A Lost Ballroom of Gold: A Fire Emblem Three Houses Masquerade Rarepair Zine

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Liebesleid

“Alright, settle down,” Byleth calls, clapping her hands. A silence falls across the room, all
eyes on the Professor. “As some of you are surely aware, the monastery celebrates its anniversary
this month. And apparently there will be a ball to commemorate the event. All of you are expected
to attend – no excuses. There will be dance lessons later in the month in preparation.”

Annette is the first to display her excitement, practically vibrating in her seat. Mercedes
calms her down, but there’s a grin on the older woman’s face that suggests that she too is looking
forward to the event. As usual, Sylvain announces that he’ll be the first to find a date, earning an
elbow in the side from Ingrid. No one else seems to have a strong opinion on the event, aside from
Felix, who holds his head in his hands at the thought.

He’s been to balls before, and hated every second of it. He’s not one for dancing, never has been
and never will be. Social events aren’t his thing anyway, and he’s already plotting a way to ask the
Professor if there’s any chance he can get out of the event. He looks up, but catches her eye, earning
a glare that suggests she already knows what he’s about to ask. Felix keeps his mouth shut.

His gaze falls on Ingrid in the row in front of him, noting how she stares out the window, not
at all excited about the event like the other girls. Felix has never known Ingrid to be at all similar
to Annette or Mercedes – you’d find her mucking out the stables before you’d ever find her putting
makeup on. But still, Ingrid is good at social events, so Felix has to wonder why she looks so upset
at the prospect of having to go to this ball.

She’s quick to leave after class – she usually is when lunch is next on the agenda. But Felix is quick to
catch up with her, and falls into step beside her, not really sure what to say. They stand in line together,
and sit at the same table, with no sign of the rest of the Blue Lions who usually join them for lunch.

“So,” Felix says when his plate is emptied, and Ingrid is moving on to her second course. “The ball.”

“Sounds terrible,” Ingrid admits, setting her fork down. “It’s the sort of thing that’s advertised
as one of those future changing things – here is where you’ll meet your future partner. And so
people will come from across the country to find their partner. And by people, I mean minor lords
who think picking up a lady from the Officer’s Academy will secure their house’s future.”

“You’ve thought about this,” Felix realises, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve been to enough balls in my short life to last me a lifetime. I am often one of the ladies
who is sent to find a husband so that Galatea won’t collapse. My father enjoys sending me to those
things on the arm of my oldest brother, who supposedly keeps an eye on things.” Ingrid sighs, and
lifts her eyes from her plate to Felix. “At least you don’t have those problems, being the heir to the
second most powerful house in Fódlan. No one is going to pressure you into a political marriage.”

“No, my father just drops hints that I should be thinking about finding a partner, since there are no
heirs, and if I die, there’s no one to take over the house and we’ll probably be absorbed by Gautier.”

Felix rolls his eyes, and Ingrid gives him a half smile. He can feel his cheeks heating up at that
gesture, promptly tries to suppress that emotion, because it’s been a while since he’s thought of
her like that and he thought he was over that unwanted feeling.

“If you’re worried about the ball, we should go together,” Felix offers before his brain realises
what exactly he’s said. “You know, then you won’t need to worry about finding another date, and I
can scare off other suitors or… whatever. You know. If you want.”

“Doesn’t sound like a bad idea,” Ingrid concedes. “But no dancing.”

“No dancing,” Felix agrees.

They seal their deal with a handshake, and Felix finds his brain noting how soft and warm
Ingrid’s hands are before he pulls away, leaving the table before he can say anything else
ridiculous.

When Felix Hugo Fraldarius was eight years old, he looked at Ingrid and decided that she was
the prettiest girl in the whole world. Granted, Felix only knew about three girls, and the only one
he ever had regular contact with was Ingrid. Still, he was enamoured with her, and followed her
around like a puppy dog. Even though he always knew that she was engaged to Glenn, his feelings
for her grew over the years.

However, when Glenn died, he ceased all contact with Ingrid for the best part of a year. His
affections for Ingrid were just another reminder of how similar he was to his brother – even
though he was never quite sure that Glenn cared for Ingrid in the same way that he did. Slowly, the
two reconciled, bonding once more over their shared love for the lost Fraldarius brother.

The crush had all but disappeared after that, leaving Felix with a strange sense of bitterness
when it came to Ingrid. They were still friends, of course, but every time he saw her after that all
he could remember was how if he ever told her how he felt, it would be yet another comparison to
Glenn and how amazing he was – how they weren’t too many years away from marriage, and how
Fraldarius and Galatea would have had the strongest ties in all of Faerghus.

But tonight, as Felix wraps his hair into a neater bun, he wonders if those feelings for Ingrid
really had disappeared as he had thought. Since asking her to the ball, he had received multiple
jabs from Sylvain that usually would have annoyed him, but now he just found himself unable to
answer, feeling his face heat up at the mere mention of her. Usually, he could cover a blush behind
his hands, but there won’t be any chance for that tonight.

The ball is about to begin, he realises with a start, and he hurries along the corridor to Ingrid’s
room, where he promised he’d pick her up so they could walk the short distance to the ball
together. He knocks on her door and waits patiently. He can hear her shuffling around in there,
and soon she opens the door, leaving Felix feeling practically breathless.

Ingrid wears her evening uniform, and instead of having her hair in her usual braid, it lies
loose around her shoulders in waves. Felix also notes that she’s wearing makeup- probably the
fault of her classmates. But it’s nice, Felix thinks, shimmery eyelids and glossy lips that Felix
probably shouldn’t be staring at.

“Annette and Mercedes insisted we get ready together,” she says, closing her dormitory door
behind her.

“You look nice,” Felix says, feeling his mouth drying.

“Thank you, Felix. Rare to hear a compliment from you,” she laughs. “But why aren’t you
wearing your evening uniform? You know, you’ll be the only one not wearing it.”

“Don’t like it,” he mumbles.

“Well, it’s too late now to change. Let’s go – and don’t forget your promise to me.”

“No dancing,” Felix remembers.

The reception hall is transformed for the evening – there are candles on almost every surface,
and a few of the monastery staff float around with platters of drinks that Felix suspects are not
the champagne that they’re pretending to be. Ingrid clings tightly to his arm, manoeuvring them
through the crowds. Felix spots Sylvain already on the dance floor with someone he doesn’t
recognise, and Dimitri hovers at the edges, unsure if he should ask someone for a dance.

Ingrid reaches out for one of the glasses the next time someone walks past, and steers Felix
towards rows of seats at the back of the hall. They take a seat, Ingrid carefully positioning herself
with Felix on one side and Linhardt on the other. Felix isn’t sure he’s ever spoken to the younger
boy from the Black Eagles, but Ingrid looks almost relieved to see him.

“He won’t get up to dance all night,” Ingrid mumbles in Felix’s ear, much too close for his liking.

They sit there for an amount of time that is most definitely socially unacceptable, laughing
at Sylvain making a fool of himself with any girl who is willing to dance with him, pointing out
Dimitri’s terrible dance moves once he finally musters up the courage to ask Marianne of all people
to dance. They both look so uncomfortable, it’s a wonder that either of them even made it to the ball.

Ingrid seems to relax after a while, and Felix finds himself staring at her, taking in the shine of
her green eyes, the way that her eyelashes, enhanced by makeup, brush against her cheeks when she
blinks. There’s a bit of her hair that’s not quite long enough to tuck behind her ear that she keeps
tucking away anyway, just for it to fall forwards again seconds later. Felix finds this action oddly
charming, and snaps his attention back to the dances in front of him, lest Ingrid notice his staring.

“Ingrid! You have yet to grace the dance floor!” Ferdinand says, appearing out of nowhere.

“I’m not much of a dancer,” she says, tucking that piece of hair away again. “But I am enjoying
watching, so don’t worry about me not having fun.”

“I was going to ask you to dance, but if you are sure, I will not bother you. Have a good
evening, Ingrid, Felix.”

Ferdinand departs with a nod, likely off to find his next dance partner. Felix turns to Ingrid and
raises an eyebrow – she rolls her eyes in response.

“Is that the sort of thing you were complaining about the other day?” Felix asks. “That wasn’t
that bad.”

“No, that was normal human interaction. Ferdinand is a very nice boy, and I have no problems
with him asking me to dance. Just wait, it’s only a matter of time.”

With that, Ingrid folds her arms, leans back in her chair, and adopts a facial expression of total
disinterest. It’s a look he’s not really used to seeing on her – usually, she’s excited about something
or other, loudly talking about her passions. This indifference is odd, but it doesn’t take long before
he understands why she’s done it.

Linhardt leaves at around eight o’clock to go to bed, and Ingrid sighs, knowing that the now
empty seat beside her is just an invitation. And it is mere moments after Linhardt bids them
a good night before someone else slides into his seat – not someone that Felix recognises as a
student, nor as one of the Knights of Seiros.

“Lady Galatea, fancy seeing you here,” the man says, holding a hand out to her.

“Good evening,” Ingrid replies coolly.

“Care for a dance?”

“No, thank you.”

“Come on. I’m sure you’re the most wonderful dancer here. You’re certainly the most beautiful.”

“No, thank you,” Ingrid repeats, and the man raises an eyebrow.

“I was thinking that if you enjoyed dancing with me, we could maybe make this a regular occurrence.”

“You’re making this even less appealing,” she replies.

“Oh, I forgot that the lady had a temper! My apologies.”

“Did you not hear her?” Felix says, leaning around Ingrid to get a good look at the man in
question. “She said no, so leave her alone.”

“Lord Fraldarius! I didn’t see you there. I bid you two good evening.”

The man scarpers off, thoroughly intimidated by Felix’s notorious glare. Ingrid sighs, and
uncrosses her arms, turning to Felix.

“Do you see what I mean? They don’t listen to me.”

“They listened to me,” Felix points out.

“Because you’re a man. You’re allowed free will. I am not, apparently. Seventeen years old, and
I’ve already had two arranged fiancés, one of whom died, another of which tried to kill me, and I
can’t even turn down a dance at a ball without the help of another man. The life of a noblewoman in
Faerghus is decided entirely for her before she’s even born. Hell, make that in Fódlan as a whole.”

“I didn’t know things were this bad for you,” Felix mumbles.

“There’s not much you can do about it, unless you’re going to single handedly reform social
traditions and expectations in Faerghus all by yourself,” Ingrid laughs, but there’s no humour behind it.

As Ingrid sighs, her face falling from fake amusement at a truly horrible system to that
mask of disinterest once again, another man that Felix doesn’t know sits in the spare seat. Felix
glances over at him, but the man doesn’t seem to be doing anything, just sitting there, watching
the ball as they are. Ingrid doesn’t relax though, her eyes flicking between the man, Felix, and
the dancing couples in front of them.

“Doesn’t that look fun?” The man asks wistfully.

Ingrid hums noncommittally.

“Would you care to dance with me?” He asks, and for a moment, Felix wonders if she will, for
he seems polite, and nowhere near as gross as the last man.

“No, but thank you for the invitation.”

“That’s such a shame. I’m sure a beautiful woman like yourself is a very talented dancer. I’ve
never seen someone with hair like yours,” he comments, lifting a strand of Ingrid’s hair between his
fingers. She’s quick to slap his hand away, the sound of it attracting the eyes of some nearby dancers.

“It’s not very polite to touch someone’s hair without their permission, is it, Lord Rowe?”

“Lady Galatea, I am merely trying to be polite.”

“You are merely trying to get in my favour as your father has instructed. I have received many
invitations of courtship from Count Rowe over the years, and I have burned every single one.”

“Why is that, my dear?” Lord Rowe says, leaning forwards.

“You are repulsive,” Ingrid states plainly, and Felix snorts beside her.

“Lord Fraldarius, why are you here? I am very plainly trying to ask Lady Galatea if she
wants to dance with me.”

“Why are you here?” Felix shoots back. “This is a school in which we are both in attendance, and
you must be pushing thirty. And Lady Galatea has very plainly told you that she’s not interested.”

Sick of sitting there and doing nothing, Felix gets up and offers Ingrid his hand. He’s surprised
at the speed at which she takes it, and he pulls her to her feet, glaring at Lord Rowe as he does. He
leads her into the middle of the dance floor, where no one else will be able to bother her. The two
of them find their rhythm quickly, having both danced before. Felix pretends he doesn’t notice
how shaky Ingrid’s hands are, or how tight her grip on his shoulder is to compensate for that.

“I know we said no dancing,” Felix mumbles. “But it was the only thing I could think of to get
you out of there. If you’re dancing with me, no one else will bother you.”

“It’s okay,” Ingrid says, a smile managing to appear on her lips. “I would have done the same.
At least your hands aren’t sweaty, and you don’t smell bad like some of them. I feel like I need to
wash my hair now,” she says with a grimace.

“Just one dance, and then I’ll walk you back to your room.”

“Thanks, Felix. I’ve always really appreciated your… bluntness.”

“He’s at least ten years older than you. It’s disgusting. In the eyes of Faerghus law, you’re still a child.”

“I know!” Ingrid says, almost laughing. “It’s horrible when you think about all the noblewomen
over the years who have been married off to men ten, fifteen, twenty years older than them, while
they were still children. The marrying age only was raised in 1126, after all.”

“Weird to think… how you would’ve been marrying Glenn soon, then. It’s your birthday next month.”

“Glenn was different,” Ingrid sighs, and Felix regrets even bringing him up by name, because
it upsets both of them greatly. “Yes, he was older than me, but six years is a lot better than the
alternative. I actually knew him, properly. He was always kind to me. And we both knew what we
were getting into. I only really got to talk to him about what I thought of the whole thing once,
when I was thirteen. When I was old enough to understand what that all meant for me.”

“Just before he died?” Felix asks quietly.

“Yes.”

“I’m glad he always treated you well.”

“He never touched me. Never held my hand, never kissed me. Never pressed for a secret
marriage like I’ve heard happen to some other girls. Once, he hugged me. That was the most
romantic thing that ever happened between us, and that was after the time Sylvain threw a
snowball at me that had a stone in it and I cut my face.”

“Do some of these other suitors… not do things like that?”

“You think that’s normal behaviour because you were raised by the same person that raised
Glenn. I think the two of you are probably the politest men in all of Fódlan when it comes to
respecting women’s boundaries, but maybe not in reference to anything else,” Ingrid laughs, and
even Felix finds himself laughing at that.

“The old man sucks, but he did always test us on etiquette as kids. I feel like we did that more
than anything else, even though it’s stupid and most people don’t care.”

“Well, it means a lot to the women in this country, as you’re not grabbing my hair to tell
me it’s a lovely colour or telling me I’m a wonderful dancer, which does not mean that my
waltz skills are the best.”

“Oh,” Felix says, realisation dawning on him. “Some of these men are disgusting.”

“Correct,” Ingrid sighs. “I know that to save Galatea, I have to marry out. That’s a given. We’re
supposed to be one of the strongest noble houses in Faerghus, but we’re collapsing every year
more and more, with bad harvests and… the lack of finding someone to give us more money.
That’s why I was engaged to Glenn – your house has enough money to support Galatea.”

“Ah,” he says, spinning Ingrid away from him and placing a hand very carefully on her waist
when she joins him. There’s an idea forming in his head, and he’s certain that Ingrid won’t like it.

“The other options are marrying into Gautier, and… well, no. I like Sylvain, but that’s just out of
the question entirely. Or, I could marry into Blaiddyd. And I don’t want to marry Dimitri. He’s so…”

“Boring?” Felix supplies.

“Yes,” Ingrid grins. “He’s so lovely, but he’s so stressed out by the pressures of being a future
king that he doesn’t realise that he’s allowed to have interests like normal people.”

“Did you see him dancing with Marianne?” Felix asks with a snort. “Funniest thing I’ve ever
seen. They both looked terrified.”

“Bless her,” Ingrid says absently. “Someone will report that back to Rufus and they’ll be
engaged by the end of the summer.”

“Are courting rules the same in the Alliance?” Felix asks, now genuinely interested in this topic.

“No idea. I think they’re similar, and Edmund is a border territory, so I think they’d probably be
influenced by what’s going on around them. But they have weirder rules about nobles, with their
whole roundtable conference. I don’t understand much of their politics.”

The music ends, and Ingrid drops Felix’s hand, pulls herself out of his grip, and marches out of
the reception hall, not caring at all for what she’s leaving behind. Felix doesn’t fail to notice the
unusual pink tinge of her cheeks. He’s quick to follow after her – through the courtyard, past the
training grounds, along the length of the dormitories. Either she doesn’t notice he’s following her,
or she doesn’t care – either way, Felix catches up with her, and falls into step with her until they
reach the stairs to the dormitories.

“Can we sit for a bit? I don’t want to go to sleep yet,” Ingrid asks.

“Yeah, sure.”

They sit on the wooden decking of the dormitory pathways, just outside the stairs to the floor
their rooms are on. Felix holds his head in his hands, while Ingrid leans back, staring at the stars.

“Are you not cold?” She asks. “You have no jacket.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“It’s winter!”

“Ingrid, don’t worry about me.”

“You’ve been worrying about me all evening. It’s the least I can do for you.”

“I appreciate it, but honestly, I’m fine. It’s sometimes colder than this in Fraldarius in summer.”

Ingrid laughs at this, but shifts a little closer to Felix regardless, resting her head on his
shoulder. She is noticeably warmer than he is, her cheek pressed to his shoulder, her hair tickling
his neck. Just sitting this close is enough to warm Felix from the inside – he can feel his face
flushing, the pink tinge spreading to the rest of his body.

“I just want to be able to help everyone,” Ingrid mumbles. “Galatea is so important to me,
and I… I want to save my homeland. I want us to prosper like we used to. I don’t remember
those times, of course, but…”

“Strange how things like that happen. Galatea was always so strong.”

“See… it’s not really true. It’s because we’re an offshoot house, and the bloodline has dwindled
over the years. Maybe we should’ve stayed as part of Daphnel forever.”

“That’s a ridiculous way of thinking. You can’t go back in time to stop that from happening.
And who knows, maybe things would’ve been even worse had that happened.”

“Faerghus is weird,” Ingrid sighs. “I have no dowry, so most people don’t want to marry me.
My father needs to marry me off to a well-to-do family with bride service to get even some of the
money he needs to keep Galatea afloat. And small noble families wish to marry their sons to me to
bolster political ties with the big houses.”

“Forget Sylvain, sounds like you’re Faerghus’s most eligible bachelorette,” Felix jokes. Ingrid
sits upright and fixes him with a long hard stare.

“Do not compare my struggles to Sylvain’s. Even if they’re similar… due to us both having Crests.”

“Isn’t that something I’ve heard enough about to last me a lifetime?” Felix says, rolling his eyes.

“Tell me about it. I just wish there was some way to solve this problem… now. For Galatea
to go back to being prosperous, for me to not have to worry about being polite to every single
nobleman’s son for the rest of my life before I inevitably die a spinster.”

“Are you only nice to me out of… politeness?” Felix asks, wringing his hands together. He’s a
little afraid of the answer – if it’s yes, he’ll maybe take a running jump into the fishing pond and
swim away to a better life.

“Of course not. You may be rude and insensitive, but I think that’s due more to the fact that
you’re a seventeen-year-old boy than anything else.”

Felix can’t help but laugh, even if her analysis of him is wrong, it’s nice to be able to joke
about things like that with her. After her smirk disintegrates, Ingrid’s expression goes back to that
vaguely sad expression she’s been wearing all night, and Felix wonders, in the back of his mind, if
now would be a good time to bring up his idea.

“It sounds like the only luck your family were having was when you were engaged to Glenn.”

“Yeah,” Ingrid sighs. “And your family weren’t even going to pay until we were wed. Which… I
suppose worked out well for you,” she laughs bitterly.

“We can still pay.”

“No one will ever go for that, Felix. There needs to be some… transfer of goods,” Ingrid points
out, gesturing to herself.

“Fraldarius is the only family that can support Galatea other than Blaiddyd, and your family
haven’t made any attempts to set up that match. There’s… still one Fraldarius who could marry you.”

“Don’t be silly. Are you asking me to marry you?” Ingrid asks, recoiling a little.

“I guess I am,” Felix replies, the weight of his words dawning on him. He had essentially
offered to marry Ingrid to enter into a political marriage of convenience with him so that they
could save Galatea together.

“You’re ridiculous,” she laughs.

She’s quiet for a moment, staring at her hands, playing with the trim of her skirt. Felix’s heart
is in his throat, waiting for her to say something. In the dim lighting, with her face lit up only by
the light of the moon, Ingrid looks strangely ethereal, like some goddess sent from above to save
his soul. After what feels like an eternity, Ingrid looks up, her green eyes finding his.

“Are you serious?” She asks quietly.

“Yes. And even if my father says no, on account of… of Glenn, I’ll pay myself.”

“Would he?”

“I doubt it. He always liked you, and I think if he knew exactly how much trouble Galatea was
in, he’d… want to help.”

“If… if we’re going to do this, it’s on entirely my terms, okay? We can’t get married until you
turn eighteen legally, but… it needs to be longer than that.”

“Fine by me. Three, four years?”

“Ideally. If I fall in love between now and then, you have to let me go. I won’t pressure
you for your money.”

“I’ll give it to you anyway,” Felix insists.

“And… this won’t be like my engagement to Glenn, okay? Because we’re the same age, there
will be certain… expectations. For Fraldarius heirs.”

“I know.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

“I have three or four years to come to terms with it.”

“Then… if we can agree to these terms, then… I think we’ll be able to make this work for both
of us. I’d rather marry one of my friends than a total stranger. We do love each other, even if it’s
not romantic like it should be.”

“Yeah,” Felix replies, a little too quickly, “right. Um, you should come to Fraldarius after
graduation and we can sort out details then. If anything, my father will be glad to see you.”

“Sounds like a plan. And thank you, Felix. You don’t understand how much this means to me.”

Ingrid smiles, a proper smile the likes of which he hasn’t seen all evening. Felix reaches out
to tuck the little part of her hair behind her ear that keeps falling forward, and lets out a breathy
laugh when it immediately bounces back out of place. Ingrid leans forward to press a kiss to Felix’s
cheek, much too close to his mouth for comfort, before she retracts back into herself.

“I should go to bed,” she says.

“Probably.”

“Thanks for a nice evening.”

“Yeah. Um, thanks for going with me.”

“You’re welcome. Good night, Felix.”

And with that, Ingrid is gone, leaving Felix alone with the moon and his thoughts and the
searing hot imprint of Ingrid’s lips on his cheek.







Mercedes found herself in Abyss very rarely. For months after it had become open for public
access, she was too scared to even consider checking it out. After meeting the new students,
having tea with them, and talking to some others who had spent time down there, she deemed it
safe and decided to check it out. It was dark, and always a little bit humid in Abyss. You could often
hear water dripping onto cold cobblestone, and people whispering in more languages than one.
Once she got past that, she started to see the good in Abyss. The library was full of information on
magic she had never learned formally, and while she wasn’t much of a drinker, their bartender was
quite skilled. But the best thing about Abyss, Mercedes had come to realize, was the solitude. Even
in her own room in the Monastery, people would come to find her. Down in Abyss, she could find a
cozy corner or table and no one would approach her without a real reason.

A few days ago, Mercedes finally worked up the courage to ask Dorothea to the ball. They
didn’t talk as often as other friends because they didn’t share many classes together, but
Mercedes felt compelled to ask her to be her date. Annette decided to attend with Lysithea,
Byleth with Dimitri, even Dedue and Ashe had decided to pair up for the occasion. After
Dorothea had politely declined her invitation, she felt so alone. So she went downstairs to
Abyss to be alone. She originally found herself on her way to the Wayseer to ask for advice, but
she ended up at the Pagan Altar; not to pray, but just to sit. No one was there this late, most
residents seemed to be at the Wilted Rose’s tavern now that the sun had set up aboveground. So
there she sat with her shawl around her, against a cold stone wall, in silence.

After, well, she didn’t know how long, it became too much. The empty space around her, her
crowded mind, the stale air, and the dripping… the dripping… she started to cry. Her whole face
got hot like a tea kettle and she dropped her head to her hands and sobbed out her insecurities. It
was all so incredibly stupid. She took care of everyone, but no one wanted to spend time with her
in the end, not even her closest friends. Maybe she wouldn’t go to the ball at all. Maybe she’d just
stay here and crawl behind the altar and stay there until someone remembered to come find her.

Light footsteps tapped down the hallway. In a panic, Mercedes hides behind the altar, covering
her mouth. She doesn’t want anyone to see her this way. The footsteps stop just outside of the
room. Mercedes tries to keep her sobs quiet.

“Is somebody in here?”

She recognizes that voice. Yuri? Tentatively, she waves a hand out to indicate her location.

“Who would go behind the--” the footsteps got slightly louder as Yuri jogs over to Mercedes
behind the altar. “Mercie?” Yuri acts quickly as he figures out what’s going on. They act quickly as
they realize what’s going on. They see her head down by her knees, flushed red and smudged with
mascara, then her trembling hands. “Hey, no--” Yuri wraps Mercedes into a hug. It only makes her
cry more, and so they let her get it out for a minute or so. Then, eventually, they speak again.

“Do you wanna tell me what happened?”

She explained it all piece by piece. Dorothea, the rest of her house, and how she found herself
down here, on the floor, behind an altar. Yuri listened silently, keeping an arm around her as she
explained. By the time she ran out of things to say, Mercedes had stopped crying.

“I think--” Yuri pauses, an idea on the tip of their tongue-- “I have a solution for you.”

“Please.” Mercedes replies.

“You say all of your friends have dates and are all going with one another. You haven’t asked me.”

Mercedes laughs lightly.

“You can’t be serious. I know you’re not the dancing type, Yuri. You’re not even the
‘above ground’ type.”

“I most certainly am not,” Yuri agrees “But to attend such an event with the prettiest lady at
Garreg Mach! How could I refuse a waltz or two? I would be honored to take you.”

“Well,” Mercedes blushes, but she takes solace knowing that her face was already red. “If it’ll
get you up to the main hall, of course I’ll go with you.”

Yuri had managed to make Mercedes think that she was the one helping them in this situation,
and that’s exactly what they wanted.

“Tomorrow we’ll head to the shops, and we’re gonna get you the darkest, fluffiest, most
beautiful ball gown money can buy. And I’ll break out my ‘fuck you’ suit, and this weekend we will
look so divine at that ball that everyone will wish they had you on their arm.”

Mercedes, speechless at such a display of generosity, pulls Yuri into a tight hug. They place the
smallest kiss on the top of her head. Yuri has always valued the message you could send with a
single kiss. It was like flowers, or fans, you could communicate at great length without speaking. A
kiss on top of the head was innocent and protective with no malintent or hidden agenda. Mercedes
didn’t need mystery right now, she needed security. What kind of friend would Yuri be if they
couldn’t give that to her right now?

“It’ll be great,” they mumble, “Just wait and see.”

After a few more ephemeral moments of silence, Mercedes pulls away to look up at Yuri.
They look handsome, as they usually do, even in their plain, old school uniform. She could
see them now in a clever mask, signature eyeshadow poking through the eyes. They would
have a wonderful time at the ball. And whatever happened, happened. She wondered if she
should initiate anything romantic between them before they went on their date, but only
time would reveal their potential chemistry.

After all, Yuri was the type to make the first move.

All Mercedes had to do was wait.

She smiles.





Gilded and Hiding

“A ball. Seriously? With everything that’s been going on?”
“Do not despair, dear brother, I’m sure things will go just as planned.”
“Do we even have a plan?”
Seteth scoffed as he caught Rhea rolling her eyes at his words. He placed a stack of papers
in front of her; the paperwork she’d requested earlier, which he’d actually worked on filling out
instead of coming up with ridiculous celebration ideas.
“The Winter Solstice is one of our most important ceremonies.” Rhea replied, cleverly dodging
the original question. “It symbolises the cycle of Life and Death beginning anew. And…”
She trailed off, and Seteth lowered his eyes.
“…It’s also one of our lost brothers’ date of birth. Yes, I am aware. Which is why I’d rather focus
on the spirituality of it, rather than balls and fanfares.”
Rhea remained quiet for a bit as she shifted through the paperwork under Seteth’s
watchful eye. It was clear however that she didn’t pay much attention to what she was
doing. In the end, she let out a sigh.
“I understand, Seteth. But after all that’s been going on, I believe the students and staff alike
deserve a break. And well… what other better way to give it to them?”
Seteth would have muttered something along the lines of ‘some actual days off for a change’,
but in the end he kept his mouth shut, and simply nodded. After all, he could sympathise with
Rhea’s point of view… to an extent.

“Alright, then.” He conceded, crossing his arms in front of him. “What do you need me to do?”
Rhea beamed- a truthful smile, a rare occasion that only he and Flayn were privy to. “Oh, I’ll
need you to spread the word to the rest of the staff, and to the students too. The usual.”
Well, that sounded easy enough. Definitely not the worst that Rhea had asked of him in all his
long life. With an obedient nod, he turned to go and fulfil his newly assigned duties. But Rhea’s
voice stopped him dead on his tracks.
“Seteth? Keep two things in mind?”
He let out a small sigh- it was never easy with her, was it?
“Yes, sister?”
“One… you’re strictly obligated to attempt.”
Seteth resisted the hard temptation of slamming his palm over his face right in front of the
most powerful woman in Fodlan. “As you command. And the second?”
If he’d turned around, he would have been able to see the mischievous grin playing across
Rhea’s usually composed face. But perhaps it was for the better that he didn’t.
“Secondly… it’s going to be a masquerade ball.”

“A masquerade ball, Manuela. Can you believe it?!”
Seteth paced up and down in Manuela’s office, while the physician made quick work of a small
bottle of liquor that she kept under her desk. Clearly, this hadn’t been her ideal way of spending
one’s break, but well… one had a duty to one’s best friend, right?
“For the Goddess’s sake, Seteth, you’re making it sound as if she’s going to torture you.” The
woman said with a shrug.

“She might as well!” Seteth looked almost desperate, which said a lot considering he usually
didn’t look like he had any emotions at all. “She knows how I loathe this kind of gatherings and-
and anyway, I couldn’t possibly dress up like a court jester!”

“Seems fitting to me.” Muttered Manuela under her breath, camouflaging her words with a
swig of alcohol. “Anyway, why don’t you just relax and enjoy yourself for once?”

Seteth looked at her as if she’d suggested that he pretend to be a Pegasus and jump out of the window.

“Enjoy myself?! In these dangerous times, with so much work to be done regardless? With
Flayn to look after? I couldn’t possibly…” He huffed and leaned against the wall. “I’ll just pretend
to be ill, that always works when the students pull it off.”

“Sounds good, except for the fact that you somehow never get ill.” Manuela pointed out. “I
think you really need to catch a break. Lose your strict façade for once, yes? Besides…”

She trailed off, and Seteth looked at her scrutinizingly. As she smirked, he scrunched his
eyebrows, his scowl deepening even further- that was what he called Manuela’s ‘chaotic smile’. A
sure sign of the absolute and unmanageable disaster that was about to follow.

“Besides…?” He dared ask, dreading the answer. Manuela snorted, apparently satisfied with the
trap she’d laid out.

“Besides, Jeralt will be there.”

There it was. Of course, Manuela couldn’t not stick her nose where it didn’t belong for
once, did she? Seteth felt all his blood rushing to his face, and was sure his face had turned a
very apparent shade of red.

“What- What does Jeralt have to do with anything?” He sputtered, looking away. Manuela,
obviously expecting that reaction, rolled her eyes just like Rhea had done.

“Oh come on Seteth, we all know you and the knight are… close.”

“We’re just friends.” Seteth avoided looking at her for as long as he could. Flayn had pointed out
once that he wasn’t a good liar, and he wasn’t about to put whatever little skill he had to the test.
Besides, he was quite content with lying to himself about it, too. His feelings for the knight were
nothing. They didn’t matter, and even if they did, even if he could take the chance to act upon them…
Jeralt would never feel the same. It was plain logic. He was too old to fool around, anyway.

Manuela would have likely agreed with Flayn on her assessment of his concealing skills,
because she shook her head, getting up from her desk and walking up to him.
“I never said you weren’t.” She drawled, coming up to him and smirking to his face. “But you’re
allowed to have fun with your… friends, yeah?”
Seteth hated the way she said the word, as if she knew absolutely everything that was going
through his head. He swallowed hard- maybe talking about this with Manuela hadn’t been the
brightest of ideas, even if she was his closest friend at the monastery.
“I…” He cleared his throat, attempting to look as inconspicuous as possible. “I’ll think about it.
Now if you’ll excuse me… I have somewhere to be.”
Before Manuela could say more (or attempt to grab him, force him on a chair and make him spill
the hard truth), he turned right around and rushed out of the door, heading for the dining hall.

Flayn and Byleth were already having lunch by the time he joined them. He looked down at
his plate miserably- why did humans seem to love pasta in every possible combination so much?
Whatever was wrong with some normal vegetables and fish for once?
Flayn didn’t seem to share his opinion, as he noted her wolfing down on her lunch like a
famished wyvern. Byleth wasn’t far behind either, but when they noticed him not touching his
food, and wearing an expression of utter defeat, the two girls looked up simultaneously.
“Whatever seems to be the matter, brother?” Flayn asked softly.
“It’s… nothing.” He replied, forcing himself to eat at least a few bites. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”
“He means,” Byleth said, swallowing down an obscenely large mouthful of food “that he’s
exhausted himself trying to come up with an excuse to miss the ball.”

“Oh!” Flayn gasped, appearing almost terrified. “But you can’t possibly miss it, brother, it’s
going to be so much fun!”

“No, Flayn, I’m not going.” Seteth insisted, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“Whyever not?” Byleth asked, shrugging. “It’s just a ball. Plus…”

She and Flayn exchanged a conspiratorial glance, and to his horror Seteth realised that they’d
probably already known he would refuse to go, and had devised a plan to trap him.

“Plus, what if Flayn gets to dance with a handsome boy or five?” Byleth winked at the younger
girl. “I’m sure her… brother must be around to keep the guys from fighting over her hand.”

“And making sure none of them bothers me too much!” Flayn added, which grated Seteth’s
nerves. Oh, he knew she wouldn’t mind the attention of the Academy’s lads in the slightest, just as
well as she knew that he would.

“My father will attend, too.” Byleth mentioned casually. Seteth was about to jump at her throat
about it too, by now convinced he was too obvious for his own good, but a stopper was put to that
particularly brilliant plan by none other than Jeralt himself.

“Ey, what’s going on with you three?” The knight plopped down next to Byleth, directly across
from Seteth- and the latter suddenly felt his breath catching at his throat. “Seteth, you look redder
than the cooks’ tomato sauce.”

“Ah- well.” Seteth found himself wishing he could just melt through the floor and disappear.
“It’s just… hot in here.”

Jeralt raised an eyebrow. “It’s the middle of winter.”

“We were just trying to convince him to come with us to the ball, and he got a little worked up,
that’s all!” Flayn jumped to the rescue, and for a moment Seteth was about to thank her then and
there, forgiving her conspiracy with Byleth.

“Oh right, I suppose he’d be the one person to not want to attend, huh?” Jeralt laughed,
washing down his food with a generous gulp of ale. Seteth suddenly wished he could get drunk like
a normal human for once.

“Well, Edelgard didn’t seem too thrilled, either. But in the end, I convinced her.” Flayn said
thoughtfully. Before Seteth had time to ask what Edelgard had to do with any of this, Jeralt spoke again.

“C’mon, Seteth, it’ll be fun. I haven’t partied in a while, and I’m sure you haven’t, either. It’ll
do you some good.” Jeralt winked at him, and Seteth was glad he was sitting down because if he’d
been standing, he’d probably fall down like a miserably lovesick fool.

How did Jeralt always manage to make everything seem so much… easier? Easier to do,
easier to deal with, easier to think about. It would have been infuriating, had it not been so
charming at the same time.

“…Fine.” He hated himself for giving up so easily with a few clever words from the knight, but
there was little to be done. “But I won’t stay all night.”

“Hmm.” Jeralt chuckled, wiping his mouth. “I bet you won’t want to leave by the end of it. And
you’re gonna owe me a dance.”

Now that caught Seteth completely by surprise.

“A-A dance?” He sputtered.

“It’s a ball, people are usually expected to, you know. Dance.” Jeralt waved him away dismissively.
“I’m curious to see if you’re as graceful on the dancefloor as you’re on the battlefield.”

Seteth resisted the urge to hide his burning face in his hands.

“…Alright. Just one, though.” He hadn’t danced in about five hundred years, and he didn’t want
to embarrass himself for too long out there. Besides, we were fairly certain that Fodlan waltzes
were miles away from the Nabatean dances he was familiar with.

He’d thought, foolishly, that that would be the end of the conversation. But no, of course it
wouldn’t be. Of course nothing could ever be simple and easy.

“So, now that’s been dealt with,” Byleth started, diverting her attention to Flayn “who’re you
going to ask to be your partner, Flayn?”

At that Seteth tensed. “…Partner?”

“Oh yeah.” Byleth shrugged, as if that had just been an unimportant little detail. “Lady Rhea
said when I met her in the chapel, that we all ought to bring a partner with us.”
Seteth looked down at his fork, and considered stabbing himself with it for a good few moments.
Goddess, this ball was going to be the death of him.


“Catherine, will you come to the dance as my partner?”
Catherine looked up from the dummy she was currently battering to shreds with her sword.
She looked surprised for a moment, but recovered quickly.
“Ack- sorry Seteth, I’ve already told Lady Rhea I’d go with her… Shamir may still be free though.”
“I- I see.” He cleared his throat. “I- Ah… I just absolutely need to avoid going with a certain someone.”
Catherine raised an eyebrow. “Jeralt?”
That was the ultimate last straw, and Seteth just let out a groan of frustration and
exasperation, giving up all pretence of trying to appear unfazed.
“Why does everyone keep bringing him up!?”
“Because you’ve got a big fat crush on him?” Catherine offered, but seeing the expression of
pure shame and panic on the man’s face she rushed to elaborate. “It’s not a big deal, you know.
Hell, everyone around here knows I’ve been head over heels for Lady Rhea for… well, I’ve lost
count of the years, honestly.”
Seteth took a deep breath, trying to calm his thundering heartbeat. He was already regretting
breaking his composure like that- what was he, a teenager?! But he supposed it was too late for
that, and that the cat was already out of the bag.

“It’s not the same, Catherine. I…”
I can’t be in love, because I’m immortal, and whatever unlucky soul ends up with me will perish
while I’ll be stuck in this plane of existence forever, all alone, and besides they can’t know I’m one
of the last living dragons.
Catherine didn’t seem discouraged by his silence. “I get it. You’re the advisor, and you’ve got
Flayn to take care of. But that doesn’t mean you can’t have a life of your own besides that. I’m sure
Flayn will be happy for it, too. If anything, someone will finally be able to keep you out of her hair.”
Seteth let out a small, weak chuckle. He felt ridiculously much like a deflated air balloon, like
the ones humans liked to sell in village fairs.
“Oh, I’m sure she will… But, Catherine- I don’t think Jeralt would ever reciprocate these
feelings. It’s absurd.”
“Well you’ll never know unless you ask him, yeah?” Catherine smiled, carefree as ever. If
she had noticed Seteth’s slipup about children, plural, she didn’t comment on it. “I think it’s the
perfect opportunity to find out.”
Seteth breathed in, and then out, slowly. His heartbeat was beginning to return to normal.
Catherine was right, in every sense of the word. Besides, if she’d worked up the nerve to court Rhea of
all people, maybe it wouldn’t be so daunting a task to go to the ball with good ol’ Jeralt as his partner.
“Thank you, Catherine. I… will ask Jeralt to come with me to the dance.”

In the end, Seteth never really did work up the courage to ask Jeralt face to face. But when the
night of the dance came, Jeralt fixed the problem himself.

Seteth waited outside of the dancing hall with Flayn by his side. She was dressed as a dragon;
her hair carefully pulled up in two braids (that still covered her pointed ears), a gilded white and
green mask covering her face. She wore a glittering silk cape draped over one shoulder, and a
dark green dress that faded to white at the frilly hem, flourishing around her legs. The end of it
purposefully dragged along the ground like a dragon’s tail, and Seteth felt a twinge of nostalgia
looking at her- his little dragon, grown up so much, and yet still so vulnerable to the horrors of the
world. So far away from home.

Of course, he’d been forced by Manuela and Flayn to dress up as well. He went for the dragon
theme too, since Flayn insisted they could match, and he didn’t really have any better ideas.
Where Flayn was light, he was dark; while the green tones were present on his costume as well,
it was a much darker shade paired with sparse streaks of gold. His mask was decorated with deer-
like horns (which, Flayn had whispered to him in delight, reminded her of his actual draconic
appearance) and a short cape fell gracefully around his arms, giving the illusion of webbed wings
every time he moved. Manuela had dragged him in front of the mirror, and in the end Seteth had
to admit it wasn’t all too bad- this was probably the closest he’d ever get to being who he really
was again so… why not enjoy it?

Jeralt and Byleth appeared soon after; Byleth dressed as a forest spirit, antlers and hooves and
even an actual bow, albeit her quiver had no arrows in it. Jeralt was dressed as a phoenix, with
a feathered cape cascading behind his back in shades of dark red, to orange, to burning gold. It
glimmered under the torchlight, giving the impression of real flames springing from it. His mask
hid his eyes and ended in a beaked appendix, which gave him a fierce look. Seteth gulped.

Flayn had already ran up to Byleth and was gushing about their costumes, but before she’d
done so she had spared a second to elbow him and not towards Jeralt. Seteth cleared his throat.

“You look great, Jeralt.” He said numbly, and he could almost hear Manuela’s voice comment
on his lack of creativity. Thankfully, Jeralt didn’t seem to be of the same opinion.

“Could say the same about you. You look… regal.” Jeralt observed him, and Seteth was thankful
for the mask that hid his blush. He was about to ask Jeralt why he would think of something so
absurd, but then the knight spoke up again before he had time to.

“I bet your partner is gonna flaunt you around for everyone to see.” He winked, and Seteth felt
like finding the nearest champagne jug and emptying in one shot.

“I- ah… I haven’t actually had time to find a partner.” He lied.

“Well then, that makes two of us.” Jeralt offered his arm graciously. “What do you say? Two
single old men going to the ball together?”

Seteth stared at Jeralt for a moment, too dumbfounded to reply. Thankfully Byleth and Flayn
had overheard their conversation, and the latter jumped to her father’s rescue.

“Oh, I’m sure my brother would love to accompany you, Captain!” She winked at Seteth, and
grabbed Byleth’s hand. “Come on, Professor, let’s go find Edelgard!”

Seteth was left with no other choice but to link his arm with Jeralt’s, and nod his thanks politely.

“Ah… should we go?” He asked numbly. Jeralt laughed.

“Of course. Drinks won’t wait forever!”

A few dances and more than a little alcohol later, Seteth had finally begun to relax. This
wasn’t so bad after all; Jeralt was a skilled dancer, with grace Seteth hadn’t expected from
a mercenary-knight. It had been enjoyable, circling around the dancefloor together, Jeralt
commenting on the music or the students, whenever the silence between them grew too tense.
Seteth was thankful for it- it seemed like Jeralt always knew what was the right thing to say to
ease the awkwardness between them.

Regardless, there was only so much noise and heat and drinks he could take in his old age.
He hadn’t been to a festival in a while, after all, and he had started to feel completely out of
place as soon as Jeralt had left him for a moment to chat with Alois and the rest of the Knights.
Seteth had watched the students for a while; inspecting Flayn who danced with Edelgard over
and over, eventually making the white-haired girl laugh. Seteth didn’t think he’d ever seen her
laugh, actually. He smiled a little.
Flayn is much better at this than I’ll ever be.

Byleth was dancing with Dimitri, Mercedes and Annie were spinning around drunkenly and
giggling as they stepped on each other’s toes, and Claude was teaching Marianne and Hilda a
traditional Almyran dance. The students all looked to be having a great time, and there seemed to
be no reason for him to linger.

Seteth turned around, and discreetly walked out of the hall. The night was cool and quiet, the
gentle breeze soothing against his flushed cheeks. Without knowing why, his steps brought him up
to the quiet, isolated Goddess Tower.

It had always been a place of calm, of comfort, to him. He felt close to his Mother there,
closer to the skies he and the rest of his family used to roam. It was little comfort, but every time
he looked at the stars from that spot, he liked to think the souls of his Mother and his departed
siblings twinkled back at him.

He lost track of time staring at the gleaming stars. The next thing he knew, a shuffling noise
came from the flight of stairs that led to the Tower. He whirled around, his fighting instincts
kicking to the surface. But there was no need to worry, he realised as he registered the red and
orange cape twinkling under the light of the stars.

“Jeralt.” He breathed, and immediately felt like the most spectacular fool in all of Fodlan. “My
apologies for leaving without telling you.”

“Nah, that’s alright. I got too caught up with Alois, anyway, so I can’t exactly blame
you.” Jeralt flashed that easy smile that made Seteth’s heart do weird things in his chest,
and came to stand next to him.

“Thought I’d find you here.” The knight said. “This seems to be your favourite spot, huh?”

“Indeed.” Seteth admitted. “I enjoy the calm. The stillness. It’s almost as if time stops
trickling by up here.”

Jeralt nodded. “It’s beautiful. Almost as if we’re standing among the stars, right?”

Seteth heard shuffling, and a moment later he felt Jeralt’s shoulder brushing his. He had to
try his hardest to not shiver.

Eventually he gathered up enough confidence to risk a glance at Jeralt. Startled, he realised the
knight was looking at him behind his mask.

“Hey… Seteth. You look tense.”

“I- well-“ how many centuries had it been ever since he’d last been at a loss of words,
stammering like that? “I… think it must be the alcohol. I haven’t drank that much in a while.”

Jeralt laughed quietly. “Does that make you a lightweight? We gotta build up your tolerance.”

Jeralt had turned and was facing him directly, now. Seteth’s heart felt like it might just leap out
of his chest when the knight’s hand came up, touching his flushed cheek.

“Seteth.” He said. Seteth suddenly realised he wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this.

“Jeralt, I…”

Slowly, Jeralt’s fingers slid under Seteth’s verdant curls, unclasping his mask and letting it fall
to the ground. The knight’s other hand did the same with his own, and soon they were looking to
each other’s unconcealed faces.

Seteth opened his mouth to suggest maybe they should go, but before he could say anything
Jeralt leaned in, pressing their lips together. Seteth gasped, for a moment unable to comprehend
what was really happening.

And that was it.

All his restraint, all his fears and anxieties, they all melted away as Jeralt’s lips caressed his, so
warm and gentle. Seteth cupped Jeralt’s face, the knight’s rough beard prickling at his fingers, but
oh he didn’t care. He cared nothing more of embarrassment, and duties, and what people would say.
All he cared about was the warm, solid presence of the man pressing him close, their lips crushed
together and their kiss turning all the more fervent, full of need and passion and unspoken words.

Seteth didn’t know how long it lasted. Time seemed to truly freeze, until they were both in
dire need of oxygen. They broke apart reluctantly, breathing in the crisp night air. Seteth was lost
inside Jeralt’s eyes, those warm pools of brown that captivated him. Jeralt smiled.

“That wasn’t so terrible now, was it?” He asked, and Seteth felt his face turning an even darker
shade of red, if that was at all possible.

“I- have no idea what you are talking about, Jeralt.” He murmured, causing the other man to laugh again.

“Come on now. You really aren’t the best at hiding what you feel. You might think you are, but
it’s been written aaaall over that handsome face of yours these past few weeks.”

Seteth raised an eyebrow. “You spoke with Catherine, didn’t you?”

“Well… yeah.” Jeralt grinned, rubbing the back of his head. “She figured you weren’t going to
work up the courage to ask me to the ball, so she decided to take drastic measures.”
Seteth groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Goddess, this is embarrassing. I feel like a
teenager.”

“Nah, don’t feel bad.” Jeralt assured him. “I understand being scared. We’ve both loved and lost
in the past. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

As the words registered themselves, Seteth let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.
He felt lighter suddenly, as if all the shame and worry he’d been feeling had been blown away.

So easy. It had been so easy for Jeralt to placate his worries.

He looked up, working up enough willpower to put his hand on Jeralt’s cheek again. He smiled,
the first true smile he’d allowed himself in a long time.

“Thank you, Jeralt. I knew you, of all people, would understand. And…”

Perhaps Manuela was right in all her endless teasing these past few months. Perhaps they truly
were perfect for each other.

“…I’d love to stay here, a little longer. With you.”

Jeralt smiled, leaning down to press a gentle kiss on Seteth’s forehead.

“I would be delighted to oblige you, Seteth.”



Emerald Dance, Silver Song

Dressing up had never been a common occurrence before he had been adopted by Lonato. Even
then, such frivolous events had never been on the forefront of Ashe’s mind. The finest clothing
had never been able to cover up the blatantly common traits that he held. Fine materials had
always made his skin itch, and he found much greater beauty and elegance in the glint of armor
and the rattle of chainmail of a knight atop their horse.

And so, here he was, dressed in what would be best described as the most common noble
clothing in all of Fodlan.

He wore Lonato’s old gloves, missing the way the man had regaled the tale of his own first
dance, grasping the hand of a young woman and dancing with her until the moon hung high in
the sky. Was he dancing still, wherever he was? Ashe felt his heart ache at the thought and forced
himself to remain in the ballroom. His ashen overcoat felt like lead upon his skin, the pale gold
threads along the seams climbing up like cobwebs. The white furs, speckled with russet and muted
gold, draped down his shoulder, a commonality of Faerghus. A mask of the same silver and gold,
spindling out with the rays of sunlight upon the side, completed the attempt at a costume. A
flutter of elegance, he supposed, even if it covered a simple pair of trousers and buckled shoes.

He wanted to dance. He wanted the distraction, more than anything. As brilliant as the
ballroom looked...there was nothing he wanted from the Church, not right now. Perhaps not ever…

What he did want seemed to be coming right towards him though, in the form of the ever so
confident and ever so easily distracted Linhardt von Herving. Linhardt still made it a point to
show up, something that Ashe did not discredit. The boy even had the audacity to dress so...so
beautifully, the warm orange glow of the ballroom bouncing off of the silken dark jade, shining on
the golden buttons and patterns that swirled at the ends of his own overcoat. He wore a mask of
silver and green, simple yet so captivatingly beautiful at the same time.

Ashe could tell that putting on the outfit must have taken him a lot of coaxing, and even
then there were some disheveled pieces and wrinkles that no other noble of Adrestia would have
showcased...except perhaps Caspar, though Ashe did not count him in comparison. Linhardt, in all of
his newly-woken-from-sleep, disheveled glory, seemed to float through the room as if he owned it.

Confident, and casual. So utterly Lindhardt.

Perhaps that was why his heart skipped a beat the second the taller boy sidled up to him
with that slow gate of his.

“Ashe. I didn’t expect to see you here, after...ah, nevermind. I only dance a few times at these things.
Honestly, I would rather be sleeping...but if it keeps the others off my tail, then what can you do?”

More than anything, Ashe wanted to tell him that it was alright, that he did not have
to hesitate about speaking of Lonato’s death in front of him, even if the thought of such a
conversation filled him with enriched anxiety. He focused on tracing every one of Lindhardt’s
features with his eyes, glad that the mask hid the furthest extent of his reddened cheeks.

“I...I never took you for a dancer.” Simple, maybe too simple. Agh, who started a conversation
with that? He was supposed to be fearless, a knight among men, and he couldn’t bring himself to
speak without a tremor to his voice! Linhardt did not seem to notice though, much to Ashe’s relief.

“I’m not a dancer. That’s far more of Dorothea’s tastes than mine.” He leaned back against
one of the pillars that shielded them from the rest of the bustling ballroom. Ashe could not
help but to admire how at ease he looked, how his tied hair fell down the side of his shoulder
as his head tilted. “I’ll make an exception for you though. Only tonight though, and you’ll
have to lead. That’s not my forte.”

Ashe smiled softly at that, familiar now with Linhardt’s ways of speaking. Linhardt had made
it a point to speak with him more than most, ever since they had shared an interest in the same
books and thirst for historical knowledge. Now, all he could do was force himself not to admit just
how much he liked it when the other boy talked to him first, instead of the other way around.

“I wouldn’t expect anything else from you, Linhardt.”

Lindhardt’s eyes tossed under the mask, Ashe could tell instantly.

“Are you going to guide me to the ballroom floor, or not?”

Ashe took it upon himself to build his courage back up, reaching his hand out for Linhardt
to take, long and elegant fingers grasping around his smaller, nimbler ones. Their gloves, one
rough and worn and the other smooth and silken, brushed against each other warmly. Ashe
marveled in the way Linhardt took his hand without hesitation, fear and hesitation holding
no place in the other boy’s movements. How was he able to do that? How was he able to exude
such calmness with such ease?

He pulled Linhardt along, perhaps a bit too excitedly, yet he did not find it in himself to care.
He had not felt this light in a long time. The polished stone beneath his shoes reflected their
visages, a smear of dark blue and green amongst a sea of glimmering gold. He turned to face his
new partner, suddenly feeling his confidence waver once again the moment he noticed heads
turning to glance in their direction.

“You’re uhm...taller than me, this might be a little awkward. We might get funny looks.”

Linhardt’s fingers only tightened more around his own, his other hand lifting so he could
rest his fingers upon the shorter boy’s shoulder. He looked only at Ashe, not sparing a look to
anybody else around them.

“I’d imagine that would bother someone that cares about the judgement of others. The
good news is that I don’t.”

Ashe’s smile stretched across his face, a breathless laugh escaping him in hopes of settling
the fluttering he felt in his stomach. He reached out tentatively until he could press his free
hand to the lean curve of Linhardt’s waist. Linhardt made no move to deny him, instead
seeming to even lean into the shy touch. Ashe held the other boy’s hand as if it would be
a crime to let it go. With a few counts in his head, he began to lead the dance, stepping in
rhythm with the hum of string and brass behind them.

“Golden Deer, then, hm?” Linhardt’s voice was relaxed, easy to fall into. Ashe nodded once,
turning his partner in a slow spin. “And here I thought you would have been content with the Blue
Lions...though, if I must be honest, you do not strike me as the rigid type.”

“They’re not all like that, Linhardt.” Ashe corrected, though his voice held no malice. “Annette
is hardworking and energetic. Mercedes and Dedue are so caring and kind and, well, Ingrid and
Felix, they’re dedicated, and train hard for what they believe in. The Prince is honorable, and will
make a wonderful King one day. And Sylvain is...he is, uh…”

“Sylvain?” Linhardt offered simply, though Ashe could not help but laugh at the way the taller
boy’s lips curled upwards ever so slightly.

“Yes.” He conceded. “He’s Sylvain. But, that doesn’t mean he’s rigid either.” Ashe paused
to turn them again, breathless as he watched the way Linhardt’s hair trailed past his shoulder,
a stream of forested green gleaming in the torch light. He swallowed, focusing back on the
conversation lest he lose himself to it.

“I care deeply for all of them...but...I guess that I felt just as much and if not more at home
with the Golden Deer. With the professor, too. She truly believes in me, Linhardt...that I can
become a Knight, and that I can become better than...ah, nevermind.” He turned his head,
sadness souring his speech.

“I’m considering joining that class as well.”

Well, that was a surprise! Ashe’s mouth opened to splutter out a response, though
Linhardt beat him to it.

“I have grown quite tired of the way many of my classmates pester me about how I work. As
dependable as my house leader is, she can be so stifling at times. Do not even get me started on
her shadow.” Linhardt sighed, clearly referring to Hubert. “Yes, Caspar is my childhood friend, and
yes, Petra is perfect as she is, but you should know that I follow what interests me.”

“Ah. So the Golden Deer interest you?” Ashe inquired.

“You interest me.”

Ashe’s face certainly blared red at that, nearly choking on the rising fluster that threatened
to send him to his knees. Linhardt simply had no shame!...Not that Ashe minded, though the
bluntness of his words was difficult to ignore. His hand tightened around Linhardt’s as his steps
faltered slightly. Linhardt’s peal of laughter, the small chiming sound, would stick in Ashe’s
mind for the rest of his life. Linhardt steadied him with surprisingly firm hands, leaning in closer
to continue his thoughts.

“It’s alright if you do not feel the same way. I merely state what I see, and what I see is you. And
you, for some reason that I am so obscenely curious about, have been interesting me since that night
we talked in the library. It’s rare to find a person that actually listens to what I’m researching when I
talk about it. And, of course, someone with a good taste in literature, and history.”

“No!” Ashe squeaked out suddenly, before he coughed to clear his throat, letting the
abrupt response hang in the air for a moment. “Ah, no, I mean, I...I do. Feel the same way, that
is! I do...that, yes.” He stammered, before taking a breath and speaking more confidently. “I’ve
felt the same way since that night too...and, well. I would be more than happy to see you in
the classroom everyday.”

Linhardt now led the dance, seeming to go against his statement otherwise from earlier. Ashe
hoped that the sudden flow of movement meant that the other boy was content. Linhardt hummed
with laughter again, his voice as steady as ever.

“I would be more than happy to sleep through the classes if you tell me what we went over
afterwards, Ashe.”

“Ah.” Ashe’s lips curled upwards, humor edging along his voice. “I see. So that’s the real
reason, huh? Nothing else?” He stepped to the side, Linhardt’s boots squeaking faintly against
the polished floor.

“Mm. Perhaps that’s one of them. Aren’t you perceptive?”

“...Perhaps I’ve been watching you as intently as you’ve been watching me, Linhardt.”

Let it be known that Ashe was not one to back down once he gained his confidence, and the
sight of Linhardt’s quirked grin was more than enough for him to lean closer, to press the crown of
his head gingerly to the taller boy’s shoulder as they danced. His heart raced as the mage brought
his manicured fingers to the side of his head, tracing along the edges of silver strands he found
there. It tickled, yet it warmed the hopeful-to-be Knight to his core. That a person who wielded
magic with such power and precision could caress his head so tenderly, so affectionately, as if he
was worth it. As if he was worth it.

Maybe this was what love felt like.

The night was far from over, yet for all of Linhardt’s wonderful traits, patience was never
his strong suit when it came to brunting through events he didn’t find interest in. Ashe had
remembered that the other boy had made it clear that he did not intend to dance for long. He had
no issue with that though, considering he had no intention to dance with anyone else. Not when
he could be following Linhardt instead, pulled along by the grip of his elegant fingers, giggling like
a fool without care of who heard him.

“I’m going to trip and fall, Linhardt!” He snickered, not so afraid of the monastery grounds this
evening. The mage did not stop, merely offering a thoughtful noise as he pulled him along. “Where
are we going? Somewhere secret?”

“If you consider my dorm room a secret, then yes.” Linhardt hummed.

Ashe’s eyes widened at the implications, though he found himself flustered rather than
discomforted. He had never done something like this before, even if he had read plenty about it.
What was the procedure, when someone invited you to their room? Were they moving too fast?
What if he didn’t fit his standards? What if he made a fool of himself in front of the first boy
who’d ever felt the same about him in return? He held Linhardt’s hand tighter, the words on his
tongue unable to come out.

“Hm? Ashe? Oh.” Linhardt tilted his head back, seeming to be curious as to why Ashe had
stopped talking. Ashe could see his brows furrow, before lifting with realization. That laugh
again, that Ashe had come to relish in, trickled out of him. “No, not anything like that. I am
not that easy of a first date. I was thinking more along the lines that we lay in my bed and you
hold me like the valiant Knight that you are. In fact, it might even be thrilling for you, sneaking
around on the wondrous noble floor with me.”

Ashe did feel embarrassed at that, not wanting to seem he had ill-intentions. “Sorry, that
wasn’t what I was...ah...alright. For a moment it was, but. I like what you truly intend too. Though,
I’m not sure if it’ll be good for either of us if we’re caught in the same room. I’m not really
supposed to be up on the second floor with you after hours…”

“I’ll let you know when I care about the monastery staff’s thoughts on my business after we
sleep.” Linhardt crooned. “Or, if you prefer, you can read to me and then I’ll fall asleep. Then, by
some chance if you find yourself wrapping your arms around me then, well, whoops, what can I do
about that besides enthusiastically letting it happen?”

Ashe could not help but look fondly at the clever mage, able to tell when Linhardt clearly
wanted something from him. How could he deny a request like that? After all, it was a Knight’s
duty to protect and please the people. Or, in this case, a surprisingly affectionate Linhardt von
Herving. Not to mention the concept of sleeping next to someone rather than letting himself stew
alone in his misery was far too appealing for him to argue.

He lifted his other hand to pull the mask off of his face, indents where the edges rubbed his
face masked by the flush of pink upon his cheeks.

“I’ll read anything you like to you, Linhardt. A fairytale, a manuscript, those Crest books I
know you look at all the time. I’ll read anything you like.”

“Good man.” Linhardt murmured, slowing down now as they reached the stairwell to the upper
floor. The air was warm, though Ashe was convinced that it was not the weather that was making it
feel that way. He doubted the prickling of his skin and the bounce in his step was a product of the
wind. He looked around, wondering why Linhardt had stopped so suddenly.

Their fingers were still locked together, but now he could feel Linhardt pulling at his hand ever
so slightly. Silence was around them, no sound between them besides the faint breathing from the
trek they had just made. Ashe hesitated as Linhardt turned around, facing him completely.

In one instant, the steady confidence he had seen in Linhardt had morphed into something
different, something softer and more hesitant, yet he stared at the other boy in a way that made
Ashe hold his breath. Linhardt tugged his hand one more time, before he rocked forwards and
downwards, pressing his lips to Ashe’s. His body froze, eyes widening as he felt Linhardt kiss him
without a wink of shame. He was warm, and his free hand came up to clutch softly at the furs on
Ashe’s shoulder, tugging at it as though he was holding on to a lifeline.

As fast as Linhardt leaned in to peck at his lips, he pulled away, turning around sharply and
gripping Ashe’s hand even harder, the bewildered, freckled boy unable to form words at what had
just happened. Linhardt’s head fell for a moment as he gave a choked noise that Ashe could only
describe as frustration, and guilt.

Linhardt pulled at him again, trying to lead him up the stairwell again. Ashe blinked,
finally gaining clarity, his heart pounding in his ears. He bit his lip, memorizing the feeling of
Linhardt’s lips against his.

His first kiss...and Linhardt wasn’t looking at him. No.

No. That wouldn’t do.

Ashe pulled his own hand back in response, catching the green-haired mage off guard and
pulling him back towards him. Ashe pawed at Linhardt’s shoulder, turning the other boy back
around to gaze at him for a moment, before he lifted up on his toes to kiss Linhardt in return. Just
as peckish. Just as fast. Just as lacking in regret. And this time, Linhardt stayed, facing him and
returning the gentle kiss. Ashe closed his eyes, lids fluttering shut as he wondered if this was what
it was supposed to feel like, to kiss someone he really liked.

It felt good. It felt very good.

Linhardt did pull away first, touching his fingers to his mouth. “I...wasn’t expecting that,
if I’m being honest.”

“What?” Ashe breathed out, his voice trembling with contentment. “You think that I wouldn’t
kiss you back, Linhardt?”

“I was hoping you would, though I did not want to get my hopes up so easily. Ah, now I feel
foolish.” Linhardt turned his head lightly, clearly trying to hide the genuine blush across his face.
Ashe could only smile again, a bit proud that he was able to fluster Linhardt. Who else could say
the same? To see Linhardt look how Ashe felt, he supposed it was a bit vindicating. Ashe rubbed
his thumb against Linhardt’s fingers, swallowing down his nerves as he admitted.

“D...don’t be. I...I liked it. Thank you, Linhardt.” He murmured softly, looking up at the other boy.
As nice as it felt to see Linhardt flustered, it was even nicer to see his quirk of a smile. Linhardt shook
his head softly, looking ready to speak but seemingly thinking better of it. Instead, he turned again,
looking right back up at the staircase, and pulling the freckled boy along with him.

Ashe let him lead him, breaking the silence of the evening with laughter, and watching how
the other boy’s hair gleamed in the torchlight.

‘Yeah’ He supposed. ‘I guess this must be what love feels like’.