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“I only mean…” Edelgard says, and for all her steel and grandeur Dorothea sees her then for what she is: a girl against the ocean, windswept and lovely, holding out her heart with both hands. “I only mean—when you imagine the rest of your life, Dorothea, what do you see?”
On the great stone balcony overlooking the sea, that glittering expanse beyond the castle and the empire and everything that Dorothea has ever known, she gives this question the thought that it deserves. Beside her, Edelgard stands calm and sure, but Dorothea can imagine how her heart hammers beneath the skin, yearning for the answer just as much as it fears it.
“Well,” Dorothea says at last, “only abstract things, I suppose. A house of my own. A place to grow roses. Singing, in whatever shape it takes.”
“No,” Edelgard says, and lifts a hand as if to chew the nail before catching herself and jerking it back down. “Closer than that.”
Dorothea fondly shakes her head. “Edie, you’re not making sense.”
Edelgard entwines her fingers the way that Dorothea has seen her do only once or twice—when she is struggling to articulate a word. Her pale eyes drop to the edge of Dorothea’s velvet shawl, to the places where the fine burgundy tassels drip past her elbow.
“When I imagine the rest of my life,” she says, “I imagine my arms, and my legs. Rather—I don’t imagine them. Because I am so assured of the fact that they will be there that to spare them a thought seems superfluous. Foolish, even.”
At last she lifts her chin to gaze into Dorothea’s eyes. Dorothea has heard that gaze called powerful, and lethal, and king-breaking—she has heard that gaze compared to coronet and cataclysm, hex and hatchet—but to her it has always been like the silver snow, belying spring.
“Would you think me foolish, Dorothea? If I were to wish for such a thing as that?”
“Nothing could prevail upon me to think you foolish, Edie,” Dorothea says gently. Across the balustrade, she reaches for Edelgard’s hand, her little finger brushing the first knuckle. “What is it you’re getting at?”
Edelgard sighs at the touch. Dorothea sees a little of the tension in her posture come apart.
“I think of you as I might think of my arm,” Edelgard says, in that blunt way that only Edelgard can say such things. “Or my wrist. Or my knees. If you are absent…” She separates her fingers, spreads her hands, as if preparing them for flight. “The body is incomplete. Certainly, it will go on living… but… but…”
She winces.
“Forgive me. Words don’t often fail me so.” Then, under her breath, “Perhaps I should just be done with it.”
Before Dorothea can interrogate her further, she’s reached swiftly into the pocket of her cloak and produced something that glints in the setting sun, pinched between her fingers. Dorothea’s heart beats rabbit-fast inside of her when she recognizes its shape.
“Th-That’s,” she stammers, and wrestles the words back together. “Why, Edie, that’s a ring.”
“Do you like it?” Edelgard asks, holding it aloft. It has a black, thick band, and is adorned with a rather garish arrangement of blood-red stones. “Hubert provided a great deal of assistance in choosing it. He’s truly indispensable.”
“You… don’t say.” Dorothea holds back a smirk and tilts her head instead. “It’s very…”
Edelgard’s eyes are bright, hopeful. “Yes?”
“Large,” Dorothea settles for saying.
“Ah,” Edelgard says, wilting. “You hate it.”
“I don’t hate it,” Dorothea says feebly, scratching lightly at her cheek. “It’s a beautiful ring, Edie, really; I just—well—what does it matter what I think of it?”
Edelgard’s eyebrows furrow together. Dorothea has always found this expression the absolute cutest; she loves the little fold that forms over her nose.
“The ring is for you, Dorothea, I should hope it’s a ring that you wouldn’t mind wearing.”
“Well, it’s—” Dorothea breaks off, blinking. All at once she feels faint and giddy. “You—for me?”
“Yes,” Edelgard says, and takes Dorothea’s hand in hers, and lowers herself to one knee. “I intend to propose marriage to you, you see.”
Dorothea’s breath flutters out of her, soaring free beyond the waves. “Edie…”
“Be my wife, Dorothea,” Edelgard whispers. “Wear this horrid ring if it pleases you, or wear no ring at all—let every fiefdom hear of it, or let us each take it to our graves—write of it an aria that will bring you fame and fortune, or sing it only into my ear, as softly as you please… but be my wife. Be my arm, as I will be your ribs, your neck, your heart. Be—”
“Oh, by the Ten Elites, Edelgard, stop it, I’m begging you!” Dorothea exclaims, laughing the blush off of her face. “Must you always be so dramatic?” She lays her hand on Edelgard’s cheek, which is hot and flushed and—brave. “Maybe that’s the one foolish impulse you have,” she says, tenderly.
“Do you still love me,” Edelgard asks, “despite my foolish impulses?”
Dorothea scoffs softly and crouches down so that their eyes are level. Over the hand of Edelgard’s that covers her knuckles, she lays her palm, and holds it steady.
“There’s no ‘despite’ about love,” she says, and though she’s trying to sound reproachful she has to bite back a smile, like they’re giggling over a secret. “Rise, Empress Edelgard. I daresay I’m not about to give you an answer to anything when you’re on your knees.”