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“Hubert,” Edelgard says. She’s focused intently on a set of papers in front of her, her mouth twisted in a slight frown and her brow furrowed. Hubert’s known her long enough to recognize her tone and expression as one of intense concentration.
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“How do you…” she trails off, picking up the paper from her desk to better fiddle with it. “If you were to express your… affections to someone, how would you go about it?”
Hubert blinks. In her service, he had long since been prepared and ready to commit massacres, conspire against the goddess, and take on a dozen demonic beasts with only a miasma spell. None of those tasks had stunned him in the slightest.
“Uh.”
Edelgard sets down her paper and looks at him with pensive eyes. Hubert thinks he would rather take on the demonic beasts.
“With my uncle disposed of I have the time to think on such things,” Edelgard says. “And now I find the thoughts plague me endlessly. Not so much that there is any threat of my heart disrupting the empire, mind you, but enough that…”
“That you sought to ask my advice?”
“Correct.”
Hubert takes the moment to start mindlessly shuffling his own papers. The one on top of his pile had recently been signed and the ink is still fresh. The smears and inevitable rewriting of the document is a sacrifice he is willing to make. “I will not dissuade you from pursing such interests, Your Majesty—you have every right to. However, I am afraid that the deaths of our enemies has only caused me to fill my schedule with necessities I have been putting off. Right now there is a meeting with Shamir I must be preparing for.”
Edelgard raises an eyebrow as Hubert stands.
“Shamir is leaving for a diplomatic meeting in Almyra.”
Hubert mentally runs through the schedules of all the former members of the strike force. To his credit, he finds his recovery fast. “That is precisely what I need to meet with her about. You are more than aware how much planning any meeting with Claude requires.”
“I heard she was speaking with Petra to sort out the details.”
“Again, there can never be too much planning with that man.”
“Hubert.”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
“Why are you running away from me?”
Hubert works his jaw and looks to the assorted papers in his hands for a rescue line. The paperwork tells him Hyrm has had an excellent wheat harvest this year. Good for Hyrm, bad for Hubert.
“I am not,” he says.
Edelgard narrows her eyes and crosses her arms. “Yes, you are.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
They have not had a conversation like this since Hubert was seven and tasked with insisting to a four year old Edelgard that she should in fact not play with the shears a forgetful gardener had left behind in the palace’s flowerbeds.
“Your Majesty, will all due respect, we are much too old and busy to be having a conversation of this nature. Now if you’ll excuse me, I am needed elsewhere.”
“Hubert,” Edelgard says with a sigh. “Are you truly that unwilling to speak to me about this?”
He gazes at Edegard’s hands folded on her desk because he cannot bear to stare into her eyes. “I…”
“I am not asking for your advice as the emperor, but as myself. Though my personal circle has opened up—and I am endlessly grateful for that—I still consider you to be someone I can confide in above all others.”
Hubert chances it. Edelgard looks well and truly downcast, and Hubert is all too aware it is his fault for ailing his lady’s heart so.
“I would offer my aid immediately if I had any to give,” he says slowly. “However on matters… of the heart, I…”
Edelgard tilts her head. “Hubert?”
She sounds so thoroughly surprised that Hubert can’t help but chuckle. “Your Majesty, can you ever recall me even attempting to engage in courtship?”
“I see,” she says with such gravity that Hubert has to wonder to what depths she is actually pondering his confession. “Are you interested in changing that?”
Hubert pauses.
He had long since come to terms with the fact that he was simply going to be one of those men who grew old with their work sharing their bedside rather than another person. He had planned it all out since he was a teenager. He would serve Lady Edelgard to the best of his abilities, and anything that distracted from that was something he didn’t need. He would drench himself in blood, crawl through the dirt and mud, and live in the shadows.
But after the war against the darkness ended and the clouds hanging over him and Edelgard since they were children parted, a traitorous part of him had caught sight of the sun. The orange, blinding, endlessly irritating sun that had recently fancied himself a singer and spent precious work time twittering about the opera with a rose Edelgard’s eyes always wandered to.
Hubert assumes his silence is enough of an answer for Edelgard as she stands and strides over to him with all the air and dignity of an emperor going to war. “Well then, if neither of us know how to proceed, our next step is to seek out further counsel.”
Hubert clears his throat. “While I do agree there is a degree of logic to your plan, however, I would prefer to keep this matter quiet.”
Edelgard nods. “I agree as well. But there is no need to worry, Hubert. This is a rather frivolous matter, and the person I have in mind has provided us with guidance through matters of life and death. This should pose no challenge for them.”
Edelgard strides off on her newfound mission, Hubert at her heel. It took him only a second to realize who she was referring to, and another to come to the conclusion that they were inevitably going to be met with further failure.
Before he could voice his skepticism, Edelgard lowers her voice to say, “So, you did not name any names, but may I hazard a guess towards—”
“No.”
“Hubert.”
“I get to have some secrets, Your Majesty.”
“Hubert, it is barely a secret.”
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it is not, and this is extremely childish.”
“Yes, it is, as are your attempts to conceal your affections towards Dor—”
“My apologies for not being a master of deception like yourself. ‘Oh, Your Majesty, no I was simply tending to these flowers for hours to withdraw a special poison that only grows in tulips. Only a fool would agonize over gathering flowers to then hand them off to someone else to just happen to suggest that Ferdinand thread them through his hair—’”
“That is hardly fair, Your Majesty.”
“I’m the emperor. I don’t have to be fair… and you started it.”
“While you are always correct, you started it when you fully funded the refurbishment of Enbarr’s opera house and attempted to pass it off as a gesture between good friends.”
Edelgard stops in her track, and Hubert barely manages to stop himself from barreling over her. “Wait. Was that… obvious?”
She looks genuinely distressed.
Hubert recalls the way Dorothea’s eyes widened and she had been near speechless, glancing to him and Byleth standing nearby as if they were ready to throw handfuls of glitter into the air and announce it was all a needlessly elaborate joke. She had accepted, graciously of course, once the shock wore off and lightly commented she never knew Edelgard was so devoted to the opera.
Edelgard had smiled, shook her head, and said, “Well, supporting Adrestian culture is by no means of little importance. However, I simply wished to do something to celebrate both our wars' ends by making… a good friend happy.”
“Oh my,” Dorothea said. “Ah, well, I certainly can’t deny that you know how to make a girl happy, Edie.”
Dorothea’s smile had been teasing. Edelgard’s was earnest.
Hubert makes the decision to lie to Edelgard. “Only to me. I was merely teasing, Your Majesty.”
She frowns but seems assured enough by his words. “Well, that is to be expected.” She bites her lip. “Are you sure she didn’t think anything else of it?”
“Did you want her to?”
Edelgard restarts their march through the palace. “I will come to a decision on that after we gather more advice.”
-
Byleth twirls the quill in her hand, the dark feather on its end spinning so fast the whispers at the end vanish from sight in their half-moon rotations. Her handwriting suffered from Jeralt’s sporadic lessons on literacy, and her penmanship never recovered even through the trial by fire of being a Garreg Mach professor. The “Dear” atop her letter would be unreadable enough without the heavy ink blots trailing off of it.
She sets her quill down and wishes Jeralt had the time to teach her more things. She’d ask him for proper riding lessons, what she’s doing wrong when she tries to whistle, if there really is somewhere out there for everyone. She’d thank him for the beautiful ring and ask him how to take the steps to put it on someone’s finger.
Byleth leans back in her chair, and hums a sweet melody she had heard earlier that day a few notes off key. She’d never hold it against Sothis, who was a nice companion and had had as much choice in the matter as Byleth, but Byleth knows now the reason she never asked her father what to do with a beating heart. Instead, she tries to remember the words she overheard in the infirmary—a gentle lullaby to ease soldiers on their deathbeds now sung for a kitchen assistant who burned themselves.
The years she was meant to navigate the jitters and foolish mishaps of young love had been stolen from her, and now Byleth wonders if her newly beating heart would rival the new opera house’s timpani if she were to witness a certain starlet on stage.
There’s light conversation at her door that pulls her from her thoughts.
“—doubt this will—”
“We are already here. The time for complaints has passed.”
“Then allow me, Your Majesty.”
Byleth would recognize Hubert’s steady rapping at her door on Edelgard’s behalf even if she hadn’t heard them whispering to each other like schoolchildren—though when they were in school, Byleth couldn’t recall them ever behaving in such a way.
She pulls open her door and notes they both appear fidgety. Alarm bells start ringing in her head even as she keeps her voice even. Edelgard and Hubert had been delivered news of entire armies being wiped out with perfect stoicism. “Is something the matter?”
Edelgard smooths a rumpled piece of hair behind her ear. “There is no need for alarm, my teacher. We have simply come to consult with you on a manner that has left both of us…”
She looks to Hubert—who looks like he would rather be anywhere else—for the right word. “Making foolish decisions.”
“Stumped,” Edelgard says, her lips twisting into a frown as Hubert avoids her irritated gaze.
Byleth glances between the two of them, and it dawns on her just how foreign this situation is. “Are you two bickering?”
Hubert rolls his eyes. “Of course not. We would never behave in such petty—”
“Yes,” Edelgard says.
Hubert shoots her a betrayed look. Edelgard refuses to meet his eyes and instead looks rather satisfied with herself. Byleth invites them into her room.
There are only two chairs in Byleth’s room near her desk, and she places herself in one of them before catching eye of the beginnings of her letter again. Edelgard and Hubert are busy fussing over who should pull out the spare chair for her to sit in, and Byleth takes the opportunity to reshuffle her papers and hide the evidence of… she doesn’t quite know what.
When they seem to have sorted themselves out—Edelgard will sit, Hubert will loom—Byleth says, “So what is troubling you so much you would turn on each other?”
Hubert’s expression pinches at her choice of words. “We have not ‘turned on each other’ or any such non—”
“This is going to sound terribly silly,” Edelgard interrupts. “But Hubert and I were talking and… we had a disagreement on whether we should come to you for advice.”
Since they were sitting in her room, Byleth can only assume Edelgard bulldozed him in that fight. “What do you need my advice on?”
Edelgard hesitates, glances back to Hubert who is busy drilling a hole into the wall behind Byleth with his eyes, and then folds her hands in front of her. Byleth recognizes the behavior—trying to look as much like a prim and proper emperor as possible to give her confidence. “Matters of the heart.”
Byleth feels her neck start to grow hot—one of those little human ticks she’s had to adapt to since Rhea’s death. “Oh?”
“Yes,” Edelgard says. “Specifically how one would go about… announcing their affections, or, at least, building up to a point where that is feasible.”
Byleth looks to Hubert, who seems thoroughly uncomfortable, but he offers no contradictions to Edelgard’s request. “And this is something both of you are having difficulty grappling with?”
Edelgard sighs. “Yes. We realized that if you put both of our romantic histories together, you’d scarcely fill a single page.”
“It’d be more like a paragraph, really,” Hubert interjects.
“Maybe even only a few sentences,” Edelgard amends further. “And so we have come to you, my teacher.”
Byleth thinks her own romantic escapades could be summed up in a few words: Manuela is beautiful, and Byleth is clueless.
She drums her fingers on her desk and says what she got into a habit of doing whenever Seteth instructed her to teach something she had no experience with. “Why don’t we all go to the library?”
At the very least, Byleth thinks as she collected her coat, failure to translate the lessons from a book on this subject would be less painful than ones on pegasus flight.
-
Edelgard does have to admit it’s probably a decently comical sight. Herself—the emperor of all of Fodlan in her full regalia—seated at a desk flipping through a copy of The Specter of the Theater with Hubert—spymaster of Adrestia and notoriously known for relishing in the screams of his enemies—looming over her right shoulder and Byleth—the Ashen Demon and bearer of The Creator’s Sword—flanking her left. But she has little focus to pay to that when the text before her seems utterly indecipherable.
“I don’t think this is quite applicable to our situation, my teacher,” Edelgard says.
“It’s a romance about the opera. There has to be something useful, or,” Byleth says, picking up another novel. “We could try Arrogance and Antagonism.”
Hubert takes said book from her hands and flips through the pages. “Is this one of Bernadetta’s novels?”
“Maybe we should go to her,” Byleth says. “Though that might also terrify her.”
Edelgard turns the page and thinks that sometimes you have to make necessary sacrifices.
“Well, isn’t this a sight.”
The three look up in unison at Linhardt’s monotone voice. Edelgard had been relieved when they first entered the palace’s library to find him taking a break from his near residence in the dusty building. Of course it was like him to appear at the exact wrong time with a thick tome under one arm and a far too amused expression on his face.
Hubert glowers, turning on intimidation tactics that have never worked on Linhardt. “I was not aware the imperial palace’s library was for your personal use, alone.”
“Oh, not in the slightest,” he replies, strolling over as if the chances of his murder hadn’t just increased tenfold. “I was simply curious as to why three of Fodlan’s most terrifying are reading The Fiancée Queen.” He lifts the book—which Edelgard had long since discarded due to it mostly being full of nonsense—and doesn’t even bother to hide his humor. “You know this book is a parody.”
The abysmally lengthy section about rats that are significantly larger than normal suddenly makes sense. Edelgard pinches the bridge of her nose. “Linhardt, don’t you have research to do?”
“Always.”
He remains firmly rooted in front of them.
“And can you leave us to suffer in peace?”
“This is actually quite interesting, so no.”
“Your Majesty, if you need me to remove him, simply give the order and—”
“Linhardt,” Byleth says with the utmost solemnity. “Where are the books about relationships?”
Linhardt looks between them and their assembled pile of novels. “So this isn’t a bizarre book club, then?”
“No,” Byleth says. And again, “where are the books about relationships?”
“It seems the situation is even more off putting than I first assumed, then.”
“Where are the books about relationships?”
“Well, that certainly explains the allotted funds to the opera house’s renovations.”
“Linhardt,” Edelgard says before Byleth can repeat her question a fourth time and Hubert commits murder—of Linhardt or their former professor, she’s unsure. “Please just help us.”
He pauses and looks over his shoulder to the doors.
“You should know escape is no longer an option,” Hubert says.
Linhardt lets out the most beleaguered sigh Edelgard has heard all day—a truly impressive feat given her previous adventures—and sets his own research manual down. “Follow me.”
-
The Five Love Languages by A Gentleman.
Linhardt extends the remarkably thin book towards Byleth. “Read this. If you have any questions, don’t bother asking me. My only practical experiences have been with Caspar who is oblivious to quite literally every trick in the book.”
He turns away and does the closest thing to sprinting Byleth has ever seen Linhardt do, even in the midst of battle.
With little else to do, Byleth shrugs and opens the book, Edelgard and Hubert leaning in from either side of her.
-
Gifts
Hubert had felt the strangest mixture of pride and relief when the three of them had poured over the first section of the advice book.
This whole ridiculous, nearly year long situation he had entangled himself in had started with an exchange of gifts. Of course the solution was to continue plying that daffy noble with expensive presents—he had had the answer from the very beginning.
Edelgard had been less than enthusiastic given her previous grandiose attempt at a gift had resulted mostly in stilted conversation. Hubert had beamed, and Edelgard said, “Hubert, take care not to break your hand patting yourself on the back.”
After he squared away this nuisance, Hubert resolved to find a plan of action to ease his lady’s steadily rising irritability.
But in the present, he strolls—or skulks, depending on the observer—through the streets of Enbarr towards the emperor’s favored opera house. Professor Manuela had deceived Ferdinand into thinking he could pen a new epic, forcing Hubert to venture far further than he should to track him down. On his trip, he considered suggesting that perhaps they should convert the prime minister’s office into something actually useful if its current resident had no intentions to spend even half an hour a day in there. However, while the anonymous gentleman hadn’t said anything about threats in his book, Hubert was fairly certain they were frowned upon.
The Mittelfrank Opera’s doorman eyes him, goes pale, and stammers a good day as he opens the door. The interaction is enough to make Hubert pause before one of the several polished, reflective surfaces to school his features into something less murderous. Making his foes and allies alike quake in fear was usually a delight that put a slight spring in his step, but he recalled that, like the threats, it was slightly inappropriate for this exchange.
Hubert attempts a smile.
Hubert decides the smile looks worse than his usual scowl and sends a look of death towards the doorman curiously watching him. The doorman starts whistling and looking anywhere but Hubert, while Hubert gives up on anything short of running a hand through his hair before entering the opera’s performance stage.
There isn’t a performance going on now—just Dorothea, Professor Manuela, and Ferdinand standing on the stage littered with half built props.
Though not staged for a performance, the hall is designed to always filter light just so onto the stage, and Ferdinand practically glows as he prances about.
“And then while the students come in from both sides, Professor Byleth will stand stage left,” he says, dashing over in that direction, gesturing wildly with what Hubert assumes is a script. “And she will stay here, close to the audience—not blocking their view, of course—but more—”
“Creating a connection?” Dorothea offers.
“Yes!” he exclaims. “Professor Manuela, you said that you felt the audience may have difficulty identifying with Professor Byleth from the script alone. Do you think this staging will help?”
“A little,” Manuela says. “And I see what you’re going for, but, perhaps, it could be more immersive if Byleth stayed center stage and the students walked through the audience—help make the audience feel like they truly are at Garreg Mach.”
“Oh, that is a marvelous idea! Let me write that down…”
As Ferdinand bends down to use his knee as a surface to mark up his script, Dorothea laughs and looks somewhere off into the rows of seats. “Oh my, looks like we have an audience already.”
Hubert suddenly feels very awkward standing in the shadows and clutching the small box tied with a ribbon. In his head, he had imagined that Ferdinand would be alone—maybe even singing one of his new songs off key enough that when Hubert entered, he would be the one thrown off kilter.
Ferdinand looks up, his face breaking into a blinding smile. “Ah, Hubert! Professor Byleth!”
Hubert blinks. He whips his head to stare across the way at the theater’s other entrance. From her own place in the shadows, Byleth blinks back. She’s holding a decorative gift bag in her hands. Hubert vaguely wishes the specter from that book they had read the first chapters of would manifest and kill all five of them.
But Byleth begins to walk forward as if there was nothing wrong, and Hubert follows her lead with a sigh.
At their approach, Ferdinand hurries to the edge of the stage, kneeling and extending a hand down. “Ferdie,” Dorothea says, and this close Hubert can distinctly make out a twinkle in her eyes that he does not like one bit. “There are perfectly usable stairs, you know.”
“Yes, but there is something distinctly exciting about being literally pulled into the opera,” he says. The hand that was extended down to Hubert is instead used for a flourishing gesture. “Why, as a boy, it was my very dream to have a performer reach down to me.”
“Is that Hubie’s dream, too?” Dorothea muses.
On the far side of the stage, Manuela lends Byleth a hand in hauling herself up. Ferdinand starts to protest, and Hubert decides to take the stairs. Ferdinand’s face falls when he looks back to now see Hubert towering over him. “Oh.”
Manuela only expands her address to tokenly include Hubert as she says, “Well, that aside, it is quite the surprise to get visitors. What brings you here in the middle of the day?”
“It is curious,” Dorothea says. “I’d have thought Edie keeps the two of you of up to your necks in paperwork most days. Though I suppose if Ferdie has the time to shirk his duties—”
Ferdinand squawks.
Dorothea ignores him. “Then again, that may be why they’re here—to give you a proper scolding for abandoning Edie to those wretched noble councils.”
Byleth shakes her head. “Edelgard supports the opera and representing the war through a show to help shape public opinion, and she trusts the three of you to ensure it is appropriate.”
“I am glad to hear that. Tell Edelgard she has placed her faith well. Also, Professor,” Ferdinand says, walking towards Byleth. “Your timing is most fortuitous. We were just discussing the staging for a pivotal scene for your character.”
“You do make a good point,” Manuela laughs. “Well, Byleth, mind helping us out?”
She winks and places a hand on Byleth’s shoulder to help guide her to an X on the stage.
Manuela leans a bit closer to whisper to Byleth, “Do you see that mark over there? Stride over towards it as if you were about to face off against a great enemy.”
“No, no,” Ferdinand says. “There will be plenty of battlefield scenes later—the professor needs to be… approachable initially. Professor, imagine you… are walking through a field of flowers.”
“Or,” Dorothea says, “down the aisle at a wedding ceremony?”
Hubert glares at her. Dorothea winks back.
“A wedding?” Ferdinand says before clasping his hands. “Ah, yes—a wedding to Garreg Mach, itself!”
Manuela laughs. “Well, I can’t argue with that. Go ahead professor.”
“Actually,” Dorothea says. “I think it would be better if her path was a bit closer to the front of the stage. Manuela, would you mind standing just a few feet from the mark to let Professor Byleth know where she should go instead?”
“Of course.”
Manuela leaves her side. Dorothea says, “Now remember, Professor, like you’re at your wedding.”
Byleth is red. Hubert feels like he should rescue her, but also that it’s every man for themselves when it comes to escaping Dorothea’s torment.
“And remember to smile, Byleth,” Manuela says. “Just a little—that little smile you have that makes you so intriguing. I doubt there’s an audience out there that wouldn’t be enchanted by that.”
Byleth clutches the handles on her bag to her chest and moves with all the grace and poise of a mechanic golem.
When she reaches Manuela, she’s met with a gentle laugh and a, “Good first try.”
Byleth takes the opportunity to fully extend her arms to hold out her gift bag. She doesn’t say a word to further introduce the gift. Hubert again feels like he should assist, but Manuela takes the bag with a sweet, “Oh? What’s this?”
Byleth responds in her usual clipped manner. “A gift. For you.”
Manuela takes that as her cue to start rifling through the bag. “Well, I have no idea what I’ve done to warrant presents, but I never turn down—oh my…” she trails off when she pulls out an intricately beaded red and black bracelet. Though Hubert can’t make out the details from his vantage point, he thinks he sees patterns of roses and vines spiraling through the beadwork.
“Black and red were the Black Eagle’s colors,” Byleth says. “And you were a part of the Strike Force and like flowers…”
Manuela smiles as she takes care to gently slip off the variety of bracelets jiggling on her wrists in favor of Byleth’s gift. “It’s lovely.”
Byleth opts to speak to the ground for the rest of their hushed conversation, but from the look in Manuela’s eyes Hubert wonders why Byleth had any concerns at all.
Beside him, Ferdinand sighs. “The professor is so thoughtful. Still, I wonder what prompted such a gift.”
Hubert stiffens. “Is it truly that bizarre to exchange presents?”
“No, friends such as you and I provide each other with little gifts all the time, but the professor is different, would you not agree? I did not think she was the type to be place value on physical objects. Actually,” he turns to Hubert with a radiant smile. “I assumed you were the same way before the first time you brought me tea leaves from the market.”
“Your assumption was correct,” Hubert says. “I am simply able to recognize when others such as Lady Edelgard or yourself feel differently and then accommodate.”
“Edelgard and me?” Ferdinand stares at him in awe. “You consider us… both?”
Hubert decides he doesn’t like this conversation or Dorothea’s twinkling eyes watching him from behind Ferdinand. “On occasion, yes. Here.”
To Ferdinand’s credit, he only fumbles slightly when Hubert abruptly shoves the small box he had been cradling into his hands. “Ah, for m—”
“Yes.”
Ferdinand turns to smile at him in thanks before even opening the box a crack. “Why thank you, my friend. I always look forward to our exchanges, allowing you will join me to fully enjoy this present later. I promise I will return the favor with your favorite coffee soon. And,” his usual bright cheer fades to something more subdued, “given that I now know how much effort you put into such things, I will be sure to treasure this gift and all future ones twice as much as I have in the past.”
Hubert now sees why Byleth found the floor so enticing. “Yes, well, see that you do. But not too much. You are already a very foolish and sentimental person as is.”
“Perhaps on occasion, but even you must admit it is hard not to be sentimental when thinking of all the effort and thought a friend put into finding you the perfect gift. But I suppose you would argue you have too much sense for that.”
Ferdinand matches Dorothea’s teasing stare. “And you have too much sensibility for your own good. Just be aware that not everyone is worthy of the depth of your feelings.” He glances over to Manuela and Byleth who appear to be having a conversation bereft of the awkwardness he is facing, though Hubert also summarizes that Byleth is talking only to a rose and not the sun. The thought also makes him think he’s been sending entirely too much time with Ferdinand.
Before him, Ferdinand stammers, “O-Oh?”
“I have said this before to Her Majesty and I will say it to you as well. You have too much value and too little time on this earth to waste your affections on people unworthy of you.” Ferdinand is starting to flush, and Hubert says, “and don’t waste that tea either—it was expensive,” and then barely resists his impulse to teleport himself off of the stage and out of the spotlight.
He does flee and gives himself some credit on not sprinting.
-
Acts of Service
The second piece of advice in the gentleman’s book resonated deeply with Byleth. She had little practice with heartfelt words, and even with her newly free heart, she did not have much desire to train. The moments from her childhood of her father carefully mending her favorite blanket when it tore or taking the time himself to wrap bandages around her bloodied knees despite having many more qualified healers in the camp were some of the few to scratch the surface of the vault her emotions had been locked away in.
And from his diary, Byleth also knew that that mystic way with words some people possessed did not run in her family. But even if it did, attempting to woo a veteran songstress with her fumbling words seemed like an endeavor only the truly overconfident would try. Getting her hands dirty, on the other hand, was something she could get behind.
With her perpetually tangled hair and dark states clothes, Byleth always felt a touch out of place at The Mittelfrank Opera House. Though she figured if someone as spectral as Hubert could bear to lurk around like the creature of a horror novel, Byleth could handle the hustle and bustle of a few dozen colorful theater performers. The environment still perpetually reminded her of Garreg Mach’s Anniversary Ball and getting dragged this way and that until she felt her feet were to fall off, but Byleth had made the decision that that was ultimately a happy—if overwhelming memory—and she could be happy at the opera house as well.
Ferdinand, Dorothea, and Manuela were still hard at work ironing out the finer points of the play, and Byleth knew she would be as useful to those conversations as a pile of bricks or Hubert. Sets, however, always need painting.
Byleth thinks her artistic skills are really quite poor, but she sees the appeal in the serenity of wiping her paintbrush in wide, sweeping strokes across a backdrop meant to resemble the night sky. Manuela had been at her side as she explained that for the night scenes, they needed a beautiful backdrop that was not just black but sprinkled with all the subtle shades of night that enraptured even the most cynical observers.
“A bit…” she had said. “A bit like you, actually. You always dress in black and dark blue, but in such a way that anyone who sees you can’t help but want to know more. Does that make sense?”
Byleth didn’t know. She nodded anyway.
“Good. There is a reason why poets never seem to tire of describing the same thing over and over again,” Manuela said. “Of course, once the base dries, we’ll need to add the stars, but those will only stand out if they have a strong foundation. And if worst comes to worst in our preparations, and we don’t get to the stars,” she winked at her. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I think I’m a bit exhausted from love poems about stars, so I’ll be happy with just a pretty night sky.”
Byleth felt she was probably missing something, but she had always been talented at completing her tasks half in the dark.
Other paints were assigned to help her, but when they were ready for breaks or were drawn into other tasks, Byleth stayed diligent at her work. Painting is soothing work as far as she was concerned, and songs from the rotating rehearsals on the stage float back to provide her even more comfort.
Even with her choppy hair gathered into a ponytail, paint still manages to find its way into her bangs and cling in scattered clumps. Her fingertips have a nice coating of midnight blue as well, and she hums along a few notes off key under her breath to the ballad on stage.
Manuela must be helping a singer as she and another woman go back and forth, each singing a few bars and letting Byleth hear all the lyrics twice. It still takes Byleth about halfway through the song to realize Manuela must be helping the actress playing her. Her soaring voice rings out to pronounce her devotion to aid Emperor Edelgard’s mission to expunge all the injustices of the world.
Byleth’s paintbrush pauses when Manuela does. “Now remember,” she says. “Byleth may seem detached, but she is truly a kind, loving person. It’s difficult, but capturing that balance between restraint and passion is key, especially in a song like this. So on these lines—”
“Professor?”
Byleth turns her head, getting the ends of her ponytail into her half dried work as she does so. Dorothea looks at her over the top of a pile of costumes stacked high in her arms and laughs. “I barely recognized you under all that paint. I see Manuela put you to work on sets.”
“I volunteered.”
“Huh,” Dorothea says, kneeling beside her. “I wonder what the opera did to earn so much royal support. Edie volunteered as well—though I wouldn’t dream of putting her on set duty.”
Byleth raises an eyebrow. “Edelgard also…?”
Dorothea places her stack of costumes on the ground and pulls up the top one so it unfolds into a slightly more theatrical version of the Garreg Mach school uniforms. “She just delivered these. I figured that if she really insisted, she could sew a few costumes for us while pouring over all those important documents that—oh, you know—keep all of Fodlan running.”
Byleth nearly reaches out to touch it, but then remembers the state of her hands. “It’s nice.”
Dorothea laughs again. “Oh, this one is. It was so funny looking through the pile. Altogether these document Edie learning to sew very well. She’s so funny, too. When I suggested sewing, she agreed immediately. I assumed from her reaction that she was as good as Bern. Now I think she actually got lessons from Bern.”
Dorothea places the uniform back down and pulls another, much rougher one from the bottom of the pile. “See? The stitching on this one makes me laugh every time I see it.”
The buttons on the jacket she holds up are in a distinct zigzagging line instead of the strict parallels on the last one. Dorothea giggles. Byleth asks, “Will it need to be redone?”
“In any other production, yes,” Dorothea says. “But I get far too much joy out of these, and I don’t want to break poor Edie’s heart either. Besides, now we can put in the playbills that the emperor, herself, put her sweat, blood, and tears into helping the show.”
“That’s true,” Byleth says.
“Oh, and the great hero of all of Fodlan, of course,” Dorothea says, gesturing to Byleth’s work. “Don’t worry—I didn’t forget you, professor. It’s just that Edie’s work is so much cuter. It sort of reminds me of when we were back at the academy, and not just because half of the show takes place there.”
Byleth furrows her brow. “It does?”
“Yes. Edie was always so adorable. It was like she was born a grown woman, and she had to figure out how to be a carefree student.” Dorothea sighs. “I do miss those days sometimes. I mean, not all of the horrible dates I forced myself to go on—those can stay in the past—but just getting to be with Edie when she was only being pulled in a few hundred directions instead of a thousand.”
Dorothea’s melancholy gaze drifts to the poorly stitched jacket in her hands.
In the background, Manuela’s voice arches as she sings that the princess of Adrestia is good and righteous not because she is a princess, but because she fights for what is right with kindness in her heart.
There is no music, only Manuela’s soaring voice. Her tone seemed tightly controlled but almost as if it was barely resisting spilling over with emotion—just as Byleth had heard her describe to the other singer.
“Do you like the song, Professor?”
Byleth looks back at Dorothea to see her lips have twitched into a smile. “Yes,” Byleth says. “I don’t know much about music, but I like the lyrics… they’re very pretty.”
“It is,” Dorothea says. “Ferdie has a good ear and far too many ideas for choreography, but his lyrics are just dreadful whenever he’s trying to be sincere. I mean, I know he’s being sincere, but it doesn’t come across that way. So you have me to thank that you don’t hold the audience hostage extolling Edie’s noble virtues.”
Manuela sings out that beneath Edelgard’s icy eyes lies a heart filled with warm and unending compassion.
“You wrote it?”
With her scarred hands, she reaches out to even the poorest of commoners forgotten in the streets.
“I did.”
And though the war will come at a great cost, there will be a place for all of the abandoned and the wretched in her tomorrow.
“So what do you think, Professor?” Dorothea asks, her voice low and gentle. “Does that sound like something you would say about Edie?”
“No,” Byleth says with a shake of her head. “I’m not that good with words.”
Dorothea laughs. “Well, I’ll be sure to let Manuela know so she can tell our stage Byleth. And make sure you tell Edie she did a wonderful job with the costumes.”
Byleth paints late into the evening. Manuela comes by to admire her work, though she lets her know in a few clipped words that she’s on vocal rest and communicates mostly through gestures and smiles. Byleth tries to speak a bit more for the both of them, but even in the silence she feels a new comfort.
Byleth continues her work, nearly as coated in paint as the sky before her. She thinks about Dorothea hunched over her desk and weaving together such beautiful poetry about her own shining star, and can’t help but hum that Edelgard cares for each and everyone of them, with or without Crests. There’s a laugh like tingling bells from the far side of the stage.
Her face turns red, and Manuela breaks her silence to say, “I’m glad you liked it.”
-
Physical Touch
They all silently read the advice the anonymous gentleman had to offer.
Hubert coughed into his hand, his ears burning the same color as Edelgard’s gown. Edelgard, her face the same shade as Hubert’s, reached across Byleth to flip to the next section.
Byleth silently agreed with their choice.
-
Words of Affirmation
Byleth had chewed on her lip when they read through the next section, though Edelgard found some merit in the offered advice. She had always been told she was a talented orator and if she could speak in front of thousands, how hard could stringing a few meaningful words together be?
It also fits well with her other duties—drafting a letter or two took a fraction of the time a trip to the opera house would. And it likely would take a few drafts, Edelgard knew that much at least. Dorothea was regularly treading water in the sea of love letters sent her way and clever enough that clichés would and overwrought sentiments would earn her declaration a lovely place in her fireplace.
Another part of her also had to admit that writing a letter sounded far easier than saying anything aloud to Dorothea’s jade green eyes, cupid’s bow mouth, and waves of chocolate brown hair. Edelgard’s mouth twisted into a frown and she made a note to herself not to repeat any of those sentiments in her letter. She’d blame the thought on spending too much time with Ferdinand, but she was aware she had always been more inclined to such gooey romantic sentiments than she would like to admit.
But speaking of Ferdinand, he simply would not stop speaking. Finding the fraction of an hour she needed proved more difficult than Edelgard would have hoped, especially when nearly every meeting she attended in the past weeks was stretched on by Ferdinand’s impassioned and necessary—but still childishly resented—monologues on the importance of his current work.
But Ferdinand at least kept her mind from wandering given he would regularly ask for her approval and proceed to argue if she did not grant it. The current orator from the former Alliance territory seemed to love the sound of his own voice enough that he was content to have that conversation all on his own.
On the corner of a sheet of notes, Edelgard scribbles,
Dear Dorothea,
I apologize,
It is regretful
Blame Hubert that
These days we rarely seem to cross paths. I do not regret that we have both become pillars of Fodlan, but I do miss hearing your lovely voice regret seeing so little of you when you mean so wish we could meet with each other more often, even if just for a cup of tea.
The Margrave Edmund coughs, and Edelgard glances up to see if he was calling for her attention. He coughs again a bit harder into his hand, and Ferdinand, sitting at her side, requests a glass of water from an attendant.
“Yes,” Edelgard says. “And why don’t we take a short recess to recollect our bearings?”
Her suggestion is meant with a general murmur of agreement, and the surrounding officials pull away from the table—their chairs gracelessly scraping across the floor—and wander off to make dull small talk with each other.
Ferdinand stands and stretches out his neck while Edelgard shuffles her papers to ensure he does not catch sight of what she was writing. But instead of berating her he says, “Hubert, you never pause do you?” with a laugh.
Edelgard turns to her other side to see Hubert writing furiously, the tip of his quill moving a dizzying flurry.
Without looking up, he says, “And I make no plans to.”
Ferdinand shakes his head. “I think I will fetch a bit of water for him as well. Edelgard, would you mind ensuring Hubert’s hand does not fall off in my absence?”
“I will try, but I make no promises.”
“I suppose that is the best one can hope for when he gets like this,” Ferdinand says. Hubert is still fully consumed in whatever he is scribbling away at, leaving only Edelgard to see the downright fond look in Ferdinand’s eyes. He chuckles, “and I know you have had a dozen meetings about this before, but maybe one more reminder for him not to work himself to death might be for the best.”
Edelgard allows herself a smile as well. “I’ll have to see if I can fit it into his schedule.”
Ferdinand shakes his head. “Again, about the best I could hope for.”
He makes his exit, and Edelgard waits until the doors click completely shut before she asks, “Hubert, what are you writing?”
“I am taking notes, Your Majesty.”
“Hubert, this is a meeting about disputes over new grazing pastures for cattle.”
“I am aware. I have written that in my notes.”
Edelgard rolls her eyes and takes a second to decide that it is marginally less childish to look over his shoulder than to snatch the paper out of his hands. Hubert must hear her shifting as he leans further over his paper to obscure her vision as she steps closer.
She still manages to make out, “‘Optimism as bright as the sun.’ I never knew you had such strong feelings about grazing laws.”
Hubert goes completely still.
“I can either continue to tease you or you can be honest with me,” Edelgard says.
It takes another long moment, but he slowly unfurls around the paper and lets Edelgard make out another few lines that confirm her suspicions. “Ferdinand once suggested that if I were to compliment, I write it down—that that would be easier on both of us.”
Edelgard debates it for another second, but Hubert looks so miserable at being caught that the decision is made for her. “Well, I must say I admire your daring in writing such things while he sits at the table in front of you. I at least only have the confidence to do so because the opera house is so far from here.”
She slips her own sprawling letter from her notes and places it in front of him. Hubert’s eyes skim over the page, and he sighs. “It seems both of our heads are elsewhere.”
“To be fair to us, it is hard to keep your attention on the historical rights of shepherds over those of cattle herders.” Hubert rubs his temples, and Edelgard sympathizes. “Perhaps you should devote your letter to complimenting Ferdinand’s ability to endure absolute inanity.”
“I don’t believe that is in the spirit of that damned book, but I agree. And,” he scowls, “I feel we were misled to the ease of this as well. I’d rather spend seconds making a fool of myself then labor for months over this senseless blather.”
The corner of Edelgard’s mouth turns up in amusement. “Months?”
“I… may have been working on this before you sought me out that day.”
“Well, now that you have told me, let me help,” she says, taking a seat beside him. “Let me see what you have so far without having to read upside down. You can review my letter to Dorothea as well.”
Hubert hesitates before sliding over a small stack of papers blotted with ink. Edelgard manages to keep her composure as she leafs through what feels like the writings of a man half possessed. “I must warn you I am rather poor at…”
“I can see that,” Edelgard says. “Though I have just started so I am in no place to judge.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
Most of Hubert’s writing is either clipped to the point of merely stating mundane facts or piece of poetry that have been spliced together in fascinating if nonsensical combinations.
After a moment she manages to find something salvageable while Hubert pretends to read her letter to tea over and over again. “I do like this comparison to a morning lark. Ferdinand has taken a lot of pride in his musical talents lately.”
Hubert scans the line she points to and smirks. “Perhaps, but I do think you have had a slight fixation on such things as of late, Your Majesty.”
Edelgard returns the smile with a small, “Perhaps. But I still do think it’s rather nice. Why don’t you tell me what you were trying to say there?”
Hubert lets out a great sigh as leans backwards in his chair. “I…” he pauses to run a hand through his hair and further dishevel his appearance. “I think I was starting to irritate even myself with comparisons to the sun, so I thought of other morning things. I’m not sure there is much more to it than that.”
“Well, let’s think through it. Why do you keep going back to the sun?”
“Besides the obvious,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “It… I think I could live without the sun. I could lead my whole life and be perfectly content with what I accomplish, but… that recurring optimism and absolute faith make it all so much more tolerable.”
“Just tolerable?”
He heaves another sigh. “So tolerable that I sometimes wonder if it would be worth bringing a bit of that light into the less tolerable parts of my work. Share a few of our burdens at the risk of…” he shakes his head. “This all feels like nonsense.”
Edelgard places a hand on his shoulder. “I assure you, it is not. And if would bring you that much comfort to include him, know that I fully support you.”
Hubert is quiet for another moment. Then, “I am glad to have your approval, Your Majesty, but I currently do not have my own.”
And Edelgard understands painfully enough that she pushes him no further. Instead she stands. “Why don’t I see why Ferdinand is taking his time with that water?”
She exits and finds Ferdinand standing a few inches away from the door, a glass of water clutched tight in each hand and a blush on his face. “Ah-er—Edelgard! What a surprise to—”
“I think Hubert would appreciate a moment of your time,” she says, glancing at him with a knowing smile.
“Ah, yes, well…” He clears his throat. “By the way, some of our guests got rather distracted in the gardens.”
“Then I will go retrieve them.”
Ferdinand nods. “Yes, thank you, Edelgard.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
Leaving them to their shared fate, she takes her time picking her way towards the gardens, but instead of finding a few dozen stuffy ministers, she spies Dorothea sitting calmly among the roses.
They see each other at approximately the exact same time, and Dorothea stands in greeting, reaching out to take Edelgard’s hands as she walks over to her. “Edie, I was hoping to see you, but I heard you were in meetings all day.”
“I am,” Edelgard says, barely keeping the suspicion out of her voice. It does make sense that Ferdinand and Dorothea would plot together as much as she and Hubert do, but it all seems unfair somehow. “But I, ah, managed to get away just for a moment.”
“I’m glad. We live so close to each other in the city, but I feel I never get a chance to see you these days. Not that I can blame all of Fodlan for needing you.”
“I share the sentiment,” Edelgard says. “Both that it is… I appreciate that we are both doing all we can for Fodlan, but… it is nice to hear your voice, especially in person.”
“There are some things that simply can’t be said through a letter,” Dorothea says. “Like an invitation to be the guest of honor at a certain first performance at the Mittelfrank Opera House. That is if you have the time, of course.”
Edelgard smiles. “I’d stop time if I had to.”
-
Quality Time
Of the three of them, Edelgard knows the most about opera, but even her knowledge is a puddle compared to the ocean shared between their three guests.
In their box seat, high above the crowd below, Dorothea, Ferdinand, and Manuela whisper back and forth about certain ticks or beats in the performance that all make little sense to Byleth. Manuela leans a hair closer to her and murmurs that she can explain it all later over tea.
Hubert keeps one an eye on the performance and the other out for any dangers, and Ferdinand pats his arm and assures him he will bring him to another performance her can relax for.
Edelgard watches an actress playing herself raised her arms high to the heavens, and accidentally says aloud that she always imagined Dorothea playing herself.
And the songs continue on.