Work Text:
The night is still, peaceful. Dorothea hasn’t rested well since the war began - she’s all too aware of the benefits that come with sleeping lightly, with being ready to jump into action at a moment’s notice. But here, out at the cathedral, the war room feels farther away than usual. If Dorothea closes her eyes, she can almost pretend as though she’s eighteen again, a little girl with different, sillier worries.
Tonight, she keeps her eyes open, enjoys the breeze as the person she is nowadays. Worn, scarred, rumpled around the edges, something beautiful that’s now lost its splendor. If life was a play, she’d stage herself here, outside the ruins of the cathedral, framed by the once-imposing wooden doors. It’d make for a pretty picture.
A month or two ago, she’d still been coming up with excuses, that the night breeze was especially fresh out here, or that the view helped her think. It was preparation, in case anyone was to ask her why she lingered outside the cathedral most nights, when she was so outspoken about her dislike of the Goddess. But no one had ended up asking, and lying takes its toll (even just to herself), and there’s only so much acting she can do off stage. There’s one clear reason she waits at the cathedral, and her name is Mercedes von Martritz.
It’s embarrassing to admit. It feels so obvious to wait for her, in a way that makes a part of Dorothea want to run far away, disguise herself, change her name. But Mercedes hasn’t called attention to it, always welcomes her company with such a sweet smile that Dorothea can’t bring herself to mind. She’s always been weak that way - too quick to bask in the attention, even if she knows it’s bad for her in the long-run.
As if on command, there’s the sound of movement from inside, and soon enough, the woman in question walks out through the doors. There’s an uncharacteristic furrow in her brow that clears as soon as she sees Dorothea, replaced by a warm grin. “How lovely, running into you here,” Mercedes says, generously pretending that she wasn’t expecting her, that Dorothea isn’t being horribly revealing. “Are you having a good night?”
Dorothea’s only skill (other than singing and killing people) is acting. Some people wear their masks better than others, but she can generally tell when people are putting on a face. So she knows without a doubt that there’s something on Mercedes’ mind that she’s holding back for Dorothea’s benefit. She reaches out to lay a hand on Mercedes’ arm. “You know me. I’m doing well. But are you okay, Merce?”
She laughs softly, shaking her head, but Dorothea can see the weariness in her posture as she holds up a piece of paper between them. “Am I that obvious?” Dorothea wants to comfort her, tell her she isn’t, tell her it’s just that Dorothea watches her too much not to know when something’s off - but Mercedes keeps speaking, and the urge to spill her heart out thankfully passes. “It’s just a letter I’ve had from my father. He’s always wanted to marry me off due to my Crest, and now he’s found a noble who’s agreed.”
“Agreed to marry you, sight unseen? Goodness, what a leap.” It’s typical, really. Dorothea has met plenty of noblemen with Crested wives, political unions that never result in any happiness or comfort. It’s certainly not what she wants for Mercedes, of all people - not that it’s her place to decide the other woman’s future for her. Still, she can’t help a moment of hesitation before she asks, “you’re not thinking you’ll go through with it, are you?”
“I don’t…” Mercedes trails off as someone else exits the cathedral past them, then drifts towards the edge of the bridge. Dorothea can understand not wanting prying ears to listen, and for a moment, wonders if she’s welcome to follow. Her hesitation barely lasts a moment, though; Mercedes glances over her shoulder, and Dorothea is quick to come to her side. “To be honest, I had imagined a different life for myself.” Mercedes’ words come slow, but clear. “But I wonder if it would be better to go along with this plan. I can’t help but fear that I don’t have the strength to build a life of my own.”
“If you don’t, who does?” The words tumble out of Dorothea’s mouth, completely subconscious. Luckily, Mercedes is looking out into the night, completely unaware of the blush that has come to Dorothea’s face.
“That’s sweet of you to say,” she responds with a sigh. “You think so highly of me. I’m very flattered.”
“I’m not just flattering you, Merce. I’m not that cruel.” Dorothea leans against her lightly, gives her plenty of space to move away if she chooses. When Mercedes doesn’t stir, Dorothea goes on, buoyed by the simple touch. “There’s plenty I envy about you. Your serenity, your kindness, even your faith. You are objectively incredible.”
“My faith?” Mercedes is smiling again, and it brings a flutter to Dorothea’s heart as the other woman looks back at her. “The cathedral is open to all. You’re free to come pray with me whenever you’d like.”
Dorothea laughs before she can help herself, crossing her arms over her chest. “That’s not likely. I don’t yearn to believe in the Goddess like you do.” Mercedes knows Dorothea’s viewpoint on religion and tolerates her friendship despite it; another act of kindness that Dorothea will gladly take without deserving. “But I’ve seen what you can do on the battlefield. You’ve healed us so many times. If that’s what having faith earns you, then yes, I’m a little jealous of that.”
“Dorothea.” Mercedes’ words are always light, but this tone is one that Dorothea has learned over the years to hear as scolding. “You can pull meteors out of the sky. Don’t pretend you don’t have your own strengths.”
Appropriately chided, Dorothea looks down at her shoes, arms tightening around herself. “I can do it. It’s not what I want, though.” To her horror, her voice comes out sounding sullen, childish.
“What do you want, then? Let’s start there.” It’s Mercedes’ turn to put a hand on Dorothea’s arm, gentle but firm. The same touch that was comforting feels heavy, now that it’s directed towards her. “I know your dream was to marry well and live in comfort - is that still the case?”
“You don’t have to solve me, Merce,” she murmurs, gaze still firmly cast downwards. They’ve been friends for a long time. Dorothea knows that Mercedes is a fixer, the type of person who’ll search for an answer even when a question hasn’t been asked. “It’s a fool’s errand. I don’t even know what my dream is anymore.” Marrying up is no longer the necessity it once was. She’s a general in the Imperial army, after all; if she survives this, she’ll have earnings of her own to take care of herself. But an end to the war feels enormously distant, impossible to imagine. She swallows, then shakes her head. “I’m just living one day at a time for now, I suppose.”
“Come dream with me.”
That has her head snapping up, so quickly that her neck almost hurts. Mercedes is there, in front of her, and her mouth is open like she’s just spoken, and Dorothea could almost swear there’s some redness on her cheeks - yet she still can’t believe what she’s heard. “I’m sorry, what?”
“It’s just a thought, of course.” Dorothea’s eyes dart down to Mercedes hands, where she’s folding and unfolding her father’s letter. That, along with the unfamiliar tremor that’s leaking into Mercedes’ voice - is she nervous? Has she ever seen Mercedes nervous before? “You can tell me I’m completely wrong, of course. But if you were with me… if we were together, perhaps you could feel useful as you figure out what you want.”
Dorothea swallows again, because her throat is dry, all of a sudden. Her own hands are shaking, and she has to clasp them together before she can respond. “Merce, you know that sounds like a proposal, right?”
“I hope it’s a romantic one. Although I know I can’t hope to compete with what you’ve heard before.” Despite her nerves, she’s smiling, far calmer than Dorothea could possibly hope to be right now. She wonders if Mercedes can hear her heart pounding in her chest, her pulse roaring in her ears.
What Mercedes doesn’t know is that Dorothea isn’t built for romance. Or maybe Mercedes does know that. Dorothea’s never said yes to any proposal she’s received before this one, no matter what sort of flowery language they used or undying love they declared. Not that she’s saying yes now. Yet. “What about your nobleman?”
She laughs, lifting her shoulders helplessly. “I don’t want him. I want to live my own life, to help people. I might be too much of a coward to do it alone, but I could with you.” Mercedes bites her lip, worry creeping into her expression. “Is that selfish?”
At first, all Dorothea can do is let out a breathless laugh, like someone has punched her in the chest. Surely this isn’t happening - only when she reaches out to take Mercedes’ hand, she can feel the other woman’s soft skin, because she’s awake and this is real. “As long as it’s me you want, you can be as selfish as you’d like.”
Mercedes’ smile is like the sun rising over the horizon. It’s with that brightness that she drops the letter in her hands, letting the wind take it on some path over the side of the bridge. Dorothea doesn’t see where it goes - she’s too busy taking Mercedes’ face in her hands, kissing her soundly, finally allowing herself to have what she’s craved all along.