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missionkitty · 5 months

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Cold and Warm - Dorothea/Sylvain (FE3H)

a short one-shot fic i've been writing on and off for the better part of a year and finally managed to finish. i've always liked dorothea's and sylvain's dynamic and wanted to try writing something a little angsty but also fluffy with them. hope you enjoy. no major warnings, just sylvain trying to reminisce about his academy time with dorothea after they reunite post-timeskip and have their a-level support.

***

Sylvain held the dance pose he was in for what felt like an uncomfortably long time. He tried resisting the urge to glance at Dorothea, who he had managed to recruit to help him practice for the White Heron Cup in a few days.

He didn't want to risk looking at her and seeing a look of disgust or…whatever a professional performer would look at him with after what he felt was surely a poor show, based on her silence.

He started to sweat when he thought he heard a giggle. Sylvain whipped his head to see Dorothea stifling a laugh, her hand covering her mouth.

"Wh–Dorothea!" Sylvain whined, dropping his arms.

"Sorry!" Dorothea said, letting out a louder laugh and defensively shaking her hands. "I just wanted to see how long I could get you to stand there like that."

"Come on…I'm being serious, I need your help! I don't wanna let everyone down."

"I know, I know." She settled her laughter with a sigh. "But you looked great. I don't really have much to say, which is why I figured I could mess with you a little."

Sylvain frowned and put his hands on his hips.

"Well, you could stand to loosen up some. It's not like you to be so worried about something like this,” Dorothea responded with a joking pout.

"I'm just nervous! Like…why did the professor have to pick me to do this–why didn't she pick you?" Sylvain groaned, running his hands through his hair. "I mean, you did this kind of stuff for a living, right?"

Dorothea looked at Sylvain, thinking. She hummed and shrugged after a moment, walking up to him.

"Is all this practice cutting into your dates?" She cooed sarcastically.

"Well, sure, but I really do want to do a good job. I still have my pride as a member of the Blue Lions," Sylvain sighed.

"I don't claim to know what the professor is thinking, but I think her judgement has been really good so far–I mean," Dorothea said, dramatically flourishing her hands as she continued, "She let me join you Blue Lions, after all."

Sylvain chuckled and nodded, looking back at Dorothea.

"That's very true."

"Besides, I think I'm getting pretty good at black magic. You can help me fire off a few extra spells on the battlefield once you get that dancer certification," Dorothea added with a wink.

Sylvain smiled at Dorothea. Her apparent confidence helped push away some of his nerves. They had known each other long enough that she never really minced words with him…

Honestly, she could see right through him.

"...Do you think the professor really isn't trying to punish me or humiliate me by having me be the Blue Lions' rep for the Heron Cup?" Sylvain slowly asked, wanting to divert his current train of thought.

"Well, if what you said was true about that pass you made at her during the Horsebow Moon is true, then…maybe she's only trying to punish you a little bit." Dorothea smirked, tugging and adjusting the collar of his white shirt.

Sylvain sighed and gave a sheepish smile as he glanced down at Dorothea.

"What do you think she'll do to me if I don't win?"

"What, Sylvain Gautier scared of a teacher?"

"Did you know the professor's nickname when she was a mercenary was 'Ashen Demon?'" Sylvain faked a shiver, though it was certainly rooted in a real awareness of their professor's abilities.

"I think I've heard that floating around the academy once or twice," Dorothea said with a laughing hum. "She sure likes fishing a lot for being called a demon…"

"And tea." Sylvain gave Dorothea an astonished look. "You know, I still don't get how all these tea invitations are supposed to help me win."

"Sylvain, are you taking all these tea dates with a pretty lady for granted?" She teased, forcefully tugging and adjusting his academy jacket.

"As mysteriously beautiful as our professor happens to be, I think I'd much rather have tea with you," he replied, habitually turning on his charm.

"Oh really?" She looked up at him with a smirk and an accusingly-cocked eyebrow. "Then what's my favorite tea?"

"Sweet-Apple. Or Albinean Berry."

Dorothea looked at him with a mixture of shock and amazement. Sylvain had an unfamiliar feeling churn in his stomach as he processed her wide, green-eyed stare. He felt his ears start to burn and began stammering.

"I mean, I uh, I…I asked the professor…what your favorite was," Sylvain admitted, somewhat embarrassed. Their banter had disarmed him and he felt nervous again, but now for a different reason.

Dorothea's stunned silence eventually gave way to giggles as she shook her head.

"And for what reason did you want to know, dare I ask? If you're trying to flirt again…"

"No, no, nothing like that," Sylvain responded a little more frantically than he intended, "I just…wanted to thank you for helping me with this after it's all over."

"My, that's very considerate of you," she said with a smile. "Though I haven't done much more than just watch. Our professor seems to have done most of the heavy lifting."

"Sure, but for some reason I felt like getting your stamp of approval would help me feel more confident about this whole thing–which I was right about."

Dorothea smiled and nodded.

"I'm glad I could be of help. I look forward to your win."

"I guess I'll practice a little while longer if you don't mind staying," he said, putting his hands behind his head.

"Sure, but…one question." Dorothea looked at Sylvain. "What's your favorite tea?"

"Hmm…well, if the lovely Dorothea is inviting me for tea, then any tea is my favorite."

"Sylvain."

"Sorry, just trying to be funny." He crossed his arms and smiled. "Bergamot, or if you can find it, Seiros tea."

"Hmm, good to know," Dorothea said, smiling in return.

***

Dorothea smiled as she waited for Sylvain to emerge from a darkened corner of the training grounds wearing his new dancer garb. She wished she could have somehow saved the shocked expression that quickly played across Sylvain's face before he quickly resumed his confident demeanor when they announced his name as winner of the White Heron Cup.

She had begged him to show her what he looked like. Sylvain insisted that she would see it on their next mission, but Dorothea had convinced him to give her an early view.

It was kind of late, and hopefully no one would show up in the training grounds tonight–though Sylvain was a bit concerned about Dimitri appearing if he couldn't sleep, which was apparently a common occurrence.

Dorothea assured him she would protect Sylvain's honor and keep the crown prince of Faerghus from intruding on the dancer outfit sneak peek if worse came to worst.

It wasn't much longer before she heard some light jingling and saw Sylvain step into the light of one of the lamps they had lit.

Dorothea was impressed with his color choices–black with red and purple accents, very striking.

"So? What do you think?"

"I think that it suits you surprisingly well," Dorothea said with a smile. "The professor knew what she was doing when she picked you."

Sylvain smiled and chuckled, but stayed silent for a moment after.

"What do you say to that tea invitation now?" He asked, still smiling.

"Ooh, an evening tea…that sounds lovely. You should stay dressed in this though," Dorothea said with a teasing giggle.

"Is it doing anything for you?" Sylvain teased back, making a pose.

"Oh, absolutely! Our next opponents won't know what hit them."

***

Sylvain sat quietly in the monastery in one of the less-ruined pews, staring absently at the pile of rubble that obscured the altar.

He had been pondering those last few months leading up to the Empire's invasion of Garreg Mach after having dinner with Dorothea earlier that night.

It had been five years since he had won the White Heron Cup. However, after Edelgard revealed herself as the Flame Emperor and Rhea and the professor had gone missing, he hadn't really done much dancing. His other talents were needed to help fend off Cornelia's soldiers from absorbing the Gautier territory into the "Faerghus Dukedom."

He was skeptical that anyone would be at the monastery like they had planned five years ago, but amazingly they had found the professor, along with Dimitri. While the professor was the same kind, quiet presence he remembered, Dimitri was…a far cry from the prince he thought he knew.

He shook his head, hoping to push that thought out of his head.

"Here you are," a comforting voice said from behind him.

Dorothea walked up to where Sylvain sat, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah, just thinking…not a whole lot of people here, and thankfully Dimitri is off prowling some other part of the monastery for now."

He resisted the urge to turn his head so he could brush his cheek against Dorothea's hand.

The relief he felt when he saw her standing in front of the mess hall, staring at the fishing pond, was immeasurable. He hadn't really had the luxury of trying to keep in contact with anyone besides Felix and the other nobles still loyal to the late royal family.

He had only heard whispers of the Mittelfrank Opera closing after the war spread and had half-resigned himself to the awful idea that he may never see Dorothea again.

She was a vision in red, but he recognized a familiar sadness in her eyes. The war had taken a lot from everyone.

But now, all the former members of the Blue Lions class, originals and additions, were there at the Monastery again. It was both comforting and bittersweet to see. The memories he recalled were the same.

They had found time to converse after meeting again (perhaps unfortunately right after another of his botched relationships) and seemed to fall right back into lockstep with each other, despite the hard edges the toll of war had sanded onto them.

Some lively banter, an admission of affection from both of them.

Sylvain wasn't sure why the words fell so freely from his tongue about spending the rest of his life with Dorothea, but it happened all the same–and to his surprise, his lovely classmate-turned-confidante seemed to feel the same.

But in solitude it felt unreal. Maybe it was the dark cloud Dimitri now occupied, or seeing the Monastery in ruins and overrun by thieves, or the Faerghus soldiers he had to–

He felt Dorothea’s hand gently run through the hair on the back of his head, pulling him out of his ruminating.

“It’s unlike you to look so serious, Sylvain,” she mused. The tone of her voice was soothing, making his troubled mind settle.

“I haven't mentioned it yet, but I like this length on your hair,” she said quietly. “If we weren’t in the middle of a war, I’d say the past five years treated you well…”

Sylvain finally looked up at Dorothea, concerned with the growing grief he could hear in her voice.

“Dorothea…” he said in a low voice. He scooted over, glancing at her and then at the open space next to him. He patted the pew and tried mustering a small smile.

Dorothea pulled her hand from Sylvain’s hair and sat next to him, her arm touching his. Sylvain automatically tried to scoot away to give Dorothea a little more room, but her hand swiftly touched his leg and gently pulled toward her.

Sylvain looked at Dorothea with a bit of surprise before letting out a breathy chuckle through his nose and stayed where he was.

“I missed you,” Dorothea murmured, squeezing Sylvain’s thigh.

Sylvain could feel his cheeks burning, but kept his eyes down on his feet. Her words felt undeserved. Even with what they were to each other now, the bitterness the war had etched into his skin tried to convince him that he didn’t even deserve her company.

He looked at her hand, five years of suppressed worry and longing rising in his stomach.

“I missed you too.”

Sylvain removed his glove and carefully lifted Dorothea’s hand into his. Was her hand smaller than he remembered? The thought was quashed when she firmly intertwined her fingers with his. Her hand was strong, holding his tight.

The soft warmth of her hand broke the floodgates open.

“I was scared I might never see you again. I had no idea how or when I could even get any kind of message to you…” Sylvain’s voice began to rasp as he held back the ache rising in his chest.

“But we’re here now. Together,” Dorothea responded quickly, surely.

Sylvain looked at her before pulling her hand up to his lips and gently kissing her knuckles. He could feel his heart trying to pound out of his chest.

“Sylvain…” Dorothea’s voice was angelic in his ears. She pulled her hand from his to softly caress and hold his face.

“Truly, being so serious doesn’t suit you,” she continued in a shaky whisper. Her thumbs gently swept over his cheeks. A weak laugh escaped her mouth and a tear rolled swiftly down her face and dripped onto her dress.

Sylvain sighed and placed his ungloved hand on hers.

“I could say the same thing about you.”

They sat in silence, leaning in to each other until their foreheads were touching.

The only thing they could hear was each other’s slow breathing, though Sylvain made note of the occasional tear drop leaving a dark spot on Dorothea’s dark red dress. He cherished the feeling of her fingers brushing against his skin and let out a long, relieved sigh.

He pulled his face far enough away to see Dorothea clearly, but still close enough to feel her warmth. Her green eyes shimmered, though it was due to tears. He gently swept a teardrop away with his index finger as it escaped the corner of her eye, doing his best to keep himself from crying as well.

She was too lovely–even in sadness.

A shiver gently rattled Dorothea’s body and Sylvain let out a small chuckle.

“Come on,” Sylvain began quietly. “Let’s go somewhere a little warmer. Quiet as the chapel is, it’s a bit drafty.”

“Oh?” Dorothea replied, some vitality returning to her tone. She quickly, yet carefully wiped a tear from her other eye. “And where do you propose we go at this time of night?”

Sylvain was relieved to see a small, teasing smile play on Dorothea’s lips.

“Perhaps…my room?” He couldn’t resist falling into an old habit, a playful smile forming, fully prepared to receive a quick, clever retort from Dorothea.

She stared at him, her expression somewhat unreadable to Sylvain. He began to wither a bit as he could only identify a hint of contemplation in her eyes.

He began to try and mentally salvage what he was now beginning to think was a poor joke. He wracked his brain trying to think of where else they could possibly go–but wait, why wouldn’t he want her in his room?

His mind began to buzz with thoughts, having difficulty focusing on any one in particular until a cool draft blew and gently rustled his hair.

He recalled the cold winds of Faerghus at his back as he would ride home from whatever conflict he had quelled. His memories of the Academy becoming more and more like a faint dream. The cold relic spear in his hand twitching, the stone at the base of its blade like a mercilessly unblinking, uncaring eye. His bed, even warmed, was lonely.

Dorothea’s warm hands brushed through his hair again, shaking him from his thoughts again. Her eyes were kind and alive. Her breath, warm and soothing.

“Serious again,” she murmured, smiling sadly. She went silent, but supportive as she awaited his response.

Sylvain smiled slowly as he pulled Dorothea’s palm to his lips, kissing gently and then adjusting her hand to kiss her knuckles again.

“Please,” he said in a low voice. “Would you like to come to my room?”

Any hint of his old, cold, habitual levity was gone from him in this moment. All he could imagine now was Dorothea pulled close to him, her warmth pushing away the cold winds and her eyes illuminating his vision.

Dorothea’s smile was warm. Warmer than any he had possibly seen from her ever.

Sylvain realized that must have been what she was waiting for.

“I would love nothing more.”

As they stood to leave, Sylvain instinctively tried to hold her close, to press her back against his chest, but a slight wince and jump from Dorothea surprised him.

“Sorry, your armor…it’s rather cold.” Dorothea turned and smiled apologetically.

“No, I’m so sorry, I…forget I’m wearing it sometimes,” he replied, looking down at the dark gray chestplate on his torso.

Before he could remember the cold, Dorothea giggled and pulled him along out of the pews.

“Once we get to your room, I’m sure you’d like to change into something a little less bulky,” she said with a hint of mischief.

Sylvain felt his cheeks begin to burn as his thoughts traveled on their own.

“I seem to recall a certain someone being a certified dancer…” Dorothea giggled, her eyes sparkling.

Sylvain’s cheeks burned for a different reason now.

“I, ah, I’m not sure I know where that outfit is…or if I’d still even fit into it…”

“Well, I’m sure we can figure something out. It’s not hard to take measurements, you know.” Dorothea squeezed Sylvain’s hand, still smiling.

Sylvain’s heart raced as he squeezed her hand back.

“Thank you, Dorothea,” he replied gently. “For remembering me.”

“Thank you, Sylvain. For not forgetting me,” her reply was equally gentle.

They left the chapel and walked into the cool night, warm.

#fire emblem #fire emblem three houses #fe3h #dorovain #dorothea/sylvain #fe3h fanfic #dorothea arnault #sylvain jose gautier #dorothea x sylvain #sylvain x dorothea #over 200+ hours logged on fe3h this year #150+ dedicated to a base maddening blue lions run in june #somehow i always come back to this game...#engage is getting up there too #but fe3h reigns supreme in my play history #also sorry for anyone who follows for my werewolf oc stuff and webcomic #gotta indulge in fandom stuff from time to time #missionkitty writes

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mt-musings · 1 month

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Inherit the Night - 16

Cecily awoke slowly, her head pounding. She’d rarely ever got hungover in the past—but then again she was usually drinking swill and was smart enough to at least attempt to hydrate. Last night she hadn’t bothered, her only objective to black out as quickly and as absolutely as possible.

She hesitated before mustering the courage to open her eyes, to turn over to the other side of the bed—it wasn’t that she was uncomfortable with the idea of sharing one. Goddess knew she’d curled up next to Yuri enough nights while holed up in their shitty little hideouts, especially while in Enbarr.

It was the idea of sharing a marriage bed and whatever might have happened while she’d knocked herself out with drink.

It was sharing a bed with Hubert.

Her blood still boiled at the mere thought of his name, at the audacity of his latest play—of course he’d never been one to shy away from outlandish schemes at the Academy, his perhaps a bit more subtle than the other noble brats. She understood, could even appreciate the ploy, the clever move to secure the largest unaffiliated spy ring in the midst of this asinine war—could even appreciate the fine tactical move that it was. Hell, she’d have probably made the move sooner than he had, had she been in his position.

What she couldn’t abide was his insistence that the pact be sealed with their marriage. That it couldn’t be a simple hostage exchange—her for Yuri. There was no benefit to Hubert—she was a commoner of no name, a criminal, and had hardly a handful of silver to her name. Of course there was the Imperial line, that it was the unification of noble and commoner, that it was a tangible testament to Edelgard’s commitment to dismantle the current system that relied on hereditary titles and crests.

It would have held more weight if it hadn’t been for her blood.

Despite what she’d prefer, Hubert wasn’t an idiot. They’d spent nearly a year at the Officer’s Academy together, working and fighting in close quarters. She knew there had been moments she had slipped up, knew there where moments in front of Hubert in particular where he’d witnessed a bought of magic or two he shouldn’t have.

And surely Lord Arundel had filled him in on what he didn’t know.

The marriage clause, then, had to be in place to take use of her blood, to make up for House Vestra’s lack of a crest.

Whatever Edelgard’s intent in dismantling the old system, there was not denying that it was massively disadvantageous for a noble house to be in complete lack of a crest.

She remembered Margrave Gautier’s callousness in ensuring his heir possessed one, his frigid pragmatism that had left her scarred, hunted, and motherless in the first place. She understood the tactical necessity now, but it didn’t mean she loathed him any less, that she agreed with any of his choices.

She didn’t know what she had expected to find on the other side of the bed—perhaps Hubert asleep in a set of unnaturally starched night clothes, perhaps him long awake and leering at her.

She hadn’t expected the other side of the bed to be empty, with no sign that it had been touched.

She sat up, noting the thick blanket that had been tucked around her—not wool, for the fiber was too fine, too soft. She didn’t have a word for it. Yuri, though, would know if she asked him. He always knew the finest of everything, even if he lived in the same dank tunnels and rundown safe houses she did.

Yuri. Her heart sank at the thought of his familiar face, his constant flurry of barbs and quips, of the security of his presence. How long would he be allowed to remain at the palace? What would he be forced to do, knowing she had to remain firmly in the Empire’s clutches? That the lives and livelihoods of the remaining denizens of Abyss lay firmly on their ability to keep Hubert and Edelgard happy?

Fucking hell, she was stupid.

She tossed off the blanket, suddenly disgusted by the luxury of it. It was simply another lovely furnishing to disguise the fact that she was caged, that they’d made such a stupendous tactical blunder.

She’d told Yuri that she should have made the run into Enbarr, that it made the most sense. At least if she’d been outnumbered and cornered by Empire agents, she had more than a hope of tearing through them, of escaping amidst the blood and shattered bone left in the wake of her gift. Yuri was an exceptional fighter and a halfway decent mage but she—

She was a monster.

“Good morning.”

She whipped around at the sound of the familiar voice. Hubert stood in the half-opened door, still in the hopelessly stuffy attire of the night before. Her own lay in a heap on the floor, shed at the first available moment, more than a few of the buttons popped off in the process of its removal. She was suddenly very aware that she wore only the slip from underneath, that the silk was whisper thin and bore more of her body than she’d ever shown at the Academy, or indeed anywhere.

She pulled the blanket back up around her, all the way to her chin, and narrowed her eyes.

He just stared at her a moment before shaking his head, heaving out a sigh as he crossed without preamble to the wardrobe. She watched him root around for a bit before pulling out mauve riding dress and a pair of thick, practical leggings. He lay both out on the other side of the bed before returning to fetch a matching hat, jacket, riding boots, and set of fine, kidskin gloves.

“We are leaving for the manor in an hour. Make yourself presentable,” he said stiffly, eyes flicking over her mussed hair, the blanket she’d lowered enough to show the thin straps of her shift.

The scars that crisscrossed the skin of her chest.

He turned, then, to grab his own clothes, nearly as stiff and pompous as his formalwear the night before, before crossing back to the door and shutting it with a distinct click.

She swore and dropped the blanket, falling back on the mattress and near-mountain of goose-feather pillows. She’d spent nearly all her life using an old bundle of clothes, if she was lucky enough to have spares, and here he was with six of the softest, fullest pillows she’d ever seen.

And yet she’d still trade them and everything else in the opulent room for the perpetually rat-infested safe house outside Rowe in an instant if it meant she and Yuri were free of this Goddess-forsaken contract.

She cursed again, vilely enough that it would have been a fifty-fifty shot whether Yuri would have told her off or laughed.

It hurt, desperately, to think about him. To think of being unable to see him any longer, at least without Hubert’s whim.

She lay there a long while, staring up at the dark velvet of the canopy, weighing whether or not it was worth ignoring Hubert. On one hand it would please her greatly to annoy him, even more so to make him irate. On the other—he held tremendous power over her, over Yuri, and most importantly over the Abyssians he’d seen settled, as per their agreement.

She at least still knew how to wring every advantage out of a bad contract.

She dressed quickly, trying to ignore the softness of the fabrics, the fine, detailed embroidery of roses along the neck and sleeves. Long ago she would have admired such a garment, as a child would have pulled it from the laundry to run her fingers along its threads until the head laundress chided her to get back to work.

She slipped on the riding boots, stowing the gloves in the left one to make up for the outfit’s irritating lack of pockets and crossed to the adjacent bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror, at the tangled pallor of her hair, at the silver-white scars that carved across her right cheek. She avoided her own gaze, not wanted to see the shadows under her mismatched eyes, one deep and violet, the other a shock of blue-white.

The color that had ruined her entire life.

She raked a brush through her hair, not caring if it ripped strands out at the roots, and braided it back, only pausing when she realized she didn’t have her usual ribbon.

It had been a lovely, dusty purple color, made from real silk—a present from Yuri when she’d turned thirteen. No matter how it had faded or begun to fray she’d always fixed it, always treasured it.

She didn’t even know where it was now.

The handmaidens hadn’t allowed her to take it with her to the ceremony, hadn’t let her weave it through her hair, through the elaborate braids they’d pinned around her head like a crown. They insisted it was dirty and worn and would look out of place next to the glittering, beaded dress they’d buttoned her into.

She didn’t bother looking for a substitute, instead just throwing the unsecured end of her braid over her shoulder. It would slowly unravel, a small annoyance to inflict on Hubert and his constant sense of propriety. She picked up the hairpin Yuri had given her and slipped it into her hair, glad, at least, to have some small fragment of home. She crossed to the bedroom door, ignoring the hat he’d left on the bed—it was a small, impractical thing anyway, hardly large enough to cover the crown of her head—a purely vain accessory without any practical purpose.

Hubert was already ready in the drawing room, reclining on the sofa as he read through a stack of reports, his hair immaculately styled, the buttons of his jacket shining. She didn’t say anything as he looked up, as his eyes traced her form, lingering on her bare head, on the white of her hair that was already unraveling from its braid.

“Was the hat not to your liking?”

She stared at him a moment, formulating her response. She decided to play it safe and simply shook her head, dropping her eyes to the carpet.

“A shame, I shall take note.”

She couldn’t help the furrowing of her brows at his comment, the momentary flick up of her eyes to catalogue his expression—he didn’t appear angry or even perturbed, but lost in thought. She dropped her gaze once more as he stood and dug into one of his pockets, pockets she eyed with envy, and pulled out a small, folded bundle of faded purple silk.

“I thought it perhaps sentimental to you. I seem to remember it being the same one you wore at the Academy.”

She stared at him then, really stared, as he held the ribbon out for her to take. She’d always known Hubert to be observant, to be calculating and patient. She hadn’t thought he’d catalogued such trivial details, never mind remembered them nearly four years later.

“Was I mistaken?”

“No,” she said quickly, taking the ribbon from him before he could rescind his generosity, “Thank you.”

Something flickered across his face at those words, but it was gone before she could put a name to it, his face schooled back into his usual neutrality. She pretended she hadn’t noticed, instead focusing on tying back her hair as he packed up his reports.

“Were the gloves also not to your liking?”

“The—oh!” She stooped and pulled the pair from where she’d tucked them in the calf of her boot. “I—I didn’t have a pocket to put them in. They’re for riding, right?”

She’d seen the noble students wear similar ones out in the pastures with their mounts. She’d never bothered with anything of the like, wouldn’t have even if they weren’t more expensive than ninety percent of what she owned combined. Her hands were already calloused and scarred, there would be no point in protecting such course implements.

Hubert just nodded and strode towards the door without another word.

She followed a few paces behind, taking note of the route and the other doors, of what the servants wore and how they acted, whether they came to a halt and bowed their heads or scurried away as fast and silently as they were able. She noted the bolts used to secure the windows, the width of the sills, whether they looked out over gardens or faced rows of other identical windows full of watchful eyes.

It was like second nature and she tucked it all in the back of her mind for the right occasion. Nine left turns, four rights, and three flights of stairs to the stables. Fourteen posted guards, five on rotation spotted in an eight minute window. It’d be nearly impossible to slip away unseen.

Nearly.

She tucked it all in the back of her head as a stablehand brought out a single, enormous black horse, already saddled and ready for a journey. She took a step back instinctually as the horse turned its snout in her direction and huffed. Horses never liked her—most animals didn’t. They could always tell she wasn’t quite as human as she should be, could smell the vestiges of darkness on her.

It didn’t help that she didn’t much care for them either, not after she’d been thrown off at the Academy in the midst of a disastrous lesson. It was faster, anyway for her to Walk, to slip between the shadows and forgo the practice entirely.

Hubert didn’t seem to notice—or perhaps he didn’t care. He lifted her up and into the saddle by the waist without so much as a word, even after she stiffened under his touch. She doubted he would heed her complaints, even if she bothered to voice them. There would be no way she’d be able to get him to agree to walk to wherever it was he was dragging her.

Instead she tried to focus on calming her breathing, eyeing the horse with distrust. The last thing she wanted was to end up below a pair of hooves again. Her ribs practically ached at the mere thought.

“There you are! I did tell you they’d try and sneak off without saying goodbye!”

She craned her neck to see a familiar mane of ginger hair, followed by half of the Black Eagles. Ferdinand beamed at the pair of them, along with Dorothea and Caspar, Petra and Linhart bringing up the rear. She couldn’t help but crane to see behind them, hoping to see a flash of lilac hair, but Yuri was nowhere amongst the group, nor was Lorenz or Ignatz.

She ducked her face to hide her disappointment.

She could almost feel Hubert’s mood sour next to her, something that was sure to make the however-long ride to ‘the manor’ all the more uncomfortable. She did her best to give the lot of them a warm, convincing smile. She didn’t know how many of them knew about the contract, about Yuri and the Abyssians. It was better, then, to play it safe until she had more intel.

“What on earth are you doing here?” Hubert asked, glowering at Ferdinand in particular.

“What does it look like? We’re here to give you a proper send off!”

“That’s hardly necessary.”

“Ferdinand is saying it is a Fodlan custom to throw grain at the newly married couple,” Petra said, raising a small satchel with a smile.

“Not grain, it has to be rice,” Caspar said, peering into her bag and making a face.

“Why is it needing to be rice?”

“I dunno, it’s just what you throw.”

“It’s supposed to bring prosperity and many children,” Linhart said, sounding like they had just dragged him out of bed. Knowing Linhart it couldn’t be too far from the truth.

Dorothea darted forward, beaming. “You look absolutely amazing! Oh, look at the little roses! Ferdie, isn’t it just darling? You have to tell me where you found it!”

“Oh, um, I’m not sure. It was a gift.”

“Hubie! Who would have thought you had such impeccable taste!”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence. Now, we really must be off,” Hubert said bruskly, mounting the horse behind her without further preamble.

“Don’t be like that, Hubert! We simply wanted to wish you both well!” Ferdinand said, agilely stepping directly in the path of the steed.

“Well, now you’ve wished it. May we be off?”

“Are you so impatient for your honeymoon, Hubert?” Dorothea lilted, eyes alight with mischief. The others laughed and whooped, their good cheer standing in stark contrast the the gloom emanating off of Hubert. Cecily would have usually joined in her good natured teasing, had the implication not so intimately involved her. Instead she ducked her head to ensure no one could catch sight of any flash of mortification that slipped past her carefully curated mask.

“Oh, honestly! Goodbye! I shan’t miss any of you,” he retorted, reaching around her to grab the reigns and urge the horse around Ferdinand and out of the stables, towards the streets of Enbarr. She could hear her former classmates calling after them, their laughter ringing out over the quiet of the morning. She tried to focus on them, for as long as she was able, instead of the feeling of Hubert’s chest pressed into her back, his arms wrapped around her in order to grip the reigns.

They’d nearly made it out of the city gates before Hubert spoke again, his voice still clipped with irritation.

“I intended to avoid that sort of nonsense. I had assumed they would have taken longer to nurse their hangovers.”

“They meant well,” Cecily replied, trying not to dwell on their words, on prosperity and children and expectation. She could feel a roiling ball of emotion rising in her at the thought, feel the telltale prick of tears welling in her eyes. She blinked them away furiously.

Hubert didn’t answer, just urged the horse through the reenforced gates and down the winding, Imperial road.

~~~

The hour and a half it took them to reach the manor was a unique and horrid torture. It took everything in him to focus on the road instead of the scent of her hair, the feeling of her pressed against his chest. It was a sweet relief to finally see the familiar gate of his ancestral home, a feeling that was historically foreign in the context of the place.

He led the horse up the eastern path towards the stables, trying not to note how Cecily kept her head stiffly forward—a trick, he knew, to keep him from knowing what caught her interest on the estate.

Once Yuri’s little bird, always Yuri’s little bird.

They reached the stables and he swung himself off the mare without preamble. He turned to help Cecily down but she ignored his outstretched hand and slid off the side of the saddle, landing in a slight crouch before straightening up and surveying him with those unblinking, doe-like eyes, her face unreadable.

It was a skill he greatly appreciated, valued, but he hated to see it leveled towards himself.

She stepped away from the horse as fast as possible, putting him between her and the creature and he suddenly remembered how frightened she’d been of them at the Academy. He’d forgotten how she’d gotten thrown off the beast when Ferdinand had insisted he could teach her, how she’d been kicked, her arm broken by the blow.

He should have remembered, he’d chewed Ferdinand out after he’d seen her curled on the ground, tears streaming down her cheeks. He’d been too concerned with escaping the prying eyes of their friends to bother readying a carriage, especially when it would extend the journey by an hour.

What a fine start to their marriage, his forcing her onto a beast she feared for well over an hour without even asking her.

She must think he’d done it on purpose. It wasn’t like him to forget such things.

“Would you prefer I give you the tour now or would you like to freshen up from the journey?”

She furrowed her brows at that and glanced down at her dress as if expecting it to be filthy with mud. There was merely a bit of dust from the road along the hem, dust that she brushed off, but not before carefully removing the white leather gloves she’d finally put on when on the horse.

She’d taken the idea of riding gloves quite literally.

He just nodded, not bothering to clarify what he had meant by freshen up—he supposed there was little time for decorum aiding in the running of a criminal spy ring.

He showed her the gardens first on their way to the house, much less lavish and curated than those of the Imperial palace—the Vestra gardens served a much more practical purpose, growing all sorts of poisonous plants. He wondered if she recognized any of them among the colorful blooms—she'd shown an interest in poisonous plants during their Academy days, though that had been a long time ago.

Still, perhaps some things didn't change.

She surveyed the beds with interest, trailing a finger over a few of the blooms’ petals as they walked..

He hesitated a moment before leading her up the path towards the main entrance. Like the gardens, the manor house was bleak and practical, nothing like the airy halls of the palace or even the sunny rooms of Garreg Mach. It held few happy memories for him, fewer from the time before his father had been executed for his treachery. He nearly felt guilty for bringing her to such a dour place, for intending to leave her here for the remainder of the war. But it would ensure her safety, ensure that she would stay as far as he could manage from the front lines, from Lord Arundel.

He pushed into the entrance hall, trying to decide where he should start, how he should keep certain parts of the house off-limits, for her own good at least. She didn’t have to know about the basement laboratories or the interrogation cells or—

“Hello. My name is Cecily, it’s very nice to meet you.”

He turned to see her extending a hand to the elderly butler who looked rather taken aback but shook it nonetheless.

“My name is Thomas, your Grace. It shall be an honor to serve you.”

Her face fell at that, though she quickly replaced it with a smile. “There’s no need to be so formal with me, Cecily is just fine.”

Thomas, for his part, looked uncomfortable at the thought, though he gave the pair of them a short bow before excusing himself to ensure tea would be prepared. He continued the tour through the house, pointing out the drawing room, the library, the spare bedrooms and studies. Their progress through the house was halting, as she couldn’t move past a servant without greeting them and learning their name and their job, without insisting they simply address her as Cecily.

It took him a moment to realize why it struck him as odd—in each one of these interactions she treated whoever it happened to be as an equal, couldn’t move past them without acknowledging their presence. His father had rarely addressed any of the servants but Thomas, and only to bark out an order or mete out some punishment. He’d taught Hubert to do the same, to treat them as if they didn’t quite exist, or at least filled the same utilitarian role as furniture.

He realized, about halfway through their stilted tour, that he knew less than half of the names of the faces he recognized, most of which had been serving his family since at least his childhood.

He’d forgotten that the reason she had known Sylvain at the Academy, that she’d known Dimitri had been because she’d grown up a servant in the Margrave’s house. Before Yuri, before Those That Slither In The Dark had gotten hold of her she had been just a servant girl who’d made friends with the Lord’s son.

He wondered if the Margrave’s household had been run in the same manner as his father’s, if the servants were meant to be seen and not heard, if seen at all, if mistakes were met with swift beatings. Somehow he doubted Sylvain would have been allowed to befriend her in the first place if that was the case, though perhaps she had been an exception. Perhaps the Margrave had an inkling of something unusual about the little girl, of some strange power that would cause her to be sought out by the Those That Slither in the Dark.

Or maybe she’d just been a normal little girl before they’d gotten ahold of her.

That was his other reason for leaving her at the manor.

Her stark white hair upon meeting her had first aroused his suspicions—Edelgard had told him that all of the hair of the children they experimented on had turned the same shade. She wasn’t sure if it was the stress of it all or something specific they did, but one by one she’d watched the soft brown hair of her siblings turn to a shock of white. Lysithea, too, shared this experience.

They didn’t, however, share the same amount of scarring.

Neither Edelgard or Lysithea had been left with any significant scarring, never mind any so plainly visible. He knew some of it could be chalked up to the hard life of being one of Yuri’s little birds, but that too wouldn’t fully explain it. Not when it was so very clear how protective he was over her.

There, of course, was one significant difference that separated Edelgard and Lysithea from Cecily—they were both the heirs of powerful noble families who had their own roles yet to play. Cecily had only ever been a servant for a margrave. She was far more expendable.

He glanced at her face, shame burning in his belly at the thought. She met his gaze with furrowed brows, her mouth pressed into a thin line.

“What?”

“I—Thomas should have tea prepared by now. This way.”

He turned on his heel, taking pains to school his face into its usual expression. He lead her to the parlor where tea had indeed been laid out, along with a pot of black Dagdan coffee.

He pulled her seat out for her without a word. She hesitated a moment before sitting, dropping her gaze to her lap. He reached for the pot of tea on instinct, so used to pouring for Edelgard, her preferred cup mere muscle memory at this point for him to prepare, but stopped. He had no idea what sort of tea Cecily drank, or if she liked it sweetened or with cream. It struck him that he should know his wife’s preference on something so trivial—

His wife.

He glanced up at her to find her examining one of the small tea spoons, brows furrowed as she traced the tiny stamp denoting its authenticity.

“It’s silver. You’re welcome to keep it if you’d so like.”

She glanced back at him before lifting the lid of the teapot and holding the spoon in the liquid for a few seconds before removing it and examining it once more. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes.

“If I intended to poison you, it would not be with arsenic, I assure you.”

She surveyed him a moment before setting the spoon back on the table without a word. He sighed, shaking his head before he poured himself a mouthful and drained his cup without waiting for it to cool.

“Would you like a cup now, or would you like to wait fifteen minutes to see if I drop dead?”

He noted the slight up-quirk of her lips, though he wasn’t sure if it was brought on by the idea of him poisoning himself to prove a point or if it was because of how quickly he’d spelled out the game.

“With sugar, if you have it.”

He bit back his knee-jerk response that of course he did, reminding himself for her it was probably a luxury. He made the cup in silence, with two heaping spoonfuls of sugar, just as the Professor had always preferred. Maybe his wife shared the Professor’s sweet tooth.

He passed her the cup without looking up, making his own coffee in near-reflex—it was after two, which meant he could indulge in a splash of cream in his cup. In the morning and late at night he took it black, without much thought for its taste, only its function.

He looked up in time to see Cecily take a wary sip of her tea, brows furrowing just slightly at the taste. Perhaps he hadn’t made it sweet enough, then, though he knew he’d find it almost sickeningly so.

He took a sip of his own cup, trying to find something neutral enough to make into tea time conversation. He supposed they could just sit in silence, and he could learn to ignore the heaviness it came with, the charge that nearly mimicked the build up in energy of a spell.

It was Cecily who broke the silence first, though her eyes remained glued to the table.

“Are there books I can read here?”

“You may read anything you like.”

“Truly?”

“I ask only that you are careful with the rarer volumes. If there is something you are looking for and unable to locate, Thomas can have it ordered in for you.”

“Are there local book stores?”

“One, outside of Enbarr. But Thomas will simply have it delivered here for you.”

She looked up at that, eyes searching for something in his face. “So, I’m not allowed to leave.”

She figured it out much faster than he’d intended. He’d hoped for a few days—perhaps a week—before the question was raised, enough time, at least, for him to come up with some sort of satisfactory answer.

But she didn’t wait for one. She just got up and crossed to the door without another word. She returned a few minutes later with a thick volume on poisonous plants which she sat next to her cup and flipped open, propping her elbow on the table as she leafed through to the introduction. She ignored him completely as she began to read, one finger tracing idly under the lines of text, a habit that he’d forgotten about from their school days.

He noted how she only drank half her cup before refilling it, how she did the same again with her next cup. Too sweet then, significantly so. He’d remember for next time. After a while he got up and grabbed a sheath of reports to go through himself. Usually he would have enjoyed being able to read together—he had always enjoyed their shared studying time at the Academy, even though some days they’d barely spoke a dozen words to one another.

That had been a pleasant sort of silence, comfortable.

This was leaden.

“Is horticulture a hobby of yours?” he asked, trying to force some conversation. She looked up, brows furrowed. He gestured at the book. She just shrugged, returning to her reading.

He sighed, turning back to his own work. Perhaps silence was the best he could hope for.

"I've had the master bedroom prepared for you and your bride, your Grace," Thomas said, bowing as he stepped into the sitting room. Cecily had hardly moved the entire day, except when she'd asked for a quill and paper. Then she'd simply turned back to her book, occasionally scrawling notes. He'd tried to subtly read them over his own reports, but they were written in some strange code. He'd need time to do so, time or he'd have to pawn it off to one of his codebreakers.

Cecily looked up, though, at Thomas's statement, her mismatched eyes wide before she schooled her expression.

She was frightened. Frightened of him, of sharing a room, a bed. The woman he loved was frightened of him.

He couldn't blame her, of course. How could he, when his hands were stained black with the remnants of all the ill he'd done in the name of Edelgard's dream, all the blood he'd spilt?

Or, at least they had been. One remained discolored, spiderwebbed with the remnants of his dark magic, while the other was now entirely unblemished but for a few silvered scars. A fool might think it a portent, a chance to start anew.

He saw only reason for Arundel's interest, reason for others to harm her, to steal her away. She was only safe where he could protect her. He'd already seen to it personally that the bedroom was warded, ridiculously so, so that only he and she could hope to pass over the threshold if they were active.

There wasn't anything for it--they'd have to share a bed, at least every so often. They were husband and wife now, it wouldn't for the servants to go spreading how they hadn't shared a room, even in their first night together at the manor.

He sighed, folding up the remainder of his reports. She carefully marked her page, avoiding looking at him.

"I--I suppose it is time to retire," he said softly. Cecily didn't respond, though she followed him from the drawing room, up the stairs to the bedroom. He pushed inside, waving a hand over the door to redo the arcane lock--he should teach her how to make one herself, along with the wards. It shouldn't be so difficult for her now, considering the level of her skill.

It was odd that it had been faith magic that she'd finally seemed to grasp, though perhaps it was not faith in the goddess that she relied on, but something else. She'd never had much patience for the goddess in school, but then again, maybe things had changed.

She paused as they entered the room, eyes flicking over the vases of flowers that had been placed on every surface, flowers that didn’t didn’t quite disguise the dark, dreariness of the space. Still, it had to be better than the broom closet she called a room in Abyss, had to be better than whatever safe house she’d been hiding out in out in Rowe.

He crossed to the wardrobe he’d had Thomas prepare, making a face at the slim offerings—he’d need to send the tailor to make her some new clothes, proper clothes that fit and were worthy of her. Still, he picked out a soft night dress and a long silk robe, grabbing a pair of slippers that should have matched, but didn’t.

“I—I’ll run you a bath. I have a few things I need to discuss with Thomas,” he said. She didn’t react, instead just standing and staring as if not quite seeing the room around her. He set the clothes neatly on the stool in the bathroom and filled the large, clawfoot tub. He left out an array of scented soaps and oils, whatever she might like—he’d guessed she might prefer something floral or botanical, considering how she’d enjoyed the gardens and the greenhouse at the academy, but in reality, he had no idea.

He knew so little about his wife, and yet—

And yet there was little that he wouldn’t do for her comfort or safety. How could he know so little about the woman he loved?

He crossed back to the bedroom, only to find her standing in the same place, eyes still face away. He crossed to her side, concern creasing his forehead.

“Cecily?”

She startled, eyes flicking to him, and then nodded. “Yes, sorry. Thank you for running the bath.”

She crossed to the bathroom without another word, the lock clicking into place. Hubert lingered a moment more before setting out to find Thomas. He found him in small office off the kitchen going through the bookkeeping. He stood as he spotted Hubert, clasping his hands behind his back.

“Congratulations, your Grace. The Marquess appears a fine young woman,” Thomas said with a rare smile. “The staff are quite excited to have you both home.”

“It is only for a day or so.”

“I suppose it makes sense you both should stay in Enbarr, close to the Emperor. Still, we shall ensure the manor is ready for you, whenever you and the Marquess wish it.”

“Only I will be returning to Enbarr. The Marquess will remain at the manor. She—she is to stay at the manor, and all guests are to go through my approval.”

“Your Grace—“

“House Vestra has never been well liked, Thomas, and she was not born of noble blood. Many are unhappy about our union and we are still at war. Our enemies will no doubt be even less enthused and she had ties to the Kingdom. Her safety must be paramount.”

“Understood, your Grace,” he said with a nod, though his eyes searched Hubert’s face in a way that made him feel like he was ten years old again.

“There is also the matter of her allowance—she should have three thousand gold pieces a month for whatever she’d like to do with the house, as well as whatever she needs for a new wardrobe and and books. She’s always been an avid reader.”

“I will make note of it.”

“Any letters she wishes to send should be forwarded to me and I will see them posted.

“Of course, your Grace.”

Hubert nodded to himself before turning and climbing back upstairs to his bedroom. Cecily was sat at the small vanity, ripping a brush through her hair with little regard for either her hair or scalp, buried in a thick tome she’d propped up against the mirror.

Hubert crossed to her side without thought, pulling the brush from her hand. She jumped, eyes going wide as whipped around to look at him.

“You won’t have any hair left if you keep that up,” he said, digging through one of the vanity drawers to find a small bottle of hair oil. He hesitated a moment before removing his gloves and placing a few drops on his palm, which he then began to work through the ends of her hair.

“What are you doing?” She asked sharply, every muscle tensed as if she were about to run or fight. Hubert just shook his head.

“The oil helps with the tangles,” he said, ignoring she sharpness of her gaze as he began brushing out her hair properly, working out the knots from the ends before working his way up. Cecily sat stiffly, eyes locked on the surface of the vanity.

He knew he should have called one of the maids in to aid her, as they would be doing moving forward, as was expected of a Marquess, but—this was something small he could do, to take care of her. Some small way to show her she needn’t ever fear his touch. A small way he could reassure himself that she was safe, that she was taken care of.

That he was taking care of her.

They didn’t speak as he finished brushing her hair, nor as he braided it, securing it with the familiar faded purple ribbon she’d always worn at school. It was real silk, if a low grade and he’d guess one of the finer things she’d owned in Abyss. She’d always worn it, and he’d seen her more than once repairing it as it began to fray.

“Hopefully you find that satisfactory,” he said, stepping away to retrieve his own nightclothes. Cecily didn’t say anything, nor did she move, even when he crossed to the bathroom to change and brush his teeth.

He wished she’d rage at him, fight with him, do something other than sit silently and frightened as a songbird above a cat. If he’d been able to convince her of their plan before, would she have broken like this? Would she have still been the lively, brilliant creature he remembered?

Could he ever hope to put her back together?

Still, he had to remind himself that it was for her benefit, that it was the only way he could ensure Arundel could dare hope to touch her.

That her hatred was a fair price for her safety.

He didn’t speak as he returned to the bedroom—their bedroom, now—instead merely grabbing his stack of reports as he crossed to the bed. He wasn’t tired, but he couldn’t lock himself away in his study, as he usually would. He tried to concentrate on his reports, but his eyes kept flicking to where Cecily still sat, as if frozen.

It was well after midnight before she moved, stiffly rising from the stool and slipping off her robe. She took time to fold it before padding silently to the bed. He watched her hesitate for a moment, though he kept his eyes on his report, before she slipped under the covers.

Her hands were trembling.

He placed his reports on the nightstand and put out the lights except for the candle on her bedside table with a flick of his hand. He turned to face away from her, pulling the blankets up around him. He knew he’d likely not sleep a moment, but he could at least pretend, if it would put her at ease.

#hubert von vestra #hubert von vestra x oc #yuri leclerc #sylvain jose gautier #dorothea arnault #fire emblem three houses x reader #friends to enemies to lovers #slow burn

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