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Nobody takes the reports of Jeralt’s death well. It’s to be expected, given his status.
She didn’t mean for it to happen this way, really. He didn’t need to die. Hadn’t done anything to justify the action. He was a good man, a smart man - and perhaps most importantly, a man who refused to succumb to Rhea’s thrall.
He was loved very deeply by so many people, and respected by even more.
Edelgard isn’t close to the students in the other houses. She doesn’t know what signs to look for as they wrestle with the news. But in her own house? Oh, every single student is a beacon of grief.
She finds Caspar sitting on a hallway floor, his hands trembling violently even as they’re fisted in his short hair. She kneels down in front of him, silently demanding his attention until he finally looks up at her. There are tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. Not yet ready to fall, but close enough that the difference hardly mattered anymore.
“He was the strongest man I ever met,” Caspar says. “A-and just like that, boom. He was gone. It happened so fast.”
She hears the words behind the ones he utters: If even Jeralt could die so easily, then what about me?
“Death comes for us all some day,” Edelgard says. “There isn’t anything we can do about it, except hope that our own time doesn’t come sooner than we expected.”
Caspar sobs. The kind he tries to hide behind squeezed-shut eyes and gritted teeth. It does nothing to stem the flow of his tears.
Ferdinand drifts into Edelgard entirely on accident when they cross paths in the dining hall. Her head snaps towards him, ready to tell him off for such blatant disrespect, but the sight that greets her kills the words in her throat. His eyes are unfocused, staring off into a distance she cannot see herself. He murmurs, “Sorry,” under his breath, the single word lacking all of the haughtiness she’s come to associate with him. Then he simply leaves, as if it never occurred to him that he nearly ran over Edelgard von Hresvelg.
Edelgard watches him go, utterly stunned.
Bernadetta refuses to leave her room. Even more so than usual. Normally, she’d at least leave for meals and lectures. Edelgard leaves plates of food outside her door during each meal period, returning to find the contents of the plate nibbed on. There’s a piece of her that wonders if the birds are feasting on this meal, not Bernadetta, given the sheer volume of food that remains on that plate every single day.
Edelgard knocks, again and again. Despite the telltale sounds of movement within, no one answers.
Petra lapses into her native language with a frequency that Edelgard hasn’t seen in years. Her sentences will bleed out meaning, captured in a lexicon that no one here but Petra knows. Edelgard has never been able to study the language of Brigid long enough to be fluent, but hearing Petra’s frantic voice makes her desperately wish that she knew more than she does.
Dorothea does nothing but sing. Loud, mournful dirges she must have memorized from her time in the opera. She sings and sings and sings, her voice haunting the halls of Garreg Mach like she’s laying palm leaves down for Jeralt’s ghost to tread upon. When Edelgard asks her why, Dorothea’s answer is simple.
“This is the only thing that makes sense to me, Edie.”
Between the sheer amount of time Linhardt spends asleep in his room or holed up in the library reading, Edelgard isn’t sure if he hasn’t simply dropped out of the Academy. He feels like a ghost, the kind that haunts the edges of her mind after being told a particularly chilling tale.
Even Hubert is affected. He won’t admit it, not to himself and especially not to her, but she’s known him for the majority of her life. She knows his tells better than she knows her own.
“The only death that could ever shake me would be your own, Lady Edelgard,” Hubert tells her. Yet his spells fizzle into the air with a pathetic burst of light as he trains. He hasn’t been this weak since her exile ended. At least back then, he felt no shame in hiding his grief.
Then there is Byleth.
Her poor, poor teacher.
Edelgard doesn’t handle their first conversation well. Despite her careful attempts to reign in her emotions, they get the better of her. It was downright infuriating to see the strongest person Edelgard knew reduced to - to this.
Her earliest memories of Byleth are of an unchanging, stoic expression and of a hollow inflection in her voice. Dorothea once joked that Lady Rhea bewitched a statue to life and gave it a professorship. Edelgard scolded her for such a callous remark, but her words lingered in her head. Even when Byleth saved Edelgard’s life, her face was stony and unreadable. A statue driving its sword into her assailant’s heart.
The flashes of emotion have become more common these days. They didn’t dance together at the ball, not with the line of students waiting for both of them, but Edelgard remembers her warm smile under the dimly lit torches of the Goddess Tower. The wonder in Byleth’s eyes as Edelgard recounted the story of her parent’s first meeting in that same place.
Edelgard felt something skip in her chest at the sight. Romance is nothing but a flight of fancy for someone in her position. She’ll most likely have to give up love for the sake of her goals. She accepted that long ago.
For just a moment, she let herself dwell in something a little stronger than a passing daydream.
Perhaps that dwelling is what makes the sting of Byleth’s inaction so painful to see. She has let herself be paralyzed by her own grief. Their classes have been cancelled for the past week - a gesture of goodwill from Rhea to allow everyone to mourn a man who mattered so much to so many. The kindest thing that woman has done in the past several decades, without a doubt.
The open schedule pulls at Edelgard’s skin. How can anyone move forward, when all they’re given is time to bask in their wounds? That’s not cleaning out the pain. That’s letting it fester and rot.
(The only survivor of ten. Nine lives, extinguished so she could carry on a legacy. Her siblings, her family, sacrificed for such a useless cause. Edelgard carries them in her mind always, but she cannot let herself dwell. The pain would crush her should she ever allow it power over her.)
She knows she was harsher than needed towards Byleth last time they spoke. The realization that Edelgard let her anger get the better of her during that conversation comes with a bittersweet acceptance. Bitter in that should Byleth decline to seek her out, she knows that it is what she deserves. Sweet in that should she see Byleth, even in passing, then she’ll know that the potential damage to their bond was worth it.
Even if Edelgard did not strike him down herself, she accepted Kronya’s recommendation as yet another agent to infiltrate the monastery. Edelgard personally gave her the information she needed to assume Monica’s identity. His blood may not stain her own hands, but it colors her regardless.
Would Byleth ever forgive her if she knew? Edelgard wants an answer to that question just as badly as she fears one.
Even with these thoughts weighing her heart down, it still soars at the sight of Byleth storming into the dining hall that following Sunday. She moves with clear purpose in spite of the unmistakable sorrow etched into her face.
It is fine - necessary, even - to feel sorrow. As long as she keeps moving. That’s what matters.
Byleth catches her eye, deep-water blue threatening to drown Edelgard. She sucks in a quick breath as Byleth marches towards her, shoulders back and heels clicking against the ground with purpose.
“My teacher,” Edelgard says, slipping a smile across her face with ease, “I’m glad to see you took my words to heart.” That she is up and moving, and not letting Jeralt’s death be in vain. That it can motivate her, not paralyze her.
“Are you free this afternoon? I’d like to have tea,” Byleth says.
A gasp catches in Edelgard’s throat, strangled to death before it has the chance to make itself known. To not be ignored felt like a hope brought about in vain. But to share tea and sweets together, the same way Byleth has invited her to without fail every single week? It feels like a dream.
Edelgard links her hands behind her back. She pinches her skin through her gloves. The pain comes in a quick burst, sharp enough to remind her that she is indeed grounded. That this isn’t a dream.
“Why, of course,” Edelgard replies. “I’d love to have tea.”
“Good. I’ll see you at three,” Byleth says. She waits just long enough for Edelgard to nod before storming away. Where she is going, or who she is going to see - that is lost to her. She hopes that Byleth doesn’t lock herself in the captain’s quarters the way that Edelgard knows she has before.
Jeralt is no longer there. Not him, nor his ghost. There is nothing there but a room that needs to be cleaned out and a memory that can be better appreciated with the movement of muscles and the blood of an enemy on her sword.
Should Byleth demand revenge (and why would she not, given all that happened?), Edelgard would be happy to strike Kronya down herself. Useful or not, Edelgard hates her and every sickening serpent Kronya calls a member of her cursed organization.
One day, Edelgard will burn them to the ground, too. She’ll make them pay for their crimes.
For the next few hours, Edelgard keeps herself busy. She drops food off for Bernadetta. She passes by the cathedral and pauses in one of the pews, listening to Dorothea’s voice rise above the chorus during practice. She presents Caspar with a new pair of gauntlets to train with within the grounds.
To Linhardt, she delivers a new book. To Ferdinand, she goads him into practicing his dancing, promising him that it’s the one thing he can excel at over her. To Petra, she presents with a good carving knife, as she can create sculptures in any language.
Hubert attempts to follow her around during this time. She sends him off to critique Ferdinand’s dancing, knowing that his poor attempts to do so will bolster both boys’ moods.
With her Eagles all checked in on, Edelgard finds herself nearing their meeting time. She heads towards the gardens, finds the table Byleth prefers meeting at, and waits. She hears familiar footsteps before she sees the head of blue hair poke out from over the hedges. The vitality Edelgard saw before still exists in her now, her strides long and purposeful.
Good.
Byleth holds a platter of tea - her favorite set, as Edelgard has come to learn. Byleth doesn’t remember where she got it from or who gave it to her.
A small basket of pastries hangs off her arm. Edelgard rises from her seat and takes the platter from Byleth. She doesn’t thank Edelgard for her efforts, but she usually doesn’t. It is to be expected. Byleth settles in the seat across from her as she sets the basket on the table and flips open the cloth, revealing at least a dozen shortbread cookies. Candied jam rests in the divot on top of each cookie.
The aroma of the tea finally hits her. Bergamot. Edelgard’s favorite. She’s made every Black Eagle try it at least once. Hubert can’t stand it, but he never fails to down the entire cup.
“Everything looks amazing, Professor,” Edelgard says. She reaches for a cookie, finding the pastry still warm under her fingers. Freshly baked. Perhaps by one of the other students.
Without a word, Byleth sets out a cup for each of them and pours in the tea. Steam curls and dances away from the liquid. Beautiful as always.
“Is there anything you wished to talk about?” Edelgard asks, biting into the cookie. Fruit and sugar flood her senses. Delicious. Before she knows it, she’s devoured the entire thing.
Byleth shifts uneasily. She locks her gaze on her teacup. “I…” she begins, faltering. She clears her throat and tries again. “I wanted to spend time with you. That’s all.”
“With me?” After what she said? Time and time again, Byleth continues to surprise her. “I’m… I’m honored, Professor.”
Byleth scoops out a spoonful of sugar and drops it into her own tea. The tiny spoon clinks against the porcelain as she stirs. A melody in its own right. “The last time we spoke… you were incredibly harsh, you know.”
Ah. So this must be why Byleth called her here. A scolding in a beautiful setting. Very well.
“I understand that, although I stand by what I said.”
A small smile, nothing more than an upward twitch of her lips, crosses Byleth’s face. “I thought you’d say that.”
“You know me well, Professor.”
“I wish I knew you better.”
Edelgard blinks, shock overcoming her senses. She knows Byleth must mean that innocently - Byleth may not admit it, but she obviously adores getting to know every single person at Garreg Mach better - but it is still too close to the fanciful daydreams she has allowed herself to indulge in one too many times.
Byleth continues to speak. “I understand why you told me what you did. After what you’ve experienced… I can’t imagine that kind of loss. I know what you’re driven towards, Edelgard. I think I know what drives you there.” She takes her spoon out of her tea, careful to set it down on the platter. “I still feel like I’m missing something.”
She is. Many things, in fact. So many that Edelgard wishes she could tell her.
So much of Edelgard is horribly broken. She despises it, but it is what her life has twisted her into. She knows that whatever monstrosity life will twist her into past these walls will be even uglier. One so vile that not even roses and tea could cover her stench.
She is not that monster. Not yet.
“That’s a conversation for another time, Professor. There is no need to grieve over my scars. Not now.” Edelgard takes a sip of her tea. Perfect as always. “Let us speak of something happier.”
She thinks Byleth needs this more than she does.
“Like… like what?” Byleth asks.
“What about the cats of Garreg Mach? I heard that Flayn has taken to feeding them. I…” Edelgard sets her tea down. “...I may have heard that a certain emperor to be spent all of last Sunday fishing with Flayn to help her get enough meat to feed them all.”
She hopes that, when it comes time to cross swords with Rhea, that she will not have to strike Flayn down to get to her.
Byleth chuckles. It’s a small sound, something fragile and weak, a muscle that has rarely been used. Still, the sound is beautiful. Edelgard would love to hear more of it. “Is that so? Has this Emperor also taken to naming these cats?”
Edelgard laughs as well. She laughs more freely around Byleth.
They spend the rest of their time together discussing those cats, coming up with a potential list of names for Flayn to later approve of. The conversation is light and lively. The kind that either of them rarely ever have.
It’s lovely.
One nice teatime could never be a salve to such a deep-running grief, but if it is a reprieve, then that is enough.