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

the center of the room,
o play, and more people
oor.

ther hand to her. “Shall
gh?”

him in flustered surprise,
o?”

om dancing three times
Lord von Bartels,
Gobbo. She never
ave had the chance to
as Dimitri’s retainer.
ons she knew that the
e of Duscur danced
t from the ways of the

few steps before the
ce I assumed there
s event, I asked him for
s gaze turned slightly
“I think I can make my
altz.”

hem practicing together,
y times feet were trod
ly and took his offered
ance with you!”

She intertwined their fingers and ended up being the one to lead them onto the dancefloor. Once there, sh
stepping closer to rest his hand on the back of her waist, keeping one hand in hers as she placed her free hand o

Sure enough, Dedue was good at this, but there was a definite care and thought in his step. Not like she wa
matching his steps but subtly guiding to the tempo. Soon, they both get really into the dance, and Mercedes let

“Oh my, you’re too good at this, Dedue.” Her voice was breathless with how giddy she felt.

She noticed how the bottom half of Dedue’s cheeks darkened and heard and felt the small rumble of laughter in

Mercedes felt her heart sing. Instead of fear, he looked comfortable, ready for anything. Just as he did in th
wonderful sight of him, without the faintest idea who was in the crowd around them at that moment.

They took another turn when Dedue began talking again. “Lorenz told us that Gobbo would likely be weari

“Oh, that helps! He always did have a fondness for red.” Few people would be willing to risk the associ
they glanced while taking turns in the dance.

“A man dressed primarily in red...”

Soon, Dedue whispered to Mercedes. “The person to the far left of the dance floor?” And then turned so Me

As Dedue turns them Mercedes couldn’t help but snap her head towards the figure in red. Garish red tailed
standing with his back to the floor as he faced the far taller Heir to Gloucester, whose mouth was moving and th
and Leicester fashion: gold braiding and buttons, teardrop cutouts, and an elaborately embroidered mask featur

The song they were dancing to ended softly, and the strings began the next with a jauntier sort of tune one
It was less than a moment, but it was enough to get a clear look: Leonie Pinelli wearing a fox-mask. She grabbed
them as Mercedes and Dedue withdrew from the dance floor, Lorenz managing a brief greeting but was quickly l

“I believe that’s our chance.” Dedue replied, and then they weaved their way closer to Gobbo.

It was odd how unawares they caught him after so much time. Gobbo was so focused on attempting to sip a

he swept into a curtsy, though her skirts couldn’t be pulled far from her legs. Dedue responded with a bow before
on his shoulder. And as the song moved into tune, they began to dance.
as whisked around the dance floor, but that they are working in tandem. Mercedes helped them be even better,

out a peal of laughter when Dedue swept her into a spin and drew her back even closer.

n his chest at her joy, but there was a proud smile on his face. “Mercedes, it’s only because I have you as a partner.”
he kitchen and the garden. Sure of step in more ways than one. Her eyes were unable to look away from the

ing red and in an eagle mask.”
iation with Adrestian symbols, and despite the popular styles the warmer hues were rarer in the crowd as

ercedes could get a good look.
d-coat, and the mask’s shape undeniably that of a screaming eagle. It was her adoptive father, Herime Gobbo,
he rest of his face didn’t appear particularly happy about it. Lorenz’s costume was entirely in Gloucester purples
ring red gems arranged in the shape of roses. Side by side, the two embodied the contrast of the old and the new.
e might hear in the countryside. Abruptly, a slim figure in an orange-accented jerkin darted beside the two men.
d Lorenz by the hand, then Leonie forcibly dragged him onto the dance floor. Their former schoolmates passed by
led off and then drowned out as the dancers began a coordinated clapping with the jig.

a beverage with his mask on he did not see their approach.

The clear sight of her adoptive father, which she hadn’t seen since she’d left Fhiridiad years ago filled Merc
but he was greedy. He’d seen and treated her as an investment rather than a proper daughter. He would’ve sold h
these last months, Gobbo had proved himself a coward, after answering her letter about marrying Dedue with re
Mercedes found her pulse picking up and body growing tense. Although she’d practiced a speech with both Dedu
Lamine a lifetime ago. The same man, who denied his permission to marry the man she loved.
Dedue continued to hold Mercedes’ hand when they were in speaking distance, facing him head on. “Mr. G
Hermine Gobbo spilled some of his drink, staining his puffed sleeve when he saw Dedue. He began to shak
He quickly regained the stern, snooty demeanor and tilted his chin up before looking down at Mercedes. “I
Mercedes’ free hand clenched in a fist as she forced herself to stay calm and smile. “Yes, Her Majesty holds
“I see.” His eyes flit back to Dedue, mouth moving into a distasteful smile. “So this is Mr. Molinaro then?”
“I am, sir.” But Dedue was calm, not allowing himself to falter and keeping his head held tall. “It is fairly lo
The exposed lower half of Gobbo’s face flinched.
Breathing deep, Mercedes spoke in the inflections that had been drilled into her since childhood. “Father, p
Gobo stood rigid, ready to refuse or perhaps to bolt. Finally the man gave a stiff nod, setting the glass on a nearb
Dedue’s and hurried to keep up with the merchant, part of her afraid he would just try and run off. However it only to


Hermine Gobbo paused at the threshold of the salon, then gave a brief jerk of his head to Dedue, and marc
been holding open. It was an open salon set in Leicester style, likely furnished by the Gloucester household whe
the window, turned away from the both of them for a minute, only speaking just as Mercedes was about to.
“—I expected better of you, my child.” Gobo replied. “I have given you the best I could give at my disposal,

cedes with mixed emotions. Hermine Gobbo wasn’t an inherently cruel man, not like Lord von Bartels had been,
her off to the highest bidding marriage partner if she hadn’t left without warning over four years ago. And
efusals and then proceeding to dodge their every effort to meet with him face to face. As they grew bodily closer
ue and Annette, she wondered what she’d say to the man who’d taken her away from Priest Faria and Portia von
Gobo, I presume?”
ke his head, until he noticed Mercedes, and stilled. “Yes, I am.”
It seems you are well enough, Mercedes. A lady-in-waiting to the queen, are you?”
s me in her confidence. Just as King Dimitri holds Dedue in his.”

oud in here. Why don’t we all go into a side room to talk?”

please. We must speak with you, there’s a salon just off the hall not far from here.”
by table and headed the direction Mercedes had indicated. The moment he’d turned, Mercedes looped an arm with
ook that nudge for Dedue to have them match Gobbo’s pace and they left the clapping music of the dancefloor behind.

ched inside. Mercedes followed close behind and sent Dedue a concerned glance as he softly shut the door he’d
en the house was first bought, and had a large window looking out into a small garden. Gobbo went to stand by
, and in return, you wander off without a care in the world with whomever you so please.”

Mercedes felt a pang in her heart, both at his assumption and the insult it dealt not only to herself but also
tried to see him, but did you know she was denying all prisoners Last Rites?”

“And what would you have done if she had? Hm?” Gobo fired back. “You are not Priest Faria. If you wanted

The mention of the kindly old priest helped settle Mercedes’ mind enough that she calmly replied, “I could
and spoken to mother... she’s given her blessing for me to marry.” Father Faria had told her that the goddess wou
Dedue as a son-in-law with open arms when she knew his character. While there, Mercedes truly felt at home, w

“Portia had given up that responsibility when I took over your care!” Gobo’s voice had gotten louder. “Have
to the best school in Fhirdiad, to Garreg Mach Monastery among the elite to learn if not for my coffers?”

“I am grateful! I made friends there, met Annie and... fell in love.” Mercedes drew herself up, spoke with every o

To which Gobbo responded with no shred of dignity at all. “Oh, your intended? Because I do not remember

“That is enough.”

Dedue’s voice was firm and direct, cutting through the building tension.

Gobbo looked honestly shocked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Mercedes has tried to reach out to you, and you have denied all audiences or exchanges with her unless they a

“Y-you have no right to speak with me this way!” His bluster had waned, however he didn’t shrink as he ha

“On the contrary, I have every right to call you a traitor to your king and a coward.” Dedue’s tone was flat, l
were supplying Adrestrian troops. That, perhaps to a merchant, would not be an issue in times of war. What is in
previously— and remain— known Adrestrian sympathizers.”

“I-it’s simply business, good business! To fault a man for sticking with friends during uncertain times lacks
doing my part for the Kingdom, ensuring trade continues.” He raised a hand to shake a finger at Mercedes’ face.
individuals such as him! A lady of gentle birth deserves a suitor of status--”

Dedue took the finger in hand, not squeezing or yanking, but holding it and Gobbo in place. “I do have stat

“And more importantly, he’s the man I love! I’ll have no other suitor, I don’t care if I never see another coin
grounding comfort as she asked, “Why won’t you accept us, Father?”

o to the man beside her. “I couldn’t stay in this city after Cornelia falsely charged and then executed my friend! I

d to be part of the church, you could have returned to that backwater I found you in.”
dn’t hide when there were people I could help, especially with all the fighting. Although I have been to the parish
uld never step in the path of two people who were tied together by love and fate. And her mother welcomed
with her love at her side and among people who cared about her, not just about what she could give them.
e I not instilled in you the necessity of risk and reward? Do you think you would have been in this position: gone

ounce of dignity within her. “Father, may I introduce His Majesty’s right hand man, Dedue Molinaro, my intended.”
r giving you any such blessing.”

are on your terms,” Dedue said. “There is no distance for you to hide behind falsities and harsh criticisms any longer.”
ad in the ballroom. Instead he stared at the younger man in the eye, as if he’d be in danger by looking away.
looking at Gobbo with faint disdain. “After the war, I looked into your business practices, and found that you
nteresting however, is your preferred trade routes continue to follow through the lands of nobility who were

s merit. The young king doesn’t understand how Faerghus transformed and seeks too drastic of changes. I am
“And you, my child, do not expect my generous support should you continue to fraternize with mannerless

tus, as a man of Duscur, and as the king’s retainer and advisor.”
n in my life,” she declared, every word heartfelt. Dedue took her hand in his, the warmth of it offering Mercedes a

“Because you should know better! He is not the sort of man you were raised to marry.” Once he stopped tal

But instead of letting it pass like he had been forced to back at the Academy, Dedue glared down at Gobbo.

“And you are not the sort of man that should ever be a father.” Dedue replied. “You know nothing of sacrifi
is the woman I love, and I am so grateful that your greed could never change who she is .”

Mercedes saw Dedue’s jaw tighten, before he relaxed into a stern expression. “... I had hoped to ask you per
eyes and see the reality before you: so instead I will give you a warning.

“His Majesty and I have proof and witnesses that you have continued to stockpile supplies with these
and toast to your future glory, but if you go a step further, you will swiftly understand the enormity of such
the works of people like Mercedes, but not by you.”

Gobbo’s face turned white as a sheet, eyes wide and mouth flapping soundlessly.

“Father, please reconsider these choices you’ve made,” Mercedes said calmly. “You always spoke to me aga

When Gobbo remained silent, she continued talking, for once assured he would not interrupt her.

“We also wanted to tell you that our wedding is being held in the chapel of Fhirhiad’s castle in three days.
Her decision meant that House von Martritz will have truly disappeared, but also an assurance in the future she

Dedue was calm in his final, succinct response, “Shall we assume you will not be able to attend?”

Gobo’s open jaw shut with a click and he abruptly turned his back to them. Part of Mercedes was disappoin
months: silence. A refusal to deal with the truth of reality, an impasse which she could not bridge.

Once he left, Dedue heaved a long sigh. “I’m sorry it turned out like this, but how he talked to you was desp

“No need to apologize, you are right. Men like him do not deal well with not getting their way.” Mercedes t
they’d had to abandon Emile and disappear from their motherland.

Mercedes laid a hand on Dedue’s arm. “You being here with me... For most of my life I’d simply give in to d

lking, Dedue allowed the other man’s hand to drop. Gobbo’s next words were barely audible, “Duscur beast.”
.
fice or love. Mercedes risked her life, day after day, month after month, to protect and care for people in need. She
rmission, just as I had asked Lady Portia. But I see this is impossible. You are not the sort of man to open your
noble houses, including tools of war. I will tell you it is all well and good to hide in the dim lights of parties
h a mistake. Faerghus may not be my homeland, but I can see it will be made better by the king and queen, by

ainst taking the perilous financial risks in business, it’s not too late to change yourself.”

I have Mother’s blessing and will be taking the Molinaro name.”
e saw for herself: To build a life and a family with Dedue.

nted, but the larger part has known this would be his answer— a lack of one. That had been his answer for
picable.”
thought again of her stepfather, how he’d been even worse in how he’d spoken to her mother… to the point
demands. It’s much more satisfying to take a stand and hold my ground. Thank you, Dedue.”

Dedue brought her hand up to his lips to kiss the palm, looking down at her with obvious affection and lov
rebuild my home and a place for the people of Duscur... my cherished one.”

Butterflies filled her at his sweet endearment and Mercedes blushed, with anticipation. He bent towards he
warm and soft against her own, always so gentle and welcoming. As he leaned further until her heels were set ag
him, he made a pleased noise before reverently tasting the sweetness she offered. This was a dance they had alre

For a brief moment, Mercedes recalled the memory of kissing in front of the chapel after exchanging vows,
what Gobbo had thought, that they would be bound together.

When the kiss had ended they rested their foreheads together, noses touching and breaths mingling. Merce
my heart already belongs to Dedue Molinaro.”

Dedue just smiled, like he was unable to stop. “And I mine, Mercedes von Martritz... or would it be more pr
Mercedes giggled, giddy about their future together, and pulled Dedue in for another kiss.

ve. “Your Welcome, Mercedes. Thank you for showing me another path for my life, to help me remember and

er as she reached for his jaw, but she pushed up onto her tiptoes to initiate the kiss. His lips were wonderfully
gainst the floor Dedue rest both of his palms against her waist, resting easy there. Mercedes opened herself to
eady learned quite well.
, with her mother and Priest Faria looking on as the children cheered. They already decided then, regardless of

edes still had butterflies in her stomach as she said, “I’m happy our friends will be able to act as witnesses, but

roper to say Mercedes Molinaro...?”





A Kiss, for Every Letter Unsent

The invitation had been a welcome one, especially since Marianne hadn’t been able to kick the
habit of thinking the worst every time she received a letter from anyone.

Even then, she was taken aback. An esteemed guest to the palace? Marianne couldn’t
remember a time when she had been an esteemed guest to anywhere.

The Blue Lion house, the surviving members of the Golden Deer, the Black Eagles who had
allied with Fhirdiad during the war, various faithful nobles, were all invited.

Dimitri had insisted that each of his former classmates be treated as esteemed guests, with
their own suites in the palace and thoroughly attended to by servants. It was a far cry from the
days of scarcity and shared tents during long campaigns during the war.

But that was the whole point of the day, wasn’t it? It was to celebrate the war’s end, a year
after Enbarr fell. It was as good a time as any, as the country had just begun to bounce back
from the hardship.

Her adoptive father would have insisted that she attend the party to represent the family,
but she wanted to go anyway. She missed her friends, despite all of the pain and hardship that
had come from the war.

She also missed Mercedes, above all. That was something she wasn’t going to admit aloud.
The box of unsent letters that sat under her bed was enough indication of it.
Someone had carried off her trunk as soon as she had arrived and King Dimitri had stepped
out to greet her.

The stress of leadership definitely weighed him down, but there was more life in him, a
welcome change from the violent shadow he had been during the war.

“I suppose I wasn’t too specific with my invitation. I should have, but I have little experience
with such things. It’s going to be a masquerade. I thought it would be an interesting change from
the standard sort of dance.”

“Oh?” Marianne said, stomach sinking at the fact that she was already underprepared. “I don’t
believe I have a mask.”

Dimitri waved up her concern with a smile. “Of course, I wouldn’t expect you to. I have had
masks prepared for everyone, at least. Yours should be in your quarters.”

“That is very considerate of you.”

“I wanted to make sure that my guests have as little to worry about as possible. Seems only
fair, after the hell I dragged you through during the war?”

She made no comment to that. While nearly all in their class had been beleaguered by Dimitri
and his demons throughout the war, most, if not all, had been forgiven by the end. Goddess knew
that her dragging them to her adoptive father’s land to clear her name was something to be
forgiven by all who joined her and the Professor.

“Things best left in the past; wouldn’t you think? We should live in the happiness of now,”
Marianne said with a small smile. The words of a hypocrite, who clung to unsent letters and lacked
the courage to reach out, now that the future stretched far ahead of them.

Marianne couldn’t help the trepidation as her assigned attendant escorted her through long
palace halls to her suite.

The woman, a brunette named Clara, didn’t leave her side. It seemed, for better or worse, she
was going to be preparing Marianne for the party that night.

Marianne couldn’t help the trepidation as her assigned attendant escorted her through long
palace halls to her suite.

The woman, a brunette named Clara, didn’t leave her side. It seemed, for better or worse, she
was going to be preparing Marianne for the party that night.

She helped her bathe in a tub of warm water, using soft-smelling soaps on her skin and
hair. She used what Marianne could only assume was the lightest possible application of a fire
spell to dry her hair.

Marianne clasped her hands in her lap as Clara brushed and braided her hair, wishing that it
was a different pair of hands that were dealing soft touches.

Clara insisted on the lavender dress, commenting on how the color would compliment her
hair and the royal purple mask that the host had given her. A bejeweled pin to hold her hair
back and shoes just elegant enough for the occasion but comfortable enough to dance in, and
her outfit was complete.

Marianne smoothed her hands down the front of her dress skirt. It was a far cry from the riding
uniforms that she was used to wearing about her adoptive father’s estate. She didn’t know that the
servants had packed the thing until Clara pulled it out of the trunk and cooed over how lovely it was.

She paused at her door. Back at Garreg Mach, before the school ball, she had written
a letter to Mercedes asking if she would be able to meet her there, perhaps share a dance
and a glass of champagne.

Many of her letters were like that. She found an excuse to write to her about just about
anything, even the smallest thing that she could have sent Mercedes if she had even an ounce of
courage in her to do it.

There were requests for favors that she inevitably asked other people for.

Some were invitations to have dinner together, to meet at the stables, or to have a picnic.

By chance, sometimes she would be able to share a meal with Mercedes if they ended up in the
dining hall together or study magic together if they spotted each other in the library. Those were
happy accidents, never planned.

There was certainly no plan for Marianne when she followed the slow flow of people to the
great ballroom in the center of the palace.

Marianne had started off with the distant worry that she would be in a sea of strangers, not
knowing who was who until actually speaking to them.

Apparently, she didn’t have to wait very long to see some familiar faces.

In one corner was Sylvain, with the uniform of a Margrave and a mask colored like a robin’s
egg. His arm was swung around who she could only assume was Felix’s shoulder, who’s mask was
black like his hair and arms were crossed over his chest. When Marianne saw Annette approach
the two men, her heart leapt to her throat, thinking that Mercedes would be close behind.

She wasn’t, and disappointment sunk in her stomach.

“Oh, Marianne! Come over here!” Annette called out, clearly catching Marianne staring.

Hoping that her reflexive wince was hidden behind her mask, she approached the small
group and curtsied in greeting.

“I’m glad to see you all again.”

“Likewise,” Sylvain replied with a wide grin.

Annette wrung her hands. Her mask almost perfectly matched the shade of her hair.

“It’s such a big party and it looked like you were looking for someone to talk to. I hope we
weren’t intruding on some deep thoughts.”

“You looked like you were looking for someone,” Felix said, managing to sound almost accusatory.

The thought to lie crossed Marianne’s mind, but if anyone knew where Mercedes was, it was
them. “I was, actually. You wouldn’t happen to know if Mercedes will be attending the ball?” she
asked. She pretended not to see the exchanged glances between Annette and Felix.

Annette tapped her chin in thought. “Mercie did tell me that she would be attending, but I
think she might have been a bit late arriving to Fhirdiad.”

The conversation meandered from there, with obligatory discussions about their respective
territories. Annette seemed to be on Fraldarius and Gautier lands often, more often than she was
on her own. Marianne didn’t comment on it.

Marianne wandered off as soon as it was polite to do so, greeting some of the chief mages that
were in attendance whom she recognized from the war.

She ate some little fruit tarts and sipped at her champagne flute, determined not to get too
tipsy by the night’s end. The time for getting hopelessly drunk had come and gone with the war.

Half an hour of small-talk with minor lords and ladies she definitely wouldn’t remember
the names of by the night’s end, she caught sight of Annette rushing to meet someone who just
stepped into the hall. The two embraced and Marianne could see that familiar head of blonde hair.

She had written at length over the course of many unsent letters how lovely Mercedes’s hair was
and tried not to stare, inevitably failing. The two women had been close since they were students
and Marianne couldn’t help but feel the flare of jealousy that their familiarity was so easy.

Annette pointed at Marianne and Mercedes followed the motion to lock eyes with her.
Marianne froze, like a deer in a hunter’s sights. She raised a hand and waved tentatively.

Marianne watched as Annette nudged her forward—Goddess, Marianne didn’t know if she
wanted to hex the younger woman or thank her—and she walked across the ballroom to get to
Marianne. It took mere seconds, but it felt both like a century and no time at all.

At least, Marianne had enough time to smile, something that felt so natural when looking at her.

“Mercedes,” Marianne greeted. How wonderful it was to meet her again, “I’m—I’m so happy to see you.”

Mercedes clasped Marianne’s hands in hers with a brilliant smile.

“I’m so glad to see you, Marianne!”

Marianne could only pray that she could not feel her pulse racing.

The recklessly romantic part of her wanted to recite words from the letters that amounted
to sappy, sickly-sweet confessions akin to those she had read in books that she bought from the
markets on a whim. The books, she kept, or gave them to Ashe or Ingrid. The letters, she burned. If
she didn’t have the courage to confess in-person, she had no right to confess over writing.

Now that Mercedes was in front of her, every part as lovely as Marianne remembered, that
same half-baked courage rose to her throat and threatened to choke her.

“You look lovely, Marianne.”

Marianne startled a little and she could feel her ears heat up in embarrassment. “O—oh thank
you. You look great as well.”

The grey dress she wore was very flattering, the accents matching perfectly with the red of her mask.

Mercedes ducked in close with a wry smile and Marianne could catch the smell of her flowery perfume.

“I’m not sure why His Majesty had insisted that this be a masquerade, but it seems to be en
vogue, with the air of mystery of it all. I think it’s rather fun, though it is easy to pick out most
of our classmates.”

Marianne made a noise of agreement and set her champagne glass on the nearby table before
the shaking of her hands was made apparent to her companion.

Mercedes pulled back, but was still completely focused on Marianne’s face, as if the
people milling around them weren’t there. “Regardless, it is a dance, is it not? Would you
care to dance with me?”

Fear clutched around her throat, rendering her mute as she nodded. Goddess, she wanted
nothing more than to dance with her.

Mercedes took her arm and led her out to the dancefloor, just as the orchestra began the
start of another piece.

Growing up, Marianne had no choice but to learn how to dance all of the traditional Fodlandian
dances. While it was clear that Mercedes had some similar experience, it wasn’t quite as fluid.

Just the pure euphoria of having Mercedes in her arms was enough to excuse any possible missteps.

Even as the violins and wind instruments and the laughter of their friends filled the hall,
Marianne’s mind wandered.

Mercedes was so beautiful, with a soft, relaxed air about her as she took the lead. It had been a
long time since Marianne had seen her this carefree.

During the war, the letters Marianne wrote often became simple words of encouragement and
prayers for safety, before and after battles. As healers, they were both tasked at saving lives as well as
taking them. Sometimes they would go full days without sleeping because there were too many people
needing healing. It wouldn’t be until their hands were stained with magic and their knees were weak
from exhaustion before the Professor would force them to return to their quarters for rest.

They leaned on each other, but Marianne made sure that there was some distance, lest she fall
too close in a moment of weakness.

Marianne’s truest test of her resolve came after Fort Merceus.

Something had happened there, in the melee of battle, that shattered Mercedes to her
very core. Marianne had been on the other side of the fort and didn’t see Mercedes until
they trudged back to camp. None of their fellow classmates fell in battle, though many were
injured, so it didn’t explain what happened.

The Professor seemed to have some idea, but she remained mum about it, only quietly
assigning Mercedes’s duties to the others for the following week. Marianne didn’t dare ask
Mercedes what made her so sad, and couldn’t find the courage to approach when the older
woman prayed in the cathedral.

All she could do is catch Mercedes’s arm when they passed each other one day and squeeze, hoping
that all of the words and courage that had failed her would be conveyed through that one touch.

The sorrowful smile that pulled at the blonde woman’s face broke Marianne’s heart. She wrote
as much in another letter that went unsent.

After the war, she wrote inane letters about the weather and the Church and whether or not
the Professor-now-Archbishop was going to confess to her new advisor. She asked for courage, if
she would be able to wiggle her way out of her obligations as a lady and be with the animals.

It was rather pathetic, to pine so thoroughly.

Mercedes squeezed her elbow, snapping her back to reality.

“Do you want to get some air? It’s awfully stuffy in here.”

Marianne was suddenly very grateful that the mask could hide at least some of the
panic that shot through her.

Mercedes led her across the dancefloor to one of the blissfully, horribly empty balconies that
ringed around the main ballroom. The crisp night air felt good, but she felt way too big for her own
skin as Mercedes smiled serenely at her.

She wondered if Mercedes knew or had any sort of clue of the feelings that swirled around
inside of her. It would have been better if her mask had been made out of the unsent letters. At
least, Mercedes would have had a chance to understand.

She pried off the pretty purple mask and held it in her hands, trying to find something to do
with her trembling fingers.

When Mercedes glanced at her quizzically, Marianne averted her eyes.

“It’s—it’s hot,” Marianne mumbled.

Mercedes giggled before undoing the tie on her mask as well.

“I have to agree, Marianne.”

Mercedes set the mask on the balcony, only for a breeze to pick it up and send it flying into the air.

“Oh!” Marianne exclaimed.

Neither woman made a real attempt to catch it, as it quickly flew out of reach and drifted down
toward the garden below.

Mercedes glanced over the balcony and shrugged. “It’s okay. I’m sure the ball will be drawing
to a close soon, so I wouldn’t have needed it for too much longer.”

The reminder was like a blow to the chest. The ball would end and they would disperse to their
various corners of the continent. From then, it would be a question of when Marianne would gain the
courage to send one of her letters, as distance and time would grow between them.

“I—,” Marianne started, before her jaw clicked shut.

She kicked herself, trying to remind herself of the pretty prose that she would write. The
Margrave always said that the start to a great oration was a good script. The script wasn’t everything,
just a map for where to go as each word fell out of the speaker’s mouth.

Marianne didn’t prepare a speech, but she could cobble together the words and emotions that had built
up over dozens of letters that piled up in that wooden box.

She cleared her throat as Mercedes watched her with the same soft smile, expectant for what she was going to say.

“I had admired you since we were students together at Garreg Mach. I missed you in the five years from
when Garreg Mach fell and when we returned at the Millennium festival. When we were together during the
war…” Marianne paused and shook her head.

There were so many things she could say. It was all a jumbled mess, fractured pieces of memory and feeling.

“I counted myself lucky to be near you and call you my friend. It ought to be enough, shouldn’t it? The
Goddess gave me this much, so I shouldn’t ask for more.”

Her hands twitched as they gripped the mask, wanting to reach out. She steeled herself, just as she had
done dozens of times.

“Oh, Marianne.”

Marianne cast her eyes to the floor, any response caught in her throat. Her own name sounded so
pretty in Mercedes’ mouth.

“Now that the war is over, I want to be strong and voice the feelings that I have. My—my feelings of friendship
have deepened to something more that scared me to the point that I could not speak of them until now.”

The words caught up in her throat, and she wished for the silence of their dance. Her eyes fell to the mask in
her hands and she wondered if there was a way that she could join the grey mask languishing in the hedge below
without hurting herself too badly.

Marianne stiffened as another pair of hands came into view, Mercedes stepping closer to her. Mercedes
cradled her hands with all the delicacy as if Marianne was a wounded bird.

“I wish you had told me sooner. It would have made things much easier for you.”

The older woman took a half-step closer, watching Marianne’s face in askance.

“I suppose we have both been unkind to ourselves. After such a terrible war, don’t you think we
should find happiness?”

Mercedes squeezed her hands and the tension that was wrapped like a band across Marianne’s chest
suddenly relaxed. There was no venom, no rejection or reproach.

Marianne leaned forward and hoped that Mercedes understood her meaning.

The faint scratch of ink on paper and clumsiness of words paled in comparison to a kiss. Mercedes tasted like
mint and calming tea and told Marianne all she needed to know.



Rays of a Forgotten Star

Just one more stroke…
There. Another painting done.
Ignatz stands, stretches. He takes a moment to admire his work. Though he’s become known for
his portraiture, this time he’s been hired to paint a landscape: Zanado, the Red Canyon. According to
the history books, it used to be a fabulous place, brimming with life and activity before being wiped
off the map by Nemesis during the War of Heroes. It was still quite a sight to behold, with its layered
red stone and striking sunsets, but a feeling of regret lingered over the land.
Packing up his gear, Ignatz prepared to head back into town. It was odd, to be so near Garreg
Mach and to not be heading to the Monastery. He had spent the formative years of his life there,
and had made friends he would never forget. He hadn’t been back since the war. There was
someone he was looking for, and she wouldn’t be found at the monastery.
The town Ignatz was staying in was a small offshoot of the Monastery’s large village. It was a
cozy farmtown, which provided the Monastery with much of its produce and livestock. The painting
of Zanado had been requested by a young farmer, hoping to please a woman he was wooing. It
seemed much too over-the-top a gift to Ignatz, but he wasn’t about to tell a paying customer that.
He met the customer at the town’s only tavern, presenting him with the painting.
“It seems… depressing.” The man said, looking up and down the picture.
Ignatz paled. “Well, Zanado itself is a little depressing. If there’s anything wrong with it, I can fix it.”
“No, it’s a perfect likeness. Whatever, it doesn’t matter.” The man handed Ignatz his payment.
“But if this doesn’t work, I expect my money back.”

“Sorry, no refunds.”

The man grumbled something to himself before leaving the bar, leaving Ignatz sighing heavily.
Hopefully the painting would serve him well enough that he wouldn’t need to demand a refund
more forcefully. Though Ignatz was a skilled archer, he never got the hang of hand-to-hand
combat.

To cool his nerves, Ignatz went to the bar and ordered an ale. The bartender was also the mayor,
and brewed all of the town’s drinks herself.

“Say, you’re the painter man, right?” The bartender asked. “I got a letter for you.” She was also the
town’s mailwoman. They didn’t get a lot of mail.

That was unexpected. “A letter? Who from?”

“I dunno, but the person who delivered it was clearly from the Monastery. Had one of those funny
hats and everything.”

Ignatz paid for the ale, and took the drink and his letter back to the table he had staked out. On
the letter’s exterior was written his name in a hand that was clearly trying to be neater than it
was. Who could be contacting him from the Monastery? Everyone he knew who was still there was
busy, working to keep the new United Kingdom of Fodlan together in one piece.

Breaking the seal of the letter, he immediately scanned to the end to see who it was from. Byleth.
His old professor, now crowned the ruler of Fodlan. This was the first he had heard from them in
years. What they could want from a lowly traveling artist, he had no idea.

Hello again, Ignatz, the letter began.

I apologize for never writing before. I have tried to keep up with all my former students, but things
tend to slip away from me in my new position. I hope this letter finds you well, if it finds you at all.

I shall cut to the chase. As the ruler of Fodlan, I get to choose who does the art around
here. And, as I know you had a penchant for painting, you were the first to come to mind. I
have heard rumors of your work throughout the nation, and would like it if you could return to
Garreg Mach to do a few paintings. If you like it, you could even take up a permanent position.
The renovations from the war are nearly complete, but we could use someone with your skills to
restore some of the murals which had been damaged.

Let me know if you’d like the job. Or even just show up at the Monastery. We’ll be waiting for you.

Best wishes,

Professor Byleth.

I gnatz blinked. He blinked again. He read the letter over once more. Indeed, his eyes were
not betraying him. The ruler of Fodlan had just offered him the most prestigious job of his life.
Immediately he knew he would take it. Though he had enjoyed his life as a traveling artist, nothing
could beat the security of working for Byleth.

The next morning, Ignatz set out for the Monastery. It was a short ride on horseback, and a
gorgeous day. As he approached, he was reminded of his first time seeing the Monastery. It was a
day much like this one. If only he knew then what the next five years would bring.

Things hadn’t changed much on the outside. There were still merchants near the gates, still the
cheerful Gatekeeper doing his duty. Less monks and priests were about, replaced by government
officials and their families. It was nice to see the place so active after war had ravaged it so badly.

As he walked through the entrance hall, he was met by Cyril. The both of them had been little
more than children when they had met, and it was surprising to see just how much he had grown.

“Ignatz! Wow, long time no see.” Cyril grinned, giving him a handshake. “What brings you
back to Garreg Mach?”

“I’m here to see the Profess- er, the King.” He eyed Cyril’s armor. “Are you a Knight now?”

“I sure am! Byleth made sure I could attend the academy after things got settled, and they
hired me as one of their personal guards. I can bring you to their office if you want.”

Ignatz nodded. “Please, thanks.” As they walked through the familiar halls together, Ignatz
asked, “Is it weird to be here now? Without Rhea?”

“A little. It’s definitely weird not seeing your class here, especially since you all fought in the war here.
But I’m glad for the change. I’ve realized now that Rhea… she wasn’t all she was cracked up to be.”

Ignatz remembered the rumors he had heard of Rhea lying about the Church’s history. “I
wonder what happened to her after the war.”

“I dunno. Some say she died, some say she disappeared. All I know is, Catherine left, and she
was as dedicated to Rhea as anybody.”

That was a shame. Catherine was always nice. “It must’ve been too hard for her to be here without her.”

“That’s part of it. But also, she and Shamir decided to travel together. I think they even got
married somewhere around Dagda. We keep in touch.”

They had reached the entrance to the former Archbishop’s office. Ignatz had been there a few
times to study the artwork, back before things went south.

“Here we are.” Said Cyril. “It was good to see you again, Ignatz.”

“You too, Cyril.”

The office was much as it had been before, albeit with different furniture. It felt much less like
a place of worship, and more like a place people actually worked. Byleth, dressed in some royal
regalia, sat behind their desk, with Seteth standing beside them, reading something about supplies
off of a paper. Of course the ever-terrifying Seteth was still there.

Surprisingly, Byleth actually smiled. “You got my letter.”

“I did, and I’d like to take the job if that’s alright.” Ignatz was a bundle of nerves, even though
he knew the Professor probably hadn’t changed a bit.
“It’s more than alright. Seteth, can you arrange a room for him?”
Seteth nodded. “Certainly, your Highness.”
Byleth very clearly rolled their eyes at the title. “Good. Once you’re settled in, we can discuss the
terms of your project. Whether you want to paint here short-term or long-term is entirely up to you.”
That was more flexibility than any commission he had ever held in the past. “Thank you so
much for the opportunity, I… I’m honored that you’d think of me for such a position.”
“You were a gifted artist back when you attended the Academy, and your former classmates
have all sung your praises about portraits you’ve done for them. It was only natural you’d be my
first choice to be our artist.”
Ignatz was pleased to hear that his classmates enjoyed his work so much, but he couldn’t help
but be embarrassed by the attention. He could feel his ears go red with a blush.
“And we need to work on your self-esteem while you’re here.”
“That’s… probably a good idea.”

A few months had passed since Ignatz started his position. He enjoyed the stability, enjoyed
having a place to call home after so many years as a travelling artist. Plus, living in the same place
gave him the added benefit of getting to know the people around him. He became familiar with the
monks and priests, and many of the new government officials. Ignatz was certainly never bored,
what with his rigorous work and newfound social life.

Even now, after months of working for the Professor, Ignatz was surprised to get an invite to a
ball that was being held at Garreg Mach. It was apparently a yearly event to celebrate the ending of
that terrible war which Ignatz knew all too well. But most everyone who was invited was someone
involved in the government. Ignatz wasn’t an official. He didn’t have land, or a title. He barely had
his paints to his name. Why, then, did he get invited?

He wasn’t going to go. There was no reason for him to. Sure, it might be fun, but he had
nobody to go with. He didn’t feel like he belonged there.

That was, until Raphael arrived. Raphael had been Ignatz’s best friend throughout the war, and
even now, they still kept closely in touch. Now, Raphael wasn’t just the child of a merchant. He had
married Bernadetta, who was now the head of House Varley, making Raphael a new player in politics.

They had lunch together a few days before the ball. It was odd, to be back in the mess hall with
Raphael. It really was like the old days.

“I don’t think I’m going to go.” Ignatz lamented over a steaming plate of two-fish saute.

“What? Why not? I’m sure it’ll be fun!” Ah, Raphael. Always enthusiastic.

“I don’t really have a reason to. I’m not some kind of fancy government player, and I don’t
have anyone to bring.”

“Come with me and Bernie! We can introduce you to some of the people we know. And hey,
who knows, maybe you’ll meet the love of your life!”

Ignatz doubted that. As much fun as it certainly would be third-wheeling Raphael and
Bernadetta, Ignatz also knew that the love of his life would probably not be showing up at the ball.
He hadn’t seen her in years. For all he knew, she had gone off to some foreign country and decided
to stay. “I don’t know. I just don’t think I’d have fun.”

“Listen. There’s gonna be free food. If nothing else, come for the free food. I know for a fact
they’re hiring the best catering chefs in Fodlan.”

That was actually persuading him more than anything else so far. Though Ignatz wasn’t one
for parties, he also wasn’t one to turn down a perfectly good free meal. “Alright, maybe I’ll stop by.
But I won’t stay long.”

“Great! It’s gonna be so much fun. Bernie’s been teaching me how to dance. We can teach
you too if you want!”

Ignatz shook his head. “I actually know how to dance. I haven’t done it in a while, but I do
know.” He had been taught, back in their time at the academy. The memory was bittersweet.

In the few days he had before the ball, Ignatz had just enough time to scrounge up an
outfit. He had had a fancy suit for special occasions, but it needed to be cleaned after so many
years on the road. The more difficult task was finding a masquerade mask, since of course it
was a masquerade ball. He settled on one that quite fit his style, inspired by a bird, with an
eagle feather affixed to the side.

Finally, the ball had arrived. Ignatz was nervous, probably more nervous than he needed to
be. He knew most of the people attending, whether they be his old classmates or people who he
knew from around Garreg Mach. But the sheer size and the glamour of it was overwhelming. Even
the food table was enormous, nearly covering the back wall of the ballroom with every imaginable
kind of food. Delicacies from Brigid, Dagda, and even Almyra were featured, ranging from the most
mundane of cookies to food that Ignatz was too scared to try.

He floats around the party, greeting his old classmates and making small talk. Hilda and
Marianne are pleased to see him, Dedue and Ashe ask him how his painting has been going, Felix
still scares him a little with his razor-sharp eyes. The whole time, he is looking. Looking for the
love of his life, the one he travelled the world in search of.

He wondered, briefly, what would happen if he found her again. Would he find he no longer loved
her, and that his search had been in vain? Would she be happily married to some rich dignitary, and
not even remember his name? It had been years. Maybe she had forgotten him entirely.

Ignatz falls back to one of the walls of the ballroom, scanning the crowd. It was truly beautiful,
the glimmer of dresses and suits and masks, of rhinestones and jewelry and glitter. He would have
to paint the scene later, once his anxiety finally settled.

As he forced himself to breathe, he saw her. A woman, dressed to the nines. Her dress was
gorgeous, a blue ball gown that reminded Ignatz of the sea, of the foam of crashing tides on
the rocks. And her mask was covered in glinting, beautiful fish scales and shells, reflecting the
candlelight of the room. It complimented her sea-foam green hair beautifully.

Now, Ignatz really couldn’t breathe. Was this… could it be her? But she hadn’t been to Garreg
Mach in ages, she had no reason to come here.

The mysterious woman held out her hand, and Ignatz felt compelled to take it. She pulled
him to the dance floor, and they fell into sync, her steps matching perfectly with Ignatz’s. It was
beautiful to watch her move, to watch her dress flow like the ocean. For a while, Ignatz forgets how
to speak, letting his emotions out through his dancing.

He wished he could spend the whole night dancing with her, but his stamina wore out
eventually. Fortunately, his mystery woman wordlessly understood, again taking him by the hand
and leading him outside into the cool of the night. For the first time since he had gotten to the
ball, Ignatz felt like he could breathe again.

“Thank you.” He said, bowing politely. “That was incredible. You were incredible.”

The woman smiled sheepishly, before turning, beckoning for him to follow. Where they were going,
Ignatz didn’t know. But he was willing to follow whoever this person was from here to eternity.

Ignatz realized he recognized their destination. “The Goddess Tower?”

The woman nodded, and they climbed the steps together. At the top, a chilly wind blew,
carrying the woman’s green hair with it. Ignatz took his coat and wrapped it preemptively
around her shoulders.

She pulled it around herself tightly, before speaking for the first time, “I did not say that I was cold.”

Her voice. It was Flayn’s. It had to have been. “You- you might’ve eventually gotten cold.”

She laughed, a beautiful, golden laugh, like the ringing of a bell. “Never change, Ignatz.”

It took everything in Ignatz’s power not to embrace her and kiss her the way he had wanted
to for years. But he had spent so long searching for her, he needed some answers before anything
else. That didn’t stop his voice from nearly sobbing out, “Flayn.”

“I have missed you, Ignatz. You and your enthusiasm.”

Ignatz pulled himself together. He couldn’t very well be a sobbing mess in front of the woman
he was very much still in love with. “Where have you been? I looked for you across Fodlan

“I was travelling. Visiting the nations of the world. Something I had yearned to do, but which
my brother did not allow me to do before the war. I have not even told him I’m back yet.”

“Does anyone else know?”

“The professor. They asked me if I would come. And it was time to return home.” Flayn removed
her mask, setting it down on the edge of one of the tower’s parapets. “You say you searched for me?”

“I did. So soon after the war, I was worried about you. And I thought maybe if I found you, we
could travel together. Me as an artist, and you as… well, an adventurer.”

“An adventurer! I do like the sound of that.”

“It was the professor who asked me to come back, too. If we’re being honest, I had nearly lost
hope of finding you.”

“Well, I am here now. And here to stay. The professor has asked me to come on as a kind of
teaching assistant for Hanneman and Manuela.”

Ignatz’s heart soared. “That’s fantastic.”

“Now that we’ll be seeing each other again,” Flayn gave a mischievous grin, “I expect you to
keep up your promise.”

“Promise?” He racked his brain. What promise?

“The promise you made to paint me until I am satisfied! Do you not remember our
conversation all those years ago?”

It finally hit him what she was talking about. He had asked to paint her, and she made him
promise to paint her over and over again until he finally produced a painting she was satisfied
with. “I remember now! And I intend to keep that promise as well as I can. I don’t know how much
time I’ll have to paint you, so it might take a while.”

“No matter. As I said before, even if it takes centuries, I would be glad to sit for a painting if it’s
being painted by you.”

Ignatz failed to fight off a blush. “I don’t think it’ll take that long, but I appreciate the patience.
Do you wanna get started on it tomorrow?”

“Certainly!” Flayn looked off to the sky, staring off at the moon. “It seems as though it’s
getting quite late. Would you mind accompanying me for one last dance?”

“I wouldn’t mind at all.”

Fitting time in to paint Flayn was easy, once he realized he could just tell the professor that
he was painting Saint Cethleann. Indeed, as the years had passed, Flayn had grown even more to
resemble the visage of the statues of Saint Cethleann to an almost uncanny degree. She must’ve
had some kind of strong family connection to the saint. If he weren’t so scared of Seteth, he
would’ve asked him about it, but that wasn’t an option given the wary eye Seteth gave him each
time he saw them together.

Seteth had, fortunately, lightened up a little when it came to his sister. He still did not seem to
trust anyone around Flayn, but chose to give a menacing glare instead of threatening them with
physical violence. Whether it was to do with Flayn’s newfound independence or the professor’s
influence Ignatz didn’t know, but he was grateful. It made being around Flayn easier.

The longer Ignatz spent with her, the more he loved her. She was beautiful, elegant, strong,
feisty, energetic, so many things all in one absolutely wonderful package. She was incredible.

It was why he had taken to sabotaging his own paintings. A smudge here, a line out of place
there, to make them good but not perfect. All things that could easily be fixed, but he left the
imperfections. Because he knew she would point them out, and demand that he paint her again.

It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t anything he would’ve done for a normal patron. But it meant
he could spend more time with her. Hearing her fantastic stories of travelling abroad, of fighting
monsters and sailing the seas and eating foreign foods. And Ignatz could share his journeys too,
catching Flayn up on their former classmates and comparing experiences in places across Fodlan.
He valued his time with her above almost anything else.

“Hmm. Not quite.” Flayn said, one warm afternoon a few months after the ball. “The fierceness
in my brow should be more pronounced, as if I am pondering the enemy I am about to smite.”

Ignatz knew that. Once she had left, he’d fix it immediately, before donating it as yet another
painting of Cethleann for the Monastery. “Ah, I had a feeling that wasn’t quite right, but I wasn’t
sure. I’ll make sure to perfect it next time.”

Flayn sighed. “Next time, next time, next time. There is always a next time.”

“You said you didn’t want me to stop painting you until I had painted you perfectly.”

“And you have always painted me very nearly perfectly! But every time, every time something is
wrong. I do not understand it! You are a wonderful artist, Ignatz. Why do you sabotage yourself?”

Ignatz gripped his paintbrush a little tighter. He had been found out. “Because, I…” He
gulped. He didn’t want to tell her the real reason. He couldn’t lose her, not now that he only
just had her back in his life.

Flayn looked at him, her gaze boring deep into his soul. “I am no fool, Ignatz. I can handle
whatever it is you do not wish to tell me.”

“I do it because it means I’ll get to spend more time with you.” Ignatz sighed, putting his head into
his hands. He could feel paint smearing on his face, but that wasn’t a priority right then and there.
“Because I know if you’re never satisfied, you’d keep sitting for me, and we could keep talking.”

“You do not need to deliberately make mistakes in your paintings to do that. I was fully
prepared to lie about not being satisfied.”

Ignatz looked up at her, raising a brow. “What do you mean?”

“I enjoy spending time with you, too. We are friends, are we not? And I… I enjoy the way you
look at me when you paint. The focus in your eyes, your determination, I find it fascinating. And
unlike so many others, you do not look down on me for my eccentricities. But I did not know if you
enjoyed spending time with me.”

At that moment, Ignatz’s brain short-circuited. He meant to tell her that he loved spending time
with her, but he missed a few words, and it spilled out as, “I love you.” He clamped a hand over his
mouth, eyes wide. “I… I did not mean to say that, I meant… Oh, Goddess, I’ve messed this up.”

“Say it again.”

Ignatz’s stomach was threatening to crawl out of his chest. “What I meant to say was, I love
spending time with you.”

“No, say what you said again.”

“I… I love you.”

“And that is the real reason why you sabotaged the paintings?” It wasn’t really a question.

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

Flayn frowned. “Why?”

“Why? Because now, I’ve made things weird between us. And your brother’s probably
going to kill me.”

“My brother has no control over who I choose to spend my time with. He may not approve of
anyone, but it is not up to him who I may or may not like.” Flayn took Ignatz’s paint-stained hands
into her own, running her thumb over a particularly vibrant patch of green. She smiled a beautiful,
carefree smile, that reminded him of times before the war. “And there is no need to apologize,
Ignatz. I love you, too.”

Ignatz tried very hard not to look like a fish with its mouth hanging open. “Really?”

“Yes! I had wanted to tell you, but the opportunity had not yet presented itself.”

Standing, Ignatz decided to take a leap of faith and ask a question he had wanted to know
the answer to for years. “Will you marry me?”

Instead of answering, Flayn kissed him. It was perfect, the feeling of her mouth on his. Her lips
were soft, and tasted of a pastry’s sweetness. When they parted, she smiled again and said, “Of
course I’ll marry you!” Suddenly, her expression grew more grave. “Though, before we progress
any further in courtship, there is something I need to tell you.”

A thousand worries flew through Ignatz’s head. Was she dying? Was she already married to the
prince of a foreign country, and needed a messy divorce? Was Seteth on his way, axe in hand?

“You are aware of my resemblance to Saint Cethleann, and the major crest of Cethleann I bear?”

“Yeah?”

“I… Ok, first things first, you must promise me you will not think me mad, or think of me any
differently when I tell you this.”

Now he was really concerned. “Flayn, please, just tell me.”

“I don’t just look like Saint Cethleann. I am Saint Cethleann, and she is me. And
Seteth- Cichol, is my father.”

Ignatz was glad to have a chair right behind him, because he needed to sit down. This was
heavy. Certainly not the kind of thing anyone would lie about, and definitely not the kind of thing
Flayn would lie about. But how did she look so young, still, after so many years? Who was her
mother? And why was she reappearing in the world only now? “I… I have so many questions.”

“I understand if you would like to take back your offer-”

“No!” Ignatz said, a little quickly. She might’ve been a thousands-year-old saint, but she was
still Flayn, and he still loved her. Nothing on earth could change that. “But why me? You’re a saint,
you’re probably the most powerful being in Fodlan, and I’m just a painter. I’m nothing special.”

“You’re special to me! Knight or painter, I don’t care. I love you, Ignatz.”

Well, he still had questions, but the most important one had been answered. Everything
else could come later. Gazing up into her eyes, Ignatz relaxed. Anyone in the world she could’ve
chosen, and she chose him. Ignatz couldn’t have asked for anything more.



Teach Me

The Blue Lions were a handful. Linhardt had thought as much from the moment he’d first laid
eyes on them, all those years ago in Garreg Mach’s dining hall. People from Faerghus were louder;
they guffawed over their meals, treating the dining hall as more of a sports pitch rather than a
refined place to eat.

They hadn’t changed at all. Now, five years later in the Faerghan army’s council tent, the Blue
Lions laughed and chattered and danced as if they had no cares in the world. They danced as if
they weren’t about to engage in the most fearsome battle of their lives on the morrow — as if they
were unaware of the woes in the world. Ignorant, perhaps, was a better word. Foot soldiers weaved
their way through the tent between the dancers acting as stewards, serving waterskins filled with
what little wine their war provisions had left behind.

It was pandemonium, Linhardt thought. He sat alone at one of the tables, pushing a chunk
of braised meat around his plate with a cocktail stick. Annette Dominic hurried past his table
in a flurry of skirts, and he heard the salacious giggles of Sylvain Gautier trying to flirt with a
disproving Ingrid Galatea.

Linhardt felt transported back to his days at the Officer’s Academy. Closing his eyes, he could
imagine the Dining Hall around him; the way the students would gossip and dance around the
long, thin tables, their only concern being the Intermediate Class exam at the end of the month.
Simpler times, truly. Ones he missed.

At least Blaiddyd wasn’t feral anymore, Linhardt thought with a scintilla of thanks. At least he
had his wits about him, and could give a sharp-toothed grin to his friends dancing around him,
instead of the brooding, one-eyed scowls he’d fixed Linhardt with so many times before.

Even so — even though his company was good, and the mood was merry — Linhardt felt a
bitter darkness swirl in his chest.

How could the mood be so merry? They were at war. The Blue Lions, and all of the Faerghan
forces, were at war with the Adrestian Empire. This, their last night before they would storm the
capital, partaking in the fight of their lives, should have been a night for planning, and resting, and
mentally preparing.

Instead, the Lions were getting drunk. They roared as lions did and sang to the music their
makeshift band played haphazardly, all the while wearing silly little face masks made from burlap
and shredded flags. A masquerade ball, he’d heard it called, but a rather unsuccessful one at that. The
masks looked terrible, and they did nothing to obscure the Lions’ faces. Not like they seemed to care.

Linhardt sat with his back to them, alone. He shook his head and swirled his apple juice
around in the little wooden cup he’d been given. Pandemonium, he thought yet again, for
perhaps the tenth time of the evening.

Suddenly, somebody sat down in the chair opposite him. Glancing up, his sleepy gaze met
the curious turquoise eyes of Dedue Molinaro. Linhardt felt his back straighten at once. As much
disdain as he held for his current situation — as much as he’d rather have been asleep — Linhardt
liked Dedue. The man seemed to understand him. They were both more quiet and reserved; while
Dedue seemed to take situations more seriously than Linhardt, the two of them were more level-
headed than the rest of their crew.

“You are not dancing,” Dedue remarked to him. The man was not judgmental, nor confused;
the comment was plain — a statement, not a question. Linhardt felt a smile tug at his lips.

“An astute observation,” he gave back, cocking his head a little. “If I might make one
myself, neither are you.”

Dedue breathed a laugh through his nostrils. “I am not. I never really was a dancer.”

No kidding. Dedue was a large man — his well-toned muscles built for heavy lifting. Linhardt
imagined he was not the most graceful when on the dancefloor. Those powerful arms were
better suited to wielding weapons, or carrying the injured away from the battlefield. They stirred
cake batter and gardened, and they were damn good at all of it. Now, they were garbed only by
smallclothes, and the muscles threatened to burst through the thin material.

Linhardt sighed as he looked at them. They were beautiful arms. And, he realised as his eyes
drifted to Dedue’s face, they were attached to a beautiful person.

Dedue had always stood out to Linhardt against the other Blue Lions. He was easily their most
attractive member, what with his broad, chiselled jawline, well-shaped body, and the deep rumble
to his voice that set Linhardt’s stomach to fluttering. Yet it wasn’t just the physical side of Dedue
that was astounding — it was the emotional side, too. While he often appeared stoic, loyal to a
fault, he had a soft side. Such a side was visible through his eyes — beautiful seafoam-hued eyes
that reflected his inner feelings so clearly. He laughed, but quieter. He mourned, but on the inside,
not the outside. Linhardt found himself so deeply, utterly attracted to it — to Dedue’s nuances, and
his subtle grace.

The young mage blinked suddenly, realising he’d been staring. He tried desperately to calm
the heat that had risen to his cheeks and readjusted himself in his chair. “Sorry, uh, you said
you were a bad dancer…?”

The look that Dedue gave him was strange — an almost distant smile, but a warm one. He gave
a low chuckle that made butterflies spread throughout the pit of Linhardt’s stomach. “I didn’t say I
was bad, no. I simply said I’m not the dancing type.”

“Oh…?” Linhardt’s interest was piqued. “Does that mean you’re a good dancer?”

Dedue breathed another laugh and looked down to the table. “How come you aren’t dancing?”

The temptation to speak the truth was almost overwhelming. Because of the war, Dedue.
Because I am far too sad, and scared of the death that might very well await me tomorrow, to even think
about celebrating. Because the fact that you Lions can — that you can drink and cheer and act as if
nothing is happening — irritates me beyond belief. Have you people no sense?

He voiced none of that, however; merely breathed an exasperated sigh. “Because I’m tired.”

“Tired of war?”

A spark ran up Linhardt’s spine, and his eyes flicked upwards to glance at Dedue’s: calm,
sensible, beautiful. He had seen right through Linhardt’s secrecy.

“Yes,” he responded warily. “I am tired of war. I thought you’d assume I just meant I was
sleepy.”

Dedue shrugged. “I know there is more to you than meets the eye. And besides, I feel the same.”
He sat back in his seat, gaze drifting over to the makeshift dance floor where the Lions partied. “How
can they be so careless, when their lives are on the line? They know the Empire is plotting our deaths
as we speak, digging a mass grave for our inevitable corpses, and yet… they dance.”

Linhardt sat in stunned silence, watching Dedue turn back to him and shrug. Damn, was the
only word to cross his mind. He gave a little nod and looked over to the crowds. “Exactly.”

“Don’t hold it against them, though,” Dedue spoke softly, voice no more than a grumble over
the music. “They are just as scared as we are, but drown their fear in rapture.”

A chill ran through Linhardt as he turned back to the other man, locking onto those aquamarine
eyes. They stared back at him for a long moment, almost plaintive, before they blinked rapidly.

“Well,” Dedue changed the subject. He stood from their table and looked down at Linhardt. “If
we are not going to dance, shall we busy ourselves in some other way? Make ourselves useful?”

“Make ourselves useful how?” Linhardt replied a little stupidly. His mind leapt somewhere
strange — to Dedue taking him by the hand and whisking him away, to them making their own
life in a cabin in the woods, away from the war and the dancing and the odd other people. He
quickly shook away the images.

“We could forage, collect firewood, refill waterskins... Anything to take our minds away from
all of this. Might you accompany me?” Dedue outstretched a hand, the palm calloused and scarred.

Linhardt felt himself blush as he placed his own hand into Dedue’s, feeling small and scrawny
as he was lifted to his feet. Dedue gave him a smile, and they sneaked back through the council
tent unseen, into the camp beyond.

Outside, the air was brisk, chilly against Linhardt’s face and slapping him to his senses. The sun
was setting, illuminating the horizon a pale peach hue against the sky of bleached azure, while clouds
drifted lazily overhead. Dedue removed his hand from Linhardt’s and led the way through the camp.

Some soldiers sat chatting around their fires, while others had retreated to their tents for
the night. Lucky bastards, Linhardt thought with a slight swell of disdain. They could plan for
tomorrow’s march however they saw fit; they had not been forced to attend some pathetic excuse
of a masquerade ball, wasting their time.

But then again, perhaps they weren’t so lucky. They weren’t the ones being personally escorted
by Dedue Molinaro, the most incredible man in the army, off to some secret location. That was his
honour to bear.

He allowed himself a little chuckle at the thought; there was no way in Fódlan that Dedue
would be whisking him away, but he could dream.

“Is something amusing?” murmured the voice next to him, and Linhardt turned to see Dedue
giving him a smirk through his handsome scarred lips.

My own fantasies are incredibly amusing, Linhardt wanted to respond, but instead he gave a
contented shake of his head. “It’s just nice to be out in the fresh air, that’s all. Away from all of
that noise and riff-raff.”

Dedue gave a true laugh then, one that thundered through his lungs and escaped his lips in a
beautiful baritone melody. “You are ruthless, von Hevring.”

That may have been the highest compliment he’d ever received.

Dedue led them through the camp to the small patch of woods that Blaiddyd had ordered they
set up nearby. It had been their hunting grounds, water source, stock of firewood, as well as decent
cover against Adrestia’s scouts on the other side. Together, the two men wandered into them.

The air beneath the canopy was damp and musty, smelling of old leaves and petrichor from
days passed. Underneath them, the floor was slightly spongy — mushy from the half-dried
underbrush that the two of them waded their way through. The treetops provided darkness, the
setting sun prying its way through breaks in the leaves to give the scene a dusky glow, and Dedue
wound his way through the trees with ease.

He stopped once they’d reached the river, flowing smoothly past them with gentle trickling
sounds. “It is nice in here,” he remarked, looking up at the trees they stood beside.

“Indeed,” Linhardt agreed. He hadn’t been in woods many times before, but the peace and
nature he found inside never failed to make him feel at home.

Dedue reached down to retrieve from off the ground a large, thick tree branch. Its wood
was pale: a sort of silvery colour the likes of which Linhardt had never seen before. It had
evidently been attached to the tree it lay beside, the trunk of which shone the same pale hue
beneath the dregs of waning sunlight.

“What sort of tree is that?” he asked, astounded by its eerie beauty.

“Silver birch,” Dedue responded, voice almost wistful. “There was a patch of woods just like
this outside my childhood home. It too was filled with silver birch.”

“That sounds lovely,” Linhardt said truthfully. He had spent his childhood cooped up in the
Hevring manor, barely ever leaving the city. “Did you play in it? In the woods by your home, I mean.”

Dedue cocked his head. “In a way. My parents taught me things there. Here.” He pulled a small
folding knife from out of his pocket, taking Linhardt aback slightly.

“Do you always carry that thing on you?”

Dedue looked up at him, blinking slightly, before returning his gaze down to the branch. He began
to carve, the blade gliding through the silvery wood. “Yes. You never know when you might need it.”

Linhardt had never pictured Dedue as the sort to carry a weapon. Ingrid Galatea, sure. Felix
Fraldarius, definitely. But not Dedue.

As if sensing his confoundment, Dedue spoke up again. “Not to fight.” He lowered himself
down, sitting cross-legged on the floor beneath. “To carve. To whittle. To… craft.”

Linhardt wasn’t sure how to respond; instead, he too sat down upon the squashy ground of the
woods, contentedly watching Dedue work. Of course the man did not carry the knife for offensive
reasons. Not even for self-defensive reasons. He carried it in order to create things.

He grew so much more beautiful by the second.

After a few long minutes, listening to the wind through his hair and the birds’ evening chorus,
Linhardt noticed that the branch had gained a different shape: the slightest curve. It dawned on him.

“You’re making a bow,” he said with joyous surprise.

“I am,” Dedue responded, eventually ceasing his carving and holding the bow out in front of
him. It looked beautiful: smooth and sleek, not unlike something one would find at a weapon-
maker’s stall in the Hevring territory’s capital.

“It looks amazing,” Linhardt breathed.

“Thank you.” And Dedue held it out towards him. “For you.”

His eyes widened, a warmth blossoming in his chest. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so honoured;
to be offered such a beautiful gift, lovingly hand-crafted. “For me? You can’t be serious.”

Dedue shrugged. “It still needs stringing, and some arrows as well of course. But these are the
sorts of things my parents used to teach me in the woods back in Duscur.”

“You’re a creator,” Linhardt said, overawed. He felt himself begin to smile, butterflies tickling
his stomach, as he looked into Dedue’s eyes.

“I wouldn’t exactly say that,” he replied. “I simply know how to craft a few things, that is all.
For survival and such.”

“What else can you make?” Linhardt asked him. He placed the bow carefully down next to him.

Dedue looked around, at the underbrush they sat amongst, fallen leaves and pine needles and
stringy roots all around him. Then, he shifted, shuffling over to Linhardt and planting himself next
to him. “I have something in mind,” he muttered.

With his large, beautiful hands, Dedue began to pick at the trunk of silver birch he and
Linhardt sat beside, bringing his knife back out to pry some of the bark away from it. A large shard,
around the size of his face, came away in his hands. He passed it over to Linhardt.

Linhard exhaled a little laugh through his nose. “Whatever could this be?” he wondered aloud
as Dedue began to pry more bark away from the trunk.

“You shall see,” Dedue replied, mysterious as always.

When he had relieved the tree of another face-sized shard of its trunk, he began to get to work
with his knife. He chipped away at the edges of the bark to create a smooth outline, gently crafting
it into a shape similar to that of a kidney bean. Once the edges were smooth, he poked the knife
through the bark twice, carving what were undoubtedly eye holes in its centre.

Eye holes… And bark big enough to cover a person’s face.

“You’re making a masquerade mask?”

Dedue placed the first into Linhardt’s lap, then took from him the other, rougher piece of
bark. “I am making us both masks.” He began to carve the other one, smoothing out the edges.
“I enjoyed playing camouflage in the woods as a child. My hair matched the bark of the silver
birches.”

Silver hair, of course. Linhardt smiled wide at the image of a young Dedue, face youthful and
unmarked by the scars of war, wearing a silver mask and hiding behind the trees. It was a sweet
image — a beautiful one.

He carved two eye holes into the second mask, and then pocketed his knife, folded neatly into
itself, before standing up. “Shall we decorate them?”

The muscles in Linhardt’s legs were comfortable, and they protested as he stood up after
Dedue. “With what?”

Dedue was already looking around, traipsing this way and that as he inspected the shrubs and
underbrush. “Anything that looks nice.”

And together, they got to hunting. They chatted as they did so, getting to know each other
whilst collecting tawny feathers, purple and red berries, and an array of differently-sized leaves.
Dedue pinned them all into their masks as they went, fancying their fronts and sprucing up their
edges. Linhardt squashed a couple of berries against the silver bark of his, painting little pink
stripes upon it with their juice and giving half-hearted giggles as he did.

Once satisfied, Linhardt held his out. “How am I supposed to wear it?”

“It will be easy enough to string,” Dedue said. He held out what he had been working on for
the last number of minutes — a few long strands of fibre from inside some sort of plant’s twigs,
looking close to twine.

“Teach me,” said Linhardt with a smirk.

When at last Linhardt’s mask was ready to be worn, Dedue tied it around the back of his head,
arranging his hair around it. The mask covered his nose a little uncomfortably, but left his jaw and
chin uncovered. Dedue’s looked similar, and he tied it around his own head with skill and ease.

“Were you inspired by the party?” Linhardt asked him, peering through the eye holes of his
mask at where Dedue stood, broad and proud. Somehow, the mask made him look powerful. It
accentuated his jaw, making his eyes shine like jewels. His was adorned mainly by leaves, with
large feathers above the eyes reminiscent of an eagle owl’s ear tufts.

“I was. It reminded me of how I used to make my own masks as a child.”

Linhardt looked around. Given the dingy light beneath the trees, it was safe to say that the sun
had almost set, but the moon had come out too and was beginning to glow.

Suddenly, Dedue held a hand out towards him. “Let us dance.”

“You want to…” Linhardt stared downwards, at the magnificent, strong, incredible hand
before him. “... dance?”

“Just like the party.”

Linhardt blinked up into Dedue’s eyes of seafoam, white glinting within them like the sun off
the waves. “Really?”

“You didn’t like the party back at the camp. So perhaps we can make our own out here.”

Linhardt took Dedue’s hand. He felt the warm, hard skin against his own, and made their
fingers intertwine. “But I don’t know how to dance.”

“You can pick it up in time,” Dedue said.

Linhardt was taken aback for a second by the other man’s confidence in him. Then, he smiled.
“Teach me,” he breathed again.

He had been mistaken. Previously, Linhardt had imagined Dedue Molinaro to be graceless — that
he would have two left feet, and be too heavy to dance. He could not have been more wrong. The
man danced slowly, but his movements were like a meandering river: effortless and natural. It looked
as if he was born to dance in such a way, and Linhardt could not have been more captivated.

Their bodies were pressed together, and Linhardt allowed himself to be guided by Dedue’s
movements. His feet followed the steady, assured steps of the man from Duscur, and he felt
weightless: snatched up by the elegant breeze of Dedue’s dancing.

He felt emotion bubbling up inside him, forcing its way through his veins until it eventually
exploded from his mouth. Linhardt von Hevring laughed high and loud — a chuckle he hadn’t
emitted since his childhood, spirited and carefree.

Dedue opened his eyes, smiling down handsomely at him. His eyes seemed to shine out from
beneath his mask. “Is something the matter?”

“No,” Linhardt said as his chuckles dissolved. Now, he merely smiled — a silly, dopey thing, but
he didn’t care. “You just dance beautifully, that’s all.”

“And that’s funny?”

He shook his head. “It makes me… happy, in a strange way.”

Dedue cocked his head, eyes swimming with an emotion Linhardt couldn’t quite place. “I
am glad to hear it.”

And Linhardt could do nothing to stop himself from slipping into Dedue’s clutches — into the
warm embrace of love that would cradle him as delicately as his bedsheets did, warm and gentle
and comforting. He disentangled his fingers from Dedue’s own and wrapped his arms around the
man’s neck, pressing his masked forehead against the soft, muscular chest. He felt Dedue’s arms
slip around his waist.

“I’ve loved this evening,” Linhardt whispered.

“As have I.”

Linhardt pulled his face upwards and looked into Dedue’s eyes. One of his hands trailed up the
man’s neck, to the back of his head, until it reached the twine that tied his mask around his face.
He pulled gently on the bow until it loosened, and the mask slipped off Dedue’s face. Afterwards,
he did the same to himself.

Their faces were exposed to one another, and Dedue’s had never looked so beautiful. So truly
ensnaring, astounding, spellbinding.

Linhardt could not resist. With a cool breeze tousling his hair, chilling his face, he reached up
on his toes and pressed his lips against Dedue’s own. They were surprisingly soft, and the perfect
heat; they kissed Linhardt back with a muted, contented passion.

Everything was right. Connected with Dedue, Linhardt felt himself relax — felt his body retreat
into the other man’s embrace, and felt Dedue’s lips take over. His waist was held in a firm but
gentle grip, and Dedue tilted his head so as to kiss Linhardt better.

In that moment, in the depths of the forest, with the sounds of the river and nature filling his
ears, Linhardt wished time would stop. He wanted to kiss Dedue forever, to be swept up in the
ardour of the moment, forgetting all about war and responsibilities and life.

He almost forgot about the battle they would face in the morning.



The Path I Walk Leaves No Survivors

The Emperor of Adrestia must be eliminated. You know what to do.
The figure bows low to the ground, a pure white hood sheathing his face from view. When he
straightens, only the sharp, feral glint of his grin is visible in the darkness surrounding the platform.
“It would be my honor.”

The moon is a sliver in the sky, dripping only the barest traces of light onto the rooftops. It
pools over his shoulders, sliding down his cloak in ripples and waves. Just the barest smidge of
shadow against the night, he sits, unafraid, legs dangling over the edge of the tallest castle turret.
Far below, the festivities are just starting. The faintest strains of music drift through the air,
accompanying the golden beams streaming through the tall stained glass windows. If this were
any other job, he could swing straight through those pretty little designs, shattering their fragile
beauty as he slits his target’s throat in mere seconds. Or perhaps he’d dip a sleeping draught into
their drinks, posing as a simple waiter before striking. The possibilities are endless, but tonight
will require something different.
Smiling slightly to himself, he twists his wrist, idly spinning the giant lance in his hand as if it
were a toy. It contracts, shrinking down to the size of a quill, small enough that he can pocket it
easily. He’ll need it later, but first, he has somewhere to be.