#birthdaydetta 2k24 /

[hermidetta]

bernadetta von varley buys herself a quiver for her first real birthday at the officers academy. ⚘

⠀ ⠀ ⚘ ⠀ ⠀

bernadetta von varley buys herself a quiver for her first real birthday at the officers academy. it still needs a brief touch of her tailoring. the ones from the monastery are too clunky and eclipse her tiny frame, but steadily she is growing, and in no small part due to what nutrition she has gotten here compared to back home. there are more than a few things she has gotten here compared to back home. some are good, some are bad. on the good days she likes to hope there have been more good than bad.

over the months the inexhaustible has dwindled from its original purpose as an oversized paperweight. because it responds to her in a way no other bow has, no matter how scared she is, no matter how many times she herself has rejected the tool. still, it accepts her and all her cowardice, because it is man who wages war and not the weapon he holds. it is man, it is men who women have mothered without birthing, it is men who harm and punish inadequacy with their weapons and their words and their wrath. a weapon is nothing but cold steel, indiscriminate of the wielder behind it.

or at least it is supposed to be. but not even bernadetta can convince herself that the thrum of life that flows and ebbs beneath her nicked fingertips is nothing more than a placebo effect. vividly it kicks, it cries, it burns, it soothes. it is inexhaustible, it is temperance meeting bernadetta's immovable. it has grown familiar almost on par with a needle or a pen, and it scares her more than she will ever admit. this bow feels more at home in her hands than she had ever felt inside her parents' house.

drawing its string is a prayer, she learns. it is hardly a process she can fathom through physics alone; in truth it is charged and ritualistic in its saintly creed: one arrow notched, twenty-nine left behind it, ninety degrees suspended between her fingers and the handle. it is the only prayer now that she might bother to practice. in the night, bernadetta's fingers release another arrow with a swish!—indech's sigil flashes almost blindingly in its wake, and by the time that light fades, the steel arrowhead has splintered true through the center of an old wooden target. yes. this is the only prayer that gets any answer even if she delivers it herself.

(she notches another arrow.)

does count varley pray? is that what saved adrestia's minister of religious affairs from his rumored assassin? bernadetta knows the answer.

(she notches another arrow.)

could that assassin have succeeded if they held the inexhaustible? a saint's weapon, here, in the hands of their mark's only heir.

(she notches another arrow.)

could the so-called assassin have wanted her head instead? she is no stranger to attempts. could they have succeeded? how much would she still care? because for so many birthdays before this she had not.

by the time dawn breaks, bernadetta has exhausted all of these questions and all thirty arrows. she tidies the debris, the tips of her fingers a tired red, before she scurries back to the safety of her room—before others begin to rise. she will surely pray again, again, and again for all of the times she had sobbed into the dark without any answer; with two hands not folded in a chapel but clasped around steel. bernadetta von varley is unmarriageable, after all. she and her thirty arrows in her new quiver have all the time in the world.

[hermidetta]

there has been, for as long as they've known each other, a series of unspoken rules: to have each other's backs, to lift one another up, and to share in the heartbreaks wrought by the shards of girlhood that left them scarred. a past not so easily escapable for either of them — not with the constant reminders found at their doorsteps and in their reflections. yet, there is some solace, dorothea hopes, in knowing the other is but a door away should those dark and terrible memories awaken.

today will only be marked by good ones, if she has any say in the matter. so, preparations begin at dawn, and only the birds and the occasional knight catch sight of one lone songstress flitting from her room and back, arms full with baskets and rolls of fabric one moment, empty the next. the cycle repeats once more. boxes and trinkets, packages of various shapes and sizes, and to the rare passerby, she offers no explanation beyond a simple smile in greeting.

it's a special day.

there is no booting the girl of the hour from her room when the time comes. once let in, dorothea simply instructs bernadetta (and mr. bearkley) to close their eyes. "it'll be worth it," she promises. "i'll be quick." and so, the transformation begins. festive fabrics — soft sheens of lilacs and baby blues — are draped across the walls. three new stuffed animals are placed on her desk, seated around a small cake decorated with pastel-colored sprigs of flowers. a new mannequin, assembled and shoved into the corner with some effort, is placed next to where that trusty sewing kit is stowed.

finally, she carefully places the last gift in her friend's hands: a thick, leather-bound journal with the following inscription carefully etched into its cover in cursive:

happy birthday to my bern. your stories will take the world by storm one day.

"you can open your eyes now," she says, heart full and nearly bursting. "i decided to bring the party to you. i hope that's okay." dorothea sinks next to her on the bed and gently bumps the other's shoulder with her own. "happy birthday, bern-bear. i may have accidentally scuffed your floorboards... but you'll find it in your heart to forgive me, right?"

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

here is what he grumbles, already disgruntled by the gender, when they lift his newborn from the glowing mechanism: "a minor crest. i suppose it's better than nothing."

bernadetta cannot remember the last time she had been afforded a birthday party. it is understandable. her mother has toiled away in the capital for as bernadetta can remember, but every year she sends a letter that should, with luck, make it to her daughter within that same week.

her father usually buys himself a gift. a teaset for her twelfth that began all her training. an itchy dress and veil for her sixteenth that obscured her face with tulle because tulle was the socially acceptable alternative to a bag. nobody would want her without a bag.

"at least you're young enough to make up for your face, but even that's got a shelf life. you'd better shape up quick to be a desirable, obedient wife. there's a neighboring duke wants to replace his late one before his fiftieth birthday. you'll meet in a month's time."

(the story goes that this lesser duke saw a bare ankle and died of cardiac arrest. whatever the case, bernadetta had breathed the biggest sigh of relief. but there were more after him, of course. always more. somehow the country had no shortage of men who needed women while those men framed it the other way around.)

bernadetta has never loved herself enough to craft a real future in her head. she fears pain, but little else ought be expected from any sensible human, and in terms of the long term she would much rather vanish. she is unlike dorothea in countless ways—including here—that dorothea would elevate bernadetta in regardless.

all including here. because bernadetta opens her eyes to a future she should have anticipated as a girl, a future she should have believed to be within reach. bernadetta opens her eyes to dorothea. to sweets, to decorations, to gifts. to merriment, as if her having been born was ever worth celebration.

"dorothea..."

dorothea makes her want to believe again. in that moment her voice is tiny, wobbly, and so very afraid. afraid of her parents. afraid of the people who should have sent their wishes first. because what if they try to hurt you? bernadetta had asked dorothea once upon a time. what if they ever tried to harm her best friend now like her first one then?

the first few teardrops splash onto the leather cover, just short of the inscription. she startles and jolts to dab the spot with her sleeve, timid gasp torn from trembling lips.

"i-i'm okay!"  bernadetta blurts out her hasty disclaimer before dorothea can fret too much.  "i'm okay! it's— it's not you. or this. i like all of this. thank you for all of this! it's..."

with all of the care in the world, bernadetta sets aside the journal. she tries not to let her watery gaze catch again on the mannequin, or the cake, or the stuffies before she turns to dorothea and practically tackles her in an embrace.

"i'm happy,"  she weeps into dorothea's shoulder. in a smaller hiccup she echoes the words as if she cannot believe the veracity of them. i'm happy.

is this allowed? she is happy without permission. it is terrifying, monumental and exhilarating all at once—just like what she shares with dorothea.

bernadetta's arms tighten around her. a writer is supposed to weave great words, but what to say that could ever be enough? thank you? i love you? the floorboards aren't mine, anyway? it's always okay, you always make me feel okay?

as they sit together in that small, decorated room, mourning girlhood, celebrating each other, bernadetta only hopes her tight hug could convey all of it and more. to look into her heart and find room for forgiveness would be to cut it open and evict dorothea herself from it.

[hermidetta]

it is the middle of the night and there is a knock at bernadetta's window. once, twice, thrice—as many as it takes to rouse her, then a faint, tentative quirk at the corner of their lips and a wave in greeting from the boy standing outside her room. “i've got something to show you,” yuri says to her, at a time when the only people who should be awake are the scoundrels and thieves. and they're certainly not the kind of people to be following into the dark, but they still ask, “wanna come?”

and yuri has plans, certainly, of leading her through the maze of winding tunnels beneath the monastery until they emerge reach a small field of flowers they'd found outside garreg mach's walls. but she can come or not—they will never push. they'll leave the basket hanging from their arm for her regardless of any answer or lack thereof.

part way through putting it together, they realized they don't quite know bernadetta as well as they did when they were still children, and the result is a collection of pastries they think they remember her liking and the odd item here and there—some new needles and threads, a few packets of flower seeds, a little hoodie similar to her own academy uniform that seems sized for a stuffed bear rather than a human.

(if she says yes, though, she gets one more gift: a secret. she gets yuri sitting cross-legged on a blanket they'd brought so they could sit on the grass and look at the stars, glancing sideways at her. “it's not my real name, you know.” their gaze shifts away. “yuri. and it wasn't jules either. but i suppose you could've guessed that by now.”

a shake of their head, then they move on as though they'd never even said it. “anyway, it's lucky the skies were clear tonight. i've got plenty of talents, but even i can't control the weather. and i might like to look at them, but i don't actually know that much about stars.” one hand planted behind them to brace their weight, they lean over and use the other to point up to the sky. “i can always find that one, though. it's one of the brightest in the sky: regulus.” a pause, but yuri cannot so blatantly offer her that knife to their heart just yet. they pull away. “you got a favorite, bernadetta?”)

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

she comes. of course she does. of course she wants to, if the way her eyes light up at yuri right as she opens the window is any indicator. and here is what most do not know: the back window of her room is a special, secret gateway, an entrance and exit just for bernadetta herself—bernadetta, and yuri.

"yuri! you're here!"

it would be a boldfaced lie for her to say she had not wished to see them on her birthday. it may be a childish whim for those who are no longer children in a garden, and for that alone she keeps tens of thousands of wishes and words under lock and key. but so many of her other friends had paid her a visit. bernadetta could make a hundred more of them and she would still be a bit lonelier each birthday without the first one she'd ever made.

"yeah, i do!"

so of course she comes. she tumbles out the window in her excitement-that-may-also-just-be-clumsiness, and she most certainly does not have an embarrassed tint in her cheeks as she pats the stray leaves off her skirt.

she knows yuri is busy. their greeting, the fact that they had taken the time out of their day to even see her, that was more than gift enough—but the basket on their arm staggers her breath and sends her into disarray. all of the treasures inside, each a carefully curated fragment of her. none of those fragments had been lost to time. even sweeter, yuri's memory.

yes—this is her gentle friend, the one she will always follow into the dark, the one whose knife she would trust against her throat again and again because maybe there is no love without violence. maybe there is no one capable of a violence any worse to bernadetta than herself, anyway.

so of course she accepts the basket, too. she accepts it with no small stream of stammered gratitude, and in the night her treacherous eyes wander to where the handle had hung from yuri's arm. if she announces her motion with a weak clear of her throat—if her thumb and forefinger reach out to pinch just their sleeve, unintrusive, as unassuming as possible, just the tiniest pinch of it so that she would not trip and fall, then bernadetta will be thankful if yuri does not laugh too much for it. (she falls regardless. she falls, and falls, and falls with both feet planted on the ground. she would forgive them regardless. always, she forgives them.)

even when they speak amidst sweet flowers, yuri's blanket soft beneath them, bernadetta would forgive them for whatever she knew, and for whatever she did not. that is why she takes what they do decide to name, taking it into cradled hands like another gift, because everything from them to her is. (she does not realize the irony of it all, so ready to take a knife herself that she cannot see that it is the handle, not the blade end that is teased in her direction.)

"regulus,"  she echoes softly, with a twinkle of marvelment, testing the sound of it on her tongue. it's nice. gentle, like fingers that might untangle thorns from her hair or wipe tears from her cheeks. she likes it.  "one of the brightest, huh?"

she cannot revel too long in its majesty, however. not when yuri's voice lingers in her head like a bad habit. but i suppose you could've guessed that by now. a pause suspends the air until finally, she addresses it. she must.

"... yeah. i knew."  her voice, hushed and tender—fond, despite everything; fond, despite the unspoken barrier; fond, because a name was special, but not moreso than the bearer behind it. any wall, any lock, any knife and bernadetta would care infinitely more for who stood behind them all.

yes—bernadetta had already guessed that she had never been given their real name. but they had always given her so much more. she has never felt anything as real as that.

"that's okay. i mean, no matter what... wherever, or whoever you are... as long as you're safe and happy, that's enough for me. i just wanted you to know that, too."

wherever they are, whoever they are, it would not change that they were her dear friend. how could she ask them for anything more? when all life must have done to yuri for years is take. they might have learned its rules, learned how to play foul and keep sharp, but life still took. it took too much.

and because she could not bear for it to take even more from them now, she skirts ahead of the topic just as yuri had.

"so, um! when i get lost and can't find you, does that mean i can look for that star instead?"  eyes squint at the sky, and her neck tilts as if trying to memorize regulus from different angles, different forms. it kept its unmistakable glow either way. almost like the very friend who sat beside her.  "i don't know much about them, either, so i never had a favorite before. hm..."

then bernadetta turns her head to yuri, a cheek squashed atop her raised knees. when she smiles, gray eyes crinkle into crescents that join the canvas of stars above them.

"but i think i like regulus, too."

[hermidetta]

It's a bit harder to pick a gift when you want to know someone, but don't know them so well yet -- a problem she looks forward to solving in the future! Today, however, she knocks gently on Bernadetta's door, grinning on the other side of it.

"Hi, Bernie!" Maria greets, her voice in the shape of a smile. "I have a present for you!"

It's a bouquet of flowers in a white, thin-necked vase, naturally. But the choice of flowers itself is not as classic: yellow tulips and white heather stretch tall enough that Maria peeks from the side and not over the array, not too unlike the hidden, true star of the present: a long-limbed little teddy bear, purple in hue but with sunflowers embroidered on his tummy. In fact, he even seems to have little flowers on his crown as well... He wraps his arms around the neck of the vase like a squishy soft ribbon, paws discreetly held together by means of beans made of button and loop.

"Happy birthday! Hee hee... here, these are for you!" Gingerly, she passes the present over. "I know they're supposed to be red, but--" A laugh bubbles up. "I really wanted to give you these instead!" Well wishes, as ever, and sunshine in her smile. All the lovely things Maria thinks of her. Her eyes crinkle at their corners, sparkling as she lifts a conspiratorial finger to her lips. "And I'll make you some sweet buns later, if you want them! Look forward to it, okay? Heeheehee!"

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

even the shrinking violet, who loves the shade, turns its head toward dappling sunlight. maria's voice calls bernadetta through the door, and the latter's nose pops out from a rather familiar book. she slips a pressed flower on her current page, shuts it, and bounces off of her bed to gravitate to the front entrance. the door shies open, more than a mere crack, but just enough for the entirety of her figure to fit through it—curved petals of a bud mid-bloom.

"oh, maria! h-hi..."  her gaze falls to the vase.

well wishes. good luck. friendship, new beginnings. her ashen eyes widen at the bright arrangement, a bundle of joy cinched by a bear and bottleneck.

and maybe it is all coincidence—maybe there is no particular message behind the charming stalks of yellow tulips and white heather beyond 'happy birthday', but even that much is enough to melt hearts on the spot. sunflowers, too, from a sunflower herself.

"for me?"  bernadetta chirps, albeit with lingering sheepishness, the uncertainty she can never seem to truly shed. hands accept the gift without protest, though, her delight made evident through the faint flush in cheeks and gentle twitch of a touched smile.  "thank you! i like flowers. any color, as long as they're not poisonous! well—poisonous ones are neat, too, just not up close."

oops, she's rambling. there's a tiny yelp of realization before her lips pinch together, but luckily maria doesn't seem to mind. somehow, despite being in bernadetta's company, she never seems to mind. she even promises sweet buns, and the way bernadetta's face brightens is more than enough answer to that.

"r-really? yay! i will!"  she can't help but blurt, hugging her adorable bear and vase—mindful of the flowers, of course, though the tips of the petals tickle her chin. it widens her grin.  "maria, you're always so nice to me. um, if you want... only if you want. we can share the sweet buns together. a-and talk more about books?"

[hermidetta]

Mistakes are things Yarne is no stranger to. He's doomed so many past allies, failed to get in time to them before the Risen cut them down, lost his closest of allies to a storm of death and fell energy.

He'd rarely let someone down so personally - he tried to keep the people around him happy, tried to keep them willing to keep him alive, tried to stay alive through his friends. So his actions hurt. But they probably hurt Bernie more.

"…Please say she isn't here…"

Yarne winces - the shouting still somewhat haunting him, echoing with the words of lost allies, a cacophony of his mistakes. But Bernadetta wasn't dead. And Yarne could try again.

"Just…"

He leaves his gift, and a small letter.

-Dear Bernadetta. -

- I am… very sorry. I was trying to help you as I would want to be helped, rather than how you needed aid. -

- I doubt this will make amends - I doubt much would, honestly, but… I hope you at least enjoy this. -

- With remorse and a heavy heart, -

- Yarne. -

- P.S.: even if you don't want to do the survival club anymore, you can always come to me if you're feeling unsafe, and struggling alone. I… may not give the best aid, but I can try. -

He leaves the plushie in front of the door, before, one last time, leaning down to rub it's head. The same texture as his own fur, the excess shedding from his winter coat. But, of course, it wasn't exactly like him, transformed. More… soft. Cute, even. Though Yarne enjoyed making it…

He hoped Bernadetta would enjoy it even more.

And he scurried off, not wanting to make anything worse.

Although he doubted he could, he didn't want to be wrong on that.

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

the promises of peach sorbet and camaraderie from a cherished blue-haired boy was what had lured her out of her room for lunch. it is when bernadetta returns from lunch that she spots an offering at her door. she is not so presumptuous to assume it is a gift for her—and maybe a pinch paranoid as always with how she prods it for explosives—but the gift is benign. it is a gift. another, for her birthday? and bernadetta scoops it up with gentle hands, unfolds the letter, and feels her heart sink.

"oh... ohh, no..."  the other day replays, clear as day in her mind for how furious she had been.

anger is a dangerous thing. bernadetta loathes it—just another ugly part of her ugly self that rears its head at the worst times, exposing the true colors of a wreck. she is already ugly enough, she already hates herself enough without it. she hates that she hurts. (others? herself?) she hates that she hurts.

guilt crawls up her spine like the pinprick of needles to her palms, right in their centers where she'd had to keep them elevated across waltzes and sonatas of cold ivory keys. she hates that she hurts. (she hates that she hurt yarne.)

she hates the violence she has inherited. usually she is better at keeping it to herself. persecution complex, an imaginary voice jeers.

persecution complex. it is not her persecution complex this time when she knows she is wrong.

her hand spreads atop the plushie's head. it spins her: a carousel of rumination, regret, reflection. she is quick to slip back into the safety of her room, and with her, the working draft of an apology.

[hermidetta]

linhardt had put a considerable amount of work in for bernadetta's birthday gift. it had been rather exhausting, so he hoped at least she would reciprocate well enough. see, there exists a strange looking plant in a remote place of the monastery, only accessible by some of the tunnels connecting to abyss. the first thing linhardt had thought of was bernadetta's favorite plant, even though it isn't quite that, and so he'd added a few sketches of it to his notes to refer to later.

but then they'd forgotten, and as they realized bernadetta's birthday was approaching, they'd pulled out an entirely new and fresh notebook just for this purpose. they made the journey again to where the strange-looking plant resided, and made about five pages of scientific sketches of it.

linhardt doesn't really know botany very well. he knows bernadetta does, though, and that if he were to cut the plant or uproot it or otherwise treat it poorly, it would make only for a bittersweet present, so the thought was that the book would be half of bernadetta's present, and if she felt especially amenable to leaving her room one day, he would take her to the plant in question for her to do, well, whatever she liked with it.

they knock on her door, and immediately speak, because sometimes bernadetta might not pretend to be inside to get whoever to go away.

"happy birthday, bernadetta. it's linhardt. i've got a present for you, but it's a little too big to just slide under the door, if you don't mind opening it."

and, when the door opens, he presents her with the notebook. his sketches detail the strange, crimson leaves of what seems like a weeping flower. really, linhardt would struggle to describe it; that's why he took so many sketches to compensate.

"i don't know much about how to move plants around, other than enough to know not to try, but i tried drawing it for you." they offer her a small smile as they continue. "i can show you where i found it if you'd like to see it in person, but at the very least having an extra notebook is always useful, eh?"

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

it's linhardt.

bernadetta's eyes snap open from where she had been dipping in and out the realm of sleep. suddenly, all over again, the back of her hand is on fire because her skin there remembers the press of linhardt's lips like a brand. (how many people have ever bent their knee to kiss her like that before? was it a gesture she could ever recover from?)

she knows better than to think it could have meant anything. not with her. never with her. nobody would ever with her. but the matter lies in that bernadetta cannot not think about it, and thinking too much is a dangerous thing. she buries her face in sleeved palms and muffles the tiniest scream. just a brief one. just a little one that she abruptly punctuates all by herself in an upright jerk of her head. and the face that emerges is stone cold sober. the face of a jaded warrior long retired from the battlefield of love. (bernadetta has never been in a relationship, but nobody needs to know that. it doesn't take an A rank in authority to guess as much, either.) nobody will be hooking their hooks into her stone cold heart, no. never. not on her watch.

bernadetta opens the door for linhardt and grips the frame until a splitting crack hits the air so that she doesn't get blasted backward by the curve of their smile. they're sick. this is sick. they are so sick because this is sweet. why are they so sweet to her? are they all right in the head? that fluffy, green head that reminds her of a cute little sprout, they are so...

"huh?! th-this—?!"  every thought and reservation drops alongside her jaw. her eyes bulge at the notebook's pages; elaborate entries, illustrations and all.  "this plant!"

she has never seen one of these pitchers in person. and he had thought of her? enough to write and draw this much about it. linhardt's is a brilliant mind; anybody with a neural pulse could figure as much, and any notes of his are worth the entire monastery's weight in gold.

bernadetta gawks down at the work, and for a moment it allows her to let go of some of those silly things she overthinks about. it allows her to blink back up at linhardt and meet their eyes in the briefest flicker. it allows her to hug the notebook to her chest as she blurts—

"i do! i want to see it! because... i really like this! thank you for bringing it to me. and—um, remember what you said before bernie fainted again? a-about us spending more time together?"  her voice tapers tapers to a squeak by the end of that sentence, but she squeezes her eyes shut and persists.  "i... don't think i'd mind. but, on one condition. if you ever find any more of these cute carnivorous plants, you have to tell bernie!"

[hermidetta]

The sun has yet to fully emerge, cascading a shadow of warmth as Edelgard stands in front of the door. The knuckles of her right hand knock upon its center— One, two times. "Bernadetta? Are you awake?" If she isn't, the sound of the princess's voice is loud on its own. "I apologize if not. However, this is a rather urgent matter. I have something for you. Open the door."

She holds the bouquet of yellow daffodil's in one hand and a basket of tea in the other. The creaking door draws eyes away from the quietness of the hall and onto one face in particular. Edelgard hands the flowers over the moment they make eye contact. "Happy birthday," she states. "I couldn't wait all day to give you these, now could I? When I saw them, the first person I thought of was you. Now then.." Shuffling the tea leave case off her forearm, she takes the tiniest step forward.

"I thought it might be nice— To have tea together, that is. We can talk about whatever you wish. At this hour, it will only be you and I. What do you say?"

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

with bernadetta it is a mixed bag. some days she is up, some days not—awake at absurd hours, or out cold through them all. and while going to class did provide her with some semblance of structure, bernadetta's relationship with her academics is as hot and cold as the one she has with sleep.

she is already awake, though; or rather, she had yet to sleep. her second wind had seemed to hit around the tail end of her late night archery practice and, under the impression that it would bully her biological clock into a more manageable beast, bernadetta had considered pushing through the remainder of the day just like this. thus when her house leader knocks, bernadetta startles—but not terribly so. not because of the hour. not because there is a person, either. just that this person happens to be lady edelgard, and bernadetta cups her warm cheeks without realizing it. as soon as she does realize, her fingers spread and fan across the rest of her face in tandem with her affronted little squeak. an allegedly urgent matter? just like how there was an allegedly secret secret?

(but it's not like bernadetta could— would ever say no.) the door opens, she peeks out, and she is met with lilacs then daffodils in that order. a faceful of sunshine. it fills her then with more warmth than real sunlight ever could.

"h-huh?! for me? wow...! lady edelgard, thank you!" the full bouquet, ushered into bernadetta's arms, is cradled with all the care in her being. there is something special to her about receiving flowers, there always will be. and a full bouquet at that? it must be one of the first she has been gifted. edelgard saw them, picked them, for her of all people.

and there is so much bernadetta could ask. there have been so many questions that pop into her mind left and right: questions about herself, questions about edelgard, questions about how or why adrestia's heir apparent to the throne would notice a worm like her on any personal level. even the daughter of count varley knows that he is not as important or indispensable as he makes himself out to be.

but all of those questions and more die on bernadetta's tongue as soon as edelgard invites her for tea. at this hour, it will only be you and i. what does she say?

"um. i say..." bernadetta starts, swaying sheepishly in place. then, a few vehement nods that tip her whole body. "... o-okay! yeah! we can have tea. and... and talk. yeah. bernie's no good at talking, but if it's with you, lady edelgard, then..."

then bernadetta does not mind. she is nervous, of course, but edelgard has never cast her away. edelgard has never shunned her for being less than the ideal subject. so dare bernadetta say—at least in her thoughts—that she would enjoy them taking tea for two.

[hermidetta]

She's not quite sure if she's on the list, but she figures it's worth a shot. Carefully covering up the basket so that nobody walking past can see what's inside, she stops outside Bernie's door. Show time.

Sighing dramatically (and loudly) Yunaka starts talking to herself. "Aw dang! I sure didn't mean to pick up these extra gifts when I went out to the market, but looks like I accidentally did." She definitely got these just for Bernie specifically.

"If only I knew a certain birthday girl to give these to...Guess I'll leave them here outside of this random student's door to see if they want them!"

The basket is placed as close to Bernie's door as possible, so that she doesn't have to go far to get it. She's sure to "accidentally" knock against the door as she does so. "All done! I'll go now, so I don't bother anybody."

And she does just that, giving Bernie the space to claim the basket (or ignore it if she wants to) without anyone watching. She hopes she takes it. The cupcakes will only last so long, and she's kind of worried that the star stickers might fall off the quills of the stuffed, purple hedgehog toy before she sees them.

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

they ought to drill peepholes into these doors. bernadetta dog-ears the idea to carve one out herself while yunaka is speaking from the great outdoors, because maybe bernadetta is curious about the hypothetical birthday girl in question and how special this birthday girl must be to get gifts from professor yunaka. because, glancing down, bernadetta must admit to herself as nicked fingers fidget below her chin: it would be nice to be thought of by professor yunaka. she doesn't make it a habit to eavesdrop, honest, but before she knows it she's sandwiching her ear against the door to listen. which random student would have her favor?

bernadetta likes professor yunaka. she's pretty, and nice, and strong but also soft. the hands she could use to draw a bow or snap someone's spine are always so gentle with bernadetta, no matter how many times bernadetta fails or embarrasses herself in front of the other woman. it's teachers like her who make bernadetta want and wish to be a good student, people like her who make bernadetta want and wish to be a good person. she isn't. she is a disappointment, she knows. but maybe someday—

the knock startles her a foot in the air. bernadetta waits in petrification for one, two seconds before finally cracking open the door. she sees the basket, the cupcakes and hedgehog after poking cautiously at its cover—and she is so silly, she realizes. it all falls into place, and bernadetta, she has been so silly. yunaka's back and unmistakable red hair are shrinking some ways ahead, though they are still visible, and...

clackclackclackclackclackclack—

yunaka may or may not have heard it, but whether she turns around or not to question the rapid crescendo of pitter-patters against stone, it is in the next instant that something fluffy and purple bounces against her and clings with the almighty force of an armored bear stuffy. a plush, tiny but sweet, just like that starry hedgehog. the way it latches only lasts a moment.

red in the cheeks, bernadetta lifts her face from yunaka's shirt. she drops her arms, spins around and bolts back into her room just as feverishly as she had burst right out of it.

[hermidetta]

"Hey Bernadetta!" Caspar greets the door to her dorm with the same amount of cheer as if his classmate were standing out in front of it. "Are you in there? I just wanted to say happy birthday!"

His gift is a small one: a square pincushion embroidered with thistles crawling along the edges. He'd bought it a few weeks ago, though he hadn't thought of it as a potential birthday gift at the time. The color and shape of the flowers just reminded him so much of his friend that he thought he should show her! They're kinda thorny, but also soft and fluffy-- and purple, of course. He places the gift at the foot of the door, nestled in a small basket along with some extra needles and thread.

"I gotta run, so I'll see you later okay? Um, if I'm actually talking to you now." He lets out an awkward laugh. "But uh, I'll save you some sorbet if you come out for lunch! Seeya!"

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

caspar always talks enough for the both of them. in the very best way she is convinced he could carry a conversation with a brick wall if he tried. but there, behind that terribly familiar door, bernadetta is indeed listening. her mouth opens and closes, a sudden intake of breath here and there when she thinks she knows what she wants to say back—only for caspar to beat her to the punch. he is fast, she is slow. bernadetta might be jealous if she were not absolutely certain that having caspar's gusto and temperament would fizzle her out in seconds.

today is not so bad. despite what little shut-eye bernadetta had been able to get, existing feels marginally easier today—and not because it is her birthday. (if anything it should be the opposite. bernadetta has a bad track record with birthdays.)

today she can admit she is here, behind the door, behind the barriers. true though to his words, caspar leaves before she can gather any of her own to volley back—before she can tell him that yes, he's talking to her; yes, she's in there. the door cracks ajar, revealing two curious gray eyes. they fall to the basket at her feet and soften.

when he's not slinging her over his shoulder like a sack of rice, caspar is easier to be with than her sputtering could express. he is easy to befriend. he makes her feel like a friend, at least—but dare she assume? is it really okay?

he is not always gentle, but his boyish sincerity makes up for that in droves. it is what led him to her door with this gift. cute, is what she first thinks when she scoops up the gift and marvels at the thistles, her thumbs tracing the pincushion's elaborate stitching. it is small and unassuming, but bernadetta sees every part of the gift that made caspar think of her. and just the fact that she had been thought of—it's enough to warm her heart.

she thinks she will emerge for lunch, after all—just a quick meal—and bernadetta trusts he will hold up his promise. he is in for an earful from the birthday girl otherwise.

[hermidetta]

Birthdays are fascinating little human traditions, with the perks of a physical form came the perks of watching the emotions flit through a person's features as a gift is pressed into hands forced, albeit gently, to accept.

" Look at you, another year older. " Bernadetta for all her quirks and skittish behaviours is one of the few people Arval can say make them experience normalcy, mere classmates they may be. It means the tease is second nature to all their interactions. " I have heard a thing or two about with age comes growth, maybe you'll find yourself sprouting like those plants of yours one year. "

Privately, they hope she doesn't. They quite like having a pair of eyes they can reach without straining their neck.

Plant pot is held forward, not quite touching her but perhaps encroaching a little on her space in offering.

" It's carnivorous...except it's rather awful at being carnivorous, actually. Some cross breeding attempt gone awry and now the poor thing starts to wither if you feed it the wrong insect. Picky diet, except it does not seem to register how picky till it's eaten what it's shouldn't. "

To say they had lightly grilled the salesman would be an understatement, the man was the picture of nothing but sweet relief by the time Arval had found themself satisfied.

Between their middle and index finger, folder parchment is swayed back and forth as the curl of their lips sharpens to smugness, edges softened by the little mouse before them they've grown fond of.

" Some light pestering never hurt anyone, everything the vendor had to say about our little struggler is written here. I'm not overly confident most of it is your...especially the latter half. "

A pause, and with a little less of their nonchalance, " If anyone is able to give this pitiful thing an attempt to survive the season, it'd be you. "

They almost forgot the magic wordd, for no matter how many times they do this song and dance Arval is not human and the concept of age coming with celebrations is one as foreign to them as dying is to the living. " Oh! Happy birthday, Bernadetta. "

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

"arval!" the stream from the spout of a watering can comes to an abrupt halt. bernadetta rights the can and settles it back by her feet with a low slosh.

it would seem today is special, and not for her birthday. there is always a surreptitious little treat in these meetings they share in the greenhouse, a portion of the world stolen away from lances and tomes. and true to that tradition, the mouse in front of arval bats her lashes in a way that better likens her to an owl, or a doe, but how ironic that after it all she ends up sheepish by dipping her head and rocking her weight back and forth between both feet.

"another year," she echoes in a mumble, "can't believe bernie's still here. but, um, that's life for you, huh?"

on the heels of that sentence, something like a laugh leaves her, although stilted and uncertain. always uncertain. when is she not? but if there is anything beyond the bad about herself that bernadetta does not question, it is how she feels for the ones she cares for.

arval, the proverbial ghost. arval, the metaphorical cat. arval, the enigma of a classmate who spares her their time—and ever sharp ears. it is so foreign, so surreal that she hardly knows what to do with it. because nobody wants to hear bernie blab. not about her stupid stories, her stupid crafts, or her stupid plants.

but arval does. arval asks bernie about her stupid plants, and arval always listens to bernie blab. they never complain, and simultaneously they never push. how they have existed with her so far is somehow just right. they provide her with a sliver of normalcy that she unwittingly provides them in turn—a symbiosis of sorts that just is.

enter a carnivorous plant that is awful at being carnivorous. what a gift! haywire hybrid or otherwise, it was no easy feat for nature to produce something so uniquely incapable. bernadetta's face lights up in a mishmash of curiosity, delight, surprise.

"oh, it's so cute!" she cries out, cradling the offered pot and raising it like one would their own child. "it's just like bernie! guess we're both bad at what we were meant to do... aw, it's okay, little guy. you've got me now."

and bernadetta dislikes being challenged. she dislikes being tasked with anything she does not feel secure in; anything too new, anything too scary; it is why she dodges classes and assignments more days than not. but bernadetta knows this. it's nothing useful to their society, nothing that will get her anywhere in life—playing around in the dirt, something not even ladylike—but she knows this. so it exhilarates her. it wheedles her out of her shell. arval is there waiting with nothing but acceptance.

they suspend the parchment between their fingers, but it is not the parchment that bernadetta timidly reaches to. slowly, openly, the very tips of her fingers graze their sleeve and gently pinch the fabric. the million dollar question gleams in her colorless eyes, but bernadetta uses her voice anyway.

"um, arval... thank you! i... i think i can do it. after all, it's a precious gift from you, too. so..." her head ducks. "when next year comes around, c-can i show you how much it's grown...?"

[hermidetta]

he paced up and down the open walkway in front of her door, rehearsing his words. "why, bernadetta, happy birthday! oh? these? yes, of course they're for you. are they too much? i hope not, because when i heard you liked them i decided to..." "or is that too much, Ferdinand?" he interrupted himself. "well, if it overwhelms you, maybe you could just take one and i'll just... i don't know what i'll do with a whole bouquet of them, but i'll figure it out." rehearsing. rehearsing.

"no, okay. less words. this has to be perfect. after all, it's her birthday..." inhaling deeply, he was about to start up from the top, when a neatly creased music sheet fell from his pocket. laughing under his breath wistfully, he mocked himself. "why, Ferdinand! since when did you find the time to do this? she's not going to enjoy a song that isn't finished..." swooping down to pick it up, he sighed. "of course not." "oh, it matters not! i may as well get on with it." clearing his throat, he knocked on the door in his Ferdinand-esque way. intrusive. kind of loud. neat. "Happy Birthday, Bernadetta! I shall leave these flowers here for you!" a HUGE bouquet of variegated tulips were wrapped in old scrolls that the professors were disposing of. (intrusive. kind of loud. neat.)

"thank you!"

he said brightly. they shared one too many sorry's between them.

"thank you for being part of the Black Eagles, and being a wonderful colleague and housemate. and, of course, thank you for the lovely year so far."

"i'm so proud to know you!"

he rolled his hand for the theatrics, bowing to no one in particular. "annnnd. i'm off. i hope to see you in class!"

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

bernadetta cannot possibly tell him.

slumped against the opposite side of her door, knees up and huddled against her chest, she sits. listens. and as ferdinand von aegir keeps pacing and mumbling, bernadetta's palms in turn keep shifting to and fro between her flushed cheeks and tight-lipped mouth. she has had to stifle more than one giggle, just the tiniest and mousiest peep of peeps.

because he is sweet. intrusive. kind of loud. neat. but sweet, warm, just like the berry tea she is prone to take. because he is rehearsing, of all things, and why bother with frills or perfection toward the girl who is anything, everything but? there is nothing in it for him. no matter which way she looks at it, there is nothing that could ever be in it for him. anybody. anything.

to have brought her an entire bouquet, and—did her ears deceive her?—ferdinand had composed a song? was it something he did for everybody, a fortuitous guess, or had he gleaned her passion for music despite it being one of her more furtive pursuits?

and here, bernadetta's palms are cupped back over her warm cheeks. violet lashes flutter shut like butterfly wings. by reflex (by conditioning—), by self-persecution (by self-preservation—) she braces herself for the moment ferdinand might turn around and clip hers, but it does not come.

instead he says the last thing she had ever expected to hear in her worthless life. and bernadetta folds.

the door swings open before ferdinand can raise his head, revealing a flustered tangle of nerves who cannot stop kneading the hem of her shirt. her breath catches briefly upon seeing the tulips.

"ferdinand! w-wait!"  her mouth freezes open for a moment while she scours her brain for words. coherent ones. ones ferdinand deserves to hear.

"thank you! um, thank you. you."  as in, that's bernie's line: thank you.  "for the flowers, definitely, but for all of this, too. for everything. th-the black eagles... the black eagles are important to me,"  she finds herself mumbling, and it surprises her not because she had ever felt otherwise, but because there is still something so foreign and frightening about handing her heart a voice. these are the things she had never been afforded.

"thank you for letting me be with you!"  she wills her voice to hold strong.  "because... i'm prouder to know you. really. and i'd really like to hear your song when you're ready to share it. and—"

(a gulp.)

"when you go to varley territory... i guess i'll go, too. if you guys are going, i can do it. bernie might just need to, um, stand behi—beside you most of the time. if that's okay."

it's okay, right?

gingerly, bernadetta takes the tulips into her arms. she stares appreciatively at their patterns and feels her gaze soften.

it's okay, probably.

[hermidetta]

THE BOX IS DELICATELY PLACED on the doorstep of her room, careful as to not jostle the delicately placed items within. Hubert has been methodical in the items he's chosen this year, carefully imported to the monastery with funds that MAY have mysteriously disappeared from the personal coffers of Count Varley, purely hypothetical of course.

The items inside the thrice wrapped box are symbolic in a way, pressed flowers from Fearghus, designed to be hung above a bed, wool from the border of Leicester and Almyra, carefully wrapped, and from Adrestia, Cocoa, the latest import from Brigid that gave little hint to who had purchased it.

On top of the box lays a card, careful penmanship reading as such:

Lady Bernadetta

All the best on your birthday

Yours

-H.V.V

p.s. The Black Eagles storeroom contains more of the cocoa, two spoons to freshly warmed milk is the recommended usage.

He knocks before carefully retreating from sight, intent on remaining anonymous except for the card.

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

sometimes bernadetta wonders what she has done to deserve the care she receives, when she can realize it is care, when all of the signs can only point to care no matter how self-persecuting and paranoid and wildly creative her mindset. after all, she had quite literally bitten her princess's sinister (but well-meaning) (but still sinister) retainer.

she doesn't think she's been called lady bernadetta in years, if that. the title has her blinking, then squinting at the card's fine print.

"h.v.v.," she sounds out the letters, rolls them around on her tongue as she flops back onto her unmade bed. at the foot of it, her legion of stuffed animals listens, bernadetta's only audience as usual. "does bernie know any h.v.v.? on a scale of one to yuri, how assassin-y are they? what do you think, mr. bearkley?"

mr. bearkley does not answer.

"duke roll? baron beef bowl?" the hedgehog and cow meet her stare in silence. some council of stuffies they were. for all of the obscene horrors and nightmares and things-that-go-bump-in-the-night he very much embodied, hubert would never show up empty-handed before lady edelgard. surely he would have sniffed out this mysterious h.v.v. long before the question and gift could have slipped anywhere near his liege's orbit. h.v.v., h.v.v....

whoever they were, bernadetta wanted to believe they were nice. a gentle soul, with gentle hands that had handled such thoughtful gifts. the tin of cocoa sits on her desk beside an emptied vulnerary, wool folded in a neat square right underneath it, and bernadetta considers the level of foot traffic at this time of day before settling on an hour she might sneak away for the storeroom and a spot of hot milk. the storeroom, the storeroom... and she cannot make sense of the déjà vu that passes by then.

it must be nothing, she decides, smiling fondly at the pressed flowers that dangled above her head. nothing she wants to process just yet, but knows she will have to later. eventually. and perhaps the next time she sees hubert von vestra, she will have enough of a grip on herself to apologize before fleeing. maybe even slip in a thank you. who knows?

[hermidetta]

He did his best not to be cruel, days like this were meant to be spent enjoying the company of friends. Matthias was quick in his mission. A small box with a tiny bear, small enough to be looped onto a belt, had been left alongside a few tiny cubes of cheese. There was a knock at her door but he was long gone by the time anyone would have answered.

⠀ ⚘ birthdaydetta 2k24 ♡ ⠀

to coax out a mouse one must, of course, start with cheese. for all of her unpleasant run-ins with garreg mach's rodents, bernadetta quite resembled one herself—though do not ever tell her this or risk losing her favor.

"dear mr. matthias,"  a tiny voice recites, in the measured timbre of reading off parchment.  "bernie is very sorry for biting your hand that one time. you were just kind of scary, and you're still kind of scary, but that wasn't okay to do. so, i'm sorry. i will not do it again, probably."

the pacing of the recitation crumbles.  "well, it's not like i meant to! i just panicked! and then you started cackling and prancing after me, footsteps thudding and shaking the ground! fee-fi-fo-fum, much?! and then you and professor lambert, oh sweet summer professor lambert, you kissed right in front of bernie's face! kissed! in front! of my face! my eyes! my eyes, i say!"

the other week when matthias (despite everything) had spared this rodent five whole cheese cubes was when she had decided to pen an apology that was long overdue. but bernadetta crumples up this leaflet, too, flinging the balled-up letter over her shoulder and onto the floor after its other ten or twelve failed predecessors.

under normal circumstances she could have outwritten a dozen flimsy apologies like that one in her sleep. under normal circumstances bernadetta could write and write for days. alas, she had been hit by every creative enemy in the book: writer's block. burnout. general lethargy and an unavoidable seasonal low. the overall frustration of other projects letting her down, and bernadetta could think of no one willing to return to a pit where their passion felt thankless. she ought to put everything she has ever written over an open flame—it seemed from the ash-laden tray on her desk she was already halfway there. yet the knock comes just when she is about to call it quits on this, that, and maybe everything else.

bernadetta blinks. she drops her pen, scurries to the front and peeks under the bottom sliver as usual. for good measure she waits another moment—no, three—before the handle of her door finally clicks with caution. two eyes and a nose peep outside first.

just the cubes of cheese are already enough to make bernadetta reevaluate herself all over again. the bear, though, delivers the finishing blow. it sits in her palms while she marvels at it, gray eyes gleaming like a child on the morning of—well, their birthday. and bernadetta has always felt at her bravest with her namesake in the picture. this was a fragment of bravery she could take with her.

it sobers her, reminds her of what she ultimately knows: that even if she struggles to pick up her pen today, tomorrow will bring with it another new chance. so bernadetta, trudging through the crumpled papers and returning to her desk with her spoils, pops another cube of cheese in her mouth and tries her very best to give herself grace. if matthias could try so hard not to be cruel to her, bernadetta could at least do the same.