Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Are you excited about the White Heron Ball, Marianne?”

“No.”

She and Ignatz sat on a bench overlooking the secluded back corner of the fishing lake behind the greenhouse. Marianne had taken to the spot ever since the shy artist had first shown it to her at sunset one fragile evening. Ignatz had taken to looking there first whenever he sought her company. Marianne, in turn, sat there more and more often for that very reason. 

It was their last day off before the White Heron Ball. Ignatz blinked at her behind his round glasses, the wire frames almost too big for his face. “Why not?” he asked. “I think it will be exciting to see everyone in their finery. And I overheard the knights talking about the decorations they’re planning on putting up in the ballroom-”

“I’m not going.”

“It’ll be fun,” said Ignatz, deflating.

Marianne just shook her head. “I’ll be expected to dance,” she said. “I hate dancing.”

“Well… what about the food? Spending time with the others?”

“It doesn’t matter. There are obligations for when I show my face at events like these. I’m sure the other nobles feel it, too. But I don’t want to dance with anybody.” She hugged her arms, gazing down at her shoes. “Not that anybody would likely want to dance with me, either. I’ll just bring everyone else’s energy down.”

Ignatz sat up straighter. “Don’t say that,” he said. “It’ll bring our energy down if you don’t go. We’ll miss you.” She shrugged, and he pressed on. “Besides, I’m sure plenty of boys would love to share a dance with you.”

Marianne’s insides twisted. “That’s not the point,” she insisted. “A dance is never just a dance. Not for me. I’m the sole heiress to House Edmund. If… Lorenz were to dance with me, or Linhardt, or… or Sylvain, word would reach home about it. People would start to draw conclusions about my intentions.”

“Well, I… wouldn’t recommend dancing with Sylvain, then, if you’re worried about how people will take it-”

“It’s not just him, Ignatz,” she said, startling them both with her passion. “I… I cannot agitate the rumor mills that way. Not after everything my father has done to keep their attention off of me. So please,” she said. “Please don’t ask me to give into that pressure while I’m still in the one place in Fodlan where I can choose to be free of it.”

Ignatz was quiet as he gazed at her, brown eyes rounded. Marianne refused to look him in the eye. Across the lake, the tail of a large carp broke the breeze-rippled surface.

“I’m sorry,” he said at length. “I… guess I forget how differently nobles have to think about such things sometimes.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“I know. I’m still sorry for you.” 

If only you knew the worst of it. Marianne closed her eyes.

“You know, I… heard Lorenz talking about a similar thing the other day. It’s the pressure to find a spouse here, right?” When she didn’t answer, Ignatz said, “He tried to brush it off like the whole flirting thing was his idea, but I’ve noticed he’s stopped buying meals for girls ever since the Intermediate exams started. I think it’s exhausting for him, too.”

“I’d rather not talk about it anymore.”

“Okay,” he nodded dejectedly. “I just want you to know you’re not alone in this. I think that sort of parental pressure is weighing on a lot of people more than they let on.”

Marianne’s shoulders loosened as Ignatz respectfully dropped the subject. For some reason, that unquestioned conclusion put her more at ease than anything else he could have said. She heard herself mumbling, “The pressure isn’t coming from my father, actually.”

Ignatz glanced over. She let herself relax into the admission. “It’s our retainers back in Edmund territory. Vassal lords, bureaucrats, people who benefit directly from my family staying in power. They’re eager to see House Edmund secure its lineage, so… there’s been a lot of talk about marriage contracts and the union of bloodlines in recent years. My adoptive father has actually done quite a bit to keep the chatter in check,” she added with the faintest of melancholy smiles. “It’s one of the reasons he wanted to enroll me here. As long as I’m focusing on my studies, our retainers are forced to wait until graduation before they can harass me about finding love.”

“That’s good, at least,” said Ignatz. “Right?”

“It’s only temporary. Even more so if they catch wind of me showing favor to someone at the ball. They’ll have a hundred potential contracts drafted between our lands before the new year.”

“Oh.”

“I’m really quite fortunate to have my father’s compassion, in that regard,” she said. “He refuses to tell me how long he’s been deflecting propositions in my name, but I suspect it’s ever since he took me in. I can’t…” She swallowed. “I don’t want to squander what fraction of mercy the Goddess has deigned to give me. So… I’m doing everything in my power to put it off for as long as possible.”

“I see,” said Ignatz, leaning forward to put his elbows on his knees. The sun dappled the green waters of the pond before them. At length, he said, “May I… ask another question?”

“Sure,” said Marianne.

“It’s just… it sounds like your father has given you a fair amount of freedom,” he said. “If he’s been deflecting your propositions for you, wouldn’t that mean that he’s waiting for you to be old enough to make your own decisions?”

“Well, yes, I suppose, but-”

“That would mean he’s deferring the question of who you marry onto you. Right?” Ignatz waved his hands. “You can tell me if I’m wrong, but it sounds to me like he’s willing to let your heart decide. To let you find love in your own time. Isn’t that a good thing?”

“No, it’s not, because I told you it doesn’t matter,” said Marianne. “It doesn’t matter whether it’s him who selects my future husband or me, the problem is that a selection needs to be made in the first place. I don’t want to make a selection. It’s not like it’ll ever make me happy.”

“You don’t know that, Marianne. I’m sure someday-”

“I won’t! I just won’t! Don’t you get it?” she exclaimed, rounding on him. “I could take any man in the world to be my husband and neither of us will ever be happy together because I won’t be able to love him.”

Ignatz’s lips parted at the same moment Marianne realized what that sounded like. She touched her fingers to her mouth, horror shooting hot through her entire body. Praying she hadn’t just ruined everything.

She shouldn’t have counted on the Goddess to answer that prayer over all others that had gone unanswered her entire life.

Ignatz’s throat bobbed before he asked softly, “What do you mean… you won’t be able to?”

“I…” Panic seared through her veins again. A prey animal’s instinct to bolt. “It’s because I’m cursed. I’m just unlovable.”

“That’s not true, and that’s not what you said.”

“I didn’t-”

“If you take a husband, you said it won’t be love. That doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll never find love at all. Maybe… maybe you just can’t find it with a-”

“Please don’t,” Marianne whispered. 

Ignatz stopped. There was a raw look on his face that Marianne absolutely could not decipher. He should be looking at her with disgust, not… wonder. Not hope.

She shot to her feet. “I should go. I should have never let you talk me into this conversation.”

“Marianne-”

“Please don’t tell anyone what I said to you.”

“Marianne.” He stood too, taking her by the arm. Marianne realized, without the bench to support him, Ignatz was trembling. He floundered wordlessly for a moment before he managed to utter, “I… feel the exact same way.”

Marianne stopped breathing. In that moment, she thought he did, too. “You… what?”

“That’s exactly how I feel,” he said. “But… you know. About women. About… taking a wife.”

“You don’t-”

“I do,” said Ignatz. Slowly, tentatively, he released her from his grip. “I’ve… never really considered myself a marrying man. I could never envision myself married. I was never popular with girls, but that never seemed to bother me like it bothered my friends back home. And more than that…” he swallowed. “I do know love. I know what it feels like. And the older I get, the more certain I am that I will never feel that way with a woman no matter how hard I try.”

Marianne knew she was ogling. She couldn’t help it. Never had she heard another person voice aloud the very sentiments that populated her most unspeakable pleas for the Goddess’s forgiveness. 

“But… you know love,” she said.

The smile that Ignatz gave her was heartbreaking to behold. “I know one side of it. I know what it’s like to love. For the better part of my life now… I’ve been in love with someone I couldn’t possibly hope to marry.”

“Someone… at home?”

An empty laugh. “It’d be easier if that were the case, but no. He… well, he followed me here.”

All at once, Marianne’s entire viewpoint shifted on an axis. Everything she’d seen of Ignatz since the day they met. Every grin and blush. Every meal he’d ever taken - always, without fail, seated next to…

She fell back a step, clutching her hands to her chest. “You shouldn’t say such things. It’s shameful. Someone… someone will hear you,” she said. 

“But you know what I’m getting at, don’t you?”

“I can’t say that.”

“Alright.” Ignatz held up his hands. “I understand. I… I wouldn’t be saying these things to anyone else, either.”

“Don’t you worry what the Goddess will think?”

“Every day,” he said.

That finally got Marianne to still. There was nothing but wide-open truth in his face, palms still bared as if in supplication. Every day. 

He did understand. 

Gingerly, Marianne sat herself back down on the bench. Ignatz slowly followed her, hands spread tightly across his thighs. For the longest moment yet that day, they sat in silence together.

“I’m sorry if I upset you,” came his voice. 

Marianne shook her head, unseeing. “You didn’t upset me. Just… just startled me, I suppose.”

“Well, I’m sorry for that.”

“Thank you.”

She felt herself almost smile. He almost smiled back. His hands relaxed, his back settled against the bench. 

Marianne’s thoughts drifted the longer she spent in his company - from her father, to Ignatz, to Raphael, to herself. For some reason, a feeling like grief swelled in her stomach as she absorbed it all. Eventually, her thoughts formed into words, and she said, “May I ask you a question?”

Ignatz startled out of his own reverie. “Of course.”

“As a commoner, you have no obligation to marry to continue a bloodline, yes?”

“That’s right,” he said, then shrugged. “I mean, technically my brother Hans would be encouraged to marry for the sake of the family business, but since I’m the second son… no, I don’t have that kind of obligation.”

“Right,” said Marianne. “So then… what kind of life is there, for an unmarried commoner?”

He considered. “Well, first of all, it’s helpful that I’m a man. Girls are still expected to marry, even outside of the nobility.” He tilted his head at the pond. “For me, there are a few options. Becoming a knight is the best by far - military service would keep me too busy for anyone to expect me to marry or start a family on top of it all. But I could also help my brother with the business - running storefronts, traveling, that sort of thing. The tradeoff is, of course, the latter would have me interacting with the public more often, which would probably invite… uncomfortable questions the longer it takes me to settle down. But I could do it. There are plenty of elderly bachelors around.”

“Sounds lonely,” said Marianne.

He nodded. “It would be.” To her, he said, “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You said that since you’re a noble, a marriage to you would involve a bunch of different contracts depending on who’s asking. What would that look like? What changes?”

She shrugged. “It depends on the suitor’s status,” she mumbled. “Someone like Lorenz, the heir to a major House, would be able to offer more than someone from a smaller House or further down the line of inheritance. It’s a matter of connections. What land they own, who lives there, what they could do for Edmund. In that way, an otherwise insignificant House has the potential to put forward only a few connections that might greatly serve my family as opposed to a large number that might benefit us less. It’s a very complicated balancing game.”

“That makes sense,” said Ignatz. “Which one would you prefer, do you think?”

“Well… marrying someone like Lorenz feels intimidating.”

Ignatz actually laughed. “I can see how it would,” he said. “I know none of it is ideal. And I really am sorry that you don’t have the kinds of options that I do. I wish I could help.”

Marianne fidgeted her hands in her lap.

“But at least you have a say in what connections you forge, right?” He sat up straighter, endearingly attentive. Like he truly listened and cared what Marianne had to say. It touched her. “What do you think you would look for, in that regard?”

She shook her head. She’d never given it much thought, she realized. “Whoever makes the best impression on my father, I suppose.”

“What about how they treat you? I’d think that would have a big impact on your happiness, regardless if you love them or not.” An idea seemed to strike him. “What about a friend? Someone who already cares for you in that way?”

“No, I… I couldn’t do that to a friend,” she admitted, shying. “I’m sorry. I see what you’re suggesting, but it would just feel… unfair of me, to do such a thing to someone I care about. Shackling them to a wife who will never love them the way they deserve. They might be my friend now, but I fear that guilt would drown me.”

“What about a friend who understands, then? Someone… someone who knows you, and wouldn’t want you to change for them?”

“What are you saying?”

“Someone like me,” said Ignatz.

She blinked at him. “You?”

“Why not?”

“I… I don’t know.”

“Well… I’m serious,” he went on. “You need to marry a man someday. That’s an obligation you can’t get out of. But you and I are already friends, aren’t we? And you wouldn’t be letting me down at all by enforcing limits on your… wifely expectations, or whatever would make you feel guilty with any other man.”

“I… I couldn’t,” she said, but warmth flooded her body all the same - not mortification, this time. Something fluttery, like the wings of a bird against the bars of a cage. Something that felt moments away from taking flight into a wide-open sky.

She’d never felt something like that in conversation about her future before.

Could I?

Ignatz, she realized, had developed a deep blush of his own. “This isn’t me making a proposition, or anything,” he stammered, waving his hands. “I’m just saying. It might not be a bad idea. Besides the fact that I’m a commoner and you’re a-”

“No, that… I don’t think that would be an issue,” Marianne breathed.

“Oh,” said Ignatz.

“I don’t… think any of it would be an issue. You would really…?”

He nodded. “Yes,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “For you, Marianne, of course.”

“And you really wouldn’t mind if I didn’t…?”

“I would prefer if you didn’t. Believe me, I have absolutely no interest in… anything of that sort. With you, at least. And I mean no offense whatsoever by that.”

None taken, thought Marianne. That winged feeling in her heart seemed to take off, and she reached across the bench to delicately cover his hand with her own. Brown eyes met blue.

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

“Ah,” he said. “You’re… you’re welcome. I really mean it, you know. Feel free to keep it in mind.”

“I think I will.”

Ignatz’s smile was slow to bloom, but once it did, Marianne couldn’t help but do the same. Hope - that was the feeling that was lifting her heart.

War ravaged the continent. 

Marianne spent five long years on the front lines. Healing. Riding. Learning truths about the world that she never wanted to know and truths about herself that she never would have expected. She was not cursed. She was not unlovable. She kept people alive, and people stayed alive for her in return.

Foremost among them was Ignatz Victor. Something had changed for the better between them after that conversation by the pond. He became her sword. She became his shield. Even over the months and years they spent on assignments without the other, they always reunited like no time had passed at all. 

It was the understanding. It had to be. Marianne had been more careful than ever to keep a tight leash on her heart’s true inclinations, and as far as she knew, Ignatz had done the same with his.

They were the only ones in the face of the burning world who knew.

When the five-year bloodshed could finally advance no further, they took up their places on the last battlefield side by side, Bow and Holy Knight. They were still beside each other when the charred banners of the victorious lifted into the firelit sky. They were still alive. They had lived to witness the bloody, screaming birth of a brand new world laid at their feet, and now they faced down the long afterbirth hand in hand.

Marianne fell to the churned, bloody earth and pressed her clasped fists to her mouth as tears streamed down her face. Her prayer was wordless, too vast to comprehend. But she knew what it was not.

It was not a prayer for deliverance. Not anymore. Marianne was no longer the despondent girl who asked such macabre things of the Goddess. She knew herself now. She wore the parts of herself that she had fought tooth and nail to uncover proudly upon her breast - all but one, of course.

All but one.

Margrave Edmund arrived at Garreg Mach monastery on the second day of the peace negotiations. Marianne met him by the tea gardens and embraced her adoptive father tightly. 

“It’s good to see you well,” said the margrave, cupping her face in one hand. “Goddess bless us, you made it through all this fighting unscathed.”

Marianne leaned into his palm. “How have you fared at home?” she asked, rather than elaborate further. 

“Well enough.” He brushed a hand over his dark trimmed beard. Marianne didn’t miss the way his gaze cast a wary net around them before continuing. “I fear I have things of that matter to discuss with you, now that it seems this war is to be declared over and done,” he said, taking her by the shoulder to lead her deeper into the monastery.

With a souring of her insides, Marianne knew at once exactly what he was talking about. They remained so until she was able to catch her father alone later that night and hear it from his own mouth. By that time, blessedly, the sourness had numbed her to the point that it barely upset her at all. 

“I have made it my foremost business, these past long years, to… placate our retainers,” said the margrave over firelit tea. “I’m pleased to say that so far, I have been successful, but I fear all of my arguments will fall apart without the backing of continental war. Your tomefaire, your contribution to the war effort, held far more relevance than the calls for a union up until this point.”

“But now there is no war,” she said.

“Now there is no war.”

Marianne gazed into her tea. 

Margrave Edmund reached across the gap of their armchairs and gave her arm a comforting squeeze. “I am sorry,” he said, and she knew he meant it.

“It’s fine, Father. You did your best. We knew it was only a matter of time.”

He nodded, dark blue eyes still creased with worry. “I know this is sudden. The ceasefire has only just been signed; the formal peace accords, from what I gathered here today, nowhere near complete. They likely won’t be for months, at this rate. But the retainers demanded an answer as soon as I made contact with you.”

“Do they have a favored candidate?”

“They do. But I will confirm no suspicions of yours at this time.” She blinked, and he continued. “Who the retainers would prefer you to marry is second only to when. They desire as swift an engagement as possible in order to establish stable ties, should this armistice go south. To that end, I believe we may convince them of any man’s qualifications for the position. Their preferences, for now, matter absolutely naught.”

Marianne gazed openly at her adoptive father. “So… you’re saying…”

“If you have your own preference as to who you wish to take as your future margrave consort,” he said, “now is the time to seal it. Before some other lord of superior standing and inferior countenance makes Edmund territory an offer we cannot afford to refuse.”

She rose. He rose, too, setting their tea aside. 

“Thank you, Father. I must think on this,” she told him. And she sent a silent prayer that the Goddess would forgive her for lying to his face.

“Right now?” balked Ignatz.

“Right now,” said Marianne.

They stood upon the cathedral balustrade that overlooked the Goddess Tower. There was a mote of irony to the situation - there they stood, cast in the shadow of the most infamous locale for trysting in the monastery, pledging possibly the least romantic vows its silent walls had ever heard. 

“My father is here representing Edmund in the negotiations,” Marianne went on. “Our retainers back home demand an answer. If we are going to do this, it has to be now.”

“I… I don’t know, this is all so… abrupt,” said Ignatz, dragging a hand through his long bangs. He sighed, eyes wide and vacant. “I so hoped… maybe we would have more time.”

So did I, thought Marianne with a cracking heart. Instead, she took his free hand in her own. Cupped it like a broken-winged bird. “Listen to me, Ignatz,” she whispered, forcing herself to smile. In his presence, it wasn’t hard at all. “I may not be in love with you. I may never be in love with you, not the way you deserve. But I do love you,” she said. “So much. I love you with as much of my heart as I have allotted to the task. You have made me see this world not as a cage, but as a jewelry box of little wonders and beauty, and for that I cannot possibly hope to repay you.”

“Oh, Marianne, you needn’t-”

“Let me try,” she insisted, squeezing his hands. “Just let me try, Ignatz. Let me start by protecting you. This marriage might not be what either of us truly wants, but it will keep us both safe and happy enough. And I promise, by the power that will be invested in me when I assume the title of margravine, that I will protect you for the rest of our lives.”

Ignatz’s breath left him in a rush of a laugh. She could see the tears pricking the corners of his soft brown eyes, and she tucked his hands to her chest as if, perhaps, he could feel her dedication through her very heartbeat. “I know you’re not in love with me, either,” she said, “but when I look upon this future laid before us… no matter romantically or platonically, I think it would make me very happy to share my life with you.”

Ignatz choked on another laugh, freeing his hand only to swipe a thumb under his glasses. When he came up again, he was still smiling. “That… might be the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” he said.

“Then let’s do this,” said Marianne. “Let us marry. Everything else, we can figure out along the way. Together.”

“Yes,” said Ignatz. 

The rest of her argument evaporated on her tongue. She hadn’t realized until that moment that she was trying to make one at all. Like she wasn’t expecting him to agree to the arrangement that had, a long time ago, been his idea first. “Y-yes?”

“Yes,” he said, and another tear slipped freely down his beaming cheek. “Yes, I will marry you, Marianne. Of course I will. You have become one of the single most beloved people in my entire life. It would be an honor ,” he said, “to play the part of your husband. Truly.”

Marianne’s cracking heart broke open, then. She threw her arms around his neck, and he ducked his face into hers as he embraced her back. 

“We’ll make this work,” she whispered as she felt his tears dampen her collar. As she felt dampness on her own cheeks. “I would rather have no one else by my side, Ignatz Victor.”

They clung to each other tightly in the shadow of the Goddess Tower. Both of them crying, though they knew not what for.

She brought him to the margrave that very same day.

“This is the one, Father,” she said, hand in hand with Ignatz. “You may write to the retainers today. I have found my husband.”

“Oh,” said Margrave Edmund, blinking between the two of them. “I… well. That was expedient.”

Ignatz touched his chest and bowed slightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Lordship. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“This is Ignatz Victor, Father,” said Marianne. “I’ve known him since we were classmates at the Officer’s Academy, and like me, he has devoted all his energies these past five years to ending the war. He has proven himself a gifted archer and battlefield commander.”

“I see.” Margrave Edmund shook Ignatz’s extended hand, his eyes narrowing faintly as he studied his face. Marianne tried not to laugh at Ignatz’s slightly cowed expression. “Victor, you say?” asked her father. “By chance, any relation to the Victor merchant enterprise of Gloucester?”

“Yes, sir. Johannes Victor is my father.”

“Ah! Wonderful,” he beamed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Edmund territory has done good business with the Victors in recent years. You bear a fine reputation with that name, son.”

Ignatz shared a glance of relief with her. “Thank you, Your Lordship.”

“And now you seek the hand of my adoptive daughter, is that so?”

“Don’t tease him, Father,” said Marianne. 

“That’s right,” Ignatz declared, perhaps a little too loudly. “Your daughter is an incredible woman, Your Lordship. And exceedingly handsome. For a woman, that is. Handsomely beautiful. More beautiful than… er, a landscape of a peach orchard in bloom-”

“Ignatz is a painter,” Marianne interjected. Ignatz immediately accepted the free escape.

“How novel!” Her father, blessedly, seemed none the wiser. “You’ll have to see the artisan’s district of Edmund’s capital city, son. The House of the margrave has ever taken a vested interest in patroning the arts…”

Margrave Edmund rambled on, taking Ignatz by the shoulders as if corralling him towards the tea garden for a longer discussion. The archer shot Marianne a weak, high-browed smile, and Marianne couldn’t help a silent giggle as she followed them.

Marianne didn’t know who she was escaping when she and Ignatz left the summit early for Edmund territory, but she knew she was escaping someone. There was someone within those monastery walls that she just couldn’t bring herself to face once her adoptive father finally went public with her betrothal over the negotiation table. 

Other unions had already been announced in that way. Marianne had attended several meetings alongside the margrave; she’d witnessed several in person. Ingrid Galatea was to be the Margravine Gautier. Ashe Duran had run off to be the Prince Consort of Brigid. Dorothea Arnault was to be the Grand Duchess Aegir - that caused several titters when it broke, given the mage’s lower-class status. It seemed that everyone was desperate to forge advantageous ties before the armistice ink could even dry.

And then there was Hilda. Marianne heard the rumors through Lysithea - that Claude was going to propose to his right-hand woman before the summit was done.

Conveniently, Marianne allowed her father to announce her own betrothal the following day. Provided that Marianne would be well on her way to Edmund by the time he did.

She would see Hilda at her and Ignatz’s wedding either way.

Aside from their hasty departure, the ride north and east to Edmund was actually largely enjoyable. She and Ignatz led no company of knights. Their weapons were stowed safely in saddlebags. It was just the two of them, two dear friends, sharing in the beauty of late summer’s nature and the tranquility of peace. The little spoils that they had fought so hard for so long to reap.

Ignatz had a smile on his face and a sketchbook spread open in his lap as he rode more often than not. He filled up half the tome by the time the thickly forested ridges of Edmund rose on either side of the road.

Castle Edmund was a modest affair in construction, but its architects had certainly known how to utilize the environment to their greatest aesthetic advantage. A long, snaking path switched its way up the side of the steepest ridge mountain - the last before the land sloped gently to the coast - to reach a keep of weathered limestone and black timber clinging to the seaward face, barely visible above the tops of the conifers on the approach. Ignatz stopped several times on their ascent to gaze down the verdant slopes in wondrous awe, whenever the trunks gave way enough to allow a view of the wilderness. 

Marianne revealed nothing as she watched him. If he was already overjoyed by the scenery, he was going to lose his mind in the best way when she showed him what she was really excited for him to see.

The entire household, it seemed, had turned out in the narrow front courtyard to welcome them. Servants and stablehands and secretaries and sentries. At the head of the entourage was a man Marianne was well acquainted with - Braxton, a premier vassal lord under her father. He shook her hand warmly when she dismounted.

“Lady Marianne, welcome home,” said Braxton. “Goddess forgive me, there seems to be so many congratulations in order, I hardly know where to start. Is this him, then?”

Marianne extended her hand to Ignatz, interlacing their fingers to steel herself. “My betrothed,” she said to Braxton with as confident a tone as she could muster. “Ignatz Victor of the Victor Merchant Enterprise, Gloucester county. Ignatz - er, my love - this is Lord Charling Braxton, senior representative of the Edmund vassal roundtable. He is the acting go-between for the other petty lords in our service. We will see much of him.”

“An honor, sir,” said Ignatz, bowing.

“The honor is mine, Your Imminent Lordship,” Braxton beamed, cutting his own bow. “It seems you’ve done quite well for yourself, rising to the seat of a Margrave Consort in such a short time.”

Ignatz blushed. “I’m just grateful that Lady Marianne thinks so highly of me. She has… undoubtedly captured my heart. In romance, that is.”

“And he, mine.” Marianne gave his hand a knowing squeeze. “Now, I’m sure there’s a great deal of paperwork waiting for us inside, but I’d like to give my betrothed a tour of the castle grounds first, if you don’t mind, Braxton.”

“Not at all! This castle is your home now, my lord, and we are your humble servants all.”

“Thank you,” said Ignatz, and Marianne hustled them both out of the crowded courtyard and into the cool comfort of the castle. “That was so bizarre, good gracious,” he exhaled once they were out of earshot. “I’m going to have to get used to people calling me Your Lordship, aren’t I?”

“It’s the tradeoff of the arrangement, I fear,” she said.

“Well, there are certainly much worse things to sacrifice. Especially if it comes with a backyard as pretty as this.”

Marianne grinned, taking both his hands and leading him backwards into the castle. “You just wait until you’ve seen the rest.”

She started with the bedrooms. She would have preferred to end with them, but when every chamber of importance in Castle Edmund took advantage of the very feature she was most eager to reveal, she figured she ought to make the biggest impression possible. 

“These will be your rooms,” said Marianne, leading him into a spacious suite decorated with sage and forest green. The main room was a round studio with a deep fireplace on the left, flanked with shelves and velvet chairs, and doors leading into the bed and bathing chambers on the right. An intricate rug covered almost the entire flagstone floor. But the real attention grabber was…

“Oh.” Ignatz’s breath flew from his lungs, his eyes and mouth forming the same round ‘O’. He inched forward like he hardly dared to take a single step. “Can I…?”

“Go ahead,” said Marianne, and Ignatz crossed the room immediately to throw open the enormous, glass-paned double doors leading out to the balcony patio.

A cool breeze cut through the Horsebow Moon heat, a sure indicator of the coming autumn. Ignatz’s fingers came to rest reverently on the stone balcony as he drank in the panoramic view. His expression had not changed. Marianne joined him, trying to remember her own awe when she’d first laid eyes on Edmund territory from the point of view of her brand-new home.

The entire margravate spread before them like a tablecloth laden with a feast for the eyes. Rolling hills covered in thick woods and orchards sloped down from their perch above it all. The white ribbons of rivers and creeks cut paths through dilapidated farmland. Everything was cast in a riot of vibrant greens, blacks, and golds. And on the horizon, where the gray glimmer of the capital city reached lazy fingers upriver, was the midnight band of the sea. 

“I’ve been told the view from Castle Edmund is considered one of the most beautiful in the entire Alliance,” said Marianne.

“I’ve heard that, too,” breathed Ignatz. She was impressed he was able to breathe at all. “Marianne… I don’t believe it. And these are my rooms?”

“All yours. They’re a bit of a walk from the margravine’s chambers, but I figured you wouldn’t mind a little distance if it meant you could have this patio for painting. Certainly no one will blame you, once they learn how much you love to paint.”

“How much of this forest is deciduous?”

“Most of it. In a month’s time, all of Edmund will seem aflame from here. It’s breathtaking.”

“I don’t… I don’t know what to say,” he almost laughed. “Thank you.”

“Consider it the tradeoff of our arrangement,” she said, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow and gazing together at the view.

It’s the least I can do for you, knowing so little but fearing so much of the life we have yet to live.

The peace accords of a united Fodlan were signed into law on the last day of Horsebow Moon. News of more engagements trickled their way back to Edmund - Fraldarius, Gloucester, and Riegan. Lysithea’s rumors held substance after all. And while her father was still on the road home, Marianne assumed the role of sole hostess with the arrival of the Victors.

“There he is!” Johannes Victor was a small, wiry man with large brown eyes and a blond beard cropped closely about his mouth. He was dwarfed significantly by his tall and voluptuous wife Edith, though the family resemblance between them and their son was clear as day. Ignatz let himself be smothered into his mother’s bosom in the courtyard before accepting a hearty embrace and clap on the back from his father. 

“I’ve missed you,” said Ignatz.

“We’ve missed you!” said Edith, pressing an enormous kiss to his cheek. “For the Goddess’ sake, love, you couldn’t have let slip in any of your war letters that you were courting the heiress of Edmund all this time?”

“Your mother was in a state when we got the news,” Johannes guffawed, winking.

“Forget Mother. You should have heard Father, hollering from the rooftops like a rooster.”

The third voice came from the tall fellow at Johannes’ back. Marianne had to do a double take - aside from the beard clinging to the line of his jaw and the long hair tied neatly at the nape of his neck, he was almost the spitting image of Ignatz, down to the round glasses. Hans Victor, she realized, for he could be no one else but the archer’s older brother.

“I can imagine,” said Ignatz, taking him into a lighter embrace. “Good to see you, Hans. Daphne.”

The woman in Hans’ shadow - his own wife, clearly - permitted a hug of her own from her brother-in-law. Hans ruffled Ignatz’s hair with a chuckle. “Always gotta one-up me, eh, Iggy? As soon as I land a fellow merchant, you pick up a noblewoman?”

“Oh, Hans, you leave your brother alone,” said their mother.

Ignatz just batted his hand away. “Maybe if you’d gone to the Officer’s Academy, you too might have been so fortunate. No offense, Daphne.”

Hans just barked a laugh and ruffled his hair again. “I’m just messing with you. Congrats, Igs, really. We’re excited for you, that’s all.”

A petulant sniff from Edith. “I still should have liked more of a warning.”

“I apologize, Mother,” said Ignatz. “I was… very busy, those last months of fighting.”

“But look at you now!” His father patted him on the shoulders with both hands. Ignatz was the taller, though not by much. “Whole and hale, and engaged to boot!”

Edith Victor let out a soft gasp, finally noticing Marianne in the threshold of the castle. Marianne forced her hands to relax where they were interlaced before her. “Oh, Ignatz!” She hurried to cut a curtsey. “My lady. What an honor it is.”

“Please,” said Marianne, bidding her to rise and raising her hands before any of the others tried to do the same. “Just Marianne. That goes for all of you. It’s truly my pleasure to welcome you to Castle Edmund.”

Johannes still bowed deeply, kissing her hand. “We may not have heard of your intended nuptials until recently, my lady, but our Ignatz wrote of you often,” he said. “He tells us that your dexterity with Faith magic saved his life more times than he can count. We are truly in your debt for that.”

“I don’t know about that,” Ignatz blushed. To Marianne, he admitted, “I told them about Myrddin, perhaps. And your Holy Knight certification.”

“I see,” said Marianne. The battle of the Great Bridge of Myrddin had been a lengthy struggle. Ignatz had been assigned to the front lines and had been skewered through the stomach on an enemy sword. It was the closest either of them had ever come to losing the other.

“But we should have known there was something between you two back then,” Edith gushed. “He always seemed so descriptive discussing you, my lady. I should have put the pieces together sooner!”

“Eh, I don’t know,” said Hans with a wink, elbowing his brother. “Never thought marriage was really in the cards for Iggy here, descriptive letters or not. Could have fooled me a while longer.”

His mother batted at her older son. Ignatz laughed awkwardly. 

Marianne chose that moment to beckon them towards the open doors. “Please, make yourselves at home. We’ll have someone show you to your rooms.”

Edith clasped Marianne’s hands in gratitude. Johannes and Hans both bowed, following to marvel at the modest finery of the entrance hall. 

Ignatz sidled up to Marianne and whispered, “How long are they going to be staying, again?”

“Until the wedding. Ethereal Moon.” She frowned. “Why? You don’t think they’ll pose a problem, do you?”

“No, not my parents, that’s for sure. And Daphne wouldn’t dare speak out, she’s only been married for a year. Hans, though…”

A sickening thought pooled in her stomach. “He doesn’t know, does he?”

“Goddess, no. At worst, he has a teasing suspicion. Though, I’ve got to believe this engagement will clear that up for him in his head.”

“Good,” she said. “Then I suppose we’ll just have to play up our desperate romantic affections for each other.” 

Ignatz took her hand, pressing a smile. “Until Ethereal Moon,” he said. “My love.”

Marianne tried her best not to snort. She failed.

And then, not even six months after the last battle of the great war, their union was already sealed.

The wedding was a winter one. Edmund had been blessed with a thick frosting of snow only after the small army of guests were all safely nestled behind their castle gates. The grounds from basement to parapet were garlanded in millions upon millions of tiny white flowers to match. Marianne and Ignatz stepped hand in hand into the castle cathedral both in the same frosty hue. Palest lavender, bluebell, and dusty succulent burst from every accent down the long aisle. Marianne’s gown was piped and laced with the same ice-blue as her perfectly-braided locks; Ignatz’s finery, accents of sage. Finery fit for a nobleman.

Beautiful as it was, Marianne felt as though she saw and heard nothing at all throughout the entire ceremony. She and her dearest friend knelt before the altar of the Goddess and recited long-memorized prayer. Vaguely, she understood that the joyous gazes of countless friends and family were riveted to her back, but she had not felt the warm swell of recognition from any of the faces she strode past. 

All but Hilda. Half-hidden behind her fiance’s golden epaulette. Trussed from head to toe in Riegan green and gold. 

But that swell was not a warm one.

At some point, she and Ignatz had risen to their feet. She didn’t remember hearing the bishop bid them do it. Her voice caught in her throat - he was looking at her directly, now. Expectantly. So was Ignatz.

“What?” she whispered, heart going to her throat.

“Your vow, my lady,” said the bishop. There were some lighthearted titters from the front row. Her adoptive father stood behind the bishop to his right - he was smiling, too, but Marianne knew a look of worry on his worry-lined face when she saw it. “Do you swear to love your husband above all men, serve him above all lieges, and protect him above all charges for the rest of your lives and beyond?”

“I…”

She met Ignatz’s eye. There was no worry on his face, but she understood the silent message in his expression all the same.

This is your last chance. If you don’t want this, now has to be the time to say it.

She tore her gaze away. “Before the Goddess, I do swear these vows,” she declared.

The bishop nodded. “And you, Ignatz Victor…”

Marianne dissociated again until someone took her left hand, startling her back to her senses. Her father. He cupped her free hand in both of his own, a smile in his moist eyes, while Johannes Victor cupped his son’s. “Before the Goddess, I do impart my blessing upon this couple,” said Johannes, deftly rehearsed.

“Before the Goddess,” said Margrave Edmund, “I do impart my blessing - and my title - upon this couple.”

This detail was no secret by any means, but awed sighs went up from their spectators all the same. The passing of Edmund territory’s inheritance had been signed into the marriage contract in the days leading up to the event. Upon their union, Marianne’s father formally ceased to be the ruling margrave.

He and Johannes released their childrens’ hands at the same time. The final letting-go. Marianne’s fingers curled in the air as her father’s palm slipped out of her own for the last time, leaving Ignatz - her husband - as her only tether henceforth.

“And so,” called the bishop, spreading his hands to the crowd, “in the holy name of the Goddess Sothis and upon the jurisdiction of Her Church of Seiros, I hereby present you, blessed witnesses, with this formally wedded couple: Her Ladyship the Lady Marianne von Edmund, Margravine of Edmund; and His Lordship the Lord Ignatz von Edmund, Margrave Consort of Edmund. May their wisdom and compassion warm the hearts of their people as they do warm one another’s.”

Resounding applause, an immediate standing ovation. She felt her lips pull back over her teeth in the shape of a smile, mere reflex. Beside her, Ignatz had the same expression of beaming bewilderment.

“With this kiss, may thee wed,” said the bishop, bowing away.

Kiss. Marianne’s head snapped to Ignatz, just as he did the same. A heartbeat of hesitation, then a steadying smile. He supported her face gently in one hand. 

And Marianne’s lips brushed the lips of her friend. 

What a strange feeling. Marianne had never been kissed, and yet she had somehow expected more. A dry bump of delicate skin, a second’s press. The tip of her nose nudged into the side of his. Fairytales often told of a surge of passion upon one’s first kiss, but her thoughts simply went utterly blank.

Then they parted. That was it. She had a husband, and he had a wife. 

The first of their holy duties, against all opposition, was complete.

“Oh, Marianne, I’m so proud of you two!”

Sweet perfume flooded Marianne’s nose as Hilda Goneril embraced her tightly. She barely had time to come to her senses and tuck her arms around the former wyvern lord’s slender waist before she squeezed her one last time and moved right on to smothering Ignatz. “And look at you, mister margrave! All dolled up in all this silk!”

“Ah, thank you,” said Ignatz, straightening his lapels once she released him, too. “But it really is just Margrave Consort. Marianne is the one with the knowledge to rule.”

“I’ll do my best,” she admitted.

“You’ll do beautifully,” said Hilda. 

Marianne tried to smile. She really did. It was just incredibly difficult when the future Duchess Riegan had chosen a corset ballgown that pushed the generous swells of her breasts up through an extremely eye-catching window in the gold-lace fabric. The gold pendant necklace that almost dove straight down her cleavage certainly didn’t help, either. 

“Hilda is absolutely right. You mustn’t doubt your preparedness for this role, Marianne. You have always had a true eye for leadership,” Lorenz declared with a nod of his champagne flute. It was the first time Marianne had ever seen the heir of Gloucester sport a white rose in his lapel instead of a red one.

“I appreciate that, Lorenz. Thank you,” she said.

He nodded then to Ignatz with a grin. “And of course, you would do well to consult your beloved on such matters, as well! Battalion command shares a great deal with the responsibilities of a nobleman.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” said Ignatz. Subtly, he gave Marianne’s hand a reassuring squeeze. She squeezed it back. 

“Speaking of beloved, Lorenz, where’s your lady friend?” Hilda had moved on.

Lorenz shrugged. “Alas, her duties required her elsewhere. Her uncle’s health is failing; even a distant scion of House Phlegethon such as herself is obligated to attend him.”

“Ah, what a shame. I was really hoping to meet this girl.”

“I assure you, you shall. I fully intend to steal her away to Derdriu in time for your wedding, dear Hil-”

“There you are!”

A cacophonous bellow startled them all - Lorenz nearly spilling his drink - as Raphael charged into their group. Ignatz’s eyes widened. “Raphael, I-”

“C’mere, you! Up we go!”

Ignatz let out a choked shriek as the brawler grabbed him under the arms and swiftly deposited him onto his shoulders. Ignatz yelped again as he held onto his meaty head for dear life. “Saints, put me down -!”

“To the new margrave!” Raphael cheered, pumping a fist into the air. “That’s my best bud right there! Three cheers for Ignatz von Edmund!”

Lorenz put a hand to his chest. “Raphael, I implore you to release him at once. This behavior is wildly unbecoming, and Ignatz must put his best foot forward on his first day as a nobleman!”

“I’m falling, Raph, I’m gonna fall-!”

“You are not. Not on my watch!” But Raphael relented, manhandling the archer off of his shoulders with the ease of a mere unburdened yoke. “Sorry there,” he laughed. “I’m just so excited, Ig! I can’t believe you’re really a lord now!”

Ignatz, red-faced, fumbled once again to straighten his clothes. “I’m still the same me, you know,” he said. 

“Sure, but now you’re, like… fancy you!”

“And no hugs for the lovely lady who made him one, I see,” Hilda winked. All too late, Marianne realized what was coming.

“Oh, yeah! Get in here, Marianne!”

Marianne’s voiced opposition was immediately squeezed from her lungs as Raphael nearly snapped her in half with his enthusiasm. “I love this hair thingy you’ve got going on,” he said, playing with her veil as he set her down to catch her breath. “You really look great, Marianne. Ignatz is super lucky to have you. Are you excited?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Great. I’m so glad. Man, I love weddings. When’s the next one?”

Hilda wiggled her fingers. “That would be mine.”

“Oh, hell yeah! Party in Derdriu! I gotta find Claude…”

Lorenz swirled his wine with a breathless chuckle as, quick as he came, Raphael tore away like a hurricane. “May he never change,” he said.

“Yeah,” sighed Ignatz. “I’m… really going to miss him.”

The party led right into the grand feast as the sun began to set. Every glass door and window along the towering seaward wall of the dining room was thrown open despite the winter chill. Bonfires, torches, and candles aplenty kept the air warm indoors. Ignatz and Marianne presided over the long runner at a table of their own, bedecked in more white and ice-blue blooms. 

Marianne didn’t miss how every time Raphael’s laughter boomed over the din of the hall, Ignatz took a drink of his wine. Marianne did the same every time Hilda leaned over her plate to tease one of their friends.

The bride and groom’s table was meant to make them the focal point of the evening, but to Marianne, it only seemed to isolate them further.

Party into dinner and then dinner into dancing. The floor was cleared and musicians filed in, and soon the great hall was awash in swirling dresses and more champagne. Marianne partook in a handful of ballroom dances with Ignatz as was expected - the crash course in waltzes she’d given him in the preceding months paid off impressively. Ignatz had always been a fast and dedicated learner. He only misstepped to the point of toe-stepping twice. 

By their last dance together, Marianne could no longer ignore the mischievous, knowing looks that turned their way as they swayed and turned about the dance floor. Politely refusing any more dances only got her so far. There was a pit growing in her stomach as the night wore later and later.

By the tightness in Ignatz’s shoulders, she knew he felt it, too.

The crowds began to thin, little by little. Lysithea was among the first to retire early. That came as no surprise - perhaps Marianne had not noticed it when they were spending every day together on the front lines, but there were shadows under the petite warlock’s pale eyes and her body didn’t seem to fill out her tailored dress as well as it should have. Her condition was worsening. She staunchly refused to address it, but there could be no denying that the time limit she’d always seemed to dance around was inching closer and closer before their eyes.

Then it was Mercedes saying her goodbyes and wishing the pair of them happiness. Then it was Sylvain and Ingrid, the former shooting Ignatz a painfully obvious wink that turned Marianne’s stomach. Then Lorenz, the Victors, and finally Hilda. Hilda, who had the brazenness to kiss Marianne on the cheek and whisper, “Have fun,” in her ear.

Marianne downed the rest of her wine so fast it made her head spin.

“They’re watching us,” murmured Ignatz.

She closed her eyes against the throbbing of her head. “I know.”

“Lorenz looked asleep on his feet. I don’t think half of the people left would still be here if we weren’t.”

“Are they seriously waiting for us?”

“It’s the closest they can get to being sure it happens.”

Marianne let out her breath slow through her nose, brows pushing together. In all honesty, she was exhausted. She had been for hours. She even doubted her lightheadedness could be solely attributed to her slow alcohol consumption across the day’s festivities. There was nothing she wanted more than to crawl into bed and let the blind numbness of dreamless sleep take her.

But she had no bed anymore. Not to herself. Her bed was her husband’s, now, and she would be expected to share it.

In every sense of the word.

“How do you want to do this?” Ignatz murmured, just as visibly uncomfortable by the situation.

Marianne opened her eyes, seeing nothing. “Let’s just get it over with.”

It seemed like every head whipped around to face them as soon as they rose from their table hand in hand. Ignatz made some passing address of gratitude to the remaining guests, and then they were walking out the doors, one last round of celebratory applause skittering at their heels. 

Marianne wanted to be sick. 

The margravine’s chamber doors appeared far too quickly. A pair of castle guards bowed them through with murmured congratulations of their own, then closed them at their backs. 

The silence was suffocating.

Marianne dropped Ignatz’s hand. She had to. The contact was too much to bear, for once a source of panic over comfort. He did not follow her into the dressing chamber, where she divested herself of her jewels and finery with far less care than the beautiful articles deserved. She raked claws through her braids, yanking them free in a shower of pearl-headed pins. Silk nightgowns were overturned in favor of her thickest flannel - it was absolutely frigid in her chambers. 

She braced both hands on either side of her mirrored vanity, willing her frantic breathing to slow down. The woman in the mirror was visibly trembling. 

I can’t do this. 

That single thought warred with one other. Over and over in her head, for how long she had no idea.

I have to do this.

Her knuckles smoothed out over the edge of the vanity. Lifted off the polished wood. A breath in. A breath out. Her winter-numb bare feet left shadows of condensation on the unyielding stone floor.

Her husband was already in the enormous bedroom, dwarfed under the four-poster canopy as he sat on the mattress’ edge, back to her with his elbows on his knees and his mouth in his hands. At some minute sound of her entry that even she didn’t hear, he jumped like he’d been struck by lightning and whirled to face her. He, too, had abandoned his fine clothes for one of the countless dressing gowns for which he’d been fitted as the new margrave consort. 

He looked terrified.

They stood in absolute silence. Someone had lit a fire in the hearth across from the bed, but no warmth reached either of them. Marianne’s fingers bunched in the soft flannel, the bed an ocean upon whose opposite shores she and her husband now stood. Under whose waves of sheets they would come together. They had to come together.

Callused archer’s hands splayed in vain search of comfort across his thighs. His throat wobbled as he attempted to put voice to words that did not come, until he finally rasped, “So-”

“I don’t want to do this,” said Marianne, and immediately, Ignatz exhaled with his entire body.

“Oh, thank Seiros. Neither do I.”

“Not tonight,” she said. “I know we… we won’t be able to put it off forever.”

“Of course. Right, of course. Heirs, and all…”

“But I don’t want to do this tonight. I can’t. Everything else…” She shook her head. “We have to have done enough. We must have. This… they’ll never have to know, whether we did this or not.”

“But you’re… you’re sure? About this?” Ignatz swallowed again. “It’s just… it’s grounds for annulment, isn’t it? Not consummating on the wedding night?”

“Only if someone is looking for a reason to split us apart. They’ll never find out otherwise. As long as the Edmund line continues someday, they’ll have no reason to question it.” Her shoulders straightened as she said it aloud. Convincing herself as much as she was convincing him.

We’ve done enough. They’ll never have to know.

Her words seemed to have worked. Ignatz closed his eyes. “Alright,” he said. “Alright.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too.” He huffed a mirthless laugh. “What’s one more secret blasphemy in the eyes of the Goddess, right?”

“Right,” she whispered.

He sat back down on the bed, sagging as he rubbed his face under his glasses. Marianne alighted gingerly on the opposite side. When he folded his glasses on the nightstand and slid his legs under the sheets, she mirrored him in silence. They lay facing each other on the pillows. Two brackets; two parentheses. 

Then Marianne stretched her arm across the gap and took hold of his shoulder, and he curled into the touch. Into her. She held her best friend to her breast, and he held her to his. 

“We can do this, Ignatz,” she whispered. “We can do this.”

The faintest laugh. “Marianne von Edmund, as long as you’re by my side, I can do anything in the world."

Chapter Text

If the retainers of Edmund territory were disappointed when their margravine failed to swell with child in the months following her marriage, they were still too overjoyed by the fact that a marriage had occurred at all to show it. Especially given how advantageous a union with the Victor Trading Company proved to be for their pocketbooks.

Hoarding land was one thing. Nobles all across Fodlan adored packaging and repackaging tracts of farmland, grazing land, lumber land, and every other type of land at their disposal. But land was a long-term investment - crops had to be sown and harvested, forests had to be carefully maintained. Nevermind the profits rarely trickled their way down into the hands of the commoners who worked it.

Merchant business, on the other hand, traded money freely through the population so fast they barely left fingerprints on the gold. It was an immediate investment, an immediate turnaround, and a jolt of lightning to every echelon of the economy. Petty lords reaped contract advances in spades. Commoners shoveled out their gold in exchange for goods they hadn’t seen for six years. The Victor merchants, themselves still commoners, turned right around and spent their stipends on the local businesses they found themselves amidst.

In no time, the Edmund Margravate began to pull ahead of all of eastern Fodlan when it came to post-war financial welfare. 

The weddings of Marianne’s friends blurred together, one after the other. Hilda and Claude’s, especially, ended up as a near-perfect hole in her memory. The only thing that stood out to her was how the happy, laughing couple hadn’t seemed to be able to keep their hands off each other at the wedding table. The announcement of Duchess Riegan’s pregnancy mere months later, therefore, came as no surprise.

And as the one-year anniversary of Marianne and Ignatz’s union neared, her own grace period finally came to an end.

“We have to make a greater effort to stay the night with each other.”

Ignatz nodded. He was engrossed in his latest landscape of the view from his balcony - his first attempt at capturing Wyvern Moon in Edmund. Marianne stood by the banister, watching him twirl his long paintbrush in thought. “You think that’ll be enough?” he asked.

“We should make it obvious. It should be a spectacle for them.”

“What happens when nothing comes of it?”

“They’ll think we’re trying,” she said. “That’s all they can ask of us.”

The very next night, Marianne was reading in bed when her door burst open and Ignatz slammed his back against it to shut it behind him, wild-eyed and beet red. “I think I just blew this whole thing,” he moaned.

Marianne shut her book at once. “What happened.”

“Nothing. I’m exaggerating. No, I’m not, I…” He dragged his face down his hands. “Why do I feel the need to constantly dig holes for myself in perfectly unbroken earth?”

“Ignatz.”

“Alright, look. We said make it a spectacle, right? Well, I took the long way around from my rooms to here, and I ran into Braxton in the great hall.”

“That is a long way around.”

“Cut me some slack, I was trying to find someone so I could tell them what I was doing.”

Marianne pressed her lips together to hide a smile. She was all too familiar with her dear friend’s reactions to on-the-spot questioning by now; she had a good idea of where this was going. “And?”

“And,” he sighed, exasperated, “He asked me what I was doing wandering around so late, and I said I was on my way to your rooms, and then he gave me this look, and… I don’t know. I don’t even know half of what I was saying. I just started running my mouth.”

“Don’t tell me the word coitus was involved again.”

“It was. It definitely was.” Marianne laughed, and Ignatz buried his face in his hands again. “I am so bad at this, Marianne. If there was ever a competition for least sexy ways to express desire for one’s wedded wife, I would be the undefeated champion. No one is ever going to believe that I find any part of a woman sexually appealing after this.”

“Come here,” she said, throwing open the corner of her sheets. He slunk over and flopped onto the mattress. She patted his back. “Braxton is well aware of how awkward you are by now. If anything, he’s probably just going to assume you were embarrassed to admit your intentions aloud to him.”

“He did wink at me,” he mumbled into the pillow. “I’m going to healthily assume he wasn’t trying to flirt.”

“See? What’s he going to do, follow you to the door on the off chance you weren’t being truthful? I’m sure you’re perfectly fine.”

Ignatz picked up his head, then. “I have been wondering about that, you know.”

“About what?”

“Being followed. It’s been almost a year. If I were them, I would start questioning what it is we’re really doing when we meet up like this.”

Marianne closed her mouth around her reflexive dismissal. Would they? Her adoptive father would never condone such a thing, but Braxton had always been shrewd. And the alliance with the Victors had made his holdings quite a bit of money; he’d be eager to ensure there was nothing that would threaten that source of income. Like an annulment. 

“You think they’re listening?” she whispered.

Ignatz shrugged, just as lost. “Edmund has its fair share of spies. Wouldn’t take a lot of convincing to turn them on their margravine every once and a while. Unless you don’t think that’s possible.”

“No, it’s possible,” said Marianne, lips twisting in a grimace. Damn it. 

“Maybe we should just slam the headboard against the wall a couple times to be sure.”

An idea began to form in her mind. “No,” she said. “If they’re really going to be so invasive as to demand a show, we’ll give them a show. Whatever you said to Braxton tonight, play it up tomorrow. Make absolutely unavoidable your intentions. Make them think that if there was ever a night to put an ear to the door, it’s then.” She opened her book again. “I refuse to have to sleep with you until we are completely out of options. No offense.”

“You know there’s none taken when you’re speaking my own thoughts,” he said. “I just hope you know what you’re getting into. If I play tonight up any further, I’m going to blow right past marital devotion and circle right back around to undeniable blasphemy.”

Marianne planted a kiss to the top of his head. “And yet, there is no battle that you could face that you’d be unprepared to see through to the end, my dear.”

“Ah, you know me too well.”

Marianne spent as much of the following day in Ignatz’s line of sight as possible. When he snuck in through her door late that evening, he was no less red-faced than the night before, but there was a gleam of victory in his eyes. 

“Well,” he declared, “if the Knights of Seiros don’t come barging through the gates in pursuit of the perverted blasphemer before sunrise, I think we can safely assume that my suffering has effectively paid off.”

Marianne crossed the room, leaving her great bed behind. She plucked a piece of lint off of his loose nightshirt. “How do you want to do this?” she said, keeping her voice down.

Ignatz cleared his throat. “Maybe… like a dance?” he murmured.

“A dance?”

“Like this.” He took her hand but stepped away, turning and placing his free hand to his breast like an opera star onstage. “My love,” he announced, loudly and flatly, “How I have longed for your embrace this night.”

Marianne snorted. 

“Don’t do that, you’re supposed to be into this,” Ignatz hissed, though his face had settled on a fine shade of crimson.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll compose myself. Just… give me a moment.”

“You needn’t shy from me, my love. Come to me.” Ignatz threw another flat holler in the direction of the door. “Divest yourself at once of these frivolous impediments to our love, so I may ravish you as I desire.”

“Of course, my dear,” Marianne trilled birdlike. Spotting a discarded dressing gown draped over the back of an armchair, she pulled Ignatz along to grab it with her off hand and fling it towards a shelf of books. As she had hoped, the various bits and bobs of decorations rattled noisily. 

Ignatz blinked. “Enthusiastic,” he said.

“I can no longer wait another moment,” Marianne insisted, cracking a grin. 

He fell into the game. “Nor can I, my darling beloved. All day, I have been distracted by visions of your…” His eyes gave her a frantic once-over. “Shapely… waist?”

“Shapely waist?”

“Er… That is to say, your… voluptuous bosom. Unclothed, might I add.”

“You can say you like both,” she suggested.

“Shush. I’m trying to remember how Sylvain used to act back at the Academy, I need to think.”

Marianne flung out her arm dramatically. “Enough talk, my love,” she cried, shooting him a knowing look. “You promised to ravish; I beg of you, do your worst, or I feel I shall combust.”

“Right,” said Ignatz, and then they stared at each other for the span of an awkward heartbeat. 

“This is when we’d likely be kissing,” she supplied.

“I gathered,” he said. “How should we…?”

Marianne looked about them, realizing she was suddenly at a rather large loss. Her only kiss had been their chaste exchange at the wedding altar - she had no idea what a couple in love ought to sound like when engaging in anything more passionate. “You ought to take the lead,” she mumbled. “I have no idea how to act convincingly from here.”

He blinked. “Well, I… can’t imagine it’s any different from kissing someone you or I might fancy, you know?”

“That’s exactly the problem. I’ve never…” Suddenly, she stared at him. “Have… have you kissed someone before? Like this?”

“Ah,” said Ignatz, rubbing his neck. “Well… you know I was stationed at Myrddin for a good… six months, during the war. With Lorenz.”

Her mouth fell open. “You kissed Lorenz?” she breathed, barely audible. 

“We were drunk. It was one night. We didn’t do anything else. But… yes, I did.”

“Is he-”

“I have no idea. We never spoke of it again, but clearly our friendship wasn’t damaged by it.” He shook his head. “Anyway, yes. Keep talking, I’ll lead. Also, we should be moving to the bed by now.”

“Is talking still reasonable at this point? Shouldn’t we be, I don’t know…”

Ignatz’s brows raised. “Moaning?”

“Yes. That.”

“Maybe. Give it a shot.”

Marianne pressed her lips together, steeling herself under Ignatz’s scrutiny. I’m a wife desperately in love with her husband, she told herself. I am awash with desire. We are kissing, about to satisfy one another. What noise does that elicit…?

“Mmh,” Marianne attempted.

Ignatz frowned. “Maybe… a little louder than that?” She tried again, and his frown quirked in consideration. “Try opening your mouth, Marianne. We’re meant to be overheard.”

“We’re kissing,” she said plainly. “I’m trying to muffle myself accordingly.”

“Well, maybe I’m not kissing you on the mouth.”

A mortified blush flashed over her against her will. “Where else…?”

“Oh. You know. Anywhere, really,” said Ignatz, pushing up his glasses as he glanced off. “Not to mention, if we’re intending to fornicate, we’d likely be… touching. Each other. So… any sounds are probably fine.”

“You try one, then.”

He threw a glance over his shoulder at the door before calling out, “Ah, Marianne, my love.”

“Dear, you sound like you’re reading off a script.”

A challenging lift of the brows. “AH, Marianne! My love!” he cried.

“That’s better,” she grinned. 

“Alright, your turn,” he winked, and Marianne centered herself once more. 

“Oh, Ignatz!” 

“Oh, Marianne!” He joined in, barely restraining laughter of his own.

They went on like that, egging each other on with lewder and lewder noises and doing their best not to burst into giggles. Ignatz guided them to hop onto the mattress, making the rope suspension creak under their sudden weight. 

“Are we naked by now?” Marianne whispered between fake moans of pleasure. “How long does this take?”

“No idea. I should think I would be sufficiently aroused by this point, but I’m told a woman’s body takes longer than a man’s to prepare for, ah… penetration.”

“I wouldn’t know,” she said.

Ignatz shrugged. “Then why don’t we assume that this scenario would sufficiently arouse an interested woman by now as well, and go from there?”

She nodded, satisfied. “If anyone asks, I was just so attracted to my unclothed husband that I couldn’t wait any longer.”

“Exactly.”

They sat across from one another on the bed trying to out-moan each other, occasionally pushing against the mattress to make it groan under their movements. Ignatz got up at one point to take hold of the headboard and knock it against the stone wall in a steady, rapid rhythm, shaking the mattress even further and forcing Marianne to bury her laughter in a pillow as it jostled her around. 

Her mind drifted as their simulated coupling reached a fervor. Alone on the mattress, she could almost imagine it was not a nameless, faceless husband pleasuring her at such speeds, but perhaps a pair of slender fingers. Not the flat chest of a man above her, but the heaving breasts of a woman. Not Ignatz claiming her, but…

The bed stopped moving. At the headboard, Ignatz let out a long, sighing groan, then flopped dramatically atop the quilt beside her. 

Marianne blinked down at him. “Was that meant to be-”

“Congratulations, wife. You have been impregnated.”

“I… thought it took longer than that.”

He shrugged. “The more enticed a man is by his sexual partner, the less it usually takes for him to… finish.”

“I see,” said Marianne, another thought hitting her. “Something else you’ve learned from experience?”

But Ignatz just snorted. “I wish.”

Marianne laid herself down beside him. Their feet dangled over opposite ends of the mattress, their heads side by side, staring up at the canopy. 

“Think that was enough?” Ignatz murmured. 

“It better be,” she murmured back. “If not, we’ll just have to try again next month until they believe us.”

“We should probably do that regardless. Seeing as your courses aren’t actually going to stop anytime soon.”

Marianne sighed. The physician at Castle Edmund would no doubt be the first to alert her retainers to any changes - or lack thereof - to her monthly courses. That, neither of them had any control over. 

“They just need to think we’re trying,” she decided. 

In the end, they would never be entirely sure whether they were being spied on or not. But, either way, it did just so happen that not a soul at the petty lords’ roundtable brought up the subject of their margravine’s womb for three blessed months straight after that night.

Marianne didn’t know whether she ought to be relieved or revolted.

Wyvern Moon 1187 saw the birth of the first new generation of Golden Deer in the form of House Riegan’s newest heiress. The following Red Wolf Moon saw the most lavish christening shower that Marianne had ever seen. Derdriu was awash in crescents of Riegan gold - flags, banners, pennants, tapestries, glass fixtures, confections, rugs, armor - for not only was the child the future of her House, she was also the future of its Crest. The infant had already been tested by Derdriu’s finest scholars before the doors were even thrown open to the heralds. A new Minor Crest of Riegan had entered the world. 

Marianne and Ignatz joined the enormous swells of well-wishers, of course, and being close friends to the radiant parents meant they could dote on them day and night. Hilda, unsurprisingly, devoured the attention with relish. Though she tired quickly and spent a great deal of the festivities sitting down or reclining, Marianne doubted the former Wyvern Lord would have wanted it any other way. Every time she looked her way, she was beaming from one flushed cheek to the other. 

The heiress of Riegan wasn’t a particularly handsome infant. A lone tuft of dark mauve hair, cheeks just a shade more bronze than her mother’s, and huge emerald eyes that bulged like they were too big for her head. But in the few instances where Marianne was permitted to hold the little bundle, she felt a violently surreal sense of devotion to her all the same.

This was Hilda’s daughter. Hilda’s flesh and blood, not to mention the flesh and blood of Claude, another of Marianne’s dearest friends. Marianne was struck by her own fierce instinct to protect the helpless infant. For Hilda, she came to realize. She would love her daughter unconditionally, for she loved her mother the very same.

And this was all before she even learned what Hilda had chosen to name her.

“Marianne?” Marianne whispered. She was grateful Hilda had taken her child back before she told her - she feared her arms would have given out if she hadn’t. She looked between both smiling parents for any hint of jest and found none. “You… why?”

“Neither of us would be here if it weren’t for you,” said Hilda softly. In her arms, little Marianne von Riegan grabbed at her long pink hair. “You saved both of our lives on the battlefield more times than I can remember. It’s really the least we could do to honor everything you did for us.”

“That, and it rolls off the tongue,” Claude winked. 

Marianne covered her mouth before tears could well. “I… I hardly deserve such an honor,” she said. “Over your mother’s name, Claude? Hilda, over yours?”

Hilda laughed. “Those are both in consideration for the next one, believe me.”

Next one.

Claude put his arm around Marianne’s shoulders and planted a chaste kiss onto her hairline. “Trust me, Marianne. This is an honor you more than deserve.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say a thing, sweetheart,” said Hilda, bouncing her daughter gently against her chest and making her gurgle. “Just make sure little Mari Junior always has a home with her Uncle Ignatz and Auntie Marianne.”

“She will,” Marianne vowed, delicately tucking a fold of blanket out of her namesake’s face. A teardrop left a perfect circle in the swaddling fabric. “She always will.”

As soon as the weather warmed back up come late Lone Moon, Marianne and Ignatz took their breakfasts together on the margravine’s balcony - not as spacious a patio as the margrave’s, but hers did sport a lovely veranda twisted with wisteria boughs, at the moment barren. That early in the blooming season, Marianne had it draped in sunny starbursts of forsythia. 

Ignatz usually beat her to their spread, especially when he spent the night in her chambers. What he did not usually do was bring work to their morning meal. So when Marianne padded out onto the cool patio in a fur-lined dressing gown, hair loose down her back, the sight of her husband staring intently through a letter in his fist struck her at once as unusual. 

“Good morning,” she said, alighting upon the wicker chair across from him. He didn’t look up - another strike to the unusual. “What’s that?”

Ignatz inhaled, finally snapping out of whatever stupor his letter’s contents had put him in. “Morning,” he said, distracted. 

“Everything alright in…?” Marianne angled her head to catch sight of the letter’s  broken seal. Her brows rose even higher as she made out the Crest of Indech embossed in the plum-colored wax. Yet another oddity, for they had no business of consequence with that House that ought to affect Ignatz so acutely. Marianne was starting to get worried. “Is that from Varley?”

“It is.”

“Has something-”

Ignatz cut her off, flicking the letter in her direction and averting his gaze, mouth resting in his hand. Marianne reached over the tea set of pastries and preserves and took it wordlessly. 

One question was answered immediately upon laying her eyes on the handwriting. The spacious, crowded script where every letter seemed to bulge into the next could be none other than Raphael Kirsten’s. As for why Raphael would have sent Ignatz a letter on Varley stationary and sealed with the Crest of its House, Marianne had to read to understand. 

And once she did, every other question crowding for attention was shot down where they stood.

Heya Ignatz!!

I know you’re gonna get a real invitation in the mail sooner or later, but I really wanted to get the news to you myself. If my handwriting’s a mess, it’s because I’m still so excited I can’t even sit still. Sorry about that in advance. But you’re gonna be just as excited when you hear what just happened, too!

You know I’ve been in Varley territory since Ferdinand and Dorothea’s wedding, right? Well, I really thought Bernie only put the offer out ‘cause she wanted to save me the travel fare, but you’re never gonna believe why she really kept me around!!

SHE PROPOSED!! To me!! She wants me to be her Count Consort!! 

Marianne lowered the letter. “Oh, Ignatz.”

“Keep reading,” Ignatz said flatly. Stomach in her throat, Marianne did so.

She said it’s ‘cause she can always feel safe when I’m around flexing my muscles on guys who try and pick on her during political meetings and stuff. I knew she always liked having my backup on the battlefield, but I didn’t know she liked it in a ROMANTIC kinda way this whole time, or I woulda said something sooner! I just can’t believe she would even consider a guy like me with no title, but man am I so happy she did!

Bernie said she’ll send out the wedding invites later this week, but I had to get to you first ‘cause I have something kinda special to ask you. We’ve been friends our whole lives, Ignatz. I know we haven’t seen a ton of each other since the war ended, but you’re still just as important to me as you’ve always been, so I want you to be involved in this, too. 

Basically, it’s like this: Bernie’s ma is gonna do the handing-off part of the ceremony instead of her pa ‘cause she’s the Countess and she says her pa’s not invited. And since my pa isn’t around to hand me off either, and Gramps really shouldn’t be traveling with his health the way it is, I was hoping you could do it. I know it’s a little weird for a wedding - a friend instead of a dad - but I ran it by Bernie and she loved it. I hope you do, too. It would mean a lot to me if you did. 

Write back as soon as you can. I’m already so excited to hear from you!! This is just so huge!!

His (Future) Lordship, Lord Raphael von Varley, Count Consort of Varley

(P.S. Check out that signature!! I’m about to be just as fancy as you!!)

Marianne let the letter fall to her empty plate. Ignatz, still gazing out over the slopes of Edmund, closed his eyes. “Oh,” she whispered. 

“At least he’s enthusiastic, right?”

“What are you going to do?”

He straightened with a long sigh. “Obviously,” he said. “I’ll do it.”

“Ignatz…”

“No, it’s… it’s no trouble. Really, Marianne. You don’t have to give me that look.”

“He’s getting married,” she said. “You’ll be handing him off. You’ll be giving him your blessing, in front of the Goddess and everybody.”

“And why shouldn’t I? He’s right, we might not have seen much of each other these past couple years, but our friendship is far older and stronger than that, nevermind more precious to both of us. It would be an honor to be involved with such intimacy in the most important ceremony of his life.”

“Are you sure?”

He swallowed. At length, he selected a pastry and dropped it onto his plate. “It’s an honor to be asked,” he said. “And no one can deny they make a good match. They’re going to be very happy together.” Another sigh, and this time, he made a valiant attempt at a carefree smile in Marianne’s direction. “What more could I want for such a beloved friend?”

Marianne handed the letter back in lieu of speaking, for she truly had nothing to say. Ignatz zipped a fold through the paper and tucked it into his waistcoat, just over his heart. 

“The forsythia is a lovely touch,” he declared, nodding to the sunny boughs overhead, and he took a bite of his pastry.

The wedding turnaround was quick. Marianne felt like she had only just stepped out of the Edmund carriage after their long ride to Aegir when she stepped back into it for the equally-long ride to Varley. Blue Sea Moon was sweltering in Adrestia territory, but the long corridors of Castle Varley were designed to condition a near-constant breeze through all of their thrown-open windows. Not to mention, the wedding decor stole the breath away to the point that the heat was easily forgotten.

Bernadetta von Varley clearly had an adoration for sunflowers. They were the crown of every place setting, the feature of every garland, and the inspiration for her speckled black and gold gown. They suited her fiance, as well - a circlet of their sunny faces interspersed with buttercups and black-eyed susans ringed his head of blond curls, evidently a craft of the Countess’ own making. They made quite the pair, striding down an aisle carpeted with more of the golden petals. The towering mountain of War Master muscle arm in arm with the delicate, mousy Bow Knight.

Marianne’s seat was toward the back of the chapel, but close enough to the aisle to easily see down its length. To her husband standing stiff in the bishop’s shadow. When the two intendeds knelt for their prayers, Marianne couldn’t help but notice that Ignatz’s wardrobe - dark leather accents against the golden-greens of the earliest spring buds - paired handsomely with Raphael’s attire, as well. 

Her heart clenched in sympathy as the ceremony came all too quickly to its conclusion and Raphael reached for Ignatz’s hand. Ignatz took it without hesitation - Marianne could tell he gave it a convincing squeeze as he beamed into his best friend’s face. 

“Before the Goddess, I do impart my blessing onto this couple.” Ignatz’s voice carried with the confidence of a battlefield commander. When he released Raphael’s hand, he tucked his own squarely behind his back and yielded the altar to the couple. The Dowager Countess Varley did the same, the bishop spread her hands and formally announced the union, and Lord Raphael von Varley very nearly bent his new wife all the way to the ground with the enthusiasm of their bond-sealing kiss. Sunflower petals exploded from the upper tiers of the cathedral. Marianne applauded so fiercely, her palms were stung red in her gloves. 

And all the while, Ignatz stood forgotten off to the side, clapping and smiling like he would die if he didn’t.

There were a great many speeches during the banquet. Ferdinand waxed poetic for over half an hour straight before anyone got to touch the very first course, brandishing his wineglass with animated fervor the entire time. Caspar, seated directly across from Ignatz at Marianne’s right, had some choice words about the eating delay once the Grand Duchess managed to drag her husband back into his seat to begin the meal. 

“And another thing! It’s not just me! I’ll tell you right now, Raphael was up there starving right along with me!” Caspar stabbed his fork in Ignatz’s direction.

Ignatz balked. “I… mean, yes, you are probably right, but-”

“But nothing! If we gotta sit through a million-hour ceremony, we at least oughta be compensated by stuffing our faces.”

The noble at his side across from Marianne tossed back a curtain of long, green hair. “That ceremony barely topped an hour, Caspar. If you’re this irate over the length, I shudder to think of the state you’ll be in when my uncle marries us.”

“If he goes over fifteen minutes, Lynn, I’m punching him.”

“I’ll tell him to cast Shield on himself before he walks out, then.” Lynn von Hevring raised her glass to her lips and shot Marianne a lazy wink. 

Everyone knew who Lynn von Hevring really was. Everyone had to know. Certainly none of her Officer’s Academy peers had been fooled when Count Hevring had introduced his “niece” to noble society. But her story was an old one, and even better than that, its writers had meticulously ensured it was perfectly watertight. Count Hevring’s only son, Linhardt, had retired to the country shortly after war’s end, unable and unwilling to stomach polite society after witnessing the horrors of battle. His cousin Lynn, some distant relation with the great fortune of also being born with a Minor Crest of Cethleann, was taken under his wing in exchange. Lynn had bonded quickly with Caspar von Bergliez - being such a dear friend to her cousin Linhardt, after all - and their wedding was scheduled for some time the following year. Lynn, it seemed, had no desire to rush it. Another trait she’d inherited from her extended family, to be sure. She and Caspar made a fine match, in that way - it was a fact often forgotten by this point, but Caspar, too, had once been a family ward raised in Castle Bergliez from childhood when Count Bergliez’s youngest daughter had taken ill.

Marianne enjoyed Lynn and Caspar’s company. Despite the latter’s extroverted tendencies that tended to startle her more often than not, there was a deep sense of comfort - almost akin to invisible rebellion, of all things - simply existing at the same table. She often got the sense, when Lynn flicked her brows at her and Ignatz, that the heiress of Hevring felt it, too.

Unspoken. Understood. 

The second course was interrupted by none other than the Queen of Brigid herself, but to Caspar’s loud relief, her speech was much more succinct. The third enjoyed a joint toast from the Duke and Duchess Riegan. Her Grace in particular thanked Raphael for waiting to have the wedding until she was well enough postpartum to travel. Count Gloucester, never one to be outdone let alone by his Sovereign Duke, immediately then proceeded to jump on their coattails and put Grand Duke Aegir’s speech to shame, which would have sent Caspar’s face slamming directly into his plateful of roast beef had Lynn not bodily prevented it.

Then, at the close of the third course, a Varley attendant tapped on Ignatz’s shoulder and murmured something in his ear that made his fork stutter on the way to his mouth. He set it down and nodded her off.

Marianne frowned. “What was that?”

Her husband nodded stiffly across the table and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “Sorry, Caspar,” he said. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to sit through another delay.”

Caspar groaned, going boneless against the back of his chair. Marianne said, “Did they just ask you to-”

“It’s fine, Marianne. I suspected as much before we even got here, they’re not putting me on the spot,” Ignatz murmured, adjusting his glasses so the shine of the candelabras hid his eyes from view.

Even so, as the servers cleared the dishes around them, Ignatz smoothed his clothes and hair at least half a dozen times before he stood - perhaps too quickly - to his feet. He lifted his wineglass toward the wedding table. All heads turned to him. 

“If I may take a moment of your time to say a few words of my own,” he said over the low clamor (“You may not,” groused Caspar), “I’d like to offer my personal congratulations to the happy couple.”

He sounded confident. Looked confident. He’d rehearsed this. Maybe he really was confident. Maybe Marianne’s heart had been aching needlessly all evening. She hoped it had.

Ignatz stalled, breaking with the single huff of a laugh. “Goddess, though, where to even begin? Between Lorenz and Ferdinand, I feel like just about everything’s been said.” Chuckles went up around them. Ignatz’s glass swiveled in Raphael’s direction. “But, like everything else… I guess I’ll have to start with you, Raph.”

Raphael grinned. 

“I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say that I’ve known you longer than anyone else at this table - even you, Maya,” he nodded to the blonde young woman at the end of the table, who laughed. “And I… cannot exaggerate how much it means to me that you and I have remained as close all these years as we have. It’s been an honor to watch you grow into the worthy man you are today. My only hope for the future, as I see it, is that you’ll allow me to watch you grow into the Count Consort of Varley you will become. I know that in turn, I… I will make it my life’s work to remain worthy of the honor you bestowed upon me this day.”

Raphael waved an exaggerated hand, as if to heartily dismiss such worries. Ignatz pressed on undaunted. “I may not have known what it was at the time, but I think… I have always been aware of the special bond you had with Bernadetta von Varley. I think I have always known you made a good team, and I am happy for you that you both seem to agree. Bernadetta…” He turned his glass to her with another half-laugh. “What else can I say, other than that you could have found no worthier companion than our beloved Raphael Kirsten?”

Bernadetta cupped her own flaming cheeks, but she, too, was smiling. Raphael tugged his wife against his side.

“May you both live long to enjoy each other’s company to the fullest.” Ignatz hoisted his glass like a banner on the battlefield. “To the Countess and Count Consort of Varley.”

“Hear, hear!” Maya Kirsten declared, and the rest of the table took up the toast. “Well said, Lord Margrave!” added Lorenz loudest over the din. Ignatz sat heavily. When he noticed Marianne’s gaze, he shot her a bashful smile and drained his cup to the dregs.

The festivities continued well into the night, but it turned out that the guests of utmost honor - those being the newlyweds - retired from the crowds before the sun had even set on the dance floor. Raphael announced that his wife had become overstimulated by that point in the evening and promptly plucked her up in his arms. Marianne and Ignatz - both taking a break by the dessert wines under the assumption that they had hours of party remaining for which to pace themselves - both watched their gracious retreat with equally shocked faces. 

“That’s… early, isn’t it?” Marianne remarked, taking note of a nearby clock.

Claude snickered. “Hey, not everyone has yours and Ignatz’s restraint at these types of events,” he said, earning him a sharp elbow from Lorenz.

“I think you’ve imbibed quite enough, Claude,” he clipped. “Also, I must implore you to speak for yourself.”

“I am speaking for myself. Have you seen my wife?”

“I have, and you have also seen mine. I assure you, your lack of restraint is a personal failing.”

“I… think Raphael mentioned Bernadetta was simply tired,” Ignatz tried to interject.

Claude waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah. A likely story. I’m just saying, there’s a reason most newlyweds aren’t the last people to leave their own party…”

“Do kindly leave our poor friends out of your uncouth speculation.”

“Aw, Lorenz, which ones?”

“Any of them,” sniffed Count Gloucester.

Despite the explicit invitation for the partygoers to revel to their hearts’ content, there was a notable exodus of a large portion of them in the wake of the Countess and Count Consort Varley’s departure. Marianne and Ignatz were among them. It didn’t take a sniper’s eye to notice the exhaustion weighing on her husband’s body that seemed to multiply with every passing minute. With a kind word to as many of their old friends as they could find on their way out the door, Marianne led them both back to the guest wing.

Even so, Ignatz didn’t collapse into bed as she expected him to. Quite the opposite, in fact. As Marianne dressed for sleep and unwound with a book in her lap, Ignatz paced this way and that, muttering to himself with sketchbook in hand. Falling into the armchair under the window to scribble something down. Walking in circles, holding the book at arm’s length, turning it this way and that. Bending over the armoire to scratch out something he disliked.

“Are you coming to bed?” Marianne asked at the two hour mark of this behavior. She herself could barely keep her eyes open.

“In a minute.”

“We’ve been up since dawn. What are you working on now?”

Marianne crawled off of the mattress when Ignatz didn’t answer. He seemed to have frozen in place, sketchbook angled in his lap, charcoal pencil hovering as if in the middle of a stroke. Marianne placed her hands on the back of his chair to see what had given him such pause.

Several composition sketches gazed back at her. A hulking figure she’d seen many times in her husband’s art style, bent in the memorable lunge of his wedding kiss from earlier that very day. Another pose, mirrored before the altar despite the subjects’ near-comical height difference. Another, mid-stride down the aisle, beaming into one another’s faces. 

At least, she assumed that the sketch of Bernadetta was intended to be beaming. Her facial features beyond a few faint guidelines had yet to be filled in. Raphael’s, though, had been rendered in the clearest detail of any of the drawings on the page. It was over that detail that Ignatz’s pencil had frozen.

Ignatz had spoken offhand - rambled, more like - on the carriage ride south about the idea of painting his oldest friend a wedding portrait and surprising him with it once it was complete. Marianne’s hands drifted to Ignatz’s shoulders and found them locked so stiff, they trembled. “My dear, leave it alone,” she said gently. “You must sleep.”

Ignatz opened his mouth, but no sound came out. When she came around to his side, she noted how his brown eyes were wide and unfocused. “Did you hear me, Ignatz?”

“I…” He took a deep breath that rattled his chest like an autumn leaf in a gale. His shoulders trembled harder under her grip. “I don’t…”

“Give it a rest, Ignatz. Please.”

His head jerked to the side, as if trying in vain to clear it. Raphael and Bernadetta smiled back at him unchanged. Raphael and Bernadetta. “I…” he tried again, and this time his voice stuttered with a sudden laughing choke. “Stupid. This was… always gonna happen s-someday. I knew, I…”

He broke again, gasping, and suddenly tears were rolling down his face. Marianne eased the sketchbook out of his shaking hands - he let her, his grip gone slack - and pulled his head into an embrace against her stomach. Ignatz sobbed freely upon contact with her shift, fisting his hands in the fabric. Marianne just held him there and let their hearts break side by side.

“You did so much good today,” she whispered between his wracking sobs. “You worked so hard, Ignatz.”

“I don’t… don’t know why…”

“Shh,” she said, and he buried his face in her. And cried, and cried.

Raphael loved his portrait.

Ignatz got it done in record time and shipped it off with a Victor Trading Company envoy as soon as the last brushstroke was laid. He’d chosen the dynamic kissing pose - he claimed it was the most memorable, the most emblematic of their relationship. Raphael personally took the entire three weeks’ journey to Edmund just to crush his oldest friend in a grateful hug. Then promptly ate Castle Edmund out of house and home.

Portraits, it seemed, kept Ignatz busier in the months that followed than they ever had. Where his paintbrush had historically gravitated to landscapes, now it bent itself to long coils of tresses, billowing fabrics, and the myriad of human expressions. Marianne found herself poised before his easel often. A new official portrait of the Margravine Edmund hung over her roundtable chamber in no time at all.

It didn’t escape Lord Braxton’s notice.

“My my, but His Lordship seems especially enamored with your form these days,” he mused loudly while she and her petty lord strode down the windowed gallery for the meeting room. The walls were rapidly filling with the Margrave Consort’s artwork. Braxton nodded at the latest - an effervescent piece depicting Marianne cutting a graceful pose in a meadow, surrounded by wheeling bluebirds and wind-tossed veils.

“So it seems,” said Marianne. “I’m pleased that he is never wanting for inspiration here.”

“Inspiration, yes.” Braxton folded his hands before his belt with a saccharine, knowing glance in her direction. “It does inspire curiosity of another type, if I may be so bold, Your Ladyship. I wonder, is there a reason you occupy his mind’s eye more than usual now?”

She frowned. “I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

“Well. Might he have reason to suspect something about you for which we may only hope at this time?”

“I am not pregnant, my lord.”

“Of course, of course. One may never be certain. But one might also take this,” he added, gesturing to the painting, “as a promising sign, no?”

Keep telling yourself that, Marianne thought bitterly in his direction, pulling ahead to beat him by a step to their destination.

That night, she marched herself down to Ignatz’s chambers and the two of them spent hours banging furniture against the walls. Spontaneity, they agreed, was a convincing strategy. 

Unfortunately, convincing everyone outside the walls of Castle Edmund took far more than a couple thumping headboards. 

“My contract with Lady Heert expires in less than a year,” insisted the frantic Victor merchant during Horsebow Moon’s margravate roundtable. A portion of the agenda was set aside for hearing the pleas of commoners. Marianne suddenly wished that it wasn’t. “If Lord Ignatz’s position as the Margrave Consort is not affirmed before that date, she will rescind her patronage.”

“I assure you, sir, Lord Ignatz’s position is not in jeopardy in the slightest,” said Marianne.

“Tell that to Lady Heert! She seems convinced that the Victor Trading Company name will be worthless in Edmund by this time next year!”

Marianne turned a pointed look on the lady in question, seated further down the table. Edmund territory had eight petty holdings. Heert presided over one of the major mountain passes linking Edmund to the rest of the eastern continent - naturally, its matriarch had a shrewd eye for business. Too shrewd, more often than not. “Is there a concern you’d care to voice to the roundtable, my lady?” she asked her.

“The merchant exaggerates,” the graying lady replied with a curt smile. 

“It’s in my contract!” the merchant exclaimed. “You said my patronage will be reassessed for termination should two years pass without Ignatz von Edmund nee Victor giving this margravate an heir!”

“Is this true, Lady Heert?” Marianne demanded.

The lady pressed her lips together as the entire roundtable stared her down. Marianne’s stomach turned - she knew the face of an aristocrat caught overstepping their bounds. “If you have objections about the intricacies of your patronage contract,” she told him at length, “I would be more than happy to hear and receive them at my manor. For now, I think this roundtable needn’t be concerned with such… personal niceties.”

“Personal indeed, if you’ve been tying the economy of your holdings to the fruitfulness of your margravine’s womb,” Braxton sniffed. 

“I encourage you to strike that condition from this man’s contract as soon as possible, my lady,” said Marianne. “In fact, I implore you.”

Lady Heert inclined her head. “Of course, Your Ladyship. Forgive my presumptiveness.” A flat smile in the merchant’s direction. “I was under the impression that the timeline would not be asking too much.”

Marianne balled her fists tight in her dress under the table. 

“I’m worried she has a point,” Ignatz murmured that night after they tired of voicing exaggerated moans through the walls.

“She was out of line.”

“Still. You don’t think we’ll have to… give her a reason to back off, do you?”

Marianne shook her head. “Heert’s opinion was unfavorable among the other lords,” she said. “As long as it stays unfavorable to the majority, we don’t have to do anything.”

“We’re playing a dangerous game,” he warned.

“We knew that from the start,” she reminded him.

“I’m so serious, Mari. Never get pregnant.”

Marianne just tucked her bare feet under herself on Duchess Riegan’s fur-draped couch, taking another deep sip of her sweet red wine. The duchess in question was sprawled over the opposite curled armrest. Her own wineglass dangled from manicured fingers while her pedicured toes were thrown across Marianne’s lap. 

“Surely the temporary suffering is worth the relief of having an heir to your name,” Marianne said. Hilda scoffed.

“Yeah, you let me know when this thing becomes temporary. As for me, the little angel’s been out of my body for a year and I still haven’t had a break since I first realized she was in it.”

The Five Great Lords of Leicester held their roundtables twice a year - one at the turn of the new year, one six months in. It was Wyvern Moon, 1188. Marianne, being one such Great Lord, had taken a slight detour to visit Hilda in Derdriu for a single night’s hospitality on her way to Edgaria. Normally, Derdriu would be everyone’s final stop, but Cassiopeia Phlegethon Gloucester was pregnant this time and Lorenz had pitched an absolute fit over refusing to stray even a meter from his wife’s side. Claude had therefore traveled down early so as to help the harried father-to-be prepare for the conference. 

So it was just Hilda in Castle Riegan. Hilda and Marianne. The golden halls had never felt so empty, and yet so close. Marianne felt like she could drown in the sweet air of the duchess’ private chambers the same way she might drown in her wine.

“At least your retainers are satisfied, aren’t they?” Marianne said.

“Oh, thrilled,” said Hilda, swirling her wine. “A Crest of Riegan on the first try? They’re over the moon.”

“You’re very lucky.”

“Tell that to my tits.” 

“Hilda.”

“No, I’m serious!” Hilda struggled upright, swinging one foot to the floor. She plunked her glass on the gilded side table and cupped her hands below the ample swells of her breasts, hefting them just enough to send the already dangerously-low cut of her lacy dressing gown into the territory of obscene. Marianne’s entire body flooded dizzyingly hot. She tried to look anywhere else, but Hilda just hoisted them again for emphasis. “Look at me, Mari. My back has been fucking killing me for a year and a half straight, and it’s all thanks to these. I get that a baby’s gotta eat, but come on! You’d think they’d hurt a little less by now!”

“They look alright,” Marianne heard herself say, then she blushed again. “Er, I mean… you look… healthy, at least?”

Hilda sighed, thankfully letting her breasts sag free once more. “Thanks,” she said. “That’s what the physicians say. And Claude. Goddess, Claude.” She laughed once. “I’ll tell you what, he’s been thrilled about my new tits, too.”

“So they… did get larger.”

“Bit hard to miss, huh? The joys of motherhood.” 

Marianne pressed her cool wineglass to her overheated lips. “I didn’t want to draw… attention.”

“Please, Mari. I’d rather it be your attention than anyone else in this castle.”

What do you mean by that?

“Well, I suppose I can’t exclude Claude entirely,” Hilda backtracked after draining her wine. There was a pretty flush in her cheeks from the alcohol they’d already imbued that matched the long, silky hair curling over her bare shoulders. With Marianne’s own head swimming comfortably in the firelit heat of the room, she let her gaze travel over dip and curve as it pleased. “Claude has been a model father. Doting endlessly. Back rubs on command. Putting that tongue to work,” she smirked. 

“Uh huh,” hummed Marianne.

“So that’s one bit I can’t complain about. But ugh, everything else.” She leaned over to reach for the dregs of their latest bottle. Marianne’s gaze plunged straight down her cleavage. “Not worth it. Did I say that already?”

“You did.”

Hilda shrugged and took a swig straight from the bottle. “Whatever,” she said. “Don’t ever get pregnant, Marianne.”

Marianne exhaled a laugh through her nose, leaning her head back against the backrest. Hilda’s toes teased idly back and forth over her stomach, sending curls of heat through her veins. “I don’t plan to,” she murmured.

“Oh. For real?”

Too late, Marianne realized what she was saying. In the same thought, she realized she didn’t give a fuck. She was wine drunk, she was with her favorite woman in the world, and in her rooms she was beholden to no one. “I don’t want to have a baby,” she said to the ceiling. “I don’t want to conceive one, I don’t want to be pregnant with one, I don’t want to give birth to one. I don’t want any of it.”

“Huh,” said Hilda softly. “Shit. Now who’s the lucky one? Claude’s retainers were breathing down my fucking neck the literal morning after our wedding night. You’re lucky you don’t have that pressure.”

“I do have that pressure.”

“Oh. Well, I guess it was too much to hope,” Hilda muttered, swigging the bottle empty and then gesturing sloppily as if toasting. “A pair of baby making machines, you and I. Fuckin’ bullshit. How is Ignatz taking it?”

“Ignatz?” Somehow, Marianne had momentarily forgotten that she was married. “Um… fine. He’s… not in a rush, either.”

“But your retainers are?”

“Increasingly so.”

Hilda scowled. “Might as well just get it over with, at that point.”

“I’d really rather not.”

“Obviously no one would rather -”

“No. Hilda,” said Marianne, “I’m not going to. Not until I have no other choice.”

Hilda tilted her head, leaning forward as if underwater. “It’s… honestly not that bad, you know. I’m just being dramatic ol’ Hilda. Little Mari is the absolute sun and moon of my life, and… well, it’s not like the making is a challenge.”

“Yes, it is. That’s exactly the challenge. I don’t want to make a baby, Hilda. I… I don’t want to fuck my husband.”

“Aw, come on. Ignatz isn’t that bad-looking of a guy. Kind of cute in a dorkish way…”

“Not as cute as you,” Marianne whispered.

“Well, duh. Nobody’s as cute as me.”

“No, they’re not.”

Hilda had drifted fully into Marianne’s personal space. Rosy eyes blinked long lashes, owlishly. Wine sang a soaring symphony through Marianne’s veins. “You’re cute, too, Marianne,” Hilda murmured, one hand idly coming up to curl a blue tendril around her finger. “Anyone’d be lucky to have you to themself for the night.”

“Not Ignatz,” said Marianne, breathless.

“But didn’t you say-”

“He doesn’t want it either. Our marriage… our marriage is a lie.”

It was out. She couldn’t take it back. But Hilda’s eyes only widened a fraction, her pink lips parting. Marianne could smell the sweet wine on her breath. On her own. 

“Then,” said Hilda, “what you really want is…”

“You.”

“You have me.”

“I’ve always wanted you,” said Marianne, and Hilda tucked that strand behind her ear.

“I didn’t… think you felt that way,” she said.

“I do. I did.” Her breath hitched. “I still do. Hilda…”

Then Hilda’s arm slipped around Marianne’s neck, and they fell into each other. Her tongue tasted like cherries and plum, her lips soft as silk and then furious as a thunderstorm all at once. Marianne’s hands pulled their stomachs flush, falling back against velvet cushions, tracing the curves of her breasts through slippery silk, exploring raised nipples with her thumbs. Hilda surrendered her entire weight onto her body, kissing her and kissing her and kissing her. Nails raked up her thighs. Higher and higher, rucking up the hems of their shifts. 

A log cracked in the fireplace, bending towards the ceiling in time with Marianne’s spine when those fingers found the spot she was craving. Hilda kissed and panted and bit down her neck and jaw as eager fingertips spread her open, sloppy and sliding. They were drunk; they both were. But lips found nipples and fingers found sheaths and thumbs found that perfect, furious spot and Marianne’s nightshift found its way to the floor as Hilda took her apart on the couch. Her thigh pressed hot and wet between Hilda’s legs. She ground down her need on her skin, and when Marianne came down from climax, she sank to the floor and took it all onto her tongue until Hilda was bowing through her peak with a long, desperate cry.

They wound up in Hilda’s sheets. Sex in her mouth, sex down her fingers, Hilda’s sex and her own. When Marianne kissed her, she couldn’t tell who the taste on her lips belonged to anymore. 

“That was…” Hilda carded her fingers through Marianne’s unbound hair, but the look on her face wasn’t bliss anymore.

Marianne kissed her palm. “Probably not the best idea,” she admitted.

“Marianne…”

“I love you, Hilda.”

“I love you too,” she said, but her fingers curled away. Her eyes fluttered closed. “Fuck.”

“Should we stop?”

“We have to stop. We can’t…” Hilda exhaled, flopping to lie flat on her back. “Saints, I didn’t think I was that drunk. We shouldn’t have done this.”

Marianne’s own bliss was rapidly cooling. Too rapidly. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything-”

“No, Marianne… don’t. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“That isn’t your fault.”

“Of course it’s my fault. I chose. I already…” She shook her head. “I chose Claude. I chose this life.”

“We can’t choose who we love,” said Marianne softly. 

“Yes, we can. I can. And I did. I love you, I’ve loved you for years, but…” Hilda swallowed. “I had to choose to do the right thing. For myself, for Riegan, for everybody. It’s just easier that way, Mari, you have to understand.”

“I didn’t get that choice.”

“Yes, you did. You chose Ignatz.”

“That’s not what I mean,” she said, touching her on the cheek. 

But Hilda shook her head again, rosy eyes glassy. “I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t sacrifice… everything I’ve built for a life I know will be more difficult. I know I’m lucky to be in love with Claude. You may not be in love with Ignatz, but… you made the right choice, too, even if it doesn’t make you happy. I’m sorry,” said Hilda, and a tear slipped down her cheek into her hairline. “Goddess… I wish this wasn’t how it was. I wish you and I… we could choose.”

Marianne traced an idle pattern down the flushed skin of her shoulder. “Would you choose differently, if you could?” 

Hilda swallowed. “I don’t know,” she said at length. “I just don’t know. In another world… one without Houses or Crests or bloodlines… I think I could. All I know for sure is that this isn’t that world.” She pressed her lips together against oncoming tears. “And I’m so, so sorry for that.”

“Don’t apologize,” said Marianne. An intense sadness like nothing she’d ever known carried her along in its current - but Marianne von Edmund was well used to sadness. She brought her arms around her, and skin to skin for one night only, she held her lover tight. “I love you, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop,” she told her in the dark. “But please don’t ever apologize for choosing an easier path when the chance was open to you.”

Marianne participated little and spoke even less throughout that moon’s Edgaria Roundtable. Passing congratulations to a fawning Lorenz. Small talk with Lord Holst Goneril like the memory of his sister’s body wasn’t fresh between her fingers. Claude, she couldn’t even bring herself to look in the eye. 

When he cornered her later out of genuine concern, having picked up on those subtle clues the master strategist was far too skilled to miss, Marianne pretended to break down and confide in him. Vassal pressure for a Crested heir at home, she claimed. It was close enough to the true root of her humiliation to put forth a convincing argument. He was sympathetic, but that same old solution lurked behind his words. 

Ignatz isn’t that bad-looking. Might as well get it over with.

It might have hurt a younger Marianne to learn, mere months after the Five Great Lords dispersed back home to their respective territories, that Duchess Riegan had the great pleasure to announce a second pregnancy. A less world-numbed Marianne might have agonized over the timetable - indicative of an obvious parallel agony in Hilda’s own heart - when a Crestless Nardel von Riegan was born almost nine months to the day from her husband’s return from Edgaria. 

But world-numbed she was, and younger she was not. The Margravine Edmund was twenty-seven years old and childless. Her hopes for any other life had been killed long ago in the flames of war and entombed for good in a barren marriage bed.

Five years after the signing of continental peace, Marianne received a letter that gave her an excuse to turn her gaze outward for the first time in her rulership.

“Sreng?” Ignatz took the letter. “I thought their strength lay with the infantry. Since when do the Srengi have a navy?”

“I’ve noticed it too, these past few years,” said Marianne. “My father likely only saw a handful of coastal raids during his entire rule. These days, there have been reports of almost one a season.”

“Gautier is doing their job,” Ignatz mused.

“Hence their reaching out. I doubt Fodlan’s northern border has been this well-defended since the former margrave led the entire might of the Kingdom against it in campaign. They likely feel somewhat responsible for Sreng seeking other outlets.”

“That sounds like Sylvain.”

She nodded. “We’re fortunate they’re willing to offer their counsel,” she said, adding a smile. “I know I’m fortunate that you and Ingrid are still so close.”

Ignatz blushed and adjusted his glasses. “I’m sure they’re both just doing the courteous thing. When are they set to arrive?”

“His Lordship estimated Verdant Rain.”

“Oh, that’s perfect. Hans and Daphne should get here the month before with that new Dagdan porcelain I ordered, and the butterfly bushes in the garden terrace will be in full bloom by then, too. I’ll make sure there’s space prepared for us to dine out there. Imagine the compliment of that painted swallowtail butterfly motif surrounded by the real thing, especially amid such a riot of rich purples…!”

Marianne beamed at her husband as he lost himself in the aesthetics of hosting. Awkward as Ignatz von Edmund had been in the early days of his nobility, he had truly grown into the responsibility, especially those duties pertaining to hospitality. Marianne blamed Lorenz - the two were in constant contact. The count of Gloucester’s lifelong commitment to cultivating appearances paired with Ignatz’s artistic eye for detail had produced some of the most beautifully-decorated events Castle Edmund had ever seen. He was truly in his element when crafting beautiful things. 

“You’re staring at me. Have I got something in my beard?”

Marianne snorted despite herself. Calling Ignatz’s attempt at facial hair a beard was perhaps somewhat overconfident. It was a style popularized by their own Sovereign Duke, who Marianne thought politely pulled it off better than any of his imitators, her husband included. “Nothing,” she said. “I just like seeing you happy.”

Ignatz frowned, brushing the trimmed scruff clinging close to the line of his jaw. “If I were to walk into an Edgaria artist’s studio in this day and age barefaced…”

“I am aware, my dear.”

“I’m serious. It wouldn’t matter my portfolio or my standing with the count. I would be turned away at the door. The artists themselves must present themselves as modern art every time they’re seen in public.”

“So you’ve said.”

“You’re mocking me.”

“I am not,” Marianne grinned. “You’re a fine and fashionable gentleman, and you wear the trappings well.”

Ignatz flicked his brows. “Just not the facial hair, is that right?”

“Well, you of all people know I prefer my lovers beardless.”

That finally got him to break into a grin of his own. Not as though he would have been able to hold out much longer in Marianne’s company.

The butterfly bushes were indeed in full bloom and swarming with clouds of tiger-striped swallowtail butterflies when the Margrave and Margravine Gautier rode through the gates. Sylvain dismounted and embraced them both heartily. With Ignatz, in particular, he traded compliments of one another’s “mature and masculine” beards. Marianne had to hide her smirk behind a gloved hand when Ignatz shot her a wry look. Sylvain’s choice of facial hair, thick and full and impeccably groomed, could certainly fall within those categories to a more discerning eye than hers. Ingrid had to pry their husbands apart just to claim her own hug from her old Academy friend.

“Lady Marianne, radiant as always,” said Sylvain Gautier, bowing and placing a kiss on her hand. 

“Thank you for coming, Sylvain,” she said.

“Of course. It’s not every day I get to pass on my wealth of family knowledge for dealing with the Srengi. I’m happy to contribute it to a cause that endeavors to save lives rather than end them, you know?”

Marianne’s gaze flicked around his smiling face to the unmistakable silhouette of the Lance of Ruin, mute and motionless in its saddle sheath. 

Once the reunion was complete, Ignatz took the initiative to give their guests a tour of the changes they’d made to Castle Edmund since their wedding - the gardens and galleries featured most prominently among them. Sylvain made all the right quips at all the right times along the way. Laughter where it was meant to be. Questions where they were expected. Nods and hums and praises.

“We haven’t had much time to focus our energies on such things as art,” Ingrid admitted to Marianne as Ignatz went on a tangent about their latest gallery acquisition. “The border has been giving us such a rough go these past few years, we’ve spent more time hopping between forts on the tundra than we have in our own home.”

“Have things been settling down for you, at least?” she asked.

“I think so. I hope so, at least,” said Ingrid, shaking her head. “It’s a lot of work, being Gautier’s premier heroic duo. We’ve made such progress together, and the soldiers love us, but it’s… a lot.”

Marianne could sympathize. It was pressure of a different kind, perhaps, but all pressure to conform to one’s duties was the same at its core. “How has your son fared, with you gone so frequently?”

Ingrid immediately brightened. “Oh, Steffan’s a little trooper. Speaks so politely and has such sincerity when he’s with company, and he’s only two! He’ll make a fine diplomat someday for sure.”

Diplomat. Something twisted in Marianne’s stomach, though Ingrid’s tone was brimming with nothing but praise. Diplomat  - not margrave - was the best her eldest son would ever get, for Steffan Rolf Gautier happened to be born with the crippling misfortune of inheriting neither of his parents’ Crests.

“There’s actually something rather special in this collection I’ve been working on, I think you’ll really enjoy it.” Ignatz, at the head of their party, babbled on completely oblivious. Marianne swallowed her feelings and followed up the rear.

“Does this collection have a name yet, or is it more loose variations on a theme?” asked Sylvain.

“Ah,” Ignatz blushed. “Well, I haven’t settled on a formal one, but I’ve been throwing around the idea of calling it the Lovers Series. As… I’m sure you’ll see why.”

They did. Marianne had seen this particular series slowly accumulate installments over the years, but it warmed her heart to see the reactions of an audience taking it all in for the first time. The name suited it well.

It had started with Raphael and Bernadetta’s wedding portrait. After Ignatz delivered the original, he had drawn up and painted a near-identical copy to hang in Castle Edmund, which Marianne hadn’t quite understood but he claimed it kept them close. Then it was a portrait of Claude and Hilda as they had been during their war days - nose to nose in a mirrored embrace, their wyverns forming a heart-shaped frame about their heads. Then more and more of their old friends joined the collection, each new installment a tribute to their dynamic in love and marriage. Dorothea von Aegir seated on a throne with her husband reclining at her feet. The King and Queen of Brigid, suspended as they swam in a turquoise sea like a pair of otters. Lorenz and his wife Cassiopeia, the very model of a poised noble portrait, a son and daughter equally poised in their arms.

But the real feature of the series - at least for the currently gathered viewership - was the tribute Ignatz had painted of the heads of House Gautier.

Sylvain’s affable smiles dropped instantly, his frame going slack as his own portrait stared back at him from the framed canvas. At his side, Ingrid’s green eyes lit up with wonder. “Oh, Ignatz! This is… Goddess, this is just beautiful!”

“Thank you. I’m so pleased you like it,” he said. 

It would be impossible not to, as far as Marianne was concerned. Ignatz had nailed their dynamic perfectly. The Margrave and Margravine Gautier both rode astride Ingrid’s white pegasus over the northern tundra and the heads of adoring citizens. Ingrid and her mount had been rendered in full Falcon Knight armor. Blonde hair swept back from her upturned face in a golden halo as she stood in her stirrups and raised the Relic Luin as if to pierce the sky. 

But Sylvain wore no armor. The Lance of Ruin was nowhere to be seen. Instead of brandishing his glory, he was depicted bending low over his people with that well-known smile spreading across his face. His clothes were fine but relatively simple for a man of his station - boots, breeches, an open tunic. The cloak pinned at his throat billowed behind him like the dark wings of an angel descending to earth. His palms were bare and open in supplication, as if he were not so much reaching to accept his people’s outstretched affection as he was presenting them with an offering, though he carried nothing on his person but himself.

Sylvain was still staring. 

“What do you think, love?” Ingrid squeezed his shoulder to her face, beaming. “That smile of yours is what’s impressing me most. I’ve never seen such an accurate depiction, it’s almost frightening!”

“Yeah,” Sylvain croaked, and Marianne wondered what he saw in it. Clearly, he was seeing something that Ingrid had missed. The Margrave Gautier’s expression was blown wide open, genuine, almost raw as he gazed at himself. “Where’s, um…” Sylvain gestured weakly, attempting far too late to slap that court smile back on his face. “You didn’t add the Lance.”

“Oh,” said Ignatz. “Well… no, I didn’t think it suited you, particularly. Ingrid has Luin because her sense of chivalry is clear as day, right from the first glance. But your chivalry isn’t as overt, Sylvain. It doesn’t stem from your Relic, or any weapon for that matter. Yours… is a personal kind of honor,” he said. “A knightly devotion to the people you love, the way you’ve always given all of yourself to them even when you feel like you have nothing to offer. I wanted to portray that part of you just as clearly as Ingrid’s.” 

Sylvain’s raw, open gaze turned to him, dawning like he was laying eyes on Ignatz for the first time. Ignatz blinked, reddening again under the attention. “Er… of course, I can always change it. If you think I’ve misrepresented how you want to be portrayed.”

“No,” said Sylvain, then he belatedly shook his head. “No, it’s…”

“It wouldn’t happen to be for sale, would it?” asked Ingrid. “I’m dead serious, Ignatz, name a price and we’ll take it. You’ve…” She exhaled a laugh, shaking her head in awe. “Saints, somehow you’ve managed to convey in just a few brushstrokes what I’ve been trying to tell him for years. It’s beyond masterful.”

“Well… thank you very much. That means a lot. As for selling it, I’ve never really thought about dividing the collection, though I suppose I could always paint a copy like I did for Raphael…”

Marianne touched Sylvain’s arm, and he jumped like he’d been struck by lightning. “Are you alright?” she asked while their spouses volleyed prices.

“Yes. Yes! I’m sorry,” Sylvain laughed. “Goddess, I don’t… know what came over me.”

“He’s serious about the alterations, you know.”

“Oh, no, I believe that, but… no. The way it is right now is just…” His gaze drifted back to Ignatz in conversation with his wife. “I don’t know. I guess I never thought that someone besides the handful of people I grew up with could ever… see me like that, I suppose.”

“He has an attentive eye,” Marianne agreed.

“Yeah,” said Sylvain. “He… really does.”

Their group separated for lunch - Marianne had to take hers in the roundtable chamber, seeing as two of her petty lords had stopped by for minor policy negotiations - and reunited in the late afternoon in the gardens. Ignatz’s eye for aesthetic detail was once again praised, and he beamed over his cup of mint leaves. That smile slowly faded as teatime discussion turned to the crux of the Gautiers’ arrival. 

“What numbers have your maritime scouts reported?” Sylvain asked Marianne, somber and businesslike. Marianne was unused to seeing such seriousness on the Margrave’s easygoing face. 

“Um.” She blinked herself back to the present. “Last reports from this past Blue Sea Moon noted about two dozen longships off the Edmund and southern Fraldarius coast.”

Ingrid nodded to her husband. “That matches our intel from Gautier.”

“Summer is Sreng’s campaign season,” said Sylvain. “Two dozen is good. It might not sound like it to you, but spread over that big of an area, numbers like that mean they’re not gathering for a major strike.”

“There have been reports of hit-and-run style raids on some of our barrier islands. That’s where most of that number is coming from.”

“How have the resident garrisons fared in holding them off?”

“There hasn’t been any critical damage to infrastructure or supplies. It seems they’re mainly after our grain. Does that follow?”

“In the summer? Absolutely. Sreng is almost entirely permafrost. This time of year is when the clans can get an estimate on whether the food stores won by diplomacy will last them the winter. If they won’t - which is more common than not - they’ll pick up their raiding frequency.”

Ignatz piped up. “Why can’t the Srengi import enough food to sustain themselves through diplomacy?”

“Because Fodlan doesn’t trust them,” Sylvain sighed. “More than that, Kingdom territories don’t even like them. The bloodiest armed conflict between our two nations is only a generation old, nobody wants to ship off their hard-won bounty to a people their parents and older siblings still consider the enemy.”

“It’s gotten better since the war,” Ingrid added. “Famine ravaged our lands every winter, those first few years. But we still have precious little to spare.”

“Inciting more raids,” Ignatz mused into his saucer. “Inflaming relations further.”

Sylvain nodded. “It’s a miserable cycle. And I’m positive it’s why the Srengi have invested in naval technology. Compared to Gautier, Edmund must look like a table spread with a royal feast, lying out for the taking.”

“Gloucester and Riegan are the real breadbaskets of the east,” said Marianne, but Sylvain waved a hand.

“And if Gloucester or Riegan had more of a coastline and less of a competent standing army, I guarantee they’d be picking on them, too. No offense to Edmund’s military strength,” he added with a fleeting hint of that old grin, “but even I’d tangle with your cities over Derdriu any day. And Gautier’s navy wasn’t cobbled together from nothing within the past half a decade.”

“I see. None taken.” She cocked her head as the margrave sipped his tea. “You really do know quite a bit about Sreng. You even seem to know how they think.”

He nodded, setting the cup down. “I have to,” he sighed. “Srengi customs, Srengi war tactics, were drilled into my head at the same time I was learning the alphabet. Anything they throw at us or any other ally in Fodlan, Gautier has to be able to react and lead the charge.”

“I’d rather not charge anyone,” Marianne worried. 

“You have a Relic, don’t you?”

She shied into her seat at the mention of Blutgang. “It’s in our vaults. I haven’t used it for years.”

“I would dust it off,” said Sylvain, quickly adding, “Not to fight, that is. To display. You and I can work on getting an audience with the warlords currently poking around the Edmund coast while I’m here - they know me, they’ll at least come to the table if I’m present to mediate. And once we do, your Relic needs to be on the table, too. Literally. They need to see what they’re up against.”

Ignatz’s eyes went round. “That’s… rather aggressive, don’t you think?” he asked. “Waving the weapon we would use to cut down their armies in their faces? Won’t that undermine all pretense of civility?”

Sylvain looked to him and shot him a wink, a smirk pulling at his mouth. “This is why you want me around, Igs,” he said. “Any Fodlani diplomatic party would be offended by a show like that, sure, but not the Srengi. They put a lot of respect on martial strength. Relics may have been used against them time and time again, but our cultures have rubbed elbows enough for them to know a thing or two about the power of a Relic and the skill it takes to wield one. Show them your Relic, and they’ll immediately see you as a fellow warrior. That’s helpful for you,” he added in Marianne’s direction. “They’re already inclined to view the Fodlani as soft. The best thing you can do is put yourself on equal footing to a warlord of Sreng.”

“Huh,” breathed Ignatz. He’d gone rigid upon the margrave’s wink and hadn’t moved a muscle since. “I… never thought about it like that.”

“You never had a reason to. You should be thankful for that.”

“I see,” said Marianne as Sylvain took another long drink. “Thank you, Sylvain. I suppose I’ll have someone take Blutgang out of storage.”

Ingrid brightened. “A bit of demonstration would also go a long way,” she told her. “If you don’t mind, I’d love to see your Relic in action. Where are your sparring grounds?”

“Oh,” blinked Marianne. “They’re… just off the basement levels. They’re not very big.”

“No trouble at all. I know I’ll be sure to make good use of them during my stay. I wouldn’t mind a spar, if you’re up to the challenge, Marianne.”

Was she? She doubted her martial skills had degraded too terribly after pushing them to their limits in the war. It would be a nice change of pace from political roundtables and constant pregnancy needling, putting her wealth of talents to use again in a skirmish environment. And if it would get Sreng off my back…  

“I’ll… have to think about it,” she said. “But consider the grounds open for your own use, of course.”

“I thank you.”

“That’s my bloodthirsty little margravine,” Sylvain chuckled. “I, too, would love a peek at Edmund’s Relic. Blutgang, was it?” At Marianne’s nod, he smiled - and turned back to Ignatz. “You too, Your Lordship. I hope that sniper’s eye is just as sharp as I remember. I know I’d love a refresher.”

“Ah,” Ignatz startled. “You would… that is, you… want to watch me? Spar?”

“Watch you, fight you… whatever you feel like you’re up for.”

Marianne looked to her husband. “When was the last time you picked up your bow?”

“Oh, gosh. Ages. But I can… certainly pull it out for you, Sylvain.”

“Do,” he winked again. “How I envy you, going ages without a weapon in your hand. Some days, I feel like the Lance of Ruin is fusing itself into the end of my arm.”

Ingrid swatted him lightly with the back of her hand. Sylvain laughed, and Marianne did too, but she couldn’t help but remember the grotesque sight that had been Sylvain’s own Crestless older brother being swallowed alive and screaming by the blade of his House. 

There was a shadow on the Margrave Gautier’s face. He hadn’t forgotten it, either.

The Gautiers stayed for an entire month. Marianne and Sylvain spent the most time together, constantly ferrying themselves back and forth between Castle Edmund and the various fishing villages along the coast. Ingrid and Ignatz, therefore, often had the estate to themselves. Marianne often noted her husband nursing sore muscles or muttering over dirt stains on his clothes from how often the margravine dragged him to the training grounds. 

Marianne herself wielded Blutgang only once, that being within the safety of her own sparring yard to their limited audience. Ingrid and Sylvain were sufficiently impressed by the Lost Crest’s power. “Felix will be pissed when he hears I got a peek at one of only three sword Relics in the world,” the latter laughed. 

Even so, Sylvain didn’t offer to spar against her sword once. He challenged Ignatz’s blade instead. Every time.

As Verdant Rain Moon drew to a stormy close, Marianne was grateful that they had gotten in all of their travel and correspondence with the Srengi before the real downpours rolled in. With Sylvain’s close and continued assistance well into the near future, she felt confident that invasion would be diplomatically avoided. They’d already arranged for a visit to Castle Gautier six months hence to continue their work - she and Ignatz both invited. 

Thunder boomed outside rain-lashed windowpanes as Marianne strode down the night-darkened corridors of her home. It amazed her, remembering how there was once a time when she doubted she would ever feel comfortable shouldering the burdens of the margravate. How the years had changed her. Hardened her, she mused. 

The doors of the roundtable meeting chamber loomed at the end of the gallery. Marianne knew exactly where on the table within she had left her annotated journal of Sreng customs at the close of their discussions after dinner. The detour would take her but a moment - in, out, back to bed. She put her hand on the door handle and slipped it open with a faint click. 

But the chamber was not empty as she’d expected it to be. Sylvain stood before the low fire in the hearth. Ignatz stood with him.

They were kissing.

At the sound of the opening door, both men sprang apart, Sylvain stumbling as if he’d been tripped. Ignatz’s brown eyes flashed wide, then relaxed just a fraction when he realized it was only Marianne. 

Sylvain was nowhere near as relaxed. 

He coughed, wiped roughly at his mouth, choked out half a laugh, leaned a hand on the tabletop, retracted it immediately, cleared his throat. “Ha,” he stammered. “Ah… huh. Mar, uh… Lady Marianne. What are… You see, ah…”

“My apologies,” Marianne whispered, her eyes going straight to her husband. Ignatz adjusted his lapels red-faced while Sylvain choked on aborted excuses. 

But faintly, out of the Margrave Gautier’s view, Ignatz met Marianne’s open stare. And nodded once.

Oh. 

Marianne swept her journal into her hands and ducked a small bow. “Please, forgive my intrusion,” she told them, shutting up Sylvain immediately and slipping back into the hallway, easing the door closed behind her skirts. 

She should have taken off. It was none of her business to intrude. But the slam of a fist pounding against the tabletop made her freeze and inch her ear toward the door. 

“Goddess Sothis fuck me.” 

“Sylvain,” came her husband’s fragile murmur, but Sylvain raged on, a growl barely restrained under his breath.

“I fucking knew it. I knew this would happen. Goddess fucking damn it-”

“Sylvain, it’s not what you-”

“I just have to ruin everything I fucking touch, don’t I?”

Marianne’s heart twisted at the self-loathing that dripped from the margrave’s bitter laugh. She knew that self-loathing. She knew it all too well.

Ignatz knew it, too. The way his voice lowered even further so that she had to strain to hear it, she could only imagine he had closed the distance between himself and Sylvain. It was the same way he used to close that distance when Marianne bemoaned her cursed bad luck. “You ruined nothing,” Ignatz whispered. “Sylvain, look at me-”

“Ignatz, I ruin everything. It’s all I know how to fucking do.”

“That’s not true.”

“Yeah? You don’t think getting caught with another man by your wife is going to fuck over your marriage? How about mine? The Relic of the Crest of Gautier has fucking Ruin in the name for a reason-”

“Sylvain, there’s nothing in my marriage to fuck over.”

Marianne heard Ignatz’s voice catch at the end of that blurted reveal - hers did, too, to hear it aloud. 

But it wasn’t like she hadn’t done the same in the company of her own clandestine lover. Their secret had not been limited exclusively to the two of them for nearly two years now. She had no reason to clutch her pearls now when Ignatz felt safe enough in another person’s company to bare the greatest truth about himself, too. It was a little indulgence that he had a long time coming.

“She knows,” Ignatz continued as Sylvain didn’t respond. “Since… before we were married. She knows what I am.”

His voice was raw. “And me? Now that she knows about me?”

“She won’t tell Ingrid. Sylvain, I promise. This will not be our ruin. I won’t let it.”

Dangerously presumptive, Marianne thought, even though she, too, knew full well that speaking of what she’d walked into that night would spell disaster greater than any of them could weather. And it wasn’t as though Marianne was any more innocent than either of them herself.

“Ingrid can’t know.” Now it was Sylvain’s turn to speak on the very edge of overhearing. “I told you when… when this started. That is my first and only priority.”

“I know.”

“I love her. I swore to her that I would never break her heart like I used to break others’.”

“And I will help you keep that promise.” The faintest shuffle of fabric. Marianne pictured him taking his hand. “We both will.”

A pregnant silence beyond the door. Marianne became overwhelmingly aware of her own breathing in the dead, vacant hallway. 

“I don’t deserve you, Ignatz,” Sylvain whispered. 

“You deserve so much more than this life has convinced you you do,” Ignatz replied. “Please. Just let me show you that much.”

Marianne would have kissed Hilda then, were that same conversation held between herself and the duchess of Riegan. She and Ignatz were too similar, in that way. When Sylvain did not - or could not - voice a reply, that knowledge was enough to shock Marianne out of her stupor and flee on silent, slippered feet down the corridor. 

Ignatz was right, as he so often was when it came to her. He would take Sylvain’s secret to the grave - and Marianne already knew that she would do the very same.

After the Margrave and Margravine Gautier bid their farewells and departed Castle Edmund for their home in a fanfare of bannered retainers and pegasi, Marianne found Ignatz seated alone in their estate’s private chapel - the very venue within whose walls they had sworn before the Goddess to love one another above all others. 

He said nothing when she approached. She said nothing when she alighted herself in the lacquered pew beside him. His hands were interlaced before his mouth, his elbows on spread knees, his gaze on the motionless statue of the Goddess dominating the altar. When he finally spoke, even his low murmur seemed to echo off the cavernous walls. Amplified enough for the Goddess herself to hear. 

“Thank you.”

Marianne took in a deep breath and let it out slow. “I only hope my intrusion didn’t snuff it all out.”

“It didn’t.”

They sat facing forward, side by side. 

“I’m… surprised,” said Ignatz. “That you didn’t have anything to say to me about it.”

“We agreed that any lovers we might take were our own business.”

“Even married ones?”

Marianne sank into a supplicant pose mirroring her husband’s. Their gazes still never left the Goddess’s face. “I am in no position to level judgement against anyone for such a thing,” she whispered. 

She saw Ignatz glance over out of the corner of her eye, and let them fall closed as she added, “I myself… have led our Sovereign Duke’s wife astray.”

“Hil-”

“It was inadvisable. Gratefully, she had the purity of conscience to see that it never happened again.”

Ignatz was quiet. “You… never told me that,” he said. “How long-?”

“Two years ago.”

“You’ve been sitting on that for two years?”

“Was it not in accordance with our agreement?” she retorted. 

“Marianne,” said Ignatz, “I am yours. I am the one person in the world upon whom you can lay those burdens. So no, it is not in accordance with our agreement, because I would never consent for you to suffer alone when you know you have my ear.”

“I did not wish to burden you, or… or color your view of a mutual dear friend.”

“To hell with that. Am I not also your dear friend?”

Her fruitless objections dried up on her tongue. Ignatz von Edmund simply always had that effect. “My dearest,” she said, and even cracked a smile so he knew that she meant it. Ignatz’s shoulders relaxed. Together, they gazed up at the Goddess again. 

“So, we are both blasphemers in deed now,” he mumbled. 

“May the Goddess find it in Her infinite wisdom to forgive our transgressions,” she said.

She expected Ignatz to echo the sentiment. Instead, his brown eyes narrowed just a fraction as he scrutinized the statue for a long time. “I’ve… been thinking about that, actually,” he said at length.

“Forgiveness?”

“No. Whether we need to flagellate ourselves over it at all.”

Marianne blinked at him. “We… of course, we do,” she said. “We live sinfully, Ignatz. Transgression reigns supreme in our very nature. Even our vows are an affront to Her accords of matrimony.”

“Are we sure about that, though?”

She stared openly. Ignatz just shook his head, working his jaw. “It’s just… the Church of Seiros is over a thousand years old. A thousand years. That’s such an incomprehensibly long time, and yet… we’re expected to believe that Her word has remained unchanged from the day She gave it as it passed through generations upon generations of priests and cardinals and archbishops?”

“What are you saying?”

He gestured vaguely. “I was raised to revere the Goddess Sothis. And I did. For so long. I adored everything that she stood for - grace, mercy, unconditional love. And yet, look at how followers of Her word behave towards people like us. I just…” Ignatz grimaced through a single laugh. “I refuse to accept that a Goddess as benevolent as I believe her to be would ever set her canon against something as beautiful and tender and real as love itself. No matter who it’s between.”

Marianne ogled. “You really think…?”

“I think it’s only logical to believe that Her word has been altered from its original intent over the span of an entire millennium of mortals repeating and repeating and repeating it.”

“Nobody would dare hear of such a thing. It’s heresy.”

“Of course they wouldn’t. I’m not trying to get myself excommunicated here. I just… choose to believe that the Goddess will forgive us for showing love to our fellow mortals without the need for us to agonize over our own salvation.”

Marianne studied the statue before them - its serene and expressionless face, infamously open to interpretation. “And if you’re wrong?” she asked.

Ignatz shrugged. “Then I’m cast into the Eternal Flames. But at least I wrung every drop of happiness I could out of my life while I still lived it.” He leaned back against the pew with a sigh. “Of course, this heretical conviction of mine holds no sway over the sin of infidelity. I might very well be destined for the Eternal Flames for that alone.”

She reached across the seat and took his hand. “At least we’ll be together in that torment, too,” she said. 

“I suppose we will,” said Ignatz, and he raised her hand to his lips to press a kiss to her knuckles. “United in the face of all hardship, you and I.”

“Forever, my dear,” she said. “And for what it’s worth… I do hope you and Sylvain have a great deal of happiness to wring from this life yet to come.”

Another sad little huff of a laugh. “So do I,” he said.

They could not change what they were. Solidarity was the last thing holding the line. Solidarity in the face of society’s unshakeable demands for the unions of men and women. Solidarity in the face of mounting cries for conception within their own home. Torment was coming for them, in this life or the next, whether they expended the energy to believe it or not.

So Marianne held onto Ignatz’s hand, and he held onto hers, and together they braced as they always had for life’s hardships: facing the Goddess head-on.