Discovering history

1.

The group touring Castle Fhirdiad that day is a receptive bunch, the kind of people Fionn considers ideal, although after thirteen years of working part-time as a museum docent Fionn knows to keep his expectations low.

There’s just too much of it; too much history, too many objects of art and names and events. He has spent most of his life studying the royal succession of Faerghus and is considered something of an expert in his field, but even Fionn won't be able to withstand an afternoon crammed with centuries of Faerghus history. Why expect more from restless Leicester tourists in their layered jackets?

Perhaps they might appreciate darker stories about the heroes' relics in the museum's possession. The Great War section contains the museum’s collection: Areadbhar and others from the royal families of Faerghus, the Lance of Ruin, Crusher, the Aegis Shield. Ominous names for tools of warfare; brought to the museum more for the owners' peace of mind than safekeeping.

Some of the guests, the ones who brush against the ropes that cordon off private parts of the castle and leave their fingerprints on glass cases, move a few steps back and eye the lance with a frown.

'It's mostly inert,' says a man. He’s about Fionn's age, but an athletic type. He stands out even from the back of the group because of his height.

'Inert?' says a lady in a puffy coat and thick woollen scarf. Tourist from Brigid, if Fionn has to guess–most of them hate the Faerghus climate.

'Records say heroes' relics glow like molten steel, fresh from the furnace,' says the man, pointing at Areadbhar with his chin. 'But it looks like any other weapon to me.'

'In the hands of the proper wielder, the relics do glow, yes,' says Fionn. 'It seems you're familiar with the subject, sir. Nuvelle?'

'Dominic, but I've read some of Nuvelle as well,' says the man, making a face. 'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt.'

'Ah, of course,' says Fionn. 'Dominic's a lot more orthodox, but she paid more attention to weapon relics than Nuvelle ever did. Which I suppose makes sense, seeing as how she used to wield Crusher.'

'That. And I have to admit Nuvelle was–' the man pauses, as if looking for the right word.

'Unreadable?' says Fionn.

The man laughs, his head moving back slightly and Fionn notices the dark sliver of an eyepatch behind the man's fringe.

'And that's what separates the experts from people like me.' The man gives Fionn a bow.

People sometimes go to the museum to play pretend. For the most part they’re the enthusiastic regulars of historical fairs and online forums, although Fionn has met a few who truly believe they used to be historical figures in their past life. The man with the eyepatch seems harmless enough; polite and well-spoken. The accent is good, but that’s easy enough to replicate.

The bow makes Fionn wonder. A carelessly graceful gesture, but the angle is correct. The practice has died with the peerage and even scholars tend to get it wrong, but Fionn's mentor is the leading expert on etiquette and manners in the Faerghus court.

Fionn leads the group to the Early Unification section of the portrait gallery and sneaks glances at the man's face without being too obvious. Living descendants of House Blaiddyd still exist, even if the family holds only as much power as any citizen of Fódlan. That could explain the striking resemblance and the man's extensive knowledge.

'While portraits of the Saviour King were considered rare even during his time, another figure from the Unification period proved to be just as elusive,' says Fionn, leading the group towards the 'Council of Seiros' mural, which has been carefully lifted from a wall in Garreg Mach. The museum must have paid a king's ransom for this acquisition: one of the few known depictions of the Second Archbishop, even if the artist has chosen to paint him facing away from the viewer. 'What we know about Byleth Eisner can perhaps fill a tea cup, but enough fragments exist to tantalise the imagination.'

'Is it true what they say about him?' says a young man. He’s wearing fewer layers, but the physical resemblance to the lady with the puffy coat suggests they’re related. 'That he was Agarthan?'

‘Sam,’ the lady from Brigid says. ‘You’ve been spending too much time online.’

‘Like you’re not?’ says Sam. ‘And there are actual papers about it.’

'Bullshit,' says the man with the eyepatch. His posh accent makes the word sound more condescending. 'He bore the Crest of Flames. That's all.'

'And who else bore this Crest of Flames?' says Sam. 'No one else good, is what.'

'The Second Archbishop did much for the betterment of Fódlan,' Fionn cuts in, hoping to nip an argument in the bud. 'And while we have no proof he wasn't connected to Agartha–' the man with the eyepatch lets out a huff of breath that Fionn chooses to ignore, 'records of his achievements are beyond doubt.'

'But we still don't know much about him, yes?' The lady from Brigid squints at the careful depiction of Byleth Eisner's slender back. 'Sounds like there's not a lot of records to begin with.'

'I misspoke,' says Fionn. He hasn't, but there’s nothing to be gained in antagonising museum patrons. 'While we have almost no official records of Byleth Eisner's earlier life, his deeds following his appointment as a professor in Officers Academy are quite well documented.'

'Unless you believe a man's worth is measured by lineage rather than his actions?' says the man with the eyepatch, his voice has the fake brightness of someone who is one second away from throwing a punch.

'What the hell's your problem, man?' says Sam. 'Byleth's not gonna fuck you, you know?'

The man with the eyepatch scowls and Fionn says, 'In fact–' realising his voice has risen, he tries again, 'In fact, recent discoveries reveal an unexpected side to Byleth Eisner.'

'Oh yeah?' says Sam, sounding mightily disinterested.

'A cache of letters and poems found in a hidden alcove of the castle,' says Fionn. 'Of course, experts are still looking into their provenance, but if real–' he takes a deep breath. 'They paint a picture of Byleth that we have yet to see in any of the extant records.'

'Which is?'

'For one–'

'The gulf between the real person and the legend surrounding them grows with each passing century,' the man with the eyepatch says, with a note of warning in his voice. His pale eye meets Fionn's and Fionn fights the urge to bow in apology. 'We stand on the wrong side of this gulf, desperately chasing after the shadows of what used to be.'

Fionn fights to keep his voice mild. 'It seems you don't think very highly of my profession, sir.'

'No,' says the man with the eyepatch. 'I'm sorry. I meant no offence.'

There's no need to apologise for speaking the truth. Fionn waves a hand, as if to push the conversation away, but he isn't surprised when the man with the eyepatch approaches him at the end of the tour and asks to speak with him privately.

2.

The hidden alcove had been an unexpected find. A windfall, so to speak, from much-needed repairs that were being done on the east wing of the castle. The King's chamber was located in the same area during the Saviour King’s time, and scholars had tried not to jump to conclusions when the box of letters and such ephemera had been found carefully tucked under moth-eaten cloaks and rusty weapons.

Fionn read the copies of the original papers. He remained cautiously doubtful about the whole affair but he had to admit seeing the faded handwriting and questionable spelling reminded him of the stomach-fluttering excitement of his first kiss.

On top of the pile was a small piece of parchment, torn rather carelessly from a bigger sheet. The handwriting on the note was sharp and not inelegant, but the writer clearly had other things they'd rather be doing.

Dimitri, Meet me at the training grounds. The weapons master has had a word

B

A tantalising beginning, bearing names that fairly begged to let the imagination run wild. Fionn frowned.

Luci Pinelli, who had brought the copies to his office, slammed her hand on Fionn's desk. 'Well? What do you think?'

As dusk falls I'm reminded of your eyes: the kiss of sunset touched by the darkening sky a transition, an absence of warmth. But you are not cold. Will the corners of your tender lips ever lift when on a lonely evening I call out your name?

The official copies had been printed from high-resolution images in an effort to preserve the details of the original, but no copy could quite capture the weight of the words on the parchment. The faint shadows around some of the letters suggested the writer had been pressing too hard on their quill. As if the writer was someone who needed to be careful about their strength.

Fionn wished for nothing more at that moment than to see the originals for himself.

​You carry the smell of spring pale flowers and the green scent of tea. The gentle wind and warm sunlight brings the brightness of the silver birch to your hair. I reach out and purposefully miss. Your pale hands, ink stained and callused, till the earth and give life as if they have never touched a sword. They carry the smell of spring. I reach out and purposefully miss. In my room the smell of spring permeates, the pale flowers you have given me bear the scent of your touch I reach out

'It can't be him,' Fionn said, after reading the second poem. 'The Faerghus silver birch are known for their bluish leaves and Byleth Eisner is always depicted with pale green hair in the murals. That's how we know he bore the blood of the saints..'

Pinelli shrugged and said, 'Read on.'

Since that day I often wondered if touching your hair would be like holding spring in my hand pale liquid sunlight and the warmth of camomile tea. Framing your face my hands almost afraid to touch the barest kiss of my thumb against your lips.

He's gotten bolder, thought Fionn. Aloud, he said, 'Byleth's hair changed colour.'

'To be fair, we don't know that,' said Pinelli, tapping a finger on the piece of paper in question. ‘This poem is the only piece of writing that mentioned such a change. And we're not even sure the writer was describing Byleth.'

'Who else could it be?' said Fionn. 'He wrote that letter addressed to Dimitri, didn't he? We have samples of his writing from Garreg Mach's records.'

'And our passionate poet?' said Pinelli.

There were more poems, sometimes unfinished lines scribbled on torn parchment:

no memory to compare against and for the first time in years I found myself wishing for the things I have lost just to taste the taste of you in my mouth

'I would never have thought,' says Fionn. 'But I've seen samples of his writing from our archives.'

'Bit obsessive, wasn't he?' Pinelli laughed, not unkindly but delighted. 'I always thought he was a stick in the mud.'

'And was this–' Fionn gestured vaguely. 'A mutual agreement, do you think?'

'Read on,' said Pinelli, again.

Dimitri, I had no need to write long letters before, so I apologise in advance about the poor quality of this one. Flayn said I should write about the things I would have told you had you been here. But now I wonder if my conversation has been all about work and boring things recently… do you think I've been spending too much time with Seteth?

Nothing unusual in a letter–but no. Byleth Eisner was notorious among historians for his lack of enthusiasm for writing things down. His unreadable scribblings had been the source of much mirth and despair for scholars for centuries.

Dimitri, If things had been different, what role would I have had in this new Fódlan you're building? I want to guess what you're going to say: perhaps you'll say we're building it together. But I keep wondering about how a twist of fate led me here instead of becoming a useless mercenary in a peaceful world. Do you think I would have died alone? While walking in the gardens earlier tonight I was overcome with the desire to speak to you. And so I'm writing now.

‘I wish he had put as much effort when he wrote the treaties of Garreg Mach,’ said Fionn. ‘These are actually readable, even though his spelling is as questionable as always.’

Pinelli snorted. 'He was a mercenary before he ever stepped foot in Garreg Mach. You expect him to be writing poetry?'

To be fair, Fionn hadn't thought the Saviour King was the type who wrote poetry either and he told Pinelli so.

'My expertise is Early Unification,' said Pinelli, gesturing at the pile of letters in Byleth Eisner's handwriting. 'So I know Byleth and Dimitri best as leaders of social reform. But they were heroes of the Great War before that. There's a lot of romance there, don't you think?'

'They called him a monster, you know,' said Fionn. 'The Saviour King. Records say he could crush a soldier's helmeted head in one hand. Come to think of it, Byleth himself was called the Ashen Demon. Killed his enemies without blinking an eye.'

'Tell me something I don't know.' Pinelli rolled her eyes, but she sounded amused. After all, she had written the most comprehensive biography of Byleth Eisner to date.

Fionn picked up a letter at random.

​Dimitri, I have a theory that the kitchen staff works harder than usual whenever you come to visit. That would explain why the meals taste much better and the toast is never burned. My stomach would appreciate if you could visit more frequently.

‘Who’d have thought we’d ever see the Ashen Demon complain about burnt toast?’

'There's a normal man under all that brocade and myth-making, you know?' said Pinelli. 'At least, there used to be.'

‘What do you mean?’

Pinelli checked her watch and clucked her tongue. ‘Sorry, I’ve got a lecture in five. Enjoy the historical smut.’

She left Fionn with a pile of horny poetry and barely legible letters, wondering what her last comment had been about.

3.

Fionn has been wondering about the clearance problem, but the man with the eyepatch pulls out official-looking papers from his coat pocket and hands them to the guard. The poor lady turns the colour of Gautier cheese, shakes herself, and guides the man with the eyepatch to the museum archives without saying anything.

'I'm sorry,' says Fionn, as they follow the guard down the hallway. 'I'm not sure I caught your name?'

'You may call me Alec,' says the man with the eyepatch. He sounds amused and Fionn waits for Alec to drop a family name, but he starts asking questions about the archive instead.

'We had to send samples to a lab outside Fódlan for testing,' says Fionn. 'Oh, and a scholar from Garreg Mach arrived just yesterday to view the collection.'

'Is that so?' says Alec. Something about his voice reminds Fionn of a cat before pouncing. 'What sort of person is this scholar?'

Fionn tilts his head to one side. He has met the young man only in passing–a quick word about the system and the archive's rules before leaving the young man to his research. He wouldn't usually be allowed to stay in the archive by himself, but the young man has brought his own sheaf of official papers.

'He seems to be as well connected as you are,' says Fionn. 'A letter of recommendation from the Chancellor himself–I'm not even sure the man knew we existed before this.'

Alec laughs, short and light, but Fionn knows this is thanks more to politeness than Fionn's attempt at humour.

'The library is part of the old castle,' says Fionn. The centuries-old wooden door leading to the archive has unfortunately been outfitted with a security system that scans electronic chips in the employees' IDs. Fionn has the proper authorisation, but the guard has to lend Alec a visitor's card.

'Please watch out–'

Alec tries to duck but still knocks his head against the door frame. 'I forgot how low these doors are.'

'It's funny because House Blaiddyd are known for being tall,' says Fionn. 'You'd think their own house would have bigger doors.'

'Why waste resources on inconveniences,' says Alec, 'when the people of Faerghus constantly dealt with famine and harsh weather?'

Oh, he's good, thinks Fionn. That's exactly what one would expect to hear from a Blaiddyd.

Aloud, Fionn says, 'If you would follow me. Our young scholar asked not to be disturbed, but I'm sure he'll understand.'

The archive is a mess that Fionn, who has been working for the museum since his undergraduate years, still has a hard time navigating. The stacks tower over even Alec, who sometimes has to walk sideways to fit the crowded shelves.

'I'm surprised a senior archivist like you is leading tours around the museum,' says Alec.

'So am I,' says Fionn. 'I thought it would help keep me grounded. To remind myself there's a world outside these stacks.'

'Hm,' says Alec. 'I suppose that's one way of bridging the gulf between the past and the present.'

'I'm not sure I would say–' Fionn stops himself. 'Ah. The conversation from earlier.'

'I truly meant no offence.'

Fionn turns to look back at Alec. 'But you're right; we do stand on the wrong side of that gulf. Can we really say we know someone who has died centuries ago?'

'You can say the same about the people we love,' someone says, from behind Fionn. The young scholar must have heard them speaking and has left his carrel to look for the cause of disturbance. 'We talk to them everyday and sleep next to them at night, but can we really say we know everything about them?'

Alec sighs. 'Professor.'

Fionn looks at Alec and then at the young scholar, confused.

'You're late,' says the young scholar, with a smile. 'I've already read all the poetry.'

Alec's face turns red and he seems to find the ceiling very interesting. 'They wouldn't let me in without identification.'

'I hope you didn't threaten the museum staff.' The young scholar laughs and Fionn, who hasn't paid attention before, notices how the young scholar's pale eyebrows are actually a frosty shade of green.

Ah, thinks Fionn. Perhaps brown is not his natural hair colour.

'You shouldn't have read them,' says Alec. How interesting that a grown man in his late forties could sound so much like an anxious teenager when facing the object of his affection.

'They're addressed to me,' says the young scholar. 'It's just fair for me to read them before the rest of the world, don't you think?'

'There's no need for the rest of the world to read them, is there?' Alec looks at Fionn, as if Fionn has any say about what the museum chooses to show the public.

'What a waste,' says the young scholar. 'You worked so hard on them.'

'Professor!'

'Shush,' says the young scholar, squeezing past Fionn to pat Alec's shoulder. This close, Fionn could see how the young scholar's lashes are the same frosty green as his brows. Fionn is hit with the terrifying thought that he could reach out and trace the soft curve of the very same lips the Saviour King has dreamed of touching. 'We should leave before we disturb the archivists further.'

Fionn snaps back to himself, his voice not quite steady when he speaks, 'How?'

'If I haven’t lived all these years,’ says the young scholar, ‘I wouldn’t have been able to read the Saviour King’s love poems. You never know how history can surprise you.’

‘Then it only works for someone like you,’ says Fionn. He’s surprised by the disappointment in his voice.

‘Perhaps,’ says the young scholar. He pulls out a wallet from his trousers pocket and hands Fionn a business card. ‘If you wish to cram your head with more history.’

‘I think he’s already had enough of that,’ says Alec.

‘That’s something Fionn has to decide for himself, don’t you think?’ says the young scholar. ‘We’ll see you then.’

‘Or not,’ says Alec, before following the young scholar down the stacks and out of sight.

Fionn watches them leave. He doesn’t move until he hears the heavy wooden door click shut, looking down at the card the young scholar handed him earlier. An email address and a phone number. The name makes him gasp, feeling like he has learned nothing at all after decades spent in musty archives and lecture halls.

​Byleth Eisner-Blaiddyd xxx-xxxx-xx beblaiddyd@xxxxmail.com