I shove them down. Seteth's patience is already razor-thin.
He continues. "The days of the week are, in order, Solday, Lunday, Calday, Vulcday, Thorday, Glisday, and Praesday."
"Sol and luna I recognize," I reply. "Sun and moon."
"You do?" Seteth furrows his brow.
Shit, am I knowing something I'm not supposed to know? This time I'm not even lying or trying to hide anything! "They're Latin, I think," I reply, the words coming in bursts as I try to untangle myself from this one. "Or Greek. No, helios is Greek for sun. Latin, then. Old languages from my world," I explain. Well, Greek is still around, but Seteth doesn't need to know the gory details.
"I see," he replies. "Curious as ever. Still, I am afraid you will have to find someone else to teach you the days of the week if you are so inclined. I am otherwise quite occupied."
"Yes, sir," I reply. "One last question, if you don't mind: is it a problem that I don't know the prayers? Or that I don't have something nice to wear?"
Seteth shakes his head. "All faithful people are accepted by the Goddess as they are," he says. "If you are concerned about appearances, not attending the service may appear more conspicuous than merely remaining quiet."
"I guess that makes sense," I reply.
Seteth nods. "I do not aim to make your life more difficult than necessary," he explains. "Given this arrangement, we share certain…" his voice trails off as he gestures with his hand. "Common interests."
I nod in reply. "I can get behind common interests."
"Very well. If there is no other business to discuss, I must ask you to move along," he says.
I nod and bid him a quick farewell before leaving. "See you at services tomorrow."
I head back to my room after a quick dinner at the dining hall, and sit on the cot. Services are tomorrow morning—what will they be like? Well, they are a Church, with priests and bishops and cardinals. I can only begin to conceive of some fantasy reinterpretation of a Christian mass, as imagined by Japanese game developers. The fact is that as a card-carrying Nice Jewish Boy, having only set foot in a real church a handful of times, my own expectations are vague at best.
Perhaps that's better. I can go into it with an open mind and try to learn something useful about the faith. Tethering it to my own reality presupposes that this world I'm living in, a world that's staring right back at me with its bare reality, is or was a fictional construction. Who knows why Praesday is their holy day? There must be a reason. It's not like Seiros had a resurrection. Maybe it goes back to their creation story, like Shabbat on Saturday in my own religion. But the fastest way to learn is to go.
But considering my own religion again makes me uneasy. Not saying or knowing the prayers is one thing—Seteth seems to think I can get away with it—but what if I'm called up to affirm Sothis or participate in some kind of ritual? I won't know what to do, and that's scary on its own, but that's not the whole of it. Even though I don't consider myself very religious at all, the thought of having to publicly perform another religion doesn't really sit right with me, either.
It's like the old stories they taught us in Hebrew school made real. We are the ones who are still Jewish because our ancestors never gave it up. Because people fought and died for it. The old joke goes: every holiday is "They tried to kill us. We won. Let's eat." Am I going to sell that out to a bunch of green-haired lizard-people? Does that make me a coward?
The thought makes me sick to my stomach. I need to do something to take my mind off it.
I fish around for the coins in my pocket—five, I count out. Not doing the stereotypes any favors, am I? Still, I haven't actually taken a look at them yet.
The brass shines ever so slightly in the dim light, each coin maybe a bit bigger than a quarter. I have absolutely zero concept of what this will buy me, but I study the coins a bit further out of curiosity. One side bears a portrait of Seiros, with her winged circlet and a flower tucked into her hair, as well as her name and what I assume is the year of minting—IY (Imperial Year?) 1179. Does the Church mint its own money? That's pretty insane. Maybe it'll say on the back.
The reverse of each coin has the Crest of Seiros, surrounded by four words in delicate, yet imposing capitals: SWORD CHILD WINGS VOICE. Maybe these are minted by the Church. Even with brass coins, which I assume to be low in value, Rhea doesn't play around when it comes to self-aggrandizing. I flip a coin ever again and stare back at the Seiros portrait. I haven't even seen Rhea—Seiros—yet in person, but I'm sure I will tomorrow. There's no hiding anymore, except in plain sight.
Let's hope my ninety-percent is good enough.
Morning rolls around and I wake, stretching and yawning. I put on my uniform and head to the cathedral. Students, knights, and acolytes are all on their way as well. I guess I'm lucky enough to be right on time.
When Cyril and I were sweeping and cleaning the cathedral for the past week, the room felt empty and hollow. The candelabras we had swept so carefully around are lit, giving the cathedral a warm glow, and the whole place is bustling with people milling about and finding their seats in the pews.
I scan the crowd for anyone I recognize. Farthest back, closest to me, and the greatest in number, are the regular staff like me, as well as the monks and acolytes. Some are in tunics and trousers of sober, drab colors, like the ones I wear. Others wear simple robes in similar styles. Actually, come to think of it, the common soldiers are in this group, too. Most people aren't wearing armor to church—it would be pretty uncomfortable, I imagine. I should probably file in with this group, but some part of me cries out to look for Cyril, Seteth, Flayn, someone who I know before I'm cast adrift in the void of complete and utter ignorance of this religion.
So I head around the side, weaving between people as I inch towards the front. Now, I see the knights' officers, actually wearing armor, some with swords at their sides. I hope it's merely a ceremonial gesture. I'm able to pick out Catherine among the group, at the end of a row about ten from the front. Cyril is standing there, too, so maybe it's okay if I hop in there with him. I slide into this row, and the two greet me.
"Hey there," Catherine says. "Harrison, right?"
"That's right," I reply. "Looks like I got here just in time."
Cyril nods. "You said ya haven't even seen Lady Rhea before, yeah? Well, you'll get the chance to see her lead the service today."
I'm still not sure how I feel about that myself, but I mumble some vague assent and let my eyes wander, sizing up the rest of the crowd.
The stratification of people in attendance becomes even more apparent based on their clothing. In front of us are the students, who stand out in their black-and-gold academy uniforms. Ahead of them are priests, wearing white robes with navy blue trim. Furthest in the front are what appear to be the upper echelons of the church administration: clergymen (and women) clad in layers of white and blue vestments, embellished with silver-thread embroidery and decorative tassels. There are a handful wearing even more elaborate outfits with golden braid, plus hats or veiled headdresses. Are they bishops? Cardinals? Well, they can't be cardinals. If I'm remembering right, Seiros cardinals are a whole other kind of fucked. There are knights in full armor, with flowing red-and-white capes. And standing in the frontmost pews are two very familiar heads of green hair, one taller and one smaller.
"Hello," a high-pitched, breathy voice says from my left. "Do you need a prayer book?
I whirl around to my side. Standing in the aisle is a young woman, just an inch or two shorter than me, with long, sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, wearing a beige shawl over a student uniform. It's Mercedes! She's holding a small stack of blue books, the same that the other acolytes are distributing.
Caught off-guard, I stammer for a moment. "Sure," I manage to get out, offering an awkward half-smile.
Mercedes giggles, though it doesn't feel mean-spirited—like she's laughing with me, not at me. "Here you go," she says, handing me one. She gestures to Cyril and Catherine. "Would anyone else like one?"
Cyril shakes his head.
Catherine laughs. "I know them all by heart!" she boasts.
Of course she does. It's easy to forget how dyed-in-the-wool Catherine is, given her easygoing and friendly affect. She knows everything and I know nothing. I feel a pit forming in my stomach. This is gonna be bad.
"That's wonderful!" Mercedes says with a smile. I bet if her hands weren't full she'd clasp them. She bows slightly. "Blessings of the goddess."
"Her blessings, always." Cyril and Catherine reply in unison.
Mercedes skips off to the next row.
My two companions give me a skeptical look. I feel my face heating up. I was supposed to respond with them, wasn't I? It's a call-and-response greeting, obviously. But there's no way I could have known what to say.
"What was that about?" Catherine asks.
"Huh?" I mumble half-heartedly.
"You didn't return her greeting," Catherine says. Her tone is firm, but not outright hostile. "Why not? She seems nice enough, right?"
I sigh. I should probably come clean about not knowing what to do. Get the awkwardness out of the way now, rather than have it happen during services, when I won't be able to say anything in my defense.
"I didn't know that was something you were supposed to do," I say carefully.
Cyril cocks his head. "Really? That's one of the first things I learned from Lady Rhea," he says. "Along with the Five Eternal Commandments and the Revelation." Fantastic—more shit I need to learn. And I'm not even a student.
Catherine nods. "If someone says 'blessings of the goddess,' you reply with 'her blessings, always,'" she explains. "That's just politeness, and Church tradition."
"Thanks," I reply, and bite my lip. I struggle with what to say next. "I really mean it. I didn't have a very religious upbringing, so this is all new to me, you know?"
"I getcha," Cyril says, surprisingly enough. "I was an outsider to it all too once. And I still have a lot more to learn."
Catherine, on the other hand, just gives me another sidelong glance.
I bashfully look away, not really able to say anything more, and stare at the prayer book. Common Rites of the Church of Seiros is all the blue cover says. Time has yellowed its uneven pages and worn its edges and corners. The binding, while still holding strong, begins to fray at the top and bottom. How many students, monks, or knights have come and gone holding this book in their hands? I have no way of knowing.
Yet as I study the book, I can feel Catherine still studying me. Fan-fucking-tastic. I was rude to Mercedes and embarrassed myself in front of two of the few people who seem to want to give me the time of day, and the service hasn't even really started yet. I exhale deeply, nervously tracing my finger around the contours of the prayer book's embossed title, as if I could absorb the requisite knowledge by osmosis.
Except that's not how learning works. If I want to avoid shit like this, I need to actively decide to. So I commit the saying to memory. Blessings of the goddess. Her blessings, always. Blessings of the goddess. Her blessings, always. Blessings of the goddess…
I swear I can feel my heart beat to the syllabic rhythm of the words.
Soon, the milling about and ambient chatter cease. All is silent as the Archbishop strides in from the side entrance. Rhea's gait is even, elegant and poised with a millennium of practice, her appearance and manner unnervingly immaculate. It is as though she is perfectly cognizant of exactly how many steps it will take her to get from the doorway to the altar, and of the precise way the light catches on the golden fabric of her cape, glistening with the brocaded sign of her own Crest. She seems in complete control of the movements of every muscle in her body, every strand of green hair, and every thread of her vestments, from the golden fringes of her navy-blue mantle to the dark tassels of her headdress.
Rhea walks around the altar, gracefully ascends to the pulpit, and stands in front of the stone lectern. She says nothing for a moment, and the cathedral remains deathly quiet. It might be irrational, but fuck, I'm a little scared. I'm sure for everyone else this is routine, but seeing Rhea in real life is something else. Any second, she's going to make eye contact with me and find me out. Standing next to Cyril and Catherine was a mistake. I don't belong here. I've already shown that. And even though I know it's not true, some part of me feels like Rhea can hear me thinking it.
I swallow hard.
Rhea turns around. She looks upwards, extending her arms out. "Dear goddess, may our prayers, our worship, our hearts, our minds and our souls be acceptable to you. May you receive us kindly on this day of rest and prayer. We dedicate our service to your incomparable glory, now and forevermore." Her voice is smooth, gentle, yet authoritative and compelling. I glance at Cyril and Catherine—only moving my eyes, not daring to budge my head. They remain utterly transfixed on Rhea. This is the effect she has on people.
The Archbishop turns around once again and faces the congregation. "You may be seated," she says.
I sink into the pew like my body is made of lead. Everyone else sits down somewhat less violently.
"We shall begin by honoring our goddess through song, celebrating her divine creations."
With that, Rhea continues right into singing a hymn. A chorus of angelic voices joins her, as well as the organ with a booming, strong sound. I suppress the urge to turn around to check, but I'm almost certain there's a choir up on the balcony. I open the prayer book, and, sure enough, I'm able to find what they're singing, right on the first page. Thank you, Mercedes. Perhaps fitting for an opening prayer, this one glorifies the goddess as a creator.
The goddess glimpsed a barren land
Her journey was long, her vision was clear
She made it her home, by her holy hand
And she breathed life into our Fódlan dear.
I glance over at Cyril and Catherine once again, and look around at the others. Catherine is heartily singing along, and she's in good company. Cyril knows some of the words, mumbling and mouthing at parts. Of course, even if I have the words in front of me, I don't know the music, so I can't exactly sing along. The best I can hope to do is follow and nod.
The song continues for a few more verses, describing how Sothis created plants and animals, birds in the sky and fish in the sea. It ends by celebrating the creation of humanity, and the goddess endowing them with four limbs and the intangible, divine soul. Huh.
More hymns are sung—one exclusively about Saint Seiros, another about the wisdom of the Four Saints, and so on. I'm able to follow along in the book, perfectly in order, one after the next. But following the words with my finger, deprived of real understanding, doesn't make me feel like an insider. It makes me feel like a child. A scared, lonely, confused child.
Eventually, at the end of a hymn, Rhea speaks to the congregation once more. "Today, of course, is the final choir festival of this year, just at the cusp of spring. It is by the goddess's sacred design that our year has four seasons, and we mark each one with the joyous festivities of song."
Choir festival? I remember that being an event on the calendar of Three Houses. And of course, my first day at Church has to be one of them.
On cue, the choir launches into another song. This one is seasonal, emphasizing the role of the goddess in bringing on the joy and beauty of spring, and how blessed we are to bear witness to it. The songs are sweet and inoffensive enough, and the choral performance is pleasant to listen to. But as I try to let myself relax and just listen, I can't. The feeling of unbelongingness clings to me uncomfortably, like a sweaty shirt. But unlike a sweaty shirt, it's not something I can just take off and hop in the shower. It's inescapable.
I certainly don't feel very blessed.
What's interesting is that the congregation isn't joining in this one, and I can't find its text in the prayer book. The next two songs continue the same way. I can only surmise that they're special additions for the choir festival.
"Thank you all," Rhea says. "The sound of your voices, the faith behind the words you sing, brings glory and holiness to the goddess's name. This evening, the choir shall be performing additional rituals for the choir festival here in the Cathedral. This performance was but a sample. For now, however, we must continue with other rites."
Should I go to the later rituals, too? That might almost look more suspicious if I don't know what to do there. Or maybe that's just me trying to get out of it because it makes me so goddamn uncomfortable.
Rhea continues, serene as ever. "I shall read from the Book of Seiros, the chronicles of our faith's history—the infallible word of our founder, and through her, the divine word of the goddess. As this year, Imperial Year 1179, comes to its end, so too does the story of Saint Seiros, after she slew Nemesis, the corrupted King of Liberation, at the Battle of Tailtean."
But I swear I can see the slightest hint of a smile break out on her face, even from back here.
She begins reading. "Now when Nemesis was slain by Saint Seiros, she raised her holy sword with a rallying cry: 'This is the power of the goddess! There is no sword more mighty, no shield more sturdy, and no ally more steadfast than she.' And when the armies of Nemesis heard her cry and saw that their leader had been slain, they were routed, and scattered from the Tailtean Plains.
"When the great battle had finished, Emperor Lycaon, son of the first Emperor Wilhelm Paul von Hresvelg, assembled the Ten Elites, his generals and knights and men-at-arms, as well as the five Saints. Emperor Lycaon knelt before Saint Seiros and wept: 'Divine Seiros, you have avenged my father! You have my eternal gratitude.' Saint Seiros looked at the kneeling Emperor and said: 'It is the goddess's will that has avenged your father. Rise, Emperor Lycaon; though this battle has been won, many foes still remain.' When Saint Seiros told this to him, Emperor Lycaon knew at once that this was so, and rose to his feet, giving orders to the Ten Elites and his generals to search for and destroy the enemies that lay hidden."
Well, knowing what I know about the game, it's not hard to spot the lies in the official proceedings. The Elites were Nemesis's allies, not Seiros's. And that rallying cry that Seiros gave out is probably pure fiction, given that opening cutscene of her cradling the Sword of the Creator, a broken woman who had herself avenged her mother by striking the fatal blow. But if what Lycaon said is conveyed accurately, then that means that Wilhelm most likely died at Nemesis's hand. I'm not quite sure what to do with that information, but it's interesting.
"Saint Seiros turned to her companions, the Four Saints, and the priests and knights and men-at-arms and acolytes in her service. And to them she said: 'My dear companions, my work as a warrior has ended, and now I must embark on a journey alone.' And soon after she departed, walking south. On the eleventh day of the Lone Moon, Saint Seiros had reached Zanado, the Red Canyon. When she reached the top of the canyon, she cast aside her golden armor, her red cape, her sword and shield, and traded them for garments of blue, white, and gold."
Something is disturbing me about Rhea reading this account, but I can't quite put my finger on it. It's a bizarre experience that floats between truth and fiction, like when you think you've woken up in your bed only to realize you're still dreaming. There's something unsettling about Rhea describing her own actions as Saint Seiros, knowing that some of this is true and some of this is false, but I have no idea where exactly the line is drawn. Did Seiros do this? Was it on the eleventh day of the Lone Moon? I have no idea, and that's fine. What bothers me is that Rhea does, and yet she reads it all in the same practiced, measured cadence.
"On the eighteenth day of the Lone Moon, the Four Saints, with the most devout and faithful of the followers of Seiros, came to Zanado. When they questioned Saint Seiros as to her new vestments, she answered: 'My work as a warrior is finished. My work now is to guide the people through the will of the goddess. Carmine red is the color of Imperial warriors and battle-standards and so shall, with white, remain a color of my Knights. But the clergy of my Church shall wear garments of white and indigo blue, dyed with woad, as I do. For blue is the color of the goddess's holy blood, and the Blue Sea Star where the goddess dwells.' Then Saint Seiros led her companions away from Zanado, to the high peaks of the Oghma Mountains. And so Saint Seiros and her companions came to dwell there and founded the Central Church."
I did say I was skeptical, but when she started making very specific prescriptions about clothing, that Old Testament flair made me feel right at home.
Rhea closes the book, and suddenly, the intensity in her voice softens, the show of strength giving way to an outwardly gentle tone. "As always, the Book of Seiros provides us with wisdom, strength, courage and inspiration to persevere through the challenges of this world. And this time is no less challenging than any other. After all, you are doubtless all aware that there is only one Praesday left in the year 1179."
Well, I wasn't, but I'll file that away for future reference. Days of the week aside, I can use that to pin down what date it is exactly, something I surprisingly have not been able to do so just yet.
Rhea continues. "It is these times that bring the perspective of our lives into view. Within a mere thirty or so days, students will have graduated, and new ones will begin their studies. So much appears to change so quickly. Just a handful of weeks ago, we contended with frost and snow, yet today's choir festival heralds the coming of spring."
I bite my lip, considering the disingenuousness of a millennium-old being saying this.
"But even as things change, there are unchanging constants. Why is this moon known as the Lone Moon? Some say it is a reminder of this inescapable truth, that we all must walk our chosen paths alone. And you all will note that, as we have read on this day: under the Lone Moon, Saint Seiros herself, having defeated the wicked Nemesis, set forth alone on her path to the Red Canyon, to the founding of the Central Church, the site upon which our beloved Garreg Mach would be built." Rhea gestures to the grand furnishings of the cathedral as if to emphasize her point.
"Yet consider that Saint Seiros was never truly alone. With her faith and divine grace, Saint Seiros always had the most powerful ally: the goddess herself. As we follow in Saint Seiros's example, we are never alone, either. The blessings of the goddess are always with us. As faithful adherents, we obey her commandments and walk in her path of grace. The goddess shall never forsake us."
The words ring hollow to my ears. I'm all alone here, even next to Cyril and Catherine. I've been forsaken by whatever deity may or may not have jurisdiction here. For a moment, I find myself angry, projecting it onto Rhea. It's not her fault I am in this situation, of course. But her being her isn't making my life any easier.
Rhea nods slightly. "Thank you for your time and your consideration," she says. It strikes me as a surprisingly humble thing for her to say. "We shall conclude our discussion of the Book of Seiros and prepare for the Rite of Anointing by reciting the goddess's Five Eternal Commandments."
Everyone stands, and I do the same.
"Dare not doubt or deny the power or existence of the goddess," Rhea calls.
The congregation responds by repeating it verbatim back out at her. I stay silent.
"Dare not speak the goddess's name in vain. Dare not disrespect your father, mother, or any who serve the goddess. Dare not abuse the power gifted to you by the goddess. Dare not kill, harm, lie, or steal, unless such acts are committed by the will of the goddess."
Each commandment is followed by the response from the congregation. But even as Cyril and Catherine chant them enthusiastically, I can't bring myself to join in.
Rhea nods and continues. "The goddess cares for and protects all that is beautiful in this world," she proclaims. "The goddess will never deny the splendors of love, affection, joy, peace, faith, kindness, temperance, modesty, or patience. Follow her example and, in doing so, abide her laws."
Rhea descends from the pulpit to the altar. She holds up a decorative bowl above her head, for all the congregation to view. "This is sacred oil, purified in the goddess's name," she announces. Even without the aid of height, her voice projects perfectly well. A millennium of practice will do that.
"When Saint Seiros crowned Wilhelm Paul von Hresvelg the Adrestian Emperor, she anointed him and his companions with this oil. As they received their divine mission and power from the goddess, and undertook their vows to make the will of the goddess reality, so too do we prepare to receive her grace and undertake her divine will."
She places her bowl down, and grabs something else from the altar: a sword, which she raises with her right arm. Its zigzag curvature is unmistakable—it's the Sword of Seiros, or else a replica. She places her left hand in the bowl of oil. "May our recitation of your word, as given by the divine Seiros, please you, dear goddess. Our invocation of her aspects readies us to receive your blessings through the Rite of Anointing."
Rhea says words in a language that I don't clearly understand or recognize, but with the smoothness and clarity of an obvious native. I hear words like Seiros and Sothis, with the pronunciations slightly altered but still recognizable. Is this the Divine Tongue Seteth was talking about?
Rhea switches back to English—-or, I suppose, Adrestian. "As the goddess's sword, Seiros wards away evil," she says, her voice growing firmer and louder. She slides her hand over the ridge of the sword, then returns her hand to the oil.
"As the goddess's child, Seiros makes emperors of mortals." She smears some oil on her forehead.
"As the goddess's wings, Seiros elevates her people." She rubs more oil on her temples, around the flowers in her hair, though she doesn't disturb it enough to come close to revealing her ears. Smart.
"As the goddess's voice, Seiros spreads the word of love." She traces the outline of her mouth with her finger.
The congregation chants the response in unison, catching me off guard with its sudden intensity: "That sublime sword is entrusted to you. Those emperors are crowned before you. Those wings clear your path. That voice whispers words of trust."
"May the blessings of the goddess be with you, always," Rhea calls back.
The rite sends a shiver down my spine. Everything else about this service seemed fairly standard, even if I was new to it all. But I was unprepared for this Rite of Anointing.
This is the ritual climax of the service, the symbolic reenactment of the foundation of the Empire and its sanctification through Seiros's blessing. Everything goes back to that. Everything goes back to Saint Seiros: sword, child, wings, voice. That was the inscription on those coins, too. What unsettles me is not that the rite is strange and unfamiliar, though that's certainly not helping matters. What I come to realize is that foreknowledge from the game is one thing, but living this world is another, and I have a lot more work ahead of me if I want to fit in, especially under the watchful eye of Rhea.
Services close out with another hymn, but I find I can't focus on it. I find myself studying Rhea as she joins the clergy, the choir and the people in song.
When the song is over, Rhea thanks the congregation. "May the blessings of the goddess be with you, always," she repeats.
Everyone remains quiet and still as she descents from the altar platform and departs the room, her exit exactly as graceful and measured as her entry.
I exhale. Rhea is gone, and I feel a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.
Quickly, the room returns to its pre-service manner. While a good number of people shuffle out of the cathedral in short order, many hang around chatting. Cyril says he has some things to take care of and dashes off, while Catherine strikes up a conversation with a nearby knight that she seems to know.
I look back at the prayer book, then over at the students a few rows ahead. There's something I need to do.
I search for a head of blonde hair and a beige shawl. Sure enough, I find her helping some monks put away prayer books just as she helped them pass them out. I take another breath and stifle my nerves.
Regardless of what Cyril and Catherine might think of me, I need to make things right with Mercedes. My mind runs through the usual litany of objections: I haven't actually met her yet; I'm making a mountain out of a molehill; this will only make me stand out more and thus make survival more difficult; I only care about her because she's a character I recognize. Maybe she won't even recognize me! Each reason stings, but I know that Mercedes doesn't deserve to think some random staffer hates her. This is one tiny thing in my control, and I will grant myself that.
"Hi there," I say as I approach, smiling. I hold up the book. "Where should I put this away?"
"Oh, hello again!" Mercedes says, returning the smile. So she does recognize me. Of course, I can't tell if that's a good or a bad thing. "Right here would be perfect."
She shows me to a stack of other books on a cart, and I line mine up with them.
"Thank you," she says.
"Glad I could help," I reply, and freeze. The words that I want to say aren't coming out.
Mercedes's smile drops. "Oh dear! Is something wrong? Are you unwell?"
"No, no, I'm fine," I say, emphatically waving my hand. The next words tumble out of my mouth in disjointed fashion. "I just wanted to say I didn't mean to be rude by not returning your greeting when you gave me the prayer book."
Mercedes looks at me intently, her blue eyes betraying no emotion other than genuine concern.
I give a nervous laugh and continue. "To be honest, I didn't even know it was a thing until now. I didn't exactly grow up—no, you don't really care about that stuff, I guess." I scratch the back of my neck. "My point is, I didn't mean to be rude, and I'm sorry about that misunderstanding."
Mercedes smiles. Thank God. I mean, I didn't doubt it too much, but still, being left in limbo there for that moment was terrifying. "There's no need to apologize," she says. "I only say the greeting because I want to spread the goddess's love, so I wasn't upset. If you hadn't mentioned it, I probably would have completely forgotten by dinnertime!" She laughs.
"Still, it seemed like the right thing to do," I say, matching her smile. "Let's try this again. My name's Harrison. I'm a servant here, if you couldn't tell by the getup."
"My name is Mercedes," she replies. "I'm a student here, in the Blue Lions house."
"Well, it's nice to meet you, Mercedes."
"It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Harrison," she says. And I don't think she's lying.
Mercedes continues. "I don't mean to intrude, but what did you think of the service? I take it you are new to learning about the faith."
"That's one way of putting it," I reply. "I've still got a lot of learning to do, but it's nice. The choir performance was really good." I'm not lying there, either. Nice music that I don't know a goddamn thing about is still nice music.
"Yes, it was wonderful!" Mercedes agrees. "I hope to join the choir and sing in their performances for the seasonal festivals and the Saints' Days, actually. They allow some students to participate."
"Wow, really? That's exciting!"
"Thank you," Mercedes says. Her smile grows wider, wrinkling the corners of her eyes ever so slightly—a genuine smile. "I would encourage you to attend the additional rituals for the choir festivals. Such lovely melodies are sung! Oh, but only if you're comfortable, of course."
I nod. "I'll have to look into it."
No sooner do I finish saying that than an orange-and-black blur races towards Mercedes's side. "Mercie!" It's Annette, of course.
Mercedes laughs and gives her shorter friend an affectionate pat on the shoulder. "There you are, Annie!"
Annette looks from Mercedes to me, and a look of recognition crosses her face. "Wait, I met you the other day, right?"
"Yeah," I reply. "I'm—"
"Wait, wait, don't tell me!" Annette holds up a hand to stop me, then moves it to her temple, tapping her finger against her head. "You're Harrison, right?"
I smile. I'm actually a little surprised! "That's right! And you're Annette."
Annette nods and does a mock curtsy. "Annette Fantine Dominic, at your service."
Mercedes giggles. "Annette has a memory like a steel trap," she says. "That's why she was at the top of our class in the Royal School of Sorcery."
Annette folds her arms and pouts. "You're making it sound like I didn't earn those grades, Mercie! I earned them with sweat and tears and all-nighters!"
The three of us laugh. "Of course I don't mean that," Mercedes says, shaking her head. "I know just how hard you work. Maybe even a little too hard, in fact. The goddess gave us Praesdays for rest for a reason, you know."
"I don't understand how you can do that," Annette replies. "Rest."
"And I don't understand how you can keep your nose in those tomes for so long," Mercedes rebuts.
"Well, I for one am not surprised to hear that Annette is a good student," I interject. "You did mention something about wanting to study before classes have even started. That's serious dedication."
"Someone gets it!" Annette exclaims with a fist pump.
The staccato of boots on the stone floor interrupts our conversation, as a young man with blond hair and severe sky blue eyes approaches us. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Crown Prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, stands before me, in his characteristic blue cape, the hue not far off from the color of copper(II) sulfate. The braid and embroidery of his uniform is silver, unlike the standard gold, complementing the gauntlets and greaves he wears.
Shit, I'm within six feet of royalty. And royalty with a grab bag of issues above my pay grade at that.
"Hello, Annette, Mercedes," Dimitri calls out, giving a slight bow in their direction. "Excuse me for intruding."
"Oh, Your Highness!" Annette says.
"Hello, Dimitri," Mercedes says.
Dimitri turns his eyes to me and quirks a brow. How am I supposed to acknowledge him?
"Hello there," he says to me. "I don't believe we have been acquainted. I am Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, crown prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus."
"Uh, hi," I reply, awkwardly and reflexively. Shit, I've fucked up enough etiquette for one day. I backpedal hurriedly. "I mean, hello, Prince Dimitri. Your Highness. Sir. What's the proper title? I'm sorry, I don't know."
Dimitri shakes his head. "Calm down there, friend. At the academy, I am just another student—just Dimitri will do. And what is your name?"
"Harrison," I reply. I stare at him awkwardly for a moment, not sure if there's something else I need to do. "Er, am I supposed to bow or something? I'm really sorry."
Dimitri sighs. "As I said before, there's no need for such formalities, especially if you are so friendly with my comrades in the Blue Lions."
I allow myself to relax a little. He's right, of course. Mercedes and Annette seem to be genuinely enjoying talking to me, and any friend of theirs logically ought to be a friend of his.
Annette chimes in. "Harrison just started at the monastery, so this must all be new for him," she says, turning to me. "Bet you didn't expect to meet royalty your first week here, huh?"
"That I did not," I say. "Though if the others are as lenient as Pr—I mean, Dimitri—" I get an approving nod "—it shouldn't be that crazy."
Dimitri gives a slight smile. "Perhaps, though it is not my place to pass judgment on my peers," he says.
"Anyway, what did you have to tell us, Dimitri?" Mercedes asks.
"I meant to inform you, Annette and Mercedes, that I am gathering the Blue Lions to dine together shortly," he says. "It would be much appreciated if you would join. Once again, my apologies for the intrusion."
"Certainly," Mercedes says.
"Of course, Your Highness!" Annette says.
"Excellent. I shall see you in the dining hall soon, then." He turns to me. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Harrison."
I nod and return his smile. "Likewise, Dimitri."
Dimitri gathers up some of his cape and gives a short bow before turning away and exiting.
I take a deep breath and turn to look at Mercedes and Annette. "Well, I shouldn't keep you two any longer, right?"
"Yeah, we should probably be going," Annette says. She looks me up and down and laughs. "You're an interesting person, Harrison."
"Am I?" I ask.
Annette nods. "Most people don't act like that around Prince Dimitri. Or call him by his first name so casually! Especially not regular workers."
"It's what he asked for," I reply defensively. "And Mercedes did it too!"
"Yes. If Dimitri wants to be called Dimitri, then I will do as he asks," Mercedes says.
Annette shrugs. "I guess so. I just couldn't bring myself to call the crown prince by his first name!"
Well, unlike with religion, I can't exactly say I wasn't raised that super into-it: social hierarchy isn't something you can opt out of. I need to find a different angle to shut this line of questioning down before I admit something I shouldn't. "Maybe it's because I'm a servant of the church, not his royal subject," I suggest. It feels weird to call myself a servant of the church, but it's not technically inaccurate. "Like he said, he's just another student, same as you two."
"That makes sense," Annette says. "I hadn't thought about it like that."
I nod. "In that case, Annette, Mercedes, I'll see you around," I say. I look Mercedes in the eye. "Blessings of the goddess."
"Her blessings, always," Mercedes repeats, and smiles. "Take care, Harrison."
I give them a small wave goodbye and turn back towards the entrance. The crowd has thinned out significantly by now, so it must be acceptable to leave. I exit the cathedral and start walking back over the bridge to the rest of the monastery.
I take another deep breath. Even if I screwed things up at the beginning, I did manage to make things right with Mercedes, and I think I did half-decent in the presence of Dimitri. The "crown prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus" knows my name, and apparently, we're on decent enough terms. Dimitri, for his faults and problems, isn't the kind of guy to go talk shit about me to the Blue Lions at lunch now.
Most importantly, though, even if I stood out, nobody asked me where I'm from or why I'm here. Nobody gave me problems about my origins. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.
Maybe ninety percent is good enough after all.
A/N: Well, here's chapter 3. I was a little worried about this chapter because this is where I have fun starting worldbuilding in earnest; a lot of thought went into the Church worldbuilding in this chapter. Even if Harrison doesn't know and understand all of the details yet, I laid some groundwork that I hope to show more facets of eventually, as he (and you) get to grips with the reality of this Fódlan. As always, I have to thank my betas, Syntaxis and ThreeDollarBratwurst. Syn hasn't been very active lately so I don't have a great out-of-context quote from her, but from TDB I have "Cheeto dust makes me physically uneasy."
And now for some review responses:
CaptainSidekick: That's an interesting thought! I'm curious what you think of the potential dynamic between Harrison and Catherine now after this chapter, haha.
Bridd: My position on the issue is not going to change. If this fic is not for you as a result, I'm sorry to hear that.
Everpeach: Thank you so much! We'll see if Seteth learns anything, and if so, what.
Stormtide Leviathan: Caius will be sticking around for a bit, that's for sure. Thank you so much for the review!
RandomStoryReader: Thank you! I was worried that some people wouldn't be very interested in reading about the more mundane aspects of Harrison's current position, as in this chapter and last chapter. But I'm glad to hear it's not totally a miss.
Howling Armadillo: I just figured I might as well throw in the soup/stir fry reference. It may not be the last one, though.
TechManuel: You have a very good point. I don't mean to be pedantic, but it's not that "this version" of Harrison doesn't know how to make guns as opposed to in EB; neither of them could do it on their own, not remotely. Even in EB, Harrison didn't know how to make guns from scratch; he just knew vaguely how they worked, and had a team of talented craftsmen and women helping and they needed to do it for survival. That was a long-winded way of saying, part of the justification for why I'm not going to include those kinds of tech-uplift elements here, in addition to what you said, is that in my opinion a very specific set of circumstances are necessary for it to become anywhere close to believable.
Caellach Tiger Eye: Thank you so much for your detailed review, as always! I know we talked about many of your points in PM, but just to make things clear for others, I'm aware that my Professor Caius Goneril does mess with some headcanons or fanon about the mystery 3rd professor, but my aim is always to avoid outright contradicting canon, and when I add in new things or create divergence, maintain a sense of verisimilitude - which I hope Caius Goneril doesn't detract from.
DestructionDragon360: Fair point, but also keep in mind, it is Harrison's first day on the job. There will be time for dealing with Caius later, and eventually he will have to give way for Byleth.
Call Brig On Over: Your point about Seteth is well taken, but I think more than a case of ignorance, it's a case of different priorities - his highest priority is actually keeping Flayn safe and their identities secret. I would also suspect he's in part affected by his own personal relationship with Rhea.
heavenschoir: I'm glad you're enjoying the fic! To be honest, I don't plan on emphasizing any of those "contributions" you outlined. I don't plan for any of that to be the focus of this fic. Sorry if that's disappointing to hear. As for Harrison's "choices", well, one point I'm trying to drive home with these introductory chapters is that he isn't making choices so much as choices are being made for him. Whether that'll be the case forever, and to what extent, we'll have to see.
Thank you everyone for the support, and for all your favorites/follows/reviews! 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!