Chapter Text
She thinks she sees him in the audience.
It’s a small venue tonight, what some might describe as cozy or even intimate. Maybe if Dorothea knew this town, or any of these people in the crowd, she could agree. Her voice carries the aria’s melody like strong winds fill a sail; the words float from her lips like gentle waves buoying a hull. Her green eyes scan the strange faces gathered around the stage, unable to settle on a single audience member. Until she sees—thinks she sees—sharp amber-brown eyes glowering at her from the back row.
But she blinks and they’re gone, and it’s just as well. How could it be him? She scolds her own foolishness, the brief slip of her guard. There are more important things to focus on.
Like the cool night air rushing past her as she runs through dark woods, or the feel of roots snaking through the makeshift path before her, or the sound of twigs and dead leaves crunching beneath her boots. Her target is still barely visible ahead of her, whipping thin branches through the air as he flees. His body is shrouded in the heavy aura of dark sorcery.
Dorothea grits her teeth at the disturbed, swaying underbrush slapping against her body as she presses ahead. It’s sharp, crisp and dry, a mere spark away from setting ablaze. Unfortunate that lightning is the spell-singing she prefers; a localized storm prickles in her cupped palm, patiently awaiting the opportunity for a safe shot.
A cracking boom tears through the trees to her left, followed by a distant, pained yell. Hubert, she thinks; or the man he’s pursuing, she hopes. They’re too far away to identify; Dorothea sheds her concern, as her partner has taught her to do. The obfuscation of night makes it easy to narrow her focus to the single shadow fleeing before her, losing ground as practiced footwork brings her closer and closer. She calculates the distance, the magic swirls wildly in her hand, and as the winding path opens suddenly into a clearing, she strikes.
Jagged lines of electricity shoot into the man’s back and fling him into the dirt, his body tumbling limply forward. Dorothea knows better than to assume her opponent is down for the count; she sees his muscles tense again, using the momentum of his fall to roll back to his feet and prepare a counter-spell. She recognizes the gloom concentrating amorphously, one of Hubert’s favorite cantrips to lob at her during their practice duels. Remnants of her attack linger in her right hand; her left shoots to the hilt of the sword sheathed into her belt, drawing the zigzagged blade just as her opponent sends dark magic flying her way. The weapon glows golden as she effortlessly deflects it.
Charged breath drifts from her lips, a soundless song. There is Dorothea’s ethereal performance on stage, and then there is this: the perilous chases, the exhilarating power that flows through her body when faced with a truly dangerous opponent. All unleash an aspect that sleeps ominously beneath her skin—a thrill she still refuses to acknowledge when the sun rises.
But it's the dead of night now, and Dorothea does not hesitate.
They—she and Hubert, Emperor Edelgard’s devoted sorcerers, ever dedicated to eliminating lurking threats to her newly reformed Fódlan—have been tracking these two men for weeks, following the trail of dark rituals and missing villagers along the western coast of Brionac and Nuvelle. Her opponent’s face lights up as their spells clash, revealing the impossibly pale skin and luminous shifting eyes Dorothea now recognizes all too well. The sneaking, the information-gathering, the wandering through remote towns—all their efforts have culminated into this single fight. And Dorothea relishes every second of it—even as her duel transforms into a high-velocity volley of ether, permeating the grove with the acrid scent of ionized air.
Even as she feels her limbs grow tired, her feet barely holding on the uneven ground. A particularly strong clash of blasts dissipates into the dark and both mages stare each other down. He’s stronger than she expected, and Hubert is nowhere to be found. The fear she’s grown used to swallowing down begins to bubble back up to the surface. She spins the blade in her hand once, twice, each swing gathering static. A rustling in the surrounding trees perks her ears alert. Reinforcements. She braces herself.
But just as the figure parts his lips—to laugh at her, or mutter a more powerful incantation, she’s not sure which—his words break into a pained grunt. She can’t see what’s warranted this reaction, the heavy sigh that ripples into shock on his face. A glint of steel comes next, providing some context as it emerges from the man’s chest, crunching muscle and bone. Thick fluid drips from the point and falls to the ground, and Dorothea’s hand claps instinctively over her mouth. She watches his pupils fade before her, turning cloudy and dark as the sword withdraws from his chest and dripping turns to gushing.
His body falls forward and out of sight as his slayer comes into view; grim clouds choose the perfect moment to part open and let the moonlight through. Standing before her, clad in turquoise and leather, is a ghost: the specter Dorothea convinced herself she hadn’t seen, watching her with casual recognition. Her lips part slowly, hesitant to speak his name. But the threat lies terminated, dark blood soaking into the thirsty earth, and her courage overtakes her fear again.
“Felix,” she whispers, the syllables simultaneously foreign and familiar on her tongue. He remains silent, but she can hear his voice in her head, replaying from a distant memory. “You…” she trails off as her feet shuffle slowly, instinctively towards him. His hands on his blade are shaky, and his attention has shifted from her to the fresh corpse in front of him. His head leans closer and closer to the ground.
His form begins to tip, to topple.
“Felix!” she yells, louder, sprinting to close the distance between them. Her arms scoop beneath his own just in time, slowing his fall to the forest floor; his knees dig into the dirt as Dorothea nearly collapses under his weight. “I’ve got you,” she says, back to a whisper, voice dripping with concern. She spots a line of dark red running from his mid-thigh down, its full extent hidden under his tall boots. The crack, she remembers, the scream; in hindsight, she can’t imagine how she’d thought it had been anyone else.
Dorothea’s head swims with all the questions she wants to ask; her stomach churns with a thousand emotions she cannot name. But she’s able to push her thoughts aside as the brush parts again and Hubert emerges, panting heavily. Felix rests his forehead on her shoulder, shallow breath warm against her skin. Recognition turns to brief surprise as Hubert regards them.
But he doesn’t dwell on Felix for long—there are more pressing things to report. He and Dorothea exchange a knowing glance, the silent understanding that one mage has regrettably gotten away.
“We need to get back,” she says, hands glowing white as they hover over Felix’s wounded leg. It’s a hasty job, meant only to quell the bleeding, and it’ll need more attention later. Hubert nods curtly, waiting for Dorothea to shift her body around and heft Felix onto her shoulders. She mutters a quick spell to reduce the weight of his body against hers. If he is a ghost, then he’s a very solid one.
—
The walk back to town is silent, blank, a quiet that follows them back into Hubert’s room at the inn. Dorothea deposits Felix into a chair and mechanically gathers the supplies she needs to dress his injury—considering her and Hubert’s penchant for ranged combat, it’s been a while since she’s had to perform first aid. But the years of tending to soldiers in the war isn’t something she’ll so easily forget.
Hubert settles onto his bed, diligently writing into his notebook—a nightly task that necessitates extra time after their latest encounter. Dorothea’s thankful that he’s so enthralled in his record-keeping; her hands are kept busy with her own work, but the identity of her patient proves more and more difficult for her to process. She doesn’t need Hubert paying his usual sharp attention to her current crisis.
She unlatches the series of straps securing Felix’s boots—the same ones she remembers, with a new layer of dust and wear on them—then slides them away and to the floor, inhaling sharply when she sees the gash that traces his outer leg down to his ankle. Magical damage—dark spellbinding that both cuts into the skin and weakens the afflicted area, slowing the healing process unless the enchantment is broken by a skilled white mage. Luckily, Dorothea knows this particular ailment like the back of her hand.
Felix winces as she runs her fingers along the bloodied fabric of his pants. “Fuck,” he mutters, pressing into the back of his seat, creaking the wood as his fingers grip the chair arms. Dorothea feels a pang of sympathy; but there’s also a soft giggle that escapes her lips, a strange delight upon hearing him swear. To her, oaths and profanity have never sounded more fitting than when they’re uttered by Felix.
Her hands lift from his leg as she rises halfway, working at the belts fastened around his waist. “These will have to come off,” she informs him, blankly. He nods, uncaring, and Dorothea pulls down the dirty fabric to expose the cut flesh. Hubert, for whatever reason, chooses this moment to finally speak.
“You must have questions,” he says, addressing Felix as he crosses the room and stands beside Dorothea. Hubert’s arms fold calmly behind his back, imposing eyes falling on the swordsman gritting his teeth as more pain sweeps over his body. “And we will certainly answer them, so long as you answer ours.”
Dorothea shoots him an irritated glare. “Not the best time, Hubie. A bit busy at the moment,” she tells him, trying to focus on unraveling the lingering dark magic.
“Time is of the essence, Dorothea. Our target gets further and further away the longer we wait here,” Hubert says. “It’s a shame Felix’s blade was so efficient in dispatching our opponent, before we could get the opportunity to question him.” Practical as always, and Dorothea realizes it’s the first time in a while where that practicality has truly ground on her nerves.
She opens her mouth to argue further, but Felix beats her to it. “It’s fine,” he insists, even as his body involuntarily squirms. “I know where he’s going, anyway—the other guy you’re after.”
Hubert and Dorothea share the same bewildered look, pointed at Felix. “You do?” she asks, softly, surprised both by his knowledge and the ease with which he shares it. Another question stacks onto the list already piled high in her mind.
Felix answers her, but his eyes stay locked with Hubert’s. “I’ve been following him and his friends for a while now. They’re stirring up quite a commotion out here,” he explains. “But I’m sure you both already know that part.” There’s an edge to his words, like he’s preparing for an argument. Or maybe it’s just in Felix’s nature to be consistently combative.
A pensive hum rolls from Hubert’s throat, hand reaching up to cup his chin. “You will share with us what you know. It is imperative for us to follow this lead… you understand, correct?”
“I understand that information is like currency to you, Vestra,” Felix says. “And my intel has a price, but you can have this tidbit for free: there’s no sense pursuing them tonight. There will be other opportunities.”
“That’s excellent to hear, Felix,” Dorothea chimes in, trying to cut the tension quickly building around her. She remembers, now, that Hubert is just as combative as Felix—no wonder she’s grown so used to it. “Let’s consider any further approaches later, shall we?” Her voice is strained; but as with her singing, her stern tone has the magical ability to end discussions.
Hubert sighs deeply and turns to the desk in concession, holding no further words for either of them. A stack of papers grabs his attention, giving Dorothea the luxury to concentrate fully on her immediate task. Felix, too, stays aggravatingly silent. Not that Dorothea can decide what she wants to hear from him, or what she’s even expecting him to say to her. Whatever it is, she knows it’s not a conversation she wants Hubert bearing witness to.
She wraps the final roll of bandages around Felix’s leg, wiping her brow and shaking her head slowly, working up the courage to break the silence. “That will do for now,” she says, pushing to her feet. “Can you stand?” Felix nods even as he strains to join her, still leaning most of his weight on the uninjured limb. He limps closer to the door. “Hey, be careful with that. Don’t do anything crazy,” she protests, acutely aware of his penchant for recklessness.
“I’m just going to the bar,” he says, hand already on the doorknob. “I need a fucking drink.” Dorothea resists the urge to stop him as Felix twists the handle and slips out into the hall, metal clicking closed behind him. Even with a mangled leg, he finds it so easy to leave.
A short moment passes with her eyes fixed on the doorway, but Hubert doesn’t waste much time stirring her from her trance. “I’m not sure what all that was, exactly,” he says, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder. “But I’m going to need you to follow him. Convince him to assist us.” Her muscles tense involuntarily at the touch, a discomfort ill-befitting Dorothea. She can feel Hubert soften, can hear the sympathy in his voice even before he speaks again. “Take a moment, if you’d like. But we’re going to need his help.”
“I know,” she replies, gaze dropping to the floor. Implicit in Hubert’s request, as always, is the ‘by any means necessary.’ And she wastes little time stepping out of the room, determined to achieve the job laid before her—no matter how difficult she suspects it will be.
—
She descends the stairs to find the bar near empty, appropriate for how late—how early, really—it is. The tavern-keep flashes her a smile despite the hour, always happy to see her. She and Hubert have been using this establishment as their base of operations for several weeks now, and her shows have brought significant business. Dorothea’s name precedes her, after all.
Seated at the counter is Felix, hunched quietly over a mug of ale; he doesn’t turn to look at her when she approaches, nor when she slides onto the stool beside him. Dorothea waves to the bartender for a drink of her own. Once the ale is poured, she takes a single sip before settling into the silence.
Felix is the first to break it, but only for a moment. “I—”
“Four years,” she interrupts, and he swallows the rest of his sentence. She’s not sure if he even had something to say, certain he expected her to cut into him like this. “Four years, Felix. No word, no explanation. Not even Sylvain knew where you were.”
Mention of the margrave’s name seems to rattle him, as though he’s not heard it in ages. As if the sound physically hurts him. “Don’t tell him where I am, Dorothea.”
“No,” she starts, “what would be the point of that? There’s no telling where you’d be by the time the news reached him, anyway. I’m not going to get his hopes up like that.” She bites the words out with finality, not interested in following that particular topic any further. Dorothea is the one here, not Sylvain, and it’s her anger that needs to be addressed.
“I would hear rumors,” she continues. “A lone swordsman, wandering like a tempest through Fódlan, cutting down his foes and seeking out only the strongest opponents to sate his blade. It was the only indication I had that you were even still alive.” Her gaze turns towards him, watching him closely. The way he grips his cup; the way dark strands of his hair fall still into his eyes, messy and unruly like a maelstrom. She doesn’t want to stop watching, now, afraid that if she turns away he’ll disappear and she’ll wake up from the dream she’s having.
But this is real, she thinks, trying desperately to quell the joy that’s rearing its dangerously optimistic head. Of course she’s happy to see him again, but she can’t afford to enjoy it—not when he could just as easily vanish again. It’s his one talent that surpasses even his swordplay.
He turns to meet her gaze, surprisingly casual. “Look, I’m as surprised as you are. I expected to find you in Enbarr, singing at the opera house. Not out here in the boondocks.”
Dorothea chuckles sardonically, skeptically. “Oh, and I’m supposed to believe you actually looked for me in the capital.”
Felix sighs. “Believe what you want. I know you’re not here to catch up.” His chin tilts upward to the ceiling. “Hubert needs you to massage me for details, for the sake of this… operation of yours. Some covert errand for the Emperor, I assume.” She wants to tell him that he’s wrong—that she wants to hear every last story about his ventures, that she would listen to him all night long. But he’s also right about the latter statement.
“Very astute of you,” she tells him.
He tilts his head curiously. “You and Hubert as a team is… an interesting development, to say the least,” he says. “Are you two…” he trails off, motioning vaguely with his hands, an awkwardness she almost laughs at.
“Oh,” she mumbles, face flushing. “No, we’re not. Not most nights, anyway.” She flashes him a teasing smile. “He’s much more interested in our lovely Emperor. Or the Prime Minister.”
Now it’s Felix’s turn to blush, though he doesn’t seem to regret the question. He appears oddly comforted by her answer, in fact. “Right,” he mutters, taking another sip of his drink. Dorothea seizes the opportunity to tilt her cup back, too, pleasantly surprised by how easily she was able to share her secrets with him. Her shoulders relax, and she rests her cheek softly on her hand.
“It’s late, Fe. I need to get down to business,” she continues, brushing aside her guilt. Her eyes soften, catching his gaze and holding it, a hand dropping to rest lightly on his thigh. “We’ve been walking the same path, unwittingly, it seems. That’s too perfect of a coincidence for me to pass up,” she says. “Hubert would have you give us all the information you’ve gathered, and then be on your way. But I think it would be much more effective to have you join us.”
The subtle smile that’s been resting on his face for a while now fades, and Dorothea’s stomach drops. But he doesn’t counter with a straight refusal. “What’s it like working with Edelgard’s lapdog, anyway? I never would have expected you to follow him so readily, considering how questionable his methods tend to be.” He proves as skilled as Hubert at wielding implicit words. It’s not like you, she imagines him saying, hypothetical words echoing in her head. The silent judgement hurts her more than she expected it to—and frankly, it’s a waste of her time.
“Can you help us or not?” she asks, eyes narrowing with her patience.
“We certainly share the same contemptible enemy,” he says, standing by his indirect communication. “And I suppose I could pass off some of my information to Hubert, despite my reservations about him.” He sighs, shaking his head. “But I work alone. And I don’t want to take orders from Hubert, no matter how much our goals align.”
Dorothea sighs. “No one is asking you to—” her tone accelerates into anger more quickly than expected, rumbling into a groan. “You are so stubborn, you know that?” She already regrets losing her composure, but there’s little she can do to quell her emotions now. “Has it occurred to you that maybe this would be easier if we collaborated? Help us, and then go back to whatever it is you’ve spent all this time doing. Am I really asking so much?” Her throat aches, fighting back the tears that are finally threatening to spill out. She hates how difficult this is. How it’s exactly what she expected.
Felix inhales, unable to keep eye contact with her anymore. His mouth twists into a frown, and she can only hope that he’s as frustrated as she is at this point. They both stew in shared irritation, strangely reminiscent of their school days. Of their war days.
This time, when his voice cuts through the quiet, she lets him finish the thought. “Your singing is as good as ever,” he says, voice wavering as he utters the ‘good.’ At one point, he might have called it beautiful, even more nervously, drenching the word in embarrassment. Dorothea suspects that beautiful is still the phrasing he’d choose, if it weren’t so painfully difficult to give her such an illustrious compliment.
She decides not to think any more about what past Felix would have said.
“Thank you,” she replies, remembering his gaze on her earlier that evening—before the chase, when he was still a figment of her imagination. Haunting her passively, instead of the active haunting she’s experiencing now.
Another ghost finds her when their eyes meet again. Felix’s gaze darkens—half-lidded, vulnerable. It’s been four years, but she knows that look. She’d know it anywhere.
She needs to leave—to sleep, before her imagination emboldens her further. “If that’s your decision, I can accept it,” she says. “But I’d like it if you’d consider the offer for a bit longer.” Her gaze drops to his lap, to his leg. “And I need to take another look at that injury tomorrow, to make sure it heals properly.”
“That makes sense,” he mumbles, more to himself than to her. Dorothea frowns, gripping his shoulder and giving him a light shake.
“I’m serious, Felix. Minimal walking for at least a day. No running, and definitely no sword practice.” He avoids her gaze, now. “Promise me.”
When he looks at her, she can’t pinpoint the expression on his face. “I promise,” he says. That’s the best she’s going to get from him, she knows, and so she nods slowly.
“Alright,” she sighs, taking one lingering look at her half-finished drink before stepping away from the bar. She flashes one last smile at the bartender, one that flattens into a line when she addresses the man still seated. “Good night, Felix.”
She doesn’t wait for him to reply before retreating back to her room.