Chapter Text
She is woken abruptly by a sound.
It is a small, non-threatening one, the sound of a tiny creature instead of a more dangerous intruder. But it stands her hair on end anyway.
Her hand fumbles its' way across the cardboard box serving as a nightstand, crossing over a broken alarm clock and a pile of cheap necklaces before settling on a small desk lamp. The switch is flicked on, the room bathed in sudden, yellow light.
Her eyes are blurry and unfocused, as always. She reaches out and finds her glasses, perching them on her nose and blinking as the blur of colors comes into sharp relief. She has to squint to see across the room; it's only been a year since she was kicked off her parents' insurance, but she cannot afford the doctor's visit to get a new prescription, let alone a new pair of glasses.
Regardless, the offending noisemaker is clear: a rat. A tiny one, frozen in place, but a rat nonetheless.
She fights the urge to scream. Rats send shivers across her skin, make the blood freeze in her veins. However, she can't afford to get kicked out of her apartment, trashy as it is, for waking the landlord up at 2 AM. Instead, she grabs her pillow and flings it at the rodent. Wisely, it decides that discretion is the better part of valor and flees.
Laying back down onto her crappy mattress, she groans. Now that she's awake, she can't get back to sleep. She has work in the morning, this can't happen now. Her manager has no patience for human flaws or scheduling errors. He nearly fired her on the spot the last time she came in late, and she'll be damned if she has to get on her knees and beg for her job again.
Goddess, she works as a supermarket bagger. For a living. She eats ramen and whatever's left in the deli department after the store closes. She shares this stupid, one-room, literal-hole-in-the-wall apartment with two other people. Her landlord, who she's pretty sure is selling drugs on the side, snores in the other room. The other tenant, his latest girlfriend, crashes on the ratty sofa.
She had a free-ride scholarship to Garreg Mach University. She had parents who still talked to her. She had a dorm room and a meal plan. She had it all.
What a miserable existence she leads now.
As she tosses and turns, a wayward spring pierces through the mattress and stabs her in the back. The yelp escapes her lips before she can stifle it.
An hour later, she's on the street, the landlord's angry words ringing in her ears. She now lives out of her car, which she managed to get her most of her possessions to before he and his girlfriend locked her out. The extra weight will affect the gas mileage, but it will still be less than he charged for rent.
The calculations fly through her head. She is smart, she knows this. People have told her so her entire life.
"What less would be expected from the Hresvelg heiress herself?"
Edith von Hresvelg. Net worth: 6.2 billion dollars. Presumptive heir to Hresvelg Systems Inc. Whoever thought of getting the Hresvelgs out of ruling and into making computers was a genius.
She called herself Edelgard now, after her great-great-great grandmother, or so the family legend went. It was only natural for them to succeed in life; they were descended from an Empress, after all. Elitist scum. They'd forgotten the whole point of the Great Eagle War. Abolishing the Crest system, establishing a meritocracy, yada yada. The class system still existed, just with dollars instead of Crests. Any average person could get a Crest now, with the right amount of money.
Stepping out of the car, she pulls a decent shirt over her head and walks down the street in her battered sneakers. Nobody would mistake her for old money, not in this garb.
Enbarr is deserted at this time of night. The nightlife doesn't come down this way, not in the dark. Too many muggers. All the shops are boarded up, all the people gone home to their families and their warm houses. Lucky fools. Don't know how good they have it. What she wouldn't give for a good meal.
Her stomach rumbles. She didn't eat dinner, on account of her getting home at 11. The girlfriend cooked, and it was all gone once she'd arrived. Not a crumb left. Stupid manager. Stupid store. Made her stay after to help clean up after the latest customer hissy fit. Another clueless snob demanding a refund on spoiled milk. When she'd tried to tell them about this magical thing called an 'expiration date', they'd smashed the bottle on the ground. Called her a 'good-for nothing bitch'. Left in a huff.
It stung, it really did, but she maintained her composure for the sake of her paycheck.
She needed to find a place to shower and wash up. A gym, a public restroom, hell, she'd take a fountain at this point, she felt filthy. The summers here were brutal, and sweat dripped down her neck. As luck would have it, the public pool was closed, but whoever was in charge of locking up clearly wasn't trying. She jiggled the door of the locker room open and slipped inside. Hot water was like liquid gold at this point.
Breathe in steam and damp and mildew. Breathe out thanks to whoever's watching on high for the chance to shower.
She never thought twice of such luxuries back home, in the family manor. Yes, they had a manor, and a tennis court, and a private pool. They had servants, except they weren't called that anymore, they were called 'the help'. They had crystal chandeliers and fancy galas and champagne in tall glasses. The very stereotype of wealth.
Why had she thrown it down the gutter? She didn't remember some days. Then it came roaring back. The fights. The backstabbing. Aunt So-And-So was feuding with Cousin Whatshisname over an inheritance dispute. Father and his brothers weren't on speaking terms anymore. The fancier the facade, the worse it is behind closed doors.
She hears the last phone call ringing in her ears.
"Listen here, young lady. You are a Hresvelg, and we are made of sterner stuff than this! I don't care what your professors had to say about the 'redistribution of wealth' or whatnot, I care about my company, and about making sure you're fit to run it! You will come home for the charity ball, you will wear the dress, you will act ladylike and you will make nice with the rest of the family, or you can kiss our support for you goodbye! We've been accommodating of your quirks thus far, but no longer. You toe the line or you find your own money!"
Quirks. That's what they called it when she was diagnosed with depression, generalized anxiety, a host of other labels. That's what they called it when she brought another girl home. That's what they called it when she leapt from her balcony, four stories up. She wasn't mentally ill, she wasn't gay, she wasn't rebellious. She was 'quirky'.
True to their word, they cut her off. She sold some of her stuff, cut back on spending. She would make do on her own. It wasn't like they were particularly close, anyway; most of her family, parents included, were of the mind that love could be bought and sold. But she hand't expected to fall so far, so fast.
First they came to her dorm while she was in class and cleaned out her things. Left a note explaining that they weren't really hers to begin with, that the Hresvelgs paid for them, and she wasn't one anymore. Fine, she could buy new things, get a job.
Then she discovered that they'd bought her scholarship when the first bill came in for monthly tution. It wasn't hers, it never was. She thought she got into GMU on 'merit'? Laughable, she was smart, but not that smart. They'd generously agreed to pay for a new wing as long as they let her in, and now they weren't paying anymore. She couldn't afford this, so she'd dropped out. Put your education on hold, get another job, make do. They were trying to force her to come home to them, to come crawling back, but she wouldn't let them break her. She'd lasted nineteen years in a den of vipers, she'd last another couple until she could stand on her own two feet.
She hadn't realized how expensive living was, especially her meds. At least a thousand bucks a pop, and that was the illict, black-market variety. She took half her recommended dose, she rationed them to last longer, but she had to go in to see a psychiatrist eventually to get her script renewed, and that finally sent her over the edge financially.
Now she wanders the streets, officially homeless, no money in her pocket, dead-end job, no prospects of a better life.
The future her ancestors fought for was wasted on her.
Wet hair slapped against the stolen towel on her back as she wandered, newly clean. Where does she go from here? She doesn't even know how she'll get her paycheck, now that she no longer has an address. She can't contact any relatives since she pawned off her phone. Her car might go next, if she really needs the money that badly. Then she'll really be out on her own.
Whenever she goes into town, she always visits the statue. Tonight is no different.
The bronze form stands, illuminated by bright spotlights, in the middle of a circular plaza. She sits on a wrought-iron bench and looks up at the empty eyes, the flawless face.
"Hello, great-great-grandma. It's Edith again." She doesn't know why she talks to it, but it makes her feel better, so there.
"I'm, uh, homeless now. Got kicked out. Had another customer yell at me. Pawned off more of my stuff to pay the bills. The usual.
I could, you know, use your help. Right now. I have nothing. Nobody to turn to. They say you forged this path of yours alone, that you walked it fearlessly, axe in hand, through everything that stood in your way. That you started a war-and won it-to realize your dreams. Your ambitions.
So, could you maybe grant me some of that...that will? Cause I don't know where to go anymore."
Edelgard von Hresvelg's statue continues to stare off into the distance impassively, one hand on the hilt of her battleaxe, Aymr, the other reaching towards the horizon. Golden horns curl around her head and meet in the front, the imperial crown glittering in the moonlight. Her hair is curled around each side in a tight bun, two tendrils reaching down to her shoulders. In life, it was bleached white as a result of cruel experiments performed on her as a child.
She knows this better than anyone else. She doesn't tell anyone else, because she fears they'll think she's crazy, but she dreams, and when she dreams, she sees the world through her eyes.
The pain, the searing pain in her chest, as the scalpel cleaves her flesh in two. Her heart, beating in their hands as they watch it with inhuman interest. The syringe plunged into the center, the fire running through her veins. They stopped her heart with a potassium injection so they could implant the Crest Stone. Forged in flames, and it felt like she would combust.
Oh Goddess, she can still feel the needle sticking into her chest.
The blonde prince, lance in hand, laughing madly. The duke's grandson, amber eyes wide in recognition. The archbishop, snarling. They call her a villain. They have no idea what she's been through. The nights spent awake, the tears shed, the thoughts whirling inside her skull. The realization that this will strip her of her humanity, that her fiery heart will turn to ice, that she'll become the monster they fear so much, in order to see this through.
History will condemn her. She will be scorned and hated, her name muddied. She starts the war anyway, she dares point her sword at the Church. Not the goddess, mind you, only her children. She has no quarrel with the dead.
And yet they still haunt her, after the war is won, after it all washes away in a torrent of blood. Sometimes she sees their ghosts, trailing her in the dead of night. Red blood on green hair, white robes, golden headdress. Screaming her worst thoughts and fears back at her. Too late, a realization that they were both bound together by what those who slithered in the dark had done to them. She almost felt sorry, but stopped herself before she could fall back into the abyss. The past is gone, the future is not yet written.
They told her it was impossible, so she cut them down and etched her name in history with the edge of an axe. Now her descendant sleeps on a park bench below her statue. Her hair shimmers for a brief moment as the moon washes it white as snow, before fading back to a hue not unlike coffee with a little too much milk.
She stands, slowly, almost gracefully, still fast asleep. Her hair, now dry, fans out behind her. She walks with a careful step, with purpose in her very stride. The few who see her dismiss her as a ghost, because what kind of madwoman goes out for a walk in the worst parts of Enbarr in the middle of the night? Besides, there's something ethereal about her, something spectral, like the dead have possessed her.
The museum sits on the edge of downtown, placed close to the slums on purpose. The optimists say it's to remind them that anyone can make history, and the cynics say it's to remind them that even now they're looked down upon. Second verse, same as the first. Whatever the case, the locked doors fall open at her touch, the cameras don't record her, and the plush carpet doesn't cave to her footsteps.
She stands now, in front of the display case. In front of Aymr. Legends say the blood of the false prophet is still on its' blade, that it was carved from dragon bone, that it glowed like fire in Edelgard's hands.
The glass shatters. Her fingers curl around the grip. She hefts it, raising it above her head. They have forgotten that a revolution is undying, unyielding. That ideals live even when the people die. The world needs to be reminded what a dreamer looks like, to remember not to mess with the girl with her head in the clouds and an axe in hand.
Edelgard steps back and watches as the girl's eyes twitch before slowly opening. Her work here is done. She cannot convince her to fight, she cannot give her a home, she cannot even reach out and greet her, wipe the tears away from her face. But she can give her hope. She can give her a weapon with which to carve a path forward. If this is a second chance, then she won't waste it watching her circle the drain.
The only thing she can do now is sleep again. Until she calls. Until she remembers. Until she reaches past the edge of dawn, through the ages, back to her once again. For now, she places a hand on the girl's head as she fades.
Slowly, starting from the roots, stretching out toward the edges like an ivory sun, white creeps over the strands of her hair, until it reaches the ends. The power whispers softly before fading.
Edith von Hresvelg is woken abruptly by a sound.