#( v: dorothea / crimson flower. ) — to a brighter dawn.

[patroklides-archive]

"dorothea," the backstage is a place the queen of brigid has grown used to, between their visits from her land to fódlan and the occasional show the mystical songstress still bestows upon admirers. most behold her with a curiosity that seems almost invasive, considering they oftentimes prefer to ask their questions to her spouse rather than herself, but that feels far more benign than it ever was during her youth—change, petra concludes, comes at a slow pace, after all.

that she is here back in adrestia as a renowed guest rather than a glorified hostage, shows it enough.

behind her beloved's chair at her dressing table, the huntress keeps her gaze upon the wedding ring upon the singer's finger. a gift in fódlan's custom of a green so beautiful it almost matched dorothea's gaze. peripheral gaze still notices others watching, attentive in their curiosity. there is no ill-meaning to it, at least.

they do not seem like any of the courtly vipers of enbarr, after all.

"would it put the other performers at ease if i awaited for the performance with the other guests? i have been noticing great unease among them," petra blames the novelty. why, yes! not every day did a foreign royal come to their premises. she presses the gentlest kiss upon the back of her lover's perfumed tresses, eyes closing briefly as she scents flowers & her dearest thea. "my attire may be frightening for those not aware of my place of birth." as brigid custom demands, she wears her weapons in a diverse amount; daggers and sword in sight, surely she must strike them as menacing.

bc nox knows my weakness | @hubrisi

𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐀𝐒 𝐒𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐒 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐈𝐃 — the warm, lush summers and the mild winters, the smell of the ocean that never seemed far from her, and the loving embrace of her beloved makes the archipelago feel like something akin to paradise — she has missed this more than she can possibly say. there is no substitute for the thrill of excitement she feels in front of a crowd, the joy at hearing the audience laugh, the satisfaction of hearing them weep ! no, there is nothing else like the opera; she suspects she will always feel the pull of the stage as surely as petra feels the pull of the ocean.

          it does not escape her notice how the choir girls seem to skirt around the queen of brigid, eyes downcast and red-faced, and she can’t help but give a wry smile. “ a beautiful foreign queen, in the arms of enbarr’s most elusive songstress ? i can’t imagine why they would be giving us a wide berth, ” she teases. “ maybe they’re just afraid i’ll get jealous if they pay too much attention to you. ”  

          a contended sigh leaves her as she feels the familiar brush of her beloved’s lips against her crown, and she tilts her head back just enough to gaze up at her wife with the gentle, lovestruck expression that could only belong to a newlywed. never mind that they have been wed for nigh half a year now — perhaps it is merely the long weeks apart, or the anticipation buzzing through her at the thought of taking the stage for the first time since the war, but she feels half-giddy in love with this woman. with petra. beautiful, kind, perfect petra. 

          “ besides, you’re not going anywhere. ” she makes a show of pouting, ever the actress, but she can’t mask the glint of mischief in her eyes. “ you’re supposed to kiss me for luck before the show. it is opening night, after all. ” opening night to a production she has helped write, at that. if the show flops, it will be her acting, her singing, her lyrics — and if it fails, she will have no one to blame but herself.

          she leans back into the embrace of her wife, gaze falling back to the headpiece on the vanity in front of her. [ made of painted foam and cloth, a pale imitation of the real thing; horns, attached to a snow-white wig. a week ago, she had thought it perfect. now, however, doubt begins to creep in. ] 

          “ petra… ” her voice is low, pitched only for the ears of her wife, and if there is a tremble in it, then none but her will hear. “ what if they hate it ? ” she murmurs. “ what if edie hates it, or the professor ? ” she wraps one hand, delicately, around her beloved’s wrist — an anchor, in case her worries start to drag her out to sea — and sighs a soft, steadying sigh.

          “ i’m sorry, i’m just — nervous, i suppose, ” she admits. “ isn’t that strange ? i used to get on stage in front of crowds like this every day. i don’t know why i’m suddenly so jittery. ” she twists around in her chair, then cranes up to press a brief, chaste kiss to her wife’s tattooed cheek. “ it’s silly, i know. and if you want to go out to the auditorium and meet up with our friends before the show, i’ll understand, but … it always makes me feel better when you’re here. ” 

[patroklides-archive]

❛ you trusted me, so then i’ll trust you too. ❜  | from petra

TRUST IS NOT SOMETHING DOROTHEA HAS EVER OFFERED FREELY; affection, kindness, even compassion, yes, but not trust. to trust another is to give them power. the power to hurt you. not just physically — though, yes, that too — but in a deeper, more intimate way. to trust is to leave yourself laid bare. to put her life in another’s hands, her safety on the battlefield, is easy, but to trust another with her heart ?

        [ does she trust petra ? sweet, honest petra — and if not her, is there anyone she truly could really, truly trust ? ]

         — but that isn’t what she means, is it ?

         dorothea reaches up to trace a finger over one of the long, thin braids that hang over her shoulders, freshly plaited by the slender hands of the woman beside her. the style is simpler than the one’s petra favors, but it’s similar enough that the image in the mirror is striking. ( is this what trust is ? closing her eyes against the soothing feeling of warm fingers combing through her hair, relaxed and content ? )

         “  oh, petra, it’s lovely~,  ”  she sighs, before she turns to face the other woman.  “  i’ve never done anything this intricate before, but i think i’ve got it. turn around for me ? and don’t be shy about telling me if it looks wrong.  ”

         she shifts up onto her knees behind her, reaching to comb through the long strands. the texture is thicker than dorothea’s own, coarse, yet more silky; she divides the hair into sections with long, painted nails before beginning the braid, snug against petra’s scalp. strand over strand, down to the ends of her hair, before beginning the process anew with another thin section of hair.

         “  there !  ”  she  announces, as she ties off the last strand. one hand curls around petra’s arm as she leans in close, chin tucked over her shoulder.  “  i think i did well for my first try, don’t you think ? then again —  ”  a catlike smile curls at her lips.  “  — you’d look gorgeous no matter what i did.  ”  

unprompted; @adornednight​ ​

[patroklides-archive]

a special occasion; more so than most if she were to listen to personal bias. Ah, perhaps too self-centered a notion & yet it prompted one to pick a present with utmost care. Why, she had done so months in advance, in-between arranging reconstruction & reparation of Fodlan's North, mindful of commercial impasses & the war-prompted shortage of many a thing / in-between a letter exchange with Claude & another one with Petra, back & forth, until a window of opportunity had presented itself.

With Empress consort off to join Hubert in what either deemed a mere errand, she had all the time needed to arrange a gathering / a precious hour or two reserved for none other than her dearest friend. Their meeting had been scheduled in Enbarr's garden park, a place still in full bloom despite first traces of winter granting the air a crisp kind of chill [you owe her that much & more / you owe her happiness & prosperity, a world to her liking, a world worthwhile enough to mend whatever gash your the war had torn].

Thusly, on birthday’s early afternoon, one welcomes Dorothea in common Imperial black & muted red, without any sign of bellicose regalia there to spoil what she considered such a special occasion. Long had she ridded herself of such, sporting attire befitting of a ruler rather than a warrior. Covered to the chin in cloth, as per usual, yet devoid of cape & crown paying extra heed to other’s relentless recommendations regarding one’s royal wardrobe [humane, almost; capable of covering traces of fatigue / the tinted rims beneath the eyes matching lilac in their morbid beauty].

“ Dorothea! I’m so glad you could make it. I know with Hubert gone you have much and more to organize so thank you for indulging me. “  ━          tone light / jovial, almost, devoid of otherwise so stern undertone; she signals the other to take a seat, quick to offer beverage & what pastries Enbarr’s strained reserves could safely afford. Aye, consider your afternoon tea a means of delighting other & providing distraction both, having the rest of the former Strike Force set up their own little surprises throughout the endeavor.

━ including a gift of her own, wrapped in neat bordeux paper & on its way to be placed in Dorothea’s abode; it had cost her a good bout of restraint not to simply buy something as first impulse had suggested but rather settle for a more personal touch; a small tableu painting drawn by one’s own hand [not nearly as glorious as it could have been; too shaky have your hands become / crest curse’s removal having left you weakened for a while] & yet a tribute, a remnant of times full of daring hope & wistful glee.

‘tis a sketched picture of a time before their strife & toil, the Black Eagle House sitting around a table, celebrating post their win at Gronder Fields. ━  needlessly sentimental in retrospect & yet a present coming from the heart all the same. ━ birthday surprise drabble [from Edelgard to Dorothea]!

THERE WAS A TIME IN HER LIFE, many years ago, when birthdays had meant little to her. when there had been no one to shower her with gifts, or to bake her sweets; no friends to celebrate with her least of all. later, in the opera, she had received gift after gift from nobles, had been invited to grand parties and given fine albinean chocolates, yet none of them had known her birthday; she was little more than a pretty trinket to them, after all. why should her birthday matter, after all ? it had been the professor — byleth — who had given her the first birthday gift she had ever received in earnest, had it not ? back in that year at the academy, halcyon days that they were, that simple hair clip from the monastery market had meant more to her than all of the fine jewelry the nobles of enbarr could throw at her.

even then, something as grand as taking tea with the emperor in her personal garden seemed like little more than a girlish dream. ( admittedly, those fantasies had been rather different than the reality, yet that is the nature of life, isn’t it ? when has everything ever gone according to a plan ? ) yet here she sits, the first colors of autumn blooming around them, with the women who has come to be her most precious friend, at long last able to enjoy the peace they both had fought for.

[ she had foisted an embrace upon her at first greeting, propriety be damned; she is here as a friend, after all, not on any official business. ]

“ edie, you really didn’t have to go through all this trouble, you know.” she watches the other woman from across the tea table, the cup of sweet apple blend warm between her palms as the first cool winds of the year begin to blow. dorothea is aware, after all, that her friend is up to something; how had she kept her brewing war hidden for a year when she wears her secrets so plainly on her face in this ? perhaps it’s merely the long months working so closely with hubert that have sharpened her senses — or merely the many years she has spent at her side that have taught her what to look for. “ i don’t know what you have up your sleeve, but i hope you didn’t do anything too extravagant — you know i would be happy with just a quiet day with my friends. i have enough of being the center of attention at the opera, after all. ”

the sigh she gives in response might almost be convincing, to anyone who did not know her so well; yet the slight curl to her lips and the lilting cadence of her voice more than give away the lie.

a pout, then, as the cup returns to the saucer. “ i will say that it was clever of you not to give caspar any of the details. he was, sadly, the only one of our friends i could crack, and he didn’t tell me anything i couldn’t have figured out on my own. ”

[patroklides-archive]

"that was a wonderful performance, dorothea." nat's eyes sparkle as she hands over a bouquet of roses, and rises on her toes to press a chaste kiss to her cheek. "i would love to see your take on the ballad of rhydderch one day."

DOROTHEA BEAMS AT THE SIGHT OF THE FLOWERS; not an unusual sight, to be sure, but neither is it an expected one. they’re lovely — the fragrant smell of fresh-cut roses wafts over her as she accepts them, reaching to trail one polished finger over the soft, dewey petals. [ there was once a time when this was commonplace, when beloved patrons showering her with gifts and flowers was the norm. but it has been so long… ]

          “  oh, nat, you’re just trying to flatter me~,  ”  she singsongs. she chuckles warmly at the press of lips against her cheek before turning back to face the shorter woman, hmming thoughtfully.  “  buuuuut, i suppose i could do a private performance for you sometime, if you’d like.  ”  she reaches to tuck a stray strand of brown hair away from natalia’s face and back behind her ear, a coy twist at the edge of her lips.

          “  you know, i don’t think i’ve ever seen you this dressed up. it’s a good look for you.  ”  she winks at the other girl before turning back toward her dressing room door and nudging it open with her shoulder.  “  let me put these in somewhere safe, then there’s this lovely little restaurant in the city i have to take you to. i’m not taking no for an answer, you know.  ”

unprompted; @caelavi​.