#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]

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]

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.