[ Dorothea had not anticipated, upon transferring to the Golden Deer house, to be thrown into the middle of so much chaos.
Jeralt was dead, and a Black Eagle was responsible. Well, that wasn't fair--Monica had never been a Black Eagle, only some pale ghast impersonating one. The real girl was gone forever. Two deaths at the same wicked hands.
Byleth had been understandably devastated. Seeing their Professor hunched over her father's cooling body, weeping in the rain, took Dorothea back to the streets of Enbarr, to a much smaller version of herself positioned similarly over her own mother's prone form. It was... difficult to watch, but she'd wrapped her arm around Byleth's shoulder as the Knights of Seiros lifted Jeralt up on a pall to bear him back to Garreg Mach one last time. It would be all right one day, she'd said. One day, it would hurt less.
In the days and weeks that followed, it felt like a shadow had fallen over the monastery. It hadn't lifted when Kronya and Solon were killed, either. Byleth's transformation raised more questions than it answered. Why was all of this happening now?
The day after their mission into the sealed forest, Dorothea can be found in one of the academy's spare music rooms, her fingers absently plucking at the strings of a lute. When the door creaks open, she tenses up but immediately relaxes when she sees Claude there. ]
Oh, Claude! What brings you here? Come and sit for a moment, won't you?
(Every month, Claude wonders what's going on in Fodlan. He's been wondering it for a long time but recently, it feels like it's only gotten more baffling. His head is spinning, his thoughts racing, and if that isn't enough, his heart has gone through twists and loops that he didn't even know it could go through.
Jeralt's murder had been a great loss for Garreg Mach but a personal one for Byleth. It had shaken everyone, himself included. He had never experienced the loss of a loved one before and the funerals in Fodlan are so much different from the ones he'd grown up with. The air had just been so... hopelessly sad and heavy. All he could do was observe, pay his respects, offer his support, make sure everyone else was taken care of, and promise to help catch his killer.
And they did but not before things took another turn. What was going on? What was this about a goddess living inside Byleth's mind? What else was going to happen? Why was Rhea acting so strange? Why has she been acting so strange? He barely has time to even think of all the questions. His brain is swimming, a sea of incoherent thoughts, a puddle of frustrated uncertainty, and... everything would be answered at the Holy Tomb? Why did they need to go there to receive the Goddess' revelation? Couldn't Teach just ask the Goddess in her head? What was going on?
All he can do until then is keep searching, keep thinking, but most importantly, keep an eye on everyone. He's seen the way the last few months ahve taken their toll on his Golden Deer. Slaying Monic and Solon might have helped some of them overcome their grief but the mystery and uncertainty around Byleths' transformation was just something new to weigh on them.
He lets Hilda visit him at night, listens to Lorenz rant in the garden, and helps talk Ignatz and Marianne through the new storm. Lysithea has thrown herself into books, Leonie into her training, and Raphael, ever the reliable brother, stays strong and looks out for everyone.
Claude makes his way through the list (not that there is one) and searches out Dorothea, one of their newest members. He's not surprised to find her in the music room and smiles lightly at the door,)
Sorry, I didn't mean to crash.
(He glances at the lute but comes over, pulling up a chair, turning it so he can sit with his arms folded over the back of the seat,)
[ Dorothea musters a wan smile for him—not her most dazzling, but it’s sincere. ]
You aren’t crashing. I’ve probably been alone with my thoughts enough the last few hours.
[ The lute rests in her lap, her pinky finger tapping on the polished wood. ]
Wild is one way of putting it. It feels like... like a stage play, where there are so many people moving props and set pieces around behind the scenes, and the actors are only vaguely aware of it when something comes out from behind the curtain. I don’t like it.
[ She emphasizes her point with an emphatic strum, moving into a melodic series of chord progressions. ]
I want to pull back the curtain and see what all the moving parts are, and who’s moving them. I don’t like being in the dark.
(She speaks, and he finds himself speechless. With all of the conspiracies that have been going on at Garreg Mach, he's found himself thinking the same things while others try to carry on, as usual, trying to find ordinary explanations for the strange occurrences. Everyone wonders, everyone questions, Rhea and the Church promise to look into things, everything returns to normal, and everything repeats again.
There's clearly more going on here, a bigger picture he can only see a part of, and hearing Dorothea explain her feelings... it feels like he's hearing himself speak. When he finally feels like he's gotten his words back--)
That's one way of putting it... (It feels weak compared to everything that's been said but its the shortest, most direct answer.) I agree. There's more going on here; things we can't see beyond the short glimpses we've caught...
(It sounds different but the notes resonate with him, stirring up old memories and feelings that almost distract him. Almost. It's with great practice that he's able to bury those thoughts and emotions and continue (though, his eyes do look down at her fingers for a moment).)
... We'll get to the bottom of everything. I'll make sure of it.
(Ever the leader, he shoulders the responsibility naturally,)
I'm not going to sit around waiting until Teach is supposed to receive the Goddess's Revelation, either.
That whole thing about the revelation doesn't sit well with me. If the Professor had the goddess with her this whole time, wouldn't she have already received a revelation? What could she hope to gain from this now that she's actually merged with the goddess? What would the ritual even accomplish?
[ What does Rhea actually want to accomplish? is the question she doesn't ask. They're still on the church grounds, after all, and being openly heretical or opposing her holiness in any way has proven quite fatal for more than a few people lately.
Dorothea sighs, plucking at the lute, and it doesn't escape her attention when Claude's eyes drift down to her fingers. ]
Do you like the song? It's Almyran. I can't remember the name, and you can't play it quite right on a lute, besides. They're actually derived from an Almyran instrument called an oud, but those don't have frets so it's possible to slide the notes together.
(A fair question, one he'd asked Byleth when trying to find guidance and understanding. And he has the answer for it, too. Byleth hasn't heard the Goddess inside her since she changed. The revelation might be her only way to hear from her again... but this isn't Claude's answer to share so he only gives Dorothea a quiet smile,)
And that's what we all have to wait and see...
(Did Rhea know Byleth couldn't hear the Goddess's voice anymore? What about that conversation he'd overheard, too?
Still, Dorothea continues to play at the strings, the melody becoming more and more familiar until it clicks. It takes everything in him to not look surprised but what comes instead is something that probably looks akin to confusion mixed with interest. He can play it off as not really recognizing the song, being caught off guard by how different it sounds from the usual Fodlani melodies, and his own natural curiosity but... )
Is it? (He cants his head to the side, innocently,) I've never heard it before.
(A lie. He's heard it plenty of times.)
I guess it would make sense you would know about all sorts of music given your profession but... I never would have imagined Almyran music being popular in Enbarr. Most people don't usually think about culture or art when it comes to our old neighbor.
“Wait and see” doesn’t really seem like your style, but I suppose that’s all there is for it, then.
[ Dorothea can play the instrument easily enough without watching her fingers—she watches Claude’s expression instead, the play of emotions on his face and the way he schools them almost as quickly as they appear. It’s easy to miss if you aren’t paying attention, if you don’t know what to look for, but Dorothea is an actress (and a fairly good one, she’s been led to believe).
When Claude says he’s never heard the song, her brows arch minutely. A lie, if not an obvious one; Claude is a good actor too, it seems. Why hide the truth, though? Why hide this truth? A few reasons readily come to mind, but she doesn’t push. He keeps talking instead.
In response to his question, Dorothea gives a casual shrug. ]
I wouldn’t call it popular, exactly, but the Almyrans are so far removed from us in Adrestia that they aren’t regarded as the boogeymen they seem to be in the Alliance.
Anyway, people are just people, aren’t they? When I was an orphan living on the street, noble men and women would treat stray animals with less contempt than they reserved for children like me. I was less than a beast in their eyes, but look at me now, the “mystical songstress” of the Mittelfrank. Petra has told me so many things about Brigid, too, and their songs and dances.
So, the way I see it, if it’s true for us commoners and for the people of Brigid—that we have the capacity to create things, our own culture with art and music and poetry—why wouldn’t the same be true for the Almyrans? Are their hearts not moved by beauty when they see or hear it? I’m sure they are. Positive, even.
(She's right. It isn't really his style and yet, when it comes to this ritual, there's not much else he can do. There's nothing written about it in the library, Rhea and Seteth aren't talking, and no one else seems to know what to expect.
For now, he can only listen to Dorothea. When he really thinks about it, he doesn't know much about the Empire. Most of his studies were, naturally, more focused on Leicester and it's history. Aside from the old history of Fodlan, he only really knows about Adrestia and Faerghus through their relation with Leicester. There are some exceptions, of course. He knows about the Duscur Tragedy and he has some vague sense of awareness for the political turmoil in Adrestia's government. He's never even been to Adrestia or Faerghus and now that he has Dorothea for a classmate, he appreciates what she has to share. It can only help him understand this land better.
He wishes he could tell her how right she was. Of course Almyrans have culture. Of course they have art and music. He wishes he could tell her that even the cities look like colorful mosaics when seen from above. He wishes he could tell her about poets he'd read. He wishes he could tell her how moved he is to hear her words.
... But he can't.
He can't say a word so he bottles up everything he could say and tucks it away. He raises his head high and speaks airily,)
Everyone in Fodlan knows... (His words are light, as if there's no weight to his words,) That Almyrans are a warlike people. The only thing they do is fight like beasts.
(And as easily as his heart had been risen, it falls. He shrugs his shoulders and props his elbow on the back of the chair, resting his face on his palm to listen to Dorothea's song more,)
It's a beautiful song, though. Just think... if everyone could hear this, they might think differently.
[ Her voice is just as light, just as airy as Claude's. The song finishes with a flourish, and Dorothea holds the lute in her lap for a moment before rising from her seat and placing it on its stand.
Turning back to him, she gives him a searching look. ]
Come back to my room for a moment? You don't have to come in, but there's something I'd like to show you.
(It's all he's heard since the moment he arrived in Fodlan. From the moment he was snuck across the mountains, through Fodlan's Locket, and all the way to Garreg Mach. Though, he suspects others might think otherwise. He can't imagine Byleth thinking those things to begin with. He suspects more would change their minds if only they knew... He's seen Hilda and Lysithea talk to Cyril, give him a chance, and treat him like they would any other person.
Dorothea is the first person he's ever actually heard, though. And it makes his heartbeat in his chest, do turns and spins, filling him with a rush of emotion all the way through.
And he can only act like he doesn't care.
The song ends and he wishes he could ask to hear it again.
But he has to keep up his act.
Her back turned towards him, he watches her. When he invited her to join the Golden Deer, he never would have expected this. He knew she was bright; she wouldn't have gotten into Garreg Mach if she hadn't studied hard for it. She wouldn't have been able to last here as long as she did if she wasn't clever in more ways than one. While he certainly can't pretend to know everything about her, he knows her early life wasn't a kind one and he knows that can darken most people's views and yet...
He's seen her many times since she'd join the Golden Deer. But right now she looks... different. Something has changed. It's like his vision of her has become more clear. She's always been beautiful, he thinks, and who wouldn't want to share company with a renowned actress and singer? But what else does she think? What else would she say? He wants to know.
Ah, now he's just staring. A little too hard, perhaps, and he rolls his neck, stretching as he sits up straight and seems to consider her invitation. He gives her a coy smile,)
Are you sure? People might talk if they see me going to your room, you know.
(He doesn't care what they say about him. Goddess knows, they have plenty to say already. But it isn't fair for the people he associates with. He always has to warn them.)
People already talk about me, but it's sweet for you to be concerned about my reputation. There's nothing they could say about me now that could possibly be any worse if they saw you in my company.
[ And now she's the one putting on an act, her voice sweet like she doesn't actually care about the gossip, like it hasn't felt like a knife slipping between her ribs each time she's overheard someone calling her names when they didn't realize she was close enough to hear them. With her head held high, she acts like none of that could possibly matter to her.
She shrugs easily and smiles, the perfect picture of the heroine who effortlessly rises above the hurtful things people say, unaffected entirely by them. If he caught her in the moment, listening to a pair of soldiers saying she didn't belong here, she might not be able to seem so unaffected. But that's not the here and now. ]
Besides, you're my house leader. It's natural that we would spend time together.
[ As if that decides it, she slips her arm through the crook of his elbow and leads him confidently through the monastery, the two of them walking with their heads held high like they owned the place, like anyone who might catch a glimpse of them has, in fact, been blessed simply to lay eyes on them--which they have been.
At the door to her dorm room, she releases him and unlocks the door. From the looks of it, her room is immaculately clean, everything in perfect order. ]
(Like recognizes like and he's learned it's best to not press too much when he sees it lest it gets turned back on him. It's one of his go-to strategies for getting out of uncomfortable questioning.
She slips her arm through his and he lets out a laugh, clearly amused,)
There's no reason anyone should talk.
(Should. Of course, people will always find a reason. He knows that. Dorothea is a strong spirit though and so he is. Even if it gets tiring, they can keep going forward. (He wishes he could give her a break, though).
Back straight, head high, he walks Dorothea to her room like the proud nobleman he was taught to be, he carries himself as the Riegan heir; like someone who belongs here and will always be something more. It isn't wrong. He does belong here. He will most certainly be something more. Everyone will see, some day.
When they get to her room, he lets her slip away and waits outside her door. He leans forward just a bit, tilting his head to get a better look. He's never seen her room before. You can always learn a lot about a person from their room (which reminds him he should really clean his before the next room inspection, oof).)
[ Dorothea's room comes with all the standard decor as the other student dorms, issued in Black Eagle shades of red. Against the far wall stands a shelf with a row of plain-looking books, and she pulls one of those and holds it to her chest. Coming back to the door, she pokes her head out to glance around the courtyard, and when she deems the coast to be clear, she beckons for Claude to come inside with a tug on his wrist.
Once inside, she quickly closes the doors. It's easier to note all the little touches that mark the space as hers, upon closer inspection. There's a softly heady floral scent that permeates the air thanks to a bouquet of roses on a small table in the corner, and an enameled jewelry box next to a wrought silver stand mirror on her chest of drawers. A poster for one of Manuela's old shows hangs on the wall.
Upon closer inspection, the book is wrapped in brown paper cover. When she hands it to him, there's a definite weight to it for a book that size. ]
(Really, he was perfectly content to stand a respectful distance away, and here she is, just pulling him along. For a brief moment, he wonders if she ever did the same thing to Edelgard but he's distracted by the little details in the room.
He takes the book, his hands dropping just slightly at the weight. It's heavier than he expected it to be. It reminds him of some of the older or more valuable books with their thick and ornate covers and he can only assume this is what it is. But why would something like that be wrapped up? Usually, it would be displayed proudly for others to look at...
But once he unwraps it, it becomes clear. He was right. It is one of those thick and ornate covers. He didn't expect it to be this though and all he can manage is a quiet, )
Isn't it just? I thought you would feel that way. Look at the little deer at the bottom. Aren't they sweet?
[ She can see the awe in his face and hear it in his voice. Dorothea knows just by his reaction that he understands, without even having to open it, why she might not want to wave this book around outside. The church itself didn't have the best history with Almyra, and the lacquered cover is distinctly not of Fodlan. ]
Anyway, don't just look at the cover. Open it. The illustrations are amazing.
[ Ever the polite host, Dorothea pulls the chair away from her desk and offers it to Claude before taking a seat on the edge of her bed. She's eager to see more of his reaction as he takes in the illuminated pages covered in flowing script that spills across the pages. He surely has some inkling of just how valuable the small volume is, of the sheer number of man hours required in the production of the paper, the lettering, the illustrations, the binding. It's an older book, as well, so the age undoubtedly adds value. ]
This book is one of my treasures from my time in the Mittelfrank. We did a show a few years back that was inspired in parts by an Almyran legend, so the company bought a number of books from an Almyran merchant to get ideas for the costumes and stage design. I kept this one when I left.
(A beautiful book, old but still in good condition, if not a bit worn. A hard lacquer case covered in gold, a flowering tree with pheasants and deer. He touches the cover to feel the gold emboss against his fingers. He can recognize from the style right away that this isn't a book from Fodlan's collections. This is a book that has traveled far and carefully from across Fodlan's Throat.)
Why do you have this?
(He asks before she can answer before he takes a seat. He holds the book in his hand, still closed, and searches Dorothea for answers she eventually shares.
It makes sense when she explains it like that. He's not unfamiliar with the idea that stories have traveled across borders, mixing and melding with the local lore and becoming something else. He knows the story of the peasant and his three wishes to make a princess fall in love with. He'd laughed when he found a translation of old stories in the Derdriu library and read some of the decisions that had been made in them. Spirits changed to the Goddess and her Saints. Magic and wonder becoming divine miracles.
He takes the seat, holding the book in his lap, and opens it, turning each page carefully. Eyes look over the pictures and the writing and he can recognize right away that it's a book of poems. He's careful not to let his eyes linger too long on the words but he's able to tell from a glance who the poet is. Of course, it makes sense that if any book was going to make it into Fodlan, it would be one of Almyra's most famous,)
You must have made his day... (The merchant, that is. There are merchants that come to Fdolan to trade but it's always been understood that unless they had a particular buyer ready, they would always struggle and would never make as much as they would in other nations.
He stops at one page, a scene depicting some village girls gathered around a well. They draw water and sing with the birds while their flock of sheep gathers around them. It's such a simple, domestic scene; completely different from the paintings he's more likely to see in Fodlan depicting the warriors on mounts looking terrifying. ) Did he tell you what it was?
(He turns the page again, this one showing a man with a bow hiding among the bushes as he watches a doe at spring, the moon shining onto it.
His brow furrows as he makes out some faded writing in the margins of the page; a direct translation of the writing. He flips through a few more pages and can spot the same notes here and there. Someone has tried to translate what's in the book; usually the more famous poems. While not accurate, he can still feel their effort and he can't help but be endeared. He wonders who the amateur translator was. )
... I think we have the same book in Derdriu. (Not a lie. They do. It's one of his own books that he'd brought with him,) The cover is different but I recognize some of the pictures.
Poetry, he said. There are even a few pages where someone wrote translations directly on the parchment, but I wish they hadn't. This book is a piece of art, why mar it like that? Even so, I do wish I knew what they said. The merchant didn't have time to translate them all, of course, and I imagine some subtleties can't carry over from one language to the other.
[ Dorothea watches Claude's face as he flips through the pages. It's a fascinating exercise, trying to gauge what he must be feeling even as he works to cultivate his expression. She's noticed that he does this through their interactions, not only with her but with everyone he talks to.
When he mentions the copy in Derdriu, she perks up a little and leans in with interest. ]
Do you really? Has anyone bothered to translate that copy or is it like mine?
(It's not that he disagrees. If anything, he agrees with her. Why write on the pages when the book itself is a work of art? It's certainly much more valuable than his own copy. He can appreciate the effort though, as amateur as it is. Someone, somewhere, had been interested for one reason or another.)
A long time ago, it wasn't uncommon for the Almyrans and Leicester territories to correspond with one another. Their letters would be translated by people who studied both languages. Obviously, things have changed since then.
(The only time the two nations interact these days is to fight and you won't catch anyone in Leicester studying Almyran without a special interest. It's slightly different in Almyra, where some still study Fodlan's language, especially in the western towns, but there are more popular alternatives. It's more advantageous to study the language of a country you actually have trade and friendly relations with. Only soldiers really study Fodlani these days if only to understand their enemy.)
But we still have resources from back then. Language books, copies of old treaties... and some popular literature. Some of them were translated at the time; others, over the years.
(Old documents, written in classical script and he wonders how many people would even understand the Fodlani translations these days.
He turns the pages, finding one poem with its faded, barely legible translation in the margin. The poem itself, simple, easy enough to pretend that he can recall without knowing how to read,)
"You are my soul And without my soul, I know not how to live.
You are my eyes And without you, I cannot see.
You are my words And when you are gone, I am silent."
(Another page, carefully chosen, not too long, something he can pretend to recognize from the collections in Derdriu's libraries,)
"If you had to go far off, Why did you come to be close to me?
The clouds don't go away, nor do they make rains I have washed the floor with tears for you."
(As he recites, he lights up, the way one does when talking about something they're passionate about. The same way Ignatz feels confident talking about the saints and art or how Hilda suddenly becomes interested when talking about dancing or making crafts. How many people would have imagined Claude von Riegan would be a poet? )
And these are just some of the ones we know. Imagine what else is written on these pages? What else could be said between us if we tried to understand?
(Words begin to spill without restraint and when he looks up from the pages to meet her eyes, they're bright, clear, and intelligent. For just a moment, it's a side of himself that he doesn't really show; the real him.)
Instead of being content with what we know--or rather, what we think we know-- we could learn so much more. We could grow, change... we could be so much more than what everyone thinks we have to be.
[ Dorothea falls silent as Claude speaks, listening, taking in the words of the poems and the way they roll off his tongue. When she'd transferred over from the Black Eagles, this wasn't what she'd been expecting, if she was honest. Claude was a schemer, it was said--someone who (mildly) poisoned other people as part of his wildly elaborate schemes.
But that isn't him, is it? That isn't the whole picture. He's like her book: a beautiful cover, full of words she can't understand--yet--a poem to be interpreted verse by verse. What would their classmates think if they could see him now, reciting poetry? Maybe it wouldn't have done anything for them, but for her, it's enthralling.
Dorothea leans in, eager for the next line. I have washed the floor with tears for you. She watches his eyes as he recites the words, taking in the rhythm of the couplets. They don't rhyme but it would be easy enough to change up the wording a little. Music didn't always have to rhyme, anyway--the emotion behind the words was what was most important.
And, oh, what emotions he's revealing to her now. He's excited, enthusiastic in a way she hasn't yet seen, yearning for a gentler and more understanding world--a world where people could be friends across arbitrary borders; a world where the language you spoke wasn't an impassable barrier.
Maybe even a world where it didn't matter if you were a common-born girl without a crest.
When he looks up at her, a warm pink blush has bloomed across Dorothea's cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She knows it, too, can feel the heat in her face. Her eyes widen just a touch, and she sits up straighter, playing it cool like she isn't hanging on his every word. ]
I think that sounds like the kind of thing I'd like to see.
(He is a schemer but there's always been more to him than that. There's always more if you're willing to give someone a chance and really get to know them. And well... most people don't try.
He's lit up, something still welling inside him and spilling from his lips. )
And you will.
(He says it certainly, with absolution. This is a promise and something what the other nobles might call a goal or a vision; the sort of thing every noble should have to better the lives of those under them. He isn't the only noble at Garreg Mach with a vision. Dimitri has one. Edelgard, too. He can see it in the way they regard each other every time they meet. What that vision is? He isn't sure and he doesn't know if he'll ever really know depending on the paths they take but...
... It might be nice, he thinks, if they could work together.)
You'll see. Everyone will. It won't happen overnight or even in a few... but just look at Garreg Mach. Nobles are taking classes with commoners. You took classes with a princess from Brigid! The Blue Lions have someone from Duscur. Cyril's from Almyra and he's been studying with us for the last couple of months.
Look at us. (An Almyran and a Fodlander.) An heir and a singer, talking about books and music together. We wouldn't be here if we didn't give each other a chance.
(If they hadn't reached out to each other at the dance. Ah, he's beginning to calm down now that the tide of words and emotions has come and gone. Everything seems to catch up and he closes his mouth and looks back at the book in his lap. No, he definitely didn't see the way Dorothea was looking at him. She was really listening, wasn't she? For just a moment... she'd really seen him.
(And if he's honest, that's frightening.)
Calmer,)
I still have a lot to learn. I need to become stronger... and I need to meet more people... but soon, we'll leave Garreg Mach. (They'll graduate. Their time at Garreg Mach is almost over. ) I'll go back to Leicester and I'll make it happen.
(And he looks up again, grinning that trademark smile of his,)
You should come to see me some time. Get a front-row seat to everything.
[ It isn’t an unusual request by any stretch of the imagination. They’re friends now, aren’t they? So it makes sense that she would visit him at his home in the beautiful city of Derdriu if he truly believes what he claims to about equality and the like.
Even so, it’s a little surprising to be so plainly asked like that. What would the archduke say? Lorenz still looks down his nose at her occasionally—would the Leicester nobility even know what to do with a girl who openly aspired to the levels of upward mobility that she did?
She can do more than just visit Derdriu, can’t she? She’s from Enbarr but she isn’t tied down there, after all. She got her start at the Mittelfrank but the whole world is her stage. There are goals of her own that she still has to achieve, to find and settle down with someone who will cherish her all the days of her life being the foremost and also the most challenging of them.
Maybe today she’s taken a step towards making that goal a reality without even intending to. Just maybe. ]
Of course I’ll come visit. You absolutely have to show me the sights around Derdriu while you aren’t busy revolutionizing the world. Or… I could even help you, y’know—give you a commoner’s perspective on things.
[ Maybe it would be good for her, too, to get out of the Empire. Sure, the Alliance has its own roster of unsavory nobles, but they claim to do things in a more egalitarian way there, don’t they? She could thrive there, far away from the street corners and back alleys that had served as the setting of her childhood traumas. ]
Hah! Derdriu doesn't need me to show anything off.
(He can say that warmly and with pride. It's true! He'll never forget the first time he laid eyes on Derdriu. He'd arrived in the earliest morning hours when it was still dark. The city was sparkling, lights reflecting on the water, and making it look like it was floating. It was different from where he'd grown up before. He'd been mesmerized. This was where he was going to live? He'd never felt so lucky before.)
But since you asked... (He's clearly teasing, his voice trailing cheerily,) I can give you the grand tour. Though, it might be a bit... unconventional.
(Of course. Would anyone expect anything else from Claude? No doubt, he would show her something unexpected. It isn't like Claude to do things as expected.
Her offer to share perspective though? He immediately looks thoughtful, considering the offer very seriously before replying,)
I'd like that. In fact, I'm looking forward to it.
[ Some small part of Dorothea wishes she could be proud of Enbarr in the way that Claude is clearly proud of Derdriu, but she's seen too many of its dark and dingy corners. Perhaps that's a point of pride, in its own way--she'd haunted those streets and survived--but no, not the same kind of pride as his. She's proud of the Mittelfrank, but again, that isn't quite the same. Maybe one day she'll live somewhere that elicits the same emotion.
When Claude agrees to show her around the aquatic city, Dorothea shoots him one of her most brilliant smiles. ]
I'd be disappointed if any tour you give is a conventional one. I fully expect you to show me all the fun little nooks and crannies that a tourist would never find. I can't wait.
[ His interest in her opinions is pleasing, too, making her grin even wider.
They chat a bit longer, until Dorothea realizes the position of the sun has shifted enough in the sky to have changed the tone of the lighting in her room. The dinner bell will be ringing soon. ]
Oh, goodness, look how long I've kept you. I don't mean to monopolize your time. I know how busy you are.
[ The book is still in his hands, though, and when she looks at the way he's so carefully holding it, she waves her hands once in a small gesture. ]
Do you want to borrow it? I know how much you love books so I'm sure you'd take care of it.
Oh, a tourist would never find these places. That's why you need a friendly local to guide you.
(A tourist would never find the little coffee shop in the market, hidden behind all of the stalls selling cloth and tapestries. A tourist would never know the tavern by the sea actually has a private room with a perfect view of the canals. But then again, most of the Derdriu natives were unaware of these places, too. In the end, it all came down to the special circles you ran into, the people you spoke to, and who was willing to share their secrets or brag to anyone who would listen...
He doesn't notice the time and he looks out at the window at the lowering sun. Ah.)
Right, I still have to speak to Cyril.
(Cyril. One of their newest members. Who would have thought an Almyran would be welcomed into the Golden Deer of all houses, right? It was no secret that Claude had a special interest in the younger boy, too. It was just too bad that Cyril, in turn, seemed to want nothing to do with him.
What he doesn't expect, however, is for Dorothea to offer her book to him. He looks surprised for a moment and then lets out a laugh,)
Are you sure? I mean... this is your secret treasure. And you're really trusting me?
(He's teasing. Of course, by now, he's aware that there are quite a few people who trust him for one reason or another. For all of his schemes and all of his secrets, he was reliable when it mattered most. In a few months, he'd established himself as a worthy leader to his classmates.
He feels like he knows her answer though and he looks down at the book,)
... I wonder if Cyril would know any of these.
(Or if he would even care. Sometimes he wonders if it's really worth trying to get Cyril to care about his-- no, their-- homeland again. Every time he tries to bring it up, he only seems to get more irritated.)
Some secret treasures are meant to be shared with people who know how to appreciate them.
[ No, she didn't intend for that to sound as incredibly suggestive as it did, but here they are. Dorothea laughs and shakes her head, though she sighs at Claude's comment about Cyril. ]
Sad to say, but Cyril seems like the kind of person who wouldn't have any interest in poetry unless Lady Rhea told him he should have it. I wish he wasn't so devoted to her, but I suppose he's still very young. When I was his age, there wasn't much I wouldn't have done for Manuela if she'd asked, so I understand where he's coming from. Maybe he'll grow out of it.
[ Or maybe he'll become one more zealot in the church's ranks. She'd rather not see that happen to him, but in the end it's up to Cyril to choose what path he takes. Maybe being part of the Golden Deer class can be a positive influence on his outlook. ]
Oh, or maybe if we got Lysithea to introduce him to it. He seems to have a soft spot for her, don't you think?
(The other meaning isn't lost on him. He knows how it sounds and he gives her a smile, playful and probably more flirty than he meant for it to come off as considering the situation. Really, it's times like this for just a moment he wonders...
No, he can't let himself get distracted. He bottles up the thought and puts it away for another time. He's not oblivious or naive in the way some of the others can be. Maybe someday he'll be able to squeeze something like romance into his careful plans but that day isn't now.
Maybe that's why he's so interested in Cyril and Lysithea's budding relationship. The two had certainly hit it off well and she was helping him with his studies so he could keep up even with those that had been in the class far longer than him. )
Rhea's his world. (It's no secret and there's something not quite cold but cool in the way he speaks about her,a) And Rhea doesn't want any of this in Fodlan.
(This book from outside Fodlan is forbidden and it's because Rhea refuses to allow it. Shes' the one who could change all of these things but it's the church that still influences their politics and relations. If he wanted his dreams to come true, he would have to work beyond reforming just Leicester. All of his work there would mean nothing as long as Rhea was in the way and he'll have to find a way to change things.)
But you might be onto something. (Cyril's fondness for Lysithea was obvious to him and he found it cute and endearing.) We'll just have to... create some opportunities for it to come up.
[ Claude declines to keep up the thread of flirtation in their conversation, which is a little disappointing, but there's no use in forcing it. Yes, she can admit she likes him: he's cute and smart and ambitious, even if he tries to hide so much of himself. It's fine; there will be time to test the waters again later. ]
Yes, Rhea seems to inspire a great deal of devotion, for some reason. [ Spoken in that same cool tone that Claude employed. It's obvious that Dorothea holds no love for the church, or those who helm it, given that the crest system they enforce so dogmatically is the cause of all of her life's worst traumas. That isn't the subject of their conversation, though, and she's happy too leave it an unspoken truth until she feels ready to tell him about that part of her history.
She leans in a little at the prospect of "creating" opportunities for a conversation between Cyril and Lysithea, her face lighting up. ]
I'll have you know, I'm an excellent matchmaker. I have a sense for these things. How are we going to do it? Arrange little tea dates for them...? No, no, I can hardly imagine Cyril sitting still long enough to really enjoy a proper tea service. Maybe a picnic instead, outside the monastery so he doesn't feel as pressured to do work.
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Jeralt was dead, and a Black Eagle was responsible. Well, that wasn't fair--Monica had never been a Black Eagle, only some pale ghast impersonating one. The real girl was gone forever. Two deaths at the same wicked hands.
Byleth had been understandably devastated. Seeing their Professor hunched over her father's cooling body, weeping in the rain, took Dorothea back to the streets of Enbarr, to a much smaller version of herself positioned similarly over her own mother's prone form. It was... difficult to watch, but she'd wrapped her arm around Byleth's shoulder as the Knights of Seiros lifted Jeralt up on a pall to bear him back to Garreg Mach one last time. It would be all right one day, she'd said. One day, it would hurt less.
In the days and weeks that followed, it felt like a shadow had fallen over the monastery. It hadn't lifted when Kronya and Solon were killed, either. Byleth's transformation raised more questions than it answered. Why was all of this happening now?
The day after their mission into the sealed forest, Dorothea can be found in one of the academy's spare music rooms, her fingers absently plucking at the strings of a lute. When the door creaks open, she tenses up but immediately relaxes when she sees Claude there. ]
Oh, Claude! What brings you here? Come and sit for a moment, won't you?
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Jeralt's murder had been a great loss for Garreg Mach but a personal one for Byleth. It had shaken everyone, himself included. He had never experienced the loss of a loved one before and the funerals in Fodlan are so much different from the ones he'd grown up with. The air had just been so... hopelessly sad and heavy. All he could do was observe, pay his respects, offer his support, make sure everyone else was taken care of, and promise to help catch his killer.
And they did but not before things took another turn. What was going on? What was this about a goddess living inside Byleth's mind? What else was going to happen? Why was Rhea acting so strange? Why has she been acting so strange? He barely has time to even think of all the questions. His brain is swimming, a sea of incoherent thoughts, a puddle of frustrated uncertainty, and... everything would be answered at the Holy Tomb? Why did they need to go there to receive the Goddess' revelation? Couldn't Teach just ask the Goddess in her head? What was going on?
All he can do until then is keep searching, keep thinking, but most importantly, keep an eye on everyone. He's seen the way the last few months ahve taken their toll on his Golden Deer. Slaying Monic and Solon might have helped some of them overcome their grief but the mystery and uncertainty around Byleths' transformation was just something new to weigh on them.
He lets Hilda visit him at night, listens to Lorenz rant in the garden, and helps talk Ignatz and Marianne through the new storm. Lysithea has thrown herself into books, Leonie into her training, and Raphael, ever the reliable brother, stays strong and looks out for everyone.
Claude makes his way through the list (not that there is one) and searches out Dorothea, one of their newest members. He's not surprised to find her in the music room and smiles lightly at the door,)
Sorry, I didn't mean to crash.
(He glances at the lute but comes over, pulling up a chair, turning it so he can sit with his arms folded over the back of the seat,)
... Talk about a wild welcome, huh?
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You aren’t crashing. I’ve probably been alone with my thoughts enough the last few hours.
[ The lute rests in her lap, her pinky finger tapping on the polished wood. ]
Wild is one way of putting it. It feels like... like a stage play, where there are so many people moving props and set pieces around behind the scenes, and the actors are only vaguely aware of it when something comes out from behind the curtain. I don’t like it.
[ She emphasizes her point with an emphatic strum, moving into a melodic series of chord progressions. ]
I want to pull back the curtain and see what all the moving parts are, and who’s moving them. I don’t like being in the dark.
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There's clearly more going on here, a bigger picture he can only see a part of, and hearing Dorothea explain her feelings... it feels like he's hearing himself speak. When he finally feels like he's gotten his words back--)
That's one way of putting it... (It feels weak compared to everything that's been said but its the shortest, most direct answer.) I agree. There's more going on here; things we can't see beyond the short glimpses we've caught...
(It sounds different but the notes resonate with him, stirring up old memories and feelings that almost distract him. Almost. It's with great practice that he's able to bury those thoughts and emotions and continue (though, his eyes do look down at her fingers for a moment).)
... We'll get to the bottom of everything. I'll make sure of it.
(Ever the leader, he shoulders the responsibility naturally,)
I'm not going to sit around waiting until Teach is supposed to receive the Goddess's Revelation, either.
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[ What does Rhea actually want to accomplish? is the question she doesn't ask. They're still on the church grounds, after all, and being openly heretical or opposing her holiness in any way has proven quite fatal for more than a few people lately.
Dorothea sighs, plucking at the lute, and it doesn't escape her attention when Claude's eyes drift down to her fingers. ]
Do you like the song? It's Almyran. I can't remember the name, and you can't play it quite right on a lute, besides. They're actually derived from an Almyran instrument called an oud, but those don't have frets so it's possible to slide the notes together.
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And that's what we all have to wait and see...
(Did Rhea know Byleth couldn't hear the Goddess's voice anymore? What about that conversation he'd overheard, too?
Still, Dorothea continues to play at the strings, the melody becoming more and more familiar until it clicks. It takes everything in him to not look surprised but what comes instead is something that probably looks akin to confusion mixed with interest. He can play it off as not really recognizing the song, being caught off guard by how different it sounds from the usual Fodlani melodies, and his own natural curiosity but... )
Is it? (He cants his head to the side, innocently,) I've never heard it before.
(A lie. He's heard it plenty of times.)
I guess it would make sense you would know about all sorts of music given your profession but... I never would have imagined Almyran music being popular in Enbarr. Most people don't usually think about culture or art when it comes to our old neighbor.
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[ Dorothea can play the instrument easily enough without watching her fingers—she watches Claude’s expression instead, the play of emotions on his face and the way he schools them almost as quickly as they appear. It’s easy to miss if you aren’t paying attention, if you don’t know what to look for, but Dorothea is an actress (and a fairly good one, she’s been led to believe).
When Claude says he’s never heard the song, her brows arch minutely. A lie, if not an obvious one; Claude is a good actor too, it seems. Why hide the truth, though? Why hide this truth? A few reasons readily come to mind, but she doesn’t push. He keeps talking instead.
In response to his question, Dorothea gives a casual shrug. ]
I wouldn’t call it popular, exactly, but the Almyrans are so far removed from us in Adrestia that they aren’t regarded as the boogeymen they seem to be in the Alliance.
Anyway, people are just people, aren’t they? When I was an orphan living on the street, noble men and women would treat stray animals with less contempt than they reserved for children like me. I was less than a beast in their eyes, but look at me now, the “mystical songstress” of the Mittelfrank. Petra has told me so many things about Brigid, too, and their songs and dances.
So, the way I see it, if it’s true for us commoners and for the people of Brigid—that we have the capacity to create things, our own culture with art and music and poetry—why wouldn’t the same be true for the Almyrans? Are their hearts not moved by beauty when they see or hear it? I’m sure they are. Positive, even.
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For now, he can only listen to Dorothea. When he really thinks about it, he doesn't know much about the Empire. Most of his studies were, naturally, more focused on Leicester and it's history. Aside from the old history of Fodlan, he only really knows about Adrestia and Faerghus through their relation with Leicester. There are some exceptions, of course. He knows about the Duscur Tragedy and he has some vague sense of awareness for the political turmoil in Adrestia's government. He's never even been to Adrestia or Faerghus and now that he has Dorothea for a classmate, he appreciates what she has to share. It can only help him understand this land better.
He wishes he could tell her how right she was. Of course Almyrans have culture. Of course they have art and music. He wishes he could tell her that even the cities look like colorful mosaics when seen from above. He wishes he could tell her about poets he'd read. He wishes he could tell her how moved he is to hear her words.
... But he can't.
He can't say a word so he bottles up everything he could say and tucks it away. He raises his head high and speaks airily,)
Everyone in Fodlan knows... (His words are light, as if there's no weight to his words,) That Almyrans are a warlike people. The only thing they do is fight like beasts.
(And as easily as his heart had been risen, it falls. He shrugs his shoulders and props his elbow on the back of the chair, resting his face on his palm to listen to Dorothea's song more,)
It's a beautiful song, though. Just think... if everyone could hear this, they might think differently.
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[ Her voice is just as light, just as airy as Claude's. The song finishes with a flourish, and Dorothea holds the lute in her lap for a moment before rising from her seat and placing it on its stand.
Turning back to him, she gives him a searching look. ]
Come back to my room for a moment? You don't have to come in, but there's something I'd like to show you.
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I've never heard anyone say otherwise.
(It's all he's heard since the moment he arrived in Fodlan. From the moment he was snuck across the mountains, through Fodlan's Locket, and all the way to Garreg Mach. Though, he suspects others might think otherwise. He can't imagine Byleth thinking those things to begin with. He suspects more would change their minds if only they knew... He's seen Hilda and Lysithea talk to Cyril, give him a chance, and treat him like they would any other person.
Dorothea is the first person he's ever actually heard, though. And it makes his heartbeat in his chest, do turns and spins, filling him with a rush of emotion all the way through.
And he can only act like he doesn't care.
The song ends and he wishes he could ask to hear it again.
But he has to keep up his act.
Her back turned towards him, he watches her. When he invited her to join the Golden Deer, he never would have expected this. He knew she was bright; she wouldn't have gotten into Garreg Mach if she hadn't studied hard for it. She wouldn't have been able to last here as long as she did if she wasn't clever in more ways than one. While he certainly can't pretend to know everything about her, he knows her early life wasn't a kind one and he knows that can darken most people's views and yet...
He's seen her many times since she'd join the Golden Deer. But right now she looks... different. Something has changed. It's like his vision of her has become more clear. She's always been beautiful, he thinks, and who wouldn't want to share company with a renowned actress and singer? But what else does she think? What else would she say? He wants to know.
Ah, now he's just staring. A little too hard, perhaps, and he rolls his neck, stretching as he sits up straight and seems to consider her invitation. He gives her a coy smile,)
Are you sure? People might talk if they see me going to your room, you know.
(He doesn't care what they say about him. Goddess knows, they have plenty to say already. But it isn't fair for the people he associates with. He always has to warn them.)
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[ And now she's the one putting on an act, her voice sweet like she doesn't actually care about the gossip, like it hasn't felt like a knife slipping between her ribs each time she's overheard someone calling her names when they didn't realize she was close enough to hear them. With her head held high, she acts like none of that could possibly matter to her.
She shrugs easily and smiles, the perfect picture of the heroine who effortlessly rises above the hurtful things people say, unaffected entirely by them. If he caught her in the moment, listening to a pair of soldiers saying she didn't belong here, she might not be able to seem so unaffected. But that's not the here and now. ]
Besides, you're my house leader. It's natural that we would spend time together.
[ As if that decides it, she slips her arm through the crook of his elbow and leads him confidently through the monastery, the two of them walking with their heads held high like they owned the place, like anyone who might catch a glimpse of them has, in fact, been blessed simply to lay eyes on them--which they have been.
At the door to her dorm room, she releases him and unlocks the door. From the looks of it, her room is immaculately clean, everything in perfect order. ]
Here we are. Give me just a moment.
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She slips her arm through his and he lets out a laugh, clearly amused,)
There's no reason anyone should talk.
(Should. Of course, people will always find a reason. He knows that. Dorothea is a strong spirit though and so he is. Even if it gets tiring, they can keep going forward. (He wishes he could give her a break, though).
Back straight, head high, he walks Dorothea to her room like the proud nobleman he was taught to be, he carries himself as the Riegan heir; like someone who belongs here and will always be something more. It isn't wrong. He does belong here. He will most certainly be something more. Everyone will see, some day.
When they get to her room, he lets her slip away and waits outside her door. He leans forward just a bit, tilting his head to get a better look. He's never seen her room before. You can always learn a lot about a person from their room (which reminds him he should really clean his before the next room inspection, oof).)
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Once inside, she quickly closes the doors. It's easier to note all the little touches that mark the space as hers, upon closer inspection. There's a softly heady floral scent that permeates the air thanks to a bouquet of roses on a small table in the corner, and an enameled jewelry box next to a wrought silver stand mirror on her chest of drawers. A poster for one of Manuela's old shows hangs on the wall.
Upon closer inspection, the book is wrapped in brown paper cover. When she hands it to him, there's a definite weight to it for a book that size. ]
Take the wrapper off and tell me what you think.
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He takes the book, his hands dropping just slightly at the weight. It's heavier than he expected it to be. It reminds him of some of the older or more valuable books with their thick and ornate covers and he can only assume this is what it is. But why would something like that be wrapped up? Usually, it would be displayed proudly for others to look at...
But once he unwraps it, it becomes clear. He was right. It is one of those thick and ornate covers. He didn't expect it to be this though and all he can manage is a quiet, )
It's beautiful.
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[ She can see the awe in his face and hear it in his voice. Dorothea knows just by his reaction that he understands, without even having to open it, why she might not want to wave this book around outside. The church itself didn't have the best history with Almyra, and the lacquered cover is distinctly not of Fodlan. ]
Anyway, don't just look at the cover. Open it. The illustrations are amazing.
[ Ever the polite host, Dorothea pulls the chair away from her desk and offers it to Claude before taking a seat on the edge of her bed. She's eager to see more of his reaction as he takes in the illuminated pages covered in flowing script that spills across the pages. He surely has some inkling of just how valuable the small volume is, of the sheer number of man hours required in the production of the paper, the lettering, the illustrations, the binding. It's an older book, as well, so the age undoubtedly adds value. ]
This book is one of my treasures from my time in the Mittelfrank. We did a show a few years back that was inspired in parts by an Almyran legend, so the company bought a number of books from an Almyran merchant to get ideas for the costumes and stage design. I kept this one when I left.
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Why do you have this?
(He asks before she can answer before he takes a seat. He holds the book in his hand, still closed, and searches Dorothea for answers she eventually shares.
It makes sense when she explains it like that. He's not unfamiliar with the idea that stories have traveled across borders, mixing and melding with the local lore and becoming something else. He knows the story of the peasant and his three wishes to make a princess fall in love with. He'd laughed when he found a translation of old stories in the Derdriu library and read some of the decisions that had been made in them. Spirits changed to the Goddess and her Saints. Magic and wonder becoming divine miracles.
He takes the seat, holding the book in his lap, and opens it, turning each page carefully. Eyes look over the pictures and the writing and he can recognize right away that it's a book of poems. He's careful not to let his eyes linger too long on the words but he's able to tell from a glance who the poet is. Of course, it makes sense that if any book was going to make it into Fodlan, it would be one of Almyra's most famous,)
You must have made his day... (The merchant, that is. There are merchants that come to Fdolan to trade but it's always been understood that unless they had a particular buyer ready, they would always struggle and would never make as much as they would in other nations.
He stops at one page, a scene depicting some village girls gathered around a well. They draw water and sing with the birds while their flock of sheep gathers around them. It's such a simple, domestic scene; completely different from the paintings he's more likely to see in Fodlan depicting the warriors on mounts looking terrifying. ) Did he tell you what it was?
(He turns the page again, this one showing a man with a bow hiding among the bushes as he watches a doe at spring, the moon shining onto it.
His brow furrows as he makes out some faded writing in the margins of the page; a direct translation of the writing. He flips through a few more pages and can spot the same notes here and there. Someone has tried to translate what's in the book; usually the more famous poems. While not accurate, he can still feel their effort and he can't help but be endeared. He wonders who the amateur translator was. )
... I think we have the same book in Derdriu. (Not a lie. They do. It's one of his own books that he'd brought with him,) The cover is different but I recognize some of the pictures.
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[ Dorothea watches Claude's face as he flips through the pages. It's a fascinating exercise, trying to gauge what he must be feeling even as he works to cultivate his expression. She's noticed that he does this through their interactions, not only with her but with everyone he talks to.
When he mentions the copy in Derdriu, she perks up a little and leans in with interest. ]
Do you really? Has anyone bothered to translate that copy or is it like mine?
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(It's not that he disagrees. If anything, he agrees with her. Why write on the pages when the book itself is a work of art? It's certainly much more valuable than his own copy. He can appreciate the effort though, as amateur as it is. Someone, somewhere, had been interested for one reason or another.)
A long time ago, it wasn't uncommon for the Almyrans and Leicester territories to correspond with one another. Their letters would be translated by people who studied both languages. Obviously, things have changed since then.
(The only time the two nations interact these days is to fight and you won't catch anyone in Leicester studying Almyran without a special interest. It's slightly different in Almyra, where some still study Fodlan's language, especially in the western towns, but there are more popular alternatives. It's more advantageous to study the language of a country you actually have trade and friendly relations with. Only soldiers really study Fodlani these days if only to understand their enemy.)
But we still have resources from back then. Language books, copies of old treaties... and some popular literature. Some of them were translated at the time; others, over the years.
(Old documents, written in classical script and he wonders how many people would even understand the Fodlani translations these days.
He turns the pages, finding one poem with its faded, barely legible translation in the margin. The poem itself, simple, easy enough to pretend that he can recall without knowing how to read,)
"You are my soul
And without my soul,
I know not how to live.
You are my eyes
And without you,
I cannot see.
You are my words
And when you are gone,
I am silent."
(Another page, carefully chosen, not too long, something he can pretend to recognize from the collections in Derdriu's libraries,)
"If you had to go far off,
Why did you come to be close to me?
The clouds don't go away, nor do they make rains
I have washed the floor with tears for you."
(As he recites, he lights up, the way one does when talking about something they're passionate about. The same way Ignatz feels confident talking about the saints and art or how Hilda suddenly becomes interested when talking about dancing or making crafts. How many people would have imagined Claude von Riegan would be a poet? )
And these are just some of the ones we know. Imagine what else is written on these pages? What else could be said between us if we tried to understand?
(Words begin to spill without restraint and when he looks up from the pages to meet her eyes, they're bright, clear, and intelligent. For just a moment, it's a side of himself that he doesn't really show; the real him.)
Instead of being content with what we know--or rather, what we think we know-- we could learn so much more. We could grow, change... we could be so much more than what everyone thinks we have to be.
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But that isn't him, is it? That isn't the whole picture. He's like her book: a beautiful cover, full of words she can't understand--yet--a poem to be interpreted verse by verse. What would their classmates think if they could see him now, reciting poetry? Maybe it wouldn't have done anything for them, but for her, it's enthralling.
Dorothea leans in, eager for the next line. I have washed the floor with tears for you. She watches his eyes as he recites the words, taking in the rhythm of the couplets. They don't rhyme but it would be easy enough to change up the wording a little. Music didn't always have to rhyme, anyway--the emotion behind the words was what was most important.
And, oh, what emotions he's revealing to her now. He's excited, enthusiastic in a way she hasn't yet seen, yearning for a gentler and more understanding world--a world where people could be friends across arbitrary borders; a world where the language you spoke wasn't an impassable barrier.
Maybe even a world where it didn't matter if you were a common-born girl without a crest.
When he looks up at her, a warm pink blush has bloomed across Dorothea's cheeks and the bridge of her nose. She knows it, too, can feel the heat in her face. Her eyes widen just a touch, and she sits up straighter, playing it cool like she isn't hanging on his every word. ]
I think that sounds like the kind of thing I'd like to see.
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He's lit up, something still welling inside him and spilling from his lips. )
And you will.
(He says it certainly, with absolution. This is a promise and something what the other nobles might call a goal or a vision; the sort of thing every noble should have to better the lives of those under them. He isn't the only noble at Garreg Mach with a vision. Dimitri has one. Edelgard, too. He can see it in the way they regard each other every time they meet. What that vision is? He isn't sure and he doesn't know if he'll ever really know depending on the paths they take but...
... It might be nice, he thinks, if they could work together.)
You'll see. Everyone will. It won't happen overnight or even in a few... but just look at Garreg Mach. Nobles are taking classes with commoners. You took classes with a princess from Brigid! The Blue Lions have someone from Duscur. Cyril's from Almyra and he's been studying with us for the last couple of months.
Look at us. (An Almyran and a Fodlander.) An heir and a singer, talking about books and music together. We wouldn't be here if we didn't give each other a chance.
(If they hadn't reached out to each other at the dance. Ah, he's beginning to calm down now that the tide of words and emotions has come and gone. Everything seems to catch up and he closes his mouth and looks back at the book in his lap. No, he definitely didn't see the way Dorothea was looking at him. She was really listening, wasn't she? For just a moment... she'd really seen him.
(And if he's honest, that's frightening.)
Calmer,)
I still have a lot to learn. I need to become stronger... and I need to meet more people... but soon, we'll leave Garreg Mach. (They'll graduate. Their time at Garreg Mach is almost over. ) I'll go back to Leicester and I'll make it happen.
(And he looks up again, grinning that trademark smile of his,)
You should come to see me some time. Get a front-row seat to everything.
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[ It isn’t an unusual request by any stretch of the imagination. They’re friends now, aren’t they? So it makes sense that she would visit him at his home in the beautiful city of Derdriu if he truly believes what he claims to about equality and the like.
Even so, it’s a little surprising to be so plainly asked like that. What would the archduke say? Lorenz still looks down his nose at her occasionally—would the Leicester nobility even know what to do with a girl who openly aspired to the levels of upward mobility that she did?
She can do more than just visit Derdriu, can’t she? She’s from Enbarr but she isn’t tied down there, after all. She got her start at the Mittelfrank but the whole world is her stage. There are goals of her own that she still has to achieve, to find and settle down with someone who will cherish her all the days of her life being the foremost and also the most challenging of them.
Maybe today she’s taken a step towards making that goal a reality without even intending to. Just maybe. ]
Of course I’ll come visit. You absolutely have to show me the sights around Derdriu while you aren’t busy revolutionizing the world. Or… I could even help you, y’know—give you a commoner’s perspective on things.
[ Maybe it would be good for her, too, to get out of the Empire. Sure, the Alliance has its own roster of unsavory nobles, but they claim to do things in a more egalitarian way there, don’t they? She could thrive there, far away from the street corners and back alleys that had served as the setting of her childhood traumas. ]
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(He can say that warmly and with pride. It's true! He'll never forget the first time he laid eyes on Derdriu. He'd arrived in the earliest morning hours when it was still dark. The city was sparkling, lights reflecting on the water, and making it look like it was floating. It was different from where he'd grown up before. He'd been mesmerized. This was where he was going to live? He'd never felt so lucky before.)
But since you asked... (He's clearly teasing, his voice trailing cheerily,) I can give you the grand tour. Though, it might be a bit... unconventional.
(Of course. Would anyone expect anything else from Claude? No doubt, he would show her something unexpected. It isn't like Claude to do things as expected.
Her offer to share perspective though? He immediately looks thoughtful, considering the offer very seriously before replying,)
I'd like that. In fact, I'm looking forward to it.
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When Claude agrees to show her around the aquatic city, Dorothea shoots him one of her most brilliant smiles. ]
I'd be disappointed if any tour you give is a conventional one. I fully expect you to show me all the fun little nooks and crannies that a tourist would never find. I can't wait.
[ His interest in her opinions is pleasing, too, making her grin even wider.
They chat a bit longer, until Dorothea realizes the position of the sun has shifted enough in the sky to have changed the tone of the lighting in her room. The dinner bell will be ringing soon. ]
Oh, goodness, look how long I've kept you. I don't mean to monopolize your time. I know how busy you are.
[ The book is still in his hands, though, and when she looks at the way he's so carefully holding it, she waves her hands once in a small gesture. ]
Do you want to borrow it? I know how much you love books so I'm sure you'd take care of it.
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(A tourist would never find the little coffee shop in the market, hidden behind all of the stalls selling cloth and tapestries. A tourist would never know the tavern by the sea actually has a private room with a perfect view of the canals. But then again, most of the Derdriu natives were unaware of these places, too. In the end, it all came down to the special circles you ran into, the people you spoke to, and who was willing to share their secrets or brag to anyone who would listen...
He doesn't notice the time and he looks out at the window at the lowering sun. Ah.)
Right, I still have to speak to Cyril.
(Cyril. One of their newest members. Who would have thought an Almyran would be welcomed into the Golden Deer of all houses, right? It was no secret that Claude had a special interest in the younger boy, too. It was just too bad that Cyril, in turn, seemed to want nothing to do with him.
What he doesn't expect, however, is for Dorothea to offer her book to him. He looks surprised for a moment and then lets out a laugh,)
Are you sure? I mean... this is your secret treasure. And you're really trusting me?
(He's teasing. Of course, by now, he's aware that there are quite a few people who trust him for one reason or another. For all of his schemes and all of his secrets, he was reliable when it mattered most. In a few months, he'd established himself as a worthy leader to his classmates.
He feels like he knows her answer though and he looks down at the book,)
... I wonder if Cyril would know any of these.
(Or if he would even care. Sometimes he wonders if it's really worth trying to get Cyril to care about his-- no, their-- homeland again. Every time he tries to bring it up, he only seems to get more irritated.)
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[ No, she didn't intend for that to sound as incredibly suggestive as it did, but here they are. Dorothea laughs and shakes her head, though she sighs at Claude's comment about Cyril. ]
Sad to say, but Cyril seems like the kind of person who wouldn't have any interest in poetry unless Lady Rhea told him he should have it. I wish he wasn't so devoted to her, but I suppose he's still very young. When I was his age, there wasn't much I wouldn't have done for Manuela if she'd asked, so I understand where he's coming from. Maybe he'll grow out of it.
[ Or maybe he'll become one more zealot in the church's ranks. She'd rather not see that happen to him, but in the end it's up to Cyril to choose what path he takes. Maybe being part of the Golden Deer class can be a positive influence on his outlook. ]
Oh, or maybe if we got Lysithea to introduce him to it. He seems to have a soft spot for her, don't you think?
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No, he can't let himself get distracted. He bottles up the thought and puts it away for another time. He's not oblivious or naive in the way some of the others can be. Maybe someday he'll be able to squeeze something like romance into his careful plans but that day isn't now.
Maybe that's why he's so interested in Cyril and Lysithea's budding relationship. The two had certainly hit it off well and she was helping him with his studies so he could keep up even with those that had been in the class far longer than him. )
Rhea's his world. (It's no secret and there's something not quite cold but cool in the way he speaks about her,a) And Rhea doesn't want any of this in Fodlan.
(This book from outside Fodlan is forbidden and it's because Rhea refuses to allow it. Shes' the one who could change all of these things but it's the church that still influences their politics and relations. If he wanted his dreams to come true, he would have to work beyond reforming just Leicester. All of his work there would mean nothing as long as Rhea was in the way and he'll have to find a way to change things.)
But you might be onto something. (Cyril's fondness for Lysithea was obvious to him and he found it cute and endearing.) We'll just have to... create some opportunities for it to come up.
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Yes, Rhea seems to inspire a great deal of devotion, for some reason. [ Spoken in that same cool tone that Claude employed. It's obvious that Dorothea holds no love for the church, or those who helm it, given that the crest system they enforce so dogmatically is the cause of all of her life's worst traumas. That isn't the subject of their conversation, though, and she's happy too leave it an unspoken truth until she feels ready to tell him about that part of her history.
She leans in a little at the prospect of "creating" opportunities for a conversation between Cyril and Lysithea, her face lighting up. ]
I'll have you know, I'm an excellent matchmaker. I have a sense for these things. How are we going to do it? Arrange little tea dates for them...? No, no, I can hardly imagine Cyril sitting still long enough to really enjoy a proper tea service. Maybe a picnic instead, outside the monastery so he doesn't feel as pressured to do work.