bear brave

Even with all his conscious effort, he still cannot think of a better way of phrasing his response. “That answer does not inspire confidence in the slightest.”

He sighs heavily and closes his eyes. There is nothing to be done, at this point. Finding someone actually confident in the quality of their work would just be a further waste of time, and he cannot steer his horse and tend to the plant at the same time either…not that he would know how to keep it alive anyway beyond drowning it in water and praying.

When he opens his eyes once more, he finds the student in front of him with cargo hugged tightly to her chest. He nods, then quickly moves to mount his horse again. “That should be an adequate amount of time to reach our destination. Thank you for your work.” He holds a hand out for her to take so that he can pull her up onto the horse behind him.

maybe.

hopefully.

they would just have to find out. she blinks back into the present, still hugging the planter, though considering the urgency of their travel, she already knows she'll have to clutch onto something to keep from flying off the horse. without relinquishing her claim on the cargo, she decides on pinching the hem of his clothes. "m-me? oh, bernadetta."

von varley, but that part was never important to anyone who really mattered.

"um, thank you, too. yes." a tiny nod. socially awkward, but polite. "for taking me. i wish i could have ridden on my own, but i skip too many lectures to pass most of the mounted class exams." inspiring confidence is one thing, but should she really be sabotaging it with her big fat mouth?

what more can she expect from these so-called nobles? bigoted fools who tout themselves as paragons of righteousness and good breeding, who act like they're heaven's gift to earth when the common folk would be better off without them. and what little surprise that the minister of religious affairs should be the one to utter such things—that puppet of a hypocritical church—and the audacity with which he labels himself a good man when he presses his daughter and countless others beneath his thumb.

she's heard worse from the likes of him, and knows to expect nothing less from the ignorant, yet the sting never quite goes away, no matter how many times she braces for walks through fields of nettle. hold her breath as she may or wrap her limbs in bandages, in the end, skin is always left red and raw.

she fidgets atop her stool, her hands gripping the edges and legs shifting to cross before she settles again. realizing that bernadetta's gaze inches toward her, dorothea schools her shocked expression into something more neutral in the hopes that it might encourage her friend to continue.

“yeah,” bernadetta mumbles. “once, though... i did anyway. a boy. he meant everything to me. he was the only person who ever cared for me. but when my father found out about him...”

and the fact of the matter is this: even though she had met that boy again nearly a decade later, even though that boy told her the truth behind his presence at the manor, bernadetta knows her parents enough. she knows their story would have turned out the same way regardless. a boy whose bones they shattered, a girl whose heart they tied up and took the hammer to next.

that's why nothing good could ever come of being friends with her.

“he disappeared the very next day.” she waited for hours. she searched everywhere. she remembers scurrying to the head gardener to ask where he was and how the man couldn't even look at her. “they beat him half to death and threw him out on the streets. i never saw him after that, so i figured he did die. and all because of me.”

bernadetta's hands have begun to wring themselves in front of her, the skin chafing into a faint red. she sucks in a breath and mutters again, “i don't want my family to hurt you, too.”

"Th-that's a lot," she remarks, eloquently, watching as one kitchen sound among many (they all run together to her ears) pulls the student away mid-conversation. "I don't know much about cooking... but I think just being able to manage all of those alone is already impressive. Maybe... you'll do better than you think?"

She'd be able to say more if she actually tested it, wouldn't she? After having been torn down for so much of her life, it would be nice to build someone up for a change. Ah, but she ought to get a spoon... shuffling past Bernadetta as unobtrusively as possible, she shifts to the other side.

The smallest still-meaningful bite she can manage announces itself loudly, a strong bitterness prickling along her tongue. Maybe her pepper tolerance was lower than she remembered? Or maybe there were stronger varieties in Fódlan than in Altea... Right, she should look beyond the unfamiliar spice and focus on the taste instead.

integrity when it came to the competition, that was. the judges. the wasteful nobles. but katarina did not fall under any of the three. she had only been passing through with goodwill, and the concerning falter in her speech gives bernadetta pause.

"hot?" she parrots dumbly... "breathed it in?" ...before her voice dwindles, and dwindles. then, weakly finishing— "the... the two-fish sauté?"

with the stovetops sated, bernadetta turns back to katarina. her gaze darts from the bowl of two-fish sauté to salty whitefish sauté. two-fish again. salty whitefish.

her left. then katarina's left.

bernadetta's face freezes in place. because it had been on the left. the two-fish sauté for katarina. katarina's two-fish sauté. the sauté specifically made with two fish and zero poisons, on the left, offered to kind, innocent, chocolate-giving katerina who had just complimented her and—

“NOOO!” there is no athleticism in how bernadetta vaults over the counter next, only a purple blur, a frantic tangle of limbs that almost tumbles into katarina as if bernadetta needed to add battery to her offenses on top of poisoning. where one face goes pink, the other drains of color entirely. her hands fly to the other's shoulders; it takes everything in her not to shake them in a frenzy.

“An efficient plan. Please hold on for but a moment longer and we shall return home quickly.”

She gave Bernadetta a second to adjust before flying right over the ship. Fast enough not to incite a cannonball and to make her descent seem all the more threatening. A glance behind her as she jumped down. 

“Now, Bernadetta! Oh, and dear partner of mine, won’t you wait for us above? Thank you.”

The pirates, of course, were quite the horrid hosts. Inelegant in every sense of the word as they staggered closer to the pair. Well, no matter, her lance would be more than enough for these fiends. 

"o-okay! guess i've got to!" it had been her plan, after all. delusion-fueled and delirious as it was, it had been hers.

so left it is. bernadetta is far more keen on taking orders than giving them, and she falls into the motions fine enough. a longsword glints in the pirate's hand, drawn from the scabbard at his hip. before he can brandish it, close the distance between them and strip bernadetta of her advantage, she scrambles backward with two arrows at the ready.

in the corner of her eye, clair is worlds more elegant with her lance. bernadetta almost thinks to observe how she wields it—after all, and much to bernadetta's chagrin, there would be no passing the bow knight exam without having to pick up a lance herself. but now isn't the time.

but bernadetta is a more present reminder of all the things they can never allow themself to forget—and a far less bitter pill to swallow. they shake their head as they draw back to her side, salve in hand. they dip their fingers into it as they sigh. “and i really don’t know what you think you’ve been messing up.”

if anyone continues to mess up here, after all, it’s yuri. their hand drifts back to her neck, brows drawn together in concentration. “tell me if it hurts,” they murmur again before continuing in their normal cadence, “isn’t that what friends do? watch one another’s backs, care for each other...that sort of thing.”

but the fact of the matter is that jules did leave. and for the next decade, she did not have any friends at all. yuri says no one, and they are right. bernadetta is, in a manner, no one.

it does hurt, but not in any way she can admit. it always hurts.

"i guess..." she mumbles, gaze unfocusing. a more honest slip of the tongue comes rolling, smaller still. "but i think i might be bad at letting them care."

or believing others would. in that regard, bernadetta's friendship is also hard-won. it demands just as much persistence without nearly as much reward. yes, she had been the one to ask it of yuri in this same room, but sometimes she cannot fathom that they still want it. they always seem to be tending to her somehow—just like now, with her wounded neck craning to give them easier access.

though the sound of their huff brings back some of her usual self. she tries to smile through the sterile bite of cool salve, willing her skin not to jump beneath their fingers. "i'm just bad at a bunch of things. but, um...even so...you're still here. you even came to find me. well, i think you came to find me. i wanted to find you—i-i mean, unless you didn't! if you didn't, then forget i said anything."

awkward doesn't begin to describe it. he's here, and so is she. she knew she'd have to face him at some point. she just hadn't expected it to be today. and she was without picnic basket, which would have been full of the very scrumptious and poison-free offerings she had been hoping to pacify him with for all of the trouble.

“i-i'm sorry. really, i am.” she is. but yuri said it would be fine. and yuri is always right, except for when they're either being too mean to themself or way too nice to her. did letting her borrow their bed count as being too nice to her? well, what if it meant they stole someone else's?

the someone else is right in front of her. he is five times her size (possibly an exaggeration—she can't even look up from his shoes, hunched into herself, wringing her anxious hands) and he must be out for revenge. he has to be. he's a billion feet tall. his shamefully bare muscles are still humongous enough to crush her into a light purple paste. he's...

“he's gonna grind my bones into bread and boil meeeee!” she abruptly wails into her hands, giving a shrill voice to her inner thoughts without even realizing. “nooooooo!”

now, how despicable does this look from the outside? a tiny thing with the knocking knees of a newborn foal, backed up against a wall, crying in a looming giant's shadow? baltie baby's a big man, you see. the king of grappling gets shot more than a few disgusted glances by several passersby, even moreso when bernadetta collapses to her knees.

However, that shade of purple is far too familiar to be mistaken for anything else, and Yunaka quickly decides that some exceptions can be made to the rules of standards.

Instead of the worker, who is busy fighting for her life, a black tabby comes over to greet her instead. The cat rubs up against her legs before facing her, only taking a moment before it jumps up on its hind legs with the front ones stretched out as far up her leg as it can reach. Cute. Yunaka leans down and picks the little charmer up so it can settle comfortably in her arms.

“it wasn't bernieeee!” though the arms at her sides can't keep from flailing just a bit. “it was sir pouncelot! he's a big bully who bites bernie even though i'm so nice to him!” an eye cracks open; her lower lip nearly trembles. “professor yunaka, i'm so nice to him. wait, professor yunaka!”

thank goodness. just like that, bernadetta slumps forward with a haggard sigh, bent at the waist. the ribbon of her apron nearly comes undone from the motion, but she rights herself in the next breath.

it's not the most serviceable welcome. she's only realizing that now, and while the plump orange criminal saunters off without a care in the world, bernadetta resists the urge to drag her hands down her face. professor yunaka is always calling her all sorts of nice things like cute and sweet. maybe if she does an extra good job, she'll look pitiful enough for her favorite teacher to keep what she saw under wraps. right?

“oh! no, uh, i can still make beverages!” bernadetta stumbles over the words, but not over her feet as she zips to a pile of menus. then she scurries back to yunaka, offering the list with both hands like a perfect servant now, her homely little bandana fluttering behind her the entire way. “th-the new batch of food items will be ready soon, too! they're just baking in the oven. and i'm just about to jump in it with them. i mean, do you want to have a seat? a drink? the cats are really cute...when they're not being mean to me.”

there's a deafening THUD out of nowhere. its source? a skittish student with purple hair, caught red-handed by the other girl whose presence she had been momentarily mesmerized by. the hefty pile of books and notepads once in her grasp is scattered all over the ground, with one having clattered right beside eir's foot. the noise bernadetta makes can't even be deciphered at this point. muffled, half muffled? a squawk, a screech? a croak, a cough? but what she does is dive down, zipping from book to book, panickedly gathering them back into a pile while avoiding eir's gaze.

until the one by her foot inevitably has to be retrieved. bernadetta has half a mind to abandon it, but that's her NOTEBOOK. with her latest stupid STORY that ABSOLUTELY NOBODY CAN SEE RIGHT NOW. so she just crawls to it in a hurry, unceremonious crab-like scuttling. the entire time, jumbled under her breath like some mantra: "sorrysorrysorrysorry—"

The light of the moon, a waning crescent high above in a sea of stars, pales when drawn in contrast to the candle flame beside her stack of books. Eir sits alone. The library was quieter in the evenings, save for only the hushed chatter of a handful of diligent scholars arguing over their theses in a faraway corner. It dims into a quiet drone in the background, a steady rhythm urging on her own work.

She squints down at the material. As much as it worked to keep her focused… some of Fódlan’s academic writers left much to be desired in terms of readability. Her brow furrows as she resolves to read a sentence a fifth time over, before—

THUD!

She sees— and hears— the mess before the girl. Eir stands to her feet immediately, pushing aside her chair. “…! Are you all right?” There’s a girl scrambling about on the floor. Well, a girl, but right now the figure is more like a… creature… desperately fighting to survive. Eir is, admittedly, unsure if she should lend a hand. As soon as her eyes land on something she might have offered to pick up, the girl snatches it immediately. It’s somewhat impressive, to be honest. Eir isn’t sure she’d be able to react if something came at her with such speed and dexterity.

She hears a mumbled string of words. Eir realises, now, who it is before her. She decides not to make any sudden movements. With a slow bow, Death carefully reaches down to pick up the last item Bernadetta had dropped: an open notebook, writing scrawled across the pages. Gently, she closes the cover.

“o-oh...” she quiets. the other does not yell, admonish, or even deliver a swift strike with the candlestick right beside them. whatever dirty looks her racket might have earned from the toiling scholars, too, are quickly disbanded. scuffing the disheveled hair out of her eyes, she gathers the rest of her scattered composure right after she does the books, and blinks down at the offered one. “...you— you didn't look? really?”

(but when has death ever lied to her more than life has?) no, it is the truth. the pretty girl does not laugh at her—only smiles. if malice might sit behind the moonlike curve, bernadetta cannot sniff any out or even fabricate it herself. her imagination must be out of commission tonight, all exhausted on her latest project.

“n-no, um, i'm sorry.” and while it is out of habit that she cannot meet eyes with who she speaks with, she nods with an awkward apology of her own, setting her hefty pile of reading on the same wooden table. “you were only sitting here. i thought you saw me, so i jumped and overreacted. b-but i wasn't doing anything bad, honest!”

the notebook makes its way back into its owner's nervous, but gracious hands. bernadetta feels the need to blurt, “it's perfectly family-friendly! unless your family's just not tolerant about who you love or anything, but those are the side characters anyway, so that aside!”

#WINNINGSUN || Ethereal Ball 2026

once the dust settles, her attention drifts back to the matter at hand.

there's not much dorothea feels she can contribute—beyond the sheet music she'd read for them—and it frustrates her. frowning where she stands, her arms fold across her chest as she mulls over what claude and bernadetta say. she's never heard of five saints either, and casts an expectant look flayn's way as if to say, you'd know better than us. have you ever heard of such a thing?

at least the statue is tangible. they can work with something physical.

"unless it doesn't need the usual kind of adhesive?" she sounds uncertain. "i mean—we all agree this is unusual. for all we know, things might not work normally in here. it could be enchanted. maybe the wings will attach if you bring them close enough...?"

"Maybe, maybe not. I am uncertain." She admits this with a bit of frustration, "I've never seen a statue like this. In fact, I've never seen anything in the monastery behave like the Goddess Tower is behaving tonight."

Flayn stares at the statue. There is a hesitation that initially tempers her, brought about by the gargoyle's uncanny appearance, but a glance at Ronan emboldens her to come closer. She bends low to inspect the back.

"But what good would reattaching its wings be, I wonder?" She tilts her head, examining the gargoyle from various angles, "I don't suppose having a completed statue would do us any favors. Unless this gargoyle were to come to life and fly us all down through the balcony. Hah! Now that would be quite nice."

It is unclear how much of that was said in jest. Miracles were never out of the question for a saint, after all. She continues to look at it, humming thoughtfully.

but none of them seemed to have any better ideas or leads. appealing as the idea to freeze up and wait for certain death might have been, she had a few more things to see through before the end of tonight.

"so... are we saying it could be a nice gargoyle instead?" bernadetta tries, the inescapable tinge of uncertainty drawling her words. "one that just flies us down out of the goodness of its literal stone heart?"

she eyes the statue again, sizing it up more literally than earlier, gauging where she might fit if it could even carry five passengers. with one wing already out, bernadetta peers back into the crate for the other.

"maybe there are slots on its back to stick these in." though she pointedly doesn't volunteer herself to test the theory. then she casts her skittish glance between the others, never lingering on one or the other for long. "or they'll just attach like dorothea said. but didn't they bring out a bunch of illusions for the ball? this could just be another one..."

like an archipelago that goes from deserted to bustling with party games in the blink of an eye. a goddess tower furnished with unholy artifacts, posing another possible game for five players to seek a way out. "...wh-why don't we just try it? should we try it?"

to ask for her to stay... well, the weight of a proposition like that, from someone like them—could they possibly ask for her to bear it? to stay by their side despite all their secrets, all their lies, all their deceptions. for someone so cold to ask for such warmth from another just seems so terribly selfish. people are selfish, after all; they’re no different.

and so, quieter than even the question is the answer, a simple exhale of the word, “yes.” more than anything, they want.

...but yuri is not allowed the luxury of such things. “do you want to know my real wish? it’s one i’ve had since i was young, before i even knew you.” before the garden, before the knife, before the ghosts. no, there had been none of those things, only a boy who could not bear the thought of his own existence when so many others had to die.

“when the plague swept through faerghus, it didn’t spare me. i came down with a terrible illness, but we had no money for a doctor. so many people died...” so many, but not them. how awful they felt. how helpless. by some strange stroke of luck, someone had been there to save their life—but what about everyone else who died? didn’t they deserve to be saved too? was life and death really something that could be determined by the simple flip of a coin?

“...but not me, obviously.” they press two fingers to their own neck, a wry smile curling on their lips. “not since i last checked anyway. an old man that my mother had taken in and nursed back to health saved my life. to this day, i still don’t know how he did it. i guess i’ll never really know for sure.”

they have a better guess at it these days, absurd as some of those ideas may still seem. but it’s the closest they’ll ever get to an answer without the man himself around to be able to tell them. yuri shakes their head, hand falling and smile fading. “that’s not fair, though, is it? all that saved me was dumb luck, but what about everyone else? didn’t they deserve to live too?” more than they did, even.

“so i made a promise to myself that day: i’d help anyone i could. i would never let such a thing happen again.” yuri exhales and their shoulders slump alongside it. “a world where it doesn’t take luck to survive—and a world where terrible people like ‘yuri leclerc’ don’t exist at all. that’s my wish.”

shifting closer to her, their free hand reaches hesitantly for her face, thumb gently brushing against her cheek. “...i want you to stay,” they breathe. they want, so badly, for her to stay. “but ‘yuri’ can’t ask that of you. his wish requires him to keep secrets, to lie, and then—if that world i dream of could possibly come true—to die. and i can’t ask those things of you either, even if you say anything.”

their hand falls away. “but if one day, my wish actually comes true...”

one day, when regulus isn’t just a star twinkling down at them from the sky, but the boy sitting next to her that is allowed to hold her hand...

bernadetta had always known her friend was good. by any name, any face, any lie—she knew they were still good. her gaze softens, her hand squeezes, and she forces several quick blinks, willing away the heat that threatens to spill from her eyes.

“yuri... no...” that's not right either, is it? her lips part and close, unable to find the name that fits—the name they should hear, the name they deserve. but it is theirs to pluck out of the sky when they are ready to reach for it again. “um... about that world you dream of,” she starts without a name instead, then, because this part doesn't need one. “w-well, i can't explain how yet, but if you can believe me...”

lilac, crimson. both flash through her mind. ‘the world i will lead is one where your decisions will be honored.’

“i think... no, i'm sure it's a wish that'll come true. there won't be any ‘if’ about it.” there is just something too off about her voice for it to be a vague platitude. her certainty is the product of something she cannot fathom yet, but bernadetta believes. something will shift, and it will not be at the hands of just one boy who carries the names of hundreds at the cost of his own.

yuri's hand leaves her face. hers unfolds from their joined ones, but only to turn their palm, letting it catch her other cheek. “you want to know what i think, though? it's easy to stay when things are good. after everything's over.” she cradles it for another moment, she closes her eyes. but once she opens them, she lets her hands fall away, too—she does not fetter yuri's touch, as much as she wishes it wouldn't leave.

“but the hard part is staying while you're putting in the work. you don't want others to suffer, so it's even harder for you to let anyone stay with ‘yuri leclerc’ at all.” she has not once taken for granted that yuri has allowed her of all people to. they allow her so much. never themself. “the thing is... what if i want to, too? what if there's someone who loves you before, after, and even through everything?” the lies, the secrets, the deaths. besides, how many times has bernadetta already spun through all three with them?

“any of us could die tomorrow. the monastery already got attacked once. it could be on a mission, or i could wake up one day just to find myself kidnapped again. i realized it more than ever after staying with you. all the times you'd come back late...” bernadetta was waiting. she still wanted to be there, waiting for them. could it be the same for yuri, she wonders—could yuri have wanted to return, not just to a room, but to her?

“who knows? i mean, i could accidentally fall before we leave! you'll have yourself a big bernie-shaped splat, and then what?” she tosses a quick glance into the open sky, and another one down to the earth. “the point being, um. if i don't make it to the future, i still want my last moments to be happy. the truth is that we might even match again. earlier tonight, i started dreaming of a world i wanted someday, too. and i want...”

she wants. bernadetta wants, too. again, her voice quiets—just as quiet as their answer. “...i want to stay with you.” and quieter still. “and i just... i don't want it to take us almost losing each other again to admit it. do you?” the smile she tries for is even tougher than the one she put on at the beginning of the night. it is so small; she is so small, bleeding all by herself, too. but just like yuri leclerc, there are some things only bernadetta von varley can do.

“you did already ask me to run away with you,” she says, with a gentle shake of her head, “so this time, it's okay if you can't do it yet. i will.” bernadetta will. she decides—and she takes another breath. “your... no, i guess our dream. can i stay with you until it does come true? and if you'd still want me around after that...”

after that, if they would still hold her hand again at all...

Rafal didn't think twice to give his name because he was used to being asked for it. Over and over again. Or, as was more often the case: never. After all, the average dragon never bothered to learn what he was called - his own siblings, in particular. Why trouble yourself trying to remember a failure who could die tomorrow? It was a waste of effort. Realistically speaking, powerless children like Rafal didn't survive long, their mortality rates were just as high as the human disciples who intentionally offered their bodies up as sacrifice, fuel, and cattle for their Fell Dragon overlords.

So, in addition to powerless, they were nameless, too.

But, Bernadetta didn't know that.

Rafal disembarked from his ignoble steed and settled on the counter with legs dangling off the edge. A saucer-wide pair of unblinking red eyes trained themselves on the girl, big and owlish and young. They continued to watch Bernadetta like she were the most interesting thing in the world; or the unlucky mouse that had seized their intention. That he had no intention of letting go.

"—It's Lord Rafal to you, though. I'm a god, remember?" A 'god' whose legs weren't even long enough to touch his feet to a floor. Such a god, at that, whose stomach proceeded to growl so loudly at the pleasant smells in the kitchen air that his proud expression collapsed to a frightfully vivid blush.

At this development, the dragonling froze, then with stubborn insistence quickly swiveled his head to the side in flagrant denial of his weakness. Really, it wasn't too different from what an older Rafal might do, some thousands of years into the future.

( but, little rafal didn't know that. )

(and if rafal did not know that now, he was sure to eventually.)

“y-yes! lord rafal! i'm, uh, bernadetta!” she perks to attention, as ridiculous of a picture it must paint to any bystander. a skittish young woman taking orders from her tiny liege like her life depended on it. her dignity certainly didn't. “don't worry! your lowly subject didn't hear anything with her inferior, not-godly ears!” no, her dignity certainly didn't.

it seemed that somewhere along the way she had fallen into the motions, the steps. was it the moment he called himself a dragon, or the downcast of his eyes when he spoke of being alone? the prideful, affirmative declaration of his status as he rode on her back? whatever she believed, whatever she didn't, the veracity of his claims mattered little. she believed in his childhood, a more precious thing than godhood could ever be.

and a childhood deprived of sweets simply would not do. tied in haste, the bow of her apron settles at the small of her back. she knows the cabinets and utensils like she would a kitchen of her own. cream and sugar here, a supply of fresh eggs there, melted butter that soaks right into a bowl of flour. perhaps sweet bun trio could come in a bit, for its dough would need more time to rise than their stomachs might like to spare, but something fluffy and light would be—well, as they say, a piece of cake.

the batter itself doesn't take long. more torturous than anything would be the wait while its aroma wafted from the oven.

“just a little dash of cinnamon, and...” so, simultaneously in the works: something quick to hold him over. the ever-dutiful subject bernadetta von varley sets a mug on the counter and nudges it forward.  “here you go, litt—lord rafal! hot cocoa to warm you up. the cake's about to go in the oven, so hopefully that'll be ready by the time you're done with this.”

it is an exceedingly long story, the truth of it all. if count varley had put him one foot in the grave already, then all that they did was finish the job. yuri leclerc had killed jules, the same way they killed ████ before him, the same way another might kill them after him. there are countless names to go along with their face. some were used once then never again. others lived longer lives—like jules, like yuri. but they all get buried, in the end.

all this world does for boys like him is bury them.

“it’s not a pretty story,” they warn. no, the only pretty thing from their childhood was their face—and, even then, that had earned its permanent scar alongside a few bruises that faded with time, but never in their memory. yuri’s next smile is sharp, their gaze turning toward the ceiling as they think back, further and further. “i didn’t kill you,” they continue simply, as though they’re talking about what they’ve had for lunch or the weather, “but i’ve killed plenty of people since.”

they were an assassin, yes, when they needed to be. most often they were simply a liar, a trickster. whatever mask a job needed, painted onto their face without blinking. was it any wonder that their ████ seemed to grow just a little further out of reach each time? when a little thing with a kind face approaches, you don’t think about the fact they might be picking your pockets. when a pretty face with a voice nearly as alluring as the mystical songstress herself sits in your bed, you don’t question the smile behind the glass they offer you before it’s too late.

“after i left”—saying that they left is such a neat way to put it considering the reality of the situation—“the only place for me to go was back onto the streets. so i did whatever i had to do to make sure i survived them. lying, stealing, even killing... whatever name i needed to use, whichever noble i needed to charm, whatever lie i needed to tell—i would do it all. but i would hardly be content living like that forever. doesn’t every bird long to soar to greater heights?”

their gaze falls back to earth from wherever it had wandered with a bitter smile. “i charmed a noble from faerghus. convinced him to take me in as his adopted son. he’s the one who gave me my name—yuri. he gave me a bed to sleep in, a roof over my head, three meals on my plate every day. if i was lucky, i learned a thing or two pilfering his manor’s library. in return, i just had to do whatever he asked of me.”

“eventually i got old enough that it would be strange if he didn’t send me off to the officers academy. so he did. didn’t make it the whole school year, though. they sent me on a mission with some knights. just dispatch some thieves, easy enough.” the set of their jaw hardens. “but i knew them. they were friends from back in adrestia. we watched each other’s backs on those streets.”

their carving knife twirls idly in their hand before they catch it back in their palm. “so i tried talking to the knights. and when they didn’t listen, i killed them.”

should they have run? probably. discard ‘yuri’ for another, become someone even the church of seiros wouldn’t be able to find no matter how hard they searched. but all they recall in the haze of their memory is those they had not been able to save, those they had forced behind them with their sword still brandished when the knights’ reinforcements arrived to find one of their students painted in their comrades’ blood.

yuri may not have died there, but the last piece of good that might have been within them did. “...that’s why i know a place like that.” there’s a sardonic twist to the next curl of their lips. “and that’s what happened to your ‘kind’ friend.”

too important to see the gallows; not important enough to see the sunlight. it is a fate that suits them just fine. whichever face of theirs you see depends entirely on the way the shadows have been cast on their face. they’ll play nice with aelfric; they’ll be lady rhea’s spy.

“...friends.” the first word she says, after a weighted silence. the one that sticks out to her. the one that doesn't fool her.

“you didn't kill me because i was your friend,” she continues slowly, heart thundering in her ribs, telling her to shut up, shut up, shut up and sit still, nobody wants to hear you speak and bad things happen when you speak but bernadetta does anyway. bernadetta lifts her gaze and maybe there is part of a girl who hadn't truly died with jules, even if the wobble in her voice is a permanent scar in itself.

bernadetta continues, she speaks up exactly the way she had on the day she asked her father about jules and it'd made him the second maddest he'd ever been in her life, and he made sure she remembered it. father, who kept trying to tarnish jules' character, and yuri who still does even that better to themself than anyone else.

so for the sake of her very first friend, who had not brought down the knife for her sake, bernadetta does not shut her mouth this time even when the phantom sting on her cheek tries to warn her. “and you didn't kill those thieves because they were, too.”

it all comes together a little more. it is not a far cry from the very question she had challenged yuri with in the infirmary. the reason you couldn't kill me was because we were friends, right?

they said it themself. she was the heir to house varley, with a crest. whoever hired ████ wasn't the only one who wanted her dead. so what would have happened that night if someone else had beaten little jules to little bernie's bedside? could yuri swear to bernadetta right here and now that he would have just watched? how many more attempts were there after that to take the life of a child who could not protect herself, and where were the very terrible yuri leclercs who willingly stood between those he called ‘friend’ and the swords pointed at them then? hers was gone. her heart shattered with his bones, and she had never known goodness since. but it meant he could be there for others.

yuri hadn't killed her. by all means, the words should terrify her—the story in its entirety should send her barreling out the door—and had they not set things straight in the infirmary, maybe all of this would have. but it is because of everything she has learned that it doesn't.

“i think that my kind friend just protects different people now.” and when bernadetta says it she strips the word of yuri's sneer. she strips ‘kind’ of all of its self-derisive shame and swaps it for sincerity, heavier in her mouth than any ‘sorry’ could ever be. yuri twirls the knife in their hand. it could be the same size as the one jules held back then. she only looks at them. “that's why they could know a place like that, but haven't left like they did everywhere else, right? they're still here for others. and they're still...”

but nobody cares what you think, bernadetta.

the realization of her audacity hits her with a startle, ending with the stiff jerk and freeze of her body—eyes snapping wide, heart stopping, breath catching, head bowing, tail tucking with another apology half forming in her mouth. another ‘sorry’. she makes a broken noise in the start of crawling her way back to it, scouring for a space to slot it in, trembling hands bunching fists into her skirt.

“ah! i— that was out of line, i'll do better, please don't be mad, i'm so—” strained, panicked, remorseful. (sincere. still torturously sincere.) bernadetta's palms fly up to her head, trading fistfuls of fabric for fistfuls of hair.

what really happened to her kind friend?

Finn watches silently as the young student fusses and frets over the flower. He would have thought a task this important, as their employers had stressed, would be given to someone more…reputable and experienced then one of the very students attending Garreg Mach. If this plant was truly as fragile as they insisted, then it made little sense to him that they would allow for such risk.

Still…he is asked to do little more than accomplish his task, and so his questions are swallowed for now. It would not be good to accidentally question the girl to the point she failed to properly focus on what she was meant to be doing and allowed the plant to die.

His horse paws at the ground, clearly still upset about how he had been yanked away from his attempt at eating the plant in question. Finn pats the horse's neck absently as he continues to watch the student prepare for the plant's extraction.

"…You're certain that you have everything you need?" Though he doesn't want her to falter, he doesn't want this to be a complete waste of their time either. "If you're not confident in yourself, you may take more time to prepare before we begin. I doubt they will be willing to give us a do over should we fail to meet expectations."

bernadetta wants it so bad. she had glued herself to the plant from the moment she had laid eyes on it. a derdriu native species, baile aside; the stuff of dreams, too out of scope to have imported to her, even on some off chance that she had the funds for it. caught in euphoria, she could have fallen to her knees right in front of the lumenthus—in fact, she had after the horse nearly made a snack of it. she'd even been talking to it.

but she can't make off with it while this knight is watching. she could almost cry.

it's no one's fault but her own. bernadetta's long overdue for proper equestrian certification, even if she'd taken lessons back home. if only she could have come here with no one save the company of her very own mount. she turns her gaze wistfully to the man's horse and sighs.

"huh? oh, that's okay. i'm never confident," she chimes back a little too mundanely—like it's as simple and true as the sky being blue. her point being: "i think i'm as ready as i'll ever be. i just wanted to bask in this beautiful specimen a little longer..."

but, nothing lasts forever. not the moment of admiration, not the glow of the lumenthus, and not the knight's patience either. bernadetta returns her attention back to the flower, sighs again, and finally gets to work with her trowel. the labor doesn't take much strength, nor does it take long. the extraction goes just fine, roots perfectly unscathed as she packs them into her temporary planter, already ready with a special blend of soil she'd brought for the occasion.

...but that's also part of the point, isn't it? That for people so unused to hearing that sort of thing, it makes the moments where it is said all the more important. It's about the safety to take those steps onto the glass walkway before them and know that it's not going to give out under them at one wrong word or action.

It's why Yunaka makes space for Bernadetta without comment or hesitation as she curls up against her side, and why she doesn't react at all beyond wrapping an arm around Bernie when she leans her head on her shoulder. Well, not entirely true. She does smile as she accepts the gesture, and laugh as she briefly presses her own head against her student's before straightening up again.

"Sure, I'd love to hear about what you've been up to. I'm sure a Bernie-bee like you has had plenty to keep her busy." Would it be too much to press and ask more about the date? Probably. "You can tell me whatever you want to, okay? I'm happy to listen to every word."

the tabby does not answer to the mouse. superior that he is, he ignores her fourth or fifth plea whined at him from the bottom of the shelf, and he strides away to doze between some extremely breakable looking teasets. top shelf teasets! if he knocks anything to the ground, it'll come out of her nonexistent paycheck.

at least it looks like all he plans to do for now is sleep. bernadetta gives up on the naughty child to coo down at a different cat that brushes through her gangly legs. "sir pouncelot, you're so fat and fluffy. i just love you so much! i'll fry you some extra fish if you agree to be bernie's new orange friend. wait, what do you have in your mouth?"

her neck snaps in the direction of the kitchen bar. paw print indentations in the remains of a baked tart. the last food item in stock, at that. it'd be another hour until the next batch of baked goods was done. she wants to scream.

...at least the place was dead right now.

Of all the things to light a spark at Garreg Mach, she both is and isn't surprised that it's a competition yet to actually be announced. Still, it's nice to see everyone's efforts devoted to something so mundane, setting aside the fact that this is an academy of war.

Among those seemingly rising to the challenge, Katarina had spied a familiar face working hard in a sequestered corner of the space allowed to those outside the kitchen staff. She might not be of much use to others, but most cooks needed a taste tester, didn't they? So she had approached quietly; asked permission quietly; filled the space quietly, and then-- perhaps it might have been rude of her, but she had watched in quiet admiration, too.

"You seem very skilled," she comments softly. Yet when she reaches for a name to complete her sentence, she realizes that she has none. "--oh... I never gave you my name, did I...? I'm sorry. Um... my name is Katarina." A smile there, little and tepid, yet it peeks through the earth to sprout a quiet laugh as well. "...it's nice to meet you again. If... you don't mind me asking... what are you making?"

but. it isn't every day she gets to work with so many ingredients on someone else's dime. nobody will miss a few if she walks out of here with heavier pockets, nor should they mind if bernadetta were to lose so horribly on her first dish that they'd just have to send her home with all the other presumably-awful food that she'll have made. of course not!

“o-oh, right! i'm bernadetta.”  belated introductions traded, bernadetta is glad to be able to put a name to her. she'll swear that it's the quiet ones to watch out for (like hubert) (like jeritza) (very occasionally linhardt), but katarina's is a gentler quiet—warmer, soft-spoken, unintrusive. and she had even given bernadetta all of her ethereal ball chocolates. the least she can do is return the kindness with something edible while they're both here.

“um, i made a few things. two-fish sauté, gratin, verona stew, sweet and salty whitefish sauté, some saghert and cream... not that i expect to win.” no, she isn't planning on it at all. “my two-fish sauté isn't all that bad, though. do you want to taste some of—ah!” but the sound of a rolling boil neglected just a bit too long hits her ears, and bernadetta has to spin around to take her stew off the fire before it can overflow. she does finish calling over her shoulder, “uh, i-if you do want to help yourself, it's the left bowl!”