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Petra stalks through Edelgard’s court the coins on her belt clinking with each step. The court is in full swing, ballgowns and expensive jewellery on full display. Some of the gems, Petra knows, could feed her people for a year. She doesn’t care. Her back is proud, her fighting fierce, and she will not be cowed by the extravagance of the weak.
“Petra,” Edelgard greets. Like Petra she wears her own kind of battle armour, gold and red and white, embroidered with black axes and flames.
“Edelgard,” Petra bows no more or less than she has to. She is a princess, the future heir to Brigid and she will not bow more than she must. Edelgard smiles, though at her side Hubert’s expression is as haughty as ever. “Hubert,” Petra nods to him instead of bowing, her people are not beholden to his influence however much power he might wield.
Edelgard steps down from her dais, ankle high black boots peeking out from under the heavy hem of her robes as she takes each gilded step. Petra waits for her once classmate to reach her, then formally and solemnly leans forward. She sees Edelgard’s surprise, but is not disappointed when she too leans to press their cheeks together quickly. Petra smiles then, and reaches out a wrist of gold bangles and leather ties which Edelgard receives in her kid leather white gloves before Edelgard unbalances her with a tug, pulling her into a hug that makes the entire court murmur behind them.
“I’m so happy you came,” Edelgard says with sincerity.
Petra knows not to say that she can’t refuse a summons from the Empress no matter how busy she is, knows that saying such things can have her killed. Edelgard is her friend, but first and foremost she is the ruling power of the Adrestian Empire. Instead she smiles and tucks a loose amethyst braid behind her ear, “It is always good to see you, Edelgard.”
They drift apart after the pleasantries are complete, and Petra stalks the crowd for familiar faces. She does not stand in the corner and wait for an invitation, she is no longer unsure of her place in this world. It’s Ferdinand she comes across, standing in the middle of a gaggle of finely dressed women spinning his tales of heroism. He’s halfway through a retelling of a fight he had with a crawler when he spots her, and his hands -posed as if to strike the air- stop and all the pretence of his story disappears.
“Petra!” He bounces over to her, forgetting his audience to throws his arms around her. The women look scandalised, Petra wraps her arms around his shoulders and returns the embrace not to cause a scene, but because it is what they always do. When he pulls back she makes sure to press their checks together and he leans into it as if only just reminded. It’s a sweet thing, Ferdinand she’s always found is the sweetest at heart. “It’s great to see you, and all dressed up, I see,” he observes when he pulls back. Unlike the women of the court Petra is not ashamed to show her stomach and arms, they are parts of her and her body deserves no shame. Her skirt is longer than her battlefield uniform, her heels higher, but they both have the same brown material and thick green embroidery. Her people have ascribed meaning to every pattern and colour, and the one she wears in battle is the same she wears to court. It shows resilience in the face of danger and is the design she has worn for all of her life on the mainland.
“And you are dressed for dancing,” she observes because Ferdinand is in a waist coat of dark sapphire blue with thick silver embroidery and red pants that look supple and easy to move in.
“Well of course, if you would do me the honour?” He motions to the dance floor and she remembers him teaching her how to dance, insisting it was essential training, so she lets him lead the way.
His hand rests on her bare waist, his fingers caught in the green tassels that hang down from her short top and the orange beads around her neck -a sign of her royalty- click against the silver buttons on his coat.
Petra dances like she fights, moves with the flow instead of against it. They don’t dance like this in Brigid though, they have their own ways. If she could she would show him, she thinks Ferdinand would love it. “Has your hair grown longer?” Ferdinand catches a lock of her hair, his feet moving from memory, and brushes the velvet strands between his fingers.
“It is some time before my next hair ceremony,” she explains, “but your hair has also grown.” Ferdinand’s hair is tied back like a horse’s tail down his back, vivid orange like her necklace and also like her necklace something his parents have bestowed upon him.
“Sometimes I think about cutting it off, but then I’ll see your hair and I become so envious I realise I could never remove it,” he flirts effortlessly.
“As long as you are happy and can fight well, the length of your hair does not reflect your worth,” she reassures him, and he smiles like a friend who loves her. Petra smiles back because she also loves him, the Black Eagle were her home for many years, she has founded the greatest bonds in their ranks through battles and respite. She has gained brothers and sisters, and she will love them all knowing they love her in return. But she knows, standing amongst the crowds of their people, that she does not belong with them. Loyalty and obligation, fealty and fear, they will keep her returning to the courts and their many dangers, but she is an outsider in her leathers and beads, her ceremonies and traditions, and she is happy to be.
When she returns home to the palace her ancestors built, she will wear orange and yellow circles on her skirts, she will take off her armour and unbind her hair. But for now she dances, and smiles, and talks to all of the Black Eagle class in greens and browns knowing she is not safe.