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Dorothea should’ve known the war’s end wouldn’t solve all of her problems, but she can’t deny she was certainly hoping it would.
She stands on the balcony of Enbarr’s grand palace, the roars of the last of the victory celebrations slowly but surely dying behind her. No one has come to search for her for quite some time, and she thinks it’s probably for the best. She can only watch Caspar down so many tankards of ale before she starts feeling nauseous, herself.
Dorothea has always flourished in stability, from the smaller things like knowing the backstreet butcher would give the poor little urchin a meal every Sunday if she looked sad enough to the grand reassurance of knowing that selling her voice would keep a roof over her head. The war had been so terrible in that regard: not knowing how the enemy would advance, not knowing who would be left at her side at the end of the day, not knowing if she herself would make it to the next morning. The day after Fhirdiad had seemed so bright and assuring in comparison. Dorothea had hoped her nerves would behave themselves for at least a full week.
Yet here she is, staring out at an Enbarr still celebrating late into the night, wondering what the hell the world’s throwing at her next.
“Dorothea?”
The songstress wrenches herself from her thoughts all at once, a smile finding its way onto her face to make up for how her mind still manages to churn in the background. It just won’t do to make her dearest friend worry. “Petra!” she says, and the excitement that laces her tone is actually quite sincere when her eyes fall on the rosy-cheeked princess.
“Are you sober?” Petra asks, though she’s practically radiating concern.
Dorothea tries not to think too much on how long the princess has been standing there, watching her mope the night away. “Unfortunately, yes. Are you?”
“I am feeling warm, that is all,” Petra says with a wave of her hand, “It’s pleasant.”
“Good. I thought that little game you had with Caspar was really going to do you in.”
The princess laughs at that, and it seems Dorothea’s act is a success. Petra’s shoulders loosen and she leans against the balcony next to her friend, bare back pressed to the cool railing in a way that makes Dorothea shiver just thinking about the sensation. “I received a letter from my grandfather this morning. He is sending a ship to bring me home within the week.” The smile on her face is radiant and impossibly excited, which makes Dorothea all the more guilty for how her chest tightens at the thought.
Dorothea has always known there would be a time for goodbyes. As hard as the war had been, it’s harder still to accept that the seven years of her life with the members of Black Eagle Strike Force are drawing to a close. “Oh! That’s...wonderful!” She leaves out the fact that the thought of Petra leaving drives a particularly painful nail through her heart, and lies through her teeth instead. “I’m so happy for you, Petra.”
Petra frowns, and Dorothea instantly knows her acting still needs some polish. Actually, that would be giving the princess too little credit. Petra is far too smart to fall for hollow pleasantries that would stroke any old regular nobleman’s ego. “Forgive my rudeness, but that doesn’t seem to be the case.”
Dorothea shakes her head at the words that creep to mind. “It’s nothing. It’s selfish.”
“I doubt it,” Petra says, earnest as always.
Dorothea meets her gaze for only a few moments, balking far too quickly at the sincerity that she finds burning in her eyes. She huffs, frustrated with herself, and starts running her hands through her hair. Another mistake, because now she’s thinking of how she’ll miss the feeling of Petra braiding it. “Perhaps I’m just not ready to say goodbye to you just yet,” she admits in a hushed tone, half hoping that the princess won’t be able to hear.
“Huh?” Petra blinks, the expression on her face something close to bewilderment at the thought. “Why would you be saying goodbye? Are you sailing alone?”
Dorothea pauses, too, and it’s not until Petra cocks her head at her that she realizes her mouth is hanging open. “Pardon?”
Petra’s nose crinkles slightly as her brow furrows. If Dorothea wasn’t confused beyond all belief, she thinks she’d find it quite charming. “You are coming with me, correct?”
“Back to Brigid?” Dorothea asks dumbly.
“Of course. Did we not agree on this before Arianrhod?”
Arianrhod seems like a million years in the past, and yet Dorothea’s almost sure it was just a month ago. Their conversation springs to mind quickly: two women in the final days of war finding comfort and a shoulder to cry on in one another. Truthfully, Dorothea hadn’t thought it any more than that. “I thought that was...Petra, I didn’t think we were actually making plans or anything, just…”
“Dorothea.” The princess‘s voice is soft, and there’s a bit of hurt that creeps through when she says, “I was being serious.”
It takes Dorothea aback, and she finds herself elated and horrified all at once. She wants to believe Petra. She wants to think that the princess meant every word, and that there’s a brand new life on the horizon. She wants nothing more than to know that there’s a future at her friend’s side.
Yet there’s that ever nagging fear in the back of her mind that gnaws and gnaws. It’s something that’s been so, so terrible throughout the war, and it’s practically screaming at her now. It tells her that Petra, of all people, is stringing her along. Her closest friend is trying to make up for foolish words thrown around in the heat of the moment.
“Petra, please just—” Her eyes sting, and she’s not sure if she’s frustrated or upset or angry or everything at once. “You don’t have to—” She stops again, wiping her face with her sleeve. “Please don’t pity me,” Dorothea decides at last, the ache in her chest suddenly threatening to swallow her whole. “I know you offered, but you don’t have to follow through with it if you didn’t mean it. You don’t owe me anything.”
Now the princess is just frowning openly at her. “Do you think I am a dishonest person?”
“No, no! Absolutely not, Petra.” Dorothea realizes, somewhere deep down, that she’s being ridiculous. The words continue to tumble out regardless. “It’s just that...feelings change, I know that. I know war makes people scared and afraid to the point where they latch on to the people closest to them. I know people say silly things to get them through it all. To make them feel like they’ll see the next day.”
“Dorothea…” Petra murmurs, and the hurt on her face gives way to a sad understanding. She closes the space between them with a cautious step, reaching to Dorothea’s side and taking the songstress’s hand in her own. “During the war I was not afraid of losing my own life. That was not why I said those things to you.” Her gaze travels from Dorothea’s palm to her eyes in one fluid motion, and Dorothea feels her heart flutter at the sincerity that burns in the princess’s expression. “I said them because I was afraid of losing you .”
Dorothea thinks she should say something, but her mouth is clamped shut and she feels a tear on her cheek. Petra watches her closely, using the back of her hand to wipe it away in a manner Dorothea thinks is far too gentle for an unreasonable songstress. “Dorothea, there is only one thing that has changed since we spoke of this. I know now you are beyond precious to me. When I am with you, I feel...right.” She shifts closer but hesitates, and it seems like suddenly the language barrier isn’t what’s keeping her from finding the right words for her thoughts. “I want you to see Brigid, yes. But perhaps I am the one that’s selfish. I also do not want to leave you.”
Silence fills the air between them as Petra’s words begin to settle in. She continues to watch Dorothea quietly as the songstress starts to stammer out a response, then thinks the better of it once more. Petra finally decides to press forward. “I want you to feel what I feel. I want you to feel safe and to feel cared for.” Her throat bobs with a nervous swallow, and Dorothea’s eyes begin to water for an entirely different reason. For all the caution that shows on the princess’s face, she makes sure to meet her friend’s gaze surely when she decides, “I want you to feel loved.”
Dorothea thinks she feels her heart flip in her chest at the sentiment. Doubt still lingers there, but far more prominent is a warmth that grows with each word the princess speaks. “Do you really mean it?” she murmurs.
“Should I show you?” Petra offers.
Dorothea doesn’t startle when Petra leans in close, but she does feel her heart begin to race. The princess has always been someone who’s careful and calculated, but the gentleness with which her fingertips brush Dorothea’s cheek is something entirely new. It’s different from the times she’d adjust Dorothea’s form in their swordplay lessons, and even different from the nights when they’d try to chase the horrors of battle away by braiding hair and telling stories of home. What’s happening now is nothing short of ethereal, something Dorothea’s secretly worried is all just a daydream or a product of that one drink she had going straight to her head.
It’s only when she feels the very real press of Petra’s lips on hers that Dorothea realizes she’s most certainly not dreaming.
Petra’s kiss is as careful and calculated as the woman herself, measured and metered based off of the the way Dorothea’s hands close around her own. She starts to pull away, but the second she does Dorothea finds herself chasing every bit of the sensation. The songstress leans closer, and it’s only when she bumps noses with Petra that the latter truly yields. She leans back, a slight giggle on her lips and staring up at Dorothea with determination. “Stay with me?”
Dorothea takes a slow breath to steady herself. It does nothing to calm the way her heart now thunders in her chest. “Petra, I…I don’t know what to say.”
“‘Yes’?” the princess offers helpfully, cracking the slightest smile at her own joke.
Dorothea feels her own lips turn upwards, laughter bubbling up within her until it finally spills over. That warmth she feels burns ever brighter. It’s still hard to believe that it’s all real, but Petra’s gaze, practically glowing in the moonlight, is there to reassure her. “Nothing would make me happier than coming to Brigid with you. I’m sorry I doubted your intentions.” She realizes Petra’s fingers are still laced in her own and gives them a gentle squeeze. “I should’ve known better, huh? You’re... you , after all.”
Petra looks delighted, like Dorothea’s laughter is music to her ears. The princess nods assuredly, clasping Dorothea’s hand tight and standing on the tips of her toes to press a softer kiss to her cheek. “Good. My grandfather is eager to see you, and I would hate to disappoint him now.”
Dorothea feels her face flush as red as the fabric of the dress she wears. “Wait, Petra. What did you tell him?”