Chapter Text
"Bernadetta!"
Bernie twitched.
"Bernadetttaaa!"
She kept walking. No -- walked faster.
"I know you can hear me," he called, voice echoing down the cool stone of the corridors. "Am I that bad?"
Faster still.
This was no use. She was hopelessly short, Sylvain hopelessly tall; he'd catch up to her in a handful of hasty strides.
Sylvain was so insistent. She'd never had reason to talk to him before the... thing, her brain helpfully supplied, in lieu of allowing her to recall any details of the manuscript she'd left lying around. Yes. That whole thing. Before that? They'd never spoken. And why would they? They had nothing in common. He was outgoing; she couldn't leave her room. She’d never been kissed, whereas he’d hit on anything that moved. She’d heard stories.
She grudgingly supposed they did have one thing in common. They both read. Humiliation though it might have been, ulterior motives that he might have had, he had read her work more attentively than anyone she'd ever met. Better still, his feedback had been more than kind, it had been correct. Hate that as she might, she couldn’t forget.
Aaand he’d caught up to her, just as she’d foreseen.
"When are we meeting to workshop your stuff?"
Bernie stopped short, drew herself up with as much dignity as she could muster, and looked him dead in the eye. Not bad for someone who only came up to his chin.
"You're terrible, Sylvain," she informed him. "Terrible."
"Please, Bernadetta." Twinkle. "I'm terrible? After that cliffhanger you wrote? I've been thinking about it for days."
I don't know how to finish it, she wailed mentally, sorry, sorry, don't remind me --
“What’s going on with Leonel? Is he still abandoning Roderick? Speaking of, why is Roderick acting so weird? I thought he was sworn to protect him?”
“Leave me alone, Sylvain!”
"Also, when are they getting together for real? They got it on in the prologue, but it's been ten whole chapters since then and they still haven’t --"
Thwack!
"What the -- that actually hurt! What is in your bag? Are those needles?!"
“Sorry! ” she wailed. She hadn't meant to hurt him, honest. Actually, she couldn't recall moving. She’d been clutching her bag, and it had just kind of happened --
"Bernadetta," said Sylvain, sounding more confused than anything. "Did I... do something wrong?"
"Stay away from me! I won't fall for your -- y-your coquettish --"
"And there you go again with the bad faith and the insults. Though with your vocabulary, it's honestly kind of charming --"
"-- your insincere, mendacious nonsense -- "
"Flirtations, Bernadetta. They're just called flirtations." Sylvain sighed, rubbing his cheek where Bernie's bag had made its involuntary impact. "Look, I know my reputation is... how do I put it..."
"Bad.”
"Right. Bad. But relax, okay? I won't do it if it bothers you. Flirt, I mean." His voice had changed: it was lower, neutral, honest. No doubt another of his tricks. "And I am serious, you know. About the writing. Maybe I could help you."
"Help me," she repeated.
"Uh! Not that you need help." Sylvain scratched his head. Threw his arms behind it. "You're amazing, and talented, and -- right, not doing that anymore. It's just that with writing, more eyes and more feedback always seems to help. Or help me, anyway."
Wait, what?
"Help... you?" she echoed dumbly. "You write?"
"Sure, from time to time. Not nearly as well as you, but I've tried it!”
This new information motivated Bernie to appraise him carefully.
It was so difficult to tell if Sylvain was being sincere. This could very well be an elaborate ploy to humiliate her. And normally, she’d say that’s what it obviously was.
But... his suggestions on her initial manuscript had been thoughtful. Thorough. Even… writerly. That he would be a writer -- it made sense. Could someone really give that feedback as a joke?
Buuuut this was still Sylvain she was dealing with. If not humiliation, then what? He had no incentive to help her write. Wait a moment. Maybe he… liked her? That was ridiculous. Impossible. No one was interested in her. Not as a friend or otherwise. And Sylvain was a flirt who hit on anything that moved, but he wasn’t desperate enough to hit on someone like her --
“So! What do you say?" said Sylvain, clapping his hands very, very loudly, and Bernadetta shrieked.
"Look, I'm sorry I startled you, but when are they gonna bone?"
Bernadetta shrieked. Again.
Or had she screamed? Maybe she'd screamed. Or sputtered. She couldn’t herself describe the sound she’d made, except by result: it had attracted the attention of everyone in the dining hall and more than a few passing knights. Yeah, it had not been good.
She'd also dropped all the sweet buns she'd been stashing into her skirt. People were staring. And talking. About her.
“Sorry,” Bernie whispered to herself, wishing fervently that she could just… sink into the ground and disappear, permanently. “Sorry, sorry, sorry --”
"Do you need help with those? You look like you need help."
"Sylvain," she wailed, as she wished fervently she had never left that stupid manuscript out, not for a minute.
"Okay. I mean, I think this is more buns than anyone can possibly eat, but I respect your commitment to not leaving your room. It's actually pretty cool."
"Sylvain!"
"And I'm not saying anything dumb about buns right now. You know, because you hate my flirtatious garbage? Took it to heart."
She had an involuntary retort ready to go when he winked at her and she realized it, instantly and horribly: she was making this worse. He liked when she was flustered! She couldn’t say anything!
Instead she cast desperately about for a seat, to no avail: every booth and table was packed, every student in the hall pointedly not looking their way.
Sylvain followed her gaze. “Pretty sure it’s me, not you. I’ve got a lot of enemies in this dining hall.” His sigh was heavy, theatrical. “A lovely girl like you, though? You could sit anywhere. I’m sure you’ve got admirers.”
She immediately forgot her recent realization. “I-I’m not -- I don’t -- don’t make fun of me!”
Because she knew what she was: mousy and plain, nothing special to look at. And Sylvain knew that, too! He shouldn’t mock her! How unconscionably rude!
“I’m not! You’re pretty cute. Especially when you’re flustered --”
“Stop it, you jerk! That isn’t funny!”
“What is this, Sylvain?” asked a gentle voice from behind them, one Bernadetta didn’t recognize at all. Wait. Choir practice, maybe? “Are you causing trouble?”
“Merrrrcedes,” said Sylvain, almost automatically. “Exquisite timing from an exquisite lady. We, uh, need to sit somewhere.”
Mercedes von Martritz ignored him completely. She was so radiant Bernadetta forgot to be angry with Sylvain. No, now she was just plain terrified.
“Are you...Bernadetta?” Mercedes asked, laughter in her eyes. “I’ve heard so much about you from Sylvain.”
Oh no. No, no, no. Mercedes had heard about her? And from Sylvain? What had she heard, what could possibly have been said ?!
“Would the two of you mind joining me?” Mercedes said cheerfully.
Soon they were in a cramped booth that did not seem structurally stable. Sylvain was engaging Mercedes in spirited conversation, which Bernie was grateful for, since she had apparently left cogent thought in the pile of pastries by the counter. Only one thought remained, and it screamed itself loudly from the rooftops of her brain: Goddess, I can’t talk to someone so beautiful.
“Hey, Bernadetta,” Sylvain’s voice said, from distant space. “That was your cue to talk.”
“She looks as though she’s very far away,” marveled Mercedes. “Is she all right?”
"S-Sorry," Bernie squeaked, and goddess was her voice strangled. "You're just…” Don’t just say pretty. Think of something better! “...um, really pretty."
Mercedes laughed, rich and throaty, her surprise unmistakable. "That’s very kind of you. I think you're beautiful, too.”
Bernadetta made a noise between a gasp and a shriek.
"Yeah, I know this is going to come as a shock to you, but I don't flirt with ugly people," said Sylvain, around a forkful of gratin.
"Mercedes, that’s really nice of you, but... haven't we never met?" Bernadetta blurted, before she could stop herself. Idiot, Bernie! That's not what you say to someone who tells you you're beautiful!
"That’s true," said Mercedes thoughtfully, "but Sylvain has told me much about you. Your soul shone brightly in the writing that he showed me --"
Bernadetta choked on her sweet bun.
"Uh, you weren't supposed to tell her I did that," said Sylvain.
"Oh no," said Mercedes, "did I let something slip?" Then she laughed, and she laughed so charmingly that Bernie decided it had been worth it, every recent humiliation, just to hear that laugh.
"Mercie, you devil," said Sylvain. "I always underestimate you. Why do I do that?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that," said Mercedes, her eyes twinkling brightly. She turned to Bernadetta. “Um, I know that Sylvain may be a little...”
“Bad,” Sylvain supplied, helpfully. “Worthless. Total garbage.”
“Different,” Mercedes finished, ignoring him completely, “but he’s quite earnest about many things, really. He really loves your writing.”
“Yeah, because it’s great, ” Sylvain interjected, slamming the table with both hands. “Seriously, Merce, you’ve gotta finish Blood and Blade. The dynamic between the knight and his squire? Unbelievable. The characterization? Stunning. And don’t get me started on the sex --”
Bernadetta ran out of the hall.
She was halfway through her fifth fit of despair at how completely impossible opening sentences were when she became aware of the knocking.
Persistent, irritating knocking that would not shut up.
Knock knock.
Bernie looked up. The doors of the library’s study rooms were made of thick and frosted glass, but the shock of red hair floating behind this door was still instantly, horribly recognizable.
Sylvain Gautier was so stupid.
He was so embarrassing! So frustrating! And he did not know when to give up! She clearly didn’t want or need his help!
So why did he keep trying?!
Knockknockknockknockknock. Knock knock. Knock. “Bernadetta, that’s you, right? I’m coming in,” said Sylvain’s voice, muffled through the walls. “We’ve gotta talk.”
“ Don’t come in,” wailed Bernadetta. “I’m -- I’m -- I’m writing!”
She wanted to be left alone. Maybe. Probably. And even if she didn’t, she definitely didn’t want to deal with making sense out of the obnoxious playboy riddle following her around!
“Uh, was that supposed to dissuade me? Because now I’m definitely coming in.”
“Don’t come in, Sylvain!”
Creeeeeeeak.
“Uh, Bernadetta? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” said Bernie. She had leapt to her feet without knowing, as cornered animals do.
“Like, with deadly intent. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you wanted to kill me.”
“W-what? No,” she said, laughing how a normal person would, a normal person who did not intend to kill anyone. “That’s ridiculous. I haven’t thought about that. Why would I? That would be weird.”
“Uh huh. And what are you holding behind your back?”
“Um, this? It’s… uh… it’s just a…”
“Looks an awful lot like a dining knife.” She hadn’t known he could pout so fiercely. “I’m hurt, Bernadetta. After everything we’ve been through?”
She responded with a glib retort. Or tried to. She definitely tried to talk. What emerged was a squeak.
Sylvain didn’t bat an eye. “You are cute when you’re flustered,” he said, and collapsed into the chair by the door; it groaned nervously under his weight. “I wouldn’t lie about that. Hey, would you mind hearing me out? Without the knife?”
Bernie pocketed the knife reluctantly. She hadn’t actually meant to hurt Sylvain. Honest. She just… also hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it. Killing him and ending her complete and utter humiliation. Killing everyone who had read her romance and leaving no loose ends… but she’d have to kill Mercedes too, then, and that was a non-starter. It was so unfair! Sylvain thought of everything!
“Now we’re getting somewhere. Listen, Bernadetta --”
“B-Bernie’s fine.” Wait… it was? Since when?!
Sylvain blinked. Kept going. “Okay, Bernie. I’m really sorry I keep fucking this up. I honestly just want to help you write your stuff, if I can, and if I can’t, that’s fine too. I -- I mostly just want the world to see your stories. I think you’re a really talented writer.”
“You’re laying it on thick,” she mumbled, not displeased.
“Yeah, I -- I guess I see why you’d think that.” He laughed weakly. “But it’s true all the same.”
“Why do you really want to help me?” she said. Her own bluntness shocked her. “There are prettier girls. Smarter ones. Don’t you normally go for those types? I-I’m just...”
“You’re cool,” Sylvain said, with an earnestness she could hardly bear. “I think you’re really cool, Bernadetta. I think we could learn a lot from each other.”
He thinks I’m cool?
Sylvain thinks I’m cool?
Bernie didn’t trust herself to speak, just wordlessly thrust her parchment at him. By the time Sylvain finished reading she’d managed to regain her composure, or enough of it, anyway.
“I mean, opening sentences are always brutal, but you’re doing a great job! What’s wrong with this one? The one circled in ink?”
“A-are you kidding? Right now all I’ve got is A storm of blood rained furiously. That isn’t close to good!” Had she... been wrong about his potential?
“Well, it’s a little over-the-top, sure, but the imagery’s great. And I love the general idea.” Sylvain scooted closer to her, scratching the floorboards with his rickety chair; when he propped his feet up on the table, a stack of books fell off. “What if you did a more specific storm? Like a maelstrom, maybe?”
“A maelstrom,” Bernadetta wondered out loud. “Or maybe a hurricane, or a typhoon. Hm...”
“Do you think the battlefield has to be rained on here? Maybe the storm can just tear through it? It’s not really a storm, is it?”
“It’s Leonel,” she said. “He’s, um… become violent. Ever since he was separated from Roderick.” This actually was helpful. Really helpful. “So then, maybe… One week ago, a maelstrom of blood and ruin had torn through this forest... ”
“Whoa,” said Sylvain approvingly. “We’ve got forests now. Ruin, too. I like it. You’re incredible, B.”
“Sorry,” she said, because she was. Of course she hadn’t been wrong about him, about his uncanny potential as an editor. She should really have just let him help to begin with.
Stupid Bernie. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“I have literally no idea what you’re apologizing for,” said Sylvain, “but it seems like I might have helped you make progress. Friends, then? Or editing partners, at least?”
He offered his hand, and Bernadetta took it.
They started meeting weekly after that.
Sylvain was better at editing than he had any right to be. His edits were conservative but always constructive; his delivery gentle even when his feedback was substantial. And he was, above all and most meaningfully to her, supportive of everything she tried to do. Her own experiments with lowercase, with footnotes, with whatever odd concept she’d dream up: he’d roll with it and encourage her. It felt like he believed in her vision more than she did.
She wasn’t used to support from anyone. It was… surprisingly nice.
Really, the worst thing about him was his tendency to flirt at stupid times, like shattering a critical moment of editing with some -- some completely senseless comment about how someone so cute and talented could write no wrong. Not that Sylvain was really flirting. As she’d gotten to know him better she’d become almost impressed at how insincere he was about it.
As a writer, the trait practically screamed of a root cause, of hidden intrigue. As his friend, she didn’t pry.
Most of all she wished she could read his writing. It wasn’t fair that he got to read so much of hers! But it was the one thing he was consistently reticent about, dodging and diverting as only he could. In the end he’d promised to show her “someday,” whenever that was, and she’d taken it.
In the half-year since she’d started writing Blood and Blade, she’d never felt better about the quality of it. She felt like it was better than any of her previous work, maybe even good enough to be published somewhere, in some small and unnoteworthy anthology. And she knew she had her stupid editor to partly thank for it.
But she was hitting a wall. She had no idea how to finish her story, and it seemed important, suddenly, to know how it would end. This was more of Sylvain’s influence: he’d suggested having an ending in mind and working her way towards it, and she’d thought it a good idea at the time. When she’d started writing, though, before his help, she’d really just begun with Leonel and Roderick and their tormented relationship, and had thought no further. While that had been great for intra-scene chemistry, it also meant they weren’t really going anywhere between the scenes. And then her own personal indecision meant she couldn’t for the life of her decide where they ought to go.
She tried to distract herself from the problem by picking a better title. Sylvain did not help with this.
“Have you tried Two Knights Who Are Way Too Into Each Other?”
“Figured out why you didn’t go for that last one. It’s cause Roderick’s not a knight, he’s a squire -- wait, I've got it! Sword in Hand. The sword is his --”
“Die Hard. Just call it Die Hard.”
“Crossing Blows.”
“Alright, get this: True Chivalry. And then the subtitle is How I Murdered My Squire With Really Good Sex: An Autobiography.”
In the end she stuck with Blood and Blade just to shut him up.
“You... think I should submit to this?” Bernie all but wailed.
The Writers’ Guild of Fodlan is soliciting submissions for our twentieth annual Young Fodlan anthology! Our awardees have gone on to enjoy recognized careers in fiction across Fodlan and beyond.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t!
“Is something the matter?” asked Sylvain.
Yes, Bernie wanted to scream. I’m bad, and this anthology is very, very good.
“Let me guess,” said Sylvain. “You think you’re bad and the anthology’s good.”
“H-how did you know?!”
“Because it’s obvious. But you’re good. And the anthology’s good. Match made in heaven, yeah?”
She looked back down at the slip of parchment he’d slid her, simultaneously innocuous and completely terrifying. How had he found this?
All submissions must be sent in by the Ethereal Moon. Selected writers will be notified shortly thereafter. May the goddess smile upon you!
And the Ethereal Moon?! That was just around the corner!
“The deadline’s in a couple weeks, but I think Blood and Blade ’s more than ready. Don’t you?” Sylvain’s expression softened as he looked at her. He seemed to have realized she was actually afraid, which was itself embarrassing. “You okay?”
“Sylvain, this is… it’s the most prestigious anthology for students and recent graduates across Fodlan. I can’t --” Bernie gulped. “I can’t submit to something like that.”
“Of course I understand. I read it,” Sylvain said. “You should definitely apply. I think you’ll get in.”
“Um,” Bernie said, because there was no way she would get into this anthology.
“At least try,” he said, softly. “Don’t run away.”
Really, she was nowhere near good enough. She was certain of it. People like her weren’t supposed to apply to these things. They shouldn’t. If you could never get in, what was even the point?
Even so , a little voice said inside her, one she had never heard before.
No, it had always been there, hadn’t it? She had just never been able to hear it before, not with it drowned out by the terror and noise that flooded her when it came to writing -- came to everything, really. Somehow her soul was quieter now, quiet enough to hear the voice clearly. And what it said was this: you should listen to Sylvain.
“I’ll help you,” said Sylvain. “We’ll edit twice as much. More, even. Whatever it takes to submit your story by Ethereal. What do you think?”
Bernadetta nodded.
He made an unexpected pitch to her four weeks out.
“Hey, Bernadetta, can we make a deal?”
Oh no. Why would he say that?
“We’re editing more now, right? That’s no problem for me at all, but you have to do something for me, too. Promise?”
Bernie instinctively began racking her brain for possible causes of deals, cataloguing the various mistakes she might have made. Had she been late to this last-minute editing session? Wait, she’d been early. Was it... bad to be early? Maybe it was bad. Really bad.
Or maybe it wasn’t her timing. Had the revised epilogue she’d sent him been bad? Bad enough to merit apology? She didn’t think so, but it was possible --
“You have to stop apologizing,” said Sylvain.
That stopped her in her tracks. “What?”
“You heard me. I just don’t think it’s fair for someone so cute to say sorry so much. Not when she hasn’t done anything wrong.” Sylvain looked at her.
“I don’t -- “ Was this related to anything? “When did I say sorry?”
“Are you serious?” said Sylvain. “Uh, for being early to this, thirty seconds ago? For knowing the answer to whatever Seteth asked in lecture? For fixing your epilogue? You’re up to seventeen apologies in our interactions just today. I was counting.”
Bernadetta’s throat was dry. Did she really apologize that much?
“So that’s my pitch. Unless you want me to skip all our meetings, or you want to keep hearing about what a beautiful, intelligent, talented writer you are --”
“Fine,” she yelped, and hoped it came out sounding halfway decisive. “Fine! You win, okay?! I won’t apologize! Ever! For anything!”
“Wait, no, that’s not -- I mean, if you hit me with your bag, you can still apologize,” he said quickly, rubbing his arm where she vaguely remembered hitting him the other day. That had been an accident! It had! “Just don’t apologize when you don’t do anything wrong. I mean, I only do things wrong -- “ wink -- “ and I’m not exactly sorry for it.”
That’s not true, she wanted to say. You apologize to me. He apologized to her… quite a bit, actually. For making her uncomfortable, or thinking he had. It wasn’t what she would have expected before getting to know him, and it was a little hard to make sense of even now. She could press the issue, she was curious…
But none of that invalidated his point, did it? She did apologize a lot. And she didn’t think she could bear the embarrassment of telling Sylvain that nonsense, anyway.
“Let’s just edit already,” she said instead, doing her best to quell the quaver in her voice, and Sylvain beamed.
Four weeks to go.
The weeks before the deadline went by in a blur. If she’d felt like her writing was improving before, now she could viscerally feel it. The pacing was improving. Scenes were rewriting themselves. Sylvain was somehow always free to help. He was as serious as getting this accepted as she was, maybe more; his edits were ruthless now, recommendations to remove or rework sentences, paragraphs, entire scenes that weren’t accomplishing enough, weren’t achieving their goals.
During one marathon editing session she realized that the last few weeks were the longest contiguous block of time she’d ever spent with anyone, let alone a boy. Then Sylvain had narrowed his eyes and questioned her word choice (“wouldn’t he accede here, not concede? it’s a request, not an argument”) and she hadn’t even had time to blush. The ruthlessness was good, and they were at a point now where she could hear it without beating herself up for days, and that was good too.
Two weeks to go.
Thump!
“I’m done,” she said, breathless.
He eyed the manuscript she’d flung onto the desk. Lifted it gingerly. Dropped it. “This is it, huh? The submitted version.” Picked it up again and felt the heft of it in his hands. “Lighter than I imagined. More blood than blade, I guess? Hey, okay, reading now. I’m really excited.”
It was lighter. She’d edited it down quite a bit. And she felt lighter, too. She hoped he didn’t hate what she’d done. Especially the way she’d ended it, after struggling for so long... she’d have to wait and see.
She did. She sat for hours, willing to wait as long as it took as he devoured it, his eyes tearing across the pages. The preliminary signs were good: such sustained enthusiasm was unlikely to be pretense. Goddess, she hoped he liked it. She’d reworked entire sections, pored over each and every chapter, made sure it all flowed just right. And then the ending… well.
It was half past one when he closed the binding and let out a low whistle, making her drop all of her embroidery at once.
Well? she wanted to say. But there wasn't any need, because Sylvain was smiling.
“You’ve outdone yourself,” he said, smiling ear to ear, and for once she believed him.
Which made it all the worse to get the letter.
Thank you for submitting to this year’s Young Fodlan anthology. We regret to inform you we are unable to include your submission in the anthology at this time.
The buzzing in her brain had begun at the first line, and it was getting worse. Worse and worse.
We received a record high number of applications from across Fodlan. We were very impressed by the quality of submissions… On behalf of the Guild, we thank you for participating in the selection process. We wish you luck in your endeavors.
May the goddess smile upon you.
A handwritten note was attached to the bottom. Bernie skimmed it. Something about how she’d been good. But not good enough.
She wasn’t ever good enough.
“You look awful,” Sylvain said. “Spit it out. What happened.”
“Nothing happened,” she said.
“You look dead,” said Sylvain. “You look like Felix. Fuming.”
“I’m fine,” said Bernie.
“There’s no one in the library but us. Spit it out.”
“I’m fine! Do I not look fine?! ”
“You look like someone I wouldn’t even hit on,” said Sylvain. “Not if I were dead.”
That did it. “I do not,” she said, very crossly, and Sylvain beamed.
“Hey, now we’re back in business. But really, short stuff. What’s wrong?”
She thrust the letter across the table at him. Sylvain’s expression darkened visibly.
“They rejected you?” he said in disbelief. “For the anthology? Are you serious? Saints, I’m sorry. Was there a reason?”
“Not really.” She didn’t sniffle. She didn’t. “I…”
“Wait, there’s something here. At the bottom.” He was reading the letter again, closely and with obvious annoyance. “ To the writer -- This work is exceptional in many ways. However, we do not feel we can include it in the anthology, largely due to the experimental format you employed. How about that! Oh no, there’s more. Our committee debated for some time before making this decision. We strongly encourage you to submit again next year.”
Sylvain rolled his eyes. “They say they’re not at liberty to disclose editorial decisions… and then they go and put in a note about how your stuff is too unusual for them. And then they tell you to come back later? Ridiculous.”
She didn’t want to dissect it. Not then, anyway. She mostly wanted to curl up in a ball.
“You know, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m kind of surprised they wouldn’t take you just because you’re a von Varley. Your family’s pretty influential, and I’m pretty sure the Guild’s based in Adrestia...”
“Oh,” said Bernie. “Um, I… didn’t sign it, actually.”
“Ah,” he said. “Right. You’d rather die than put your name on this kind of thing.“ He sighed. “It’s just -- I know I’m your biggest fan, but seriously, I thought every chapter was stellar. You wrote a romance with a plot -- a plot that addressed the human cost of war, which is no mean feat -- and it was really hot, and you wrote multiple endings. Multiple! I’ve never seen anyone do that. I can’t believe they didn’t like it.”
“I should’ve known better,” she said, almost to herself. “I should never have applied...”
The only person who’d made a mistake here was her. For daring to think she was good enough. A colossal idiot like her? What a joke.
“Do you really think that?” said Sylvain. “I read this anthology every year. I think this would have been one of the best things it ever published.”
“That’s…”
“I think it was your best work yet.”
She didn’t know what to say. Of course she thought it was good! It was her work! But it didn’t matter what she thought!
“I thought it was good,” she said, quietly. “But it wasn’t good enough. I’ll, um, try again next year, so…”
“Those morons don’t know anything,” he said. It was the angriest she’d seen him. She wasn’t sure why.
He stood up from his chair and stared into nothing, as if thinking. Then he turned to face her, and she could not place the expression on his face at all.
“Bernadetta,” he said, “do you want to go on a date?”
Sylvain wasn’t acting like himself. At least, she didn’t think so.
No one else seemed to notice. And she doubted herself when she heard his laugh in the halls, easy and unaffected, or when she saw him at the library without her, studious and working late, mouth slightly open as he pondered whatever papers he was writing.
But one couldn’t see Sylvain for months on end without picking up his tells, and she saw the laughter fail to reach his eyes, saw him snap a quill clean in half from irritation, saw the recklessness in his movements as he stalked the halls. He seemed troubled.
Too troubled for a date. That was tonight, wasn’t it? That had been eating at her all week.
Sylvain had said it was to make her feel better, had clarified it wasn’t anything serious. Not a date date, he’d said, just a date. Unless you’d like it to be. And then winked. I figure it could help us both feel better. Or one of us, anyway, he’d said cryptically, and disappeared before she could ask what that was about.
And why had she agreed to go? In her post-anthology depression it’d seemed like a decent idea. Now that she’d had a couple days to think about it, though, it seemed risky. No -- scary. Downright terrifying. But that was why she had to do it, wasn’t it? To live a little, and to challenge herself. She couldn’t exactly make a career as a romance writer if she’d never gone on a date.
Plus it wasn’t like Sylvain was unattractive. His jokes were okay. He was conversationally adequate, his face... symmetrical. Oh, who was she kidding? There probably wasn’t anyone better to go on a date with in Garreg Mach.
Not under normal circumstances, anyway. But given how he was acting…
All in all, she had a odd feeling about the impending evening. Writer’s instinct never betrayed, and right now it was twisting in her gut, telling her fiercely that all this could go down in about one of two ways:
It could be [ sweet and gentle, a warm and firelit evening, and she might learn something about him, something she never knew ] --
(Which would it be?)