Chapter Text
County of Varley
Day 2 of the Red Wolf Moon, Imperial Year 1180
Deep within the heart of a silent forest, there dwelled a songstress by the name of Edith: a bold, courageous young woman with a thirst for life. Within the forest she would sing her songs, longing to see the world outside of her room. And— and….
Bernadetta slams her quill down onto her desk, harder than she means to. A loud THUD reverberates along her desk and echoes in her bedroom; she holds her breath. After a moment passes, she determines that there is no one outside of her room, or even coming towards it. She breathes again, fingers pressed to her forehead in relief, before turning her attention back to the parchment. It’s been splattered with droplets of ink, flung from the tip of her quill, but it doesn’t matter. Bernadetta picks up the paper, rereads the few lines she’s written, then tears it in two.
“No good, Bernie,” she says aloud. With grit teeth, she starts to rip it into smaller pieces. “Trash, trash trash trash. No good at all!”
There is a story in Bernadetta’s head: one about a songstress that she has tentatively named Edith. And Edith, Bernadetta thinks, is a prisoner. But she doesn’t know why. She doesn’t know how Edith got stuck in this prison. She doesn’t even know who is keeping her there. She just keeps thinking about this girl in her head, sad and alone as she gazes out from a window. Of course, Edith will escape — it wouldn’t be much of a story if she didn’t. But Bernadetta doesn’t know how she will, and then she loops back into thinking that she doesn’t know why Edith is there in the first place.
It’s driving her nuts. She just wants to write, but she doesn’t even know what to write about. Without a plot, everything she’s tried to write is just horrible, terrible trash, unworthy of even being called a draft. She’s written short stories before, but never had this kind of trouble with them. Most likely, there is just something wrong with Bernadetta. There must be. That’s always it.
Bernadetta abandons the shreds of her story in the garbage bin by her desk. She stands, putting away her quill and inkwell, then crosses her room to her bookshelf. She stands in front of it, humming thoughtfully. There are fabric bolts propped up by her window that catch her eye. Her violin and trumpet are tucked away in their cases on her bed, and those look fun, but… no. Too noisy. Someone will hear her. Her father may even come up the stairs to demand that she “stop that racket.”
If she can’t write, there has to be something else she can do to take her mind off of what a failure she is. She’s got everything she needs in her room, so there must be something. Embroidery, music, reading, sewing. If her father wasn’t home, she may sneak down to the kitchen to have some fun baking. She knows that if he caught her baking cookies or sweet bread, he’d throw it all away and scold her for not “teaching herself formal dinner recipes.”
Bernadetta is walking on thin ice with her father this week. She’d had a meeting with a suitor last Monday, and none of it had gone well. She forgets which house the man was from, but distinctly remembers that he was pushing 30, and wasn’t very nice. They’d sat in the parlor with her parents while he’d eyed her up and down, loudly proclaiming more than once that she was “on the mousy side, eh?” It certainly didn’t help when he’d started to go on and on about his hobbies, which consisted primarily of harassing common people at the local bar.
“You didn’t smile enough,” her father had snapped. “And you didn’t carry yourself properly; did you see him scoffing at your posture?”
Bernadetta is lucky that nothing came of her father’s anger except a solid hour of scolding. She dreads what will happen when the suitor writes back to — without a doubt — insist that she is simply not the wife for him. A chill jumps up her spine at the thought of it. She bites her lip and twists her fingers, then jumps at a knock at her door.
So slamming her quill against her desk did draw someone to her room after all. They’re going to come in and scold her, tell her no one will ever want a wife who makes so much noise, and—
The knock is followed by three more in rapid succession, then one more offered three seconds after the previous. Bernadetta’s heart soars out of the pit in her stomach. She beats dust off of her leggings, scoots aside a pile of books and sheet music with her feet, and feels as though she can’t open the door fast enough.
On the other side of the door, there is a man with an easy smile. He’s on the taller side, built somewhat lean, and looks down at her with slate-gray eyes that look perpetually sleepy. A thick mop of curly purple hair hangs in his face, as though he doesn’t care to push his bangs back. His clothes are nice, but Bernadetta can see that his trousers and sleek black coat are rumpled from riding.
It’s been months since she last saw her uncle.
“Uncle Theo!” She grabs his hand and pulls him back into her room, back to safety, before he can even get a word out. “You didn’t say that you were—”
“Coming to visit?” Theo’s voice is soft and smooth, tinged with a well-loved affection. He sets a hand on the top of her head, smoothing down her unbrushed cowlicks. “I thought a surprise might be nice. And, I couldn’t resist seeing the way your father might react to an unexpected drop-in.” He pauses, then smiles. “It was pretty great.”
“I’ll never get why he hates you so much.” Bernadetta gets to work clearing her bed of the instrument cases and scraps of idle embroidery. Theo grabs her desk chair and pulls it over, and it’s just then that she notices he has a parcel, wrapped in a lavender ribbon, under his arm. She sits down on her bed and watches as he sets the chair down and sits as well. “What’ve you been up to?”
Theo places the parcel in his lap. “I’ve just been doing administrative work for the army back in Enbarr. There’s been no order for me to head to the front lines, so that’s all I can do for now.”
Bernadetta hopes they never do. She sees her uncle scarcely enough anyway. She doesn’t want him to be on a far-off island without any worldly comforts, surrounded by blood and gunk. Her uncle is better suited to his small house in Enbarr with his sprawling flower gardens, handling correspondence between the capital and the front lines. But, she knows that if the war worsens, he’ll inevitably be sent to fight.
“Supposedly things are settling down,” he continues hastily, “so I don’t expect to be going anywhere. Your uncle Theo is staying safe and sound, Bernie Bear.”
Bernadetta manages a smile, though her stomach is aching. “A—anyway, what brings you home?”
“Nothing much. I just wanted to visit you, maybe see your mom.” Theo picks up the parcel and holds it out to her. “I picked these up in Ochs last I was there. I’ve been waiting for a time to come and give them to you.”
“Oh, wow!” She takes the parcel from him, noting that it’s light. The thick paper crumples in her fingers as she feels for anything that could indicate what the gift is, but loses her patience quickly and begins to pull back the wrapping. She’s greeted by vibrant bundles of thread as soon as she peels the paper away. “Embroidery floss? This is great!”
“I thought you might like to make something nice with it.” Theo turns his head towards her room, every inch of which is covered with some sort of project. She would’ve cleaned if she’d known he’d be coming. “You’re a busy bee, as always. Would you show me something you’ve been making?”
Her eyes dart towards the corner of her room. “It’s all trash. Really, you don’t—”
“Bernie, I’m sure it’s all lovely. You’re very talented, you know.” Theo keeps smiling at her; rarely has Bernadetta seen him not smile when it’s just the two of them. “But, of course, you don’t have to show me. Is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”
“Um, well…” Bernadetta bites her lip and looks around her room, scrambling through her mind for something she can show him so he won’t be disappointed. Maybe she has a composition, or a skirt, or— “Oh, I, uh, I’ve been making a dress, if you wanna see it.”
“I’d be delighted.”
Bernadetta finds the dress hidden away in the corner of her closet, draped around a mannequin. She remembers getting frustrated with it and pushing it to where she couldn’t see it, but it doesn’t look as bad as she remembers. It’s maybe even kinda cute. Huffing and puffing, she pulls it out and sets the mannequin down for her uncle. Were it anyone else looking, she’d probably shrink away and hide under her blankets, waiting for her mattress to swallow her whole, but not with her uncle. Never with him.
“Masterful, as always.” He puts his fingertips against the bodice, gently, tracing a seam. “Are you going to wear this, Bernie?”
“M— maybe.” She swipes her tongue over her lips and looks at her work. It’s a long, dark purple dress, with a high-rise collar made out of some white lace she had lying around. Truthfully, she likes it, but she grimaces looking at the panels in the skirt that gave her so much trouble. “I figure I have to go to all those marriage meetings, so I might as well wear something I like.
Theo opens his mouth, but he’s interrupted by a harsh knock on her door. Bernadetta jumps and fumbles with the mannequin, hastily stuffing it back into her closet. Theo glares at the door, frowning. The knock comes again, harder than before, and Bernadetta knows exactly who it is.
“Bernadetta, Theo?” It’s her father’s voice, low and annoyed. “Come out now. We have to discuss something over lunch.”
The mannequin falls backwards into a pile of laundry, but Bernadetta slams the closet doors shut, not bothering to fix it. She calls back, “I— I was just going to have lunch in my room.”
“Unacceptable. Both of you come down to the dining room now, or I will be very upset.”
“Don’t get so worked up, Amadeus.” There’s a snap in Theo’s voice; she’s only ever heard him talk that way to her father. “We’ll be down to appease you shortly.”
On the other side of the door, her father huffs. Bernadetta holds her breath, hands still firmly pressed to her closet, listening to his steps as they trail away from her room and down the stairs. She exhales when Theo puts a hand on her shoulder.
“It’s a nice dress, Bernie,” he tells her, “and I’m certain you’ll look very nice in it. But speaking of clothes, do you think you should go down to lunch like that? Your father might… lecture you about it.”
She looks down at herself, chewing the inside of her cheek. She’s dressed in leggings, a short gray dress, and a soft cardigan. It’s comfortably for sure, but definitely not the fanciest. Under normal circumstances, she’d change, but— “It won't make any difference.”
Bernadetta hates being right.
“Another rejected proposal.” Amadeus folds a letter in his hands, sliding his fingers over the crease until it’s flat. He looks at her with cold eyes, lips curled. “Bernadetta, what have you to say for yourself?”
She slumps down into the dining room chair, bottom lip between her teeth as she pushes her food around. What is she supposed to say? Sorry that she’s 17 and scared of other people? That it kinda makes it hard to present herself as the “perfect wife” to a 30-year-old man? It’s absolutely not what she should say. She doesn’t fancy the idea of being forced to practice her etiquette all evening.
“Amadeus, don’t be so hard on her.” Bernadetta’s mother extends a hand from her side of the table. Though her words are even, the look on her face is a touch exasperated. “He was far too old for her.”
“Age doesn’t matter, Agna. Bernadetta is finally of marriageable age, and yet, she refuses to act like it.” Amadeus stares Bernadetta down from across the long dining table, visibly frustrated. “One would think she doesn’t want to marry.”
Uncle Theo speaks up then, not even looking up from his food. “She doesn’t.”
“Nobody asked you, Theo!”
“I assumed that I, as family, was part of this family discussion.”
Agna sighs and shoots Bernadetta a look as they bicker, rolling her eyes as if to say, “Brothers.” Her sharp green eyes then bore into Bernadetta, as if studying her. Her mother’s beauty has always intimidated her, if only because she’s everything Bernadetta is not: tall, slender, with intelligent eyes and jet-black hair. Bernadetta wishes she looked more like her mother than her father, but she guesses she should just be grateful she looks more like Theo than anyone else.
“Bernadetta!”
She snaps to attention, fingers clenched painfully tight around her fork as her father calls her name. “Yes!”
“Lord Freugel described you as ‘unattractive’ and ‘standoffish.’ You must work to remedy that.”
Remedy that? How does she fix the way she looks? She can’t just slim down in a heartbeat while simultaneously growing a huge set of breasts like every man she’s been forced to meet wants. She guesses she can fix being “standoffish” by smiling more or something, but the thought of smiling at someone she doesn’t like causes her heart to start racing. Can she improve anything at all?
“Bernadetta, don’t just sit there in your own head. What do you have to say for yourself?” her father demands.
“U—um, I—”
Amadeus doesn’t wait for her response. He buries his face in a hand and sighs, waving his other through the air. “We’ll get you on a stricter beauty routine. Face masks, better soaps, cold water, more makeup. And we’ll double your etiquette lessons.”
Oh, no.
“N—no, that’s not necessary! I know my etiquette, Father, I promise.” No etiquette lessons, please, please. “I was just having an off day, I swear.”
“If you truly knew your etiquette, Bernadetta,” he says, “you would not have ‘off days.’ A proper wife knows better than to have ‘off days.’” He sighs, again. “I was hoping you’d have matured into a better specimen since your childhood years, but it seems there’s still much to teach you.”
Specimen. He talks about her like she’s a little thing in a glass box. A thing to be poked and prodded at. Perhaps it really is suitable for her.
Bernadetta remembers distinctly the first time she ever had an etiquette lesson. She must have been six or seven, unafraid of her parents or the world outside of her room. Her father had never given her reason to fear him; he’d spoiled her before then. She got pretty dresses and tasty treats, and there was scarcely a day she wasn’t lavished with all of his affections. To this day, she doesn’t know what changed him, or if he even did. Maybe he was always like this.
The first time he’d sat her in a chair and told her to be quiet, it was a game. Sit there, my little bear, perfectly still and quiet like a good girl. She’d giggled behind her hands before quieting down, and it lasted all of ten minutes. They played the game the next day, then the next week, until they had a set schedule. As time passed, it became less of a game. She would sit in the chair for longer, had to keep her hands in her lap, and if she so much as whimpered, he would shush her and give her a literal slap on her wrist.
The game only got worse as she grew, until one day she realized: it wasn’t a game. Her father’s talk about sitting still and being quiet was not his weird idea of fun, but rather a lesson. Sit there, he would tell her. This is how your future husband wants his wife to be.
Perfectly still and quiet. Demure and polite.
Submissive.
The first time he’d tied her to a chair, she’d been ten. He had dragged her kicking and screaming out of her room. She’d refused to sit in the chair, standing defiantly with crossed arms every time he pushed her down into it. Bernadetta remembers his grimace, his fingers tangled in his hair, the coil of thick rope a servant brought to him. She remembers crying as he bound her to the chair.
“I know it is harsh, little bear,” he had said. “But this is what happens when you cannot behave. Cry if you must, but I won’t excuse it the next time.”
The slaps on the wrist got worse. Her skin still stings when she thinks about it. His punishing fingers turned to a wooden rod, leaving behind welts rather than just soreness. If she cried and complained enough, he’d sometimes strike her on her shoulder, against her stomach, over her thigh. Never her face, though. She had people to meet and boys to impress, and it would never do to have a mark on her cheek.
“He does it for your own good,” her mother would — and still does — say. “Don’t judge him too harshly, Bernadetta. It’s simply necessary that you marry well, and he’s ensuring that happens.”
Bernadetta doesn’t have to like what’s necessary.
She doesn’t like it now, when Amadeus takes her into the parlor and sits her down in a chair, hands harsh on her shoulders. It takes every fiber of her being to fight against the urge to tremble. She is certain that her lips are wobbling, based on the way he rolls his eyes. It won’t do her any good to focus on what he’s doing, so she turns her eyes towards the window and focuses on gripping to a shred of calm. Her father coils rope around her body, binding her arms firmly at her sides. The knot he secures is tighter than normal; she winces when he isn’t looking.
“Now.” Amadeus pats her shoulder before taking a seat across from her. “Look me in the eyes.”
She doesn’t want to. She doesn’t like doing that.
“Now, Bernadetta, or I will become upset.”
She turns her eyes towards him, praying he doesn’t notice how she’s wriggling her arms.
“Put your hands in your lap, just as you’ve been taught.”
Bernadetta can hear her heart in her ears, but she obeys. It takes a bit of squirming to move her upper arms the way she needs, but she manages to fold her hands in her lap. Demure, polite, submissive.
“What do you suppose you should do next?” Amadeus extends a hand, as though he is a tutor beckoning her to answer a question. “Think back to our conversation at lunch.”
“I— I should…” She racks her brain, but the memory of lunch is foggy. She remembers Theo and Amadeus bickering, Agna looking at her, something about Lord Freugel’s letter. “Lord Freugel said I was ‘unattractive’ and ‘standoffish,’ so I should… smile?”
Her father looks pleased. Her stomach flutters at the thought of pleasing him and getting out of this chair quicker. “Excellent. When a suitor is speaking with you, make eye contact and smile. Nod when you must, but not too much. There is a delicate balance to pleasing your callers, Bernadetta.”
Over half of her life spent practicing, and she still can’t get any of this right. She should be a master at laughing and saying, “Oh, my lord, how clever you are! Do tell me more about those dreadful commoners you tormented at the bar last night!”
Just thinking about saying that makes her want to cry.
“Stop shaking and tell me…” Amadeus pauses, as though thinking of a proper question. “Tell me what you would say in response to a suitor telling you that he enjoys recreational hunting. This is simple.”
Bernadetta chews the inside of her lip, runs her tongue over the roof of her mouth. Her knee starts to jitter, but that’s not polite, demure, submissive. She stops it from jumping too much and focuses on keeping calm. “I would ask what game he likes to hunt… right?” Before he can reply, she tacks on, “And— and ask what the largest animal he’s caught is?”
“Splendid, little bear. You’re precisely right.” Amadeus is smiling, his face relaxed and nothing like it was at lunch. “And now, let’s move onto a different topic. How would—”
Without any warning, the door to the parlor flies open. Bernadetta shrieks. Her father’s face goes pink as Theo shouts, “What in the world are you doing?”
It’s just her uncle, but she can’t stop her heart from racing faster and faster. Bernadetta loses her hold on the composure she was keeping such a careful grip on, and now she can’t stop from breathing too heavily and too much. Her stomach starts to hurt. The back of her neck is sweating. Her head feels so light and fuzzy, and the sound of her father and uncle shouting is both distant and too close.
“I thought you’d stopped doing this!”
“For a time, yes. But now that we’re searching for a suitor again, it’s important to refresh her memory and help her with her etiquette.”
“This is barbaric.” There are hands on her back, pulling at the knotted rope. Bernadetta keeps squirming and panting as the room spins. “Look at what you’ve done to her! She’s a mess, Amadeus!”
Is she?
Her father shouts, “Don’t untie that rope, Theo, or I will—”
The rope goes slack around Bernadetta. Relief courses through her, and with a gasp, she lunges from the chair. Her knees knock against the coffee table, but Theo’s hand on her elbow keeps her from going sprawling. She gasps, struggling against wheezing breaths, and finds her footing.
“Go to your room, Bernadetta,” her uncle says. “Your father and I are going to talk.”
Room. Yes, her room. Finally.
On unsteady legs, Bernadetta shuffles past her father, who doesn’t bother to grab her or pay her mind as she passes. Quietly, she exits the parlor. A maid walking by gives Bernadetta a pitying glance, but doesn’t speak. Even so, she can feel the maid’s eyes on her as she starts to climb the staircase. By the time she’s halfway up the stairs, the argument coming from the parlor is loud enough to echo through the hallways, up the stairs, and into Bernadetta’s room with her.
She rests a hand on her door and locks it. Her body quivers, but just the sight of her room is soothing her.
We gotta get it together, Bernie.
The words are indecipherable through the floor, but Bernadetta can still hear Theo and Amadeus going at it as she sits at her desk. She clicks her tongue mindlessly as she pulls a piece of parchment from her stack and draws her quill. Her head is starting to clear up; her heart is slowing down. Her stomach hurts, but she’s fine. She’s in her room, and she’ll be fine until her father decides he needs to speak with her. Inside her room, she is safe and secure, and she should enjoy it.
Writing should take her mind off of things. There’s no better way to escape the ruckus downstairs than to lose herself in a story. Bernadetta tugs on her bangs for a moment, chews her lip, and then puts her quill to parchment. The scratching of her quill drowns out the shouting.
Within the heart of a bustling city, there once dwelled a songstress by the name of Edith. Edith was a bold young woman with a thirst for the more exciting things in life, but lived her days in relative solitude, kept isolated from the vibrant city by the order of a wicked Warlock. Years and years before, the Warlock had been the head servant of Edith’s household. But he one day revealed his treacherous nature and killed her parents, leaving him in charge of the house’s affairs until Edith came of age.
With a careful hand, he nurtured Edith’s talents and used them for his own gain, all while showing the surrounding city the clever facade of a kind and proper gentleman, charitably raising the daughter of his deceased masters long past their murders. In private, he would force Edith to sing day and night, until there was no flaw with her voice. At parties which she was not allowed to partake in, the Warlock would have her perform song after song for his equally-wicked guests — Edith was no more than the Warlock’s songbird, locked up in a beautiful silver cage where she would hopefully catch the eye of a nobleman seeking to marry her, whose fortune and life the Warlock would then steal.
As soon as she stops writing, the argument floods her ears again. It’s giving her a headache. Grimacing, she picks up her paper and reads over what she’s written, unable to decide if she’s satisfied or horrified. It’s too on the nose. Too extrapolatory. Edith’s backstory can’t be laid out in the first two paragraphs; it must be woven deftly into the early narrative. Even so, Bernadetta likes the change in the setting, and she now knows why Edith is trapped and who has trapped her.
Bernadetta has a protagonist and an antagonist, and thus the fixings of an okay story. More than that, she has an escape from the screams below her. She keeps writing page after page, long after the shouting has stopped.
“Where’s Uncle Theo?” Bernadetta asks at breakfast the next day. Another meal she’s forced to attend, and her uncle isn’t even here to ease the sting of being pulled from her room.
Amadeus doesn’t respond. He keeps his head down as he cuts into his meal.
Agna looks at him, perhaps uncertain, and then at Bernadetta. “Your uncle decided to pay a visit to Count Bergliez in the county over. It’s only proper for a student to continue to pay respects to their master, don’t you think?”
“Uh, I guess?” Bernadetta looks down at her ham and eggs, which actually look very appetizing, but not eager to stay settled in her stomach. “Is he, um… coming back?”
A hard sound echoes in the room as Amadeus places his cutlery against his plate. Bernadetta flinches back, but the anger in his eyes isn’t for her right now. Even so, it’s certainly there, and it’s more than obvious why it’s burning so strongly: there’s a sizable yellow bruise on his jaw. “In a couple of weeks, maybe. Now, eat your breakfast. I have work to do, so we won’t be going over any etiquette today.”
Yes! Yes, yes, yes! Happy day, Bernie!
“Agna, why did you even have her leave her room?”
Bernadetta’s heart stumbles. Her mother rarely makes her leave her room, unless she wants her to go shopping with her, or give her lessons on why nobles should always be prim and proper, never ever sinking to the level of commoners. And so, wary, she watches her mother set down her knife and fork, a pleased smile on her pink lips.
“I had a feeling that things wouldn’t work out with Lord Freugel,” Agna starts. “And I wouldn’t have settled for it anyway. He wasn’t rich enough to excuse the years between him and Bernadetta. So I took it upon myself to find another, more appropriate suitor for our little bear.”
“You didn’t have to do that!” Bernadetta exclaims. Her heart is thumping against her ribs, and she can’t fathom why her mother is doing this to her. Why can’t they just leave her alone? It’s been suitor after suitor since she turned sixteen, and she just wishes they’d leave her alone again. She wasn’t bothering anyone in her room. She wasn’t an eyesore. She was happy.
“Would you rather your father find you an even older suitor this time?” Agna’s voice is amused despite the insulted look Amadeus gives her. “I was more than happy to do it.”
“You really found another suitor?” he asks. “Who in Fódlan could you possibly have found that I didn’t? I’ve asked every family in Adrestia with a son Bernadetta’s age if they’d be interested in a marriage, and—”
Agna holds up a finger. “You have asked every family, provided that they were of equal or lower status than us.”
Oh, no. No, no, no, nope. Bad day, Bernie.
“I reached out to an acquaintance.” Agna gives a disdainful sniff. “I certainly had to swallow my pride, given the company she keeps. She mingles with commoners, you see.”
“And she’s from a family more powerful than us? Shameful.”
Bernadetta almost asks, “What’s so wrong with commoners?” But she knows better than to speak.
“Regardless, she has a son that she says would love to meet Bernadetta!” Agna laces her fingers together, smiling at Bernadetta. She looks as pleased as a cat who just caught a mouse. “Isn’t that nice, little cub?”
Bernadetta smiles back.
No, it’s not.